Posted on 01.19.09

These days as a night-float resident, I am quite satisfied with the business of being a doctor. Our friendly old community hospital on the hill takes a huge sigh by evening as the lights get dimmer, people talk softer, and the ill patients turn in for an attempt at a peaceful slumber.  On some odd hour, one could find that the only noise down the hallway is the squeaking walker of a tireless patient roaming with his light blue gown flapping like a cape in the moonlight.  This night float experience has faired far better for me than being a daytime house officer when the chaos of my to do list and the whirlwind dashing of the staff inhibit me from spending adequate quality time with each of my patients. 

It has been my goal to approach my patients with a handshake - a gesture of humanity amidst the beeping and rumbling machines - before I begin a barrage of questions and examinations.  I try to retain names of family members and friends who visit my patients, greeting them in the halls and acknowledging their own healing powers.  One particular patient is dying and as the morning drowns her room with soft white light, I sit on her bed as she recounts her fears as well as her beaus that have danced in and out of her life.

Daytime is for sleeping. I mill around the house, watering my plants and scrounging my cupboards for food, before I head off again in the evening back to the hospital.  Last night I helped one of my clinic patients deliver her first child, a dewy sweet girl with dark brown hair.  Mom and dad burst into tears of joy at the first site of their child, a cord wrapped tightly around her pale blue body.  This one was going to make it all right.  Once again I couldn't help but feel so lucky to participate in the intimate life of other people.  I feel blessed.