Weathered Hands
Renusha Indralingam
About the artist:
About the artwork:
Poor Me
Usually, I loved my work as an RN in the coronary care unit. But I always dreaded leaving my family on Christmas. Poor me.
So, whenever the schedule called for me to work on the holiday, I’d think back to 1980 and my patient, Mr. Watkins.
The Masks We Wear
Every day we pass by friends, acquaintances, classmates and strangers, and all of us are wearing smiles on our faces. For some, that reflects feelings of bliss, joy or contentment. For others, though, it can be a mask.
I often think about my pain and the smile I wear to mask it. Most days, I am have the ability to express my troubles and fight the uphill battle against chronic depression. I tell myself, “You can do it! Just go and talk it out with your therapist.”
At least I had the ability to express myself and fight the battle; Helen did not.
Playing a Hunch
Amy Crawford-Faucher ~
There’s one thing about being a family doctor: After a while, almost every patient you see is a familiar face. This can be a blessing or a curse, but mostly it’s a blessing.
This morning I’m in my office, reviewing today’s patients with Julia, the medical student rotating in our office.
I’m especially looking forward to my 10:30 appointment. It’s the first checkup for a newborn girl named Ella. I’ve known her parents, Emily and Dave, since before they had their first daughter, Katie, now three. I think of them as one of “my” families.
Emily and Dave, in their late twenties, have been together since college. Emily works full-time in a management position. Everything about her is calm and unflappable. Her dark blue eyes, neat dark-brown hair and pleasant expression radiate quiet competence. She easily weathers the garden-variety worries and crises of career and child-rearing.
A Different Kind of Holiday
A Different Kind of Holiday Read More »
Not Sharing
Birthday Boy
Joe Andrie ~
It’s another day for me as an intern on the labor-and-delivery floor of my large urban hospital–another day scrambling to help pregnant women deliver and trying to keep pace with the unpredictable timetable of the birthing process.
My hospital phone rings. I’m really starting to dread that sound.
It’s the triage nurse. We’re admitting a patient: Mrs. Harris, age thirty-four, who’s had several prior deliveries and therefore carries the label “multiparous,” or just “multip.”
Flipping through her records, I see “G5P4” noted. “G” means the number of pregnancies; “P” indicates how many children she has.
A mother of four who’s at term and having contractions…I’ve seen such women give birth within a matter of minutes. In plain language, Mrs. Harris’s chart means “HURRY!”
A Time of Tribulation and Thanks
A Time of Tribulation and Thanks Read More »