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The Call
By James Beckerman, MD, FACC
My beeper went off at 4:30 this morning.
I was positioned at the edge of the bed, on my left side, my pager within easy reach so that I can silence its high pitched alert before it wakes my wife.
I called the emergency room and whispered into the phone, realizing that my four-year-old son had snuck into our bed. Cortisol surged. My heart rate went up. I moved quickly, but quietly. I slid out from under the covers, picked my scrubs and hoodie off the floor, and tip-toed out of my bedroom.
The music played loudly and cut into the fog as I drove. I opened the window and felt the cool air against my hand. I thought of my six-year-old, who likes to say that he lives in the clouds.
I complained to no one in particular. I was sad that I wouldn’t be able to help get my kids ready for school. I wondered how this will feel when I am old. Sometimes I see other vehicles on these early morning runs, and I wonder where they are going, and what their drivers are thinking about.
As I came down the hill, the fog lifted and street lights came into focus. I thought about my wife’s dad. I remembered performing chest compressions as a third-year medical student. I pictured the patient’s family in the waiting room.
I took the first parking spot I saw and wrapped myself in my white coat as I ran through the cold toward the automatic doors. Bright fluorescent lights and hard floors shone. I heard the sounds of morning breaking.
I pulled back the curtain.
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