Pink Hats 27: Deju Vu

 
Christmas parties in the first two years of medical school tend to be few and far between, or so it was in Jessie's experience. There just wasn't the time. The last week before the holidays was dedicated to exams and if you had time to party, you slept instead. It's tough and everyone knows it.

Actually being able to put on a dress or at least something other than scrubs and spend a social evening -- unless she was on-call -- with her "working family" was one of the perks Jessie loved about Maine Med. She'd gone through residency with several of her classmates and established friendships among the medical staff that she cherished. A rumor circulating about an attending position opening up once her fellowship was complete had been confirmed by the departmental director, and she was considered a shoe-in for the job. Christmas parties at Maine Med promised to be a feature in her life for years to come.

This year was going to be special for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was an occasion to formally announce her engagement to Bob. The truth is, there was scarcely a soul who didn't know already, thanks to the hospital grapevine. Good news travels like wildfire, especially when Halley Henry is the one with a match. Jessie and Bob spent the afternoon following his proposal with the twins and gave Halley the "Go" command she'd been waiting for. By the following Monday, neither one could walk the hospital hallways without running a gauntlet of congratulatory handshakes and hugs.

Fresh powder had fallen in the White Mountains off and on the week before the Saturday evening event, so Bob and Jessie drove up to Pleasant Mountain ski area near Fryeburg. Jessie skied while Bob spent the morning learning the ins and outs of snow boarding. After a few runs alone, she joined him on the beginner's slope.

"Why, if it isn't Shawn White!" she said, teasingly. "Can I have your autograph, pretty please?"

"Baby, you can have my autograph and anything else you want. I am footloose, fancy free, and all yours!"

She laughed and said, winking, "I can think of a lot of ways to take that."

"I'm sure you can, but this is the bunny slope and that means G rated. With the twins around, you better start getting used to that, Dr. and almost Mrs." he said, winking back.

"Only during the early evening hours -- after they're asleep, anything goes." she said, sidling close and raising her eyebrows.

"I think...I've created...a monster," he said, eyes wide.

"You have no idea. Now come on, you hot snow rider you, show me your stuff!"

Yogi Berra said it, this is like deja-vu all over again.

(Creative Commons image of Shawnee Peak by bobtravis via Flickr)

My Last Night in Bethlehem

The following is an unpublished essay from medical school I've always liked. I don't know why I never made it public before, but here it is. I hope you like it.

To my final evening of night shift, I say hasta la vista, baby, with mixed feelings. I'm looking forward to walking my dog at sunset and I'm sure he is, too, but all the same, I'll miss a few things. For one, there's nothing like a hospital at night. I've always loved walking the hallways when lights have dimmed and patients gone to sleep. The entire place feels like a warm blanket. Even the obstetrics unit can be like that, though not so much lately. Certainly not this morning around 4.00 AM when all the unborn babies suddenly woke up in their respective wombs and cried with a single voice, "Let me outta here!"

Yeah. It got kinda busy. Fast. The doctors were in surgery and I was on the unit keeping watch over my flock of one, a shepherd mimicking a memorable night in Bethlehem. I was on my way to her room, checking in once again, when the head nurse raced past, calling back over her shoulder, "20 is giving birth -- now -- and I have no doctors!" I waved the cloud of dust she left behind away from my face and tried to quell the wave of panic rising in my gut. A medical student who's only assisted in vaginal births is more hindrance than help at a time like this, so if s/he has a lick of sense, they attend to their patient. And that's what I did. One of the residents scrubbed out and came to the rescue.

A baby's cry and a few minutes later, she was finished in one birthing suite in time to join us in another. My patient was at ten centimeters and it was time to push. She and I held hands and breathed through the contractions together. When her baby finally slipped out, we smiled wearily and gave each other a thumbs-up. Heading back to the residents' lounge, I had the feeling I imagine all doctors must have at times like this: no matter how numerous are my faults, once in my life I did something good.

Mother and daughter will be gone by the time I show up Monday morning, like all the parents and newborns I've gotten to know this week. It's a privilege -- being allowed to share in a dream come true. The woman with whom I held hands through labor and delivery was a stranger when I walked onto the unit. She was alone with the exception of her mother who was in and out of the room. By the time the night was over, we were much more than strangers.

All on my last night in Bethlehem.

(Public Domain image of Bethlehem, 1882, via Wikipedia)