Stuck

I felt a brief prick on the pad of my right third finger. I did not say or do anything to alert the resident with whom I was working, but instead continued until the lumbar puncture on our patient with end-stage AIDS was finished. Then I stared at my glove before taking it off, putting it in a bag and then in my pocket so I could scrutinize it later, without arousing suspicion. I examined my finger and there was no puncture, no gash, and no blood. While I meticulously scrubbed my hands, I debated whether or not to call Employee Health. It was 11:45 p.m. and I was tired. I had a desperate urge to go home, kiss my kids, long asleep, and climb into bed with my husband. I did not want to make a big deal out of this in the middle of the night.

After my drive home, I walked in the house and scrubbed my hands again. Then I doused them with bleach for good measure, not remembering whether or not this was helpful. I crept into my daughters' rooms to complete our nightly parental ritual of checking on each of them before going to bed. I do not know how long I stood and stared at them, wondering whether our lives would ever be the same again.

I awoke the next morning with a deep dread. From home, I called a friend who is an infectious disease consultant, luckily on service that month. I related my story to him, and he sprang into action, swiftly arranging for me to be seen first thing that morning in Employee Health to get a dose of zidovudine and lamivudine. He first admonished me for not calling him sooner. But he must have sensed the mounting …