The Other Side

the years teach much which the days never knew

Ralph Waldo Emerson

As I sit at our dining room table to write my first words in five months, I am realizing just how much I've missed writing about both my personal and professional life experiences. Though my family and close friends may know my reasons for this unplanned break, you, my friends and readers from StorytellERdoc, do not. So instead of diving head-first into writing a funny, planned posting, I thought I might simply change course to write and say "hello" and "how the hell are you" to each of you.

Let me briefly explain my absence. Simply, I began to have some vision problems last November, ultimately resulting in urgent surgery. Always the doctor and never the patient, this was my first real health scare. Following successful eye surgery, I was forced to take a few months time to recover. This break included absolutely no gym time and, most odd for me, no work time. Looking back on my career, I had never had so much as a week or two break from working in the ER. This inactivity, at first painfully frustrating, ultimately proved to be one of the greatest learning experiences thus far in my life.

For the first few weeks following surgery, I had to wear an eye patch, a blue, oval-shaped piece of perforated aluminum paper-taped to my face. With this new accessory, I spent much time in front of the mirror, looking to find that invincible, healthy fellow I once was. I couldn't find him. Friends tried to make me feel better, telling me I looked "sexier" with an eye-patch, but I saw through their flimsy compliment--the only way to look sexier, I reasoned while laughing with them, was to have sexy to begin with. My kids, hesitant at first, realized that patch or no patch, I was still the same Dad that I had always been. In fact, soon after surgery, Cole had a basketball game that I wanted to attend. "Cole," I asked, "is it okay if I come to your game with my patch or would you rather I stay home?" Without even a hint of pause, his resounding reply inspired me. "Of course you are coming, Dad, why wouldn't you?"

After several weeks, I was able to lose the eye patch. More importantly, with healing and some serious introspection and reflection, I was able to regain my perspective of what is most important in this journey of life. Family. Friends. Humor. Love. Compassion and kindness. Living a purposeful life.

Part of this time away included reevaluating my job differently. Although I still considered kindness and compassion at the forefront of my ER interactions with patients and their families, even I was not immune to a growing cynicism that occasionally seems to be pervading our medical field. Maybe this had even leaked itself into some previous writings. Luckily, though, I feel more privileged than I ever have, since residency even, in walking the halls of our emergency department and providing care to such a diverse and unique collection of patients. Of course, there will always be patients that are obnoxiously difficult, but my reserve to find something good in each and every patient has definitely been refueled. I've been honestly warned, however, by several of my hard-working partners. "Just give it a few months, Jim," they said, "and then see if you feel the same way about things." I can only hope that I have some great staying-power. I feel I do.

Being a patient, I have also learned and witnessed first-hand just how important a role a doctor can play in one's recovery. Luckily, I am surrounded by four absolutely incredible individuals who have prioritized being a compassionate person first and playing a doctor second, proving that one doesn't need to place himself on a pedestal to be amazing at what he can do. This all-star team of providers, however, did not come without some rearranging on my part. I removed from my team, so to speak, one nationally-recognized specialist who was less than stellar in both his personality and in his style of delivering unwanted news. Although this specialist may have been quite good at what he does, I was less than impressed with his all-around abilities to communicate. To heal well and remain positive throughout my ordeal, I insisted on only being surrounded by similar individuals.

Overall, I have much to be thankful for. An almost complete recovery. A supportive family. Supportive friends. And supportive co-workers. What could have been a terrible outcome was not. For this reason, I will always be humble and grateful. Returning to work, I was greeted with many kindnesses and friendly, encouraging words. Hugs included. I also returned to some sadness as well. One of my favorite nurses, Sue, tragically lost her son during my absence. My ordeal embarrassingly pales in comparison to this tragic event of her life. To hug her and share tears with her as she attempted to give me a warm welcome-back smile speaks volumes of her strength and character.    

So there you have it. Officially, I have now returned to my life as I know it. Playing doctor full-time. Playing Dad full-time. Attempting to be a writer again. And, most importantly, continuing to look at my wife with complete wonderment, appreciating more than ever her infinite strength, support and love. Except for the glasses outwardly, my most significant changes from my ordeal have come from within. For this, I am most appreciative. I am stronger than ever, actually. As Ralph wisely stated above, the small day-to-day battles were worth the positive hindsight of it all.

It feels so very good to be back...

As always, I thank you much for reading, my friend. More importantly, I thank you for your patience and returning to read my words.

Another Birthday

Today is my birthday.  Yep, today.  On this fourth day of this fourth month of this year, I officially have turned 44.  Should I buy a lottery ticket with these numbers?  Something is whispering to me that if I ever had a realistic chance to win, it would be today.  Nah, who am I fooling--I think I'll just keep that errant dollar in my pocket.

44 is an odd age, though.  Am I middle-age?  Am I the new thirties?  Is my life half over?  Or more than half?  That thought makes me shudder.  I look at some of my patients in the ER, those in their 20's and 30's, and in my mind I am dealing with someone in my own age group.  Maybe they have less wrinkles and a fewer amount of life experiences, sure, but otherwise we are the same, aren't we?  That is until they call me "sir," a word I am growing less fond of the older I get.  And suddenly, I am reminded that no, I do not have as much in common with this college student sitting on the treatment cot in front of me as I might have thought.

Still, birthdays are pretty special when you are surrounded in your life by people who make a big deal of them.  Being one of seven kids, I've already received texts by four of my siblings and some nieces and nephews to "have a great day."  The phone calls will follow tonight, with multiple renditions (mostly bad) of the song "Happy Birthday" sung to the answering machine or myself.  When my mother was alive, she and Dad would always call and sing "Happy Birthday" in harmony from their two different receivers, Mom carrying the high notes and Dad trying to blend his deep, husky off-tune baritone to compliment her.  Since she passed on, Dad still keeps this tradition alive.  It is bittersweet, to say the least, to have Dad call and sing a solo "Happy Birthday" to me.  A big sigh typically follows, and longings for my mother's missed presence follow that.  The beauty in this, though, is that over the two years prior to Mom's lost battle to leukemia, we recorded every "Happy Birthday" sung by them to my family.

My kids and wife, though, are the real reason the excitement level in our house today is immense.  For the past week, there has been whispering between she and my kids that suddenly stops when I enter a room.  There has been hushed huddling in front of the desktop computer, a flurry of hands blocking the screen's view when I walk into the office.  There have been shopping trips to the mall, the kids returning with big grins on their faces and filled shopping bags held behind their backs.  "Don't look, Dad!"  has become the newest greeting in our house.  Tonight I will eat my favorite cake, chocolate from scratch (which includes a cup of coffee) topped with mounds of creamy peanut frosting, made lovingly by my wife from Mom's recipe.

So today, then, is the day.  My 44th birthday.  I was woken up with hugs, warm and heartfelt and accompanied by morning breath.  And chimes of "Happy Birthday, Dad!"  There is no better sweetness in this world than hearing these fluent, tender words from your children's innocent mouths.  Birthday wishes from my wife, too.  A flurry of activity followed as they got ready for school.  A grab of my hand by my youngest, who lead me to the dining room table to proudly show me the presents that await my opening.  Their homemade cards and homemade gift wrap make my smile double.

Then, too suddenly, the buses came to take my kids to school.  My wife left in the SUV to work her school-related job.  And, just like that, all of the excitement contained within our four walls just minutes earlier dissipated, a big balloon of happiness and anticipation popped... to be filled up again upon their return.  I go to sit alone in my office.

I have the morning and afternoon off, but work an odd evening into morning shift tonight.  So I sit here in my silent home, giving up the hope that cranked techno music from Robyn on YouTube will bring back all of that excitement.  It didn't.  Instead, a life lesson smacks me in the ass.  Hard.

My birthday and this swirling excitement that comes with it is not just because of the day.  Or the cake.  Or the presents.  It is because, simply, on this day, I am reminded of just how blessed I am to be surrounded by so many people in my life who love and care for me.  The simple texts, the emails, the phone calls, the snail mail birthday cards--all warm hands coming from near and far to wrap themselves around me on this day.  There are no better birthday gifts...

Sitting here, introspective and reflective of my life so far, I find that I am beyond grateful.  Grateful for it all.  The family.  The siblings and parents.  The nieces and nephews.  The cousins.  The friends.  I am a lucky guy.

After all of this, I looked at a brown envelope sitting on my desk, sent to me by one of my best friends through medical school--KT.  To know KT in this life, to have her friendship, is one of those precious gifts I sometimes take for granted.  She is, after my wife and Mom and sisters, one of the most remarkable women that I will ever know.  Her kindred spirit and friendship is unmatched.  And besides, how many other family physicians do you know still make social calls to their patients' homes?

What follows is a cursive note she sent (along with a beautiful book and two birthday cards).

Dear Jim,

     My friend, my brother...how does it feel to you to be celebrating a life so full?  I am acutely aware of the significance this year of similar double digits!
     At 11, I was hiding in the woods with my friends, telling secrets, crushing on Bobby Joe across the street (be still my heart!)  I was a child in a giant's body!
     At 22, I owned the world...I was a college graduate and I was going to medical school!  I was sizzling!  Life was mine to take!
     At 33, I was a mother, in love with my girl, struggling to mesh my original dreams of being a doctor with my dream, unexpectantly better, of motherhood.  I couldn't get enough of my daughter if I ate her!  She was and still is a force in my world!  What a ride I got, eh?
     At 44, I know contentment, really and truly.  But I also know worry...  My life and love has blossomed as my family came to be--a daughter, a son, a dog, and oh yeah, a husband.  I know I am not invisible--my achy hips let me know that every day!  But I am more alive now than ever before.  I have loved, lost, given and gained...
     What will the next half bring?  55?  66?  77? 88? And, oh yeah, I plan on doing 99.  You too?
     So, my brother in this walk...I wonder what you would say about 11, 22, 33, 44?  I think I can guess a few of the emotions.  We have been blessed in love and in friendship, haven't we?

Big hug, Jim!  Have an awesome birthday!  KT

How's that for a birthday gift?

May everyone have a birthday like mine today, where they are reminded of the beauty of the people in their lives.

Now, where are my presents???

As always, big thanks for reading.  May KT see the beauty and specialness in her writing voice here today.  To my family and friends, especially my wife and kids, thanks for making this a special day...I am smiling here.

The Quivering Finger

It is hard to believe, but today marks the six-month anniversary of my blog, StorytellERdoc. Including today's, I have posted 72 short-stories since November 19th, 2009. I look at my archive, the comment sections, and the number of cool visitors that have visited "my baby" and simply shake my head at how things transpired to get to this point.

Thank you, everybody.

I remember the first time my writing group mentioned the possibility of me starting a blog. We were sitting in Marcy and Christine's living room, getting ready to critique our submissions for the week, when I shared a funny work story. "You need to start writing these down, Jim," they said. "Yeah, right," I thought to myself. I am not a blogger. I had visited multiple sites, both medical and generic, and, although some were brilliant, I simply didn't see myself fitting into this world.

My wife loved my writing group's idea. "Jim," she said, "you haven't seen a blog that you would mimic because either you haven't found it or, more realistically, it doesn't exist. Make your blog by your own rules."

Hmmm. That seed of an idea slowly took. I started thinking of stories that affected me during my medical career, and it wasn't long before I realized the common denominators of those stories most important to me.

Number one. Compassion. Or lack thereof. In today's medical world, I sometimes get frustrated at the lack of compassion and awarenss in regards to both the medical and non-medical issues. It seems that we must move patients, at times, like cattle. See more, bill more, don't spend as much time in each room. Bullshit to that, I say. Behind every face is a story, and shame on all of us if we don't take the time to recognize those stories. Why must we avoid humanizing a patient who is already human? I wanted to bring some heartfelt emotions back to each patient's case.

Secondly, the power of some of my patient stories are simply that I strongly associate their perspective with my own life. A Mother's Cry? I have three kids. Grandpa's Grandkids? I loved my grandmother greatly and couldn't imagine seeing her die in this manner. The Complacent Eyes? My son spent two years of his young life on chemotherapy--I know those eyes well. Heroes Among Us--both Gigi and Linda? How amazing to look at someone and their approach at life only to realize that, at some point, I may have taken a misstep or two down the "for granted" pathway. These stories hit their mark on my heart.

Thirdly, the underlying humor of some patient scenarios just, plain and simple, crack me up. I love a good laugh as much as the next person. If I can't laugh at the ridiculousness of some of these work encounters and life experiences, I am in for a long, boring haul. And a short career, actually. Among others, Double Crack, The Thong Expert, Meeting Candy, The Half-Load Predicament and It Wasn't Me! can take me immediately back to that moment where I find myself cracking up all over again.

Finally, what I am most proud of, are my stories of the ordinary. Sometimes, these remarkable stories sit among the muck of normalcy and boredom and, when I finally dig them out, make me want to jump up and down and share them with the world. An example? A Love Story. When I saw that son helping his father down our ER hallway to the bathroom, I wanted everyone to stop what they were doing in our ER and look at what I was witnessing. Instead, at the time, I only shared it with Weezie, one of my favorite secretaries, before writing the words to give this scenario a life. Big Stuff, Big Words, The Fringe Benefits, and This Father's Daughter walk along the same lines.

After deciding what perspective I wanted my blog to take, I put my fiction novel on hold and attempted several short stories. I submitted them to my writing group, appreciating their honest feedback. My biggest critic, though? Easy. My wife. My awesome, incredible typically-normal every-reader wife. I would hand her a story and nervously watch her read it from the corner of my eye. Her tears, her laughter, and the "yes" and "no" nods of her head told me all I needed to know about a piece.

Armed with about twenty stories and a committment to try to post three days a week, I finally decided to give this a go. The name was settled upon and, after a breakfast date with Christine, a design to my blog was decided. She graciously and unselfishly set the blog up for me, including the incredible banner. Big kudos to her. I joke with her that she missed her calling.

Finally, I had to write a profile about myself. Have you ever done this? After confusing myself more and more, I finally just sat at the computer and ripped it out in five minutes. What you see is the unedited version. After the final sentence, "I am a writer," I was tempted to include "I am not liking this self-profiling bit at all."

After my writing group and wife gave a thumb's up to my first, introductory story, the day finally arrived for posting it. I was filled with self-doubt. What was I thinking? Why was I wasting my time? And who would want to read my words, anyway? If I could only get twenty people to read my stories, I figured, this might all be worth it.

I walked up to my computer and sat down, hovering my right index finger over the left-sided mouse button. The computer arrow sat over the "Publish Post" button on my blogspot page. A simple click and I would be officially entered into the blogging world.

I couldn't do it. I wasn't sure if I was ready to "put myself out there." I looked down at my quivering finger. I took a deep breath. I reread my first post, desperately trying to find any grammatical errors or content problems. Trying to find any problems that would warrant stalling the process. I reread the post, again.

Finally, I looked at my trembling right hand and decided to quit being a wimp about it.

Click.

And from that quivering finger and subsequent click, here I am.

A few changes have come over the past six months. Now, I write most of my stories the day before they are posted. And no critiques to them (well, occasionally my wife will still get first dibs). They are, for the most part, in their rawest, unedited form. I no longer check comments and my email every hour the first day of a posting. I don't follow my visitor numbers and stat counter nearly as often as I used to. A naturalness and inherent comfort has begun to settle in.

I want each of you to know that it has been my privilege to write this blog. Seriously. It has been incredibly humbling to think that someone would actually take time from their busy day to search out my site and read my words. If there were an award for the coolest, most honest, intelligent, and faithful readership, you, my friends, would get it. To those of you who have blogrolled me (including my very first ones, Blisschick and Seaspray) and reposted my works on your own site, a special thank-you.

Finally, as I have said before, the friendships are easily my biggest gain from this whole experience. You all hold incredible, memorable stories, and I appreciate you giving me a glimpse into your lives and bringing your kindnesses into mine.

Funny how things work out. I have always loved to write and, until a few months ago, never pictured my outlet to be in this shape and form. Thankfully, others saw this as the perfect avenue for my words. You're involvement is making this a worthwhile journey in my life.

Thank you.

As always, big thanks for reading. And bigger thanks for helping me reach this milestone. Much appreciated. Next post will be Friday, May 21. See you then...

Making Me Proud

My wife and our thirteen year-old daughter went on a girls' date this past summer. Just the two of them. Shopping, shopping, and more shopping. And. More. Shopping.

The rest of us gladly gave them this time, happy to avoid our busy mall area.

Karen and Emma had a wonderful day of togetherness. They had gone to stores they normally wouldn't shop at, trying on different-styled clothes and shoes, and just enjoying their "girly" afternoon immensely. Fashion shows left and right, I'm sure. And at Emma's age, nothing is better than a private day with Mom, right?

At one point in their day, unfortunately, they had experienced a little "encounter."

Last year, we purchased a VW Beetle Convertible to run around town in during the brief but beautiful summers we have here along our great lake. It's not a big car and certainly doesn't need a lot of room to be parked comfortably in a spot. What it lacks for in size, though, "Bumble" makes up for in fun. Can you imagine the added pleasure that driving this car during a girls' afternoon out brought to my family?

So, during their excursion, my wife and daughter decided to stop at Marshall's. My wife, as she tells the story, drove down the main parking aisle near the store and found two spots alongside each other. She put on her signal and turned into the one empty spot. There were no cars behind her while she was turning in, and no cars approaching from the opposite direction, either.

She and my daughter gathered their things, purses and what not, and, as they were each exiting the car, their doors open, my wife said another car zipped out of nowhere, trying to pull into the adjacent empty spot beside her driver's side.

As she was stepping out, my wife said this car kept impatiently inching forward, into the vacant spot, barely leaving room for her. "He even parked outside of his lines, Jim," she said, adding worth to her story. Sadly, as the car got closer and closer, my wife noticed an offensive man, 50-ish maybe, yelling obscenities and flailing his arms at her. She said it was obvious that he was in a rush and was frustrated with giving her the ten seconds time she needed to get out of our vehicle. A car that you can fit three in one spot, no less.

My wife was incredulous at this gentleman's behavior. Behavior that our daughter was witnessing.

"What's wrong with that guy, Mom?" Emma asked.

"I don't know, honey. Stay here for a minute, though, would you?"

My wife was going to have a talk with this gentleman.

She walked up to this gentleman's car door and waited for him to get out. She mimicked for me the look of surprise on his face when he glanced up through the window to find her standing there. I wish I had been there.

He opened his door and got out, cleaning up his behavior and no longer swearing.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

Clearly, she had embarrassed him. He didn't respond and struggled to keep eye contact with her. She just kept staring.

Isn't it funny how a lack of a windshield can turn a lion into a mouse?

"Did I do something wrong to offend you," my wife continued, "because if I did, tell me so I can apologize to you for it."

She paused, giving him a chance to explain himself. He didn't grasp the chance. I can only imagine what being called-out felt like.

My wife continued. "And if I didn't do anything wrong and you were just yelling and waving your arms at me because you were impatient, then I don't appreciate your behavior at all. In fact, you should be ashamed of yourself."

She pointed to my daughter. "That's my thirteen year-old daughter over there. We're trying to raise her to be a good citizen and person. Today, she witnessed your rude behavior and asked me why you were acting this way. What should I tell her?"

The man was frozen to his spot, speechless. Again, he offered no excuse for his behavior.

"I guess I'll just tell her that you're having a bad day and leave it at that. I'm sure you wouldn't want us to think you act like this every day."

My wife, realizing her point was made, turned back to our daughter. "Come on, honey," she said, walking back and holding out her hand to Emma, "let's go do some shopping."

Together, hand-in-hand, they walked into the store.

Hurray! My wife, although steady in her beliefs and convictions, rarely sees the need to be confrontational. To her, that is wasted energy. She has that rare ability to see the best in everyone, often dismissing their ugly side to "They must be having a bad day." Clearly, though, this man's swearing and carrying-on must have affected her to some unfamiliar level.

If you ask me, mama bear was just protecting her cub.

From every perspective, my daughter was fortunate to have learned such a lesson from her mother. Importantly, Emma learned that one can stand up for themselves and do it in a respectable and dignified manner. Sadly, though, not every person is going to have the courteous manners and exemplary behavior that we try to instill in our kids, and we just need to accept the good with the bad. Actually, embrace the good. And, before moving on, learn something from the bad. In the right doses, actually, the lessons learned from these negative encounters may hold more benefit for our children than we realize.

The best thing about this encounter, though, from my view? My daughter was able to see that she has one heck of a cool Mom.

Something she probably already knew.

As always, big thanks for reading. Next post will be Friday, April 16. See you then...

Another Notch In The ER Cot

I know there is a "mile-high" club for airplane travelers who are, to say the least, adventurous and daring. But is there a club I don't know about that involves an ER treatment room and the flimsy cot in it?

The other day, during another busy shift, I walked into Room 31, ready to treat a new patient. What I walked into, however, caught me off-guard. In fact, I think I blushed. And after everything I've seen and treated in the ER over these past years, to get me to blush is a major accomplishment.

Lying in the cot, covered by a thin papery sheet, was a very "loving", shall we say, young couple. They were in the midst of some passionate maneuvering--four tangled arms wrapped around one another, shirts rumpled and pulled up, shoes kicked off to the side of the cot, and mussed up hair. My timing couldn't have been better. Lucky me. A front row ticket to an amateur peep show.

Maybe in my twenties, I would have been more enamoured about this situation but, to be honest, I'm in my early forties now--the only thing I felt was a little frustration. And, guessing from my warm cheeks, embarrassment. Well, some wonderment too--who in their right mind looks around an emergency treatment room and gets "in the mood?" Is it the gowns? At least this explained why the room curtain and sliding door were closed.

I cleared my throat and skipped my usual greeting. 'What's going on in here?" I asked, trying to sound like my father, stern and all-knowing.

Surprised, the girl sat up. "Oh my gosh," she giggled, hardly embarrassed, "we got a little bored after waiting for so long to be seen."

"I'll tell you what. I'm going to step out of this room for one minute, and when I come back in, I expect you to both be presentable. If not, you will both be escorted out of the ER by security. Do I make myself clear?"

They both nodded their heads at me, the middle-aged doctor who interrupted their cheap thrills.

I walked back to the nurses' station shaking my head. I wasn't buying the bored routine. Each patient room has its own television, complete with a remote control and more cable channels than I get at home. Each room also has a filled magazine rack and its own telephone for local calls. We even have available wireless internet if someone is so inclined to bring in their laptop with them. Outside of a pillow, a warm blanket, and a two-day old turkey sandwich with fresh lemon jello, what more could a waiting patient want?

Obviously, some privacy. And some form of birth-control.

I found the nurse for Room 31 and after making her aware that our patient had just been actively trying to get pregnant in our ER, we both walked back to the room together. Maybe, we joked, they would name the baby after one of us.

The curtain and sliding doors were both open. We walked into the room. The twentyish male companion was sitting meekly in the corner chair, the patient in the treatment cot. They were both dressed.

This time, I introduced myself and their nurse. "So," I said, after introductions, "which one of you might be the patient? Because from what I walked in on earlier, I would think that neither of you is sick enough to visit us in our ER."

After some putzing around, we got to the reason. The patient, it turns out, had missed her period and came to our ER for a pregnancy test. Yes, I am being serious. She got sent to the ER's acute-care side instead of our express wing after telling the triage nurse she had abdominal pain, thinking it would get her seen faster when, in fact, it tripled her wait time. The triage nurse, trying to move things along, had ordered the pregnancy test and some basic blood work.

There must be a higher power--her pregnancy test was negative.

This whole scenario, though, got me thinking that maybe there was some club I wasn't aware of, a club that nobody filled me in about since they know I work in the ER. This isn't the first time I've caught a couple fooling around in a cot. It's happened before and I would be disillusioned to think it wouldn't happen again. The common denominator, though, seems to be that they are all younger people, ranging from their late teens into their twenties.

I guess that rules my wife and I out. Initially, after catching this last couple, I had started making plans to take my wife to our ER to spend the night and find out what we were missing. And I was going to splurge, yessirree. No regular treatment room for my honey. I was going to get us one of those big trauma rooms with the really sturdy cot. Warm blankets. Cable TV. Pack our own sandwiches and pillows. Get a baby-sitter for the kids. All I had to do was register one of us, embellish some medical symptoms, give our insurance information, and the room would be ours.

"Hey honey," I would have said, "pack up your suitcase and jump in the car. I'm taking you on an overnight excursion. You don't need to pack a nightgown, either. Where we're going, they have plenty of them." If those prospects didn't intrigue her, what would? "Oh yeah," I'd add, "don't forget our insurance cards!"

In the midst of all this planning, though, it hit me--I probably wouldn't get a good night's sleep in the ER sharing a trauma cot with my wife. And, as I think I mentioned, I am in my early forties now. I held both my hands out and weighed the situation. A good night's sleep at home versus joining some obscure "notch in the ER cot" club. I yawned as I thought about it and with my yawn, the answer came quite easily.

So, this brings me back to my original question. Is there an ER club similar to the "mile-high" club that I don't know about? Do I really want to know? And does it have a nickname? I do like "notch in the ER cot" but I made that up on the fly--I would hope the name would be something better and more original than that.

Finally, if any of you are members to either club, keep it to yourself. I don't want to know. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get a good night's sleep.

As always, thanks for reading...next post will be Friday, January 8th. Let me know if you think of any good nicknames...