Dave went to a conference in Baltimore this week where the
keynote speaker was a guy from Massachusetts General Hospital. He came home and
asked, “Do you miss your days at Man’s Greatest Hospital?” I laughed. I had
forgotten we called it that. If there’s any hospital I’d consider my home
hospital, it would be that one. I spent most of my third year of medical school
there doing my medicine and surgery rotations, living and breathing medicine.
I remember leaning my forehead against the elevator wall on
the medicine wards one time when I had finished a thirty-six hour shift. I
remember stealing up to the VIP floors during quiet moments late at night on
call, to grab the little Styrofoam cups of ice cream they kept there, and
eating them in the dark waiting room while looking out at Boston through the
glass walls. A nice break from peanut butter and graham crackers. I remember
the underground labyrinth of operating rooms; the long lines at the coffee
stand in the lobby. I remember looking out the window of the M2 shuttle as it
passed Newbury Street on the way back to my dorm, feeling strangely detached
from all the fashionably-dressed people shopping in the sunlight, living in my
world of fluorescent lights, green scrubs, and Dansko clogs.
Dave informed me it’s the number one hospital in the nation.
Great, I think. All that top-notch training, and here I am, sitting at this
table cutting letters out for a school science project display, which is pretty
much what I’ve been doing with my spare time this week while Dave was off
having intellectual congress. Though I have to say—see below—they are pretty
awesome letters. Ellie’s project is about Oreo cookies, so the font and colors
are copied from the Oreo logo: sketched on white construction paper, cut out,
pencil marks carefully erased, then glued on two layers of colored cardstock. I
really love doing this stuff. (By the way, Wilmer is the only hospital facility I've worked at that stocks Oreo cookies. I ate so much of them my first year there I never could eat them again. Until this week when we did this project.)
Anyway, it’s all a bit strange to think about. Like one time
when I was packing a diaper bag, and suddenly I flashed back to packing my
on-call bag in residency. A fishing-tackle box full of drops, eye shields, and
tonometer covers; my loops and lenses; a spare pair of vannas scissors and fine
forceps. Now, the usual conglomeration of wipes, diapers, socks, snacks. Back
then, I had to take a deep breath to not lose it at some idiot wanting to
transfer an eye emergency in because they “couldn’t get a look at the eye” due
to swelling or irritation. Try harder, I wanted to snap. You have fingers just
like me. Now, I have to take a deep breath before giving Eric a time out for
lying to my face and refusing to admit it, or dealing with Elijah refusing to
sleep because he suddenly remembered his tiny white marble that he had to find
before he could go to bed.
Dave also caught up with some old med school friends while
he was out there. I’m by far an outlier in how little I’m working compared to
my former colleagues. But hey, no regrets. I have faith none of that training
was a waste—besides the fact that I’ll likely work more one day, I think it
influenced and equipped me in many ways that come through to the kids. And,
well, I’m glad I can be around to help Ellie with her project; that means a lot
to me. Sometimes it's as simple as that.
