So the Missus and I decided to renew our CPR certifications after - what? - twenty years? Something on that order of magnitude. It’s a skill that you never hope to have a need for, but sometimes you have to deal with the unexpected.
And so we spent an hour in the local middle school gymnasium, crouched over our Rescusci-Dummies, mashing their plasticated chests with the requisite cycles of thirty chest compressions followed by two breaths, repeat ad infinitum.
Not much has changed in twenty years, but enough to be significant. One big difference: easier access to AED (automated external defibrillator) devices. By all means, if you should choose to go into cardiac arrest, try to do it where your buddies can find an AED pronto.
The course was just the right length to allow us all to demonstrate our proficiency in the necessary skill set, yet not enough to get completely boring. And the only complaint I can come up with is that the (personable and otherwise skilled) instructor could somehow not summon up enough verbal dexterity to pronounce the word “defibrillator” correctly.
It’s a minor quibble, sure... but I’m not sure whether it inspires the highest levels of confidence when your CPR instructor insists on calling the damn thing a “defibulator.”
(Am I just being an asshole? You decide.)