#39 Lessons from the Flower Show
A friend posted that she was visiting the Philadelphia Flower Show this week that is now advertised as:
“The PHS Philadelphia Flower Show, the nation’s largest and longest-running horticultural event, will be outdoors at FDR Park in Philadelphia once again.” Perhaps having the flower show outdoors was an excellent plan necessitated by Covid-19 restrictions and it seems like an excellent idea. During my years living in Philadelphia, the flower show was held during the month of March at the Civic Center across the street from the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia.
I am using the opportunity to share a reflection that I wrote a few years ago about my first visit to the Philadelphia Flower Show. I was in the weeds of a difficult and exhausting intern year. There were no restricted hours for the house staff. This was a time way before the words “burnout” or “moral injury” had entered the vocabulary. I just knew that I needed to get away from the hospital and do something lovely just for me. Here is the essay that I wrote:
Spring Awakening
I caught a few hours of sleep on my overnight shift so I went on a Saturday morning mission during that chilly March of 1986. I was deep into my internship year at one of the many neighborhood community hospitals in Philadelphia. The schedule was quite demanding with call every fourth night which included an entire day afterwards. My small group of colleagues decided to divide the weekends in such a way that I worked Friday and Sunday one weekend followed by a 36 hour weekend on Saturday. So yes, I worked every weekend.
With the job of admitting and working up most of the emergency department admissions, I dutifully followed up on lab tests and procedures that my patients needed. I wore the pager day and night to answer questions and address problems. I attended to sick children, laboring women, and dyspeptic, post-operative old men. If IV access was lost, call the intern. If Mrs. Smith fell on the floor, call the intern. If Mr. Jackson’s nasal feeding tube fell out at 2 am, call the intern. I trudged through the nights and wallowed in quite a bit of self-pity.
Yet that day, I was determined to check out the flower show that I had heard so much about. As an interloper in the land of cheesesteaks and soft pretzels, I knew little about the storied Philadelphia Flower Show that was sponsored by the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society since 1929. With that certain show of Philly swagger they claimed it was the biggest and the best of its kind.
My husband was working his own shift of weekend call as an internal medicine resident so I hopped into my rusty gray Corolla and drove down to Center City on my own. Many pay lots had been set up around the University of Pennsylvania and Franklin Field. The five dollars they were asking seemed like a princely sum on my meager intern salary. A divine sign came in the form of a legal street parking spot that I found only four blocks from the old Civic Center.
They called it the biggest indoor event of its kind in the world. Somehow they had converted the cavernous old auditorium into a floral wonderland representing all fifty states. The theme that year was “Hometown USA.” I magically descended on the entry escalator from a dreary winter day into a springtime riot of pinks, yellows, purples, white, and green. A mystical transformation of the space into winding garden paths and verdant hills worked wonders on my spirit. The putrid odors of candida and melena in my nostrils were mysteriously displaced by the enchanting aromas of gardenias, stargazer lilies, and freesias. What could I be experiencing? Could my dour, self-piteous mood be lifting?
I marveled at how some ingenious gardeners transformed part of the Civic Center floor into a Hawaiian orchid garden complete with computer generated thunder and rain followed by sunshine and bird calls. A thorough simulation of springtime in full bloom with manicured lawns and well pruned trees managed to break through one of the most exhausting and lengthiest winters of my life? Could the muscles of my face remember how to smile? Could the magic of the flower show reach that cynical intern I had become and persuade me to germinate just a sprig of optimism? Could I tend to the growing experienced and confident clinician I would one day become with fascination and compassion?
In just a few hours at the Philadelphia Flower Show, I forgot about rounds, a back log of discharge summaries awaiting completion, and envisioned the future. My prospects were colorful, alive, and they smelled amazing.
