It was late September in Atlanta. Mary Lynne, a 38 year old single mother, had taken her 18 year old daughter, her only child, to the Emergency Room at the University Hospital with severe stomach pains and nausea. After a rapid, but thorough, examination, her daughter was diagnosed with acute appendicitis. Mary Lynne signed the necessary consent forms as her daughter was being prepped for surgery. Within 45 minutes of their arrival at the ER, her daughter was on her way to the operating room.

Mary Lynne was a slim and attractive woman with a golden tan. She was still dressed in her sundress and tennis shoes as she sat in the waiting room, nervously sucking on a bottle of Coca Cola. Every 5 or 10 minutes, she would get up from her chair and pace the floor. As I walked into the waiting room, I could see the tension on her face as she waited for news about her daughter. The surgeon had sent me down to check on her because the nurse in the waiting area had called the OR.

I sat down and spoke with her for a few minutes. I told her that her daughter’s doctor was one of best surgeons in the hospital and I tried to assure her that everything would go well. She clasped my hand, but I could see that she was still concerned. As we sat and talked, she kept crossing and uncrossing her beautifully tanned legs. She told me that her daughter’s father had left them for another woman about 10 years ago, leaving her to raise her daughter and provide for the two of them. Her parents hadn’t wanted her to marry him and they now were living in Florida. She had graduated college and eventually found a good job as alumni relations administrator at the university.

About an hour and a half after her daughter was taken to the operating room, the attending surgeon came down to the waiting room to tell her that everything went fine and that her daughter was in recovery. Mary Lynne, though visibly relieved to hear the news, wanted to know when she could see her daughter. The doctor told her that she would be able to see her in about 30 minutes, by which time she should have been taken to her room on the women’s surgical floor. Mary Lynne went back to her chair and sat down, at once relieved that the surgery was over, but still showing the stress of the evening. She told me that her daughter had never spent a night in the hospital before . . . and that she had only done so when she had given birth to her.

When the call came, Mary Lynne rose from her chair and a weary, but hopeful, smile creased her lips. When we arrived at her daughter’s room, we were told that her daughter was conscious but sedated. Mary Lynne sat on the edge of the bed with her and spoke softly to her. As she did, her daughter drifted in and out of sleep.

When the surgeon arrived for one last visit before leaving for the night, Mary Lynne asked if she could spend the night with her daughter, but as she was 15, the hospital rules at the time would not permit it. Mary Lynne became visibly distressed. The doctor asked her to step outside where they could talk and so her daughter would not be able to overhear. He told Mary Lynne that her daughter would be fine and that she could see her early the next morning when she would be more alert. He explained that they would keep her daughter comfortable and give her injections for any pain and / or bouts of nausea she might experience.

It was obvious to the doctor that Mary Lynne was still quite anxious. He suggested that she go home now and get some sleep. Mary Lynne agreed, but when she reached out to shake the doctor’s hand, it was trembling uncontrollably, and she said that she felt nauseous. The doctor suggested that I take her back to the emergency room and he would be along very shortly. I walked her back to the ER and spoke to the charge nurse, explaining that Dr. Warner wanted to take a look at her. I asked her to send us to an unoccupied exam room.

She sent us to one of the observation rooms. I suggested that Mary Lynne lie down on the table if she still felt nauseous, which she did. Dr. Warner arrived less than five minutes later. “I am going to examine you, Mary Lynne. I want to make sure you will not get sick once you leave for the night,” he told her. And then he asked, “Do you mind if my student stays with us during the exam?” Mary Lynne looked at me, and said, “not at all.” Dr. Warner picked up a sheet, handed it to Mary Lynne and asked her to take off her shoes, sundress and bra. “Lie down and cover yourself with this sheet when you have done so. We will wait outside.”

A couple of minutes later, we knocked on the door and re-entered the room. While we were waiting, at Dr. Warner’s request, I went searching for and found a stethoscope to use. He asked Mary Lynne if she could sit up comfortably, which she did. He checked her eyes, carotid pulses and glands. Using the otoscope in the room, he checked her ears, nose and throat. So far, so good.

He then palpated Mary Lynne’s back and asked her to take some deep breaths while he, and then I, listened to her lungs. Satisfied, we came back around to face her. “Would you lower the sheet just below your breasts so we can get a listen to your heart. As she did, I noticed distinct tan lines on the upper half of her breasts. As before, he went first and I followed, careful to lift her left breast with the back of my hand to get at the mitral valve.

Having decided that there was no arrhythmia, Dr. Warner asked Mary Lynne to lie down of her back and to lift her sheet from the bottom to just under her breasts. She was still wearing her pale, yellow panties. He, and then I, probed her abdomen, but as before, nothing remarkable was found. “Are you having any pain or discharges from your vagina, or any pain on urinating?” he asked her. “No, not at all,” she quickly replied. By now, he thought, her BP should be out of the stratosphere. He pulled the cuff off the wall. As he expected, it was elevated, but not to the point of immediate concern.

“It’s obvious that you’ve had a very stressful few hours this evening. I’m going to order some medicine to relax you and to settle your stomach, so you can feel well enough to drive home safely. You’ll be good to go in the morning to come back and see how well you daughter is doing by then.” Turning to me, he said, “Why don’t you stay with her until I get back and then you can leave for the night.”

Walking out to the nurses’ station, I heard him tell the ER charge nurse to prepare one syringe with 5 mg of valium and one with 200 mg of tigan for him to administer to Mary Lynne. Just as she finished doing so, there was an alarm. A major accident had occurred, and they called for “all hands on deck.” One of the nurses came running down the hall towards our room. When she entered, she told me about the emergency, that she was needed elsewhere. She handed me the two syringes, fortunately labeled, and told me that Dr. Warner wanted me to administer them to Mary Lynne. She told us that they now had their hands full with emergency cases, so I was needed to administer them.

After the nurse left and ran back up the hall, Mary Lynne asked me what the doctor had ordered. I looked at the labels and explained that the doctor asked me to give her two injections — something to settle her stomach and something to reduce her anxiety. She nervously asked if the shots were going to hurt. I was honest with her and told her that the injections were going to burn for a little while, but if she didn’t tense up, she would feel much better in about 15 minutes or so.

I could see the tension building once again in Mary Lynne’s face as she lay there on the table. I asked her if she wanted me to find a female nurse to administer her shots, as they were going to have to go in her backside. She said, “frankly, no. I would very much rather that you give them to me.” With that, I asked her to “turn all the way over onto your tummy for me.” As she turned over, she caught a glimpse of the two syringes on the tray table and told me in a nervous voice, “it’s been a little while since I had to get an injection in my backside. The nurse at my doctor’s office always makes it so uncomfortable that I get scared, like my daughter, when I have to get one.”

As I lifted up the sheet and folded it back on top of her upper back, I had forgotten that Mary Lynne had not been asked to remove her panties. “Can you lift your hips for me, please,” I asked. As she did, I slid my hands into the waistband of her panties and gently pulled them off her hips onto the top third of her thighs, exposing the milky white globes of her buttocks. I spoke softly to her and told her to try to keep her legs relaxed; that I would be as gentle with her as I could. I told her that I was really sorry that the medicine would burn as I injected it. I picked up the syringe with the valium and an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

Mary Lynne quietly gasped as I rubbed the cold alcohol on her smooth left cheek. And then there was a soft “oo” as the needle pierced the skin and slid deep into her muscle. I could feel her tensing a little, and she emitted one long “ooooh, it really does burn,” as I finished injecting the medicine. I pressed the alcohol soaked cotton ball to her cheek as I pulled the needle out and massaged the spot to distribute the medicine. I asked Mary Lynne if she wanted the other shot in the same side or the other cheek, but she just blurted out: “please, just get it over with.”. I could sense she was on the verge of crying. “Let’s take a minute and calm down,” I told her.

When I thought she had calmed down at least a little, I suggested she take some slow, deep breaths as I swabbed the same cheek as before. I popped in the needle and buried it to its full 1 ½" length. Mary Lynne started moving her legs in a very small kicking motion and as I began to inject the tigan, she finally broke down: “OW! That really hurts! Please! Ow!” she cried, as she started to sob.

This shot took about 10 seconds longer than the first injection. As soon as the needle came out, I gently massaged the injection site to distribute the serum. I told Mary Lynne she had done very well. Before I pulled the sheet back down, I made sure that there was no bleeding from the punctures. I suggested to Mary Lynne that she continue to lie down for several minutes while her panties remained down, before trying to get up. I covered her up with the sheet and told her that I would wait for her outside the room. As I left the room, I could see that Mary Lynne was sobbing softly as she rubbed her sore cheek. About 15 minutes later, Mary Lynne slid herself off the table. She pulled up her panties, put on her bra, her dress and shoes and walked out of the room.

When she had opened the door, I saw that Mary Lynne was brushing away a tear. She told me that “I didn’t think those injections would burn that much. My backside is still sore.” I asked her if she was still nauseous and she said that she wasn’t. I told her again that I was so sorry that I had to hurt her and asked if there was anything I could do to make her feel a little bit better. She asked if she could just sit down with me for a few minutes, which I readily agreed to do. I found a quiet corner with two stuffed chairs, and we sat there for about five or six minutes.

Mary Lynne tried to find a comfortable sitting position and realizing I was watching her, she tried to make light of her plight. “It could have been worse, I guess,” she said. “I could have been wearing stockings and a girdle. It would have been a real treat trying to get those back on.” I laughed and we chatted for a few minutes. By that time Mary Lynne had begun to relax and compose herself. I asked if she felt comfortable enough to drive home alone. She assured me that she did, and I escorted her to the elevator.

Three days later, I was back in the hospital when one of the nurses approached me and told me that Mary Lynne wanted to see me. I had a number of things I was supposed to do, but I went to the surgical floor and found Mary Lynne in the sunroom with her daughter. They both looked orders of magnitude better than when I had last seen them. Mary Lynne introduced me. I told her that I had some duties to attend to, but if it were not an emergency, I could meet her in the cafeteria in about 45 minutes. She told me that it would be fine, and I went on my way.

She was there waiting and holding a cup of coffee when I arrived at the cafeteria almost an hour later. I grabbed a Coke from the machine and apologized for being late. I asked her how she was feeling, and she responded, “Much better today.” She did look a lot better. She was wearing a light blue sweater and a short skirt that clearly showed off some of her attributes. I asked how her daughter was doing, and we talked about that and a few other things. I could see she wanted to talk about something, but I didn’t push. Finally, she took a sip of coffee and quietly started to tell me what was on her mind.

“I really appreciated what you did for me the other night. I really needed someone to tell me everything would be all right and I am not sure I wouldn’t have gone to pieces without you. Late that night when I was home in bed, I realized that you were right; I had tensed a bit and when I rolled over in bed I could feel where you injected me. And then, for some reason, I began to feel excited. I think I told you that I hadn’t had a shot in my backside for a while. What I didn’t tell you is for some reason, I actually felt comfortable being exposed to you, even more so than my doctors. Every time I thought of you since then I got this same feeling, and I hoped I would see you again while my daughter was still in the hospital. She gave me a peck on the cheek as I stood up to go back to work. “When do you get off today?” she asked. “Around 6:00, I think,” I told her. “Do you work tomorrow?” “Not unless I am called in for some reason.” Could you meet me here before leaving tonight?” I said that I would and hurried off, having no idea what was on her mind.