I’ve always had a bit of doctor envy. In my head, I imagine these scenarios where someone is hit by a car or suddenly passes out or is in labor and I come running to their side. “I’m a doctor, please stand back. I know what I’m doing,” I say as I quickly stabilize them. Sometimes I can fashion medical supplies out of random things on the sidewalk. “Hey you, hand me your belt. Stat!” Or there is a medical emergency on an airplane and the flight attendant urgently asks, “Is there a doctor on board?” Yes. Yes. That’s me. I’m one of those cool, fabulous doctors.
Of course, I’m not. I hated science classes. I don’t actually want to be a doctor. I just like the idea of it. It’s like you are some kind of super hero. My friend Adam is a doctor. Or at least he claims to be. I met the guy in a crowded hot tub in Crested Butte, Colorado in my twenties so it’s hard to imagine he really practices emergency pediatrics. But I’ve actually seen him in his scrubs up at Mt. Sinai Hospital and he uses big medical words so it’s either a really elaborate hoax or he’s legit.
Doctors are just so darn helpful. I mean I’m a stay-at-home mom/journalist. What can I do for you in an emergency situation? Let’s see. I could write about it after someone else saves your ass. Or I know, I could use my secret mommy powers and give you kisses and promise your boo boo will go away. I even have Elmo band-aids if things really get serious. You see? Not that helpful. Not at all.
I could earn a Phd and then call myself Dr. Kintner. But that’s a lot of school and I will have come no closer to saving anyone. I could pretend to be a doctor but apparently you can get yourself in quite a bit of legal trouble practicing medicine without a license. I guess at the very least I can call 911 if I witness some kind of emergency situation. It’s not much but it’s a little something. I’m keeping my cell phone handy.