I should probably be writing about books; I’ve been to two release parties and read about eight books since my last post. But that’s not what I’m going to talk about today.
My husband often works late. I’m not complaining; we’ve both accepted that this is one of the realities of being on call. He’s usually home by eight. Last night, he didn’t get home until almost three. And he didn’t complain.
It was a particularly trying case from what I gather, and not just because it was nine hours long and he still wasn’t convinced that the patient could make it through the night. He was on his feet for almost that entire period of time–and he ended up covered in feces. At the end of the night, he sent me a text telling me to thank one of his colleagues for being particularly stellar.
On his way home, he bought me french fries to apologize for being so late.
The moral of the story: Be nice to people who work in hospitals. Chances are, their job is way harder than yours.