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Nemo on Vacation

Nemo on Vacation My beeper went off for the tenth time. It was a Sunday morning in August, and I was making hospital rounds before going to the office to see sick children in the afternoon. I didn’t recognize the number in my beeper. “Call the hospital operator,” it said. “You have an urgent call!” the operator said. “I’m putting you through to Jim from hospital maintenance.” Maintenance? As a pediatrician, I receive many calls from and about patients, but from maintenance? “I have bad news,” Jim said solemnly. “Your office fish tank is leaking through the ceiling of the floor below. I checked the fish tank. All of the fish are dead, and the water is cloudy. I thought you should know before the children came to see you.” A kind man, Jim was worried about the effects of such a scene on our pediatric patients. I thanked Jim and wondered what to do next. A large saltwater fish tank sits as the centerpiece of our pediatric waiting room. It is filled with brightly colored tropical fish darting between the rocks and seaweed, mouthing O’s as bubbles swirl upward, filling the water with oxygen. The children watch and name the luminescent fish of many colors––hot pink, fluorescent yellow, gray with shining blue racing stripes, orange, and white. Spike was the favorite; he was a little, brown, spotted puffer fish. Shark, a long, slender fish with shimmering blue-green scales and a long snout, was the darling of Julia, one of our cleaning staff. The cowfish was a common topic of conversation. Its face and odd appendagelike fins looked like a cow, yet it was bright yellow with black spots. “Sad,” I thought. I didn’t want the children to see or know about the dead fish. I called my medical assistant, Jenny, and told her the story. “Can you go in 5 minutes early and take the paper sheets we have and wrap up the fish tank so the kids can’t see what’s in it?” I asked. “Be sure to tape it across the bottom so no one peeks!” We agreed on an explanation for the children. When I arrived at the office, 5 small children surrounded me. “Where are the fish?” they exclaimed. “They’re on vacation,” I said. Jenny had wrapped the fish tank securely with paper and put stickers on the outside. “But, where are they?” the children asked again. “They’re on vacation,” I explained, “and when they come back they’ll have a nice clean house to live in.” I felt a bit guilty with the ruse, imagining the awful scene in the cloudy water behind the paper. Young children are magical thinkers. They believe in fairy godmothers, monsters, and Santa Claus. To their way of thinking, if something bad can happen to Spike at our office, something bad might happen to them. I did not want them to worry about what happens to living beings in our office. “Did you go on vacation?” I asked the children. “Yes,” they answered. “Well, the fish are on vacation, but they will be back very soon,” I noted. Two mothers glanced at me with questioning looks, but neither commented. I called the emergency fish lady, who arrived in the early evening as I saw the last few children. “Pump failure,” she diagnosed. The water had not been oxygenated for many hours. The fish lady cleaned the tank and brought a few new fish, including several clown fish that looked like Nemo, orange with white bands and a fringe of black adorning their tails. Monday morning, 4-year-old Adam walked into the waiting room and approached the fish tank, now filled with sparkling clear water and new luminous fish swimming among the rocks and plumes of bubbles. “Hi, Nemo! Hi, Nemo!” he exclaimed, his face pressed to the glass. Correspondence: Dr Rider, Harvard Medical School and Roslindale Pediatric Associates, 1153 Centre St, Suite 31, Boston, MA 02130 (elizabeth_rider@hms.harvard.edu). http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Archives of Pediatrics & Adolescent Medicine American Medical Association

Nemo on Vacation

Abstract

My beeper went off for the tenth time. It was a Sunday morning in August, and I was making hospital rounds before going to the office to see sick children in the afternoon. I didn’t recognize the number in my beeper. “Call the hospital operator,” it said. “You have an urgent call!” the operator said. “I’m putting you through to Jim from hospital maintenance.” Maintenance? As a pediatrician, I receive many calls from and about patients, but from...
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Publisher
American Medical Association
Copyright
Copyright © 2005 American Medical Association. All Rights Reserved.
ISSN
1072-4710
eISSN
1538-3628
DOI
10.1001/archpedi.159.7.606
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

My beeper went off for the tenth time. It was a Sunday morning in August, and I was making hospital rounds before going to the office to see sick children in the afternoon. I didn’t recognize the number in my beeper. “Call the hospital operator,” it said. “You have an urgent call!” the operator said. “I’m putting you through to Jim from hospital maintenance.” Maintenance? As a pediatrician, I receive many calls from and about patients, but from maintenance? “I have bad news,” Jim said solemnly. “Your office fish tank is leaking through the ceiling of the floor below. I checked the fish tank. All of the fish are dead, and the water is cloudy. I thought you should know before the children came to see you.” A kind man, Jim was worried about the effects of such a scene on our pediatric patients. I thanked Jim and wondered what to do next. A large saltwater fish tank sits as the centerpiece of our pediatric waiting room. It is filled with brightly colored tropical fish darting between the rocks and seaweed, mouthing O’s as bubbles swirl upward, filling the water with oxygen. The children watch and name the luminescent fish of many colors––hot pink, fluorescent yellow, gray with shining blue racing stripes, orange, and white. Spike was the favorite; he was a little, brown, spotted puffer fish. Shark, a long, slender fish with shimmering blue-green scales and a long snout, was the darling of Julia, one of our cleaning staff. The cowfish was a common topic of conversation. Its face and odd appendagelike fins looked like a cow, yet it was bright yellow with black spots. “Sad,” I thought. I didn’t want the children to see or know about the dead fish. I called my medical assistant, Jenny, and told her the story. “Can you go in 5 minutes early and take the paper sheets we have and wrap up the fish tank so the kids can’t see what’s in it?” I asked. “Be sure to tape it across the bottom so no one peeks!” We agreed on an explanation for the children. When I arrived at the office, 5 small children surrounded me. “Where are the fish?” they exclaimed. “They’re on vacation,” I said. Jenny had wrapped the fish tank securely with paper and put stickers on the outside. “But, where are they?” the children asked again. “They’re on vacation,” I explained, “and when they come back they’ll have a nice clean house to live in.” I felt a bit guilty with the ruse, imagining the awful scene in the cloudy water behind the paper. Young children are magical thinkers. They believe in fairy godmothers, monsters, and Santa Claus. To their way of thinking, if something bad can happen to Spike at our office, something bad might happen to them. I did not want them to worry about what happens to living beings in our office. “Did you go on vacation?” I asked the children. “Yes,” they answered. “Well, the fish are on vacation, but they will be back very soon,” I noted. Two mothers glanced at me with questioning looks, but neither commented. I called the emergency fish lady, who arrived in the early evening as I saw the last few children. “Pump failure,” she diagnosed. The water had not been oxygenated for many hours. The fish lady cleaned the tank and brought a few new fish, including several clown fish that looked like Nemo, orange with white bands and a fringe of black adorning their tails. Monday morning, 4-year-old Adam walked into the waiting room and approached the fish tank, now filled with sparkling clear water and new luminous fish swimming among the rocks and plumes of bubbles. “Hi, Nemo! Hi, Nemo!” he exclaimed, his face pressed to the glass. Correspondence: Dr Rider, Harvard Medical School and Roslindale Pediatric Associates, 1153 Centre St, Suite 31, Boston, MA 02130 (elizabeth_rider@hms.harvard.edu).

Journal

Archives of Pediatrics & Adolescent MedicineAmerican Medical Association

Published: Jul 1, 2005

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