Time: 3:58 AM
Batteries: 75% (not bad for first day back on nights after 4 days off)
“If something happens to my child, it’s YOUR FAULT,” he said, jabbing a finger at me. He turned on his heel and stalked off.
I often fantasize about getting into a fight with an angry parent at work. My desk is full of things that could could be used as weapons: a pair of scissors; a Spectralink; an addressograph (man, would the addressograph ever hurt!); a small metal bowl full of paperclips– Bas Rutten would have a field day if he was still making self deffense videos. Can you imagine the possibilities in a hospital setting? I mean, barring the obvious stuff that’s metal or pointy, given enough thought, even an alcohol swab could be a fingerful of pain– a tongue depressor could be an instrument of total ruin.
Everytime someone flaps their jaw at me, my brain translates their body mechanics into wire frames on nodes and memorizes it. I won’t remember their face but I might remember the way their face moves, and if there’s one thing that uses a lot of muscles, so much so that it’s almost like a fingerprint, it’s when someone gets pissed off.
And in my head, I’m generating simulations– what would happen to the shape of his face if I gave this dude a case of qwerty-itis? What expression would he have if I took his medicare card and stapled it to his forehead (Dwayne Johnson style in “Get Smart”)? What about if I told him, “Okay, you guys can go into room 23, you’ll be seen right away!” then stuck out my foot and tripped him and then said “Haha! PSYCHE!”
My name is [Jinryu], I am a closet sociopath, and nothing you say in court would ever hold up. Bring me your sick and wounded children.
In all seriousness, “Asshole,” coughed [AM], one of the nurses standing nearby, when he’d gone back through the door to the waiting room. “Where the hell is security? We shouldn’t have to deal with this shit. That’s all these assholes do. Shit all over the place.”
I didn’t say anything at first. I can’t say I was majorly shocked, but I was a bit surprised because it’s the first time anyone’s been so direct about placing blame directly on me for the long wait times in Emerg.
The truth is, I judge by appearances to a certain extent. When I see a guy with the tight shift, pretty muscular build, crew cut and some tats on the forearm, I think, “Tough Guy.” I don’t always act on what I judge though, which is a good thing, because I think I’m pretty creative about imagining peoples’ torrid and terrible pasts. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know the guy because whatever way I judge him isn’t going to affect the way I treat him (I’m a professional, afterall) but it will affect the way I think about him in my head.
In my head, I’m thinking “Not so tough, are you, Tough Guy?” Then I ask the operator to load up the dojo program.
Be you pauper or prince, everybody waits in the waiting room. In the meantime, we can tangle all you want– I’m not going to lose, because the very nature of the game is on my side.
Yeah yeah, I should be thinking about the children and all that. I hear that all the time from people who don’t work where I work. The thing is, I work here, and I don’t think about the children. Really, I don’t. At least, not all the time. It is morally convenient for me that I work in a job that benefits them, so I get brownie points over dinners and stuff like that (SiB seems to be in the habit of introducing me as someone who “saves babies for a living”) but while I’m here, I really don’t think about it that much. I’m just sayin’, y’know. The reason being is that if I did, I would age 5x faster and probably start suffering from manic depression.
Okay, well, I’m not entirely a horrible person– I do think about the children, in a way not unlike the abstract way people dont often deal with children do. It’s just that perhaps I see things with a closer or more updated perspective than someone who picks up a newspaper and reads about our love-hate relationship with the Quebec healthcare system.
On lighter notes,
I got my work ID card, finally. The last time I worked at a hospital, which was before I left for Korea for a year, I worked for over 3 years as a coordinator / nursing department manager and never got around to making my security ID card. I mean, I got a free RFID pass to let me in through the gates after hours, but I never actually had a card made with my name or picture on it. I would just walk around the hospital and tell people “Oh, I forgot my card. Can you swipe me in?” and that, combined with the fact that I had the hospital supervisors keys, got me into 99.99999% of where I wanted to go. For other things, it was a question of using existing access to find devices (keys or keycards) to gain access to additional areas. Much like the way you would find keys in Legend of Zelda, but without the swords and Triforce.
I had access to a crapload of stuff, including the stuff in the CSR, which would be any crack-addict’s needle/syringe heaven, among a whole 6 page alphabetized list of other things in the typical non-pharmaceutical inventory.
Anyway, my point is, I’ve never actually had a hospital ID card before.
Imagine my joy when I passed by security early this morning and [Kinny] asked me if I’d seen my new ID already.
“Oh yeah? I thought it takes two weeks to make.”
“Nah, two days. Just that usually we’re lazy, so we don’t make no grandoise promises.” He rifles through the rolodex of cards and picks me out mine.
So, here’s the funny thing about my ID card. First of all, I wear prescription sunglasses. They’ve got orange lenses. I do have normal prescription glasses with clear lenses but I never wear them, because one of the lenses is broken. But, when I’m outside during daywalker hours, I do tend to wear my orange sunglasses. Because they’re not too dark, I often walk inside buildings without taking them off because I can still see just fine.
Well, I went to the Montreal General Hospital last week to have my photo ID taken, and I forgot to take my sunglasses off. And the dude who was taking ID photos didn’t give enough of a rat’s posterior to point this out, so, I didn’t notice. So, problem number one with my ID is that I’m wearing sunglasses in my picture.
Problem number two is that when the photographer asked me what rank of administration I’m in, I had the choice between 1, 2 and 3. I wasn’t sure, so I took the average of the three and just guessed two.
Apparently, they don’t check up on it and correct it, because my ID card has me written in as “Agent administratif Classe 2, Urgence”. On the back, it says “Intervenant d’urgence”
Turns out, this is wrong. Everyone in my department is actually a Class 3.
Sooooooo, I officially have the coolest ID card in my department, because I’m wearing my orange sunglasses (and matching orange hoodie under my scrubs!) in my photo, and I’m also one rank above everyone in my department, including my boss. And yeah, I’ve got an RFID keypass too now.
Yes, your tax dollars pay my salary.
Oh, whaddya know– it’s banana cake time!
Yesterday, after I’d finished all my errands and done my haircut, I had a bit of time to kill so I flung out a message to MaoMao to see if she needed any food from Chinatown. Text communications were kinda slow so I just took some initiative, got her something cheap, and headed out to her workplace in Old Montreal.
I’d never been in that area of Old Montreal purposely before, and I must say that when you’re on a bike with thin tires, cobblestone roads with inch wide cracks, while you’re holding takeout with one hand, well, it’s a bit daunting.
It’s kinda cool though to pass around that area, and her store. I just haven’t been to Old Montreal in a really long time. Now that I’ve actually got a job that pays money, I might actually be able to afford eating in that area, so that changes everything. Maybe next time I’m downtown, instead of the same old same old, we’ll head out to Old Montreal and soak up some of that archaic ambiance, like a genuine yuppie?