New year, old stories

These days I wake up early, often by 5:30 a.m. I am eating yogurt and berries at 6 a.m. when the phone rings. “Your patient came back. She’s fully dilated. Do you want to come in?”I think for a moment. It is Rosh Hashanah after all. I want to go to synagogue, but I have been waiting for this patient. I sent her home two days ago when she arrived in latent labour. “Do you think she can deliver before 10?” I ask my colleague. I know this is an unanswerable question. “I think so,” she says.I rush over to the hospital, wearing clothes that are passable for Shul. Luckily, I attend the hippie feminist synagogue, so fancy outfits are not de rigueur. When I spoke to my sister last night she said “I think I’ll wear pants and sneakers to Shul, just in case we have to get out fast.”Entering the Jewish General hospital, I nod to the security guard, grab my scrubs, high five the receptionist in triage, and hug one of the senior nurses as I head over to the delivery room. I go to check my patient, Miranda. This is her first baby. She is a scientist from the States, recruited by one of the francophone universities despite not speaking French. This leads me to believe that she must be brilliant. While this family is not vulnerable in the same sense as most of my refugee patients, they are newcomers here and know almost no one. I know they really want me to be at their birth.As I enter the room I see the stress drop away from her face. “What a sweet couple” says the night nurse, Phillipe. “They have serious hipster vibes and the husband is super cute in his Hawaiian shirt!” I go in and the husband, Noel, is indeed wearing a bright red and yellow vintage shirt, which I later find out was his late father’s. Next to Miranda, and rubbing her back, is a sweet-faced woman who can only be Noel’s mother. It is change of shift and the day nurse comes in. Miranda starts pushing with strength and determination but after an hour the head is jammed and swelling up. It is not getting any lower. I am not happy. I go speak to Dr. Dina Mohammed. She is the chief resident in OB, calm, kind and competent. I have come to know, trust and respect her during her time at the JGH. She exemplifies everything one wants in a consultant. She comes in and examines my patient, agrees with my assessment. When the staff obstetrician, Dr. Nguyen, joins her, we discuss our next steps with the patient and family. Dr. Nguyen gives the patient three options: to continue pushing, have a C-section or to have a forceps delivery. We go out to give the patient time to discuss. Dr. Nguyen and I gossip a little about retirement. When we go back in it is almost 10 but I can’t leave. The patient and family decide on a forceps. I hold her hand, as the forceps are smoothly inserted by Dina. The baby is easily delivered with two pulls. The Pediatric team is there. The baby, a little stunned, is resuscitated. As he lets out a cry, and I bring him back to his mom, I decide that all is well. With a final thank you to all and a hug to the new parents, I leave, change and run out the door. I have a glow of satisfaction in a job well done. I am grateful to be a part of this well functioning team. Here are people from everywhere, from many cultural and religious backgrounds, working together to safely bring new life into the world. Now all I can think of, is that I have had no coffee yet this morning, and that my stomach is growling. My husband has promised to bring sustenance to the synagogue.Heading to the taxis, I pass a man, banging on the doors of the medical records department.“It’s a hospital holiday,” I say, “a Jewish holiday.”The guy glowers at me. “Fucking Jews!” he says. “Like the normal rules don’t apply to them. Why can’t they be open when everyone else is! This is a public institution Goddammit. The fucking Jews they are always trying to control the rest of us!”I am taken aback, but have neither the time nor the desire to engage. Ignoring him, I rush out to the taxis. My little glow of satisfaction is destroyed, however. I am now upset and angry and anxious. I pull up to Shul just before 11. The street is lined with concrete barriers. I go in past the armed security guards, and the police, and the security table where I am vouched for before I can enter. I enter into the glowing sanctuary, into this place where I am part of a loving and supportive community. Then I listen to the story of Abraham, Sarah and Isaac, Hager and Ishmael and reflect on how we got here.I see the baby a few days later, he has a mild facial nerve palsy that will need treatment. Sometimes even when you try to do the right thing, it can leave scars.

New year, old stories

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