A breathtaking night under the stars is remembered.

The first time I went to summer camp as a child, I earned a badge for the constellations. And to this day, I could probably still distinguish Auriga from Lepus, if only I could see them.

You see, from a stargazing perspective, I am unfortunate enough to live near Los Angeles, where the night sky is orange thanks to the smog. And if by chance I see anything that resembles a star, it's probably an airplane.

Truth be told, this isn't really a problem anymore, since my stargazing is sadly limited to a forlorn glance at the sky while unloading groceries from my car. But there was a time when I saw the night sky in its formidable splendor. That was back in the early 1990s when I attended medical school at Loma Linda (Calif.) University.

My third year of medical school was an exhausting time. My classmates and I were wearied by clinical rotations and hospital calls. The pressure of boards was mounting, and the match weighed heavily on our minds.

And then we heard the news. An asteroid shower was scheduled to pass over our area. Knowing we couldn't miss this, a couple of classmates and I headed to the local mountains. We had no idea where we would stop to watch the sky, but we hoped our view would be clearer up there. And it was.

It was breathtaking. The sheer number of stars was overwhelming. I thought I knew the constellations until that night.

Stretching out on the grass, I was reminded of grade school history lessons. Images of ancient mariners, explorers, and slaves seeking freedom filled my mind. The stars over my head were the same stars that guided these nighttime travelers as they navigated uncertainty, faced peril, risked their lives for freedom, and lived to tell.

And then, without warning, the asteroid shower passed overhead. Looking at the milky streaks in the sky, my worries seemed light-years away.

We were shivering from a mix of cold and amazement as we got back in the car, only to discover the car would not start. We were a group of women stranded on a sparsely traveled mountain road, in the dead of night, with temperatures dropping. And this was before the advent of cell phones.

We stood by the road, wondering what we would do if a car didn't pass by. And conversely, what to do if one did. We were discussing the wisdom of us, as women, catching a ride with a stranger in the middle of the night, when suddenly a car approached. We began waving our arms wildly.

I'll never forget the driver of that Jeep Cherokee as he pulled over and opened the door. He was a white-haired older gentleman, with a back seat full of his grandson's stuffed animals. He was headed to our area, on his way to a swing shift at a local water-bottling plant.

Arriving home that night, it felt like I had been gone for a month. Everything felt different. I had courage and the certainty that I would make it.

Many years have passed since that night on the mountain. My friends and I are now wives and mothers with busy practices and a new set of worries.

We are like anyone else. We face uncertainty as we send our children out into the world, to find and fight their own battles. We struggle with health, pain, fears, and relationships. And like everyone else, we wonder when the values of our homes and retirement accounts will increase.

But this story has always stuck with me. I always smile as I glance at the sky. It is as if the stars are whispering, "This too shall pass. Hang in there, you'll find your way."

I actually earned two badges that summer in camp. The other was for first-aid. And perhaps there is a place for astronomy in health care. If relaxation techniques lower blood pressure, I wonder what stargazing can do.

BY RICHELLE MARRACINO, M.D.

DR. MARRACINO practices family medicine in Riverside, Calif.