Dude, Where's My Stethoscope?

by Gray, Donovan

  Which adjectives best describe Arun? Intelligent and well-organized would probably be first out of the gate, followed closely by soft-spoken, generous and athletic. He had a dry sense of humour and an impish grin. One thing’s for sure – he was the best lab partner a slacker like me could ever have hoped for. I’d usually show up five minutes late, flop down beside him at our work station and ask what was going on. He’d take a break from pipetting the methyl-ethyl-whatever and patiently describe the experiment I was supposed to have read up on over the weekend.

  “Cool,” I’d reply. “So, what do you need me to do?” I’m pretty sure the only thing he ever needed me to do was stay out of his way, but he always managed to come up with some little job to keep me busy so the instructor wouldn’t realize what a useless twit I was.

  In the fall of 1983 Arun and I were both accepted into the Faculty of Medicine at the University of Manitoba in Winnipeg. I didn’t see much of him during the first two years of the program, but on those occasions when our paths did cross he seemed fine. Halfway through our third year we were all promoted to the rank of “baby clerk” and dumped on the wards. The sudden increase in pressure proved too much for some, and a handful of my classmates imploded.

  Arun was one of the first casualties. There was no warning - one day he was with us and the next he was gone. Rumour had it he had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. Back then my friends and I thought schizophrenia was just an exotic word that lived in psychiatry textbooks, not something that could actually reach into our world and touch us. It didn’t seem possible. We should have sought him out and offered moral support, but most of us were too busy trying to stay afloat ourselves to worry about a fallen comrade. The general philosophy of most medical schools in the 1980s could probably be summarized in three words: Sink or swim. As Arun sank, the rest of us continued dog-paddling ferociously. No one looked back.

  Over the years there were sporadic Arun sightings. Once a classmate had a meal at a restaurant and Arun waited on his table. Occasionally someone would bump into him at a movie theatre or in a grocery store. Having a meaningful conversation with him became increasingly difficult as his thought patterns grew more tangential. Each encounter left one with the distinct impression that he was slowly disintegrating. It was as though tiny fragments of his personality were breaking off and floating away. Eventually, Arun became withdrawn and dishevelled-looking. Poor Arun, we’d say, as we hurried to our next clinic. We should go visit him. Then one of us would get paged and we’d race away to deal with the crisis.

  A year after completing my training I moved to northern Ontario. Things got even busier for me. I started a practice, got married, became a father… . Life was good. I forgot all about my former lab partner.

  Last summer we moved back to Winnipeg. Over the Christmas holidays we were invited to a friend’s house for a Boxing Day brunch. Seven of my former classmates were there. While our children chased each other around the house we gathered in the kitchen and reminisced about our years in medical school. All of a sudden I remembered Arun.

  “Hey,” I said, turning to our host, “when’s the last time you saw Arun?”

  His smile froze.

  “Didn’t you hear?” he asked. “Arun left home depressed one day last March and never came back. They pulled his body out of the Red River six weeks later. He drowned.”

  I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Arun.

  In memory of Arun Sud (1963–2004)

  Arun’s family would like to hear from any of his classmates or others who knew him while he was a student. His family can be reached by e-mail at gitasudca@yahoo.ca.

  A scholarship fund has been set up in Arun’s memory through the Manitoba Schizophrenia Society. The scholarship will be awarded to a student with a mental illness pursuing university or college. Anyone wishing to make a donation can contact the Manitoba Schizophrenia Society at (204) 786-1616, email info@mss.mb.ca, or regular mail: 100 - 4 Fort Street, Winnipeg, MB, R3C 1C4.

  The Cost of Letting Go

  In the opening pages of The Bad Beginning (the first book of Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events), the Baudelaire children are roaming along a beach. Violet is holding a stone in her hand. She spots a figure in the distance hurrying towards them, and in an instant she intuitively knows he is the bearer of terrible news. Eventually he arrives and informs them that their parents have just perished in a fire.

  As the numb Baudelaire orphans get ready to follow the emissary back down the beach and into the unknown, Violet realizes she is still holding the stone. When she first picked it up, her life was idyllic. Now it is utterly alien. The stone was present when before became after. It links her new self to her former self. She lets it fall to the ground.

  As parents, we have a natural tendency to want to keep our children nestled under our protective wings forever. We are, of course, aware that this is neither possible nor desirable, but part of us is still tempted to do it anyway.

  My children are now starting to take their first unaccompanied steps out into the world. In the past, Jan and I have always been there in one way or another – if not front and centre, then at least as a shadowy presence on the periphery, carefully monitoring them and ensuring every situation met our stringent safety standards.

  Now, as we stand on the verge of a brave new world of Facebook, sleepovers, preteen dances and “you can drop me off here, Dad, you don’t have to come inside,” we must struggle to strike a new balance. Too much liberty isn’t good, but neither is not enough.

  Whenever my girls are off somewhere that isn’t 100 percent guaranteed safe and sound, I get a little nervous. If they’re five minutes late getting back from riding their bikes to the corner store, my paranoia runs amok. There’s been an accident, they got lost, some psycho killer nabbed them, whatever. I start identifying with Violet Baudelaire:

  Is this the moment when my before becomes after?

  Then I give my head a good shake and I’m okay. And two minutes later they’re home, laughing and telling me about the cool bird’s nest they found.

  They’re going to be just fine. I’m the one who may have a few rough years coming up.

  Doctor Lockout

  Last Thursday I worked an ER shift that ended at 1:00 a.m. As is often the case, the department went ballistic during the final hour and I ended up staying late to help tie up loose ends. My home is at the opposite end of the city, so by the time I finally pulled into our garage it was after 2:00.

  As I gathered up my junk and made my way to the inner garage door I did a quick sleep calculation. My next shift started at 8:00 a.m., which meant that if I went to bed right away I’d get about four hours of shut-eye. Not ideal, but certainly not Armageddon.

  I gripped the doorknob and twisted. It didn’t budge. What the frak? We never lock the inner garage door. I tried again. Nothing. I checked my keys. None for that door. To make matters worse, I didn’t have my front door key because I’d loaned it to one of my daughters earlier in the week. I tried knocking loudly.

  “Hello? Jan? Girls?” No reply. That was no surprise – my wife and kids sleep so soundly, you’d think they’d been anaesthetized. “Let me in!” I yowled. No response. Honking the horn and ringing the doorbell didn’t work either. I sat on the steps, temporarily stymied. Then I got a brainwave – telephone them! I was pawing through my briefcase for my cell phone when I remembered I’d left it in its charging unit in the kitchen. Rats! There was only one solution. I hopped in my truck and drove off in search of a pay phone.

  I thought I’d find one right away, but 10 minutes later there was still no phone booth in sight. I continued driving. Soon the big blue hospital sign of Brigadoon General appeared on the horizon. I don’t work there, but I figured they’d probably have a couple of pay phones in the lobby of their ER. I coasted into a parking spot and jogged inside.

  Much like our own waiting room, theirs had the industry-standard 30 or so people thumbing through magazines older than the Dead Sea Scr
olls, glancing at their watches and shooting the occasional dirty look at the triage nurse. She didn’t seem to be the least bit perturbed by the negative vibes being slung in her direction, though. To tell you the truth, she looked like one tough cookie. I approached her Plexiglas-fortified bunker and cleared my throat.

  “Excuse me,” I began.

  “Yes?”

  “Could I please get some change to use your pay phone?”

  “Does this look like a 7-11 to you?”

  “Er… .”

  “No change!” She then jumped up and pointed at some poor slob in the waiting room who was drunkenly trying to light a cigarette. “Hey, you! Can’t you read? No smoking in here!”

  The last thing I wanted was to be in her way when she leaped over her desk and body-slammed the guy, so I did a quick U-turn and beetled over to the area with the telephones.

  It turned out the phones accepted plastic. I put my card in and dialled our number.

  Ring… .

  Ring… .

  Ring… .

  “Hi, this is the Gray residence. We’re not home right now, so please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”

  “Jan, it’s me. You’ve locked me out! It’s 2:30 in the morning! Wake up and let me in!” No response. I hung up and tried again.

  Ring… .

  Ring… .

  Ring… .

  “Hi, this is the Gray residence. We’re not home right now… .” I could feel my jaw begin to clench. I took one of those deep Zen-Master-seeks-inner-peace breaths and dialled Jan’s cell.

  Ring… .

  Ring… .

  Ring… .

  “Your call has been forwarded to a voicemail service that has not been activated by the customer. Please try again later.”

  “Aargh!!”

  Attila the Nurse skewered me with a glare.

  “Keep it quiet over there!”

  Six or seven tries later I gave up and drove home. It was now 3:00. I sat in my truck and contemplated my options:

  1. Go to my parents’ place, wake them up and stay there until the morning.

  2. Rent a motel room.

  3. Sleep in the truck.

  Then inspiration struck. I decided to get our ladder, climb to the second storey and pound on our bedroom window until Jan woke up. Gee, why didn’t I think of that before? Maybe because the idea was completely insane. In any case, a few minutes later I was in our pitch-black backyard leaning a 20-foot ladder against the wall and hoping the police weren’t planning to patrol our neighbourhood anytime soon.

  I was halfway up the ladder when a thought occurred to me: I wonder if Jan remembered to lock the patio door before she went to bed? My wife tends to be a little security-challenged sometimes. I descended, walked over to the glass door and pulled. It slid open with a sigh.

  Later that morning when we got up Jan commented that I had been grinding my teeth in my sleep again.

  I Sure Do Love Ol’ What’s Her Name!

  Twice a week I head down to the local YMCA in a desperate attempt to build up my puny muscles. So far it’s not working. I’m not much of a social butterfly, so I don’t usually have too many conversations while I’m there. I do enjoy people-watching, though. From what I’ve seen, the Y is populated by four main phenotypes:

  1. The Alphas

  Fit, tanned and orthodontically perfect; they always look as though they just blew in from a tropical photo shoot for the next issue of Vogue or GQ. Alphas socialize almost exclusively with other alphas. I often wonder where they go when they leave the gym. Back to Mount Olympus, probably.

  2. The Muscle Heads

  Easy to spot. Just look for the pumped-up gorillas making grunty noises as they bench press stacks of weights heavier than your average minivan.

  3. The I’m-Here-Because-My-Doctor-Prescribed-Regular-Exercise Gang

  This group is distinguished by their silver hair and Olivia Newton John-style headbands. Hey folks, what’s up with the cheesy 1975 fashion accessory? Not even the steroid-gargling Conans sweat enough to require headbands!

  4. The Average Joes

  Middle-aged schlubs like yours truly half-heartedly fighting the Battle of the Bulge. Most of us are getting our butts kicked.

  A couple of months ago I attended a story-reading event put on by Ellen’s grade six class. It was held in the McNally Robinson bookstore café. Each student sat at a table with members of their family and awaited their turn to go to the podium and read a story they had written. Near the end of the evening I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. At first I couldn’t quite place him, but a few minutes later I realized he was one of the Schwarzeneggers from the gym (see category 2 above). He was sitting with one of Ellen’s classmates. Based on their respective ages, I concluded that he was probably her father. Ellen mentioned the girl’s name was Nicole. I filed the random bit of information away under Miscellaneous and turned my attention back to my family.

  The following week I was at the gym flailing away at some god-awful pectoralis-strengthening contraption when the fellow I had noticed at the bookstore sat down on the machine opposite me.

  “Hey,” I said, “Do you have a relative in grade six at École Française?” He looked at me blankly. Undaunted, I pressed on. “I was at the story-reading at McNally Robinson with my daughter last Friday and I thought I saw you there with one of her classmates.” He continued staring at me like I had two heads. I swear, he wasn’t even blinking. That must hurt your eyes after a while. Eventually I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry, my mistake. It’s just that I was almost positive I saw you sitting with a girl with wavy red hair near the front of the café. My daughter told me her name, but I can’t remember it now. I think it started with N.”

  The vegetative look persisted. Clearly our “conversation” was on life support. It was time to pull the plug.

  “Must have been a doppelgänger,” I concluded. I was about to move on to the next machine when his eyes suddenly registered a glimmer of recognition. A split second later they widened excitedly and his mouth formed the universal ‘O’ of surprised discovery. It’s a miracle Archimedes didn’t appear in a puff of smoke and yell “Eureka!”

  “Oh, you must mean Nicole! Yeah, yeah, we were there! That was us, all right! Yeah!”

  “So, how are you two related?”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  Is There a Doctor on Board?

  I fly fairly often. As a result, I’ve heard the dreaded refrain “If there’s a doctor on board, please identify yourself to a member of the cabin crew” more times than I care to remember. The last time it happened I was wedged into a window seat. By the time the pleasant but glacier-slow elderly couple sitting beside me managed to extricate themselves from their seats and let me pass, several people had already beaten me to the scene. A woman in her early 20s was slumped in the aisle near the back of the plane. She appeared to be unconscious. In addition to the usual rubberneckers and gawkers, she was surrounded by a trio of flight attendants and a distinguished-looking gentleman in horn-rimmed glasses. As I threaded my way through the rabble I reflexively began working on a list of potential diagnoses and their respective treatments. There were several things I would need to determine as quickly as possible. Was she breathing adequately? Did she have a pulse? If so, was it regular? What was her blood pressure? Could she have had an arrhythmia? A seizure? Ruptured ectopic? Diabetic coma? Chances were it was just a simple faint, but even if it was, did she injure herself when she fell? It all started with a set of vital signs, but there was just one problem – I couldn’t get past the flight attendants and the Peter O’Toole look-alike. He seemed to be holding court.

  “To the trained eye, this is quite obviously a textbook case of vasovagal syncope,” he pontificated, “which of course is the proper medical term for the phenomenon you will almost certainly recognize by its far more colloquial name – a fainting spell.” He beamed. His audience was enthralled by the impromptu lecture. No one seemed to be examining the
woman on the floor, though.

  “Excuse me, I’m an ER doctor,” I offered.

  “Not to worry, my young colleague; everything’s under control. I’m a doctor, too,” he responded. He turned back to the attendants. “Vasovagal syncope is usually the result of – ”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I interrupted, “but is she breathing okay?”

  “Breathing?” he said. “Breathing? Um… .” He bent down and shook her arm. A few seconds later she stirred and let out a groan. “Yes, of course! She’s breathing superbly!”

  “Oh, that’s a relief,” I replied. “What’s her pulse?”

  “Pulse? Er… .” He began fidgeting with his tie. I was just about to step past him when the woman opened her eyes and sat up.

  “I think I just fainted,” she announced. “I do that every now and then.”

  Our patient was fine. It was time for me to return to my seat. Before I left, though, I was dying to know something. I turned to the other physician.

  “Just out of curiosity, what type of medicine do you practice?”

  “Psychiatry.”

  Fit for Duty

  A couple of weeks ago I did another rural locum in northern Ontario. My first patient of the day at the No Family Doctor clinic was a scruffy-looking fellow in his late 20s.

  “Hi Mr. Capgras, I’m Dr. Gray. How can I help you today?”

  “I need you to sign this form saying I’m healthy.”

  “Who is it for?”

  “The military. I’m applying to get in and they want confirmation I’m fit for duty.”

  “Are you healthy?”

  “Yep. You just need to put your initials here and here and sign at the bottom.” He very helpfully offered me a pen. My Spidey senses started tingling. I deposited the pen on the desk and scanned through the form. They did indeed want verification he was in good physical and psychological condition. Unfortunately, that’s pretty hard to do when you’ve only known someone for half a minute. He seemed to be in reasonable physical shape, but did he have all his marbles? I recalled an old pearl of wisdom from medical school: When in doubt, ask the patient.