You know how I know you're not lazy?

The DNB gets pimped at work!

This isn't unusual. Pimping is when a more senior physician sells a less senior doctor's body on the streets tries to make a younger doctor look stupid in front of a group intensely questions a younger medical professional about a topic.

On this particular day, the DNB was being pimped on why he didn't take a specific course of action with a patient. The truth was, he considered the options and risks, and decided to do something different. The pimping physician, however, doesn't know him, didn't believe him, and ended the conversation by noting that the DNB was "just being lazy."

OH NO YOU DIDN'T.

I'll grant you this: the DNB can be lazy. I've got 5 months worth of opened mail he needs to sort through to prove it. But at work? The man is at the hospital nearly 80 hours a week. I don't think so.

"How did you respond?" I ask him, incredulous.

"How was I supposed to respond? It was in a group. I didn't want to be disrespectful," he replies.

I get it, but I'm not happy about it.

So instead, we've compiled a list of How A Medical Professional Might Know He's Not Lazy:

If you've had to pee for the last 5 hours, and you're not on a family car trip... You're Not Lazy

If you've skipped 4 meals in 2 days because of work...

If employees return to the hospital the next morning the morning and say, "Oh, you're still here?"...

When it would be frowned upon to take a 20 minute nap during a 30 hour call shift...

When patients' families ask, "When do you get to go home?" and the answer is greater than 24 hours...

If you've rounded 5 times during your call shift...

If while you're eating dinner, you answer 15 phone calls and none of them are for your teenage daughter...

AHAHAHAHAHAHA.

"Ok, so I found the perfect candidate for the MTV show 'Made,'" the DNB emails me during his last shift in the Emergency Department. "She needs to be made into NOT A TOTAL DORK."

He explains the situation the next morning. An 18-year-old girl comes into the ED in a wheelchair with her parents at 11:30pm on a weekend. Her chief complaint is back pain. The DNB examines her, and learns that a kid threw a rock at her.

This seems horrible at first. Except that it happened THREE DAYS AGO. Oh, and the ROCK HIT HER BACK PACK. IT DIDN'T EVEN HIT HER.

"Well, it touched my back when it rolled down," the girl explains to the cops her parents have called to investigate.

The DNB coughs and avoids making eye contact with anyone.

"So let's just think through the physics of this," the DNB says to me, interrupting his story. "Let's assume the girl had SOMETHING in her back pack. A notebook, a textbook, something between her delicate body and the rock. How big did that rock have to be in order to hit her back pack and still cause back pain three days later?"

"A small boulder?" I suggest. "Did it knock her down?"

"No! I promise, in my expert medical opinion, it did nothing to her!" the DNB shouts. "My guess is that her World of Warcraft connection went down and she had nothing better to do with her Friday night."

"OH!" he continues. "And then she has asthma. Of course she has asthma. She has to have asthma. And she wants a nebulizer to take home. I suggest that, for an 18-year-old, an inhaler will be just as effective and work much more quickly. She tells me she wants the neb because SHE'S NOT COORDINATED ENOUGH TO BREATHE AT THE RIGHT TIME AFTER SHE PUSHES THE INHALER. Are you serious? You can't figure out how to breathe? You've only been doing it every few seconds for the past 18 years!"

Yeah, if you thought doctors don't make fun of patients, let's just put that myth to rest.

"What do you think, is she a theater kid?" I ask.

"Nah, she's too timid for that.  I'm guessing she played the clarinet in band her freshman year and then dropped out.  Band is already full of people who are social rejects.  If you get rejected by the social rejects, you may as well drown yourself."

"Yeah," I reply, "That wouldn't be too hard.  Just tie a rock to your back pack..."

How early is too early?

In an effort to support his interest in high-quality shower gel products Manly Tool Habit, the DNB takes on extra shifts!

He is scheduled to work from 6am to 6pm every Saturday and Sunday in May. I would feel more terrible for him if it weren't entirely his decision.

And then, just before his first shift, he receives an email.

"Thank you for your willingness to assist . . . blah blah blah . . . we'll need you to come in just a bit early . . . blah blah . . . going to have a morning meeting, do this and that . . . so, yeah, we're going to need you to be in at 4am."

The DNB is shouting as he relates this to me that evening. "The email is all casual - come in a little early, no big deal then BAM! 4am."

"That's practically deceitful," I reply. I can barely fathom getting up in the 3am hour.

"The subject of the email should have been ASS RAPING. I would have been a little more prepared," he continues. A vein in his forehead appears.

He leans forward in his chair. "Here's how I determine whether I'm going to be up WAY TOO EFFING EARLY: fast food restaurants. If McDonald's isn't open, IT'S TOO EARLY. And guess what? McDonald's doesn't open until five."

"Some of them are open 24 hours," I point out, helpfully. "And no one's hungry right when they wake up."

He glares at me.

"4am," he says, poignantly.

Perhaps the zebra-print bag is also too much?

So I'm at this lawyerly conference, and I'm not wearing a suit. Which is fine, except that EVERYONE ELSE IS WEARING A SUIT. Every other conference I've ever been to had a business casual dress code. This is like business business. It's like Fancy Lawyers Thinking Fancily of Themselves Business Business.

It's all making me rethink the rather sparkly, yet perfectly adorable purple cardigan I had planned to wear tomorrow.

I need an IV for the STAB STAT.

"Two stabs this morning," the DNB messages.

Stay classy, HCMC, I think. That's the county hospital for you.

He comes home that evening and flops on the couch. "Rough day."

"I bet. Who stabs kids anyway?" I ask. It's still horrible to think about.

"Someone stabbed kids?" he replies. "Damn."

"Well, apparently," I say, sadly. "That's what you told me."

He looks at me, face blank. "I told you someone stabbed kids?"

"This morning. You messaged that there were two stabs, remember?" Is his short-term memory really this bad?

He thinks. "OH, stabs. Stabilizations."

"So no one got stabbed?" I ask, suddenly disappointed. "Quit using your fancy doctor jargon on me, you know how I feel about emotions."

No, Really, I'm Not Going to Pay.

The DNB's car won't start!

He's tired and cranky after a long call night, and he just wants to be home. Except he's stuck in the hospital parking ramp. I dutifully arrive to help him jump it, picking him up outside the ramp and entering with his parking card so he can direct me to his car.

Soon, his car is working and I drive to the exit, a line of cars snaking behind me.

"That will be $8.00," the Attendant proclaims, after I explain what happened.

"Eight dollars??? All I did was come in to help my husband jump his car!" I cry. This is ridiculous.

"Yes, but you do not have a ticket," she replies.

"I know. Because my husband works here and has a parking card. He let me in so I could JUMP HIS CAR. I mean, I didn't even park anywhere," I explain again.

"Ok," the Attendant says, steadfast. "I will give you this slip of paper, and you must pay it within 48 hours or your car will be towed." She walks outside her protective booth to take down my license plate number. The slip of paper says I owe $8.00.

"I'm not paying it," I say simply. I put the car in park.

"I can't open the gate without a ticket," the Attendant says.

"YES YOU CAN!" I cry again. "Otherwise, how are you going to let me out if you give me the slip of paper?"

"Well, I can if it is free parking or validated parking." The Attendant is getting antsy. She glances at the line of cars behind me.

"Great. I'd like the free parking please."

"Oh!" the Attendant perks up, seeing a light at the end of this trying tunnel. "Do you have a stamp for free parking?"

"NO! No, I don't! I don't have anything!"

She hands me the slip of paper. I take it grudgingly.

"I promise I'm not paying it," I repeat.

Eventually, she convinces me to pull through and wait for her Supervisor just on the other side of the gate. On the other side of the gate that she CAN TOO open without a ticket.

"So your husband used his parking card to enter yesterday?" the Supervisor repeats. "And then he used it again to let you in?"

"Yes. I picked him up outside so he could take me to his car."

"That's impossible. The parking card should only let you in if he's already driven out." These people are not what you might call Out of the Box Thinkers.

"Well, I'm not lying." What's she doing, trying to catch me in some Use My Husband's Thankless Job to Bilk Her Company out of Free Parking scheme?

The Supervisor runs through the ins and outs again. She pauses, deep in thought. "I think we're going to let this one go," she finally says, generously.

"Thank you," I reply. Because I am really not paying that.

Wherein the DNB makes it clear that HE is the adolescent.

The DNB attends a lecture!

The lecture is designed to train pediatric residents in the use of a structured adolescent interview method. This method focuses on eight key areas of adolescent concern: home, education, activities, drugs, depression, sexuality, suicidality, and safety. HEADDSSS.

Have you MET the DNB??

"We all love HEADDSSS!" the Chipper Woman leading the lecture gushes. "HEADDSSS is so important! When did YOU first use HEADDSSS?" She looks around the room, smiling.

The DNB pretends to cough.

"There are various HEADDSSS techniques," the Chipper Woman continues.

As the DNB pauses in his retelling, I frown at him knowingly.

"She used the word HEADDSSS in EVERY SENTENCE! I am not that grown up!" he argues. "Having an advanced degree does not make me above juvenile sex jokes."

Home Offices, and Destiny.

I get a new desk!

For a number of reasons, our "home office" setup has been in need of an upgrade. For nearly two years, we've used a horrible combination of wood composite file cabinets; the DNB's ancient desk, which is more like a drafting table, has only one, tiny drawer, and isn't tall enough to allow the arms of our chair to slide underneath it; and one of those super-cheap small bookshelves with the laminate finish. We're working four different colors of faux wood, which, not altogether inexplicably, irks me to no end.

Craiglist seems full of used furniture from Ikea, and let me just say that no piece of used Ikea furniture should ever be sold for more than $20 no matter how much it cost initially. I love the store, but Ikea is just not where you purchase items that hold their value. Or kitchen cups that don't require assembly.

After scouring Craiglist and the rest of the Interweb for weeks with no success, I finally decide it is time to enter a real store to shop for my new home office. We go to a used office furniture store and find the perfect, perfect solution. It's a gorgeous custom, cherry, L-shaped desk, with built-in file cabinets. It's also heavier than God, which is how you know you got a piece of quality furniture.

It's delivered the same day, and set up in our basement. The DNB opens and shuts each of the drawers, as if amazed to own a desk that has them.

"David Hearn, VP?" he exclaims, holding a scrap of paper.

I look over from where I'm sitting with my feet up on the desk, practicing my executive poses. "Who's that?"

"I think it's the guy who owned the desk," he says. "Let's Google him."

I do, but he's a tricky fellow to find. Finally, I come up with two options. According to Google, my kick-ass desk either belonged to a former VP of "Futon Life Online" (the Futon Furniture Magazine) or to an Approved Funeral Director & Embalmer Continuing Education Sponsor. And what's totally crazy about THAT is that when I was a freshman in college I took this computerized career survey that was supposed to tell me my ideal careers. After spending more than an hour answering in-depth questions about my work preferences and ideal environments, the computer spit out two suggested careers: air traffic controller or FUNERAL HOME DIRECTOR.

So it's pretty much fate that I own this desk now. It's like the circle of life. Or death. Or something to do with funerals.

Vagina Modelogues, Or THIS POST HAS LOTS OF CAPS.

"One of the best things about being in pediatrics is that it is rarely medically necessary to put your finger in a kid's butt or to peer inside a vagina," the DNB announces.

"Okay," I reply because there's really nothing more to be said.

"So tell me why it is that every few years, they make me put my finger in an adult's butt and do a pap smear," he goes on. "It makes no sense, but tomorrow I will be wrist-deep in vaginas." It's called Having A Way With Words.

The residency program has hired what the DNB fondly refers to as "Vagina Models." These are women who get paid to get annual exams. More than annually. Often a half-dozen times a day. Other than the pay, I assume these women get the satisfaction of helping to train bright young doctors, and the awesome bonus of leaving them completely shell-shocked.

"Oh my god one of the Vagina Models today was . . ." the DNB shudders as he recounts his day.

"That awful, huh?"

"Umm, she described the exam process as a 'search for the tonsils.' Except I was NOWHERE NEAR HER TONSILS. She kept reminding me that I needed to go 'up the mountain and down through the valley,' because that's what 'WORKS BEST FOR HER.'"

"That is completely weird," I sympathize.

"And that's not even the weirdest part!!" he practically yells. "I'm all in there and whatnot, and she tells me she LEFT A SURPRISE IN THERE FOR ME TO FIND."

I screech with glee. "She actually LEFT something IN THERE? Like a prize?" I'm so reward-motivated.

"I don't know, I'm thinking maybe it's a quarter! If I find it, can I keep it? Can I trade it for a different quarter that hasn't been IN SOMEONE'S VAGINA?"

He takes a deep breath, as if readying himself for the next bit.

"Go on," I demand. "What was the surprise; did you find it?"

"Oh yeah, I found it all right. It was a POLYP in her CERVIX."

I'm suddenly indignant. "Well that was totally misleading. Saying she 'left' something there implies that she actually placed something in there. A polyp isn't a surprise, it's a tissue growth. How lame."

"I KNOW, right? Unless she really did take a polyp from somewhere and put it in her cervix, which would be totally impressive."

We ponder this for a moment.

"Up the mountain, and down through the valley . . . " I repeat. It does have a ring to it.

Just a few more years till we can afford that Chia Pet

The DNB gets a raise!

It seems like quite a lot in his contract, so I eagerly await his first raised paycheck.

Only it ends up being just $21 extra dollars. I know it's a bad idea, but I do the math anyway. $42 extra dollars each month, divided by the 320 hours per month the DNB works.

13 cents an hour.

I buy him a piggy bank.

Subtract by Ten, Carry the One: A Trial Transcript I Worked On Last Week

Attorney: If it's the second year he got out and this is the year 2000, counting backwards, is it more or less accurate that he got out in 1998?

Witness: I don't know, maybe.

Attorney: You just said maybe two years?

Witness: If you can calculate that, fine. I can't calculate that fast.

Post-Call

The DNB was especially drained after a long call night. As he finally prepared to leave for the day, a staff physician stopped him.

"You look like you got eaten by a cat, crapped out, and then run over by a car," the insightful doctor commented.

Completely Inappropriate Job Match Suggestions Provided By An Online Career Site We'll Call MareerBuilder.com

• Optician
• Correctional Officer
• Pharmacist
• Parenting Coordinator
• Financial Exam Consultant
  
• Fluent Norwegian Document Review Attorney
• Security Console Operator
  

The way my older co-worker, who is completely unfamiliar with computers, cuts and pastes in Windows XP:

1. Highlight with mouse.
2. Click Edit.
3. Click Copy.
4. Position cursor.
5. Click Edit.
6. Click Paste.

Ways my co-workers avoid working:

1. Smoking
2. Napping in the meditation room
3. Disappearing for hours on end
4. Sitting at their desks and, not working

Before and After?

There is a scale outside the restrooms at work. I kid you not, every time I went to the bathroom today, someone was weighing themselves on it.