One of those days that looked good on paper, the schedule was straightforward. The day? Anything but. Ah, well, this is my worklife. FUBAR, Catastrofuck, although by the definition of anyone who's worked in a trauma OR, not a bad day. (A good day is when everyone goes home alive. I've had bad days. Not in years, though.) A famous athlete (local), hesitated to have surgery, and threw everyone's day off. The other side of it was a foot surgeon with two rooms, and not a fellow, PA nor resident in sight, to make that work. Two rooms means a surgeon can cut out suture closing, splint application, as well as our turnover (cleaning, setting up). Without a resident to close the incision, a PA to prep and drape, there is little point in doing more than one room. Still, surgeon all on his own, had two rooms, and got very behind schedule.
Planning to go have my roast duck dinner on Saturday, while poor Dylan will have to make do with pepper beef or kung pao chicken. Somehow, he doesn't seem to mind.
Moby has been a hungry cat all day, Dylan tells me he's been eating all through. He has already lost some of that terrible thinness, even had a real, if short, chase and wrestle, with Eleanor. We consider this as good a day as we can imagine.
Another day of probably much the same tomorrow.
3 comments:
much the same tomorrow is a very good thing.
Glad you got through it and can file it as a success. Makes me think that my workdays are very small beer. Not much chance of drama barring a fire drill. Which is okay with me. Hungry cat sounds like a good sign. Here's to hunger, friendly wrasslin, and satiation.
More to say on that, then.
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