- Toddler starfish hands reaching up at me.
- When my coffee is just hot enough and the perfect shade of toupe.
- Opening a crisp, new book for the first time.
- Eating taco bell in a candlelit bath after a bad day.
- Wedging my finger in a cat’s paw where their claws can’t reach me.
- Someone’s voice on the phone when it’s really late and they’re all sleepy and scratchy.
- Opening all the windows and curling under a warm blanket to watch it snow while I’m cozy inside with nowhere to be.
- Waking up just enough to realize someone is pulling a blanket over me.
- Smelling campfire smoke in my hair after camping.
- When it starts drizzling outside right as I’m falling asleep.
- Getting a text out of the blue from a close friend letting me know how much I mean to them.
- When I realize that I’m early and have this whole new chunk of spare time to do whatever I want.
- Barefoot dancing with my eyes closed and no cares in the world.
- Getting really close to look into someone’s eyes and noticing the freckles in their iris and how it looks like a net.
- When my sister and I are laughing so hard that there’s just silence with random screeching gasps of air.
- When a grumpy cat chooses to lay on my lap.
- When I got to write with those thin markers on the clear sheet on one of those old projectors in school.
- Seeing something so beautiful that it makes me stand still.
- Seeing my dad walking or hearing him talking to me in one of my dreams.
- Sleeping in on a Sunday and waking up to eat brunch at my favorite cafe.
- When a cat is kneading my pillow with it’s claws and it feels like a massage.
- The moment I find my favorite earring that I thought I lost.
- Walking through my house after I cleaned it really well.
- The way my mom turns her head away and covers her mouth when she’s laughing really hard.
You were in my dream last night and I woke up crying when I heard you talking again.
I’ve missed it so much, Dad.
You looked at me in my car like that and nearly wiped away the past 25 years.
I’m so broken now, Dad.
But you taught me to never give up
on myself or anyone else.
You taught me to see past mistakes
whether my own or anyone else’s.
You showed me how to love
despite all odds, despite the worst circumstances.
I looked at you last night and cried, saying I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m sorry.
But you just smiled and wiped them away anyway.
She wasn’t even old enough to vote, but she had determination beyond her years. Her pregnant belly tightened with a wave of contractions below her. She grit her teeth and her fingernails dug white into her thighs. Her head fell back on the pillow, hair stuck to her forehead. Beads of sweat slid down her face as her neck lifted to look at me and as she asked, “Are you ready? I’m going to do this. I’m going to push this baby out of me. Here we go.”
She was unmedicated, bent over the bed and screaming as her twins descended in her belly. She had delivered her last baby in the hallway after warning the staff, “this baby is coming out, you need to get me to a hospital bed right now”. So this time, when she looked me in the eyes and said, “they’re coming”, I rushed to the head resident and pulled her into the room. She had barely reached between her legs when her eyes widened and she yelled, “let’s move, let’s MOVE!” I learned that because the second twin was breeched, the delivery needed to happen in an operating room just in case complications arose that required intubation or surgical delivery. We ran beside her bed down the hall, the head resident yelling at anesthesia: “unmedicated, twin A crowning, twin B is breeched”. We had barely transferred her onto the tiny operating room table when she grabbed my hands and let out a deafening, guttural cry. Her nails dug in and pierced my skin in searing pain as the chief resident delivered the first twin. His cries filled the room and I yelled out to find her husband, to get him scrubs and get him to the OR, but she was already screaming again. I could hear her agony. And in a moment I will never forget, right in the middle of delivering her second breeched twin -without a single drop of anesthesia numbing her pain- she suddenly stopped, looking at me with worry on her face as her grip loosened, asking me, “Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”
It took them exactly 90 seconds from the sight of blood running down her leg to bursting into through the operating room doors, blue gowns flailing, an emergency “splash prep” of iodine thrown on her belly before he sliced her open. I now understood why they called him ‘Edward Scissorhands’. Even with this incredible speed, as I peeked through my tiny window over the scrub sink, I saw everything slow as the blue, limp baby emerged from the drapes. In a bloody transfer, the baby was handed through the window to the throng of medical staff awaiting in the NICU. My stomach knotted, tears blurring my vision. A nurse rushed out of the OR, headed to the baby’s resuscitation, and in a split-second decision – I followed right behind her. I watched from a corner, partially hidden by a privacy curtain, trying to make myself as small as possible. The chest compressions continued. I didn’t know a baby could look as blue as the gloves they wore. I didn’t know they made intubation tubes that small. I didn’t know they could thread catheters through the umbilical cord like that. A NICU nurse standing on the side grabbed me and we went to find the father. His nerves were painted all over his face, his hands were wringing faster and faster as she slowly updated him on the events that were happening down the hall. He cried when she told him his wife was okay. He cried harder when she told him his baby wasn’t. We both followed the nurse as she slid back through the crowd surrounding the resuscitation, still in progress. It had been over ten minutes now. He wobbled unsteadily, frantically scanning the faces around him. I grabbed him a stool, placed my hand on his shoulder. I tried casually wiping away the tears that were streaming down my cheeks. They tried for what felt like forever. Reluctantly, they stepped back. Quietly turned off the machines. They let him hold her. I couldn’t stay any longer. I slipped into the locker room and cried behind the shower curtain. Later, as I was walking down the hall to the next patient’s room, the next scheduled birthday, I saw him again. His eyes were red and swollen, his presence completely deflated. We both locked eyes. Our tears greeted each other- watering the unbearably painful moment that had locked us unwillingly together.
His hair had grayed and the bags under his eyes had deepened. But his compassion was exactly as I remembered it. He leaned over the patient, spoke softly to her. Squeezed her hand. Knew her name without having to check the chart. He asked the resident to explain her movements, instead of sharply correcting her mistakes. Is that incision far enough? What do you think about the spacing of your suture here? What instrument would you like next? “Watch her very carefully, Hailey. You will do everything she does on the other side.” I cut fascia for the first time. Cauterized bleeding vessels. Grabbed an unborn baby’s limbs. As the procedure neared it’s end, he dismissed the resident and walked to the other side of the operating table. We stood in silence until I realized he was waiting for me to ask for my instruments. For the next ten minutes, time stood still. It forgot about us in OR B. My needle trembled, but his hands followed my suture anyway. Slowly. Patiently. His voice spoke just loud enough so that only I could hear. We entered that sacred, tiny bubble that forms only over the blue drapes of an operating table. Hailey speak up when you ask for something. Build confidence in your voice. Don’t lose your humility. When I finished, I straightened to admire my work. They ripped the blue tissue paper from around her belly, and time kicked back on. I watched life around me resume, bustling and shuffling filled the room, but I couldn’t move. I stood paralyzed as a knot rose in my throat. I wanted to hold onto it, cherish it just a few more seconds. I needed this. Another small sip. Hydration for the next undesignated stretch of time.
- How did I feel when I got home?
- Did I feel excited to look up the illnesses and diseases in the patients I was caring for, or to study for the shelf exam? Was there diversity in the conditions being treated?
No. So many no’s.
- What were the main feelings I encountered while working with the patients? The medical team?
“Why can’t they just push for a couple hours instead of us pushing more Ptocin to speed things along?”
“Why is the team doing a poll on whether Snape was Harry’s father or not?”
“Oh, look- another low transverse incision.”
“Oh, look- another shelf question about a pregnant woman with bleeding. Still no idea.”
- How much direct patient contact was there?
So much. Too much vagina.
- What were the humdrum aspects in the patient population or workflow that would have to be tolerated for the rest of your life?
Oh dear god where do I begin.
- Does this specialty address one of the leading causes of death in the world?
- How easily can motivational impact be integrated into a career in this specialty?
- Does this specialty focus on preventing problems or fixing problems?
Both, I guess. But truthfully, Ob/Gyn was like nails on a chalkboard to me. It was the first and only rotation I have disliked during medical school so far- and I’m okay with that. Maybe it’s my lack of personal experience with childbirth, differences in personalities with those who chose to pursue the specialty, or maybe a lack of a lot of exposure to newborns as I was growing up. Or, maybe, my soul spirit was in medicine in a past life and my allergy to Ob/Gyn stems from a deeply-rooted fire that spans through time and space. Whatever the reason may be, I am so blissfully okay with plopping Ob/Gyn onto the pile beside Radiology and Pathology of specialties I can safely cross off my list (and possibly burn later).