Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I nod. “I’m convinced now more than ever that I want to go into psychiatry. Anatomy lab has me freaked.”
“Yeah, like I said, I didn’t like it much either. But it is very important.”
I bite my lip. “I made my first cut yesterday.”
“Congratulations!” She raises her martini glass. “Was it as bad as you thought it would be?”
I clink my glass against hers. “No, not really. I have a great lab partner who wants to go into surgery, so she’s really into it and helps me get into the vibe. I’m happy to let her take the lead. And, of course, the person I cut is dead.”
“Well, if you go into psychiatry, you’ll probably never have to cut a live person.”
I widen my eyes. “Probably?”
She shrugs. “I mean, never say never. But it’s good to have skills, just in case you’re in an emergency and they’re needed.”
“Have you ever been in an emergency like that?” I ask. “Where you had to cut?”
“A couple of times, actually,” she says. “One time when I was in my last year of my residency, we were short-staffed at the hospital because of an outbreak of the flu. So I had to insert a chest tube into a man who came into the emergency room.”
“And it went okay?”
Her eyes brighten. “It went perfectly. Because I had been trained to do it. Psychiatrists are still medical doctors, Angie.”
I resist an eye roll. “Aunt Mel, I know that.”
She reaches her hand across the table, squeezing mine. “So we need to be able to handle basic medical emergencies. Another time I was on a flight. I was coming back from New York to Colorado. This was before I met Uncle Joe and got married. A woman on the flight passed out and wasn’t breathing, so I had to do an emergency crike.”
“Crike? You mean a cricothyrotomy?” I ask, my eyes widening.
“That’s right.” Aunt Mel nods and sips her martini. “It was just like a movie. A flight attendant came on the PA saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, is there a doctor on board?’ I looked around, seeing if someone more qualified might volunteer. No one did. So I stood, knowing I had to do the best I could. The FAA-mandated medical kit had basic airway tools, IV fluids, and a defibrillator, but no scalpels or cannulas. I had to improvise. I used a pen to make the incision and a straw to keep the airway open.”
I shudder. “That sounds terrifying.”
“It was,” she admits. “And it taught me an important lesson. You never know when your training may come into play. That’s why it’s crucial to learn as much as you can and take every experience seriously.”
I take a sip of wine before asking Aunt Melanie the obvious question.
“Did she…survive?”
Aunt Mel smiles at me, her eyes twinkling. “Yes, Angie. She did.”
I let out a sigh of relief as the waiter comes by to take our dinner orders. “We have two specials tonight,” he begins, “a filet mignon with a red wine reduction and a seared scallops dish with a mango salsa.”
Aunt Mel chooses the filet mignon, while I opt for the seared scallops. As the waiter leaves, Aunt Mel leans back in her chair, staring out the window for a moment.
“The woman on the plane… She wrote me a letter afterward. She thanked me for saving her life. It was one of the most moving things I’ve ever read.”
I blink back tears. “That’s incredible, Aunt Mel.”
“Sometimes it’s not just about prescribing medications or listening to patients. Sometimes being a psychiatrist is literally about saving someone’s life.”
I look down at my bread plate. Her words resonate deeply and reaffirm my decision to go into psychiatry. The path may not be an easy one, but it holds meaning. It holds purpose.
“You never told me those stories before.”
“You never asked,” she says. “We’ve talked about the therapy portion of psychiatry mostly, and about how pharmaceuticals can help those who struggle with mental illness, but we’ve never really touched on the medical emergency aspect. But it’s there, and it can be vital.”
The waiter returns with our salads—mine a house salad with balsamic vinaigrette and Aunt Mel’s a Caesar—and I pick up my fork.
“Did you ever doubt your decision to go into psychiatry?” I ask.
She takes a moment before answering, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Of course,” she admits. “No path worth pursuing is without its bumps and moments of uncertainty. And some of the stories are heartbreaking, especially in my specialty of childhood trauma.”
“I can imagine.”
And indeed I can. Aunt Mel was doctor to one of my uncles and two of my cousins, who had all been through horrific childhood abuse.
“But each time I doubted myself,” she continues, “I would remember why I chose this specialty in the first place—to help those in need. That would always bring me back. I remember every single patient I’ve helped, Angie.”