The sole bro’ of the sisterhood is leaving the pool of estrogen. In other words, I have accepted another position and will be leaving Barton U. I still proclaim that my testosterone is always up to the task, but I’m not ashamed to say I ‘m also in touch with my feminine side. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit around listening to Barbara Streisand sing show tunes. I’m more a fan of tractor pulls and the Raider nation.

At Barton U, our seemingly oddball (I mean unique) assortment of staff members has developed into a complementary team. And this is how it works:

Nancy is the artist.

In honor of the New Year I have done the unthinkable. It wasn’t totally self induced; I was poked, prodded and shamed by my co-workers into cleaning up my work area. I am not a hoarder per se, but I tend to hang on to lots of stuff. When does “stuff” become “junk” and “junk” become valuable memorabilia or a priceless antique? My “stuff” never seems to gain enough escape velocity to become anything other than inconsequential trash.

Maybe I should have hosted a cubicle sale.

Nothing says Christmas like the sound of carols being sung, trimming the ole’ tree and the arrival of Barton University’s Winter course catalogue. Huh? Okay I threw that last one in there to see if you were paying attention. But the BU course catalogue is truly the gift that keeps giving throughout the year.
As a matter of fact, it is the perfect gift for that person who has everything. It can be rolled up and used as a spyglass or hollered through like a megaphone. You can stack several copies on your head and learn to walk like a charm school graduate.

It suddenly occurred to me that the hospital is a microcosm of this strange and capricious journey we call life. I came to this bizarre conclusion while making a delivery at the OB (no not the baby kind of delivery, silly – I’m talking mail, paperwork etc. . . .). After dropping off my materials I stood by the nursery viewing window and gazed at all the new babies. Some were quietly sleeping while others fussed and cried. I suppose being in a new body (outside of mom for the first time) is sort of unsettling.

Disclaimer: This is a hypothetical scenario (think General Hospital . . . or ER, if you’re under thirty-five), with no basis in reality. This is strictly a fictionalized story to illustrate the importance of Nonviolent Crises Intervention Training.

Why does it always have to happen during the eleventh hour of my third twelve hour shift? His face is blood red and there are beads of sweat trickling from his hair line down to his protruding temples. “What is WRONG with you people back there? I’ve been here two hours and my daughter still hasn’t been seen.” I had noticed him earlier holding a little girl as he paced and fidgeted in the waiting room.