On My Bedside Manner

All right, let's face it...

My bedside manner is fucking HORRIBLE.

A good friend of mine had a little diabetic "episode," and his girlfriend called us in the middle of the night saying he couldn't breathe.

My first thought, of course, was "why is she calling us?"

Luckily, she HAD, in fact, called the ambulance first.

So we all troop down to the emergency room and wait around a while.

Never let it be said I don't care.

But then we slip in to see him. There he is, with oxygen being piped in to his nose. And he starts talking.

All right. Problem was he couldn't breathe, now he can talk. I'm done.

And off I go.

This, by all reckonings, was actually a fairly considerate showing on my part.

Most of the time, I don't even show up.

It's not an atavistic dread of sickbeds, either.

I simply don't have anything to contribute.

Now, there have been times when the "field medic" position has landed upon me. And THEN, my brusque manner actually helps.

"Here. Random bag of Mexican pills. Might help your cough."

But if someone is needed to hold your hand while you feel puny?

Too bad. Find someone else. Preferably someone with a caring disposition and a nice smile.

I'd rather be useful, if I can, or absent, if I can't.

Which makes my current role, helping nursemaid my father, an exercise in reciprocal neglect. Because it wasn't that long ago that he was looking after me... and I saw where I got it.

I don't resent it. After all, it's who I am, at this stage.

But it IS amusing to think about... the two guys with the WORST bedside manner on Earth having to trade off care and consideration. If I didn't still have a pulse, I'd think i was dead and serving out a purgatorial sentence.