I like to think of myself as a superhero. I work tireless hours with little thanks under insane circumstances. However, I have come to the realization that I might just be a super-villain.
This transformation did not come to pass willfully; it evolved overtime without my direct intention. However, looking back, perhaps I never had a chance. I have even been working on my maniacal laugh. Muwahahahaha! Ok, maybe that part does not translate to writing, but believe me, if you heard it you likely would have just wet yourself.
Proof? You want proof? How dare you challenge me! Normally I would have one of my many minions obliterate you for doubting my power, but I will spare you for now. However, that is part of my proof. I have minions. I have medical students who will do anything I ask (though, like most super-villains, some of my minions are inept). I have residents that do my bidding. I even have supreme-minions (nurses) as well, but they have informed me that my bidding is taken as a suggestion (note to self, keep supreme-minions as happy as possible (chocolate seems to be the super-minions nemesis)).
Now I can hear you doubting my abilities. Granted, my superpowers may pale in comparison to Darth Vader (the Force choke), Voldemort (magic), or Lex Luthor (lots and lots of cash). But I have the ability to not eat for shifts at a time, and my camel-like bladder can withstand water pressure like the Hoover dam. Also, my internal BS-o-meter has been honed to laser accuracy.
What’s that? Your prescription for Vicodin accidentally fell into the toilet? Why are you doing taking your medication while peeing? Enjoy your ibuprofen, muahahaha!
I also dress like a villain. At our hospital, respiratory therapists wear blue scrubs and the nurses wear green. The doctors? We get to wear black. It reminds me of a scene from Despicable Me. I can see a nice six year old patient asking the villainous me questions.
Her: “Why are you wearing pajamas?”
Me: “Pajamas? These are elite doctor scrubs. They’re made for doing super cool stuff that you wouldn’t understand.”
Her: “Like sleeping?”
Me: “They’re not pajamas!”
I have seen more people die than the vast majority of the public. I pronounce people dead all the time. Sometimes I even pound on chests for a while right before I tell them they are dead.
I also wickedly rub my hands together. I do it all the time. Granted I do it with alcohol gel, but it still looks evil (try the maniacal laugh the next time you clean your hands, it is quite satisfying). Then, every so often I actually wash my hands with soap and water because I start to lose it with how slimy my hands are feeling.
I also intrude into the most invasive of personal places.
I jab people with random objects. I do not due this to be mean, but I am certain it feels that way from the patients perspective. I can imagine what patient must think goes on in an evil doctor’s mind.
“What’s that? Your stomach hurts? Well now your arm is going to hurt. Nurse, go jabby jabby jab the IV, muahahaha!
“You have seen blood in your stool? Uh-oh trouble is coming. Minion Gorilla-hands (medical student), go give him your size 11 glove rectal exam, muahahaha!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Motrin never works for your back pain of ten years, only dilaudid? How about a jabby jab of toradol, cause the other meds aren’t coming. Muahahahaha!”
No physician is purposefully mean. However, am I the only one who has had it up to my eyeballs with this politically correct garbage? We are not allowed to say anything that can offend a patient or hurt their feelings, even if it is in their own best interests. Might letting the inner villain out a little more actually help?
Your fibromyalgia is acting up? OK, how can I help? Oh, normally you get ten of morphine, 25 of Phenergan, and a Benadryl chaser? How about no? Muahahahaha!
You weigh 540 pounds and your knees hurt? How could that happen? Oh, I see, obesity runs in your family… NOBODY runs in your family, that’s the problem, muahahaha!
You are leaking some foul what from where? Why don’t you stop sleeping with everything that barks the words “you’re pretty?” Assemble the pelvic cart of doom, grab some swabs, time to go to Australia (down under).
You want me to fill out disability paperwork for your anxiety in the ER? Oh, AND you would like a prescription for medical marijuana? I believe the Joker said it best.
We are continually berated for making patients unhappy. Yet we are responsible for their terrible decisions. We shirk telling them they are overweight. We fear condoning their non-compliance. When an asthmatic continues to smoke they are killing themselves slowly with stupidity, yet we fear the repercussions of blunt honesty. Skip that.
If I have to make the choice between a patients happiness or a patients health? I will go ahead and be the villain.
Oh, and for the record, here is my maniacal laugh…
Feel the terror.
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