After four years of medical school, plus two more of academic research and clinical rotations, our son Asher was ready to begin his surgical residency at a prominent New York hospital.
I was in awe of his achievements, especially knowing they didn’t come from me. I have no aptitude for biology or chemistry, mix up medications, am squeamish at procedures and catastrophize any physical injury. If I somehow earned a medical degree, Hippocrates himself would return from the spirits and beg me not to take the oath in his name.
Asher’s career path was definitely set by his mother. Although trained as a lawyer, Sarah would have made a top-flight physician or trauma nurse. She’s always been on the front lines of tending to our family’s broken bones, food allergies, gastrointestinal illnesses, asthma flare-ups, mystery rashes and even panic attacks. She once flew to Australia on an hour’s notice to help Asher recover from a parasitic infection.
Our linen closet has long doubled as a medicine station — stocked with bronchodilators, pinworm pills, antiviral medication, pain relief patches, pulse oximeters and nebulizers, vials of Prednisone, even EpiPen injectors. Other moms consulted Sarah to diagnose their kids’ ailments: That could be staph, or that sounds more like strep than tonsillitis. (Sarah’s biggest nightmare is necrotizing strep, the flesh-eating bacteria!)
Able to cite chapter and verse from the Mayo Clinic reference guide and deeply research any disease, Sarah is also an ace at hands-on treatment. I had a chance to see that for the umpteenth time recently when she came to my aid following a severe dog bite.
Meeting up at the emergency room 90 minutes after I was knocked to the ground and mauled by a large shepherd mix, Sarah missed the suturing of my ripped-up forearm and wrist. But she listened intently to the instructions for follow-on wound care and stayed calm and focused while my brain was stuck in a loop of despair. That’s her M.O. — the more stressful and stomach-churning the scenario, the steadier she is, never mind that she is churning inside.
Later at home, I blurted out that my fingers were tingling, certain my nerves were damaged by the bite.
“I think your arm fell asleep,” she deduced. As soon as I straightened it, the numbness disappeared. She placed the Motrin on the bedside in case I needed an extra dose in the middle of the night.
Picking up supplies the next morning at our local CVS, I fretted that the pharmacist screwed up my Augmentin prescription by handing me amoxicillin. Sarah noted correctly that amoxicillin with clavulanate potassium is just generic Augmentin. And she knew enough to get some probiotic to counteract the effects of the powerful antibiotic.
“Scrubbing into the OR,” Sarah announced after washing her hands and setting everything atop a cloth on our kitchen table, making sure to open beforehand what she needed for her makeshift theater. She told me to turn my head as she snipped gauze away from the bandages, lest a flinch cause her to scissor my injury. And she pressed lightly around the limb for any concerning signs of warmth or redness.
“It’s not as gruesome as I thought,” she said, studying the ER doc’s stitching handiwork. She also checked the puncture holes in my leg and told me not to stress over the rough marks left by the dog’s teeth.
She sprayed saline solution on my arm, gently padded the wound and wiped away dried blood. Then she applied a dab of antibacterial ointment onto a fresh bandage and rewound the dressing as expertly as the pros, retaping the sleeve snugly. We repeated the ritual twice daily and didn’t even bother returning to the hospital’s wound clinic. She also wrapped a Hefty garbage bag around my arm in painter’s tape, leaving a hole for my hand so I could shower without dousing the bandage.
We caught up with Asher days later, on the eve of his first trip to the hospital as an actual doctor. He showed us his nifty surgical minipack, with pockets for scalpels, tongue depressors, hydrogen peroxide spray and other tools for the well-accessorized M.D. He’d also gotten anti-splatter goggles for close-up procedures — hopefully, something he’ll never have to share with us.
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Watching Sarah change my dressing, he gave a thumbs-up for her technique but suggested she make the wrap a tad tighter to prevent slippage that could expose the stitches, and to have some precut tape strips at the ready. As she peeled off her blue surgical gloves, the two of them discussed their mutual preference for wrapping elbow to wrist rather than vice versa, as the hospital staff preferred.
“Yeah, I would have done it top-down for more control,” Asher agreed, while Sarah gathered her M.A.S.H. kit and returned it to a plastic bin. No longer mom and son, they were just a couple of trained caregivers talking shop. The healing wisdom between them filled my dark world with much-needed relief.
Allan Ripp runs a press relations firm in New York.
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