Project 52 | Week 3

This one’s for my dad.

In late December, my father stepped down as Chief of Emergency Services at Baystate Medical Center, after 30+ years of service.  On Friday night 300 people got together to honor him.  It was amazing.  It was noted that in all of his years of service, he had treated an estimated 2.8 million patients.  2.8 MILLION.  It’s almost unfathomable, don’t you think?

There were toasts and lot of humorous, yet mildly inappropriate roasts.   There were tears (a lot of tears), and laughs, and truly remarkable gifts (get ready for the Dr. John P. Santoro Trauma Room to be unveiled at Baystate).   There was even an E! True Hollywood Story made about my dad’s rise to fame, talk about must see TV!  It was one of my most favorite nights ever.

I have never been more proud of my father.  Ever.

There was a local television crew there, interviewing my father before the night began.  When the reporter realized I was his daughter, she asked if she could interview me.   “What was it like growing up with Dr. Santoro as your father?”   I had a hard time answering them, and my words weren’t coming out right, or fast enough (shocker, I know).   Then my very good looking,  younger brother stepped in and the cameras shifted to him and they seemed to forget that they had asked me that question at all, or that I was still standing there.  So I’ll answer the question here.

• It meant that our kitchen table was repeatedly turned into a makeshift exam table for family and friends.
• It meant never driving past an accident on the highway without stopping so my father could get out to help.
• It meant dressing up as ‘trauma patients’ for Halloween, complete with blood gushing props.
• It meant that our coffee table books had titles like, “The Picture Book of Sexually Transmitted Diseases”, also known as “This Book Will Scare the Shit Out of Your Kids, Their Friends, and Their Boyfriends.”
• It meant I would turn into a hypochondriac after listening to different cases that my father would describe seeing at the ER.
• It meant free Springfield Falcons hockey games (my father was the team doctor ), free cruises (my father was one of Holland America Line’s ship doctors), and free passes to Six Flags New England (my father was the medical director).
• It meant a role model with a work ethic that never quit.
• It meant having my own personal therapist and guidance counselor.
• It meant knowing to never take life or yourself too seriously.

It meant we were blessed beyond belief.  And I’m grateful for that every single day.

My father is a published author in many medical journals.  His article “The Inspiration of July” is one of my favorite pieces to read (and not just because it’s the only one not littered with medical jargon).  It seems only fitting that I end this weeks post with this.

The Inspiration of July by Dr. John P. Santoro, MD

In July, of every year, I look at their faces and silently say, to myself, “thank you.”  These are the people who renew my faith in my profession, my specialty, and myself.

The new residents begin their clinical lives, with enthusiasm, wonder, and excitement.  Their faces say it all.  They approach the bedside of a patient in trouble and they see the whole person, not just an airway.  They linger that little bit longer and listen to the stories.  When we intervene and make a difference, they beam with pleasure.

The residents want to know what happened to their admitted patients.  Have they made the correct diagnosis?  Was the treatment appropriate?  At this point they have not developed the cynicism.  They are not yet worried about managed care, COBRA violations, or HCFA regulations.  They want to learn, see, and treat.  Everything is exciting, each new case a challenge.  The “frequent flyer” is still funny and engaging.  They are full of promise.

So, as I look at these doctors, I am filled with pride and hope, and just a little bit humbled.  For in them, every day, I see the reasons we became physicians.  They remind me quite clearly why we chose emergency medicine to be our specialty.  They renew my faith, in that this is how it should be, and how it can be for me again.

So, to the residents I say, I will teach you how to intubate–but you teach me about the whole person.  I will instruct you about the latest treatment for CHF, but you remind me of the wonder of making someone able to breathe again.  I will teach you how to pronounce someone dead, but you enlighten me on the value of living life to its fullest each day.

The inspiration of July does not last very long, but long enough to be thankful for its presence.  Certainly long enough to inspire me to become more like them, as they work to become more like me.  Hopefully we’ll meet on common ground.

Here’s my dad, humbly speechless at his retirement party…..