Promise

"I notice that you didn't admit to slipping me and C each others' email addresses after my previous relationship ended. This whole thing is all your fault, you know." Said Moira.

And I said, that is her story. I can only tell my side of it. But I am going back a bit further, to explain the circumstances of our friendship. To explain what I know of my friend. For that, it takes the background of a truly alien place. Surgery.

I'd been in the OR for about three years, which is to say I was getting to be pretty proficient. It was on the job training, since the hiring freeze five years earlier, when was new, I was in the first year of new hires. The old staff was not accustomed to new folks, and it was with mixed feelings, and uneven skills, patchy patience and occasional hostility that they welcomed us. Learning this protocol ridden, exacting, demanding specialty is excruciating under ideal circumstances. There is little or no slowing down to allow for thorough learning, the surgery sweeps along in a torrent, and the newbie must cling and cope. Sterility is absolute, scrutiny is constant, correction is swift, and justice has nothing to do with it. Surgeons and Anesthesiologists demand attention and swift response, usually for very good reasons, often enough simply as habit. Old nurses bite. The mass of details that must be learned and rules adhered to are an ocean of crashing confusion. The white noise from the ventilator, positive air pressure, warmers, autoclave, compression boots and various equipment hums, alarms and beeps, conversation and music for distraction, mean that it is almost impossible to hear anyone. It takes a while to grow OR ears, to pick out what is important, what questions are directed at me, what is not my problem. Standing in the right place, not contaminating anything, remembering what all the instruments are called, not dropping anything, standing so as not to contaminate oneself.

This was all home to me on the day Moira walked in. Tall, way too skinny, sharp, a bit too bright, achingly young. One of a group of scrub tech students I'd seen skirting through the lounge on the days the hospital had them all in classes, before being let into the guts of the OR. She appeared nervous, but determined, there was steel armature beneath the prettiness, a grit that marked her, to my eyes, as one who was going to make it. Old OR folks reflexively, if not always correctly, size up the new hires, techs and nurses and medical students alike. The attitude is not so important as the attentiveness. Moira was all perked up ears. Even if she couldn't hear a thing.

We chatted in the locker room on the way out that afternoon, she laughed at a joke I'd made. I often made remarks that few if any heard or responded to, I kept quipping to amuse myself. That she noticed, thought me funny, was a big flag saying, this one is going to be fun. She would tell me later I'd said something irreverent, which really didn't narrow it down much for me. But she'd marked me as a woman to say anything to.

Touching is part of the job, a soft tap on the back, a hand laid below the back of the neck, safely away from any sterile areas, is a gentle way to get attention and not startle, while specifying who needs to be listening. This flows over to non-sterile areas, an habitual way of greeting. When new, this feels very intrusive. Threatening - to have one's back touched as normal greeting. With Moira, I knew to be very careful doing this.

Contrariwise, when scrubbed, when training her so new to scrubbing, I needed to grab her hands, touch her arm, hand an instrument, or demonstrate, while not talking, not distracting the surgeon talking to his resident. I knew that like me she would feel this as too very forceful, pushy. No time for words, I had to hand the instrument to the surgeon, and hold her back, without words, without interrupting the flow. I laid a soft hand on the forearm to reassure, to calm, because not being able to pass a clamp properly feels like failure, ineptitude, shame. It is an intense experience, even after the motions become a long rehearsed dance. Because there is always improvisation, each surgery a new variation. Makes it hard to teach, as muscle memory must be experienced and layered to be known in the bones. Riding a bicycle cubed. She allowed herself, over strong internal resistance, to be comforted.

Moira was a quick learner, seldom repeated mistakes, struggled to stay calm, quietly soaked in until she looked about to burst. She was getting good after a few months, when one day she was with me with the double surgeon team of Johnson and Thompson, oncology, tumor debulking, big cases, demanding, fast, skilled, loud pair, one left handed one right handed, who egged each other on, add in a med student, a resident. She was on her own with them for the first time, and they were chewing on her. I was backing her up, and although it sounds bad, I knew they would treat her much better (not like it felt better) if I did not scrub in as well. Adam was the old nurse circulator - he worked with the Dreadful Duo regularly, and had a rough, guy-rapport with them. I knew them for what they were, and they were my weird loud grandpas by then. She made a 'mistake', they yelled, she bit back tears, we did what we could to defuse, and gave her what she needed, cheered her on with gestures, distracted the surgeons by taking on blame, and kept her afloat. I relieved her for lunch, and reassured her that she was up to this. When she came back, shaking but grim, they made a dirty joke, and she topped it. They laughed, and she gave a firm nod. She had 'em, and she knew it.

On New Year's Eve, I invited her, with all due disclaimers, to spend the pseudo holiday with me, and D and his computer geek, socially inept, clever, witty and kind bunch of guy friends to watch Mystery Science Theater 3000. Sadly, she had nothing better to do, and luckily, she showed up. She went over very well with them, and she seemed to hesitantly enjoy herself. She became on of the regular crowd, joining in for occasional trips to dinner. She got to hear about the C stories. C being one of the CS class who had moved out to San Diego the year before. C and his family automotive curse. C and the naked computer component set up, C and the one eyed cat, C and the bag of super balls on his birthday.

Moira became my friend, the one she talked to, but not about everything, I knew. Hints and whispers, shy admissions with obvious expectation that each would send me running. And evident surprize when I stayed and understood. She was the first I invited when D and I finally had our wedding reception, 10 year approximate anniversary of the beginning, 7 of the legal marriage. We invited C of course, and all the friends we could gather in a Lebanese restaurant, for food and talk and a bellydancer. We are not natural party givers, but this seemed important, as we did the legal ceremony in his parent's living room with the Mormon Bishop, with only parents and brothers. And all the friends looked so disappointed not to have been invited. It took a while, but the celebration was going to happen. It turned out to be the best way to spend our money in our year of prosperity. Two small children ran around, dancing happened to unexpected people. And C met Moira.

After it was over, in the car back to our friends house, C asked me about her.

"Is she serious about that boyfriend?"
"I don't really know, I think so."
"If they do break up, promise you will give her my address and phone number. I think she is really cute." I knew this to be high praise from C.
"If they do, I promise I will."

And Moira did dump the guy she brought. And I had to figure out how to get the information to her without being a yenta. I did mention to her that C thought her cute, presented as a way to make her feel better about herself in the soul crushing experience of a break-up. But saying nothing more. Then, with D's help, I sent a purposefully awkward group email, under the pretense of learning how to use the feature. With everyone's email on the list - names attached. Promise fulfilled. That was all I did, keep a promise.

Moira, your turn, it's your story from this point on.