Page 94 of Broken Dream
“That’s right.” Aunt Mel nods and sips her martini. “It was just like a movie. A flight attendant came on the PA saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, is there a doctor on board?’ I looked around, seeing if someone more qualified might volunteer. No one did. So I stood, knowing I had to do the best I could. The FAA-mandated medical kit had basic airway tools, IV fluids, and a defibrillator, but no scalpels or cannulas. I had to improvise. I used a pen to make the incision and a straw to keep the airway open.”
I shudder. “That sounds terrifying.”
“It was,” she admits. “And it taught me an important lesson. You never know when your training may come into play. That’s why it’s crucial to learn as much as you can and take every experience seriously.”
I take a sip of wine before asking Aunt Melanie the obvious question.
“Did she…survive?”
Aunt Mel smiles at me, her eyes twinkling. “Yes, Angie. She did.”
I let out a sigh of relief as the waiter comes by to take our dinner orders. “We have two specials tonight,” he begins, “a filet mignon with a red wine reduction and a seared scallops dish with a mango salsa.”
Aunt Mel chooses the filet mignon, while I opt for the seared scallops. As the waiter leaves, Aunt Mel leans back in her chair, staring out the window for a moment.
“The woman on the plane… She wrote me a letter afterward. She thanked me for saving her life. It was one of the most moving things I’ve ever read.”
I blink back tears. “That’s incredible, Aunt Mel.”
“Sometimes it’s not just about prescribing medications or listening to patients. Sometimes being a psychiatrist is literally about saving someone’s life.”
I look down at my bread plate. Her words resonate deeply and reaffirm my decision to go into psychiatry. The path may not be an easy one, but it holds meaning. It holds purpose.
“You never told me those stories before.”
“You never asked,” she says. “We’ve talked about the therapy portion of psychiatry mostly, and about how pharmaceuticals can help those who struggle with mental illness, but we’ve never really touched on the medical emergency aspect. But it’s there, and it can be vital.”
The waiter returns with our salads—mine a house salad with balsamic vinaigrette and Aunt Mel’s a Caesar—and I pick up my fork.
“Did you ever doubt your decision to go into psychiatry?” I ask.
She takes a moment before answering, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Of course,” she admits. “No path worth pursuing is without its bumps and moments of uncertainty. And some of the stories are heartbreaking, especially in my specialty of childhood trauma.”
“I can imagine.”
And indeed I can. Aunt Mel was doctor to one of my uncles and two of my cousins, who had all been through horrific childhood abuse.
“But each time I doubted myself,” she continues, “I would remember why I chose this specialty in the first place—to help those in need. That would always bring me back. I remember every single patient I’ve helped, Angie.”
I widen my eyes. “Every single one?”
“Yes. As a psychiatrist, I get the privilege of spending more than just a few minutes with my patients. A surgeon will meet a patient once, study his scans, do the surgery and a follow-up, and then it’s over in most cases. But as psychiatrists, we have the opportunity to go on a journey with our patients. We witness their lowest points, their times of triumph, their tears and their smiles. That’s what makes it rewarding.”
“And that’s what makes it hard too, I suppose,” I say.
She nods, taking another sip of her martini. “There is no reward without risk. Psychiatry is not a field for those who want an easy way out. You’ll see things that will break your heart. You’ll have patients that, despite your best efforts, do not get better.”
“Did you ever feel… I mean…did it ever get too heavy? The emotional burden?”
Aunt Mel sighs. “There were days when I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. Seeing so much pain and suffering. Feeling like I had failed when a patient didn’t improve. It can be very heavy.”
I bite on my lip.
“But it’s not all darkness,” she adds quickly. “There are moments of light too. When you see a patient who was once on the edge of giving up standing tall and smiling again. When you witness the strength of the human spirit in its rawest form. Those are the moments that make it all worth it.”
“I always wondered,” I begin, playing with the stem of my wineglass. “How do you separate your work from your personal life? How do you manage to switch it off at the end of the day?”
She chuckles lightly. “Oh, Angie, if only there was a switch! The truth is that you don’t really switch off. Especially not in the beginning. The stories of your patients—their pain and their struggles—tend to follow you home. They sneak into your dreams, cloud your thoughts. But it’s part of the process.”
