The Tea Room Emergency: A Mother's Moment of Truth

I'm standing in the hospital tea room, watching my 8-year-old daughter count out coins for the vending machine while my 5 and 3-year-old hover nearby. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The smell of antiseptic mingles with stale coffee.

"Bec, you're in charge," I tell her, pressing the handful of change into her small palm. "Don't let them wander into the operating rooms, okay?"

She nods solemnly, suddenly ancient at eight years old.

I'm about to leave my three children—alone—in a hospital tea room so I can rush into emergency surgery. This is my "Mother of the Year" moment, and I know it.

Fifteen minutes earlier, I was drowning in the usual 5 PM chaos. Three voices in perfect chorus: "I'm hungry, Mum!" "When's dinner?" "Can I have a snack now?" The familiar soundtrack of motherhood at its most demanding hour.

Then the phone rang.

My heart dropped before I even heard the words. "Is that Dr. Frankl? Just putting you through now..."

"We need you in theatre now, Anne. There's a 3-year-old with suspected torsion. The surgeon's scrubbing in, but we need anaesthesia ASAP."

A three-year-old. The same age as my youngest.

My husband was stuck in peak-hour traffic. There was no babysitter. No backup plan. No good choices.

Only impossible ones.

So I did what felt impossible: I bundled all three kids into the car and battled through traffic back to the hospital, my mind racing between the child waiting for me in surgery and the children strapped into car seats behind me.

As I prepare my anaesthesia plan, I can hear my kids through the wall—the clink of coins, Bec's responsible voice directing her siblings. Part of me is already calculating drug dosages for a frightened three-year-old, focused on ensuring this small patient stays safe under anaesthesia. The other part is calculating: How long until their dad arrives? Are they safe? What kind of mother does this?

The surgery goes well. No torsion—a relief that floods through me as the surgeon delivers the good news to worried parents. Their three-year-old recovers beautifully from anaesthesia, waking up peacefully in recovery.

My husband collects our three children fifteen minutes later, finding them contentedly sharing a packet of chips in the tea room, Bec having managed the crisis with the competence of someone twice her age.

But as I drive home that night, something has shifted.

I realised I wasn't just dropping balls—I was teaching my children to catch them. And that wasn't the lesson I wanted them to learn.

For years, I'd worn my ability to juggle everything as a badge of honor. Work calls during dinner. Emergency surgeries during school plays. The constant mental load of keeping everyone else's needs met while mine disappeared into the chaos.

I thought I was being strong. I thought I was being dedicated.

I thought I was being enough.

But sitting in that tea room, watching my daughter become the adult in the room because I couldn't be, I finally understood: No one was getting the best of me. Not my patients, not my children, not myself.

Two weeks later, I made a decision that felt like career suicide: I stepped off the on-call roster.

My colleagues were surprised. Some were disappointed. In medicine, availability equals dedication, and dedication equals worth. Stepping back felt like stepping down.

But for the first time in years, I was home for dinner. I was present for bedtime stories. I stopped asking my eight-year-old to be the responsible adult.

That decision cost me professionally—I won't pretend it didn't. But it saved me personally. And eventually, it led me to something I never expected: helping other physicians learn what I had to discover the hard way.

Taking care of yourself isn't selfish. It's the oxygen mask principle in action—you can't help anyone else if you're suffocating.

Today, I'm not just an anaesthetist ensuring patients sleep safely through surgery. I'm a coach helping doctors stay awake to their own lives. I help them keep the important balls in the air while letting the less crucial ones drop.

Because sometimes the most responsible thing you can do is admit you can't do it all.

And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is choose yourself—not because you matter more than others, but because you matter too.

The tea room is empty now, but the lesson remains: The people who depend on you need you whole, not depleted. They need you present, not perfect.

They need you to know which balls are truly worth catching.