Names

According to my research (aka a 0.385 second Google search), the most common surname in the world is Lee.  The next most common family names include Zhang, Wang, Nguyen, Garcia, Hernandez, and Smith.  Unfortunately not everyone is lucky enough to be born into such an instantly recognisable name and must instead suffer through their lives with less common names.  Others are unlucky enough to be given names like Preserved Fish, Hans Ohff, or Dick Passwater.  Yes, those people actually exist.  Really.

I, however, am named none of those things.  While my name isn't particularly difficult to pronounce for anyone with an IQ higher than a brine shrimp, that doesn't stop 90% of people from mispronouncing it.  I therefore shorten it from {redacted} to {rdctd}, but while that may be somewhat easier to pronounce, it somehow doesn't make it any easier to remember.  Most of my patients just end up calling me "Doc", as all of you fine people do (and for the record, I'm perfectly fine with that).

Mikel (not his real name™), however, had no such problem with my name.

My standard greeting when a new patient rolls into my trauma bay is "Hi, I'm Doctor Bastard, and I'll be saving your life today."  Ha! not really, but what a great introduction that would be, right?  Unfortunately I would have to be about 386 times more arrogant than I actually am to use such a line, but that doesn't stop me from fantasising about it.  Aaaah.

Anyway, in reality I introduce myself as "Doctor Bastard (not my real name™)", and 99.9452% of the time (approximately) when they repeat it, that is the last time it will ever escape their lips.  I gave Mikel that same standard salutation as he was wheeled in and the medics were giving their report. 

"Hi Doc, this is Mikel.  25 years old, no medical history.  Gunshot wound to the left abdomen, and there is, um, something sticking out of the right side of his abdomen."

Shit.  In general having something unidentifiable sticking through your abdominal wall is considered a Very Bad Thing. 

I pulled the sheet back to find that the something was a loop of his small intestine with several holes through it.  SHIT.  Yes, that definitely falls under the Very Bad Thing umbrella. 

His vital signs were ok, which meant he wasn't actively dying.  Yet.  But a trans-abdominal gunshot wound meant he needed surgery.  Now.  I knew he had at least two holes in his small intestine (that I could see) that needed fixing, but I figured that was just the proverbial tip of the proverbial iceberg.  The question was, how many more holes were there, and what organs would I be attempting to fix.

I explained all of this to Mikel, and he immediately responded "I understand, Doctor Bastard.  Thank you.  Please do everything you can, Doctor Bastard.  I really appreciate your help, Doctor Bastard."

Um.  What?  Hearing my name repeated was shocking enough. Hearing it pronounced correctly twice was astounding.  But hearing it thrice was almost enough to make me faint.  

Not really.

A quick (but thorough) examination of the remainder of Mikel's body revealed no evidence of any other injuries (not that he needed anything else to potentially kill him).  We rushed him straight to the operating theatre without delay, Mikel chattering all the while.

"You're going to save my life, Doctor Bastard.  I know you are.  I'm in your hands, Doctor Bastard.  You aren't going to let anything bad happen to me.  Isn't that right Doctor Bastard?"

It was more than just a bit unnerving.

When I opened up his belly I found it full of blood, as expected.  I poked the intestine that had been protruding back inside and then examined everything.  I addition to about 2 liters of blood and the two holes in the small intestine I already knew about, I found a separate 25-cm portion of small intestine that had been essentially shredded.  Think 1990's torn jeans.  Yeah, kind of like that.

Unbelievably none of the other organs had been injured.  The stomach, gall bladder, liver, colon, spleen, pancreas, and kidneys were all completely fine.  I repaired several holes that were amenable to being fixed and removed several that were not.  After re-establishing gut continuity, I sort of felt like all the king's horses and all the king's men.

Humpty Dumpty was back together again.

The following morning before I left the hospital, I went to see Mikel first.  I was expecting to find him fast asleep, or at least lethargic as hell, considering the trauma his physiology had endured over the previous 8 hours.  Nope.  This is one instance where I was not sorry to be wrong.

"Good morning, Doctor Bastard!" he greeted me with a wan smile and a slight wince as he sat up in bed.  "You look tired.  How was the rest of your night?  How are you feeling today?"

Hey, wait.  That was supposed to be my question!  That was the second time in a row Mikel had surprised me.  I smiled and told him it didn't matter how I felt, because I wasn't the one who just had a major surgery 8 hours ago.

"I feel pretty good, Doctor Bastard.  Sore, but ok.  You saved my life!  I can't thank you enough, Doctor Bastard.  Thank you so much!"

Mikel's hospital course was amazingly fast and shockingly free of complications.  Despite the number of repairs I did and anastomoses I created, none of them leaked.  And every day when I went in to see him, Mikel greeted me with the same big smile and the same "Good morning, Doctor Bastard!  How are you today?"  Four days after his surgery, he walked out of the hospital.

And two weeks later he walked into my office with the same big smile and the same "Good morning, Doctor Bastard!" once again.  He was doing well, his incision had healed perfectly (if I do say so myself), and his intestines were all working just fine despite their recent slight reworking.  He gave me a hearty, firm handshake and several more "Thank you"s on his way out.

After he left my office, I had a few minutes to contemplate.  Perhaps my other patients would remember my name too and perhaps appreciate what I had done for them.  Maybe Mikel was a sign that things were going to change.  Huzzah!  My mood was bright as I walked in to see my next patient, a guy who had been stabbed in the leg multiple times and on whom I had spent nearly an hour sewing up.

"Good morning," I said brightly.  "How is your leg feeling?"

My hopes were dashed and my mood sent crashing back to earth by his response:

"Uh, ok I guess . . . have we met?"

GOD. DAMN. IT.