The Night the Caterpillars
Ate my Dinner

by Mike Litrel, M.D.

Ann and the boys were actually ignoring me, engrossed in staring at a large jar on the kitchen counter — which contained, it turned out, caterpillars. I groaned inwardly when I realized the evening's conversation was going to revolve around Ann's "butterfly garden" — again. Ann gave me a dirty look and I realized my groan had perhaps been less inward and maybe, more outward. I gave myself a mental kick. Now I'd have to feign even more interest.

Last year, after months of research (otherwise known as mail order shopping from plant catalogs), Ann created something called a "butterfly garden" in our backyard. She told me all about it, but the details escape me. It had something to do with attracting lots of bugs to our yard. The conversation didn't exactly have me on the edge of my seat.

Anyway, my impression is the garden didn't go as planned. Apparently, deer and rabbits ate some of the plants, and only five butterflies (Ann's count, not mine) visited the entire summer. Ann was depressed. And so was I. Not only would I have to pay for all the plants she'd ordered, I was expected to console her without even mentioning the waste of money.

But one morning Ann returned from her garden practically dancing. Two monarch caterpillars were eating her milkweed plants. For some reason, this was okay. Several times a day after that, Ann took the boys out to watch the bugs. After a few days, according to frequent reports, the caterpillars had literally eaten all the milkweeds.

So it turns out when I came home that evening after the delivery, Ann and the boys had been out for two hours gathering dinner for the caterpillars. I could feel my good mood evaporate. Ann actually made me put my ear to the jar so I could hear the caterpillars munching on milkweed leaves. I took the subtle approach.

"They sound really hungry — I know how they must feel...

"Boy, it must be nice to eat your fill...

"You've done a really nice job fixing dinner — for the caterpillars."

I tried to be a good sport. Monarch butterflies are endangered, you know. Freezes in Mexico and genetically engineered corn with poison pollen are wiping them out. These are the kinds of facts you pick up when your wife has a butterfly garden. But when I recited this information to prove to Ann that, in fact, I had been listening to her all these months, she informed me that monarchs may not be endangered after all, just underestimated by butterfly experts in former counts.

It was the final straw! I was missing dinner for a couple of insects not even on the endangered species list. But Ann was so entranced, she didn't realize how annoyed I had become. I decided to stick with the guise of supportive husband, and we all went to Johnny's Pizza — along with the caterpillars, of course. My mouth was watering by the time the cheese breadsticks arrived. Joseph, our five year old, launched into a long-winded grace thanking God for the caterpillars who had come to our yard — who were going to grow into orange butterflies — who would fly into the sky.

My mind wandered back to the delivery and I gave silent thanks for my patient's healthy baby. I remembered her ultrasound: the tiny fetus, far smaller than a caterpillar, now a beautiful baby girl living and breathing in the world. Metamorphosis is the way of life. We grow, we become, and ultimately our souls soar skyward, like the monarch.

I stared at Ann and the boys, their eyes closed as Joseph was reaching his grand finale. Tyler was frowning with impatience. I laughed to myself. Sometimes the beauty of life is so intense, it overwhelms with its fire. At these moments, the path before you is clearly illuminated — and faith is almost easy.

And I realized, before I even took my first bite of dinner, that it is these moments, and nothing more, for which we really hunger.

Dr. Litrel is in practice at Cherokee Women's OB/GYN in Woodstock and Canton and is a Clinical Assistant Professor at Emory University School of Medicine. He lives in Towne Lake with his wife Ann and their two sons Tyler and Joseph. (mikelitrel@attbi.com)

The moment I delivered my first baby as a third year medical student, I was overcome by feelings of joy and awe. In that instant I was given a glimpse of my future — I would be an obstetrician. Many years have passed since that first delivery, and in retrospect I know I took the right path. But I must confess that after a thousand deliveries, the blaze of emotions I once experienced has subsided to a softer glow, flaming up again only at those times when danger, or joy, bring the world more sharply into focus.

So it was with a recent difficult birth. The mother and her family were well known to me — two years earlier I had delivered my patient's second daughter. Her first daughter, then an irrepressible nine year old, had gleefully cut the cord. But with this labor, the third daughter, there were complications. The baby's heart rate kept falling.

It was obvious to my patient I was worried. Every five minutes I came into the room, staring at the baby's heart rate like a desperate stockbroker at a ticker tape. My patient wanted reassurance. But I was matter-of-fact. Her concerned expression deepened, and for a moment I felt bad. But when confronted with worrisome clinical circumstances, one pulls back emotionally. It helps you think clearly — and hopefully, act correctly.

In truth, it's a mistaken notion that any physician knows exactly what he or she is doing. Who among us can explain a single cell the size of a grain of sand becoming in nine months a human being? So I didn't know for certain what was wrong with my patient's unborn baby. But thankfully, a routine procedure improved the heart rate, and emergency surgery was averted. The baby was born. And my patient's first daughter, now eleven, delightedly cut her second cord. Her little sister's cry filled the room. My tension dissipated. I was a third year medical student once again, and my soul reverberated with the joy that swelled the room.

Shortly afterward when I arrived home, my stomach was also reverberating — with hunger. I was looking forward to a good meal and sharing the stories of my day.

My wife Ann is my soul mate. Well, she's either my soul mate or perhaps just a very good listener. It doesn't really matter. Ann is a loving person, a supportive friend, a great mother to our children... and most importantly, an attentive audience. So even though she's heard me talk about clinical issues hundreds of times, I knew she'd listen to me with apparent fascination about the struggles, stresses and wonders of my day.

That, and she would feed me dinner.

But things did not go as I'd planned. My first clue when I walked in the door was that supper was nowhere to be seen. And my second was that Ann had no interest in my day. Instead, she wanted to tell me all about her day.

It was an outrage.