I once read that people sometimes choose careers based upon fear as often as what is pleasant and enjoyable. One may choose a vocation because of some childhood trauma in order to feel mastery over what was once overwhelmingly frighting. This is profoundly true for me.
In 1954 when I was six years old more children had their tonsils out than kept them. A couple of bouts of tonsillitis was all it took. My twin sister, feverish with infected tonsils on one too many occasions was judged by the old bespectacled town doctor to be a prime candidate. Turning his gaze toward me, I slipped to the other side of my mother's knee out of reach. "Let's have a look at your throat." The wooden tongue blade came in flavors, with hard candy on one end. It aways tasted more of wood. Mother was informed of the health of my tonsils but why not take both girls out?
INCIDENTAL
Definition: happening in connection with something more important.
Synonym: casual, chance, fortuitous
Antonym: fundamental
FUNDAMENTAL
Definition: serving as a generating source.
Synonym: prime, important, uncomplicated
Antonym: incidental
Miss Sarah Langley ran the small city hospital. Everyone did as she said, doctors, nurses, cooks, patients. She was the general on the battle field of health. Mother brought us to the hospital, early one morning that spring. Sarah met everyone in her starched white uniform and stern expression. The little girls knew her directions were to be followed. Mother's anxiety seeped into the pores of the little girls, now dressed it little hospital gowns clinging to either side. Cheeriness was plastered on every one's face like a mask. "You are going to see the brand new babies in the nursery on your way, then no more tonsils." "Who wants to be first?" No one wanted to be first. Always generous, my sister volunteered me. Wrapped in a blanket, I was taken away, too frightened even to protest. The newborn infants viewed through glass all bundled like burritos were very unimpressive in their red faced wailing or closed lidded stillness. A few steps away, the double doors of the single operating room swung open. Brilliant light and glass cabinets full of unfamiliar metal objects in every direction came into view. A strange bed occupied the center under the lights. The old doctor stood to the side with a gown covering his clothes. I had no idea what was going to happen to me in that room. Placed on the bed and lying down, I was probably like the small animal that becomes very still, knowing the futility of resistance to the inevitable when in the jaws of a predator. A rubbery cloth was placed over my eyes, I saw no more.
Smell was the next sense to be assaulted with the overpoweringly noxiousness of ether. The powerful essence filled my mouth and nose with its irritating vapors. I held my breath, then a gasp, more fumes more choking. I began to feel like I was falling down deep and away from everyone. A male monotone voice repeated loudly "sassafras, sassafras, sassafras." Circles of light spun in a pin wheel of color faster and faster unti I was swollowed into...NOTHING.
I woke up to my mother tickling my feet. I could barely swallow my throat was on fire. A nurse came to my bedside and asked if I wanted a glass of milk. Cold, creamy, wet and soothing it was gulped down to the nurses admonishments. "Drink it slow, or you will throw up." Later, I threw up, "I told you so," was her unsympathetic and cold reply.
I wish dearly that I could say that that was the worst of it but, alas, fundamental is uncomplicated. Incidental invites the opposite. A few days after returning home, the scars started to bleed. I was gagging and throwing up blood clots. Mother woke father and drove my to the hospital in the darkness. Nurses and doctors hovered around and shown flashlights and peered at the blood clots. After an ominous murmuring huddle, I was told that I would have to return to operating room and "go to sleep" so the doctor could stop the bleeding. This time, I cried. Big silent tears rolled down my face as I entered the now familiar bright space of terror. The rubbery mask, the noxious smell, the sounds and swirling lights returned. This time, however, I heard Miss Langley's loud voice shout, "That's the wrong stuff," then NOTHING.
It has been nearly sixty years since my very first introduction to anesthesia. It did become my career. The initial days of my training struck me with almost as much fear as my initial exposure as a child. I learned rather quickly that a precious life was being placed in my care. I watch over this "sleeping" life, while skilled hands enter the body, mend bones, remove the unhealthy tissue or bring forth new life. I will take away pain and deliver this life, old, young and in between, safely to the other side of nothingness. That has been by life's work.
