never will.”
“You can no longer speak to them the way you have in the past.”
“I’m trying to save lives here, not spare feelings.”
“You’re on the verge of losing your career.”
“Not if I keep winning.”
“Winning?” he says.
He gives me a long look. “You’re one dead patient away from losing your job.”
“What if it’s the nurses’ fault? I’ve never worked with them before. What if they suck?”
“That’s pretty much on you, isn’t it?”
“I’m telling you right now, I don’t trust a pretty nurse.”
“This nurse isn’t pretty, she’s drop-dead gorgeous, and has stronger credentials than anyone we’ve ever employed. You will not insult her.”
26.
OLDER PEOPLE KNOW exactly where they were and what they were doing the moment they heard President Kennedy was shot. Younger ones remember the terrorist attacks of 9/11. And everyone remembers their first love.
I’m in the cafeteria, eating a cup of vanilla pudding, when the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen walks over to my table, sits down, and extends her hand.
“Hello, Dr. Box,” she says in a voice I’m certain will haunt me the rest of my life.
I take her hand, and a current of energy flows through my body.
“You’re my new assistant?” I ask.
“One of them,” she says.
“Your name?”
“Rose.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rose.”
“Thank you, Dr. Box.”
“Have the gods seen fit to give you a last name?”
“Stout.”
“Rose Stout ?”
She nods.
“A misnomer if ever I heard one,” I say. “What’s that you’re holding?”
“Birch bark tea,” she says.
“Is it good?”
“It’s ghastly.”
I laugh. “Then why drink it?”
“It’s not for me, it’s for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m not a tea drinker.”
She places the cup on the table in front of me. “Drink this now, while I watch. I’ll brew you some more every four hours. By morning you’ll feel like a new man.”
“Are you serious?” I say.
“Quite.”
“Three things,” I say. “First, I don’t believe in homeopathic remedies. Second, it concerns me greatly that a nurse I’m relying on does believe in something the entire scientific community has disproved time and again. And third, you won’t be brewing tea for me every four hours because I’m heading home soon and you have no idea where I live.”
She pats my hand, stands, and takes the empty cup away.
“See you soon, Dr. Box,” she says.
Empty cup?
27.
ROSE AND MELBA are CVOR registered nurses, trained to assist surgeons, perfusionists, and anesthesiologists in a cardiovascular operating room.
“Rose,” I say.
“Yes sir?”
“Let’s hear your background.”
“Two years CVOR, first assist, two years CVICU.”
“Where?”
“Cleveland Clinic.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s on my resume.”
“Why would you switch from intensive care to operating room?”
“Better pay, better hours.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Apparently they’re having problems finding CVOR nurses to work with you.”
“You’re first assist?”
“I am.”
“You can’t possibly be more than thirty.”
“I can be as old as I like.”
That strikes me as an odd thing to say.
“Tell me more about your training.”
“I’m a three-category APRN with four years CNOR and CVOR experience.”
“Which three categories?”
“CNM, NP and CNS. As a nurse leader.”
“And you received your MSN from?”
“Johns Hopkins.”
What she’s saying, she’s an advanced practice registered nurse certified to assist in cardio-vascular operating rooms and intensive care units. She’s also a certified nurse midwife, a nurse practitioner, and a clinical nurse specialist, who happened to receive her master of science in nursing from Johns Hopkins, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Oh, and she did four years at the Cleveland Clinic, arguably the finest heart care facility on the planet earth. If her
“You can no longer speak to them the way you have in the past.”
“I’m trying to save lives here, not spare feelings.”
“You’re on the verge of losing your career.”
“Not if I keep winning.”
“Winning?” he says.
He gives me a long look. “You’re one dead patient away from losing your job.”
“What if it’s the nurses’ fault? I’ve never worked with them before. What if they suck?”
“That’s pretty much on you, isn’t it?”
“I’m telling you right now, I don’t trust a pretty nurse.”
“This nurse isn’t pretty, she’s drop-dead gorgeous, and has stronger credentials than anyone we’ve ever employed. You will not insult her.”
26.
OLDER PEOPLE KNOW exactly where they were and what they were doing the moment they heard President Kennedy was shot. Younger ones remember the terrorist attacks of 9/11. And everyone remembers their first love.
I’m in the cafeteria, eating a cup of vanilla pudding, when the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen walks over to my table, sits down, and extends her hand.
“Hello, Dr. Box,” she says in a voice I’m certain will haunt me the rest of my life.
I take her hand, and a current of energy flows through my body.
“You’re my new assistant?” I ask.
“One of them,” she says.
“Your name?”
“Rose.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rose.”
“Thank you, Dr. Box.”
“Have the gods seen fit to give you a last name?”
“Stout.”
“Rose Stout ?”
She nods.
“A misnomer if ever I heard one,” I say. “What’s that you’re holding?”
“Birch bark tea,” she says.
“Is it good?”
“It’s ghastly.”
I laugh. “Then why drink it?”
“It’s not for me, it’s for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m not a tea drinker.”
She places the cup on the table in front of me. “Drink this now, while I watch. I’ll brew you some more every four hours. By morning you’ll feel like a new man.”
“Are you serious?” I say.
“Quite.”
“Three things,” I say. “First, I don’t believe in homeopathic remedies. Second, it concerns me greatly that a nurse I’m relying on does believe in something the entire scientific community has disproved time and again. And third, you won’t be brewing tea for me every four hours because I’m heading home soon and you have no idea where I live.”
She pats my hand, stands, and takes the empty cup away.
“See you soon, Dr. Box,” she says.
Empty cup?
27.
ROSE AND MELBA are CVOR registered nurses, trained to assist surgeons, perfusionists, and anesthesiologists in a cardiovascular operating room.
“Rose,” I say.
“Yes sir?”
“Let’s hear your background.”
“Two years CVOR, first assist, two years CVICU.”
“Where?”
“Cleveland Clinic.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s on my resume.”
“Why would you switch from intensive care to operating room?”
“Better pay, better hours.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Apparently they’re having problems finding CVOR nurses to work with you.”
“You’re first assist?”
“I am.”
“You can’t possibly be more than thirty.”
“I can be as old as I like.”
That strikes me as an odd thing to say.
“Tell me more about your training.”
“I’m a three-category APRN with four years CNOR and CVOR experience.”
“Which three categories?”
“CNM, NP and CNS. As a nurse leader.”
“And you received your MSN from?”
“Johns Hopkins.”
What she’s saying, she’s an advanced practice registered nurse certified to assist in cardio-vascular operating rooms and intensive care units. She’s also a certified nurse midwife, a nurse practitioner, and a clinical nurse specialist, who happened to receive her master of science in nursing from Johns Hopkins, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Oh, and she did four years at the Cleveland Clinic, arguably the finest heart care facility on the planet earth. If her
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