The Other Side of the Glass

By Morgan Homan, OMS III
Athens

The other side of the glass
I sit in the spacious library, the sun pouring through the myriad tinted windows.
Even in heat of a Texas summer, the air-conditioning keeps me cool.
Waiting for 4:15, I somehow feel both confident and anxious.
My mind wanders from rehearsing answers to interview questions...
Students mill past me in both directions, and I watch them through the glass dividers.
Comfortable in my armchair, I wonder where they are going.
Perhaps they need a coffee break between lectures?
I envy those students casually passing me, already accepted to medical school.
I wish I were on the other side of the glass.
My son and daughter are pulling tupperware out of the cupboards again.
I walk by on my way through the kitchen, and smile.
Kneeling, I give my toddling daughter a kiss and a hug which she tries to resist.
My son runs around behind me and throws his arms around my neck playfully.
Tickling my way free, I make a break for the office.
Closing the door behind me, I see my children through the old, thin glass panes.
They continue playing, making mommy their new focus of attack.
Watching them, wistfully, I take a deep breath and turn back to my exam studies.
I wish I were on the other side of the glass.
Hurrying through the E.D., the attending asks if I've ever performed CPR.
She informs me today is the day.
I rack my thoughts to remember the current compression-to-breath ratio guidelines.
My hands tremble; I try to hide it by interlacing my fingers.
An old lady arrives three minutes after the call.
Ambulance staff races her through the large glass doors of room 9.
Standing by nervously, I await further instructions.
A nurse pulls the curtain past the anxious family outside the windows.
I wish I were on the other side of the glass.
Checking in with my patient, I sign her left wrist before leaving.
Hot water runs down my own wrists as I scrub-in.
The wedding band tied to my scrubs clinks against the stainless steel basin.
Entering the O.R., the nurse gowns and gloves me as I spin around.
My PA puts on Guns and Roses; it's his turn to choose the music.
The Anesthesiologist enters on the heels of the patient bed.
A tight compression wrap and tourniquet are applied.
Humming along with the music, I start a procedure I've done hundreds of times.
The operating lights reflect off the windows, but I don't even think about the other side of the glass.