Beeeeeeeep beeeeeeeeeep beeeeeeeeeeep.
My phone call to an old friend is rudely interrupted and I go into the kitchen and grab the phone to answer the page.
Code pink, vaginal breech, primip with meconium.
At first I think the maternity nurses are playing a joke on me, knowing what the wet dreams of OB residents are made of. But no joke, its for real.
Everyone is there, the OR staff, several dozen folks from NICU (it seemed) and no obstetrician (yet). The baby's heart rate looks lovely, so I consent the mom for a STAT C-section just in case and tell her all about breech deliveries...truth is, we can see a scrotum coming out each time she pushes which would make a C-section quite challenging at this point.
The Grandfather of obstetrics rolls in calmly, shirt and tie with scrubs top over top as his signature outfit, and peaks over my shoulder. His only words, in his usual unflappable manner and quiet voice:
Looks like the little guy's pecker is pointing up there, I suppose you'll be getting ready for an episiotomy.
Right, of course...as I scramble to get some local anesthetic. The delivery is beautiful, the kid starts screaming and the crowd disperses fairly quickly.
I notice a huge blood clot has dolloped onto my jeans during the process, which I hadn't had time to change on the way in. Well, in the grand scheme of things, that delivery was worth a good pair of jeans!
As I head to the nurses' station to do the paper work feeling rather exhilarated, the Grandfather says: Great job, now you can do them in your practice, right?
Right.
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