They say if you go through med school as a spouse of a medical student, you may as well be considered a med student.

They say if you lose enough sleep cuz your hubby is across the street pulling long nights as a resident, you may as well have been a resident. Even if the reason you’re awake is a crying baby.

They say if you’re married to a doc, you may as well be a doc. I mean, come on, if you’ve heard the guy who people call “Doctor” [which still cracks you up at times cuz, well, he’s just Sun to you, and Doctor sounds so… so… Okay, I need to not be in trouble tonight, so let me filter that thought. Just that one.]

Anyway, what was I saying? Yes. If you’ve heard Dr. Spouse give advice, prescribe meds, and field emergencies on the phone, you’ve been vicariously educated even if you don’t get the m.d. behind your name and passed the sterile processing certification

So, yes, I’ve been known to give out medical advice here and there. My grandma used to. Hey, her son’s a doc. My mom does. Her brother’s a doc. But I’ve learned a few things along the way.

1. Never to do it when hubs is around, else get reprimanded.

2. Always follow the advice with the famous last words, “But, hey, I’m not the doctor.”

And

3. Always end with, “Hope you feel better.” Because that’s simply good bed side manners. Just sayin. 

So anyway, for the first time ever, I found myself in an actual medical emergency where I was asked to help. Actually two. 

While at SoulFest this past summer in Gunstock, New Hampshire, Hubs and I are standing and rocking to the tunes of Epic Season, I believe at the time, and we’re right up front, but off to the right of the stage. It’s about two in the afternoon and we’re sizzling. I pour half a water bottle on my head just to  lower my brain temperature and drink the other half. The girls are off the side of us in a shady spot. Sitting. 

Next thing you know, a tall blonde falls back, right into hubby’s arms. It’s like right out of the movies. Glad he was there to catch her. The typical evening crowds haven’t arrived yet, so there’s plenty of space to lay her back and fan her. But she is out. Cold. Well, hot. Anyway, I’m freaking out. But hubby stays calm. But tells me to do what I do best. “Scream! For help!”

“Help! Help!” I’m running at the back of the crowds, trying to get the attention of the M.C. on stage. “A girl just fainted. We need some medical help right away!”

The M.C. follows the direction of my arms swinging toward where hubby is assessing the situation and in a matter of seconds a first aid team rushes to the scene. She was dehydrated, and she comes to by the time they arrive. 

The M.C. gives a shout out to hubby. Not once. But twice that day and evening. I can’t lie. I’m a little jealous. Hey, doesn’t the hysterical medical assistance get anything. I’ll settle for a shout out to my blog! Nope. Nothing. Oh well.

So that was the first. But I didn’t really do much, besides use my lungs. Which for me would have happened if I had married a doctor or not.

But…

The other day, I’m in Whole Foods, buying some yummy kale salad and quinoa and other healthy stuff to hold me over before I meet with my writing peeps. I notice no one in line at the customer service and the girl agrees to take me so I can get out quickly.

Behind the counter is another employee who is opening a thing of bleach wipes. You know, the kind that comes in those green cylinders and pulls out one at a time, always leaving the next one just a tad above the hole. He’s attempting to pull the first one out to get the system going. I’m watching him do this. 

Next thing you know, he sticks his pointer finger into the hole in an attempt to reach the first wet sheet and he cannot get it out. So he pushes it in further. Now he’s screaming. Okay, not exactly. More like using fancy language that could get him fired, so I won’t quote him. But the guy is in a heap of mess, and the way those holes are made, they have jagged edges that all point inward, which don’t hurt at all if something moves into them, but cut into your skin if you try to move in reverse. Which is the only way for him to get his finger out. 

I am in that critical moment when I have to decide, do I participate or walk away? Do I admit that I’m a doctor, okay, doctor’s spouse, or just let his co-workers handle it? Do I offer assistance my madd skillz or just let the poor guy suffer? 

“Let me help!” I blurt out and put my stuff on the counter.

At first I attempt to expand the hole so he can pull his finger out, but this method fails and his finger seems to be swelling by the second.

“Do you have a scissors behind the counter?” I’m having an O.R. moment and I need a scalpel!

Someone hands him an exacto knife.

“I wouldn’t use that.” I’m starting to get woozy just imagining the blood about to spew from his hand. And this is why I’m not a doctor. Okay, I can admit it.

The poor guy tries to use the exacto himself, but the screw is loose and I think he’s using his non-dominant hand from the way his hand awkwardly fumbles with the sharp blade. Sheesh! Be careful!

More “flowery” language followed by the finger moving further past the gripping slit.

Finally someone finds a scissors. I take it and start snipping the plastic top. I get about half way and he takes over. He wants to cut the closest part by himself. That way, he can gauge if the snips are getting too close to his skin. And voila! He makes the final clip and his finger’s free!

We all cheer!

Well, I cheer. I’m so glad he’s okay. And he didn’t lose his finger. And he’s thanking all of us. Even the guy who just stood by for moral support but kept repeating, “I ain’t touching that…” Yeah, another flowery word.

Anyway, I left that day from Whole Foods, feeling like I contributed to society. Is this how doctors feel when they help people? I’ll have to go home and ask hubs. Because I don’t know that I’ve ever really asked him. And maybe the next time someone calls and asks for “Dr. Paulus,” I’ll be nice. No giggling.

So there you have it. My two minutes of glory. Never got the guy’s name. Never gave him mine. I think he left to go ice his finger. I told him to do that! I did. I did. Okay. I’m good now. 

** Have you ever gotten your finger stuck in an awkward place? How did you get out of the jam? Anything interesting happen on your last trip to the grocery store?