Stayin' Alive

As of last Saturday, I am now the assistant coach for BYU-Idaho’s dance team. That may sound impressive, but it really only happened because the other assistant coaches dropped out, and the head coach needed someone. Anyone.

So I happily agreed. As this is my last semester, I’m only taking 11 credits, meaning I’m not totally a stressed-out mess and can hopefully handle a little more responsibility. The coach looked completely relieved when I told her I’d do it.

The next day I got the text, “Um, since you’re assistant coach, we’re going to need you to take First Response Training on Wednesday and then CPR training on Thursday or else the team will be cancelled.”

Right. Okay. Okay, I can do this. Our little spirit team may not be much, and we’re lucky to get a crowd of 40 to come our performances, but we have fun, dang it! I couldn’t just let the team die!

Wednesday came and I went to the little hour-long first response training in a class with two other people and a bored student instructor. We learned which forms go where and what to do in case of a potential “head injury” (not concussion), took the written test, and got out of there just in time for country dancing. Not bad.

Thursday came. I walked into the CPR class to find a couple half-dummies lying around (the plastic kind) and a big, happy Tongan guy named T. He was the instructor.

We started out by learning the proper procedure for chest compressions. It just so happens that chest compressions share the exact same beats per minute with the Bee Gees “Stayin’ Alive” or “Another One Bites the Dust” depending on how much faith you have in your CPR abilities. So there we were, all five of us kneeling on the ground, pumping our dummies little hearts out (get it?) to the drum beat provided by the instructional video when suddenly, we all burst into song.

Did you know it’s really hard to pump somebody’s heart when you’re laughing too hard to breathe? Who knew CPR training could be such a party?

Once we’d gone through the three hours of instruction (including what to do if your patient has an abnormally hairy chest), it was time for the certification test. I went out in the hallway to take my test and once I finished, T said, “Well you passed, and I have to say, I think that was probably the most animated demonstration I’ve ever seen.”

I’m still trying to decide whether that’s a good thing or not.

I mean, I had to make sure all the imaginary bystanders of my poor victim lying in the hallway knew “the scene is safe!!” I then had to ensure my little friend was not just resting, but was actually in trouble. I briskly tapped his shoulders while I chanted in his plastic face “Are you okay?! Are you okay?!” He wasn’t.

To let T know this, I exclaimed, “Oh no! He’s not responding! I better begin CPR!” So after shouting for help and demanding my imaginary assistants to “go call 911!” and “fetch me an AED!,” I delighted in the fact that it was a “good thing I have my handy dandy face mask!”

I wanted so badly to sing “Stayin’ Alive” (I was a believer) as I was doing those chest compressions but sadly I couldn’t sing and count to 30 at the same time. I think T got the idea though.

When it was time for the AED, I made certain the patient was totally clear by telling those pesky bystanders to please stand back before I gave that poor soul the biggest buzz of his life.

Although my plastic patient sadly never revived, I like to believe it had nothing to do with my CPR abilities.

What can I say? I’m now a certified life saver. There will be no dust biting on my watch.

Okay, so this picture isn't actually from CPR class, but one day I randomly saw this poor deserted dummy on the sidewalk and I thought he looked so sad and forgotten. I was a little tempted to pack him up and take him home. Then I realized it would be difficult to transport him on my bicycle. That, and it would have been against the law.