The Doctor is In

I’ve known him all my life. And after my dad, he’s the “adult male” that I would turn to for car maintenance advice, a kind word, a belly laugh in the form of some hilarious anecdote that had  happened that week. Uncle Tracy has been a comfortable constant in my life no matter where the Army sent us throughout my childhood.

My cousin, Wendy, was my best friend/pen pal during all that back and forth moving overseas to Texas to Alabama and back overseas, etc. I felt grounded reading her letters and a sense of normalcy writing back to tell her all about my softball season, how much I hated Algebra II, and which boy I had a crush on that week. I always sent love to her parents and she always sent it back to mine. And for us, there was never any awkwardness. Even though she wasn’t a military BRAT like me, we would pick up right where we left off three years before. We’d run out to play on the zip line that Uncle Tracy had built using the tallest trees in the backyard or play basketball or throw pine cones at each other or at night, jump out from behind a fat bush on the side of the road to scare the crap out of teenage drivers who were speeding up the street and then take off running as they slammed on brakes and cussed at us out the open windows.

When I spent a week with them during the Summer Wendy had gotten her learner’s permit, Uncle Tracy earned a new nickname. We were in his pick-up truck. Wendy was driving. We were in the left only turn bay and she was having trouble with the 3-on-the-tree. Uncle Tracy was patiently bellowing directions from the passenger seat. I was the quiet moron in the middle; head turning left then right then left again as the conversation continued across me. After about 4 light changes from red to green and back to red, Wendy was beyond frustrated as the engine choked and died again. Uncle Tracy stated loudly, for the tenth time, “Wendy, you’ve got to put the damn thing in first gear!”

“It IS in first gear!” she shouted back, red-faced.

“Wendy, if this damn truck was in first gear, we’d already be in the driveway by now. Put it in first gear.”

She violently pulled the shift bar from where it was to neutral and then back to where it was. “It IS in first gear, Daddy!” The light turned green again. She let up off the clutch again. The truck jerked forward and died again. The car behind us started honking again as he was too close to go around us like the cars behind him. The light turned red again.

“Wendy, you’re in third gear. Put the truck in first gear!!”

“Daddy, it IS IN FIRST GEAR!” she shouted back.

Uncle Tracy actually yelled this time, “IF THIS TRUCK IS IN FIRST GEAR THEN I’M A GODDAMN BRAIN SURGEON!”

The dumbass in the middle, sensing the tension and trying to show solidarity with her cousin waved and said, “Hiiiiiiiii, Doctor Tracy!”

They were too pissed off at each other to laugh. She finally found first gear and we went home. When we got  back to their house, I figured I should make myself scarce and then I heard my aunt laughing in the kitchen. I went to get a glass of tea and she handed me a tall cup to take to “the good doctor.” She and Wendy howled with laughter.

I handed him his tea and he just looked at me. Then he laughed and said it was in third. I  told him that out of all the pipefitters in the world, he made a fine brain surgeon. He’s been Dr. Tracy ever since.




Nurses Need Superhero Capes

My son had surgery to repair a deviated septum and some sinus issues and for good measure, the ENT decided to yank out those pesky tonsils along as he was under general anesthesia. When they brought me back to the step-down recovery area, I giggled a little. Yeah, I’m a jerk. But it was kind of amusing to see 3 little tiny under 6 year old kids who’d had tonsillectomies or dental surgeries performed and then this 6’3″ fifteen-year old with his feet hanging off the end of the gurney because they don’t usually operate on kids his size in the Pediatrics wing. But then the amusement left as I saw my (not-so) little baby with blankets wrapped around his head and shoulders because he’d been shivering so in the operating room. He’s always cold. And then when he started to come to and he was hurting and couldn’t focus his eyes, struggling to say “water” and whimpering when he swallowed.  I just wanted to climb up next to him and hold him.

So now that I’m home and setting alarms to dispense meds every three hours and halfway between each of those scheduled alarms I’m answering his pages (he bangs on the wall in his room to alert me to his needs) to clean the drainage out of his nose. Poor baby. He’s got plastic splints up in his nose and he can’t breathe through it and is bored out of his skull.
(I MIGHT let back on the computer for about half an hour of gaming…but only if he can get some of his assignments done for school first.)

So I was thinking about this today as my body called me all kinds of 4-letter words for not allowing it to sleep. I have NO bedside manner at all. I hate whining on all levels and I feel like pain is something you should push through if you can. Nursing is a calling: One that skipped MY number on the phone tree. Pffft. I’ll hold your hair if you need to vomit and maybe feed you or listen (briefly) to your list of aches but bedpans? NO effin’ way. And mucous? Just no. I’m forcing myself with my son because I have to. It’s part of the mom gig and they make you sign contracts and shit that you’ll take care of them. Plus I don’t want to risk that badass trophy when I win Mother of the Year.  So I will take one for the team and clean out his blood and ooze with a cotton swab….but if some stranger fires a snot rocket on the black top in a supermarket parking lot, I’m going to totally gag.
THAT kind of commitment takes far more than just a paycheck. It takes true generosity of spirit and far more nurturing than your average person.

That said, I’m calling all Nurses exactly what they are: Superheroes.  Much respect, ladies and gentlemen. You all deserve capes.