Physician, Heal Thyself

A young female emergency room doctor has to face a pandemic and the consequences of holding an unpopular professional opinion.

Physician, Heal Thyself

 

 

 

Two kinds of people are attracted to working in the medical field: angels of mercy, people dedicated to alleviating suffering and promoting health; and those who listen to their demons and take pleasure in inflicting a great amount of distress, pain, grief and death.   I know this because my wife is an ER physician at the local hospital and told me this, assuring me that she is one of the angels.   She almost didn’t go into medicine, the kind of sensitive she is.  She cried every night of med school, sickened at the sight of blood and delicately heart-crushed at pain her patients suffered.  But she kept at it, eventually having to balance her tender heart with the demands of the job, because she had to prove it to herself, and when she got to the ER rotation, she became addicted to the adrenaline, the rush of the front lines.  A life and death combat for immediate rescue.   Ellie is a trained professional now, and has been one for a couple of years, and though her heart has been tempered with a rough edge, it doesn’t quell the pain.   Still, she comes home and cries into my shoulder.

            Yesterday was just such a day.   I came home late from my construction job on the Interstate, and it was almost dark.  I had just been made surveyor, and was very optimistic about the future.  She was curled up in her favorite chair, eating Cadbury Eggs.   That’s how I knew it was a really bad day.   That and the soft sobs and sniffles.

“Let’s talk, babe,” I said.

            “I don’t know where to begin,” she said.  “There’s been another outbreak of the virus, up in Salt Lake County.   They cut us back to half-staff three months ago, now those of us who were lucky enough to keep our jobs are overwhelmed.”    I knew she hated being assigned virus patients, because ever since the first cases started coming in, she hated being the one to enforce separating the patients from their loved ones.  The higher ups in the medical community argued they had to do this to keep the spread of the virus at bay.  To Ellie it seemed outright heartless.   Whether or not it worked, we’ll never know.   Quarantines or not, over 99% of patients lived.   And she could not adjust to the nonchalance of most doctors when it came to this most basic need of patients for their families.

            First, she didn’t know which doctors to believe.  The administrators and heads of departments behaved like good little soldiers, yet everything they did radically restricted the freedoms of the patients.  Reactionary.  My wife cherishes her personal freedoms, lost a sister in Iraq.  A sister who was a nurse.  I am an Army vet.  The higher ups were making a grab for power at the expense of people’s liberties.  Then there were people like Doctor Francis, who disbelieved the higher ups.  To Doctor Francis and others all factors just pointed to a bad flu season.  And people do die of the regular flu.

            The next day Ellie came to the hospital and Dr. Francis took her aside.   “Look, I need you to run point on this virus situation.  I’m giving a press conference, and we need all hands, and I want you there giving all your latest numbers.  And give context.  Nobody in the media is giving context.”

            I was home with the flu, but with no temperature, so I was home when Ellie called me.   “I’m going to be on TV on the twelve o’clock news.  Dr. Francis wants me to give an update.”

            “So that means he wants you to cover up, go with the hospital narrative?”

            “No.  This is Doctor Francis.   I know he is a big believer in individual rights.  Free agency.  I don’t think he expects me to lie.”

            “How do you feel about doing that?   You might lose your job.  We were counting on that income to start our family.”

            “Then again,” she said.  “If I don’t do it, many people will be dying that need non-virus related medical care.  Just like the first wave.  We can’t pretend we didn’t learn anything from last time.”

            “Well, good luck, Darling.   I love you no matter how this turns out.”

 

            The next day, I tuned on the local news at noon.  There was Dr. Francis, an older man with an expensive timepiece, and beside him stood Ellie in her white lab coat, stethoscope around her neck.   Looking very “doctorly” as she calls it.  She took off her mask to speak into the microphones. “The numbers indicate a rise in cases of the virus.   But it could be any type of virus, not just THE virus.  We, Dr. Francis and I, believe that the reaction of the media and the various state, local and federal governments have been reactionary at best.  Not to mention the unemployment, the riots.  The increased murders, the suicides.  Suicides now outnumber our most accurate reflection of the virus deaths.” The news producer on site quietly said, “Cut,” but my wife continued as the cameras kept recording.   “We need more people to feel free to come into the ER.  Chest pains.  Stroke symptoms.  Acute pain.   Mental health issues.  We need to treat these people, and must not get away from a holistic approach to medicine.”

            Dr. Francis stepped up quickly to the microphone and said, “My colleague here is misrepresenting the facts.  Fact is we are all vulnerable, not just the old and infirm, and that we must wear our masks at all times, even indoors.  Human life is precious, no matter what the risks.  Even if some people with breathing problems must suffocate to death from wearing them for the greater good. Those in the medical community have approved a mask mandate for the nation, and the president has approved it.  Violations will have harsh penalties.”

            Ellie lost her job at the hospital, and was told by Doctor Francis she was essentially blackballed from the medical community.  To cheer Ellie up, we packed two backpacks and headed south to her favorite place in Utah, out into the desert, hoping to make it to Goblin Valley before nightfall.

            Goblin Valley is actually a half-mile square sandpit in the middle of the south Utah desert.  It is dry, and the soil is a sandy orange chalk color.  During the day there is no wildlife to see, but it is filled with these odd rock formations that the original pioneers thought looked like goblins.  The formations were oddly shaped and like stacked boulders.   Ellie and I set up a campsite and started a small fire.   The air began to chill and the sky was turning dark.

            “What are we going to do, Ellie?”

            She poked a slender stick into the fire, mixed around a few of the cinders glowing red.  Sparks flew to the sky.  “I guess I go back to Francis with my tail between my legs.  Apologize.  Mea culpa to the higher ups.”

            “You don’t have to do that, you know.  There are a million places around the country you could practice.”

            “But how many are a short drive out to the high plains, with Goblins?”  she smiled.  “No.  I like living here.  And you just got your promotion.  And we are planning on having kids soon.”

            We lay down on our sleeping bags and looked up at the star-crowded sky.   Millions of them, everywhere.   There were intimations of the immortal in the sky that night.  Ellie and I made love, and nine months later, our first arrived.