A Foreign Concept

The soft purr of the bedside telephone changes its cadence precipitously, and the shrill noise throws me out of my dream. Shaken out of a deep and tired sleep, I leap for the receiver.

“I am sorry, but there is an asthmatic girl who looks as if she will arrest. I have tried …”

I slam the phone down; the other hand hastily scoops up my stethoscope, identification, and pen; and I sprint to the emergency department, racing to beat the dire tones of the code siren that will resonate through the building at any moment.

I almost fall inside a cubicle, which holds an 18-year-old girl, heavily tattooed and excessively made up. She was out smoking marijuana when she felt the onset of an asthma attack. So she got her friend, an unlicensed driver, to rush her to hospital. She is surrounded by a coterie of giggling teenagers, all looking remarkably fresh for the time of the night. It takes me a few moments to assess the situation.

“Stop hyperventilating,” I say tersely to the patient, “And all of you, get out now.”

In silence, I finish my examination of the subdued girl whose purported respiratory distress has dissipated to a mild wheeze. I walk out of the cubicle; snatch a sheet of paper; and proceed to write emphatically in large script, double-spacing to stress my annoyance at this unceremonious awakening. The resident who called me stands penitently behind me.

“I am really sorry …” he starts.

A chance glance at the clock, recollections of previous unnecessary calls, the thought of another long day ahead, and the sound of teenage mirth floating through the corridor provoke a surge of venom within me. Before I snap, I storm upstairs to my cold bed. The next …