"The Look" by Connie Chen — Our September 2022 Silver Medal Winner
Connie is our second place winner from the contest posted in our September 2022 issue!
What the judges had to say:
“The story provided a fresh take on cultural stereotypes without being preachy or heavy handed. Well done.”
“... a unique approach to a plan crash event.”
“Beginning the story with dialogue was a great way to get me hooked... the protagonist’s narrative voice is nicely developed.”
Meet Connie
Connie is a family physician who had a practice in Toronto before leaving for health reasons. She now works with Public Health and is finding her voice in her writing.
The Look
the unedited story by Connie Chen
“Hang in there. It’ll be okay.”
I didn’t know if it was for her benefit or mine. Words of encouragement were good in moments of crisis. That’s what our first-year empathy course instructor had said. But what the hell did he know about managing a patient while your plane was going down?
It had started like every morning that month. Me, settling into a dreamless state of unconsciousness after another frustrating day damming the flood of health issues that threatened this isolated community. My third week into a month-long elective in rural community practice found me in the nursing outpost of a Northern Ontario reserve.
“Dr. Ma, the blood work on the boy who tried to hang himself is back.” Elsbeth, the outpost nurse said as she held out the requisite lifeline to all medical residents- a steaming mug of coffee. “And we found the no-show who should’ve gone to the hospital, the woman with twins. She’s here. I convinced her to see you.”
“How do you look so fresh and cheery?” I said, forcing open an eyelid. “You went to bed after me.”
“I’ve been here a year. They’re now my people and you’re the newbie, fresh-faced, second-year resident who’s saving the world.”
“I’ve wiped my ass with that delusion.”
“You and every other trainee who’s come thru.”
“Right. Let’s see this woman and convince her to go to hospital. What’s her name?”
“Nellie George, aged twenty-seven, thirty-one weeks gestation, sixth pregnancy. This time with twins. Should’ve gone to the hospital at twenty-eight weeks, but she said she would know when it’s time.” Elsbeth said in the monotone of one who had given thousands of case summaries. “She’s usually right.”
I stopped listening after hearing Nellie’s age and number of pregnancies. She and I were the same age. I couldn’t raise a pet goldfish let alone five kids with two more on the way.
“So, what’s the bet? I get her to look at me or give more than one-word answers?”
“Whoa, Dr. Snippy.” Elsbeth suggested. “How about no losses today?”
“Sorry, my bad,” I mumbled reminding myself to think before speaking. I took pride in my ability connecting with patients. Back home, I could gain a child’s trust with a joke. But here, while everyone spoke English, language was secondary. It was the unspoken that perpetuated the ever-widening chasm between locals and outsiders.
I dragged a brush through my hair and smoothed my wrinkled scrubs to give a semblance of professionalism. Walking into the tiny examination room, I saw a small woman with thick, raven-coloured hair. She sat with her hands intertwined into a knot over her massive belly, looking down at the floor where her feet would be if not for her condition.
“Hello Ms. George. I’m Dr. Ma. How are you and your twins doing?”
I knew she probably wouldn’t answer, but paused for an interminably long minute before continuing.
“Are you feeling the babies kicking?”
“Yes.”
“Any bleeding?”
“No.”
“Any contractions?”
“Maybe.”
“Any worries?”
No answer. I tried another question.
“Do you think the babies are coming soon?”
“Maybe.”
We continued in this manner for the next few minutes. Directed questions garnering one-word answers, all the while gazing with fixed fascination at a fleck on the floor. It was the typical response from every patient I’d attended since coming to this community. My weeks of delivering babies in eerie silence had included, to my amazement a fifteen-year-old first-time mom-to-be. She had come in with an elder, ever silent; a cultural response especially with outsiders. I longed for a sign of connection that signalled their consent to my partnership in their healthcare. But I was convinced they could smell my inexperience like the old dog walking by the brash pup. All bravado, no guts.
Nellie astonished me into silence as I began to deliver my well-rehearsed speech on why she should go to the hospital for her final few months. She looked sideways at me for the briefest of moments. “I think my water broke.”
Berating myself internally for missing a crucial question, I asked, “When?”
“This morning.”
“You came to find us.”
A tiny nod confirmed my statement.
“Are your contractions getting closer?”
“Little.”
A shout to Elsbeth and a quick call to the staff physician secured us on an urgent flight to Winnipeg, the closest hospital with advanced neonatal resuscitation. The small aircraft arrived within thirty minutes. Just enough time to start her intravenous with magnesium sulphate, praying it would stop her labour. I placed my heavy parka over her shoulders as she entered the plane.
My eyes pleaded with Elsbeth, hoping she would intervene and travel with our patient, ignoring the protocol that the junior physician should go instead of the more experienced nurse. But my only response from Elsbeth was her fixed gaze looking down at her feet.
Our plane rose steadfastly in the early morning frost. I held Nellie’s hand and looked out. Sunlight glistened over the wing as we sailed above frozen tundra and ice-laden waterways. Below, a polar bear and her cub were fishing for breakfast. The glorious beauty of God’s handiwork was in full bloom. I hoped it was a good sign, but was reeled back from my reverie by the hard squeeze of my hand. Nellie surprised me a second time. She wanted to talk while I had assumed it was labour pains.
“I drank liquor this morning when pains started. Will it interfere with the magnesium sulphate?”
“You knew alcohol stopped contractions?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want you to think I’m an alcoholic.” She looked at me and I saw the intelligence in her eyes.
“You knew. Why hide your smarts?”
“Outsiders think we’re all the same.”
“How did you know?”
“I wanted to be a doctor.”
I wanted to ask more, but the plane dropped precipitously. My stomach rose in my throat.
“We got ice on the wings,” the pilot yelled. “Hang on.”
Our eyes locked. Our hands became one.
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