A White Coat Is My Closet (24 page)

Both Christopher and his mom’s faces registered confusion.

“Well,” I started to explain thoughtfully, “you have to remember that this medicine was invented for Superman, and he’s a lot bigger than you. Swallowing it would be too much for someone your size. Superman said because you were just five, all you had to do was swirl it around in your mouth, then spit it out. You think you can do that?”

Christopher still sounded gravelly, but had the slightest hint of a smile on his face. “You mean I don’t even have to swallow? Usually the nurse makes me swallow, and I don’t like medicine.”

“Just swish and spit. Think you can do that?” He nodded; maybe not gleefully, but with more optimism than I had seen in him for a while.

“Excellent. I’m going to try to get a message to Superman so he’ll know you woke up and you’re going to try the medicine. That will make him really happy.” I looked at my watch. “He left here five minutes ago, so he’s probably already back in New York. He’s stronger than a locomotive, can leap tall buildings in a single bound, and he flies at the speed of sound. Guess he arrived back there in less than a minute. He’s pretty darn fast.” I smiled and walked out to the nurses’ station, where I had left the concoction sitting on the counter. Though Diane wasn’t quite sure what I was talking about, I lifted the medicine up as if making a toast and nodded in the direction of Christopher’s room. “Let’s hope the Superman ploy works!”

I also picked up a basin for Christopher to spit into and the bag that contained the four cartons of sherbet. With any luck, the concoction would quickly alleviate a lot of his pain, the Zofran he’d been given a couple hours before would leave him feeling less nauseous, and he could enjoy his preferred flavor of sherbet.

When I got back into his room, Christopher’s mother already had him sitting up in bed. I swirled the medicine around in the clear bottle. “See, it’s red, just like Superman’s cape. I suppose the genius scientist from Krypton wanted to make it a color that could overpower kryptonite.” I pulled my attention away from the swirling contents of the bottle and looked at Christopher with a perplexed expression. “I don’t remember. Do you know what color kryptonite is, champ?”

Christopher nodded authoritatively. “It’s green and it glows in the dark.”

“Wow, you really are a kryptonite expert. Well, Superman guaranteed me that this would work. You ready to give it a try?”

Christopher nodded again. “Remember,” I said, “you just take a big mouthful, swish it all around, then spit it into the basin. In fact, when you have the medicine in your mouth, I’m going to count to ten slowly. You keep swirling it around with your tongue until I reach ten. When I say ten, you give me a Superman-size spit.” I smiled encouragingly. “Got it?” He gave me another nod. “Let’s do it. If the Atomic Skull couldn’t beat Superman, nothing is going to beat you.”

I held the bottle up to Christopher’s lips and tilted it until he had taken a big mouthful. “Okay, start the swishing but don’t swallow. One, two, three….” I watched him carefully and was delighted to see that though he pushed out his cheeks as the solution washed around in his mouth, I saw no indication that he was swallowing. If he were to swallow, his Adam’s apple would bob up and down. “Eight, nine, ten! Okay, give me a Superman spit.” I held the basin under Christopher’s mouth, and he forcefully spit the solution into it. I gently dabbed the drizzle that ran down his chin with a Kleenex.

I knew the lidocaine became effective almost as soon as it touched the blisters, so I looked at Christopher expectantly. “What do you say, champ? Is it a little better?”

He moved his tongue around in his mouth very cautiously, but his expression registered approval. “It still hurts, but not as much.” He moved his tongue some more, tentatively but with less hesitation. “It’s a little better.”

“Excellent. I knew Superman would come through for you. I think he’s hoping you will one day be his helper. Can I tell Superman that when you’re all well you’d be willing to help him fight bad guys?”

Christopher’s nod was much more enthusiastic. I replied, “Super! Superman is going to be super happy.” I nodded with each “super” for emphasis. “Let’s give it one more try, then I’ve got a treat for you.”

We went through the process one more time, and after Christopher had successfully spit the solution into the basin for a second time, I reached into the bag I was carrying and pulled out the cartons of sherbet. “Superman told me that if you did a good job with his medicine, you could have a treat. Look what he left for you. Four flavors of his favorite sherbet! Which one do you want?”

Christopher immediately looked a little dejected. “Eating hurts my mouth.”

“Hey,” I said, acting as if his hesitation was now patently silly. “That was before you swished Superman’s red medicine. Superman told me that after he swallowed the kryptonite and before he took the medicine, he couldn’t even swallow water. Then, after he took the medicine he was able to chew through bricks. If he could eat bricks, I’m sure you can taste a tiny spoonful of sherbet. It’s soft and cold.” While I was talking, I had taken the lid off the container of strawberry and run a spoon across the surface of the sherbet. A red ribbon curled onto the surface of the spoon. I held it in front of Christopher’s face. “Superman will be disappointed if you don’t at least give it a try.” I lifted the spoon a little closer to his lips to try to coax him. “Come on. Just one small taste. Then I can give Superman a good report.”

Christopher leaned forward, but just before drawing the spoon carefully into his mouth, he looked at me and said, “Superman doesn’t eat bricks.” He let the sherbet melt slowly on his tongue, then smiled. It was the first real smile I’d seen since entering his room. “That tastes good.”

My smile threatened to overcome my face. “Superman thought you’d like it.”

I spent the next ten minutes spooning strawberry sherbet into Christopher’s mouth while I told him as many stories about Superman’s adventures as I could remember. Hell, I even made a few of them up. When my beeper went off, I handed the carton to his mom and assured him that I’d be back to check on him.

His mom mouthed an appreciative, heartfelt, “Thank you,” as I got up to leave. I had almost made it to the door when I turned back around to offer Christopher a little more encouragement. “Superman is going to be really happy his medicine helped you, and he said that next time he came to town, he was going to bring Yogi a cape. He said something about needing a superhero teddy bear to help him catch bad guys. Looks like you and Yogi are going to be his team.”

Even through cracked, sore lips, Christopher’s smile was radiant. As I walked out, I made a mental note to find something that could serve as a teddy-bear-sized red cape. I had to be sure Superman made good on his promise to Yogi.

M
ERCIFULLY
, the rest of the shift was mostly uneventful. I checked on Christopher a couple times throughout the afternoon. It could hardly be said that his spirits were soaring, but at least he appeared to enjoy moments of happiness, and his overall discomfort seemed significantly reduced. I had gone to the cabinet in the play-therapy office and absconded with a couple of Superman DVDs. I had even had time to sit on Christopher’s bed and watch a fifteen-minute episode with him. I tucked Yogi under my arm and Christopher leaned against both of us. In the episode we watched, Bizzaro had hatched a dastardly plan to try to crush Superman in an earthquake. Christopher and I agreed that plan was doomed for failure even at its inception. Everyone knew that, even if buried under tons and tons of dirt, Superman merely had to spin around like a supersonic drill and he could bore himself through solid rock and ultimately to safety. The villains always underestimated his super strength.

Before the DVD had even ended, Christopher was snoring quietly beside me and his mom was curled up asleep in the chair next to us. I carefully extracted my arm from underneath both Yogi and Christopher, tucked Yogi in securely next to him, and snuck out silently. They could both benefit from some much-needed sleep.

Sundays were historically the quietest day of the week. There were no scheduled admissions, and except when something couldn’t logistically otherwise occur, there were no elective procedures. Our team admitted three patients from the emergency room through the night, but none of the children were seriously complicated, so their management was relatively routine. Danny, my current intern, and I were each able to sleep for about four hours ourselves. An enviable accomplishment.

Making rounds the next morning was also relatively painless. The attending assigned for the week was Dr. Perkins. She was young, smart, and rather than try to intimidate, actually liked to teach. She hoped her involvement with house staff would actually contribute to them becoming better doctors, not just bully them into submission. Also, she had a great sense of humor and tended not to take herself too seriously. Her approach on rounds was to encourage us to think through both the diagnostic and patient-management process. She illustrated potential pitfalls by relating examples of mistakes she had made in the past. I was sure she exaggerated the magnitude of her errors, but the process succeeded in making her seem more human and, as a consequence, infinitely more approachable. We never hesitated to discuss anything with her—clinical impressions, questions about patient management, uncertainties related to formulating a definitive plan of care. Nothing was off-limits. Rounds with her were instructive and entertaining. The perfect combination.

My work was done by two o’clock in the afternoon, and I was ready to sign out. Though I had been working for more than thirty hours, because I had gotten four hours sleep, I actually felt relatively refreshed. I could even imagine being able to go to the gym to work out before the fatigue I knew I would eventually feel caught up with me. Regrettably, however, getting out the door meant having to talk to Peggy. Once again, she followed me in the call rotation and was scheduled to be on call that night. Despite having completed everything I was required to do and even having double-checked some last-minute details, I knew Peggy would resent seeing me leave. Any of my other colleagues would have given me a high-five and congratulated me on being able to salvage a couple hours of daylight, but not Peggy. Her perspective was that if she was miserable, everyone else should be too. I tried to buck myself up for what I knew would be the ensuing confrontation.

Rather than paging her and giving her an opportunity to create reasons that would prevent me from leaving, I decided to just surprise her. No sense in giving her a heads-up. Given a warning of merely a few seconds, her diabolic mind could pull shit out of thin air that would not only require my immediate attention but could be amplified into four more hours of work. Sadly, she was that mean-spirited.

I strolled over to the nurses’ station just as Connie was disappearing into the med room. As a charge nurse, Connie was one of the best—hard-working, levelheaded, conscientious, energetic, and organized. Also, she had an exuberant laugh that in most situations was an integral part of any conversation you had with her. Working with Connie not only contributed to making the shift tolerable, invariably, it succeeded in making it a pleasure.

I rapped on the door and caught her attention through the glass. When she opened it, I was greeted by an ear-to-ear grin. “Sorry, Doc. There’s no point in even begging. I refuse to give you any more Vicodin.” She was laughing before she had even completed the sentence. There was something to be said for enjoying your own sense of humor.

“Damn,” I said between clenched teeth, shaking a frustrated fist. “I knew it was a mistake to choose you as my sponsor. With my supply from the med room cut off, I’ll have no choice but to sell my body on the streets to support my drug habit.” I plastered my most seductive smile across my face. “So, what do you say, lady? Twenty dollars will buy you a good time in the linen closet.” I let my eyebrows dance across my forehead.

Connie let out such a boisterous laugh she had to immediately bring her finger to her lips to shush herself. “Dr. Sheldon, you’re going to get us both in trouble. The only time I’ve had fun in the linen closet was when me and four of the other nurses joined Weight Watchers. That’s where I hid my Snickers bar.” She laughed again although significantly more quietly.

“So?” She looked at me, her eyes still gleaming. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I was hoping you would know where Peggy is. My work is done, so I’m ready to sign out. It will be the first time I’ve seen the sun on a weekday since I started this rotation.”

Trying to hold a neutral expression and maintain a tone void of cynicism, she raised a conspiratorial brow. “And you’re going to sign out? Now? To Peggy?”

I continued to smile, and I too injected as innocent a tone as possible into my response. Both of us were biting our tongues. Our joint inclination would have been to acknowledge that neither of us had ever observed the bitch to willingly do anyone a favor. But that would have been indelicate. Instead, I nodded and answered. “I’m sure the good Dr. Wang will be delighted to extend me the courtesy of taking my sign-out now. After all, it’s a consideration she insists the rest of us give her after she’s been on call.” My smile broadened. “And that’s whether she’s completed her work or not.”