Your dad starts slapping the bottom of the baby's foot to get a reaction. "Hey, baby. Are you okay?" He isn't expecting a verbal response, but the baby's stiffened legs aren't reacting to the slaps. Somehow, he was expecting that, too.
Aside from the fact that he and your mom are forty-five minutes outside of their comfort zone--and that a former five-hundred-pound brown bear hangs on the wood paneling wall in the next room--your dad scans his surroundings and finds the environment safe. He turns to your mom. "Can you call 9-1-1 and come right back?"
Your mom nods and looks on encouragingly, but doesn't move. There's an American Red Cross notebook across her lap, opened to a page illustrating infant CPR.
Your dad, recalling his very recent training, tilts back the baby's chin, and lowers the side of his face to the baby's nose and mouth. He looks down the baby's chest to see if it's breathing. No breath against his ear, no rising and falling stomach from the baby.
He turns his face toward the baby, puts his mouth over its, and breathes two puffs of air into its lungs. The tiny lungs fill up twice, accompanied by an unexpected crinkling sound. He starts to think about the bag of chips and chunky salsa offered earlier. Wonders if he'll get to eat after this.
Your dad, again recalling his training, starts doing two-fingered chest compressions, one finger-width below the baby's nipple line.
Another lady in the room is giving instructions, and she says, "To know how fast you should give chest compressions, the American Red Cross endorses the song Stayin' Alive. That, or Another One Bites the Dust."
Eight other couples in the room, each with their own "Actar 911" resuscitation dummies laying on the floor in front of them, let out a collective Ohhhhh. The infectious bass line to Another One Bites the Dust immediately gets into everyone's head, but it's a poor choice of song lyric when trying to save a life. Even if it's a simulated life in a forty-five-dollar infant-CPR course.
"And another one gone, another one gone, another one bites the dust," your dad sings to himself, the chest compressions dipping the baby dummy's chest in perfect rhythm.
Meanwhile, in the bear room, you sleep soundly on your back, your hands up in mock surrender. Your mom and dad continue to joke with the other couples in the class, but the room full of trainees, beneath the good-natured rib-jabbing, is floating in a heady mixture of fear and composure. Fear that they'll ever have to use the training they're receiving today, and enough composure ensuring that they can do it if they have to.
Afterwards, your mom and dad grab a plate of chips and salsa. They are the first to leave.
