I stared at Dr. W, then looked at the huge cabinet filled with various surgical implements, neatly packed individually in sterile packages.
“Uh huh. Scalpel. Coming right up.”
Tentatively, I reached for something that looked sharp enough to cut through skin.
“Nope. Not that one.”
I reached for another one.
“Not that one either.”
“Remind me again why you thought this was a good idea?”
“Oh, don’t worry, you’re doing great, just grab the one at the end there. Now give it to me.”
“If you at any point during this tell me to wipe your forehead, I’m sticking the scalpel in you.”
It started like any other Monday. I got to work at 7:45 am, turned on the computer, and greeted Dr. W. In retrospect, I think that’s where things went wrong. By 8:05, I was assisting Dr. W while he was cutting a woman open.
Well, cutting her open might have been a bit of an exaggeration. But he did cut away a huge mole right in the middle of her chest while I was busy not contaminating any of the instruments he had me put out and trying to ignore the fact that I normally faint just when having my blood drawn.
To my own amazement, my hand holding out a plastic jar for the severed mole was as steady as ever, and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I looked positively excited. Maybe I missed my calling.
But I digress. Back to the beginning. So there I was, pulling out scalpels and scissors and suture kits and alcohol, some of it for cleaning the area, some of it not so much. The poor woman on the table was staring at me, wide-eyed, as if she somehow suspected I had no clue about what I was doing.
I didn’t, of course, but she didn’t need to know that. So for the next 20 minutes, I did what anyone would have done when confronted with hysterical patients, rogue moles and irresponsible doctors with scalpels.
I faked it. And I did it well.
I love my job.
This post was written for Nicky and Mike's 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing III. To see the other posts, please visit We Work For Cheese. *