Under the Knife :: Example Personal Narratives

Under the Knife   It is a truth universally acknowledged that weird things happen at hospitals. From the moment the automatic doors open, you ar enveloped in a different world. A world of beeps, beepers, sing 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 tie beam 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 18 are not allowed to work directly with perseverings or doctors. I conjugate 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 cockeyed and sad about hospital life. On one of my first days, I was wheeling out a wo hu whileity when I noticed an IV needle still pressed in the back of her hand. I returned her to the nurses space where the needle was removed without comment or apology. Another age, an elderly man approached the information desk and threatened that if I didnt let him see his wife, he would exit a grenade out of his pocket and detonate it. I didnt really trust he had a grenade, but who could be sure? When the man reiterate 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 indivi dual to snitch 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 intercommunicate for his fathers room. When I looked up his computer entry, the fathers name came up with the code for the morgue deceased.