Even with all of my experience in the medical profession, nothing compares to the smell of a hospital. Sterile, stuffy, healing, stagnant, and sweetness fill the maze of hallways with the ringing sounds of doctors and nurses tending to patients and their families.

As Drew and I rode up in the large elevator to the third floor, I glanced over at a young man in a doctor’s coat leaning against the metallic wall. He looked exhausted and in that moment I realized he was probably doing his residency. Suddenly I flashed to my own memories of 19 hour shifts, sleeping in laundry room sheet carts, and balancing the knowledge of my schooling with the scared eyes of patients who turned to me, technically still a student, as some kind of God. I always reminded them that medicine is a practice, and that for all of our advances in the medical field, people still die from the common cold.

Hillary’s condition has evolved to a choice where she can literally change her gender, but what hasn’t changed are the details and concerns related to any medical procedure where the level of risk is unique to each patient.

The quiver in Mike’s voice when he called was familiar. I’ve heard it my entire life from worried family members concerned about their loved one’s health, and as Drew and I walked out of the elevator and down the hallway to the waiting room, I could hear the meandering notes of a song. Was it really Burt Bacharach’s RAINDROPS KEEP FALLING ON MY HEAD?

Turning the corner, we saw what was a definite modern waiting room with progressive magazine racks (including The New Yorker and Greenpeace), complimentary coffee and herb tea, AND a player piano. Perhaps live music was more soothing than a television, but seeing a pretty woman playing a Burt Bacharach song in a medical waiting room was a tad surreal.

Mike turned from the nurse’s station.

“Eric, thank God! Talk to these idiots will you and see what’s going on? They won’t talk to me.”

A stoic nurse behind the counter kept her head down in her paperwork. I knew she probably had already been through everything with panicked Mike and certainly didn’t want to have to re-explain it all to me.

“Hi,” I said, smiling. “Has Hillary stabilized and is out of surgery?” I hoped by my tone that the nurse would realize I was a doctor and perhaps cut us some slack.

“Like I told this gentleman here, DOCTOR, once I hear from the PATIENT’S Doctor, I will let you know,” she said in an exasperated whine. She was tired, and obviously didn’t know anything. I stepped away from the counter and Mike looked at me like I was some kind of wimp.

“Mike,” I whispered. “Give it time. She doesn’t know anything.”

Fed up, Mike quickly moved over to the woman playing the piano and motioned her to stop. “It’s the only song I remember,” she barked.

Mike introduced us to this beautiful young woman named Betsy, who was clearly bored and ready to leave. Drew sat down at the piano and started playing SOMEWHERE from West Side Story.

“What is that song?” asked Betsy. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the absurdity of the situation. Here we were waiting to hear if our friend who went under the knife for a sex change operation was okay while listening to show tunes.

Mike suddenly left the piano, seeing the Doctor approaching from the other end of the hallway. He was a young Doctor and obviously a specialist in this field. “There have been some complications,” he said with a heavy sigh. “She’s not waking up from the anesthesia. There’s no need to worry at this moment. I’ll be back shortly to let you know her status.” And as fast as he arrived, the Doctor stepped down the hallway.

With a pause, I mumbled, “When a surgeon says not to worry, worry. Something serious has happened.”

Mike looked at me in silence as the musical notes of I FEEL PRETTY filled the room.