If you’re in health care, this is probably your worst winter ever. Between the COVIDs, scarce resources, shutdowns, homeschooling, bureaucracy, hoaxers, and checking the in-laws’ rashes online, you must feel cooked.
You’re frustrated. Your patients die calling COVID a hoax. People refuse to wear masks. So many loved parents die alone. Bureaucrats don’t prioritize people’s lives. Even some of our own sold their soul for fame or money.
1. Both masks and underwear exist to contain badness. Neither works 100 percent, but they’ll curb the worst of the spill.
2. Don’t borrow someone else’s, no matter how cool they look.
3. Keep them on around strangers, unless you’ve both been tested.
4. Cotton breathes better than polyester.
5. If they don’t fit well, you’ll be chaffing.
6. Wear them both when you visit grandma.
7. They stink at the end of the day. They …
My friend, the hospitalist, was livid as he came from meeting the administration. “They said doctors cost too much!” he sputtered. “We’re an expense. An expense the hospital can no longer support. We are an expense!”
He turned purple. Nice color. Like a good Bordeaux. I worried about his blood pressure. He can’t have a healthy lifestyle! None of us do. Seven twelves in a string will do a number on your workout routine, …
Saying no is hard. Even harder if you happen to be kind. You want to help, to make people smile, you want them to like you. Saying no doesn’t come easy.
We’ve never been taught to say no. Ever since we were toddlers, we’ve been conditioned to say yes. Rolling on the floor in a temper tantrum to express our no was a no-no. People don’t like you if you say …
1. Wash your hands like your life depends on it. Because it does. Not only for Corona, but for the many germs you’ll acquire from touching elevator buttons, doorknobs, or somebody else’s hand. Or the dirtiest thing on earth: money: Everybody handles it, and nobody washes it. Except for the mob. And me, when I forget it in my pockets.
2. Stay home if you’re sick. Same with your children.
I work in the ER. It’s not an easy job. Not glamorous either. At least not as glamorous as my mother-in-law used to think.
Years ago, when I declared I was going into emergency, she looked at me askance. She didn’t ask why. She looked at me with her wise old eyes. “Let me tell you about ER,” she said. “I know all about it. I watch every show.”
I’m an ER doc, and I spent my last two decades in the house of medicine. First, training to become a doctor. Then, trying to be a better doctor. No matter how hard I tried, I’ve never been the “perfect doctor.” I started wondering: what makes one a “perfect doctor”?
The perfect doctor lives in the moment, focusing on the here and now: This patient. This case. This encounter. They devote …
Like all doctors, I’m a lousy patient. My doctor is a lovely man, but going to see him? That’s right there with weighing myself, getting a flu shot and doing my taxes, and behind celebrating Thanksgiving with the in-laws and getting a root canal.
And I’m not the only one. If I had a dollar for every patient who told me they hate doctors (no offense), I’d be long retired.
I’m an ER doc, and proud of it. But I never mention it when I meet new people. Unless someone’s fixing to die, I avoid it like the plague. “I work in a hospital,” I say. “Where in the hospital?” “The ER. How about you?” That’s a topic changer, since most people would rather talk about themselves.
Why not own it, you ask? There’s no shame in being a doctor. It’s not like …
If you’re sexy, fit and nimble, if you can part your thighs and bend your knees, if you can see your private parts without a mirror, ignore this. Move on. This is not for you.
This is for those with flailing sex-drive and failing abilities whose sex life is a challenge, but they’d like to make their partners happy and have some fun. Maybe your parents or grandparents. This must be an …
K: “I was assaulted by an intoxicated female. She punched me and ruptured two discs in my back. I lost my whole self. I could no longer take the CPR course required. I lost my income that was supporting me and my three children.
I needed the narcotics — not only to dull the physical pain but to numb the emotions. I found myself taking more than prescribed. I asked the …
I started my medical career late. Really late. By that time, I’d lived a few lives. I’d earned a boatload of initials. I’d changed husbands, languages, and continents. I’d written a useless novel, and I’d been a Mary Kay lady.
One day over lunch as I was looking for something to do with myself, my husband suggested medicine. I spent the next nine years immersed in my medical training, feeling guilty …