Thursday, May 21, 2009

These moments make it all worthwhile

I am a happy doctor. Most of the time I feel good about the career choices I have made up to now, and I am excited about what lies ahead. In the department where I work I often wonder whether I do not fit in, maybe just because I am too emotionally stable. I think I have a superb support network and my coping skills have always been able to get me through the more difficult times.

But on a call night, especially in mid-winter when the temperature in our hospital's outside corridors must be way below bearable, there are always those nagging feelings of doubt. They lurk in the shadows of the labour ward, comes floating out of casualties like the smog that covers the 'wrong side of the city' at night, and they enter your heart and soul like the icy fingers of a horror movie character... When you crawl into bed exhausted at 4am to attempt an efficient power nap (whoever invented that ridiculous concept!) and your feet are freezing (but you are too scared to switch on the 30-something-year old heater for fear of being electrocuted!) AND THEN
the phone rings...
That is when you need guts. Vasbyt. The will to win, the instinct to survive.
And, a "moment".

Like when the anaesthetist looks at the doctor doing the seventh C-section for the night and asks her: "What is going on, dr M? Are vagina's out of stock tonight?"
(I nearly fell over laughing!! At 3am this was seriously funny, especially as it is the standard excuse for everything not being there when you want it. Including life-saving emergency drugs, unfortunately. "Sorry dr, it is O/S!")

Like when the newborn baby gives his very first cry and the (usually extremely grumpy) scrub-sister looks up and yells "Happy birthday, baby!" with a smile that beams like the sun...

Like when the fourth year student phones you and asks "Are you the paediatrician on call" and you think "not until December 2012" but you say "yes" with so much confidence you almost feel like you are there already :)

Like the unnamed cameraderie and companionship you share with the other stethoscope-carriers walking the corridors in the early morning hours, just with a knowing look and a smile and a nod.

And then you open the door and you realise the sun is rising, you see the new day dawning in hues of pink and orange, you appreciate a sunrise so much more than a sunset and you stand still for a few moments
saying thank you for the gift of a new day
for the hope that comes with the first sunlight
for the end of another night of struggles
and for the wonder of new life that you were allowed to witness again.

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