The Glory Hog
by Mike Litrel, M.D.

Hulse, true to form, expertly cut the baby out. He didn't have much to say about it, just that the bleeding was "pretty impressive." But from him, that statement spoke volumes.

I was grateful the mother and baby were both okay, and upon hearing the story, proud of my partner. But the conversation at the nurses' station showed no signs of being over. The nurses droned on. No one had ever seen so much blood... Dr. Hulse, boy had he been calm... it was like a bomb going off... thank goodness for Dr. Hulse... blood was pouring off the stretcher... what would have happened to that baby and his mother, if it hadn't been for Dr. Hulse. All the pretty nurses, eyes overflowing with admiration, all smiling and looking at Dr. Hulse, Dr. Hulse...

It was enough to make you sick.

A little bit of praise is a healthy thing. But in my opinion, too much praise is uncalled for. Especially when the praise is for someone else. Hearing the nurses making over Dr. Hulse, again and again, no sign of ever ending, like the Whos down in Whoville singing, and singing - and him looking at his feet with that "aw shucks, it was nothing, ma'am" look he has - enough is enough, already.

Oh, perhaps I am just - a tiny bit - jealous of Dr. Hulse. I find surgery and the practice of medicine quite challenging - difficult, even. False modesty aside, I get by just fine and my patients do, too. (Sometimes they even get better.) But I sweat and strain in the process, and frankly, it's not always a pretty sight.

Dr. Hulse, on the other hand, is a natural. Whether he's holding a scalpel or making a diagnosis, he never breaks a sweat. He's difficult to figure out. I've never seen him angry or frustrated, not even once. It makes me angry and frustrated, just thinking about it. He's so pleasant and unassuming; everyone likes Dr. Hulse.

That's the thing I dislike about him most.

For the record, I feel it's necessary to stress once again the part I played in this drama. Confused and worried about my patient and her unborn baby, I admitted her to the hospital. True, I didn't wield a scalpel expertly during a life-threatening emergency. But I did fill out a lot of paperwork. In fact, the two words that best describe my decision to admit my patient are... "Clinical Acumen."

That's my way of saying I was a genius without sounding too cocky.

The two words that best describe Dr. Hulse's actions, foreseeing and handling the emergency, are... "Dumb Luck."

Emphasis on the first word.

But when all is said and done, like it or not, you have to be a professional. So I patted Dr. Hulse on the back, told him he had done well, and got myself away from that nurse's station before I became physically ill. But watching Dr. Hulse, lapping up all those compliments, I finally saw him for what he really is - a Glory Hog. And take it from me - it's not easy working with a glory hog.

I'm just grateful he hides it so well.

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)

Making my rounds one morning, I was startled by a patient's appearance - she looked terrible. I had admitted her the evening before because her unborn baby hadn't been growing well. My patient was a smoker, almost two packs a day - and although she herself looked fine, I had wanted to keep an eye on her unborn son - and keep her away from her Marlboros.

The practice of medicine is not black and white. But one glance at my patient the next morning told me the baby needed to be delivered. I wasn't completely certain yet as to the diagnosis, but as I approached her bed to examine her, I couldn't help but pat myself on the back. Clinical instincts take years to develop - keen observational skills and unerring intuition are the hallmarks of a good doctor.

The results of my examination were puzzling. Her abdomen was tender, her belly even smaller than I had remembered. There was also a blood stained dressing, definitely not present the evening before.

Utterly at a loss, I looked underneath the dressing and lo! There I beheld a small, neat incision. I wracked my brain, and then it came to me in a flash - someone had cut the baby out!

Now it came to my attention that indeed, in the crib immediately next to me, there was a tiny peanut of a baby - pink, healthy, and beautiful. I experienced a moment of relief. The baby was okay. I then succumbed to an overwhelming feeling of stupidity.

So much for keen observational skills.

The story of the delivery came out at the nurse's station. There, the nurses were singing the praises of Dr. Hulse, for his quick actions and calm demeanor. A couple of hours earlier the patient had begun to experience increasing abdominal pain. Dr. Hulse, our physician on call, had been concerned that her placenta - the organ joining her body and her baby's - was injured, possibly separating. A placental abruption can kill the baby and even the mother. The one element not supporting his diagnosis was that the patient showed no signs of bleeding. But Dr. Hulse was suspicious enough that he decided to perform a cesarean section anyway.

On the way back to the operating room, his diagnosis was suddenly and dramatically confirmed. The mother began to bleed horrifically - so badly, in fact, that a trail of blood was laid down all the way to the operating room. Fortunately, everything was ready to go, and Dr.