Wooolf!
"GI service, aka, the pit of hell. I thought I had been broken in, but it wasn't true.
25 patients.
4 procedures.
???new consults throughout the day.
This oughta separate the men from the boys.
(or the grrrlz from the girls)"
This is what I thought this morning when I walked in the door at work.
Now, my grandmother, god rest her soul, had always been a bit of a... well... I suppose we both showed some of our true colors back when I was 3 and she was 54, and she had a box chock full of medicines, and I knew all of them by heart - including indications and side effects.
She used to take these shots of camphor oil, I think, right into her shoulder. My father, soon to be her ex-son-in-law used to deliver these injections into her bouncy tight deltoid muscle. They had a difficult relationship, whose two; I think he really enjoyed treating what ailed her with the needle and the camphor oil.
And what ailed her?
"These shots are for my liver," she used to say.
"And what's wrong with your liver?" we'd ask.
"I don't know, but I'm sure it's very serious," she'd answer, 100% straight-faced.
Let's forget for a second the irony of the fact that she actually did end up having a serious liver disease, which in the end contributed to killing her. And forget the seemingly obvious connection of that, and the fact that I'm actually specializing in liver disease to some degree. It's a red herring, true true and unrelated.
The point I'm making is, and I cringe as I say this, because I just know the gods will be angered: today was actually not so bad, despite the fear induced by the miserable numbers from the morning.
I was convinced it would be bad. I even wrote a post about it. I hate to be the girl who cried wolf. And so, I will continue waiting for the other shoe to drop. It dropped on grandma, eventually, right?
Okay, I know when to stop taking a metaphor too far.
The end.
Sorry, grandma.
25 patients.
4 procedures.
???new consults throughout the day.
This oughta separate the men from the boys.
(or the grrrlz from the girls)"
This is what I thought this morning when I walked in the door at work.
Now, my grandmother, god rest her soul, had always been a bit of a... well... I suppose we both showed some of our true colors back when I was 3 and she was 54, and she had a box chock full of medicines, and I knew all of them by heart - including indications and side effects.
She used to take these shots of camphor oil, I think, right into her shoulder. My father, soon to be her ex-son-in-law used to deliver these injections into her bouncy tight deltoid muscle. They had a difficult relationship, whose two; I think he really enjoyed treating what ailed her with the needle and the camphor oil.
And what ailed her?
"These shots are for my liver," she used to say.
"And what's wrong with your liver?" we'd ask.
"I don't know, but I'm sure it's very serious," she'd answer, 100% straight-faced.
Let's forget for a second the irony of the fact that she actually did end up having a serious liver disease, which in the end contributed to killing her. And forget the seemingly obvious connection of that, and the fact that I'm actually specializing in liver disease to some degree. It's a red herring, true true and unrelated.
The point I'm making is, and I cringe as I say this, because I just know the gods will be angered: today was actually not so bad, despite the fear induced by the miserable numbers from the morning.
I was convinced it would be bad. I even wrote a post about it. I hate to be the girl who cried wolf. And so, I will continue waiting for the other shoe to drop. It dropped on grandma, eventually, right?
Okay, I know when to stop taking a metaphor too far.
The end.
Sorry, grandma.
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