Stat
After having looked over my last entries, I've realized that it's been a *shockingly* long time since I updated. Life has been speeding along, days all blurring into nights, one long sleepless stretch. I finally finished my NICU month - and with a bang.
See, there's a board up in the NICU that lists all imminent deliveries at which a pediatrician will be required (and by pediatrician, they mean me, that's part of my job at night, gah!). For once, this past Saturday night, the board was blank. Frighteningly blank, some would say. I sat in the residents' room, knowing that I would be called any minute for *something*. And I was. Over the loudspeaker came the calm voice of the NICU secretary.
"Pediatrician, STAT, to triage, 1st floor, 32 weeker"
I sprinted down, looking over my shoulder, and realizing that I was alone in my mission. Downstairs in triage (not where babies are supposed to be born, by the way, and certainly not eight weeks early), utter chaos reigned. Two nursing assistants were struggling to bring a warmer into the hallway.
"Where's the oxygen?" I said, with more than a note or rising panic in my voice, "someone's getting oxygen, right?"
"Well, right now, as you can see doctor, we're setting up the warmer," one of them explained patiently.
"I think we need the oxygen first, PLEASE!!!"
A faint mewling issued from between the legs of the poor woman in the bed in the middle of this swirling madness, and with that a two-month early premie was born into the world. She did fine, by the way.
The next call was as follows:
"Pediatrician, STAT, to the fifth floor, 34-weeks"
See, babies are not supposed to be born on the fifth floor either. Again, I sprinted, praying the baby would wait just long enough to get to a room with OXYGEN handy. I arrived to another scene of chaos. "Pediatrics," I announced loudly. I feel idiotic saying it, but I'm supposed to say it loud and clear. No response. I raised my voice, just a touch.
"Pediatrics. Could someone give me the story?"
The obstetrician just turned and glared at me briefly. She mumbled something.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," I said.
"Gtpehyd, fayrth, twins, yaursh," she mumbled again. All I heard was twins. Shit. Time to get someone else. We ended up running en masse - nurses, pediatricians, obstetricians, orderlies, respiratory therapists - to an elevator with the patient on a stretcher to get to the OR. I wheeled an oxygen tank with me, and a nurse periodically peeked between the patient's legs to make sure that nobody was out yet. We made it to the OR and two adorable girls were born. They did great and I've heard they're about ready to go home.
All I can say is thank God it's over. I'll be back in June, though.
See, there's a board up in the NICU that lists all imminent deliveries at which a pediatrician will be required (and by pediatrician, they mean me, that's part of my job at night, gah!). For once, this past Saturday night, the board was blank. Frighteningly blank, some would say. I sat in the residents' room, knowing that I would be called any minute for *something*. And I was. Over the loudspeaker came the calm voice of the NICU secretary.
"Pediatrician, STAT, to triage, 1st floor, 32 weeker"
I sprinted down, looking over my shoulder, and realizing that I was alone in my mission. Downstairs in triage (not where babies are supposed to be born, by the way, and certainly not eight weeks early), utter chaos reigned. Two nursing assistants were struggling to bring a warmer into the hallway.
"Where's the oxygen?" I said, with more than a note or rising panic in my voice, "someone's getting oxygen, right?"
"Well, right now, as you can see doctor, we're setting up the warmer," one of them explained patiently.
"I think we need the oxygen first, PLEASE!!!"
A faint mewling issued from between the legs of the poor woman in the bed in the middle of this swirling madness, and with that a two-month early premie was born into the world. She did fine, by the way.
The next call was as follows:
"Pediatrician, STAT, to the fifth floor, 34-weeks"
See, babies are not supposed to be born on the fifth floor either. Again, I sprinted, praying the baby would wait just long enough to get to a room with OXYGEN handy. I arrived to another scene of chaos. "Pediatrics," I announced loudly. I feel idiotic saying it, but I'm supposed to say it loud and clear. No response. I raised my voice, just a touch.
"Pediatrics. Could someone give me the story?"
The obstetrician just turned and glared at me briefly. She mumbled something.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," I said.
"Gtpehyd, fayrth, twins, yaursh," she mumbled again. All I heard was twins. Shit. Time to get someone else. We ended up running en masse - nurses, pediatricians, obstetricians, orderlies, respiratory therapists - to an elevator with the patient on a stretcher to get to the OR. I wheeled an oxygen tank with me, and a nurse periodically peeked between the patient's legs to make sure that nobody was out yet. We made it to the OR and two adorable girls were born. They did great and I've heard they're about ready to go home.
All I can say is thank God it's over. I'll be back in June, though.