Whenever my CPR certification comes up for renewal, I get a bit out of sorts. It’s always in December, when I am busy with college admissions and the transition from first semester to second. Fitting it in is pretty inconvenient as other deadlines loom, but it’s more complicated than that. Of course, I see the value of CPR—and its importance—but for me, chest compressions and defibrillator instructions bring back a flood of conflicting memories and emotions. Some fill me with a sense of pride; others conjure one of the worst moments of my life. Passing the course gives me a sense of accomplishment, but it also elicits very mixed feelings about my past, feelings I am still trying to understand and reconcile to this day.
The pride I feel comes from memories of my dad who, on two dramatic and highly charged occasions, stepped up in emergency situations and came through despite the chaos and panic surrounding him. The first occurred when I was around four, living in a row house in Philadelphia. It was the middle of the night, and I was suddenly awakened by a loud banging on our front door. I got to the living room just in time to see my dad open the door; outside stood a man in just his boxers, a look of sheer terror on his face. I recognized him as the neighbor from three doors down the street. His house was on fire, and his teenage son lay unconscious on the front lawn, a victim of smoke inhalation. He knew my dad was in medical school and came for help. My dad ran to the house and began CPR. Within minutes, my dad revived the boy and handed him over to the rescue squad, who had just arrived. Afterward, my dad enjoyed a very special status in our neighborhood, although his humility prompted him to downplay the incident every time it was mentioned.
About ten years later, my mom and dad were flying home from a vacation in Florida (I was not on board) when a nearby passenger let out a deep moan. He stood up, took a step into the aisle, and collapsed. A flight attendant cried out, “Is anyone a doctor!?” My dad stepped forward and tended to the unconscious victim. Meanwhile, the pilot made an emergency detour to a nearby airport in Raleigh Durham, and when the plane landed, an ambulance rushed the man to a nearby hospital. After the plane resumed its flight to New Jersey, the pilot came on the intercom and announced he had just heard from the hospital that the man was alive and stable; he also said the doctors reported that without my father’s intervention, the man would have died. Again, I wasn’t there, but my mom said the cabin erupted with applause; true to his nature, my dad took it in stride. Subsequently, the airline ran a billboard advertisement at Newark Airport that featured my dad standing next to the pilot with a caption underneath that read, One Way Or Another, We’ll Get You Safely To Your Destination.
As you can imagine, these are among the most cherished memories of my dad. And while I always think of him when I am taking the CPR course, I’m also reminded of a terrible incident that occurred when I was in high school. It was summer, and I was working as a waiter at a local steak house. I loved it: I was making great money, and I had a bunch of friends on the staff. One night, I was serving a table of four businessmen when one suddenly collapsed right in front of me. Initially, I thought he was choking, so I prepared to do the Heimlich Maneuver. However, on closer inspection, I saw he wasn’t choking; he was completely unconscious. So another waiter and I started CPR, although we hadn’t had any formal training beyond watching a video in PE class. Meanwhile, the manager called 911. After what seemed an eternity, the EMTs arrived and rushed the man to the hospital. Even though I felt relieved that the experts had taken over, I could tell the man was dead. The manager sent me home, and by the time I got there, I was extremely distraught; in fact, it was the most upset I had ever been in my life. Fortunately, my dad was there. He calmed me down and called the hospital where the man had been taken. After a brief conversation, he hung up and told me that the ER doctors said the man had died from a massive heart attack, and that no one could have saved him. To this day, I don’t know if that was what the doctors said, but my dad knew that was what I needed to hear. He also told me I had done all I could, and that sometimes, that’s simply not enough. As a surgeon and a war veteran, who knew better than my dad?
Reading over what I have written, I may be slightly overdramatizing my reaction to the CPR course. After all, it comes up every other December, I somehow fit it into my schedule, and I feel good about it afterward. And to repeat: I totally agree that everyone should learn CPR and first aid; it may end up being the most important knowledge we can acquire. But every time I take my place by the resuscitation dummy and wait for the instructions to begin, I am reminded of that horrible night in high school when I was confronted with the awful truth of our mortality, and how, though we might want to believe otherwise, we sometimes find ourselves helpless in the face of its arrival. However, along with that harsh realization, I am also reassured by the memories of my father, who taught me that even in circumstances that are frightening and fraught with uncertainty, we can still find the strength to do what we can.
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To contact the author: Mr. Keating