A month later one of the parents of the deceased child telephoned me at my office.

“Dr. Gray?”

“Yes?”

“Can I transfer my family to your medical practice?”

“ What?”

“We’d like to switch doctors. Can we start seeing you?”

“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because you just tried to sue me! You ruined a year of my life!”

“Oh. Okay.”

Oddly enough, they called back two weeks later with the exact same request. My answer didn’t change.

Earlier this week I was working in the emergency department when we got word a child who had just undergone surgery was having a malignant hyperthermia crisis. As I ran to the OR to assist our anaesthetist, an unexpected thought popped into my head: For God’s sake, don’t go in there! If there’s a bad outcome, you’ll get sued! I still went, of course.

How can things have been allowed to deteriorate to the point where a qualified physician with training, skills and experience is tempted to not get involved when help is needed?

3:00 a.m.

Most people rarely witness 3:00 a.m., but I see it all the time. I’m a rural physician, so my schedule is frequently out of synch with the rest of society. Due to the small size of our town, it’s not unusual for my car to be the only vehicle on the road when I leave the hospital in the dead of night. Driving home alone across a frozen landscape at 3:00 a.m. can be depressing. The complete absence of traffic fuses with the darkness, the drifting snow and my fatigue to create a crushing sense of isolation. Sometimes I feel like I’m the last living person on the planet.

I park in our garage and lug my gear inside. As always, I am struck by how silent the house is at this hour. I hang up my coat and make my way to the kitchen. The supper I missed earlier is waiting for me in the fridge, but it’s far too late for me to have a full meal now. In the end I settle for a bowl of cereal. While I eat, I try to read the newspaper. Tonight the stories seem wispy and insubstantial, as if the events described all occurred in a distant universe. I toss the paper into the recycling bin and retreat to the living room. The curtains are open. An arabesque of silver ice crystals garnishes the edges of the picture window. I sit on the piano bench and watch the moonlit snow swirl across our yard.

Eventually I head upstairs. Partway down the hall I stop to check on our daughters. They look so innocent asleep in their beds with their limbs akimbo and their stuffed animals scattered everywhere. After retrieving the cast-off blankets, pillows and toys, I tuck the girls in and give them each a kiss on the forehead. The youngest stirs and awakens. “I love you, Daddy,” she murmurs. She hugs me, rolls over and returns to her dreamworld.

It’s good to be home.

Carpool Conundrum

Every Monday evening I sit in the subarctic bleachers of our local arena and watch two of my daughters figure skate. Their lesson runs from 6:00 until 7:00. About 10 minutes before the session ends I slip out of the building and drive halfway across town to pick up my third daughter at Beavers. Beavers also finishes at 7:00, which makes retrieving all three of them on time pretty much impossible.

If Beavers happens to wrap up early I try to swoop in, collar Kristen and race back to the arena before Ellen and Alanna get off the ice. Unfortunately, Beavers has a tendency to run late. Even when it does end on time, most nights Kristen doesn’t want to leave right away because she’s busy touching up her craft du jour. As a result, we usually wind up getting back to the arena several minutes after 7:00. Ellen and Alanna don’t like it when I’m late, but they try not to complain about it too much because they understand there’s no way I can be in two places at the same time. Jan can’t bail me out of this weekly predicament, either – she directs the town’s community choir every Monday, and as luck would have it, their practices begin at 7:00 p.m. sharp.

One Monday last October I was waiting impatiently for Kristen to finish off her Beavers’ Halloween project.

“Come on Kris, we have to go,” I said in that voice parents use when we’re trying to urge our children to get moving and they’re dawdling along as though they have all the time in the world.

“I just need a couple of minutes, Daddy,” she pleaded. I checked my watch: 6:59. The zamboni will be rolling out any second now. Sigh… .

When Kristen was finally finished, she held up her freshly minted Play-Doh sculpture for my scholarly opinion.

“Hey, that looks great, Kris! Ready to go?”

“Okey-dokey.”

I helped her gather her belongings. We were just about to make like Elvis and leave the building when I heard an unfamiliar voice call my name. I turned around. A complete stranger was surging across the room towards us. A tiny waif of a girl with pixie-like features trailed in her wake. She looked to be about five years old.

“Hi, I’m Martha!” the woman trumpeted. “We just moved into the house at the end of your street, and our daughter Frieda joined Beavers tonight. My husband drives transport and he’s out of town every other Monday. Our car is going to be in the garage for the next few weeks. Would you be able take Frieda to Beavers every second week until we get it back?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Jan usually used my little two-seater sports car to drop Kristen off at Beavers at 6:00 while I took Ellen and Alanna to the arena in the minivan. If I agreed to pick up Frieda then I’d have to transport all four of the children in the van, which would mean I’d need to leave the house earlier and do a double drop-off. As if life wasn’t complicated enough already! On the other hand, if I said no I’d look like a selfish arschloch. Even if I explained the complexities of our Monday evening schedule to her she’d probably just think I was manufacturing lame excuses. Frieda looked up at me expectantly.

“Sure, that’s okay,” I said.

“Are you certain it won’t be a bother?”

“No bother at all. Will she need a ride next week?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“All right, we’ll see you next Monday, then.”

It’s a bit of a pain, but picking up an extra kid every second week for a month or so isn’t going to kill me, right?

A week passed and it was Monday evening again. I had assumed Martha would escort her daughter to our house, but when there was no sign of Frieda at 5:50 I dispatched Kristen to go get her. A few minutes later she returned with the wee bairn in tow. Frieda promptly handed me the plastic grocery bag she was carrying.

“My mommy says for you to give this to the ladies at Beavers.”

“What’s in it?” I asked.

“A list of things I’m allergic to.”

“Oh.”

“And my EpiPen.”

“Okay.” Whatever. I ushered the foursome into the van. When they were all settled in I began backing out of the driveway.

“Excuse me?” came a tiny voice from one of the seats behind me.

“Yes, Frieda?”

“I can’t do up my seatbelt.” I stopped, twisted around, and buckled her in. “Thank you,” she said. Very polite, our Frieda.

As we headed to the arena to drop off the skaters, Ellen initiated a conversation with our new ward.

“Hi, my name’s Ellen. I’m eight. How old are you?”

“Almost six.”

“I’m in grade three. What grade are you in?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“How come you don’t know what grade you’re in?” Ellen asked, puzzled.

“I don’t go to school. My Mommy teaches my brother and me at home.”

“Why?”

“She’s afraid if we go to school we’ll get beat up.”

“Oh.”

After the stop at the arena I took Kristen and Frieda to the Scout hall. Kristen and I exited via the van’s front doors and waited outside for Frieda. She didn’t get out. I reopened my door and stuck my head in to see what the problem was.