Urrr.
There was a noise. A noise from far away.
Urrr.
It was a voice.
“Sir,” the voice was saying.
I opened my eyes. The voice was coming from a face. Why was there a face in front of me?
“Sir, the plane has landed. You have to get off now.”
Plane? Landed?
“Sir, are you okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“We’re in Chicago. You have to get off now.”
“Have to get off now.” I got to my feet and stumbled into the aisle. The plane was empty.
“Sir, is that your bag?”
“My bag? Yes, my bag. Thank you.”
My brother Tim was waiting for me. I had no luggage. Tim took me to the bank, where I got the cashier’s check. Then he dropped me off at our new home. Patti and the kids were already there.
Patti was looking at me funny.
“What?” I said.
“I was trying to remember why I married you.”
I rubbed a hand over my chin. “It was for my dashing good looks, my savoir faire, my—”
“Do you have the check?”
“Check? What check?”
“Don’t make me hurt you.”
It was nine o’clock. The movers got out of the truck. They stretched, yawned, and sauntered over. Patti was on a first-name basis with all of them. They, of course, loved her. She had laughed with them, gossiped about the Twins and the White Sox, and had given them cookies, pop, and beer when they loaded the truck in Rochester. They, in turn, played with the kids, learned their names, and heard the story of the strange husband who was going to work three days and three nights in a row to pay for the move.
“So you made it, huh, Doc?” the mover said as he folded the cashier’s check and put it in his shirt pocket.
“Yeah, I made it.”
“Did you ever sleep?”
“Some.”
“Well, here’s your receipt,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper. “We’re going to need you to sign a few things when we’re done.”
“I might not be here.”
“Huh? Where else you gonna be?”
“Asleep.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Say, wait ’til you see this.” He lifted a heavy bar and swung open the back door of the moving van. The first thing I saw was our bed. “Patti made sure it was the last thing we loaded on the truck. She said you might be needing it.”
Just then Patrick ran up and slapped the mover a high five. “Hiya, Ollie!” he said.
“Hi, short legs. You gonna help us move this stuff?”
“Evewything,” he said, throwing his arms in the air.
In ten minutes we had the bed assembled in our room. Patti, who thought of everything, even had a set of sheets and a blanket for it.
“That sure is some woman you’re married to,” the mover said to me.
“Patti? She’s the best.”
I sagged down on the bed, curled my arm under the pillow, and closed my eyes. As my last bit of consciousness faded, I realized how lucky I was; and I knew that everything I had to endure over the last four years—the long hours, the lousy pay, the studying, the moonlighting, the nights on call—was worth it. Every bit of everything I had to endure was worth it.
The mover picked up the last of his tools and switched off the light. I was asleep before he closed the door.
Author’s Note
It is the peculiar lot of the memoirist to respect truth without shackling himself to literality. This is especially so in the medical field, where the interests of the patient must always be respected. Out of concern for the privacy of both my colleagues and my patients I have changed the names and descriptions of all characters in this book, with the exception of my family members and Mark Coventry. Dr. Coventry died a few years ago. I feel privileged to have known and worked with him, and I thought my portrayal of him was so laudatory that he wouldn’t mind that I used his real name.
I also hope my affection and respect for the Mayo Clinic and the wonderful, dedicated orthopedic surgeons who taught me, came through. Mayo is, indeed, the best medical center in the world. It was my privilege to train there.
Some thanks are in order. First of all to my wife, Patti, and all the kids: Eileen, Mary Kate, Paudh, Maureen, Sheila, Kevin, Matt, Nora, Brian, Ann, Katie, and Colleen. They listened to or read, laughed or cried with me through the several years it took to write this book. Thank you all for your help and encouragement. To the little ones I will say again: just because you hear or read bad words doesn’t mean you have to use them. In the professional arena special thanks go to my agent, Meg Ruley, who has been everything an author could desire.
And one last thing. I wouldn’t want to close without a final note to Bill Chapin, Frank Wales, and Jack Manning. You know who you are, and I’ll say it again: Patti and I couldn’t have made it without you guys. Thanks.
HOT LIGHTS, COLD STEEL. Copyright © 2005 by Michael J. Collins, M.D. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Collins, Michael J., M.D.
Hot lights, cold steel: life, death and sleepless nights in a surgeon’s first years / Michael J. Collins.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4299-0307-3
1. Collins, Michael, J., M.D. 2. Orthopedists—United States—Biography. 3. Surgeons—United States—Biography. I. Title.
RD728.C64A3 2005
617.4′7′092—dc22
[B]
2004051247
Hot Lights, Cold Steel Page 29