When I arrived at work last Tuesday I thought it was going to be just another day at work. It turned out to be something quite different for one simple reason: I forgot my pen. This first came to my attention while I was on the post-natal ward doing rounds and I realized I could not write a note because I did not have a pen. I figured in New Zealand, as in America, pens would be plentiful. I was wrong. In my ignorance, I asked the midwives present if anyone had an extra pen. Suddenly everyone became very quiet, shifting nervously and looking at the carpet. After a long pause, a reluctant voice said, “I think I have one in my office.” The head midwife then disappeared to her office, returning several minutes later with a simple, grey, Bic pen. She handed me the pen but was slow to release her grip, as though it were the last canteen of water in a vast desert.
Now that I had a pen, I was able to carry on with my day. Everything went smoothly until just after lunchtime, when I came upon one of my fellow registrars on the phone desperately looking for a pen. Again the ignorant American, I loaned her mine. I glanced at my watch to check the time and looked up to find her gone – with my pen! I was late for a surgery so there was nothing to do but head to pre-op to see my patient. The nurse there wanted me to modify the consent form for the surgery, which I agreed to do if she would only lend me a pen. She had no choice; the pen was mine! Lucky for me, while signing the consent, the nurse was called to another task and I was left with her pen. Fate was on my side! I stuck the pen firmly in my shirt pocket and headed to the operating room with a spring in my step. My good fortune, however, was short-lived. As I was scrubbing a face appeared at the operating room window, which quickly turned to a scowl upon seeing me. The door burst open and the nurse marched in, grabbing the pen from my pocket. I dejectedly finished my scrub and got to work.
The case turned into a marathon, not finishing until about 7pm. By this time I was tired, hungry, and ready to go home. I was on my way to recovery to finish up the paperwork when reality came crashing down. I don’t have a pen! The hospital was deserted, so I went from desk to desk looking for a pen but each search revealed only locked drawers and empty pen-holders (apparently the hospital supplies pen-holders but not pens – another one of life’s mysteries). Finally after digging under a stack of old papers, I found the unthinkable – a pen! I stomped back to my patient and started charting. Red ink! I couldn’t believe it. I glared at the nurse and told her I’d be charting in red pen, and if that were going to be a problem she would have to give me her pen. She handed me not a pen, but a mass of tape and pen so tangled I could hardly write with it. I looked up at her and she said, “That’s so no one tries to steal it.”
Ever since that fateful day, everywhere I look the pen crisis is staring back at me. You can't walk 5 meters without coming upon a stash of tea and a pot, and you have to wade through a pile of gumboots just to get to the operating rooms. But in the midst of all this excess it is rare to see a pen free of either hand or pocket. Today I was changing into scrubs when the training intern burst into the room with a look of panic on his face, “My pen!” he cried. He dove into a pile of clothes on the bench, digging frantically. He eventually emerged with a white-knuckle grip on a 1.0mm Uniball, relief washing over his face. “That was close,” he said, looking my way. I just smiled, thinking of the stash of pens I had in my bag, locked away in the drug room, under the desk, and behind the mini-fridge.
