Professionalism, with and without the house in Baja
This is a story about personal standards.
About a week after I finished six months of chemotherapy for breast cancer, I popped a 103.5 fever that put me in the hospital for a few days. I'll just spoil the medical case right off: it was probably a mild pneumocystosis, which is a lung fungus that only infects people with crapped-out immune systems, like AIDS and cancer patients. (I lived.)
I'd been awake and feverish for maybe 20 hours when I was wheeled up to the oncology floor, lying on my side to help my breathing. My brain function was that of a gerbil or so. As my stretcher came to a halt, in front of my face was a leather toolbelt. And some corduroys. Which are both relatively normal for Seattle in April, but not so much in a hospital.
The toolbelt and corduroys were on a nurse, an older guy named Tim. Tim also had on an ironed long sleeve shirt and a decent pair of shoes. He stood there, in Hannibal-Lecter-meets-Clarice fashion, minus the creepiness, and welcomed me to the oncology floor.
Tim's business casual dress was an oddity on a hospital floor where every other nurse wore scrub bottoms, a tshirt and birkenstocks. His toolbelt-of-plenty was an oddity among staff that could never find a pen or their walkie talkies. Tim got me set up in my room as if he'd been trained by a good British butler. In the evening, he came by after his shift to play guitar and sing a bit. He was outstanding.
It seemed I was his only patient, given how present and attentive he was in taking care of me. But I found out that he was running four patients, as well as teaching the tshirt nurses. By day two I was feeling fairly normal and started interrogating him. He and his wife, also a nurse, worked in Seattle six months of the year. The other six months they spent in Baja, in a house they built, writing cookbooks, composing and recording music. He was so damn good at nursing that the University of Washington repeatedly hired him, on a locum basis, to work and teach on any terms they could get.
So, you know, holy crap, that's an enviable life. Tim seemed entirely happy.
This professionalism was something I'd never seen before, certainly not in the software industry, nor in shadowing a large and varied collection of doctors, and Tim defines How It Should Be when I'm thinking about how I want to practice medicine. What this looks like to me:
Now, what got me finally writing about Tim, after all this time, is my previous post about my passionate professor. Because my passionate professor is about the same age as Tim, is as impressively professional, but is otherwise totally different. I don't think my passionate professor would be interested in not working six months of the year, and I can't picture him taking a long leisurely vacation. I think he'd rather go talk to high schoolers, with his bike helmet painted to look like a brain and his rolling ice chest presumably loaded with brains. I expect that on average he briefly indulges in loveliness, and then gets right back to work. He tends to look harried, and serious, and to apologize for not doing even more. I should ask him if he's happy. I honestly can't tell.
It's an Oprah-ism that on our deathbeds, we won't wish we'd worked more. I suggest that this could be true for Tim, with his beautifully lived life, divided between Baja and the art of nursing. But I think my passionate professor will wish he'd worked more, will wish he'd done better, will wish he'd had just a few more years to advocate for brain injury causes.
I want to be more like both of these guys. I don't know what that would look like.
About a week after I finished six months of chemotherapy for breast cancer, I popped a 103.5 fever that put me in the hospital for a few days. I'll just spoil the medical case right off: it was probably a mild pneumocystosis, which is a lung fungus that only infects people with crapped-out immune systems, like AIDS and cancer patients. (I lived.)
I'd been awake and feverish for maybe 20 hours when I was wheeled up to the oncology floor, lying on my side to help my breathing. My brain function was that of a gerbil or so. As my stretcher came to a halt, in front of my face was a leather toolbelt. And some corduroys. Which are both relatively normal for Seattle in April, but not so much in a hospital.
The toolbelt and corduroys were on a nurse, an older guy named Tim. Tim also had on an ironed long sleeve shirt and a decent pair of shoes. He stood there, in Hannibal-Lecter-meets-Clarice fashion, minus the creepiness, and welcomed me to the oncology floor.
Tim's business casual dress was an oddity on a hospital floor where every other nurse wore scrub bottoms, a tshirt and birkenstocks. His toolbelt-of-plenty was an oddity among staff that could never find a pen or their walkie talkies. Tim got me set up in my room as if he'd been trained by a good British butler. In the evening, he came by after his shift to play guitar and sing a bit. He was outstanding.
It seemed I was his only patient, given how present and attentive he was in taking care of me. But I found out that he was running four patients, as well as teaching the tshirt nurses. By day two I was feeling fairly normal and started interrogating him. He and his wife, also a nurse, worked in Seattle six months of the year. The other six months they spent in Baja, in a house they built, writing cookbooks, composing and recording music. He was so damn good at nursing that the University of Washington repeatedly hired him, on a locum basis, to work and teach on any terms they could get.
So, you know, holy crap, that's an enviable life. Tim seemed entirely happy.
This professionalism was something I'd never seen before, certainly not in the software industry, nor in shadowing a large and varied collection of doctors, and Tim defines How It Should Be when I'm thinking about how I want to practice medicine. What this looks like to me:
- Choose good priorities.
- Figure out the best way to do a thing and constantly improve.
- Do things the best way.
- Don't be affected by people doing things less well.
Now, what got me finally writing about Tim, after all this time, is my previous post about my passionate professor. Because my passionate professor is about the same age as Tim, is as impressively professional, but is otherwise totally different. I don't think my passionate professor would be interested in not working six months of the year, and I can't picture him taking a long leisurely vacation. I think he'd rather go talk to high schoolers, with his bike helmet painted to look like a brain and his rolling ice chest presumably loaded with brains. I expect that on average he briefly indulges in loveliness, and then gets right back to work. He tends to look harried, and serious, and to apologize for not doing even more. I should ask him if he's happy. I honestly can't tell.
It's an Oprah-ism that on our deathbeds, we won't wish we'd worked more. I suggest that this could be true for Tim, with his beautifully lived life, divided between Baja and the art of nursing. But I think my passionate professor will wish he'd worked more, will wish he'd done better, will wish he'd had just a few more years to advocate for brain injury causes.
I want to be more like both of these guys. I don't know what that would look like.
posted by Cy at 11:17 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home