I was on call at the Montreal Children’s Hospital one spring night in 1979, when I was a student.
The Children’s was just across the square from that temple of hockey, the Montreal Forum. The day had been normal. I was busy with several admissions to the sixth-floor ward where I was the clinical clerk. My resident was a good teacher, helpful and supportive. He was obsessive enough to make me feel secure but not crazily so like some of the other pediatric residents. As evening fell a strange transformation came over the hospital. It became very still, although the traffic noises were unusually loud outside. Early in the evening, by eight o’clock, the honking subsided.
I wandered down to the emergency room to see what was happening. It was eerie. The Montreal Children’s ER was one of the busiest in the city. Many people used it as an after-hours drop-in clinic for their kids. The waiting room is always packed with crying, sniffling and coughing children and their overheated, worried and exasperated parents. In the afternoon the ER had been busy. My resident sent me down to examine and admit the sick asthmatic and the boy with leukemia coming in with a complication of chemotherapy. The bald emaciated eight-year-old gave a skeptical look at me in my short white coat. He pointed out his good vein to me. “You have one shot, sucker!” he snarled.
My patients settled upstairs, I wandered down to the ER. Now it was downright spooky. The cubicles were empty. The waiting room was silent. The doctors and nurses were gathered at the nursing station watching a small portable TV.
“What’s happening?” I asked one of the interns.
“Don’t you know? This is game seven of the Stanley Cup semi-finals. The Canadiens are playing Boston.” That explained everything, I thought. Hockey is a religion in Montreal. “Go Habs Go” is its credo.
I had grown up remarkably ignorant of the game. In fact, I had never even been to a hockey game until my husband, the American, had taken me two years before to see Guy Lafleur perform his magic. This explained the strange traffic noises earlier in the day. I went back upstairs to walk around and check on my patients. The whole hospital was watching the game. On the wards, house staff and nurses gathered in little pools of light at the darkened nursing stations, to watch. Every awake child and their parents were glued to the screens next to each bed. As I passed by the windows, I noticed that the street outside the hospital was abnormally quiet.
I was called back down to the emergency room.The ER was still silent. In one cubicle there was a young boy of about 10. It was he who I was there to admit. He had terrible asthma. He was struggling for breath, an oxygen mask on his face, his ribs moving with the effort to get air in his lungs. As the respiratory tech administered his treatments, his eyes were glued to the TV screen. He was watching the game with total concentration. I interviewed him and his mother. I examined him as well as I could as he kept twisting around so that he could keep watching the game. My resident came down to check on my admission. I watched in amazement as the resident and the little boy stopped doing the ritual of the medical admission and both started watching the game. They exchanged a few words about the Canadiens. I realized the game had gone into overtime. We admitted the boy upstairs and I followed him.
Upstairs the group around the portable TV had grown bigger. Doctors, nurses, aides, orderlies and cleaners all stood around watching the flickering blue screen. I started to write up my admission, as the little boy was admitted to a bed.
Suddenly a cry came up from the group around the TV. The Canadiens had scored the winning goal! From outside the window came an answering roar as the huge crowd at the Forum cheered the goal. Suddenly the quiet streets came alive as all the taxis and cars began to honk their horns in celebration. In a few minutes the square was filled with hordes of singing celebrating people.
In about an hour, the emergency room was full.
It is 46 years later, and my nine-year-old grandson, Jack, is over at our house watching the game. It is rare when he has his Bubby and Zaidie to himself, without the presence of his older sister or younger cousin. He has developed a passionate attachment to the Habs. The other night he watched their triumphant 6-3 victory with his other grandparents, and he is beside himself with excitement tonight! Dave and I are intent on spoiling him. We ordered sushi for dinner and ice cream for dessert, as per his request. We settle on the couch, and he watches with total concentration and intensity. He groans when Washington scores the first goal, and whoops with delight at the brilliant stops by Jakob Dobes. When the Canadiens tie it up, he is literally dancing. Dave is keeping up a constant play by play analysis, explaining to Jack the intricacies of the game. Then comes that heartbreaking third period. The questionable calls, the courageous penalty killing. The team of youngsters fighting back against the old bear’s team. It is late, and Jack is losing his composure. When the Canadiens lose, he is devastated. Dave takes him home trying to explain that they are a young team, and they are building a future where they will be champions.
In Family Medicine we are also building a future. This year, more medical students than ever before chose family medicine in the Quebec match. Despite the government’s continued boneheaded mismanagement of the healthcare system, these courageous youngsters are elbows up, willing to commit to the challenge of becoming family doctors, because they want to do what is best for patients and provide the primary care that they really need. They soon will be our champions! Forty-six years ago, I knew nothing about hockey or Family Medicine. I was an optimist as I still am.
Let’s have hope, and practice good medicine, and continue to fight the good fight.