My first pager was a small contraption that alerted me when the mainframe computer of A Large Computer Company had gone offline. As a member of an elite team of programmers, I was expected to help troubleshoot and solve the problem immediately.

(No, not really.)

My first pager was a small contraption that was no larger than a matchbook. People were impressed with its small dimensions and, during my entire tenure in medical school, frequently commented on its tiny size.

Within the initial two weeks of my first rotation (general surgery), a surgery attending shared a tale of how he accidentally dropped his pager into the toilet. I purchased a “leash” for my pager shortly thereafter; it featured a small loop that connected to the pager and a claw clip on the other end that easily grasped the waist of my pants. The chrome-colored links were about the size of sunflower seeds.

There were a few occasions when I inadvertently knocked my tiny pager out of its plastic sleeve and it dangled against my thigh like a listless yo-yo. This never happened while I was in the bathroom. Regardless, because of the leash, I do not have any stories about my pager falling into the toilet.

One of the first pages I ever received was from my surgery intern. He had explained pager terminology to us medical students:

“The first four numbers make up the phone number you call back. The numbers after the asterisk are the last four digits of the pager number of the person who is paging you. That way, you can tell who it is. If the numbers ‘911′ appear anywhere after the first four numbers, that means it is an emergency and you need to call the number right away.”

He paused to ensure we understood this. We nodded silently.

“If the numbers ‘616161′ and on and on follow the phone number, that means we’re going to the cafeteria to eat.”

He saw the confused expressions on our faces.

“See, the numbers ‘61′ look like ‘GI’ on the pager and ‘GI’ means ‘eat’, right? So ‘eat eat eat…’”

Our confusion disappeared.

“And,” he concluded, “the numbers ‘143′ mean ‘I love you’.”

So back to “one of the first pages I ever received”: It was a slow afternoon; I was alone on the ward, probably trying to be useful. My pager suddenly began to buzz against my hip and, upon inspection, it read

4232*911*911*911

It was probably my second week as a third-year medical student. I distinctly recall thinking, Why would anyone page me if there is an emergency?

I immediately walked into the surgery team room—I was literally outside of the office—to call the number back. Inside the room was the intern and one of the residents; the intern smirked at me and said, “Did you get paged?”

“Yeah—it says ‘911′—did you get paged—?”

“Oh, that was just us… we just wanted to scare you and make you think something really bad was happening.”

I probably looked at them blankly. This is what doctors do…?

My second pager was a black contraption that was a little smaller than a business card (but not nearly as thin). When I gingerly removed it from the white cardboard box, I was suddenly brimming with apprehension. It was three days before Day One of my internship and I realized—with some horror—that this thing would be attached to me for 344 days a year for four consecutive years! This electronic leash would wake me up, interrupt my meals, intrude upon my bodily functions, distract me from the tasks at hand, and allow many, many people to share potentially really alarming news with me.

“How many ring tones does it have?”

I finally opted for the silent, vibrate option—it is annoying to hear a pager go on… and on… and on… and, really, no one needs to know that I am being paged except for me.

I immediately attached my pager leash to it.

My second pager stopped working two months into my internship. I was on call at the county hospital and my senior resident was trying to get a hold of me to let me know that it was my turn to admit a patient. I obviously didn’t answer her pages. My senior resident got annoyed with me. I think she then called the various wards, asking the nurses if they had seen me. She finally called the operator to deliver an overhead page:

“DR. MARIA, PLEASE CALL EXTENSION 2754… DR. MARIA, PLEASE CALL EXTENSION 2754…”

Yikes.

After she and I realized that my pager was not working (and after she forgave what seemed to be my complete lack of responsibility), I hurried to the Communications Office—a windowless dungeon where the hospital operators roost—and asked if I could obtain a working pager?

The operator who had issued the imperative over the hospital loudspeaker that I call extension 2754 smiled at me and kindly said, “Of course!” She plucked an older-looking pager from a cardboard box, attached a printer label on it, and handed it to me.

Thus, my third (and current) pager is a grey contraption that is a little smaller than a business card, though not nearly as thin, but is slightly larger than my second pager. I had to purchase a different leash for it, as the loop of my previous leash was too large for this pager. My current leash is longer than my previous leash and the links, which are thin and about the size of large salt crystals, resemble brushed pewter. The screen of the pager has several longitudinal scratches from the numerous times I have slid the pager in and out of its holster—sometimes calmly, sometimes in frantic, annoyed haste.

The pager is heavy enough that, say, if I threw it against the wall in frustration and anger, it would leave an impression.

I still keep the pager on vibrate mode, unless I have the opportunity to sleep—then I elect for the single beep plus vibrate option. It only takes a single beep to jolt me awake. The buzzing of the pager, either against my skin or against the surface of a table, confirms that the page isn’t a figment of my imagination—I need to wake up to call someone back.

Sometimes, I will feel my pager vibrating and when my right hand reaches down to turn it off—

—I realize that I’m not even wearing it.

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)