You may be expecting a tragic story of a patient's terminal illness or miraculous healing, or maybe you're expecting a great teaching moment courtesy of my kids. While I could probably do both, I, instead, have decided to tell you about my morning - this very morning, just a few moments ago.
It started out no different than any other morning the last week of residency would with a crying, hungry baby and his independent and stubborn brothers. Jason took them to daycare, and I went off to make rounds at the hospital - probably for the last time as a resident, as long as my patient was ready to be discharged like I was hoping.
I just threw on some clothes, attempted to straighten my bed hair, and put on a smudge of foundation, blush, and mascara. Presentable, but definitely not CoverGirl material. I was planning to come home and shower after rounds and before the rest of my day anyway, and my hospitalized patients have bigger things to worry about than how great their doctor looks when I wake them up in a mostly dark room.
As planned, after rounds I came home and poured myself some coffee. I was headed upstairs to get ready for a second time, when I heard the sound of a garbage truck. Our boys get overly excited about garbage trucks, and Owen has said on several occasions he is going to be a "garbage truck guy" when he grows up. But, today, it wasn't just fascination that perked my ears to that sound. You see, our garbage can has been sitting out in the street for three days now hoping to figure out which day is garbage day at our new house, and today, of all days, I pulled it back to the garage before our new neighbors started to wonder. Therefore, when I heard that whirring sound of the truck I panicked that I was going to miss it and be stuck with an already full can for another week.
In my socks, I ran out the front door. Standing in the driveway I looked down the street. No garbage truck. No other cans in front of the neighbors. I guess it turns out that Thursday isn't garbage day either.
Disappointed and relieved at the same time I turned the handle of the front door to go back to my morning. Click. Clunk. The door handle didn't turn. It was locked. No big deal, I've been locked out of our other house before and always managed to sneak a way in. The garage door - locked. The back door - locked. Then I scanned the windows and realized they're crank, not sliders. It wasn't going to be easy to sneak in after all.
The keys were inside. The garage door opener was inside the Buick which was inside the garage which was shut and locked. My phone, too, was locked inside. Everything, including my shoes, were locked safely and securely inside. Jason won't be home for lunch, and no one else would know to come rescue me.
Now what could I come up with. One of my staff doctors told me yesterday at my going-away lunch that a license to practice family medicine is a license to practice common sense. Now, I was in need of some Tom-Cruise-in-Mission-Impossible level common sense.
I rummaged around on the deck, through the boys' toys, and around the yard for something I could use to pick the lock. I was in luck, there was a metal wire on the front porch that looked like it was created to pick locks - as if I knew what I was doing.
I tried the garage door. Nothing. I tried the back door. Nothing. I tried smashing the wire with a rock to make it narrow enough to slide in further. No good. Remembering there was a code box on the garage to open the door, I thought it was worth a try even though I had no idea what the code would be. It didn't matter, because it didn't even light up. The batteries, like my ego, must be dead.
A voice in my head began to speak louder: You're going to have to go get help. I didn't like that answer because I'm stubborn and prideful.
But, there I stood - socks soaked from the grass, dressed in my work clothes, hair unwashed, and a poor make-up job washing away in the sweat I'd worked up. I found a pair of Jason's mowing shoes on the front porch to complete the look. At least they were black to go with my black pants. I shook the spider out of one (yes, there really was a spider in the left shoe), tied them as tight as you can get shoes that are three sizes too big, and started the 50-yard walk to the elementary school where surely there's a phone.
I walked in, and because of the age we live in, the doors were locked and a buzzer stated it needed to be pressed for entry. Would they let this scrubby looking, crazy lady in? Relieved, yet a oddly, as a future parent, a little annoyed, they let this stranger in.
They had a phone, and help was on the way!
A few minutes later, after clearing my flower pots of a few dead blooms to appear as if I had a purpose to be sitting out on the front step, I walked inside. The lights were on and my coffee was sitting cold on the table as if the house had been wondering where I went.
So, yes, I have some great stories about how being a physician, and how being a mother, is humbling. But, I think I've had plenty of humbling for one day.
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