A White Coat Is My Closet (3 page)

Meanwhile, Greg wasn’t missing a beat. He kept a vigilant eye on everything happening to his daughter. In an attempt to break the tension a little, I asked him, “So, does she have a name?”

He tore his gaze away from the activity occurring on the warmer and appeared to have to think about my question for a minute. “Oh yeah, yeah. Her name is Sophie. We named her after Becky’s grandmother. She’s eighty-four but in great health. She’s a spunky thing too. Guess we chose the right name. That must be where Sophie gets it from. Her spunk, I mean.” The realization seemed to console him. “My daughter’s got her great-grandmother’s spunk.”

He smiled pensively, still reeling from the drama of the delivery. He’d reached up to wipe some of the sweat that had collected on his forehead off when he seemed to realize he was still wearing his scrub cap. “May I take this thing off now?”

“Sure,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to be confused for anyone other than a new dad. As for me?” I adjusted mine thoughtfully and smiled. “I think I’ll keep mine on. Given the number of names on the board downstairs, it looks like I’ll probably be making another few trips down to the delivery room before morning.”

Greg peeled his scrub cap off and shoved it into the back pocket of the surgical pants he was wearing. In their haste to get him dressed, the nurses had apparently grabbed him a pair of pants that were obviously too big. He’d had to really cinch the drawstring to keep them from falling down.

With the cap off, I was better able to observe his appearance. He was handsome. Kind of rugged-looking. He had a nice smile and a cleft that dimpled the middle of his chin. He wasn’t model material but was certainly way above average.

One of the monitors that Sophie was connected to began to sound an alarm. I aborted my review of the guy’s features and directed my attention immediately back to his baby. Fortunately, however, the alarm had been triggered as the result of a lead coming loose. Sophie was still rock stable. She didn’t appear to have even registered the sudden, shrill beeping.

“Well,” I said, “as I told you, we’re going to have to run a few more tests. Sophie continues to look great. Why don’t you go back down and check on your wife. If you’re still awake, you can come back up in a few hours to see how Sophie’s progressing. By that time, Dr. Schmidt will have taken over for me. She’ll be able to give you a full update and will be the one taking care of Sophie for the next few days.”

He looked a little startled. “Why won’t you be taking care of her? We really trust you.”

I smiled. “I’m working in the cancer wing this month. I was just on call here tonight to help cover. Don’t worry, though. Sophie will be in good hands.”

His eyes started to well up a little again. “I can’t thank you enough. You saved our little angel. We’ll be indebted to you forever. Listen!” he said, looking at my name tag. “Dr. Sheldon, I run an automotive shop. I’m gonna leave my card with the nurses. If you need anything, and I mean
anything
, you just give me a call. I know it will be impossible, but I just have to try and find a way to thank you.”

I was both humbled and flattered. “Just be a good dad. That will be thanks enough. Now go see how your wife is doing.”

He held my gaze for a second, broke it off as he turned for the door, then reconsidered. He spun back around, grabbed me in a tight bear hug, and pounded me gently on my back.

“Thank you, Doc. Really, thank you. You’re the best. You’ll never know how much this has meant to us.”

He relinquished his embrace, gave me another slap on the shoulder for good measure, and then, perhaps fearing that he might once again become emotional, he almost sprinted out of the room.

I turned my attention back to Sophie and began a more thorough exam. A feeling of warmth spread through me. Sometimes being a doctor was a good thing.

T
HE
prospect of going to the gym had about as much appeal as being dragged behind a truck down a gravel road. Naked. I just wasn’t into it today. And yet, I knew with my current work schedule, I wouldn’t have the energy for working out for at least another month. Being the senior ward resident meant sleep deprivation was going to be my middle name. I could either drag my sorry ass to the gym and at least pretend to work out, or I could surrender to doing what I really felt like doing and sit at home eating ice cream. The only problem with the latter scenario was that my sorry ass would soon become a fat sorry ass, and that just wouldn’t be acceptable.

I pushed through the door of the main entrance of the gym and swiped my membership card as I passed the counter. Karen, one of the managers, looked up and gave me a friendly hello. I was one of the privileged few Karen actually liked. I wasn’t sure how I had gained that distinction, but I liked her too. She was attractive, but not stunning. Most of her physical appeal was that she was so natural-looking. She wore very little makeup, but her skin was radiant and her hair was shiny. She also had an amazing physique, and it was obvious she took her workouts very seriously.

What I liked most about her, though, was her wit. She was kind of deadpan sarcastic. Many of the gym patrons she dealt with were wannabe actors who were incredibly full of themselves. Part of their pretending to be important was to look down on everyone else. Karen not only saw through their bullshit but called them on it. I remember her telling one guy he should at least put a window in his stomach so that when he had his head shoved up his ass, he could see out. He huffed and puffed, became really indignant, and threatened to cancel his membership. Karen just rolled her eyes, referenced the exit sign over the door with a quick sweep of her hand, and expressed her hope that he’d have a good life. “If you ever get over yourself and decide you want to come to the gym to work out rather than trying to prove you’re hot shit, give us a call.” That was Karen. She wasn’t to be messed with.

I stowed my gym bag in a locker, secured the door with my padlock, then began the ritual of trying to motivate myself. Hopefully, I would run into one of my friends and we could distract each other through the workout thus making the whole process more painless.

Sadly, after making one circuit through the gym, pretending all the while that I was just intent on finding a vacant workout station, I observed no one other than the usual suspects.
Damn
, I thought,
do some of these people live here
? It seemed that no matter what time of day I worked out, some of the same people were always there. Either by amazing coincidence my erratic workout schedule just happened to coincide with theirs, or they spent a hell of a lot of time working out. “Shit,” I resentfully whispered under my breath. “Some of these guys need to get a life.” Even as I shook my head, however, I had to admit to myself that what I really resented was how restricted my own life was. In my current assignment, it wasn’t uncommon to work thirty-six hours at a time.

I sat down at the bench press and tried to motivate myself. I knew I had to begin, because if I stayed motionless for too long, I’d fall asleep. Thirty-six hours! What the hell was up with having to work thirty-six hours? Medical residents must be the only people in the civilized world required to do so.

Every other profession, from garbagemen to hairdressers, had regulations stipulating the number of hours they could work in any given stretch. No argument from me. I mean, if a garbageman was pushed to the point of exhaustion, he might inadvertently mix up the organic trash with the recyclables. Just think of the pandemonium that could result. Beer bottles might be found slipping around with banana peels if they weren’t deposited in the appropriate receptacle. Can you imagine that fallout? They’d probably call a presidential press conference to address the consequences.

And if a hairdresser, groggy by pushing into the thirtieth hour of a shift, substituted bleach for cream rinse, he or she might be forced to suffer the consequences of giving a client both a bad hair day and a bad attitude with the simple squeeze of the wrong bottle.

But medical residents, who were in the business of saving lives, were another story. There was really no set limit to the number of hours they could conceivably work. Some senile old physician, who had seniority enough to be in a decision-making position, had suggested there was an advantage to working triple shifts. The rationale was that by doing so, residents gained tremendous hands-on experience and thus enhanced their medical education. Forget the fact that they were frequently so tired they couldn’t even think straight—they were being given invaluable exposure to the many subtle ways in which diseases could present themselves. I remembered one senior attending physician quipping that the problem with allowing residents to go home and sleep at night was that they were missing twelve hours of potentially interesting cases. Can you believe the depth of that bullshit?

No one seemed concerned about the mistakes residents could make when sleep deprivation swept them into a state of delirium. And residents, beaten into submission, were minimally concerned that a mistake could cost a patient’s life. What they were most concerned about was the inquisition they would have to face the next day. On the morning after an all-night shift, there was always a well-rested attending physician eager to play Monday-morning quarterback and criticize even the most innocuous decisions a resident might have made the night before. The American medical education system: the perfect pecking order!

I thought the bottom line had to do with the hospital finding cheap labor. The institution needed a service, and if a resident ever wanted to practice medicine, they would either provide that service with the grace of a good-hearted humanitarian, or they’d turn their stethoscope in for a position on a paper route.

I looped my fingers around the barbell that had one forty-five pound plate on each side and began the grind. Fifteen reps would be a good warm-up. I tried to stay focused on my technique. I kept my elbows at a ninety-degree angle to my body and brought the bar down to within an inch of my chest, just above my nipple line. I inhaled deeply as the bar dropped and exhaled slowly as I extended my arms. I tried to offer myself some encouragement as I finished the first set.
Just maintain a rhythm, and you’ll be done with this before you know it. One set down, four to go!
Feeling as if my body was already encased in cement, I nonetheless added more weight to the bar.

Unfortunately, when you’re tired, your mind begins to sabotage your efforts.
Four more sets? Forget it! Today you can get by with doing only three. Maybe even just two. Take it easy, you deserve the rest. You’ve been working hard. Don’t push your body beyond its limits.
The prospect of quitting the workout completely and just spending the day watching my ass grow bigger became an even less offensive proposition.
What’s another couple inches on my waist size? No one will even notice if I wear baggy jeans.
It felt like the devil himself was whispering in my ear.

The inner dialogue consumed so much of my attention that I initially didn’t notice the guy working out on the bench next to me. In a split second, however, I was captivated. He was resting between sets. He appeared not to have a care in the world and seemed completely oblivious to anything going on around him. A little white wire wound itself from the iPod attached to his bicep up into his ears, and he seemed totally immersed in the music he was listening to.

Taking my cue from him, I tried to play it cool and pretend I hadn’t noticed him. In truth, however, I was taking in the whole picture, hoping that it would be permanently imprinted in my brain. He was about five foot ten and probably weighed a muscular one hundred and eighty-five pounds. He had perfect hair that, despite being messy, framed his face perfectly. He had an olive complexion and a five o’clock shadow that further accentuated his tall, dark, and handsome looks. As he mouthed the lyrics to the song coming through his earbuds, he parted his lips to reveal perfect teeth. His chest was a sculpted mound of muscle that tapered down to a thin waist. He had narrow hips, but his thighs had great definition, and they were capped off by a solid, firm, round butt. Short, curly dark hair covered his legs and also peeked out over the tank top covering his chest. In a word: incredible.

Suddenly, the fatigue I had been feeling just a second before evaporated. Enthusiasm began to course through my body, giving me a renewed surge of energy.

I lay down on the bench and again grabbed the bar above me. Despite having put another ten pounds on each side of the bar, I pumped out another fifteen reps effortlessly. I was winded but felt invigorated. I sat up to rest and tried to inconspicuously divert my gaze over to the bench press next to me. The guy was in the middle of a set. He had two forty-five pound plates on each side of the bar but was pressing two hundred and twenty-five pounds with seemingly minimal effort. I heard him whisper “twelve” under his breath, and then he flipped the barbell back onto the rack. He took a deep breath and then sat up. In doing so, his gaze briefly caught mine. For a microsecond, he held my gaze. A smile flashed quickly across his face, and then he diverted his attention back to his workout.