As some of you may remember -- I know, it's been a looong time since last I wrote -- I work in pathology. It's a good job, but not without its hazards: namely, becoming ill (or worse!) by accidentally "catching" something from a corpse or the body's associated parts. To help minimize this risk, I wear several layers of PPE (Personal Protective Equipment). Briefly, in the order I put them on:

1. Hospital issue scrubs (pants tie at the waist)
2. Nitrile gloves
3. Semi-water resistant surgical gown (ties in two layers in back, with three snaps at neck and thumb holes in the wrist cuffs so the sleeves don't ride up)
4. Tyvek apron and sleeves (waterproof)
5. Another pair of nitrile gloves (these go over the cuffs of the gown and sleeves)
6. Safety glasses
7. Lastly, a face shield with particulate mask.

Normally, quite a get-up. We don't dress like this all the time, just when the job gets nasty... as it did last Thursday night. I was working overnight to TRY to catch up on my work. I had to gross in 21 placentas (my new job is at a women's hospital -- I get a TON of placentas). By "gross in," I mean dictate the measurements, appearance and any visible abnormalities of the tissue before I submit pieces of it for microscopic evaluation. It normally takes about ten minutes to complete a placenta, but because that particular organ has such a rich blood supply (babies don't get very good mileage... they use a lot of oxygen to grow to seven pounds or so), just one placenta can make you look like the star in a B-grade Slasher flick.

Now that I've set the stage (and many of you veterans can already identify where this is going), here's the problem: since I knew I had a busy night, I skimped on dinner and elected to chow a frozen "Beef and Bean" burrito. That was at about 2 AM.

By 3:15, I was suited up and dictating away. The microphone on the Dictaphone is incredibly sensitive, so it's always been my habit to stop recording if I feel the need to fart. I don't know if I need to worry about it or not, but I'm not about to find out -- the transcriptionists are amazingly gossipy. So that habit was working pretty well, for a time.

I should've noticed that I was farting a lot more than usual, but I was absorbed in my work. I was just starting the fourth placenta of the night. Here's an ACTUAL transcription of the events and noises recorded that fateful evening. I transcribed the session myself after it all "got better"... I knew I'd be sending this in to PoopReport.

(I wish I could get a copy of that recording. In retrospect, I think it's hysterical, and think the story would benefit greatly from it...but alas, legally, I can't.)

"...received fresh labeled with the patient's name and consists of a placenta in continuity with membranes and umbilical cord. The attached segment of cord measures *pause* 38.3 cm in len OH GOD!"

Now, before I continue, I need to point out that normally Dictaphones stop recording when you release the "record" pedal. I hate that, hurts my calf... so I switched mine over to "tap to start, tap to stop." Needless to say, this entire episode was recorded crystal clear. (NOTE: words within asterisks are noises heard on the recording; items italicized within parentheses are the after-the-fact explanation of the noise.)

"...shit shit shit shit shit *snap snap* (outer gloves coming off, spraying blood all over the lab) *riiipppp* (sleeves and gown being ripped off, spraying yet MORE blood) shit shit shit shit... *pop BANG* SHIT *crash* (snaps being undone on gown, me falling against grossing hood in attempt to rip off the cords tied behind my back, knocking a tray of utensils over in the process) shit shit shit shit *snap snap* (inner gloves coming off) *squeaksqueaksqueakSLAM* (sneakers wet with blood squeaking and slapping as I ran from the room, slamming the door behind me)."

My sphincter pressure was at absolute max redline. Just so much as one extra iota of gas and I'd be no more. Now just wearing scrubs and my safety glasses, I'm hauling ass (literally!) to the men's room. Once inside, I breathed a tiny sigh of relief, with beads of sweat clinging tenaciously to my brow. As I raced to the stall, I attempted to undo my scrubs, but, being in such a hurry, I botched the tie release. We've all done it on our shoes -- pull it the wrong way and you've got this ugly vicious knot staring you in the face, taunting your intelligence and patience.

It was all over. I lost, and I can admit it. I had an "accident" -- and I use the term "accident" like one would refer to 9/11 as an "accident." It was really much more of a disaster.

I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say I was oddly amused at the juxtaposition and overlap of feelings present in one's mind, body and soul at a moment like that. First, abject relief at not having to hold back Vesuvius anymore. This was mixed with sheer horror, mostly from the embarrassing nature of the incident. This was followed lastly by complete and utter resignation. What's done is done, and there's no point in worrying about it anymore.

I was oddly overcome by the most astounding sense of calm. I've never experienced anything like it before -- but if it only occurs in moments like this, I pray to God that I will never experience it again.

As they say, however, every cloud has a silver lining. This one did too, in that:

1. All I lost in the mortal conflagration was a pair of boxers and a pair of sneakers. But the sneakers were covered in blood anyway, and needed to be red-bagged even if I had managed to make it to the bowl.
2. The bathroom had a floor drain and a slop-sink, complete with hose, so clean up was a breeze.
3. It was nearly 4 AM, and I was one of two people still in the department. The other was a girl, so there was no threat of discovery as I stood humbly, hosing down the floor and myself, wearing only my horrifically soiled shoes. I caught myself whistling the tune of Wake up! Little Suzie... for some unknown reason.

I'm sure the transcription pool had a BLAST with that one. They've been very polite so far, but that makes me even more nervous. The Christmas party is coming up, and I hear they roast one person each year... and word is they like to pick on the new guy. If they play that tape, so help me god, I'll do unspeakably evil things to their coffee cups. Of course, they don't know how it ends, but I'm sure they know why I did what I was doing...

Glad to be back (even in circumstances such as these!),

-- Dave J.