poem

 Op Note XXThe abdomen was opened and the target organs identified. The residents seemed competent, briskly moving hands, confident stances.  I felt the urge to take a leak so I scrubbed out for a while.  When I returned the nurses asked my glove size. Someone hissed, you ’re supposed to get your own gloves.  I was positioned in a tiny nook under the patient ’s arm pit and told to lift up.  The retractor kept slipping. Like this, someone barked.  I leaned back and toed the hoe-like tool into the split flesh.  We all heard the cracking noises. The ribs! Someone exclaimed.  I was quickly shimmied out of the way.  When I turned I was a busboy in a greasy spoon diner in Massillon, Ohio.  I must have been 16 that summer. There were 6 or 7 tables cluttered with syruped plates and sticky knives, glasses half full of milk or orange juice.  Get busysomeone seemed to say. It was me inside my head. I had this down to a science. Half eaten pancakes and waffles scraped onto placemats with knives. Plates and bowls all stacked. Silverware in glasses.  All paper and food in the trash. Then a quick wipe down of the linoleum table with a wet rag. Place settings slapped down on paper mats.  One after the other.  People paused to watch. They didn ’t realize human excellence happened even in places like this. They didn’t realize this is why they watched. Minutes later I was nearly done.  But then a sudden...
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs