Waking up to a beeping pager is a grim experience. Especially on my single day off sandwiched between 80+ hour work weeks. It’s probably something akin to using toothpaste made out of lint and fiberglass insulation. “Then I’ll rinse my mouth out with some refreshing rubbing alcohol.” I thought groggily as I fumbled for the “silent” button one recent Saturday morning.
The insidious pager was telling me that one of my OB patients was in labor. And while there are other residents ready to cover my patients on my days off, I have it in my head that I should be with my patient at times like this.
My turn-of-the-century country doc ideals, however, were running headlong into big family plans. I was slated for “cute patrol” (aka babysitting), all day from 10am ’till 10pm. Christina had been planning on a 12-hour scrapbooking extravaganza for the past month. Burnt out on weeks of caring for 4 energetic kids, she was ready for a break. Anyone standing in the way of her plans would probably do better leading a human rights rally in Kabul.
I’d also heaped all kinds of promises onto that day with each child over the past month. “DADurday” I pledged, would be nothing short of Lord Of The Flies mayhem, replete with ice cream, candy, cartoons and general lawlessness…payback for all the hours I’d been working.
My thoughts returned to my blinking pager. Odds were my patient would deliver before noon. If I could just free up the morning, I’d be able to deliver her baby, then get home quick and nobody would notice, right? I made the ill-advised decision to give it a try:
First, find a babysitter. ANY babysitter. “Never mind the missile launcher incident, can your kid babysit? Uh, well we can’t pay much, honestly. How ‘bout a 3-bedroom house? It comes complete with a cute yellow Labrador named “Fetch” who in fact doesn’t fetch a thing – he’s wiggling, wagging canine irony. Who can beat that?”
At a price to make The Queen consider watching our kids, we managed to find a babysitter until 2 pm. It was 9 in the morning, which gave my patient 5 hours to have her baby. PUSH, lady!
Now for the bigger hurdle(s). Los Ninos.
William, at 1 year old, was easy…a soft target, you might say. His thoughts (obsessions, really) are still pretty basic: “food, destroy stuff, food, destroy, should I start walking yet? Nah. Destroy stuff.” No problem, mister, happy to accommodate you. “Babysitter girl, here’s 16 bottles of baby food and a laptop computer. Feed him till he throws up, then give him this. He’ll tear it apart for hours.”
Jordan, at 3, was also simple. Pacifier? Yep. Blankie? Yep. Snacks? Can you say….bottomless Cheeze-Its? She caved. Just like that. What a softie. Not a good repository for state secrets, that one.
Enter Aliya, age 5. It was pitched battle with her, but in the end I won out. My victory required stuffed animals, movies, snacks, tape, scissors, glue, glitter, paper, these mini-pet toys I didn’t even know she owned, and enough snacks to keep Frito-Lay in the black for the next 3 months. Thank-you little lady, you’re a worthy opponent…now off to the van.
Emma, 7, was beyond my powers of persuasion. She’d expected to spend the day with Dad, and nothing dissuaded her from the original plan. Hmmmm. Excellent strategy. Brilliant tactician. Refusing me through flattery, AND tears, quite a salvo. Then, in my darkest hour, I slung a single smooth stone at her Goliath of resolution, “How ’bout you come to work with me?”
“N’kay.”
*Really?* That’s IT? No extra promises? So selling of my soul?
Huh. That turned out to be easy.
At the hospital, the patient should have delivered quickly, but she didn’t. Morning stretched into afternoon. The babysitter held on a couple hours overtime, then was airlifted directly to Belleview Psych Hospital (“he said ’till 2!, he said ’till 2!”). Christina left her party and picked up the kids. Emma and I dressed up dolls and watched movies. I explained the process of cervical dilation, station transition, and labor stages to her as she looked on with intelligent, perceptive eyes.
Finally I gave up, and we came home too. Christina went back to her party, giving me a frosty peck on the cheek at the front door.
Somehow, it was dinner time. I’d spent all day at the hospital, and we still had no baby. It was supposed to be my day with the kids. I barely saw any of them, and much of my time with Emma was spent working.
Christina called later to say she’d lined up another babysitter. As soon as I was needed for the delivery at the hospital, I could call the sitter and she’d come to our house.
But I couldn’t leave the kids now. This was supposed to be their day. “Maybe I can just take them on a walk with the dog,” I thought. “We’ll have at least a little kid + Daddy time. I’ll get them into bed, and THEN call the sitter. If the patient will just hang on a little longer…”
I had jammies on, teeth brushed and we were singing our goodnight songs when my phone rang: “The baby’s out, Geoff.” I heard my colleague say. “We didn’t have time to call you. Sorry. I know you really wanted this one.”
The information struck me with almost physical force. I felt like I’d failed my patient; abandoned her. I certainly had let my wife and kids down. Feelings of loss engulfed me.
Standing there quietly, in my children’s darkened room, I pondered the wasted day. Do my kids hate me now?
“You didn’t do butterflies with me, Daddy.” Whispered Jordan softly, breaking me from my dark musing. I bent down and she fluttered her eyelashes on each of my cheeks. She hugged me and drowsily mumbled, “I love you.”
My patient may forgive me. Probably Christina too. But it was clear that my children – the ones most shortchanged that day – had already bestowed their pardon; I left the room awash in guilt and gratitude. The river of grace that flows from a child is broad and deep, and I felt it coursing gently, irrepressibly, through my day of conflicting priorities.
