Crying babies, sobbing mothers, cold, sterile exam tables, cold feet, needles a mile long, waiting in line too long, feeling crummy, and a scared feeling that aches where no doctor or medicine can reach—this is what most people anticipate as they approach their local doctor’s office or hospital. Up until about a year ago, I thought along these same lines. It was only after I examined the examining rooms, ambled along the corridors, and experienced the sights, sounds and main characters of a hospital that I changed my mind. One of those instrumental characters was the doctor who I shadowed and who afforded me such invaluable experiences.
Right away, I could tell Dr. Carey Ehlert would become a role model in my life, both in terms of her profession and her lifestyle. A trim, professional woman in her mid-30s, her passion for her job was evident in her smile, effervescent manner and radiant personality. I had been interested in becoming a physician since middle school, but felt I needed to leave the confines of a high school biology lab or chemistry classroom to know for sure. Urgency and determination consumed me as I embarked on this mentorship, but doubts also swarmed in my head, buzzing annoyingly about medical school for six or more years at outrageous tuition costs, while wifehood and motherhood are put on hold. Was this really what I wanted to do for the rest of my life? Was it possible to be a wife, mother, and a career woman? After meeting Dr. Ehlert, I was blown away by how much she embodied the person I was striving to become. After years of wondering whether I could pull off “Mom” and “Doctor Ambrose” simultaneously, I had finally discovered Dr. Ehlert, along with her three beautiful children, her husband, her pristine white lab coat, her stethoscope slung around her neck, and her bedside manner. Coinciding with this personal admiration was an interest in medicine, which was triggered during my mentorship.
Over the two and a half months I spent shadowing her, I saw the gamut: from cesarean sections to circumcisions, from spina bifida patients to new admittances, even ethical debates and informational lectures. On my first visit to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), Dr. Ehlert briefed me on the patients as we walked toward the ward, our shoes tapping against the linoleum and creating an almost rhythmic beat. “…One had surgery last week to close a heart valve; it really shouldn’t have been open in the first place…there’s a twin in for abnormal, rapid breathing…and one little guy has been quarantined; Mom contracted an infection and we need to make sure it didn’t spread to him.” The whirlwind was only just beginning. No sooner had I taken off my coat and scrubbed my hands than I was whisked downstairs to a C-section. As the obstetricians worked on Mom, I’ll never forget the brand new father that came out to meet his baby girl for the first time. Even though I couldn’t see his mouth or nose under the surgical mask, I could tell he was beaming. I was, too. It was impossible not to grin, or let your eyes fill with tears when a human child with an entire future is lying in front of you, even if they are screaming at the top of their lungs. As a parent, you are grateful for that scream. The louder their cry is, the more robust and strong they are.
Sometimes, though, there is no yell or typical scream when a newborn enters the world. One Saturday evening at about ten o’clock, as the fifth-floor neonatal ward was just waking up, a new baby arrived, transferred from a nearby hospital. When I saw her on that miniature stretcher, only hours after she took her first breath, and noticed she was both motionless and silent, I felt my heart crumble inside me.
Half of me yearned to cry out “This isn’t fair. Her life has just begun.” But the other half wanted to believe that if this little angelic baby—Emma Rose was her name—was meant to live, she would, in the care of Dr. Ehlert and her team. Flocking from opposite ends of the building or shaken from their beds at home by vibrating pagers, the doctors swept in on Emma, leaving me to simply watch and pray. It was difficult to determine what was wrong with her; the doctors at the other hospital recommended the transfer because they didn’t know what else to do—I vaguely remember my own feeling of helplessness.
Lost in my thoughts, I almost missed the ginger move of Emma Rose from stretcher to crib. There, respiratory therapists, radiologists, and neonatologists probed, lifted, touched, squeezed and stroked, when Emma Rose should have been in the arms of her mother and father. “Can you help me a minute?” In the midst of an emotional conundrum and my growing attachment for Emma, I was jerked back to the neonatal floor. The question threw me for a loop. Where had all the other doctors gone? Was Emma Rose all right?
“Can you come here for a sec?” The radiologist asked me again.
“Yeah…sure…” I was apprehensive. I glanced at Dr. Ehlert, who nodded encouragingly. But this was such a fragile situation! Medical student interns didn’t even help in the neonatal wing. What was I to do? What could I possibly do? I stepped forward.
“Can you just…keep her calm?” The words ran over me like a wave on the seashore; I had just seen Emma for the first time since she had arrived. I inhaled slightly—that’s how beautiful she was. The wires and body probes had disappeared to reveal a tiny, slender body with ivory skin. The stretcher had been replaced by a regular neo-crib, sheets with pink and yellow elephants. Emma Rose wiggled slightly and I stammered, “What should I…how can I…what do you want me to…”
“Just like, stroke her head. Hold her hand.” The radiologist was short with me as he began warming up the ultrasound pads and smoothed the cool jelly over her chest. I felt the world melt away, but this time I wasn’t floundering with compassion and concern. I felt emboldened and confident. It was Emma Rose and I, her teeny fingers wrapped around my index finger while my idle hand stroked her peach-fuzz hair. I thought of her mother, her father, brothers and sisters perhaps, and the future that I longed for her to have. But the procedure ended quickly, Dr. Ehlert pulled me away from Emma and led me to another baby, another family, another chance at easing the pain. It was only later that I was reassured that Emma had gone home later that week with her family.
Some people would shudder at the screams of the infants or perhaps wince at the smell of the anti-bacterial wash mixed with an attic-like mustiness that penetrates your nose each time you walk through the doors of the hospital. It swishes around in your mouth when you are covered up from head to toe in a surgical mask, cap, gloves, scrub top and bottoms, and shoe booties in the surgical wing. What they don’t tell you about hospitals, though, is the astounding and pervasive feeling of hope that surrounds you when you walk through the doors. As if, if there is any way humanly possible to save the life that has been so graciously given to us, it will happen there. The sobs of mothers can be of joy, the tears of happiness. And the cries of newborn babies mean that new life is starting right then, and that those cries resound in those sterile halls and in your heart, if you let them. That the terrifying hum of machines may keep someone alive, and keep the faith alive in their loved ones. The smell of bleach is putrid but it is clean—clean enough to face the wonders and miracles with startling focus that come with seeing the true fragility of life.
An innumerable amount of times, especially after that night with Emma Rose, I walked through the halls of the hospital and felt comfort, security, and a breath of fresh air. As I frequently approached the neonatal wing, the clicks of doctor’s heels behind me became a dance—not a charade or a performance—but an exalted and exhilarating display of talent and caring disposition. It’s not the machines, tables, chairs, or pagers that still draw me there, almost a year later. It is the act of saving people—aunts and uncles, mothers and grandmothers, Grandpa Joe and cousin Cici, Oma and Nona, Papa and Bubba. With the help of Emma and Dr. Ehlert, I had discerned my passion of medicine, as well as discovered my source of joy, growth and a concrete expression of agape, a Greek word that can translate appropriately as “self-gift”.
', 'by Kelley Ambrose
Crying babies, sobbing mothers, cold, sterile exam tables, cold feet, needles a mile long, waiting in line too long, feeling crummy, and a scared feeling that aches where no doctor or medicine can reach—this is what most people anticipate as they approach their local doctor’s office or hospital. Up until about a year ago, I thought along these same lines. It was only after I examined the examining rooms, ambled along the corridors, and experienced the sights, sounds and main characters of a hospital that I changed my mind. One of those instrumental characters was the doctor who I shadowed and who afforded me such invaluable experiences.
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