Fading memories...

Hi. You probably don’t remember me, but I was there when your baby was born. I was the one in the scrubs at half-eight in the morning that made sure your baby was breathing after a difficult delivery. Yours was one of thirty babies born in that day, and one of fifteen that I checked on as they were born.  You may not remember me, but I was the one talking to the new mother in the next bed over at one in the morning, talking her through breast feeding, and reassuring her that the new baby was fine. You may not have been awake at three in the morning when the baby across the room became ill, needed to go to the ICU, needed tests and antibiotics, and I was there to explain that to the parents throughout the process. You may not remember me, but I was the one that checked your baby the next day at lunchtime to say they were safe for home; I was the one that checked twenty other babies before I stumbled home to rest for the first time in thirty hours. And I was the one that was back in the next morning to do it all again.

You may not remember my name, I introduced myself by my first name, I was the doctor on call in the emergency department in the middle of the night. I was the one in chucks and scrubs that listened about the coughing your child has suffered from for the past week, the sore throat, the runny nose, the wheeze, the fever. I looked at the rashes and explained the difference between dangerous rashes and common rashes. We had the conversation about crèche and viral infections, about eczema, about wheezes with head colds, about vaccinations. I was the one that changed my scrubs after your child had a vomiting bug and I wasn’t fast enough getting out of the way.  I was the one that examined your child’s arm when they fell off the slide, the one that put six stitches in your child’s leg when they tripped, the one that watched, observed, held onto your child after they crashed their bike, making sure they were well before home. I was the one that saw thirty children during my shift and came back the next night for another shift.

You hopefully don’t remember me, but I’m the one that was first to your child’s hospital bed when they stopped breathing. I was there to admit them to the ICU when they were sent over from another hospital. I was the one that gave them an injection that stopped the seizure. I was the one that met them coming out of the ambulance after the car flipped over on the motorway. I was the one on the phone to other doctors, looking for the best care for your child. I was the one that explained to you that your child had been drinking with friends and was quite intoxicated and we were concerned about them. I was the one that ran to three emergency arrest calls overnight, continued working, and drove home the next morning to an empty house.

You might not remember me, but I remember when you continually called me a nurse. I remember when you told your child that if they did not sit still, the doctor would stab them with a needle. I remember when you shouted at me, because you had to wait too long to be seen by me. I remember when you told me I was too young to know what I was talking about. I remember when you yelled at me for hurting your child when they needed a cannula for their medication. I remember when you insisted that your child needed antibiotics, they wouldn’t need their vaccinations, that you couldn’t possibly make your child take medicine and I needed to do something else. I remember physically standing between your child and someone that meant to harm them and being terrified that I wasn’t enough to protect them.

Maybe you do remember me. I would be flattered. I’m one of the doctors being accused of not caring enough, of not working hard enough, of not working fast enough, of being greedy and money-grubbing. Let’s be frank: I cry after bad days, I study during my days off, I do the three people’s jobs (four when someone is sick), and I would make more money working these hours at a fast food chain. I get the sneaking suspicion, though, that you won’t remember me when I leave Ireland. I’ll become a statistic. One of the foreign doctors that was here briefly and went back home… You probably don’t remember me.