…of a really bizarre infomercial product…
…for which you ended up paying a ton of shipping anyhow!
Week 33. TWO classes this week, folks. That’s right. Double your awesome info. Starting with Tuesday…a.k.a. INFANT AND CHILD CPR AND FIRST AID NIGHT. Now, I’ve been a nanny for seven years and know (roughly) how to keep a kid alive. But a refresher course is a refresher course, especially considering a lot of this “practical” knowledge will fly straight out of my ears the first 4am I get to deal with a hacking cough during cold n’ flu season. Plus, I’m pretty sure P.J. hasn’t studied this stuff since the early Clinton years.
SO. We started out tilting the head and breathing into the nostrils and mouth (just like a puppy!) of our black plastic infant…who possessed a twisted air pipe. HE WAS LIKE THAT WHEN WE GOT HIM. After some minor tweaking by the instructor, I proved I could breathe (and look and listen) with the best of ’em. And then we got to follow along with the video! Oh, the video. The narrator of each scenario looked like a cross between Olivia Newton John and Jane Seymour…if either of them had ever been grinning coke addicts. Boy, was she eager to tell you the terrible things that could happen AT ANY TIME! For example, your baby, apropos of nothing, could JUST STOP BREATHING. Or your dad, at a family picnic, could fall down in the backyard. Imagine that you were playing Nintendo with a buddy, chowing on some pizza. YOU COULD CHOKE. (The worst part is that they never went back to the “acted-out” scenarios after the instructional parts – we were left to assume that all of these folks died from ineptitude.)
And, oh, the instructional parts. Multiple people, dressed in the same grey breakaway track pants and baggy red tee shirts (you need to be ready to bend and squat at any time, apparently. The business of saving lives won’t wait until you change out of your three piece suit, no sir.) These folks all stood, one at a time, in front of a sheet draped over a wall (the technical quality of these portions were phenomenal) and acted out imaginary scenarios…to no one in particular. One Asian gal had absolutely no intonation or vocal affect (“Hey…you. Are you choking? Someone. Call. 9.1.1.) On the other hand, a Black lady with ‘tude for miles and half of her track pants open at one side (I am not even kidding) told an imaginary passerby to call 911 with such force that I almost reached for my cell. Now THAT is who you want saving your life.
Also helpful- you should only try to remove a food blockage from someone’s mouth if it’s right at the tip of their tongue (in the video, an M&M was picked up with two fingers from the mannequin’s lips). Now, where I’m from, that’s not called “choking” so much as “eating an M&M,” but I’m no medical professional.
The best part of the video? When the narrator came back onscreen, proudly proclaiming that now we had “all the tools” to save lives…just like Gary.
Um, what? Who the hell is Gary? Did we miss his vignette? Was he the dad in the backyard?
There was no time to worry about such trivialities, because before I knew it, it was WEDNESDAY. That’s right, Great Expectations, week three.
C-SECTION NIGHT!! (Yep, I thought we briefly covered that last week as well, but apparently not enough to be able to perform the surgery ourselves. I can think of no other practical reason to make me watch that nightmare-inducing procedure twice.) As P.J. later told me, they were clearly going for the ‘this isn’t so bad, right?’ hard sell, but no matter how sunshiney and rosy they tried to make it seem, there was still a woman strapped onto a bed, arms out in the t-position, being rotated like a pig on a spit (for circulation, obviously), unable to move anything below her chin and telling the camera how nauseous she was. (Out of my way, kids, I’m first in line for THIS ride!) Also, the bit about mother/child bonding was sweet…insomuch as the nurse had to hold the newborn to his mother’s cheek as she was incapable of doing anything other than wiggling her chin at him for an hour and a half.
Helpful tips: If you’re feeling “anxious,” (Good God, why on earth would that be?) ask your doctor to “explain each step of the procedure for you.” Uh, if I’m having a panic attack about being strapped down and clothespinned open, perhaps telling me which layer you’re dicing through won’t have the calming effect you’re expecting.
And the You Really Didn’t Save Us From Witnessing the Graphic Awfulness Award goes to…the animated video showing how they clothespin you open and dice you up. In slightly more medical terms. That said, que sera, sera, right? If I get to experience a day like that, I can take solace in the fact that from shaving one’s belly (Uh…?) to actual emergence of a child takes FIVE MINUTES. Perhaps we should slow down a little? That’s freaky fast. Impressive, but maybe a bit too Get ‘Er Done.
And, of course, I’d have P.J. there by my wiggling chin to, you know, poke me in the arm to let me feel his presence (an actual tip.)
With the A/V club portion over, we got to tour the facility (and pick up the slack. Okay, not really. We were actually probably in the way.) Turns out, these rooms are the reward for sitting through horrendous videos. It’s like a day spa! Sure, a really crappy day spa wherein you leave a LOT less limber than when you entered, but still. Pretty. Floor to ceiling windows with views of downtown (do they have views of me? Ewww), wood paneling on the walls, a flat screen TV and Bose sound dock in each delivery room, plus none of that Oh My God I’m In An Operating Room lighting. I’d prefer to be backlit at all times, of course, but these options seem like a close second.
On our way out we passed a slightly shell-shocked woman in a wheelchair heading to Recovery, her dazed husband walking behind the nurse, clutching a duffel bag like his very life depended on it. Upon seeing all of us pregnant ladies, the nurse bent over and said softly, “Just think, yesterday that was YOU!”
I have no idea what sort of traumatic event THAT poor fool just went through, but God bless, right?
As I write this, my currently breech-positioned child seems to be kicking somewhere between my ribs and right side…certainly on the correct road towards a heads-down, can-do attitude, but most definitely in an area that CANNOT STRETCH ANY FURTHER. I am one lace-trimmed apron away from the knock ’em out ether, chloroform, whathaveyou method of labor from the 40s and 50s.
As long as I don’t have to watch the video.
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