Christmas Contingency Call of Christ

“Twas two nights before Christmas” of my intern year, and I was looking forward to a cushy half-day of outpatient clinic as I packed for a few days of vacation. During July orientation, I had eagerly scanned the schedule I received for the year, as I was hopeful I would make it home for Christmas. My childhood home, where my parents still lived, was a two-hour drive, close enough that I could drive home when I wanted, but far enough away that my mom didn't come visit me every weekend, I joked. December listed outpatient internal medicine clinic: no overnight call, no weekends, with Christmas day off and a half day on Christmas Eve. Even with being on contingency call, this was a sweet schedule.

The holidays also marked the halfway point through intern year, so I counted down the days. As a preliminary year neurology resident, I learned as much as I could during each internal medicine rotation, including my preference for outpatient clinics. My residency was, as most residencies are, inpatient-heavy during internship. I found the structure and “less sick” nature of the outpatient world much more appealing than running to codes or declaring time of death. After flailing my matchstick arms on chest compressions during bedside cardiopulmonary resuscitation, I thought it better for all patients involved if I participated in such events as little as possible.

I packed the night before Christmas Eve, as I'm a night owl, so I like doing that kind of preparation in the evening, since I'm always dragging myself out of bed last minute in the morning. I planned to drive straight to my parents’ house after work. As per the tradition my sister and I had developed over the years, we'd take a quick evening nap before going to midnight Mass. This left us free on Christmas morning to prepare the turkey feast, complete with mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and, of course, a steaming pot of fresh rice to honor our Filipino heritage.

The shrill of my pager woke me with a jolt the next morning, hours before my alarm was scheduled to go off. I blearily reached for my phone to dial the number. In the miasma of awakening, I made out the words “sick,” “contingency call,” and “CCU.” I had enough neurons firing to see my anticipated half day of outpatient clinic dissipating into a full day in the cardiac care unit (CCU), the “long day” shift of which stretched to 10 p.m. I was going to have to hustle to get ready and to the hospital to pre-round. This was not the kind of dasher I had in mind this Christmas.

The only thing I clearly remember about that shift was the seething resentment that I had to be there on Christmas Eve. I felt guilty because the hospital always needs doctors (and nurses and therapists and staff and everyone else), including over the holidays, but I kept thinking about that lovely half day of outpatient clinic that never was. I also felt guilty that I should have been thinking about my fellow intern who had called in sick. At least I was healthy enough to work that day and not be on the receiving end of medical care.

The senior resident working with me that day was apologetic that the assigned CCU intern had called in sick. He acknowledged I must have been disappointed to be called in that day. I thanked God there were no cardiac arrests in the unit that day, which was what terrified me the most about being in the CCU. When I finished my shift, I ended up going to midnight Mass at my local parish, a few minutes from the hospital. I crashed in my own bed that night and awoke early the next morning to drive to my parents’. I enjoyed my brief vacation and made the two-hour drive back.

Years later, I attended the wedding of my best friend from residency. It was a reunion of sorts with a number of friends from our training. I'd branched off to do neurology, but I was still at the same institution and retained a lot of overlap with my medicine colleagues. While I was chatting with one friend, whom I will call Jessica, the topic turned to the intern year.

“Do you remember that time intern year when you had to take contingency call on Christmas?” Jessica gasped, referencing the “sick” day I covered.

I marveled that Jessica remembered an incident from over fifteen years ago. I learned this had gone down into their residency class lore, to the point that people still referenced it sometimes when they got together.

Jessica recounted a conversation she had with another co-resident, whom I will call William, years after our internship. She shared how he couldn’t believe that I’d accepted that contingency call with grace. To my surprise, she added that William commented on “how much I love Jesus and care about Christmas.”

For all the rumors and stories I'd heard about this incident over the years, I had never heard this one. Leah actually loves Jesus and cares about Christmas.

True to my pessimistic nature, my first thoughts were actually negative. Was I too preachy or proselytizing? It was no secret that I went to Mass every weekend and sang in my church choir. Was my religious medal too obvious? I had a “triple slide” rosebud medal, which looks like a rose on the outside, but it slid apart into three joined pieces: one with a Miraculous Medal, an image of St. Therese of Lisieux (my confirmation saint), and one with the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Did people think I was judgmental? I never mentioned the reason I abstained from drinking was my Pioneer pledge to atone for those who abuse alcohol.

The topic changed quickly as the reception transitioned to toasting and dancing, so I processed this news over the next few days. I realized of all the things to be said behind my back, there were worse things I could have been known for (like being that intern who, years later, after the incident, was still remembered as the one unlikely to help a fellow intern). I loved the Lord, and people knew it. There wasn't anything inherently preachy or judgmental about it: they just knew that Christmas meant a lot to me because we celebrate the birth of Our Savior.

Perhaps my Christian witness was evident in other ways. A kind word to a friend at the end of one of our overnight calls. Volunteering for the more challenging cases among the emergency department patients still waiting to be seen. Maintaining my composure when trying to talk down an angry patient who wanted to leave against medical advice.

I peeled apart my long-buried emotions and memories like my tri-fold rosebud medal. My irritation is what had stuck with me the most, but I was able to unite it with the pierced Sacred Heart of Jesus. Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal crushes the head of the evils—even anger or resentment—that we face.

I had chosen St. Therese as my confirmation saint after reading her autobiography, The Story of a Soul, because of accounts like the following that highlight her “Little Way”:

I may never reach the same degree of charity as St. Therese toward others, but I was finally able to dislodge this thorn of resentment in my side and appreciate the graces that blossomed from this event. We can find Jesus in the most unlikely of places—and allow others to find Him through us. This is our vocation, our call—whether contingency or otherwise.