Epiphany

In the last few weeks, I delivered seven babies. Compared to other medical students, it's modest, an average number of deliveries. I don't think much of it, the same as not thinking much of putting a few stitches into someone, picking an antibiotic, or teaching a patient about diabetes. But as I spoke to a friend yesterday about it, I realized what delivering babies sounds like to a non-medical person (she is on the opposite spectrum, a philosophy major). Her eyes widened, mouth open in disbelief and curiosity. What is the process of childbirth like? What did I do, from the very beginning to the very end? How did it feel? She wanted to know all the details, eyes like an inamorata, a grin from cheek to cheek. I realized the stories I toss around with such nonchalance and aplomb carry in it some measure of privilege, that as health professionals, we enter people's lives in unique and pivotal moments. We take so many things for granted that are quite remarkable in and of themselves. We've joined that small class of individuals who have delivered a baby, participated in a surgery, and seen somebody die. Patients trust us, they listen to us, they allow us to lay hands in order to heal. This is no light task. This is no light responsibility.