"Go, take a walk, eat something and come back ... we'll try again," said my very nice basic life support (BLS) instructor. That was after Round 6.

My wrist felt like it had a hairline fracture, but I knew if I didn't pass this voice-assisted manikin (VAM) BLS program, I wouldn't get a card. That means I don't have a job.

I was putting my entire body into these compressions, and the stupid computer kept barking at me: "Push deeper. Push harder." I didn't sweat this much at my last Bikram yoga session.

"Can we adjust the VAM for my size and weight?" I asked.

"No, these are preset. You have to be able to do adequate compressions on an average-size adult," the instructor replied.

Now, I know better than to perform CPR on anyone bigger than myself. For the record, infant and child BLS were no problem.

"I would pass you myself, but you have to perform up to the computer's specifications," she continued.

Let me interpret what she just said: According to her, a BLS instructor, I was fine. I know my sequencing. I know how to use an AED. I know how to resuscitate a child or an infant.

I know how to resuscitate an adult, too, if only I had the weight? Strength? Better wrists? Should I really have to risk a shoulder injury or breaking my wrist to please a computer? Oh wait, my job depends on this.

It was the end of Round 6, and my wrist was throbbing when the instructor suggested taking the walk and fueling up a bit more.

"If you want, I can send you down the street to a place that doesn't use VAMs yet," she said.

That means the online test that I passed would get me in, but the performance station would be proctored by a live human who would judge if I am worthy to work ever again or not. To add insult to injury, I also would have to pay again.

Down the street, I would have the same strength and the same skills. But down the street would likely pass me, while this computer/machine/robot has determined I am skill-unworthy.

I wrote the American Heart Association (AHA) to ask about this, with no response as of yet.

Soon, all AHA centers will use VAMs for consistency. For the record, I am 5-foot-5 and 120 pounds — many an RT and RN I work with are tinier than I am, so how do they pass? And soon, I will need to renew Advanced Cardiac Life Support (ACLS), which means I'll have to perform these BLS skills again.

I am not sure which is scarier, that my entire career could be cut short thanks to a computer, or that I could break a wrist just trying to stay employed.

Clearly, I can't do effective compressions on a 200-pound person. In the hospital, we have a team. But if I witness to your collapse outside the hospital, well, sorry about your luck.

I'll run as fast as I can to find an AED while on the phone with 911. And I will direct bystanders in what exactly to do, because I know the steps. If there are no bystanders, I will try with all my might to get your blood moving — VAM be damned of its opinion of me.

On Round 7, I finally passed. Was it the walk around the building with the self-pep talk? The bag of M&M's I pounded down? The fact that I ran cold water over my wrist to numb the pain so I could risk a fracture one more time to ensure I could keep my job?

A famous philosopher once said, "Know thy limitations." I know mine, and I also know full well that not being able to do compressions on a large adult does not make me unqualified to do all of the other things I do as an RT.

I also know the AHA should not single-handedly be able to dictate whether I am competent to work. No computer should have that power.