I'd like a face-to-face the impatient bonehead who paged Doc H at 2:02am this morning. And, before you go pounding on me for calling out a poor resident... I'm pretty sure this was NOT a resident. We all know they are moving about the country right now. Plus Doc H is pretty forgiving when it comes to residents. He was not all that forgiving with regards to this one.
At the pager's demand, Doc H immediatley extracted himself out of our bed, made a bee-line for the rest room where he splashes some cold water on his face in an effort to make sure he's awake to make sound decisions. This action takes no more than 60 seconds. In all honesty, it's probably more like 30 seconds.
As I lay listening to the bathroom water run, and despite the stabbing pain of the pager to my eardrums, I'm desperately trying to retreat back into my dark and dreamy cocoon.
At this point, I'm feeling pretty confident about my chances of beating this particular battle against the pager. Doc H is tip-toeing around in the bathroom. The kids are sleeping, the dogs are sleeping, and the annoying mocking bird who has decided to take up residence in the tree outside our bedroom has even quieted his nocturnal squawks.
Approximately thirty seconds ago the pager went off. Doc H is preparing to return the page. Other than his stealth-like movements, the house is still.
I exhale, giving my body permission to relax and meld itself with my bed. I'm making my way back to dreamland.
Thirty seconds, maybe sixty.
Home phone begins ringing incessantly! Thank God, I don't sleep with a loaded gun on my nightstand. The phone sitting on my nightstand would've found itself with more holes than the sweater I tried to knit for Doc H last Christmas after returning home from my annual eggnog-a-thon night with my bunko gals.
I don't even bother putting a stop to the ringing. I allow it to continue ringing. I realize my shortcomings. I have nothing nice to say at 2:02am. I mean, I love Jesus, but I'm pretty sure even Jesus can appreciate the importance of sleep at 2:02am. And, I don't want to be the one to set off the inferno that burns bridges at the hospital or with any of Doc H's colleagues... even as enticing as that may seem.
However, I realize a person's life might be at stake. If the hospital is CALLING my house, I assume someone is DYING, BLEEDING INCESSANTLY. So, I let Doc H take care of it without giving him grief. I've never asked that he sleep in a different room when he's on-call, I've never yelled at him to be quiet, or chastised him for turning on lights when he's had to return a page. I call it my "supportive tolerance" of this craziness.
With the pager and phone call less than a minute apart, I deduce a critical emergency is in full throttle. I fully anticipate Doc H to turn on lights, race to the closet to dress, bang around a bit, and run out the door.
Instead, I get a slow, dark stumble back into bed and a huffing gruffling from my Doc H.
Non-emergent test results do not require paging AND CALLING A DOCTOR'S PERSONAL RESIDENCE at 2:02 in the morning!!!