I had an interesting talk today with a colleague about pediatric anesthesia. He admitted that if he had gone into this specialty, he’d have had to drink a lot more beer - this coming from a Scotsman who I happen to know could drink me under the table and out the door. I wondered if perhaps my chosen career and living in such close proximity to a beer fridge - magically replenished with my husband’s homebrew on a regular basis - were not in fact the coincidence I always assumed they were? Along those lines, I had a beer and wrote this poem:

Ode to Oatmeal Stout

A cool drink to chase bad memories away,
You go well with jeans and slippers
And love-starved yellow dogs sitting near my chair.

Fend off the Grim Reaper Himself,
Or his shadow lying over
My patients,
And their parents,
Or even in my worst dreams
My children
Or me.

No, your gift is not as good as friendship.

But your comfort is like food,
Sustaining and warm,
Spreading like magic from the glass,
Now almost empty
And still
Cold.