One hears those words a lot from people who don’t understand just what it’s like to “only work three days.” This three day weekend I just pulled felt like it lasted a month. It is amazing what humanity can throw at you in three 12-hour shifts. And I think any healthcare worker can attest to the fact that a 12-hour shift is rarely only 12 hours. At the very least the shifts are 12.5 hours and usually stretch to almost 13.
As I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that these shifts get longer, and my brain gets mushier. Fifteen years ago I could work six 12-hour shifts in a row and never bat an eye. Sure, I’d be tired and cranky, but at least I could function and pass as human. These days by the time I begin my third shift I’m lucky if I can even spell my name correctly and not drool on myself while applying my make up. If I were mistaken for a club wielding troglodyte who resembled Captain Caveman I would not be surprised.
I went into this weekend with a positive outlook and high hopes. The weather had improved, and often with a significant change in the weather you’ll get at least one day that’s pretty slow as people adjust to the change. In fact, when I arrived at work it looked pretty promising. The ER wasn’t too crowded, the floors were staffed well, and that sense of impending doom that usually accompanies flu season was absent. Then, just as I was sitting down with a cup of coffee to glance at my work email, all hell broke loose. That was at 7:15. Hell didn’t leave our vicinity until about 3 a.m. Three level one traumas hit us before 9:30. That would tax an ER even when fully staffed, which we weren’t. But when you have great people, which we do, you somehow just make it through the madness.
After Friday night I was pretty proud of myself for just rolling out of bed to pee on Saturday afternoon. The last thing I wanted to do was put on scrubs and go back for another pummeling. Saturday night proved to be a good shift, however. It was such a good shift that at one point the ER doc actually told me he was bored. (!) Yes, that almost got him killed, but we kind of like him, so we let it slide.
Despite the great shift I had, when I got home I still fell into bed exhausted and slept almost immediately. Unfortunately, I slept until only 1:30, at which point I was wide awake and pissed off since I had to be back to work in just five hours. I think the fact that I’m almost 50 has a lot to do with my shortened sleep time. You know – hormones shifting, menopause sneaking up on you, blah, blah, blah.
Do you know what else this aging thing affects? The internal thermostat. Yep. I was sitting in my office, not doing anything strenuous, when my SCALP started to sweat. My scalp. I checked the thermostat in the office. It was set at a comfortable 70 degrees. A hot flash. Thanks Mother Nature. I like it when sweat trickles down my head. Feels good. You know what else feels good? Walking down the hall to the elevator and having to stop to ask myself the very real question of: Hmm. Is that butt hole sweat or anal leakage? I shrugged and thought, “Well, we’ll just go with the butt hole sweat for now.”
That special feeling is rivaled only by getting on the elevator – alone – and thinking: Holy hell, what is that smell? I did a pit check. It smelled as if someone had rubbed a dirty gym sock under my arms. Thankfully some deodorant had long, long ago been stashed in the office, so I was able to use it. It now looks like someone dipped the roller ball in napalm, but that’s neither here nor there.
And that’s how I finished “only three days”: red-faced, sweaty, looking like I have lice because the scalp sweat itches, excreting pit juice that could replace napalm, and swampy-assed. I am consoled by the fact that I will not be expected to “people” today and feel totally justified in biting anyone who says the phrase “only three days.”
P. S. It was only butt hole sweat.
The High Maintenance Hippie 