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Jett Superior laid this on you on || September 28, 2006 || 10:58 pm

First do no harm, my ass.

Let me just say, HELLO! I LOVE MY JOB! I love my very great office, which is homey. I love my very great boss, who is one of my best friends. I love working alongside the rest of the small(ish) staff, because we are like family and we earnestly and honestly do give a shit about our patients. We get to wear street clothes, because my boss wants an open, welcoming (dare I say familial?) environment for those under his care. There are not a ton of healthcare-related jobs (at least here in the U.S.) that I would imagine make you so comfortable and evoke the feeling that you are really and truly helping people consistently and constantly. Bureaucracy, bullshit and red tape tend to rule the day in most healthcare settings. This, I imagine, would make one feel somewhat impotent as a healthcare professional and a human being.

Not so at the place I work. We love our patients and give them the best attention, encouragement and treatment that we can possibly muster. The doc sets the tone and we fall into line, because it is a Generally Good Way To Be.

That being said, every so often a patient comes down the pike that makes me go all a big stabby one. Like, for instance:

Older man and older laydeh came in. Although they are both patients, only Mister Man was being seen; they signed in, I pulled the chart, I took them back to a room. I put them in a spacious room, because he totters a decent bit and I always have these vivid pictures in my head of him falling slap over one day into a wall, a counter, a table, a chair. This room, at least, will give us ample room to get around and (hopefully) catch him Just In Case. And, in the forinstance that my athletic prowess fails me and I cannot both adequately leap, piroutte and get underneath to shore him up, he has a wide-open berth and only floor to hit.

You people, I am nothing if not a forward-thinker.

So I put him on the treatment table. This particular patient is administered therapy before being seen, so I got to it. There was his wife sitting in a chair on one side of the room, the table holding Mister Man, then me on the other side of the table, doin’ mah do. He was face-down, and his hand found my sandal-clad foot.

“Hmm,” I think, “Hmmmm.” but I let it pass, because he has missed the hand rests once or twice before and his hand has come to rest very near or just touching my foot previously. I continued with what I was doing when I felt his palm come to rest on the top of my foot. Something in me recoiled, but I continued my end of the plan, which was to get him ready for the doctor and move on to my next patient. I was busily therapizing old buzzard when, yes indeed, his hand went from a limp resting thing on the top of my foot to a icky, meaty caress up, over, and around the back of my heel.


Perhaps you remember that I am a “That. DOES. it.” kinda girl. I didn’t reach that point –even though my head was screaming out in insult and rage– until he moved his paw around to the back of my heel and began sort of working at the strap, pushing down on it. I kept on working, his wife none the wiser of the grody little dance happening not five feet from her. On about his second or third downward stroke, I carefully lifted my foot a few inches as if to shift my weight or change my stance, and I came down with the stiff leather-bottomed sole of my sandal on his hand. I worked away while applying steady, grinding pressure on that there hand with my heel.

He said not one word, but he didn’t make eye contact with me as he was leaving, either.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I’m accustomed to getting hit on in a professional setting from time to time. I’m not a prude about it, either. It is what it is. We humans, we are visual, sexual creatures. I’ve been known to crudely catcall a fetching young man a time or two in my life. I’m a lot of things, but a proponent of double standards is not one of them. Ebb and flow, baby.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Back in January, this older fellow came in with his wife. He seemed to be the epitome of the doting, reverent mate. Until, that is, his sweet little white-haired bride went back for ex-rays. He sat down in the waiting room, eyeing me as I tended to other patients. When there was a lull and only two patients in the waiting room, he gestured to me. I went over to him to see what he needed; he mumbled something sort of incoherently and I leaned in, “Excuse me?”

He stood up, placed his lips about an inch from my right ear and said, “Why don’t you take that sweater off and show me them titties?” It’s not common practice for me to be mortified, and even if a sense of mortification starts creeping dread about my frame, it doesn’t make it much past my knees before morphing into righteous indignance.

I stiffened (great, dumbass, stick the rack further out there for the old feeb), turned toward him and spat, “What did you say to me??” One of the other patients, whom we we will refer to as Damn What A Smokin’ Stack Of Eye Candy turned completely around in his chair to face us, his brows raised. Okay, so he heard it, too. I wasn’t losing the grip on reality that I sometimes have to cling to somewhat fiercely.

“I said, ‘Why don’t you take that sweater off and show me them titties?’” and he grinned stupid like we were playing a game.

“That is completely inappropriate,” I said, employing the sort of tone you use with an errant five-year-old, “and I’m going to have to ask you to plant your butt in that chair there and not speak another syllable until after you’ve left here.”

And he did, somewhat petulant, offended look on his face the entire time. He was offended, PSH.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

So we’ve learned today that if I am ever in need of a nicely pervy old sugar daddy, I am indeed capable of procuring one. One has to have a set of strengths to fall back on, and it’s nice to be made aware of their complete spectrum.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

So the tone of the office is going to change a little bit. We’ve ordered up scrubs in a delightful array of hues with loads and loads of pockets. I’m a experiencing a little trepidation about this, because I like our cool-casual atmosphere. Conversely, I am a HUGE fan of pockets. The amount of pockets on your scrubs signifies a great deal of importance and authority. At least in my way of thinking. Plus, I’m pretty jazzed to have a place for my mobile, my pen(s), my Tic-Tacs, my Swiss Army knife, my carefully-gathered phone numbers of potential older gentleman suitors.

“At least there won’t be any more old bastards asking me to show them my tits.” I said to Tess. She shook her head ever so slightly, as if to say Oh You Poor Misguided And Silly Mortal-Girl.

You see, I was under the mistaken assumption that wearing scrubs renders you sort of sexless and by association, somewhat unattractive. Not so, Tess tells me.

“ALL SORTS of men are hot for chicks in scrubs. When I worked at the hospital, I got hit on like eighty times a day. I could have rubbed a cheese grater across my face and not brushed my hair for a week, sister.”

I ran her assessment past Maxim and he heartily concurred.

“I can’t wait until next week,” he sort of hissed to me tonight. Then he waggled his eyebrows in a basic grotesque fashion. With scrubs, I also get to wear running shoes to the office every day. Good thing, as I apparently am going to need the damned things.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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