DR. JOHN WATKINS, M.D., CONTRIBUTED THE NEXT TWO STORIES

Dr. John Watkins, M.D., practiced family medicine in the southern Minnesota community of Wells for more than forty years. We had shared the rigors of medical school decades ago, and I had the pleasure of renewing friendship with this fine, gentle man when he served as a preceptor/tutor for students under the university-sponsored training program, the Rural Physician Associate Program (R-PAP). I am happy to introduce Dr. Watkins, using his own words.

The Challenge of Obstetrics

Corrie was a thirty-one-year-old mom who had two daughters at home. I had delivered the second child, and that course and delivery had been very gratifying. This, her third pregnancy, had been equally uneventful. She came to our hospital well into active labor. The mouth of the womb had dilated about one third of that needed for delivery. I checked her from time to time, satisfied with her progress.

Then...

Her waters broke. A long loop of umbilical cord prolapsed with the gush of fluid. To an obstetrician, few sights can be more horrifying. I pulled on sterilized gloves and checked quickly. She was still less than half dilated; a long session of labor looked likely before any chance to deliver the baby naturally. I could feel the cord pulsating, meaning that the baby was still receiving life-essential blood, but I knew that each new contraction of its mother’s uterus could spell doom to the baby by pinching off the cord. I kept my gloved hand in place, next to the mouth of the womb, and worked a finger on each side of the cord as protection so that pressure from the uterus could not cut off flow of blood to the baby.

I knew that it would take too long to summon a surgeon and anesthetist to our small hospital. I barked orders to our obstetrical nurse to call for the ambulance and to alert neighboring Albert Lea Hospital to prepare for an emergency Caesarian section.

The ambulance arrived. One might say that for a time, baby and I were immutably joined to each other within the mother’s birth canal. I sidestepped briskly alongside Corrie on the gurney while she was being moved. We were loaded into the ambulance, my hand still in place the whole way. Cord pulsations remained strong. We covered the twenty miles separating our two towns posthaste. At the Albert Lea Hospital, I danced alongside as before, Corrie, baby and I arriving together at the surgical suite. Time to consider what a comical sight we must have presented came later.

The surgical team was ready, and no time was lost getting anesthesia and prep for operating underway. I could hear the calm, low voices of the operating team, but I was crouching under the sterile drapes and could only picture in my mind what was transpiring on the operating table.

Subdued voices gave way to rather loud words. “John, you’d better get your hand out of there if you don’t want to have your fingers cut off!”

What a relief it was for me to be freed from the cramped position of my arm and hand, and to hear the squall of a healthy newborn girl.

I watched that little one grow, witnessed the sporting and school events she participated in, and weekly saw her in Sunday church activities. She is now studying to become a registered nurse. I anticipate that she will be first class.

The Message Heard

Humor and happy conversations so often take place in the delivery room after the baby is born. One particular time followed the delivery of a healthy, full-term infant. In the making of “small talk,” as well as to satisfy my own curiosity and verify my recall, I asked the mother, “Katie, how many children do you have at home?”

“Four,” she answered.

“And their ages?”

“The oldest is five.”

My mind filled with thoughts of running feet, shouts of glee and laughter, sometimes complaints to Mom.

Innocently enough, I said, “You must have quite a boisterous time at your house.”

There was a period of thoughtful contemplation before she said, “No, just call me Fertile Myrtle.”

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