Grasping at Cockroaches*

As the irritatingly perky barista raised an inquisitive eyebrow in my general slovenly direction, I realized I had in fact reached a brand new low.

Yes, I would like three shots of espresso in my extra-large coffee... and don't stinkin' think you can tell me to have a bloody fabulous day as you place it cheerily on the counter chic barista boy!

Other low points last week? I was told my humour makes it appear that I am in fact incompetent. I poked an (uninvited) hole in an (unsuspecting) uterus shortly after squirting my (unsuspecting) attending in the face with saline... to the OR nurses' delight. I actually did grocery shopping at the Shoppers IN the hospital (and felt an instant of normalcy as I strolled down the aisles mid-day). I ate poutine for breakfast, chocolate milk for lunch and an avocado for supper. Someone stole the carrier off my bike while at work after a long post-call day, causing tears to well up in my eyes and a lump of overwhelming emotion clogged my throat.

But truth is, I had felt that lump the day before. As I sat with Nate, a man in his early 70s, as his wife was vomiting into the toilet, a day after the surgery to debulk her advanced ovarian cancer. He wore a John Deere cap and an Abraham Lincoln-style beard. His gentle smile won me over as he told me about driving into town yesterday (from Fort St. Nowhere of course).

Isn't it amazing that at 9 at night those stores are still open? You'd never see that where we're from, everything rolls up at 7! I know Flo loves sausage rolls so I went out and bought two, one for me and one for her last night. We've been together 38 years you know, been through a lot, now its my turn to take care of her and boy does she ever have a will of steel.

The irony of retractable vomiting and the thoughtfulness of a sausage roll gift hit me. Flo came back from the washroom, stooped and thin, her weathered wrinkles gave the sunken post-chemo cheeks and bald head a look of wisdom beyond words. She was full of piss and vinegar alright. So we sat and chatted about nausea, sausage rolls and pick-up trucks.

It put all of my misery into a divine perspective.

So what if Dr. Orange feels I should be more professional and less personal? That's actually not who I aspire to be. I'd rather get to know Flo and Nate, joke about shooting gophers and figure out how we're going to treat her high blood pressure with home made pies and venison.


*Reference to Papillon (1973) ... yes, I'm planning an escape.