Sarcasm

The surgeon, Dr.TNT, who I was working with Friday, the last straw that pushed me to move on the job search, lost his thin veil of self-control right after I left. I had relief from the new* 7-7 RN, Dave* took over at 5, I cleaned up and helped him get started, then scampered home. He would finish the case that should only run about 20 min, then pull case carts for the next day.

I heard on Monday, in couched terms from the charge nurse, that Dr. TNT had been highly inappropriate toward staff. Not for the first time, he tried to get me fired my first year there, and nearly succeeded. We warily 'got along' after, and I've worked with him through many stretches. Just not much for the past few years.

Yesterday, I heard the rest of the story. Dr. TNT left the resident to teach the med student. It was 6, and we are scheduled until 5:30. We don't object to staying because the surgery is taking more time, but dithering is verboten. And it's expensive to keep staff late, since we start getting time and a half. It's Friday. The charge nurse and the scrub objected to this sort of teaching at this time, annoyed, but in a "WTF dude?" way.

Dr. TNT explodes.

"CALM THE FUCK DOWN!!! YOU ALL NEED TO JUST CALM THE FUCK DOWN!!!!!"

Whoa. I mean, I knew he'd been winding himself up all day, and I'm not at all surprized that he would do that. Still, totally unprofessional and mean. So, they called my dear, deadpan dry, sarcastic and silent surgeon, Dr.G, who deals with these sorts of things.

Dr. TNT was the one to tell the story of being a resident with Dr.G, trying to chat to him and asking chipper questions, and Dr.G shuts him down with "I"m comfortable with uncomfortable silences." This is the story that convinced me I would do just fine working with Dr.G, and I always have.

Our nurse manager bit her lip not to laugh when Dr.G came back to tell her "surgeons have feelings too, you know."

I kept imagining Dr.G saying this all day long yesterday, and giggling to myself.


Long ago, when I was starting to scrub liver transplants, I worked with Dr.Gush and Dr. Silent. Dr. Gush would either pick, pick, pick about every little thing, never letting it go. Or, and this was worse, he would praise and praise until I wanted to puke. This day it was the latter. "Oh, it's so good getting you scrubbing these cases, you're really good at this, we really appreciate....blah, blah, (bleeehcch.)" I look at Dr. Silent next to me, and I notice his eyes crinkle up, so I know something is coming. He's always respectful of staff, never saw him angry. He was thorough, thoughtful & kind always.

He says slyly to me, in a monotone, "...trained monkey could do your job."

Popped Dr. Gush's bubble, and I bit my lips to not laugh out loud. It was not at all a slap at me, it came with the implication that a trained monkey could do HIS job as well. It was perfect, the comic timing was flawless.


This morning as Dylan left, so did our neighbor, who did an odd u-turn. So I stepped out, and the north end of our street is closed off, sounds of trucks backing up, big "Road Closed" signs at the south corner.



Dylan says, "That's a bad sign"

I say, "It's a perfectly good sign, someone made that you know."

Made him laugh.

Eleanor kneading and purring on my chest this morning, getting her head massaged. Zeppo watching. When she was done, jumped off. Zeppo started to follow her. Then he stopped, turned to me, and fast-kneaded my abdomen, walked on me, let me pet him briefly, then jumped off. Eleanor has a slow, soft quiet purr and a languorous knead. Zeppo is all presto and noise, loud purr and quick paws.

I'm getting overtime pay this week.


A local story following a flooded library renovation.


*Dave† had been a scrub with us while going through nursing school, so knew Dr. TNT from before, as well as in his RN position at the Main. So, I wasn't dumping a new RN into this mess.


†You know, Dave. One of two at the moment at work.

Screwed

Go home dad, you're drunk.



Just a short way down the sidewalk on our block. It's a constant source of retelling that joke. Graffiti in a bar, more usually.

Neighbor walking in with her friend, tells how I broke my arm, specifically where. I added detail. Friend says "That's not funny." I said, "Actually, it is." She laughs, proving me right.

In the core of surgery, in an orthopedic hospital, surrounded by nurses and techs and surgeons. One hand surgeon, Dr.K, working that day, and honestly I was relieved that his schedule was packed, and I'd eaten lunch 90 minutes before. Dr.K may be technically proficient, but he is slow, and does not treat staff well.

Core tech, as I lay on the floor with my eyes closed, not moving, in a bit of shock, kept asking the nurses if she should get an ice bag. After several tries, she threw up her hands and got one anyway. Susan put a pad under my wrist, which felt pretty awful but needed doing. Kelsey took my pouch and put it in my locker. Brandie took my iPad and sent Dylan a message. Which helped later when asked for the time of the Incident.

Another one up in clinic, Dr.H who I trust and enjoy working with, made room in his OR schedule the next day to take care of me. Before that, he leaned in - "Let's talk politics, who do you want doing your surgery..." And he meant it. Him, or either of the other two hand surgeons, without hesitation. He offered the non-surgical option, without enthusiasm, and accepted my gut assessment that I needed it screwed down tight.


Going to make this into a button for my return. Fall Risk.

Labor

Laboring. He loves this, will hold on to my arm with his hind paws, and rub his face on my hand, let me warm his belly, press in close and fall into a deep sleep. Very comforting.


Got up at a reasonable hour this morning, only an hour later than if I had to work, but the brain barely functioning. D asked me a question about breakfast, and I had to think really hard to figure out what he'd said.

"I know I'm moving around, but the awake is a lie." He grinned.

I don't know where that came from, but quite often the most clever things we say comes from that automatic, uninhibited part of the brain that seems to work better when we are slightly offline.

Rare

The entrance to Depoe Bay is tiny. I've seen wider streets. So getting a boat through would have to be something done very well indeed. No boats were going out while we were watching, so it is presumably fairly rare this time of year.




These books tend to be rare, but not exclusively, according to the sign.




This was very well done. Possibly a bit over done.

Spitz

Small, but visible blip of a scar on the upper lip. Proof.


So much clutter, need to have a good throw-away.


D doing the cooking. My favorite meal is one not cooked by me. He's got a good apron, that we got free when we sent a note to a marinade company whose brand we liked, and they sent us a coupon, and a nice black barbecue-type apron. He tolerates my photo taking better than Moby.


Came across this on Wiki, about the Olympic swimmer, Mark Spitz.

In an era when other swimmers, male and female, were shaving body hair, he swam with a mustache. ... "I grew the mustache because a coach in college said I couldn't grow one." Spitz said he originally grew the mustache as a form of rebellion against the clean-cut look imposed on him in college. ... Spitz ... decided the mustache was a "good-luck piece."

... "When I went to the Olympics, I had every intention of shaving the mustache off, but I realized I was getting so many comments about it—and everybody was talking about it—that I decided to keep it. I had some fun with a Russian coach who asked me if my mustache slowed me down. I said, 'No, as a matter of fact, it deflects water away from my mouth, allows my rear end to rise and make me bullet-shaped in the water, and that's what had allowed me to swim so great.' He's translating as fast as he can for the other coaches, and the following year every Russian male swimmer had a mustache."

Since I've got this humor theme going on.

Pun

What?


Enjoying an advance (uncorrected proof) book called The Pun Also Rises, by Jon Pollack. So far, I have found no errors, only a load of bad puns. Subtitle, "How the humble pun revolutionized language, changed history, and made wordplay more than some antics." The pun is like the tao, it will go where other jokes will shake their heads and keep their dignity. But the pun sinks below, and it is always lurking.

I'm not a huge punster, although if one appears, I will introduce it around. I love wordplay and wit. In 7th grade, I hated absurdity, but in the next few years, I came to love the non-sequitur, the inexplicably funny. As though my brain had gone from always wanting order, to accepting that there was none, and being tickled by that.

A dog goes to a telegram office. Telegrapher says,
"It's five words for a dollar, what is your message?"
Dog says, "Fine, it's Woof. Woof, woof, woof.
Telegrapher replies, "That's only four words. Would you like to add another woof?

Dog looks puzzled, "But... that wouldn't make any sense."


Never went in for crude humor when I was a kid, unless it was also very wittily obscure as well. Until well into adulthood, at least. Even then, mostly in context of A. the military, or B. nursing. Offering a potty break in the form of a foley catheter, or asking after how it all came out, was strictly in the form of professional inquiry. I'm also repelled by mean* humor, the various Focker movies, or pranks. Likewise simple shock jokes, where the punchline is just ugly. But then, I never laugh out of nervousness, or fear, which many people do. I don't see what's amusing about annoying others, or causing them distress. I have one test of character that I consider crucial. If someone is sleeping in public, do you A. put a blanket over them or B. tie their shoelaces together? A. people I trust, B. people I keep my guard always up around.

I used to tell jokes, and only do so rarely anymore. The older I get, the less I'm impressed with a set-up and punchline, unless it drastically subverts the form. And the fewer "jokes" I tell. I respond more to the spontaneous, the brutally raw honestly of life as tripped over. Untranslatable, inexpressible, you had to be there stuff. And I've come to adore shaggy dog stories.

At any rate, the book is good. What wordplay tells us about ourselves, our language, our history, and how we deal with ambiguity. Comes out in April. It's not a list of puns, but they are liberally sprinkled throughout.




*I still cannot explain why I do laugh at Absolutely Fabulous. Humor is not consistent.

Prosity

My prose is, I actually think, decent prose. I've read some vanity press books, I know what bad looks like. I've gotten better in the past six or so years since I began writing for the blogosphere. Not sure exactly when I started, because that mac site is gone. No way to accurately date the beginning. April, apparently, 2005, on Blooger. So, five years here, probably a year before, who knows. I'm not big on anniversaries. Barely give a ratssass about my own (birth or wedding) inasmuch as the particular date goes. But the experience shows, to me at least. I don't have to repost after noticing impenetrable sentences, gross grammatical or spelling errors, multiple times very often, anymore.

I write halfassed haiku when I'm not in the mood, or can't find a subject that interests me. Haiku doesn't take a lot of words, and it looks impressive, but it shouldn't. It's the rare poem that interests me, nonetheless that touches me. Maybe because I don't understand them, as I seem to 'get' abstract painting and sculpture, but not much modern music. Older music, the lyrical qualities, the harmonious whole, a cascading melody, grabs me more than the older poetical forms that told stories in rhyme and meter. Part of me feels poetry is just funny, like Seuss or limericks. Most strikes me as either humorously trite or abstrusely abstract. It is almost offensive to take words and make them conform to mathematical requirements.

No real poet would feel this way, or misunderstand so completely. I am prosaic. No poet, I. A duffer, a dabbler, a mocker, blind to the poems around me. I see you, the poets who visit. I am grateful for kind words, but to leave them for my verses is to misunderstand. As one colorblind, I cannot see what you see, but I accept that you do. I leave little red/green jokes around, as I know how to say "I don't speak Japanese" in good Japanese, and "I don't speak French" in good French. It's the only phrase of poetry I know, and you should laugh.

Jape

We've been watching episodes of QI, which often features Jimmy Carr, who wrote a book called Only Joking: What's So Funny About Making People Laugh? or The Naked Jape, with friend Lucy Greeves, that I have just devoured. A book discussing the theories of humor, it contains a lot of jokes and actual humor, as well as sharp insight. I think I now have a working theory about how funny men can wind up with wives who don't think them funny at all, but it's not a simple answer, based on a series of proofs. About how many young men use humor as an aggressive game, and like women who will laugh at their jokes, not challenge them back with their own. After a few years of marriage, were I a woman who couldn't tell a joke married to an aggressive jokester, I'd certainly be tired.

Thankfully, D has always loved my humor, he doesn't get the threatening joke thing at all.

A sense of humor, and the ability to joke seem to be not always evolutionarily advantageous, or maybe they are. The results are still out. Makes me think about the old ideal of "finding the cure for cancer" which is a goal that assumes that all cancers are the same, and one trick will solve the problem. Reality is proving much more complicated. So it is with humor, the why of funny is conditional, time sensitive, personal and slippery as snot.

Jesus walks into a motel, drops a bag of nails on the counter and says, "Can you put me up for the night?"

Doctor says to the patient, "You have to stop masturbating."
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying to examine you."

Dog goes to send a telegram. Clerk says, "Fine, it's five words for a dollar, what's your message?"
"Bark, bark. Bark. Bark."
"You get one more word, I could add another "bark".
Dog looks puzzled and says, "But, that wouldn't make any sense."


Of course, all the way through the book, I am thinking about the Fool's Guild in the Discworld books.
"Women are just not funny."
"Interesting dichotomy, since neither are clowns."

Jokes

Watching The Gay Divorcee. Fred Astair's British accent is nearly as good as Dick Van Dyke's in Mary Poppins. Ahem.


How many Zen masters does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Two.

One to hold the lightbulb, one to turn the universe.

What did the Zen master say to the hot dog vendor?

"Make me one. With everything."

How many performance artists does it take to change a lightbulb? Two.

One to screw in the bulb, one to fill the bathtub with brightly painted machine tools.

How many absurdists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Fish.

Game

We headed out to a Munchkin game night, after I got home from work and took a shower. Looked for a while like only a handful of sixteen year old boys would show, but one older guy joined us, and ND arrived late- due to a pizza mishap, so we barricaded the table, and played just adults, at Munchkin Impossible. Great writing and art on the cards, very witty and silly. A well designed game. We mostly played cooperatively the first round. I won in a last minute gush of luck. Then the knives came out. And I won again. I also got to wear a Shooty Hat. (Not a real hat, just a card, but a Russian, American Triple agent (not telling my other loyalty) can imagine.)

For my birthday present, I am going to take ukulele lessons. No, don't wish me any happys yet, it's not til next month. But we tend to refer to non-utilitarian personal outlays as occasion presents. Keeps us from feeling guiltily indulgent. This is a long neglected corner of my life. I do want to play a bit, and I'm getting nowhere on my own. Maybe I can still so clearly remember a violin teacher when I was a kid, who was more interested in my being able to hold the instrument between my chin and clavicle than getting me excited about the music. I wound up with a bruised chin, and a sense that I had no talent. While resenting him for assuming I would ever want to be a concert violinist before I could get a good tone from the bow on strings.

Moby loves the new arrangement. When we are both here, he hops up to sit beside us.

Funny

We wonder, sometimes, on days when we have made each other laugh so hard we can't breathe, or right after a stranger comments on how cute and funny we are together, or when we see other couples who seem so serious or cross or vaguely distant, are we that odd? Yeah, we are odd, no question there, plenty odd.

We can come up with examples from our coupled friends who are funny and affectionate, Dave and K, and my cousins E & E - who have been together for a couple of decades and are still amused and delighted with each other. All have been through strange beginnings and hard times, and proven themselves to each other.

But, it seems unusual, aside from the people we most know. Perhaps other couples hide their humor in public. Or don't have a joint wit account. I certainly was not so funny before I got with D. A fellow Guard member, and RN at work, who I think is one of the funniest people I have ever known, once told me he thought D and I must make each other laugh a lot at home, because we were both so funny. I took this as high praise from an expert. Dear Beezer, I so miss working with a man who wears flowered nurse jackets and his kids sunglasses, just to see how others will react. He told me that his wife didn't think he was that amusing, which didn't seem to be a joke.

We speculate it has something to do, in our case, with having been close friends through difficult times, the love affair only being a discrete part of our relationship. All those hours and days and months with little to do but complain, chat, and simply spend time together quietly. Catching each other's eye in formation, letting an eloquent eye-roll suffice for swearing. Humor buoyed us up, our saving grace, and not just then. When I got to D at the instacare when he'd shattered his elbow, I readily got him laughing - to the bemusement of his nurse. There would be tears later, but at that moment...

And we wonder if happy dates aren't the culprit, jokes at a nice restaurant to show how funny one is, cannot be the same as grim mutual amusement at exhaustion and hunger and grief, pain and extremis. Or maybe just people marrying when they are still so young that they eschew childish things. We have no difficulty with appearing silly, to each other or anyone else.

So, tell me, are you in a coupled pair, and are funny? Or, are most of your married (sic) friends funny? And, why, do you think? Feel free to answer here, or link to your own blog. Your choice. This has been a conundrum to both of us for many years, how any couple could survive without big dollops of laughter applied liberally.

Bent

When the RSS shows that nifty little "1" next to the blog Bent Objects, I grin and squirm in my seat with third grader excitement. He always makes me smile, the humor is, on the surface, simple and brightly lit. Underneath, or in the edges, there is usually a dark twist. As with his Circus Peanuts Circus series, and the horrific accidents they suffered. Such a simple idea, done to perfection. Bits of disregarded drawer litter, twirls of wire, an eye for subtle attitude, an amazing talent, and, well, um, wow. Oh, wow.

Treat yourself. Get hooked.

Roll

I had a desk in my room by the time I was about nine, a leftover from my brothers, as I inherited their larger bedroom. But when I got home from school, I would take my usual place at the dining room table to do my homework, math usually - get the hardest work done with mom nearby to help. And be in a well lit room while she went to pick up my father from work.

As soon as he got home, or right after he had his nap, he would start in on me. Not having a conversation with me, but talking at me, criticizing me in some way. Or he would have the television on full blast, or talk with one of his brothers on the phone at full volume (they were all half deaf from working in factories.) So, with work still to do, I would pack up and head upstairs to my fiberboard desk under the slope of the roof, he would stop me.

"You don't have to leave. You're not bothering me."

He would say this every time. I'm not exaggerating here, every time.

Moby lies in the hallway as we repeatedly step over him, blandly looking up at us as if to say, "You're not in my way." Which is fine, we love that he so trusts us. And he is, after all, a cat.

My usual scrub and surgeon gave me a hard time today, to which I roll my eyes and say "Yeah, well, just can't get good help these days." Or, "Oh, you just want Everything!" Dr. H. tells me he read a study that men create an average of seven hours of work a week for women, and do about an hour of work a week to help out. I don't respond except to laugh. It takes me a few minutes to say, "You men cause me about forty hours of work a week, I know that for sure, but at least I get paid for it." I love when I get them to chuckle. Today was a Good Day, despite every patient being, um, short for her weight. I berated the surgeon for this, and he hung his head dutifully. Aw.

Really, context is almost everything. Sarcasm is the rest.


Moby slept on D all night, and came to sit on him twice this evening, atypical behaviour. Moby knows we are moving, he's seen the brown boxes, smelled the roll of tape.

Fooled

Fooled me, today. At least I had good company, good people to work with.

The hospital accrediting inspectors came through, to the ditherment of our managers, and everyone else caught up in their chaotic whirl. And guess which room they wanted to witness a Time-out in.

Yeah.

So, in addition to the announcements and botherers whispering "Jahco is coming! Jacho is coming!" I also got numerous calls and visits about what to do, what to say, forcing their anxieties on me. I was pretty impervious, until I got to a certain point, then I got deeply riled, because all the warnings had to be addressed, and began to affect my ability to care for that patient. Ancillary staff, terrified of making mistakes, insisted on all kinds of unnecessary tidying up that took needed supplies away from where they were needed.

Mind, this was on a heavy day, our surgeon running two total joint rooms - which works because he has a PA to do much of the paperwork, sew skin, and put on dressings, and on the other end, the spinal and block take sufficient anesthesia time, in addition to positioning, that he can do the actual surgery in the other room. And, this surgeon ain't slow. Which is good, he does good work. Today, he had five cases in my room, four in the other. I don't lollygag on these days. It takes planning, attentiveness, and staying on top of everything.

So, the inspector comes in, and I'm tripping over him, trying to stay polite. But this is a smallish OR, with a lot of equipment, and a long way to go before the Time-out. Time-out is a process, of double and triple checking that we have the right patient, and are doing the right procedure, the legal one is the last before incision, with a form I must fill out and sign. Fair enough, we are gradually getting the surgeons to take this seriously, and, once is too often to do it wrong. I look at the consent, check the name out loud with the surgeon and everyone else in the room, including the stupidly obvious "correct position", like pointing out the sky is blue, the grass is green and I still have my feet on. But I do it. Inspector guy hangs around and talks with the anesthesiologist for a while.

Then we hear back, we missed checking that we had the proper implants. I want to hit something. The implant rep had been working with the surgeon templating the correct components, before the patient came in the room.

If there had been any doubt, the surgeon would not have let us bring the patient in the room, his scrub would have stopped us if he didn't have what he needed, would have told me, and I wouldn't have even brought the patient over from the pre-op area. Saying it again is simply insultingly foolish, to all concerned. It's been enough of an uphill battle getting surgeons to stop a moment and confirm the right patient, right surgery, right side, to add several obvious statements is to invite righteous ridicule, and have them resist any kind of final check.

I missed a few other things, specifically because of having to deal with so much meddling attention. Nothing really critical to care, but the kind of marginal detail inspectors so often focus on, while missing the important functions. I am upset with myself that I let all the turkeys get me wrapped up in their bent reality. I stayed calm a long time, but once stirred, I could never quite regain my peace today.

My scrub, a Harley riding, sushi-loving, military guy, who I rarely just talk with, just because we have no common interests, was, I think, rather pleased when I swore*, sitting by him in the lounge, just after. I wonder if he thought perhaps I didn't have it in me. Oh, honey, I do know how to put words to obscene situations. I don't think we will ever come to like each other as friends, but we surely do love to work together. It took a while, but we have grown to trust and admire each other, there, in that place. Well, made him giggle today, at any rate.

Patient is fine, which is all that counts at this point.


*"Fuck" & "Christ on a Cracker!"

English

A few years ago, we had access to BBC America. For a short while, we got to see Goodness Gracious Me, Indian comedy in Britain. Ever the lovers of alien comedy, since mainstream American humor is so bland, mean, and obvious, we were hooked. This video of one of their sketches, Going Out for an English has been making the links round. And I have been indulging in many of their bits on the U-tyube. I don't get all the references, but worked with enough residents from Indian, and India via Britain, that it appeals even more than before. Some of it is simply silly enough.

Humor is such an ephemeral human sense, like taste, hard to pin down or explain, impossible to generalize across a population. American humor has been denigrated since the first colonial cartoonist's first dialogue balloon. British writers are always a little shocked that they have a strong, loyal American audience. There is a difference between what a group eats, and what an individual likes, what a crowd will laugh at, and what tickles an individual. When I saw movies in Army theaters, in a crowd of soldiers, I laughed at crap I would roll my eyes at seen alone. I ENJOYED Child's Play, surrounded by a raucous audience out to have a good time. Rather like a joke in a sermon, a priestly jest get laughs in church that would get a groan at any other time, in any other place, told by anybody else. And it's genuinely funny there. Just as a good MRE tastes pretty good when the alternative is a pork patty, or a tray pack. I loved white bread and margarine as a kid, especially squished into a tight wad. Just as I loved the BBC and Granada TV shows on the CBC, even if I didn't get all the subtleties, I caught the wit and intelligence, and it was different. I loved The Kids In the Hall, but that might just be a deeply Canadian sensibilities. Expectation, contrast, availability of choices.

So, Monty Python became the humor equivalent to Americans as curry to British cuisine. Not everyone likes it hot, but there are a lot of takers. A lot of folks don't appreciate having the tables turned on them, but enough do, and have the grace to be amused. The US is not a monolith, and even a small minority, now linked by the internet, can be a huge number. There is a love of the underdog that runs under the arrogance, enough of an underclass, a society of minorities and rebels laughing at the majority. And do we love to mock the smugness. Including the over-comfortable in ourselves.

We went out for Indian last night, and laughed at our own love of the "exotic," bunch of liberal snobs that we are.


It's snowing. Well, starting to rain, now. Moby is curled in his fleecy bed.

Drama

Sorry to say, I watched Untold Stories of the ER! this morning. I keep hoping it will be a better show, but it only makes me laugh aloud in derisive tones, and shout sarcasm.

The surgeon called, dramatically for a "BOOKWALTER RETRACTOR!" I know exactly what this looks like. There is a notched flat steel ring, and a series of hand sized, smooth, curved segments that will hold back the abdominal wall, usually padded with lap sponges, thick gauze with radio-opaque strips. What was shown was a square, bent, elbow sized hunk of metal that may be used as a brace to hold a truck engine, but looks like no surgical retractor I've ever seen. Not even close.

Then, another case, the ER doc shouts at the (undefined - probably nurse) to "Watch those monitors CLOSELY!" She replies meekly, "Yes, doctor!" Firstly, the request would have been stated as a request, "Keep an eye on those monitors for me, would you?" Had it been ordered dramatically, the response would have been more along the lines of, "Really? Ya THINK? No shit!" followed by a muttered "idiot." Such DRAMA. Actors, sheesh. No, folks who work with life and death, breathing and blood, get calmer the worse it gets. That's how we do it. As soon as the crisis is over, one way or the other, we make a joke, in relief or release.

D has been watching Dogfight - (about airplane battles, not dogs.) The over the top narration and music is comical, especially compared to the thoughtful, measured insouciance of the fighter pilots interviewed. I remember a British show about fighter pilots, who also spoke of their experiences without ego or bravado.

And, funny as Mike Rowe is on Dirty Jobs, his revulsion - which he does overcome, is in marked contrast to the folks who work hard, dirty jobs every day.

This was a week about odor, blood I barely notice anymore. Electrocautery of hormonal tissue is quite potent, another smell that hardly registers. Old, sick shit still smells bad, but normal healthy poop is just an odor - neither good nor bad. The surgeons were complaining of a sebaceous cyst stink, and a dermoid induced a suppressed urge to retch. But not much really gets to me. A young resident stopped by at the front desk while I was answering the phones, chatting with another nurse, and I wanted to hold my nose and run away - because he had some strong cologne that made me nauseated. Another surgeon brings his coffee into the OR (against policy), and I cannot stand the stench.

I have a weird job, and it's done weird things to my perceptions.

Lines

It's always darkest before you switch on the light.

No thesis proposal survives contact with the ... research.

"... Enemy." Says D.

I'm down with damn cold, but I still got it.

Day

Yesterday was twelve hours of trying my patience. Well, actually only about ten active hours of challenge. I apologize for any lack of context or terminology right now, I will gladly take questions at the end. Right now, I have to rant.

First, I'm doing Ortho in Pedi, a long walk from useful supplies. With a high maintenance surgeon. A traveler scrub with a grudge, who harasses me and then instructs me to "Relax, I'm just playin' with you!" A resident with a thick accent, who I really try to give the benefit of the doubt to the language barrier, who proves to be so dumb I wonder how he got past third grade, never mind med school. And me, I am no pedi nurse.

First case, a pleasant enough two year old, mom holds back tears until her child is under. I keep dad from backing into the sterile field, since the scrub has gone off for a smoke break instead of being in the room like he's expected to be. Getting everything plugged in sorted out, so the mini-c-arm is usable. All turns out fine.

Turnover, and the orderly has come in to get the send sheet for the next patient. Who has not checked into the hospital yet. I have mentioned this to her. She keeps reaching for the paper. I have to explain several times that I can't send for the next case yet, because the patient IS NOT HERE. I don't yell. I don't raise my voice. I just articulate very, very, clearly. She is still dubious, and makes sure I know to overhead page when I am ready to send. Three times.

Next case involves getting a prone Jackson bed in the room, a sprawling bit of equipment that can be x-rayed through everywhere. Cell saver RN has brought her machine, blood is being sent for, EEG monitoring is present, with a student. There will be x-ray. All fine, all good folks, just a lot of them for a small room.

We get started. Scrubgrump asks for a special instrument in another surgeon's specials. I delay in baffled exasperation. Thankfully the implant rep (up to eleven people, plus patient, in the room) points him to analogous bits in the set he already has. I feel my first truly murderous thought, the previous being merely to maim.

I run. And run. The running, the searching for supplies continues. The lack of staffing that has dumped me out of my area means I get last lunch. Hard for me who could eat two breakfasts and be fine until dinner, but I saw it coming, and I endure. Phone call after phone call for the attending anesthesiologist, who is never in the room when they call (the resident anesthesiologist is, proper care being given.) I get a garbled call, guy asking for what sounds like 'clerk' but since that makes no sense, I ask for several repititions. He asks where he has called.

"Operating room 18, surgery."

"Not the county courthouse?"

I break a short thumbnail into the quick, and get tape on it so it won't tear further. I do this while scrubgrump stands so close to me I can't properly open the door without contaminating his gown, and I can't get him to backthefuckup. I consider him to blame. I do not have a loaded scalpel.

Residumb's pager goes off while I am getting suture and seeing why the suction isn't working. I ignore it, until I can get to it.

"Would you check my pager?"

"As soon as I am done, yes." A few minutes, I have picked up the pager. And he says.

"Would you please check my pager?"

"That is what I am doing right now." And before I have a chance to push the green button.

"Could you read it out to me?" I take a moment to breathe, and read out the numbers displayed.

"What else does it say?"

"Nothing. Just the numbers."

"But, what does it say?"

I'm royally annoyed, it's not like I've never read off pagers of surgeons and residents before, and there are only the damn digits on his damn pager. And I've been dealing with his misdirected instructions all day. So I'm feeling a bit sarcastic.

"I only read numbers." I give the attending surgeon credit for chuckling.

Worse thing about dumb people, who don't know it? They cannot conceive of anyone smarter than they really are.


No, it all could have been worse. At three, I am blessed with a new scrub, who considers me a blessing. No blood needs to be given. We finish long enough before seven so I can get the room sorted, supplies returned, and still take a long break before going home. I restrained myself from killing anyone. So, it was a good day, by the definition of 'Any day when we all get out alive, is a Good Day.' A friend announces in the lounge that she is getting a cab home because it is raining and she does not have an umbrella.

I decide this is a wonderful idea, and will get me to D sooner.

He feeds me.

Polite

I have had a long and difficult relationship with politeness, having lived in three very different areas of the country, plus growing up in a Canadian family. Canadians, well renowned for their politeness, are nevertheless not in perfect agreement with everybody everywhere else (or each other, for that matter.) Individual Canadians are not necessarily up to the Mountie Gold Standard. (Didn't know there was one did you?) Well, and many times Canadians seem polite to strangers who do not realize they are being very sarcastic. Often with each other. So I know polite, but it is not the same flavor in Windsor as in Detroit or Salt Lake City or Boston.

I grew up in Detroit, a rough town at the best of times, but very much influenced by it's northern (in some places where the river bends, actually to the south, but let's not quibble) neighbor. But also the raucous liveliness of both black and middle European shouting and hand talk, added to big city privacy, and the street smarts to brusquely deflect beggars, muggers or hucksters. A polite person would adapt to the requirements of the context, others would wind up offending, or being victimized. Politeness greased the rubbing together of so many people from so many backgrounds and expectations. It was an aloof and cold manner, that could not be described as friendly.

Detroit public politeness (at least when I was growing up there) tended toward the assumption of dishonesty and threat - where quiet avoidance of social interaction, especially on the street, was a safety measure. In Boston generally, on the T(train) especially, silence is the rule, even when giving up one's seat. Unless the individual is clearly out of line, insane or pushy, talking is a clear indicator of a need for assistance, and is usually responded to helpfully. Read any blog from Eastern Urban centers with public transport, and you will see humorous lists of Rules - like "Do not floss on the train... just ... don't." The politeness of most commuters means that they pretend not to notice such lapses, unless it is intrusive on someone else. With near collisions, I might hear an "excuse me." If we actually hit (rare) I will hear a "sorry" as they continue past.

Then there is Utah, Salt Lake City in particular, where people will stand clearly in the only pathway and have conversation, not allowing anyone past. I have been more often jostled or had to force my way through much thinner crowds there than in the densely packed streets here in Boston. In Utah the women can still expect their menfolk to run around the car to open the door for them, and in exchange they are expected to be unbearably sweet and docile. I often found skin deep friendliness to be a mask for appalling and breathtaking rudeness and manipulation. Or for moral weakness excused. Some truly decent people who grew up there struggle to be so outwardly sugary, and still keep their personal boundaries and integrity intact without resorting to becoming angry and resentful themselves. They confuse "niceness" with polite behaviour, and get pushed into accepting what can only be described as evil. They do not call spades spades, because that would not be nice. They prevaricate and squirm, seeing niceness as more important than honesty or standing by their core values. To fight is seen as rude, even in a just cause. Even the ones who succeed in keeping some integrity bear the scars of unbearable niceness.

So I need to offer my definition of polite behaviour for one of those so scarred. Every culture has a series of rules and expectations, which individuals can either use to ease interpersonal friction, or to manipulate people. I will take, for instance, as a silly example, the Canadian, and Northern Mid-Western Rule of Three of Hospitality. It goes a bit like this...

Offer#1 "Would you like some tea?"
Refusal #1 "No, thanks, I'm fine."
Offer #2 "I just got the kettle on, are you sure?"
Refusal #2 "Oh, I really don't want to put you to any trouble."
OR
Offer Withdrawal #1 "I really do have to get going, see you later then, eh?" (Conversation ends)

Offer #3 "No trouble at all, I was going to have a cup myself."
Refusal #3 "No, I really have to get going, but thanks." (interchange ends)
OR
Acceptance "Well, that would be very nice, if you are sure you don't mind."

This is the ideal, the host and guest and both get what they want. When it gets manipulative is when the host only offers once. Twice is fine, if the host would really be put out, only had enough for one, was an a hurry, whatever. Four offers is badgering. A guest who says yes at once better be crawling out of the desert, s/he must allow that the first offer is merely for form. A guest who says no after three should not be put out if not offered again. It is an arbitrary number, but accepted in this culture. A polite host will be aware of someone from elsewhere, and either explain the rule or pick up on other clues and respond accordingly. A rude one will apply the rule to their own benefit, and make allowances for no one, while breaking it for themselves when it is convenient.

But there are more important examples. My Aunt Evelyn volunteered for Birthright, a pro adoption anti-abortion group, that posed as a neutral pregnancy help service. She was devoutly Catholic and lost several pregnancies, and an adopted child (taken back by her birth mother). I am unabashedly pro-abortion, any woman who does not want a child should under no circumstances be forced, coerced, to have one. If my mother asked me if I would have had her abort me, I would say- yes. I'm here, and have made myself a good life, but if I could erase my childhood, I would, no question. I would never have made a point of telling my aunt this, out of deep respect for her life, and her kindly and deeply held beliefs. She had every right to make her own choices, and I mine. She would not have tried to pin me down on the issue. If she had, I would have asked to be allowed my privacy. I did not need her to agree with me in order to think her polite. She would not have forced me to overtly agree with her in order to be seen as polite.

The heart of this is to be gracious, and make others feel acknowledged and wanted, even if it is inconvenient. To allow for friendly refusal and a limitation on both unwanted hospitality and imposition. It allows for both communication and an OUT. It is perfectly polite to deflect impolite requests, even to outright refuse them. At the lowest level is sarcasm- which is to say funny- responses when one person is not playing fairly. Because if we can laugh at the error, it is simply an error, not meanness. Even if it was meanness.

If necessary, brusqueness is the next step, implying a more serious error of interchange, in terms of pushing too hard or prying or being inconsiderate of context or time constraints. The implication is that the other person was being thoughtless or stupid, rather than mean or dishonest, even if they are being mean or dishonest.

Outright rudeness is perfectly acceptable when the other person is clearly dishonest or mean, a sidewalk hustler, abusive beggar, forcing their obviously different from your viewpoint, or any solicitation to illegal, unethical or grossly inappropriate services. At this point it is perfectly acceptable to indicate that what you are being asked is unethical, illegal or coercive. If you absolutely have to be nice, a "teaching" tone would be acceptable. "Have you thought of taking an ethics class, going to the police, asking me how I feel?" Because being considerate does not mean being a doormat, it means considering the other person's point of view. If they are not considering me, it is fair to ask them to. If they do not, I are under no further obligation to comply.

So let us be fair, and honest, fight for what is right, treat each other decently, and stand firm, with all due respect for the toes of our fellow travelers. But say please and thank you, and sorry, and don't push or yell. Because politeness really is not dependent on how many times I do or do not offer tea, or how many times you refuse. But I have just put the kettle on......really, no trouble at all.

Comedy

I ran in to get to the bathroom from outside, dropping everything on my way in. As I was about to come out D says,

"Um... Z?"

"Yes?"

"Did you mean to put your scarf under the cat?"

I found a funny one. He makes me laugh, even when I'd rather be glum. Usually it's all kinds of blessings. I cry easily, for all kinds of stupid reasons. This used to bother him a great deal, until he followed my instructions to tell me a joke. Now I can just shove his arm and order him, "Make me laugh" and we both do. Breaks the tears readily.

His sense of humor is very dry, a bit obscure and easily missed by people who do not come by sarcasm naturally. Often involving elaborate language. My first example of this was a lecture on the importance of fry sauce. He still claims this is no joke. On coming out of anesthesia, he referenced a scene from Henry V where the French princess is learning some English, and she mispronounces elbow- so what he'd broken was his "Delbow". He was amazed that his classmates found his phrase "Other than rational reasons" to be amusing. This humor is hard wired deep into his brain bed.

I make him laugh more usually with visual jokes. He cannot keep a straight face when I make a puppet out of whatever comes to hand- literally. Today on the train, the conductor's door popped open, I waved at the driver and after a beat, the driver waved back as he closed the door. There must have been something about the timing, D burst out laughing for the next several minutes. What he says he likes best is when I do voices, which means interpreting the cat's action into human voice*. Cat flops to the ground headfirst, paws up. "Pet me, I'm cute and furry!" I interpret. Or sitting regally- "You may adore me." D returns the favor by asking Moby terribly serious questions. Like, "Have you had enough sleep, cat?"

Neither of us can say anything without being taken literally. "I don't feel like pizza," is always followed by palpation and agreement. "You are right, you feel nothing like pizza" or simply a LOOK. All delivered in utter deadpan, followed by hitting with the nearest soft object, i.e. a pillow or hat, often just a raising of the eyebrows, then we both grin, or giggle.

And it's not just jokes, but a general sense of whimsy. We have a four foot blow up Emperor Penguin in our living room. A stuffed Gromit. Not to mention the stuffed cold virus toy given us by friends this Christmas. It sits on D's desk, and he delights in turning one or other side up, since one side is cute, the other sinister. "See? Cute... sinister... cute... ... sinister?" he will demonstrate, repeatedly, if you ask. Or even if you don't. He used to keep a can of Diet Chocolate Shasta on his desk, because he liked the idea of having toxic waste nearby. Don't even ask about what he would do with the dummy grenade, lost in one of our moves, sadly. Sadly only because I miss the loud "BOOM!" shout. Really, I do miss that.

Someday, I will postulate my ponderings on women with no sense of humor with funny men-if I can ever figure it out. A keen sense of funny has always been an essential for any kind of friendship for me, especially a kind, ironic sense of humor. The kind of healing laughter that follows tears and broken bones, broken hearts and griefs and losses. Keeps us from taking the difficulties of life too seriously. The exhaustion and challenges of our move across country to Boston was lightened by our bemusement at the high rise apartment we were housed in. Wherever we are, when we see the towers, we point and say "I can see our house from here!" When we move, we will have to come up with a new joke. I'm not worried.








* This I got from my Aunt Alma, who would tell me what Gigi was saying. It was a way of teaching a very young child about how to treat a dog, then a kind of game, and very entertaining. Leaving me with a lifelong anthropomorphic tendency.