It’s funny the things that stick in people’s minds. I was chatting with a friend, reminiscing about my most memorable medical cases – the intricate surgeries to help kids breathe easier, the critical moments saving lives, the procedures to improve their quality of life, and even battling nasty infections. I was sharing these intense stories, trying to give him a glimpse into the world of a pediatric airway surgeon. Then, almost as an afterthought, wanting to lighten the mood from the heavier topics, I mentioned this one bizarre night during my residency. “Oh, and there was that time I pulled a live cockroach out of a kid’s ear,” I said casually. Suddenly, the tales of complex surgeries and dramatic emergency room scenarios were completely overshadowed.
“You did what?” he exclaimed, his focus entirely shifted. “You removed a live cockroach from a child’s ear? In the middle of the night?”
“Yeah,” I replied, a bit taken aback by his reaction. “A live cockroach. Kid’s ear. Middle of the night.” I mumbled, wondering what the big deal was.
“But that’s incredible!” he insisted, clearly fascinated.
“I guess so,” I shrugged, still not seeing it as particularly noteworthy compared to, say, a tricky airway reconstruction.
He then proceeded to drag me around his office, excitedly announcing to his colleagues, “Hey everyone, listen to this! She took a live cockroach out of a kid’s ear!”
I started to feel a little self-conscious. Here I was, a Harvard-trained pediatric airway surgeon, sharing stories of genuinely critical medical interventions, and this was what captivated everyone? It felt almost like I was becoming a caricature, the “Doctor Cockroach” of urban legends. But these people weren’t joking. They were genuinely intrigued.
“Seriously?” “How did you even do that?” “How did you know it was a cockroach?” “Was it still alive?” “How on earth did it get in there?” One even declared, “From now on, I’m sleeping with earplugs!”
Trying to maintain a professional demeanor, despite the slightly absurd situation, I answered their questions. I realized they weren’t just pulling my leg; they were genuinely curious about this strange medical encounter and, perhaps, a little concerned about their own nocturnal ear invaders.
Later, walking away from the office, I couldn’t help but chuckle. All those complex, life-altering surgeries I’d performed, and this was the story that stole the show? Was pulling a cockroach out of an ear really that interesting? Apparently, to some, it was.
The memory flashed back to that quiet emergency room, late at night. A frantic mother rushed in with her son, who was beyond distressed. He was screaming, banging his head, desperately trying to “get it out!” and “stop the noise!” The on-call nurse paged me. It was one of those rare calm nights in the ER; the usual chaos was absent. Dimmed hallway lights and mostly off room lights created an eerie, subdued atmosphere, with just a single fluorescent light casting a stark glow in the exam room.
Inside, this seemingly healthy young boy was a whirlwind of motion, unable to sit still for a second. He thrashed, shook his head violently from side to side, like a dog shaking off water. Between the nurse and his mother, they gently managed to hold his head still for just a moment. I peered into his ear with a magnified otoscope. And there it was. It was like something straight out of a B-movie horror flick, where insects are magnified into monstrous creatures. Except this was real, and this “monster” was trapped in this poor kid’s ear canal, its tiny legs drumming against his eardrum like a frantic drummer – Ringo Starr trapped in an auditory prison.
I remembered some random fact – cockroaches can’t crawl backward. Stuck in a dead end, it could only move forward, relentlessly trying to escape, but only deeper into the child’s ear. I gasped, thankfully managing to keep it quiet amidst the boy’s screams, so as not to further alarm his already worried mother. I grabbed the nearest ear instrument, carefully maneuvered it into the ear canal, and gently tugged at the unwelcome guest.
And then, it happened. As any seasoned, unflappable surgeon would, I watched, horrified, as the creature squirmed on the tip of my surgical tweezers. Another, slightly less controlled gasp (okay, maybe a small shriek escaped this time), and I reflexively dropped it onto the sterile exam room floor. Before it could make its escape under the exam chair, the veteran ER nurse, without missing a beat, calmly and efficiently squashed it with her shoe. She didn’t even flinch, as if cockroach extractions were just another Tuesday night. The boy’s mother, however, saw the grim resolution and exchanged a knowing, thankful wink with the nurse and me. She understood. But she wisely spared her overtired, terrified, and now utterly relieved 8-year-old son the gruesome details. The noise was gone. That was all that mattered to him. He didn’t need to know what had caused his torment; some things are better left unsaid, especially when bedtime is involved. He might never sleep in his own bed again, and honestly, who could blame him?
After the relieved patient and his mother left the emergency room, the nurse, ever the professional, casually remarked, “First roach, huh?”
“Yup,” I managed, trying to sound nonchalant, despite still feeling slightly queasy in my scrubs.
She saw right through my forced nonchalance. “Don’t worry,” she said, with the wisdom of countless ER shifts under her belt. “You did fine. And trust me, there will be plenty more. Now, try to get some sleep, Doctor Cockroach.”
“Doctor Cockroach.” The name, though given in jest, stuck. And you know what? Come to think of it, maybe it was pretty interesting. Definitely a story I won’t forget, and apparently, neither will anyone who hears it.
