Which, of course, begs the question…what is a maximally (wait…that’s a word, right?) invasive gynecologist doing? Poking your cervix with a stick? Batting your tits around with boxing gloves? Someone…help me with this one, please?
Drew: I’m going to kill this fucking nephrologist. He’s a total sack of shit and undermined me to a patient.
Me: Want me to hold him down, so you can kick him?
Drew: Not enough. I want to crucify him.
Me: Old school. In that case, Home Depot closes at 8…you grab the boards, I’ll grab the nails.
Drew: Best. Friend. Ever.
My darling friend, Drew, who is good to animals, loving to his children, generous with the needy, and the first person you’d ever want to be your doctor in the time of a crisis…is the meanest attending physician in the world.
Drew: (to me) “Hang on for a second…” (putting the phone to the side, to talk to one of his residents) “What’s going on?”
Resident: *mumblemumble pulmonary mumblemumble*
Drew: “Well, what procedure are you going to order for that patient?”
Resident: *mumblemumble hemopneumosarcoiditis mumble*
Drew: “Oooookay, and what procedure are you going to order AFTER that one?”
Resident: “Ummmmm, I’m not sure, Sir.”
Drew: “The procedure you’d order after is called a FUCKING AUTOPSY, because that first thing you wanted to do is going to KILL him! The object of this ICU is to make them LIVE…you know that, right!? We’re trying to free up beds by getting them better, NOT by KILLING THEM.”
Drew: (to me) “Hey, loved the picture of the kids…say hi to your folks.”
A phone call to Drew. For those of you who lack ovaries and ladyparts…a Mirena is an IUD.
Me: “Hey, I have a question for you about my Mirena.”
Drew: “Hey, I deal in lungs for a living, so why are you asking me about your vagina.”
Drew: “Okay, okay, what’s wrong?”
Me: “I started developing this weird rash, and I don’t know if it’s related. It started on my elbows, and now it’s spreading to my chest, and it’s itchy.”
Drew: “Send me a picture.”
Me: “That is the WORST way anyone has ever tried to get a picture of my tits.”
Drew: “Megan…any man that was turned on by a woman covered in hives would fall into a SERIOUSLY niche market of pervert. I’m going to show it across to the derm guy across the hall, and get his opinion.”
Me: “Fiiiiine. But you’re going to see the bottom of my bra.”
Drew: “I don’t think it’s the Mirena, but call your GYN. In the meantime, Benedryl before bedtime, and hydrocortisone on the affected area.”
Me: “I don’t need anything prescription?”
Drew: “I’m not calling you in a prescription unless you send me a picture with a nipple in it.”
Me: “So, that’s a ‘no’ then.”
(A conversation with my best friend, following his foot surgery.)
Matt: “Doctor says that I’m doing great…minimal inflammation, and I’m walking fine.”
Me: “You were always the best at healing.”
Matt: “I’m like Wolverine, Bitch!”
Me: “I’ve gotta say, your foot is the last place I thought you’d get an implant.”
Matt: “Why? Did you think I’d get something put in my ass?”
Me: “Are you seriously asking me that, because the question answers itself.”
Matt: “You should see the x-ray of this thing…it’s so cool, it looks like I have a bolt in my foot.”
Me: “You’re Frankenfoot.”
Matt: “If I had a penile implant, I’d be Frankenweinie.”
Matt: “How do penile implants work? Do you pump the left ball to blow it up? How does it to go back down?”
Me: “Maybe, instead of semen…you just get a big blast of air.”
Matt: “God, a blowjob would be like a glaucoma test.”
Me: “I’m telling mom you said that.”
Matt: “She’s a nurse…ask her where the air goes.”
Me: “If she knows the answer, I’m killing myself.”
The greatest irony in education is that while we teachers are exposed to more germs than the average Turkish prison rat, we are also completely unable to take a single day off, when said germs prove victorious. Doubt me? Ask any teacher. We could have a full-blown case of ebola, with our internal organs coming out of our noses, and we would still be at work, pumped full of enough Dayquil to fell Courtney Love. One year, I was sick so often, that my boyfriend at the time, started applying Vicks to my chest as a form of foreplay. The man probably still can’t smell camphor without getting an erection.
Now why do we do this? Is it because we love your sweet cherubs so much that we cannot bear the thought of a single day spent without them? Fuck no, it’s because it’s so goddamned hard to prepare for a substitute, that dropping dead in our reading corner is preferable to the paperwork.
Imagine if, in order to take a day off, you had to create a plan for an untrained stranger, so they could present a seven-hour, detailed, interactive, intellectually challenging presentation for a group of 32 uninterested mental patients. You’d say, “fuck it”, and come to work hopped up on codeine, just like the rest of us.
Which leads to my theory as to how this was able to happen. The teacher in this story was so scared of writing 6-weeks worth of lesson plans, that a 9-lb child, emerging from her vagina was LESS of a pain in the ass than going to a hospital. LITERALLY. I don’t even think she was on her prep period! You think that custodians hate cleaning up glitter? Try placenta. That really pisses them off. You’re going to have to come up with a lot more than a 12-pack of soda to thank him for that task. Think about adding a handle of bourbon to his Christmas present.
So parents, when you throw some Tylenol in Susie to hide the fever, and then send her to school to infect us…remember…two can play at that game, and once she’s good and healthy…we’re totally going to let Johnny-Green-Boogers lick her pencil.
**To clarify, I do not think that children are mental patients. I DO think that children lose their minds when they get a substitute. You want to make a child drunk with power and supremely conscious of the juggernaut that is mob mentality…leave them with a complete stranger who doesn’t know their name or the bell schedule. Sit back…bring popcorn.
And the angry texting continues…
Drew: I swear to fucking G-d, if I get one more page in the middle of the night to ask something as stupid as “Can this patient have Colace”, I’m going to kill someone. These fucking new residents are KILLING ME.
Me: First… A pager? Really? In the year that you’re doctoring, are leaches still a thing?
Me: Also, can we discuss that I’m FAIRLY sure that the Hypocratic Oath covers you not murdering other doctors?
Drew: It would be justifiable homicide.
Me: Because they PAGE you at 3am, asking if they can help a patient poop?
Drew: Because I’m running around night and day, trying to keep them from killing my patients.
Me: I’m sure they’re not trying to kill your patients.
Drew: Megan, I’m not convinced that they weren’t sent by Al Qaeda.
Me: Take it easy, Jack Bauer. Maybe YOU should have a little Colace.
And yet another series of text conversations from my friend Drew…the world’s most angry husband… A little background, to make this conversation make sense… Drew is Jewish and attended Princeton.
Drew: You are not going to fucking believe this. I was rejected by the dog rescue. How in the hell does this even happen?
Me: The hell? Did you dress up like Michael Vick? Did you have an erection in the middle of the kennel?
Drew: I have no idea. It was based on my filling out the forms online. They never even met me.
Me: Maybe they’re Harvard grads. Maybe they want the dogs to go to good Christian homes.
Me: Did you look into the Humane Society?
Drew: They only have pitbulls. Rachel would shit herself if I brought home a pitbull.
Me: Awww, look at you being nice and caring about what your wife wants.
Drew: Second thought…going tomorrow…finding one that has mommy issues.
**The next day**
Me: Hey, can you call me in for an inhaler? I lost the other one.
Drew: How in the hell do you lose an inhaler…it’s medication…important medication. It should be in your purse, so you have it, if you need it. It’s allergy season. What if you had an episode!?
Me: Are you lecturing me? I don’t know if you’re qualified to be lecturing me.
Drew: Qualified!? Give me the name of a doctor who is more qualified than me…please…enlighten me.
Me: Well, for starters…any doctor that can be trusted with a stray dog.
Drew: *sigh* I walked straight into this. Do you even need a new inhaler.
Me: Nope. 🙂
Drew: You are such an asshole. If I didn’t love you, I’d hate you.
Drew: How are you, Sugs?
Me: Good. Just grateful that I’m not working to 7pm tonight.
Me: Um…because I want to go home and be with my kids?
Me: Dude…what is wrong with you? I get to work at 6:30am, why would I want to stay until 7pm EVER?
Drew: I’m confused.
Me: So am I…are you stoned? How do you not kill all your patients?