The Christmas Blessing

by VanLiere, Donna

  “Sir?”

  “Is medicine a calling or a responsibility for you?” I was stunned. I don’t know if I was more taken aback because Dr. Goetz was embarrassing me in front of my classmates or because he sensed my apprehension. “If it’s not a question you’ve addressed yet, I would suggest that you do.” Whatever positive feelings I’d had about Dr. Goetz during the surgery vanished in an instant.

  At the end of the day I made my way to the parking lot. My truck was on the far end, and I didn’t think I had the energy to crawl, let alone walk to it. “Why don’t you make life easier on yourself and get a new watch?” William said.

  “The watch isn’t the problem.”

  “It was today!” he said, chuckling. I was glad someone could get a laugh from my misery.

  “Is medicine a calling or a responsibility for you?” I asked.

  He zipped his coat and smiled. “Hey, you’re the one who’s supposed to answer that. Not me.”

  I put my hands under my arms and walked faster to keep up. “What’s that ‘calling or responsibility’ stuff supposed to mean, anyway?”

  William shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think he just means that sometimes you act like you’re becoming a physician because you owe it to the world.” William stood outside his car. “Listen, when a doctor asks for a clamp, hand the man a clamp! You’re not going to kill the patient, you know.” He got into his car and started to drive out of the parking lot.

  “So it’s wrong to care?” I yelled after him. “Is that what you’re saying? Doctors shouldn’t care?” He waved and squealed his tires as he pulled onto the road.

  When Friday came, I couldn’t wait to get to my apartment and crash. On my way home, I drove past the university and noticed buses and cars lined along the street. The sign in front read, ROSS ROUNTRY MEET TODAY. In spite of my throbbing head, I laughed when I read it, wondering what the kid was like who made off with the missing “c’s.” On a whim I pulled into the drive. I parked the truck and made my way across the grass to the bleacher seats just as a pack of lean male runners grouped together at the starting line. At the sound of the gun, parents and classmates were on their feet, screaming and cheering. It was a large crowd for a cross-country meet, much larger than the spattering of parents who came out when I was running. As I looked at the crowd, I had to smile. My father, grandmother, and sister sat in seats just like these many years ago to watch me run against the best in the district, cheering till their voices were hoarse.

  The race ended minutes later when a fine athlete from a competing school crossed the finish line in first place. A group of female runners walked toward the starting line, preparing for the sound that would send them bolting toward the woods and meadow beyond. As they gathered, a small girl in the middle of the crowd broke the silence. She cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed something, but I couldn’t hear what she said. Embarrassed, the girl’s mother covered her mouth as the runners shot off their marks. A girl, tall and lean, her light brown ponytail tossing in the wind, blew past the other runners and took the lead. The crowd was on their feet shouting her name. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was obvious she was the hometown favorite, if not the competing universities’ favorite as well. I got up and screamed along with everyone else. “Go, go, go!” I said with every step she took. I could see her wend her way through the woods, her strides long and fast. The other runners were pushing as hard as they could to catch up.

  The crowd was so loud that I missed much of what the announcer said. All I heard as the winner crossed the finish line was, “. . . shaved three seconds off her previous five-K record. She ran it today in fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds.” I’d never seen a girl run that fast—3.1 miles in just over fifteen minutes. No wonder the crowd was so big; the university had a star on its hands. I sat down and watched the crowd. I recalled that same frenzied energy from when I ran in high school and college. At the meets, I’d look up into the stands and scan the faces until I found my father, grandmother, and sister waving at me from the bleachers, my grandmother clasping her hands above her head and pumping them back and forth like a boxer taking the ring. I laughed at her and waved back, always wishing that my mother could be sitting with them. My head was pounding, so I decided against watching another race and headed home.

  Michele Norris, one of the coaches for the women’s team, caught Meghan and her family before they left the field. She was clutching a large brown envelope, smiling. “I didn’t want to blow your concentration before the race,” she said to Meghan. “But Stanford called me today. They’ve got a full scholarship with your name on it.” Jim threw his arms over his head in victory. Meghan was too astonished to speak.

  “That’s the second school,” Allison said. Georgetown had called a week earlier.

  “I think there’ll be others,” Michele said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Colorado Boulder called. They all seek out the best and know that you slipped under their radar last year in high school. They know they’re missing out on one of the best runners in the country.” She put her arm around Meghan. “Now comes the hard part. Choosing.” Meghan stared down at the envelope. Jim picked his daughter up, whooping as he bounced her up and down.

  “They wouldn’t even know who I am if it wasn’t for you,” Meghan said, between bounces.

  “You do the hard part,” Michele said. “All I did was create a little buzz.”

  Jim threw his hands into the air and whooped again, this time picking Michele up and shaking her like a rag doll. “This is my problem,” Michele said, grunting as Jim bounced her from side to side. “No single guys are ever interested in me, because married men keep picking me up.”

  Leslie Bennett drove Charlie to the hospital before Meghan’s race. He begged his mother to take him to the meet, but his breathing was labored again so the race was out of the question as far as Leslie was concerned. Dr. Goetz admitted him for an overnight stay, and, once his medications were adjusted, Charlie fell asleep. Leslie stayed at his side. In recent weeks, she and Rich had noticed that Charlie had less energy and was sleeping more than usual. When Rich arrived at the hospital after work that evening, Charlie opened his eyes. “You can go home, Dad,” he said. “I’m just going to go to sleep.” Rich sat down and squeezed Charlie’s hand.

  “That’s okay. I’ll wait,” his father told him.

  Rich watched as his son fell back to sleep. He and Leslie had been overjoyed when their first son was born, at a healthy nine pounds. Even years after Charlie’s surgeries he was still the picture of the active, normal child.

  When Rich was dating Leslie, and in the early days of their marriage, he was in the Air Force, and like many service families they moved from base to base. When he left the service, Rich and Leslie moved back to where they’d both grown up. That transition had been one of the most difficult of their lives. Unemployment was high, and Rich struggled to find work. He’d eventually found a job driving a truck for a local package delivery company.

  Leslie resigned from her part-time day-care position within the last few months, when Charlie’s visits to the hospital became more frequent, often leaving Matthew, Charlie’s ten-year-old brother, with her parents.

  Rich’s job didn’t provide the insurance coverage needed for all of the medical expenses, but it covered some, and anything helped at that point. Rich was taking any overtime hours he could get, hoping the extra income would help ease the burden of their mounting hospital bills, but there was only so much one man could do. The months of stress and worry were showing on both their faces. Leslie looked older than her thirty-five years. She had once enjoyed making herself up in the morning before heading out the door, but after sleeping on a bed no bigger than a cot by her son’s side, makeup was the last thing on her mind.

  Meghan walked to the nurses’ station on the fourth floor. Claudia looked up from her files. “Charlie’s doing great,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “He
needed his medications adjusted. He’s fine now. Hope did great, too. She’s up in ICU.”

  Meghan tiptoed into Charlie’s room. Rich and Leslie smiled, motioning her to come closer to his bedside. Meghan sat on a chair, leaning on the bed, careful not to disturb the maze of wires that were monitoring everything from Charlie’s heart, blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen level. She squeezed and patted his hand.

  “I didn’t take two seconds off, Charlie,” she whispered. “I took three.” Rich and Leslie smiled as Meghan kissed his forehead. “I missed you, though. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Congratulations,” Rich said.

  “When’s your next race?” Leslie asked.

  “Thursday.”

  “He’ll want to see you before then.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of!”

  An hour later, Charlie strained to open his eyes. Rich and Leslie jumped to their feet and bent toward him, touching his face. “You’re still waiting,” Charlie whispered to his dad.

  “I’ll wait forever if I have to.” It was something he and Charlie had been saying to each other for years now. When Charlie heard it, he smiled and fell back to sleep.

  THREE

  Most people run a race to see who is fastest. I run a race to see who has the most guts.

  —Steve Prefontaine

  I was walking toward the lounge when I passed Hope’s room. Since her transplant, our team had made sporadic visits to see her, but only long enough to check on her progress. Her mother, Beth, a part-time social worker, was always with her. Her room looked like a florist shop filled with flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals. Hope’s father, Gabe, was a loan officer at a nearby bank, and many of his customers had sent gifts. I peeked through the window in her door to see how she was doing. She caught my eye and waved me in, her little body dwarfed by the tangle of tubes and wires and machinery surrounding her. Her eyes crinkled up when she smiled at me.

  “In the middle of a so-so day, I know there’s always Hope,” I said, as if reciting poetry. Hope smiled and looked at her mother. “When people demand more of my time and I think I just can’t give any more, I know there’s always Hope.” She giggled and looked again to her mother. “When I need a pick-me-up but just don’t know where to turn, I look for Hope.” I stood at the side of her bed. “I don’t know what I’d do without Hope in my day.” Hope giggled, and her mother laughed, squeezing Hope’s hand.

  “Dr. Andrews,” Hope said, “you’re one of my favorite doctors.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” I said, leaning toward her. “I’m a med student. It’s this jacket. See,” I said, taking it off. “When I take it off I look like an accountant.” I put the jacket back on. “It’s amazing, because people think they have to go through years of medical school and training to become a doctor when all they really need is a white jacket.” Hope shook her head.

  “No, you’re a doctor,” she said. “And you’re my favorite.”

  “And I thought I was your best guy!” I turned to see Dr. Goetz standing in the doorway.

  “You’re both my favorites,” she said, holding on to each of our hands. “But don’t tell anybody else. They won’t like it.” Dr. Goetz put his finger to his lips as if he would keep her secret. I slipped from the room and walked toward the lounge.

  “Are you on your way to see a patient?” I stopped when I heard Dr. Goetz behind me and turned to look at him.

  “Uh, no,” I said, unable to think fast enough. I regretted the words as they fell from my mouth.

  “Good,” he said. “Walk with me as I check on Charlie Bennett.”

  Great, I thought. I never wanted to be with Dr. Goetz as part of a group, let alone soak up some one-on-one time with him.

  When we entered Charlie’s room, he was propped up in his bed, watching television. Two small blue ribbons were hanging from his hospital gown. Leslie sat at his side. Dr. Goetz stopped in the center of the room, opened his arms wide, and waited for a word from his young patient.

  “It’s still beating away in there,” Charlie said.

  Dr. Goetz walked to his bed and sat down. “Pain?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Goetz pretended to make a larger-than-life check mark on Charlie’s chart, which made Charlie laugh. “Breathing problems?”

  “No,” Charlie said.

  Two big check marks. Leslie chuckled at Dr. Goetz. “Sleeping?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Goetz pretended to make enormous exclamation points on the chart, circling his arm in the air at the end for a grand finale. I couldn’t help but be impressed by the banter between doctor and patient. Dr. Goetz listened to Charlie’s heart and took his pulse and blood pressure before placing an ankle on his knee, balancing the chart on his leg.

  “Are they treating you okay,” Dr. Goetz asked him. “Leaving a mint on your pillow every night?”

  “They won’t give me ice cream,” Charlie said, annoyed.

  Leslie laughed and rose to her feet. “I told them not to bring it. I didn’t know if that should be part of his diet or not.”

  Dr. Goetz leaned in close to Charlie. “If I can get Mom to okay the ice cream, will you spend one more night with us so we can monitor how the meds are doing?” Charlie nodded yes, but everyone in the room knew that the boy would have given anything to go home.

  A large, bearlike roar caught my attention on the television. I turned toward the set to see a wrestler body-slamming another wrestler to the mat. “Who’s your favorite?” I asked, pointing to the screen.

  “Ice Man,” Charlie answered without hesitation.

  I threw my hands in the air. “No way! Ice Man’s all water. The Rock crushes him every time.”

  Charlie straightened up in his bed and stared at me, wide-eyed, cracking his knuckles. “Water turns to ice and freezes over rocks.”

  I shrugged my shoulders as if that were no big deal. “But then the ice melts and turns to water and guess who’s still standing . . . The Rock!”

  Leslie laughed. “Please don’t encourage him.”

  Dr. Goetz rubbed Charlie’s head and turned to leave. “Ice cream’s on its way.” Charlie waved, and I smiled, following Dr. Goetz into the hallway. “I didn’t know you watched wrestling,” Dr. Goetz said to me.

  “I don’t. The only guy I’ve ever heard of is The Rock.”

  Dr. Goetz led me through the hall as he made his way to the next room. “I’ve watched you with patients, Nathan; especially the children. You have a way with them, a natural ability that we can’t teach.” I could be wrong, but it seemed as though Dr. Goetz had just complimented me.

  “We can teach you the clinical side of medicine,” he continued. “But we can’t teach personal care. Either a student has it, or he or she doesn’t. Sometimes you tend to take that care a little too personally on yourself, but again, that’s something we can work on.” He crossed his arms and looked at me. “But I’ve watched how kids respond to you, and they already have a trust in you.” He looked at me and paused. “Have you ever considered pediatrics or even pediatric cardiology?”

  “No,” I answered honestly.

  “You might consider one of them, perhaps training with me in cardiology.”

  After those words, I didn’t hear anything else. Dr. Goetz’s mouth kept moving, but my mind couldn’t process what he was saying. Long-term training with him was not even a consideration at that point.

  “I’m being switched to Dr. Hazelman’s rotation,” I said, spitting out the words.

  Dr. Goetz didn’t falter. “Very good then.” He tucked Charlie’s file beneath his arm. “Let me know if I can help.” He disappeared around the corner, leaving me standing in the hallway. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes. Was there even the slightest possibility that I was making a mistake? Maybe I should tell Peter I was wrong and complete my rotation with Dr. Goetz. I shook off the idea and walked toward the nurses’ station.

  The transition to Dr. Hazelman’s rotation happened
the next day, much quicker than I’d anticipated. He was part of the surgery block, which I had already completed, but his specialty lay in emergency medicine. I started with his team the last week of October and would spend the next eight weeks in the emergency room. I jumped into the work with both feet, anxious to prove to Peter and, maybe to myself, that I’d made the right decision in changing rotations.

  On my first morning in the ER, we watched Dr. Hazelman perform an emergency gallbladder surgery. “Many women her age experience gallbladder problems,” Dr. Hazelman said. “Why is that?”

  “The four f’s,” Melanie, the “gunner” of my new group, said. “Female, fat, fertile, and forty. So, pregnant women are more likely to develop gallstones. Although this patient is not pregnant, she still meets the criteria.” Dr. Hazelman nodded. Melanie clutched the clipboard tight to her chest and sighed, dazzled by her own brilliance.

  Days later, a nurse directed me to a room where a sixty-six-year-old man was complaining of lower back pain. I was assigned to do his evaluation before a doctor saw him. I walked into the room, and the man was clutching his back, groaning.

  “My name’s Nathan, Mr. Slavick,” I said, holding his chart. “I’m here to do your evaluation.” He leaned forward to ease his back and groaned.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, sir. I’m a med student.”

  “Get me a doctor now. I can’t take this pain.” I moved toward him to begin my examination but stopped. We had been taught during our first two years in med school that we were the main advocates for our patients. Sometimes the attending physician or the residents would be too busy to take much time with them, and that’s where we came in, giving quality time and attention to the patient. We were told to be completely thorough in each of the evaluations we performed, but something was wrong here.

  “I’ve never seen him like this,” his wife said, wringing her hands beside me. I tried to listen to Mr. Slavick’s abdomen but he grabbed my wrists, pushing me away, making it hard to hear through the stethoscope.