One day, many years ago, I was sitting in front of the television
when an emergency news bulletin broke in. There was a major water leak
on Broadway and 34th Street in New York City, not far from where our
family lived. The camera faded to a big hole in the street with water gushing
out of it. There was the usual crew of nine men looking idly on, but in
the hole, there was one man digging frantically. His head bobbed up and
down, shovels of mud flew through the air.
A sense of sadness and doom struck me as I entered the room.
78-year-old female, chief complaint: sent in by home health nurse. “One
of those,” I thought. Alone, elderly, contractures of both left
extremities, vitals normal, no dyspnea, well dressed and groomed. No
suitcase sign. Awake and in no distress, but hasn’t made eye contact
I have a confession to make. I love my job. I’m often afraid to admit this out loud. I look forward to going to work in the ER and miss it when I’m away...
I never thought the day would come, but it has finally happened. I am the oldest member of my group.