He didn't take the pacifier; didn't suckle at breast. Between piercing cries his eyes were squeezed tight as if he didn't like my face. I almost shouted: Shut up, and let me count your breath.
Wasn't I harassed enough with adults' ward where fat ladies' girths didn't help me locate their kidneys and some fussy gentlemen were embarrassed to expose their body parts?
I had always dreamt of pediatrics; yearned to be with tiny, angelic babies who slept between feeds, needed just a bit of and cooing cuddling.
Avoiding parent's stares I quickly analyzed. The baby wasn't blue ' wasn't pale. He wasn't cold ' not feverish. Nor did he convulse. Relieved, I turn to haggard parents with my first diagnosis of the day: