Breathe in, breathe out. It hurts so much. Can't take it any longer, need to get away.
All tagged doctor
Breathe in, breathe out. It hurts so much. Can't take it any longer, need to get away.
At first I thought it must be a trick of the light, some particular wavelength that shimmered and flicked with an orangish sheen across his skin, like tea gone cold in a porcelain cup.
Boom. The sound is decidedly not normal on a day with perfect blue skies and the shoes of thousands of marathon runners smacking the pavement.
“I was a drummer,” he insisted, drawing my attention from his bulging belly, skin taut like a snare but less tympanic. My first solo paracentesis had history, jangling my nerves.
I ran barefoot across the street and yelled, “I’m a pediatrician! It’s going to be okay.” It wasn’t okay.
“911. What’s your emergency?” “I’m having a brain hemorrhage.”
The sink felt cool and solid beneath my shaky hands. I steadied myself over it before looking up into the mirror.
I’m in the ER with a kidney stone. There’s an IV for the pain.
Relief licks my bones. Our infant son will not die.
I lay on the narrow table, left arm bent over my head, hospital gown open to expose my left side. The biopsy was over.
I was sitting in the car when the phone rang. The caller I.D. made me pick up.
I’m staring at your hands. You’re using them to clarify medical words; to make shapes; to draw diagrams to help me understand what my brain can’t make sense of …
My son and I, we’ve been to so many doctors together. We had to go to several every week when he was little to try to get him better.
Mom was in the ICU for three weeks. The doctor suggested moving her to hospice.
She came out crying, holding her right arm. To my untrained eye, nothing seemed broken.
My patient's oxygen levels were stable, yet he hunched over the edge of the bed, laboring to breathe. His eyes searched mine for answers.
Resisting the urge to peek at my defined abdominal muscles, I ripped an oily chip into quarters and apprehensively put a piece in my mouth, taking a deep breath.
While we thumbed outdated magazine pages in the doctor’s waiting area, we wondered if our baby would be all right, if there were additional vitamins or a prescription we might need.
I unclasped the bra hooks behind my back in a cold room with flower art and silver tools.
Mumma says I must sit my straightest, let the doctor bend and stretch me even though it makes my muscles pulse. I understand that “wild” isn’t permitted here, only normal.