Page 12 of Paging Dr. Hart
The moms talk in hushed tones at the side of the pool, stretched out nextto each other on chaise lounge chairs. The cheap kind, with thin plastic strips that dig into your back. I swim closer, eavesdropping as Brandi asks my mom if she’ll start dating soon.
“I don’t think so,” replies Mama absently. She thumbs her way through the thick book in her hands. She’s always reading novels, my mama. The other moms all read magazines with glossy covers and skinny women wearing bright red lipstick on the front. Sometimes, I wish she would try to blend in a little more. Pick up a magazine or highlight her hair. I’m starting to notice things like that. How my mother sticks out in this place, a red rose among a bunch of carnations.
Brandi unties her bikini top and lets it drop to the ground. I avert my eyes, to avoid looking at her giant beach ball–rounded breasts. I can’t explain why, but seeing her naked chest makes me feel uncomfortable, like I’m doing something wrong, looking at something I shouldn’t. All she wears now is a tiny string bikini bottom. She rubs tanning oil over her arms and chest, gleaming blindingly in the sun.
I’ve asked Mom before why Brandi and some of the other apartment ladies wear so little when they sit out sunbathing at the pool. After a long pause, she says, “They can’t have tan lines for their job.” My mother refused to explain any further.
Brandi shoots my mom an incredulous look and whispers, rather loudly, “But what about the sex? Don’t you miss it?”
My mom’s lips thin into a disapproving line. “Not at all.”
Brandi’s eyes pop open even wider, and she says with equal disapproval, “Then you obviously weren’t doing it right.”
Teacher
9
Present, Columbus, Ohio
The next week, I train Ethan. We’re in the ultrasound department, where the rooms are so small that the bulky ultrasound machine and the patient in a rolling hospital bed barely fit. Whenever Ethan, the ultrasound technician, Jill, or I maneuver around the room, we call out our movements so we don’t bump into one another.
“On your right. Watch your toes,” says Jill, as she rolls her stool closer to the patient.
I have a plan for today. After giving it serious thought over the weekend, I’ve decided to take a different approach with Ethan. He defended me to Patrick so I might owe him, which is an uncomfortable thought. I make a mental promise to be extra kind to pay him back.
My “niceness plan” crashes into burning flames ten minutes later.
I’m teaching Ethan how to do an ultrasound-guided paracentesis, a procedure to treat ascites, a condition where abnormal fluid accumulates in a patient’s belly, making it swell up like a balloon. To treat this, we use a long needle to insert a flexible tube into the patient’s abdomen. The tube acts like a big straw and sucks out the extra fluid.
Ethan’s being an ass and resisting my instructions.
“I already know how to do this,” he grumbles, frustrated as I explain the procedure for the third time. “I was on a GI rotation for a month and did like a hundred of these.”
He sounds like a whiny three-year-old. I want to smack him on the butt and not in a sexy kind of way. “I’m sure you did these before, but not with the ultrasound machine. The GI doctors do them blind.” I count to ten slowly and continue. “In GI, they stick the tube in anywhere. Here in radiology, we use ultrasound to help us. It’s better because we can see inside the patient. We can locate the biggest pocket of fluid to target. That way there’s less chance of complications.”
“We never had complications in GI when we did it without ultrasound,” Ethan shoots back.
Thank goodness the patient is too out of it to hear us bicker. It can’t be very confidence-inspiring to watch your doctors argue. It’s already bad enough that Jill’s in the room with us. Her eyes bounce back and forth like we’re the best tennis match at Wimbledon. Gossip travels quicker than wildfire in the hospital, which means everyone will know that Ethan and I are proverbial oil and water.
“Well, you’re not in GI anymore. You’re in radiology, so act like a damn radiologist already!” I shove the ultrasound probe into his hand. I angrily grab that hand and place it on the patient’s distended belly.
Gray and black images pop up on the ultrasound computer screen. To the untrained eye, it looks like a swirling snowstorm of monochromatic pixels. To me, it looks like the inside of the patient’s body. I can clearly see his internal organs and the abnormal fluid.
The images shift as I guide his hand along the patient’s skin. I’m pressed up against Ethan, who sits in a chair while I stand behind him, staring at the screen over his shoulder. When I talk, my breath stirs the hair on the nape of his neck. Goosebumps break out along his skin, and he shivers.
Is the air conditioning too strong?
Ethan’s protests fade as he takes in the picture before him. He leans forward, staring at the screen with an expression of wonder.
“See those gray pulsing tubes? Those are the intestines. They’re moving because of peristalsis, which helps the food pass through,” I explain as I move his hand lower on the patient’s abdomen. “Now look down here. At these big black spaces. That’s the fluid. When the patient lies on their back, gravity pulls it down low.”
“Wow. That’s cool.” Ethan’s impressed, his eyes wide and jaw slack. “I’ve seen ultrasounds of the gallbladder and stuff like that before, but it was just static frozen images. Not in real-time like this. This is like the difference between looking at a photo versus watching a movie.”
I relax, letting the joy of my work sweep me away. “I know. It’s pretty neat, isn’t it? It’s like being Superman and having X-ray vision. We get to see right into the center of people.” Lots of days medicine is a grueling job, but moments like this make all the sacrifice worth it. Ethan twists in his seat to look at me. We exchange wide grins with each other, both high on the miracle of modern medicine.
I point at the screen. “Right there. That’s where we’ll get the best result.”
After we pick the spot, I instruct Ethan on how to cleanse and numb the patient’s skin. With my hands over his again, I help him guide the needle through the abdominal wall and into the fluid. We attach the tube to a suction bottle. Immediately, clear yellow liquid pours in. When that bottle is full, we replace it with another. We continue this process until the patient’s belly deflates like a punctured tire.
