Under the Knife

Under the Knife

It is a truth universally acknowledged that weird things happen at hospitals. From the moment the automatic doors open, you are enveloped in a different world. A world of beeps, beepers, humming radiators, humming nurses, ID badges, IV bags, gift shops, shift stops, PNs, PAs, MDs, and RNs. Simply being in a hospital usually means you are experiencing a crisis of some sort. Naturally, this association makes people wary. However, I have had the unusual experience of being in a hospital without being sick.

In May 1995 I began working once a week at Massachusetts General Hospital. I imagined myself passing the scalpel to a doctor performing open heart surgery, or better yet stumbling upon the cure for cancer. It turned out, however, that those under age eighteen are not allowed to work directly with patients or doctors. I joined a lone receptionist, Mrs. Penn, who had the imposing title of "medical and informational technician." My title was "patient discharge personnel." Mrs. Penn had her own computer and possessed vast knowledge of the hospital. I had my own personal wheelchair. Manning the corner of the information desk, my wheelchair and I would be called on to fetch newly discharged patients from their rooms.

This discharge experience taught me lessons both comical and sad about hospital life. On one of my first days, I was wheeling out a woman when I noticed an IV needle still pressed in the back of her hand. I returned her to the nurse's station where the needle was removed without comment or apology. Another time, an elderly man approached the information desk and threatened that if I didn't let him see his wife, he would take a grenade out of his pocket and detonate it. I didn't really believe he had a grenade, but who could be sure? When the man repeated his words to Mrs. Penn, she knew exactly what to do. An immediate call for security was sounded. Sad to say, that man was not the first or last unbalanced individual to frequent Mass General while I worked there.

Nor would this be the last time I relied on Mrs. Penn. Some months later, a thirty-something man came to the desk asking for his father's room. When I looked up his computer entry, the father's name came up with the code for the morgue deceased.