That's the Ticket
I had an excessively difficult time today with a patient’s family, one which involved just under half the hospital staff by the time I got to the room. It was a headache I didn’t need, and I was chewing my tongue to dull it. I kept the smile running. After all, we’re never our best when a loved one is ill.
On my way back to the operating rooms, I chatted with an administrator who’d been called into the ruckus. She noted that it wasn’t a good day to be a clinician. I nodded in agreement, and she asked me to remind her that people were basically good. Tell me a story about a patient’s family giving back, she said.
This is what I told her.
During my intern year in general surgery, when everyone laughed at the new eighty-hour work week limits and told me I was fortunate to slide in under a hundred every now and then, I spent three months at a hospital which required a thirty minute commute. Not great getting there before dawn, but a nightmare leaving after a 35+ hour shift. One day, while driving home and thinking about sleeping the hell out of the rest of the evening, I saw a speed trap up ahead. Six squad cars were parked on the side of the highway. I was driving the speed limit, and decided to change lanes to let the car tailgating me pass.
The cop stopped me. I hadn’t signaled for TWO FULL SECONDS before changing lanes. I sat and clenched my teeth while he looked over my license. Then he looked at my scrubs and asked me if I wasn’t a surgery resident. Yes, I told him, I was. “Well,” he said, “My wife told me about you. You see, my son had appendicitis last week, and you were the one who explained everything to her, then managed to put the IV in so it wouldn’t hurt. She remembered you very well.”
He handed me my license and smiled. “Now you have a nice day,” he told me, “And drive safe.”
No ticket.
On my way back to the operating rooms, I chatted with an administrator who’d been called into the ruckus. She noted that it wasn’t a good day to be a clinician. I nodded in agreement, and she asked me to remind her that people were basically good. Tell me a story about a patient’s family giving back, she said.
This is what I told her.
During my intern year in general surgery, when everyone laughed at the new eighty-hour work week limits and told me I was fortunate to slide in under a hundred every now and then, I spent three months at a hospital which required a thirty minute commute. Not great getting there before dawn, but a nightmare leaving after a 35+ hour shift. One day, while driving home and thinking about sleeping the hell out of the rest of the evening, I saw a speed trap up ahead. Six squad cars were parked on the side of the highway. I was driving the speed limit, and decided to change lanes to let the car tailgating me pass.
The cop stopped me. I hadn’t signaled for TWO FULL SECONDS before changing lanes. I sat and clenched my teeth while he looked over my license. Then he looked at my scrubs and asked me if I wasn’t a surgery resident. Yes, I told him, I was. “Well,” he said, “My wife told me about you. You see, my son had appendicitis last week, and you were the one who explained everything to her, then managed to put the IV in so it wouldn’t hurt. She remembered you very well.”
He handed me my license and smiled. “Now you have a nice day,” he told me, “And drive safe.”
No ticket.