Four

I have four night shifts left. Four. That's all. After two long years of nothing but nights...I have four left. I try not to obsessively think about those nights and how they might drag on and on and be the most painful of my nights at this job. I try to boost myself up and think "only four nights left!" with a gleefully insane grin on my face. My husband tried to rally me with an analogy about a frog and boiling water. I understood the relevance but I don't think anyone else would. That's why we're married. It doesn't always work. The rallying part I mean.

But then I have an experience like I had the other night and it slams me back into the here and now and pushes me to think of each day (and night) as a gift. I have the privilege of coming to work at night. I love being a pediatrician. I am able-bodied and (fairly) young and I have a job and am secure in the knowledge that my loved ones are safe.

A few nights ago, we were notified of the impending delivery of a term baby with a congenital heart defect who would require immediate transfer and eventual surgery. The parents were my age and they had a 2 year old little girl at home. I met with them shortly before the delivery and answered their questions. Composed yet anxious, they told me they had not found out the sex of the baby so it would be a surprise at the delivery. Hours later, we stood in the delivery room watching as the husband coached his wife and she pushed like a soldier. I found myself holding my breath as the baby slowly slid out - head, then shoulders, then belly. No, I wasn't nervous about the cardiac defect or the resuscitation or whether we would have to intubate the baby right away. At that moment I was completely caught up in what my friend calls "one of life's great surprises". The dad threw up his arms and yelled "It's a boy!" and they started crying and we started cheering. He was pink and screaming and perfect. For that short window of time, those parents forgot all about the trauma that was inevitably awaiting them. For that short window, they were a healthy family of four. It wasn't until the OB brought the baby over to us that anyone even remembered that we were there, or why.

Two hours later, after mom had recovered and I had put lines in and we had started the prostaglandin drip, they arrived at his bedside. The transport team that would spirit him away in an ambulance arrived shortly after with their 'hospital in a bed' and started preparing for what would be the first of many dangerous journeys for this little boy. I watched as the mom sat in her wheelchair beside his bed and looked at him with a sadness i've never felt. The look seemed to be saying "If only I could put you back in my womb where I could protect you and keep you safe from all of these prying hands and we could have our quiet moments together before we go to bed and first thing in the morning and I feel every movement you make and I love them all." I watched her as they loaded the baby into the isolette on wheels with all of its attachments. And I watched her as they wheeled him out of the room and into the hallway and the nurse wheeled her in the wheelchair right behind him. I couldn't tear my eyes from the beauty of the moment. Just then a nurse grabbed my attention and asked me to clarify some orders on a different baby. And then I turned and the family of four was gone.