30 Hour Day

I tossed and turned all night, I knew I had to be at the hospital by 6:30am on Tuesday and that I wouldn't see my bed again until Wednesday. Stomach churning with possibilities of doom that I would not only witness but be the cause of.

Found the maternity ward, and eventually figured out the change room and scrubs. The funny thing about being a resident is that you have all-access cards that beep you into pretty much whatever locked door you want. The logical consequence of this is that it makes getting lost a whole new game because you can do so in so many more restricted areas.

Since everyone is switching services and rotations, of course we don't get an orientation. We 'divide and conquer' the list.

"You're an OB resident, this case would be great for you, oh, and also this one . . . and this one too." My mind swimming in details of different patients and which conversation I had with whom. Who had the C-section and who had the puffy legs? Which one was the mother holding her child at arms length as if she thought it might detonate at any moment? And who was the one who couldn't pee? My dreams of being the doctor that listens fully were deteriorating in front of my eyes as the pressure of rounding on all the patients and writing notes in their charts by 7:15am slowly pressed down on my shoulders as the minutes went by.

Initially the word 'doctor' caught on my tongue when I introduced myself to patients, it sounded like I was spitting it off out of my mouth with distaste. But all too easily it just started flowing. As if this is who I had always been. Perhaps helped by the fact that people just believe you, no one says, "yeah right, and I'm Madonna," or stands up and yells "can I get a REAL doctor in here please, someone's about to have a baby!"

By 9am I had already delivered a baby. All my bitterness towards the dehumanizing medical system melted away as I remembered how much I loved this. The pace, the emotion, the tears of pain and joy. The first gurgling cry of the squirming newborn, stunned and shocked into the light and coldness of our world. Partners and loved ones instantly gooey eyed at their first glance of this somewhat unsightly red, wrinkled, slimy little miracle which is writhing and yelling in indignation at life in front of them.

My pager keeps going off. Each time I gaze at it in wonder thinking that no one would actually be paging me if they really knew who I was. At about 8pm, my gut suddenly hungry I get a gynecology consult from hematology. A 50 year old undergoing leukemia treatment who started her period five days ago and has been hemorrhaging blood since then, getting daily transfusions. I'm tired and mildly frustrated that they didn't bother to call during the day but I haul myself up 4 flights of stairs to go and see her. She's delightful, a psychologist, currently reading one my favourite books, the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. I tell her reading it makes me wants to move to Botswana and sit on a porch drinking bush tea all day. Her husband comes in a bit later and I go over things with him as well. As I leave she tells me that I'm good at what I do, that not everyone has a bed-side manner and that I should keep mine. She feels so much better after talking to me, reassured and heard. Something wells up in my throat, she has no idea of the impact of her words on this young physician. I crack a joke then tell her that's high praise coming from a psychologist before I head off down the hall.

I'm struck by the circle I've just witnessed. I saw a new being breath their first breath, and now I sit and chat with someone whose breaths are numbered.

The night goes on, the attending orders sushi from across the street . . . boy do I love Vancouver! Another straight forward delivery unfortunately resulting in a nasty tear. I do my first episiotomy. More women labouring, some scared, some excited, some just tired. I love people. Listening to their worries, answering questions, sharing their joy. When the new residents come on in the morning and ask how the night was, I don't mention that I didn't get any sleep I find I can only talk about how lovely the people are that I got to hang out with.

Out of my scrubs, bike helmet in hand, I wander lost through the hospital again trying to find the parking garage where I left my bike 28 hours ago.

And then finally, bright sun, a cool wind cutting through my shirt. Gliding across Burrard bridge on my bike, the ocean and mountains close enough to touch, reminding me of the outside world that still exists outside yellow corridors. The mid-morning sun glints off the water at Kits beach where a family has already set up their towels on the sand for a day of swimming. Suddenly shocked at realizing that this too is real life, outside the brick walls and endless corridors of the hospital and that I want to live every moment of it. Its official, I have survived Day 1, and I'm even looking forward to Day 2, well, after I succumb to the deliciousness of my bed for a few hours.