TMI

My poor, darling husband.
He is a wonderful man, we'll call him Perfect Husband, and a really good Family M.D. Other nurses who take care of his patients go out of their way to tell me how wonderful he is. How caring of his patients, how respectful and kind to the nurses and how pleasant he always is. (And how disappointed they all are when they learn he's married... He's a hottie!) When I worked in the local carcass dump (read: medical floor), I took care of his patients occasionally, and was frequently curbsided by other RNs to decipher his hurried handwriting. When we shared patients, they sang his praises to the heavens. They stop us in the grocery store to tell me how much they love him. I think he's great, and it's really nice to hear other people think so, too.
So, when I went into nursing, and was thinking about my life and my career and my future plans, I decided I didn't want to talk about medicine all day, and so didn't want another medical professional as my partner. I met Perfect Husband outside of work, and it took me months to figure out he was a medical professional. You see, he's an excellent chameleon and takes care to leave work at work. He's an M.D. from 8am-6pm Monday-Friday and that's it. So I made an exception because he's a catch I just couldn't throw back.
I know a lot of docs and nurses that embody their profession in all that they do, carrying that identity throughout their life. That's fine, I'm guilty of it and not rendering criticism, but I admire terribly his ability to turn the M.D. off, and turn on the hippie, artistic, creative car mechanic/circus artist. Anyone who meets him outside work and then learns his day job says something to the effect of "I never would have guessed..." that the greasy t-shirt, longish hair, humble smile and quiet-and-shy exterior contained a highly trained, highly respected professional.
And then the questioning ensues.
Every M.D., R.N., R.T., C.N.A., or anyone else with any remotely medically-related letters after their name has been cornered at one point or twenty by a friend, family member, or recent acquaintance and presented with Too Much Information, in the hopes that said healthcare worker will shed some light in their darkness. I really don't mind it, personally, but Perfect Husband spends his days listening to madness and maladies galore. He cares for the poor and uninsured; those who place many things above preventive care in their hierarchy of needs, and so are usually highly complex when they finally reach him. It's really difficult work, much harder than mine, and I'd say I don't know how he does it, but I do: he goes out of his way to retain some ounce of passion for his work by fully removing himself from it at any opportunity. He tries not to be an M.D. from 6:01pm to 7:59am so that from 8-6 he won't feel quite so much like quitting his job to be a surf bum in the Bahamas.
So when a slightly inebriated woman we met 10 minutes ago hears he's a doc and starts giving him a painfully detailed family history, he all but vomits on the spot. He's such a kind, gentle soul, though, that he smiles and tries to keep from squirming while she rails on about her sister's breast cancer and how she died and was brought back to life three times in the ER... He politely listens, rather than saying "Hey, how about the weather, huh? And by that I mean: Look, Cuckoloma Extraordinaire, I'm off the clock, ok? Do you see a stethoscope or a white coat in sight? No. Yes I am a doctor, but everyone else I give medical advice to has to pay for it, and so should you. I'd be happy to see you in the office."
I'm sure he wasn't thinking that, sweet man. He just turned to me sometime later and whispered "I'm getting asked Questions. Can we go home soon?"
Perfect Husband, I am sorry you were uncomfortable, but you're just so darned cute and personable...