Oxymoron

Somehow found myself pseudo watching TV this morning during The View. You see, I just didn’t turn off the TV after the morning news and now am listening to women argue on TV about Lindsay Lohan as I finish my coffee and pin things I can’t live without. I would honestly rather drink a shot of snot than spend one millisecond discussing Lindsay Lohan. But here I am too comfortable on the couch to reach over and change the channel. So I continue to pseudo watch The View. Right as they are about to go to commercial, they do a teaser bit on what’s to come for the rest of the show and they had a segment about a man who had to “go into EMERGENCY PLASTIC SURGERY!!!”

That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one. Quick! I need a facelift STAT!

The Devil Wears…Danskos?

The devil doesn’t wear Prada on my unit….he wears old worn out brown Danskos.  Danskos that I wish he would replace, STAT.  He’s our bigwig surgeon.  Dr. X.  He’s arrogant, he’s charming with the lady patients, he’s published like a gazillion papers in peer reviewed journals, he has impeccable outcome statistics and he has expectations of perfection that only Mother Theresa could meet.  But his Danskos? He’s had to have had those things since residency, which must have been ages ago.  They probably smell horrid, like a combination of dog anal glands and epoisses on a hot day.   A lot of surgeons have their “thing”.  A little superstition.  A certain surgical cap, a Mont Blanc fountain pen they’ve used for every paper order and progress note since the 70’s, their alma mater pin etc.

This guy? His ratty brown Danskos.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I have a love/hate relationship with my Danskos.  I fought the good fight to avoid buying a pair until my aching feet protested after a year of 12 hour shifts.  I caved.  I bought.  I hate.  They’re so ugly!  But they’re SO comfortable.  And the 1 3/4″ heel comes in mighty handy when you have to walk to work in the rain.

When Dr. X breezes onto the floor for rounds, you can see him coming down the hall with his entourage of 4-5 residents, a few interns and perhaps a terrified medical student trailing 4 feet behind.  They flank him like a flock of geese migrating south in  V formation.  And every time I find myself humming “My Posse’s on Broadway” when they walk by.  Usually we’ve had about 23 seconds of lead time before he arrives to round on his patients because his Danskos have a certain recognizable squeak.

You know the scene from The Devil Wears Prada where Meryl Streep’s character is making her way into the building for work?  Scenes of her getting out of her town car, entering the building, getting in the elevators and opening the big glass doors to the fashion magazine headquarters are interspersed with scenes of frantic fashion magazine employees racing around making sure everything is perfect in the office before she arrives.  Cleaning up clutter, touching up their makeup, changing out of comfortable shoes into high stilettos, hiding carbs, taking off functional clothes and putting on haute couture, setting her coffee in its exact proper location on her desk.

That’s what its like when Dr. X comes on the floor.  We race around making sure all his patients are awake, out of bed (“get up now! get in the chair!”), medicated, working on their pulmonary hygiene (“If anyone asks you’ve been doing this incentive spirometry all morning!”)* or…jackpot…just happen to be walking in the hall when he arrives (which he loves).  If they’re asleep and shaking them awake wouldn’t be appropriate, we just shove the incentive spirometer into their limp hands. **

And he buys it every time.

* We normally do all these important post operative nursing interventions anyway.  Many times a day. We’re good nurses.  He just rounds so early in the morning before we’ve had a chance to get everyone going.

** I’ve totally done that before

The surgeon seamstress

The day after Halloween, while my Facebook feed was being flooded by parents posting pictures of their children in costume, I was at work discussing with my friend various tactics for deterring trick or treaters from my front door.  I obviously don’t have children.  And the doorbell scares my cat.  And I don’t appreciate begging, extortion and gluttony, which is basically what trick or treating is.  But I do love a good costume.

So our discussion turned to costumes and the various guises we had inhabited on Halloween throughout our childhoods.  Many of mine had dark and morbid undertones with lots of fake blood and fangs and black fabric.  One year I had a momentary lapse when my mother sewed a sparkly “good witch” costume.  My friend (who is 6’1″ and about 250lbs) was an Oompa Loompa every year.  Our discussion peaked the interest of one of our plastic/reconstructive surgeons who was dictating nearby.  He said his daughter had wanted to be Voldemort that year.  Not Hermoine, but Voldemort.  I liked her immediately.

Now, I like to entertain the notion that I am impervious to gender stereotypes, but when he proceeded to described in great detail the elaborate robe which he sewed for his daughter’s costume, I was at first skeptical.  Yeah right…you sewed your daughter’s entire costume.  Snort.  But then he showed us pictures on his phone.  And it was gorgeous.

And then I realized…he sews skin better than Buffalo Bill.  So naturally he can sew an elaborate wizard costume.  Naturally.