complimented

"... and i'll bet you have really good hands."

she was speaking professionally, and they are only okay hands, my hands.

so why would the plastic surgeon say that?

they're slender, my hands, and i'm slow with them. i can feel the tech's intently impatient gaze boring into the back of my skull as she grapples with the thrashing child while i slowly, painstakingly choose where i'm going to insert the needle, and as i throw the stitch (always in two bites, of course! how else would you evert the edges?) i slowly, slowly push the tiny needle tip through the tiny, tiny junction between epidermis and dermis. i'm sure i drive them absolutely crazy.

they're slender, my hands, and sometimes they shake. only if i'm on allergy meds and coffee at the same time, or if i'm extremely sleep deprived. this doesn't matter, usually, as i can still do what i need to do, but it does not exactly inspire confidence in the people watching me.

and i am slender, i am, and neurotic looking, with "precise" body movements in general (so saith elon, a friend from my past). and i had my glasses on. so maybe she was just presuming because of how i look.

and i am precise. i was approaching her about a general knowledge question regarding sewing, inspired by a patient from several nights ago. she recognized my voice from our phone discussion that night. my question was regarding lacerations that have significant overlying abrasions. "oh, i can approximate the edges, it should come together, and there's not much tension, but that epidermis isn't intact, and what of epitheliocyte migration? do i need to run subcuticulars? i haven't done that in five years." i try to use precise words when describing clinical situations too (why wouldn't i?). so maybe it was a judgment based on what she'd seen of my personality.

"i love it when pediatricians are willing to sew, and i could tell on the phone that you were."

uh, yeah, of course. i kinda like it. what i had not told her that night was that the cut had gone all the way down to my patient's mandible (chin bone). i told her that i had irrigated like mad, and betadined, and closed up potential space with a couple of deeps, and then sutured the superficial layers closed with nylon. she nodded and grinned the whole time, saying, "perfect!... perfect!"

the little surgeon in me began to cry out. "approve of me. tell me i would have been great in plastics. tell me you would have liked to have taken me under your wing. i like procedures. i'm going to do [the procedure-intensive subspecialty i'm going to do], you know." i had to tell the little brat to shut it and to go play with the little professional musician in me. they can have a little tea party and sit and talk about their little unfulfilled dreams all they want, as long as they don't bother me at work. (say it with me: because i could have; i just chose not to. don't roll your eyes.)

inside i really think the plastic surgeon was just being nice. because when they're nice, we remember to consult them more often, and then they get money.

but i still feel complimented.