poem

Op Note IIThe patient was wheeled in.  We did a safety time-out.  As part of the new process, everyone needed to account for themselves.  We all needed to be known.  The anesthesiologist was a pompous genius. When he was 13 he had elucidated the basic mathematical conceits of Boyle ’s law before he’d ever heard of it.  When he found out his discovery had already been made, that it would always be Boyle ’s Law and not a law named after him, he retreated from scientific inquiry and spent his free time compiling lists of objectionable traits in all the souls he encountered in preparation for a dystopian novel he would never write. The scrub tech had a teenage daughter who’d run away to Texarkana with a boy who spent his nights reading Ayn Rand.  The locket around her neck opened to a fuzzy picture of the girl when she was a happy gap toothed second grader.  The circulating nurse ate baby carrots dipped in hummus everyday for lunch, and never once offered to share.  Her name was "Kathy" or "Mrs Savoya".  If you called her just “Savoya” she would write you up.  The orderly was named Jim but everyone called him John due to an orientation week error.  By now, even the people who knew his real name called him John. His employee tag was sort of smudged.  The surgeon had been in the room waiting all along, arms crossed, a scowl on his face.  He was late and his clinic was calling.  Everyone looked the sam...
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs