Thoughts on My Profession
When I first got to college, I was a nursing major. It didn't take me long to realize that I was in the wrong place. Nurses have a very important role, but I knew very quickly that it wasn't the role that was right for me. I didn't have the same personality as all the other nursing majors, and I, quite frankly, didn't enjoy being around people as much as they did. I knew that I wanted to help people--that much I knew. But I also knew that I didn't want to be around people. And I loved science--that much I knew. Besides, my ultimate goal was to go towards research, and nursing is a very unconventional path to that anyways. I searched the university for something that was right for me. When I saw the major of Clinical Laboratory Science, I didn't really know what that was. But I was drawn to it. As I progressed in the major, I realized it was perfect. It was healthcare without people. And it was science. And I had the same quirky sense of humor as every other Medical Lab Scientist. It was like I was home.
Today, I realize every day that I'm doing what I love to do. I get to save lives, without ever being with people. That isn't to say that we don't love the children we serve. As one of those coworkers who seems to have been a scientist since the beginning of time told me, "It takes a special kind of person to do what we do. It takes a special kind of love to want to cry for patients who you have never met and will never meet. It is a special heart that cheers for numbers, and swears under their breath for relapsing cells." It may seem silly, but I have done all of those. Heck, I actually have cried for patients I've never met. And I don't swear, but I have uttered "crap" while looking through a microscope, and that was swearing in my parents' house. A few years ago, our accrediting agency, the American Society of Clinical Pathologists, put out a motto for Medical Laboratory Scientists. Kind of like the "Do no harm" of the laboratory. "Every number is a life." Every work day, I go into a laboratory, and I save lives. I'm ignored by most hospital staff, except for when I have to call a critical value, and most people are under the impression that I only have a two-week training, not a bachelor's degree to do what I do. The fact that we are colloquially referred to as Med Techs probably doesn't help that. When I'm asked by my date, "'What do you do?," I answer the question and immediately launch into an explanation of what I do, because that question will naturally follow anyways. In short, nobody even knows I exist. But I have saved countless lives.
I used to have an entry on my bucket list of "save a life." Then I realized that I have done that. Thousands of times over. Just the person never knew. But it still counts.
All this said, sometimes I miss the fact that I never see their faces. There are exceptions. Lab scientists in our lab go on approximately two major types of "field trips." We go to bone marrow aspirations. This is sharing in a very scary and vulnerable time in a child's life oftentimes--their time of leukemia diagnosis...or whether their bone marrow transplant successful. But you get to see the children. And you get to share in that vulnerability and be one of those people who show the face of confidence and the face of "It's going to be all right--no matter how it turns out." The other type of field trip is liver transplants.
One of the biggest risks of a liver transplant is the recipient bleeding out. Most of the body's clotting ability comes from the liver. Since their liver is crashed, their clotting ability is already is already compromised. Then actually remove their liver and it gets even worse. As such, transplant surgeons will oftentimes have a medical lab scientist on hand to perform something called a thromboelastograph--a real-time monitor of clotting ability incorporating clotting factor, fibrinogen, platelet function, and more. The other day, I had the opportunity to do this.
It was in the wee hours of the morning when we all stood in the hallway, ready to go back into the OR. The parents came into the OR hallway, their older children in tow. The anesthesiologists reassured the parents and asked their questions before saying, "Give her kisses. It's a big surgery, but we'll do our best." The parents picked up the baby and kissed her. She was on droplet precautions, and all the healthcare workers were wearing full isolation gowns and masks, but the parents didn't care as they pressed her skin to their lips, hoping it wasn't the last time they would feel the warmth, before they relinquished her to people they didn't even know. They wouldn't see her for another eight hours or more. We were probably a scary crew, all garbed in that shade of green that doesn't really flatter anybody, but doesn't really look bad on anyone either. Apparently, it's called "aloe green." Aloe is a soothing plant, so it's a strange color to be so scary. But they let us, the "aloe crew," have their child. Because we were their hope. They handed her over to us, and then we all turned, putting our masks onto our faces as we wheeled her down that hallway. It was a humbling expereince.
Some sick children don't really look sick. This wasn't the case with her. She was yellow. No other way to put it. And her abdomen was swollen about twice as large as the rest of her body combined. And those parents trusted us with her to fix her. Usually, I don't see that. And usually, they don't even know who I am. And this was still true. They had no idea who I was, or what my role in that surgery was. But they knew that I was part of the people who had to possibility to save their child.
And I knew that we had to do our best. Because the numbers were a life. And they were the life of a little girl who wanted to go away from the "aloe crew," and back into the arms and kisses of her parents.
Today, I realize every day that I'm doing what I love to do. I get to save lives, without ever being with people. That isn't to say that we don't love the children we serve. As one of those coworkers who seems to have been a scientist since the beginning of time told me, "It takes a special kind of person to do what we do. It takes a special kind of love to want to cry for patients who you have never met and will never meet. It is a special heart that cheers for numbers, and swears under their breath for relapsing cells." It may seem silly, but I have done all of those. Heck, I actually have cried for patients I've never met. And I don't swear, but I have uttered "crap" while looking through a microscope, and that was swearing in my parents' house. A few years ago, our accrediting agency, the American Society of Clinical Pathologists, put out a motto for Medical Laboratory Scientists. Kind of like the "Do no harm" of the laboratory. "Every number is a life." Every work day, I go into a laboratory, and I save lives. I'm ignored by most hospital staff, except for when I have to call a critical value, and most people are under the impression that I only have a two-week training, not a bachelor's degree to do what I do. The fact that we are colloquially referred to as Med Techs probably doesn't help that. When I'm asked by my date, "'What do you do?," I answer the question and immediately launch into an explanation of what I do, because that question will naturally follow anyways. In short, nobody even knows I exist. But I have saved countless lives.
I used to have an entry on my bucket list of "save a life." Then I realized that I have done that. Thousands of times over. Just the person never knew. But it still counts.
All this said, sometimes I miss the fact that I never see their faces. There are exceptions. Lab scientists in our lab go on approximately two major types of "field trips." We go to bone marrow aspirations. This is sharing in a very scary and vulnerable time in a child's life oftentimes--their time of leukemia diagnosis...or whether their bone marrow transplant successful. But you get to see the children. And you get to share in that vulnerability and be one of those people who show the face of confidence and the face of "It's going to be all right--no matter how it turns out." The other type of field trip is liver transplants.
One of the biggest risks of a liver transplant is the recipient bleeding out. Most of the body's clotting ability comes from the liver. Since their liver is crashed, their clotting ability is already is already compromised. Then actually remove their liver and it gets even worse. As such, transplant surgeons will oftentimes have a medical lab scientist on hand to perform something called a thromboelastograph--a real-time monitor of clotting ability incorporating clotting factor, fibrinogen, platelet function, and more. The other day, I had the opportunity to do this.
It was in the wee hours of the morning when we all stood in the hallway, ready to go back into the OR. The parents came into the OR hallway, their older children in tow. The anesthesiologists reassured the parents and asked their questions before saying, "Give her kisses. It's a big surgery, but we'll do our best." The parents picked up the baby and kissed her. She was on droplet precautions, and all the healthcare workers were wearing full isolation gowns and masks, but the parents didn't care as they pressed her skin to their lips, hoping it wasn't the last time they would feel the warmth, before they relinquished her to people they didn't even know. They wouldn't see her for another eight hours or more. We were probably a scary crew, all garbed in that shade of green that doesn't really flatter anybody, but doesn't really look bad on anyone either. Apparently, it's called "aloe green." Aloe is a soothing plant, so it's a strange color to be so scary. But they let us, the "aloe crew," have their child. Because we were their hope. They handed her over to us, and then we all turned, putting our masks onto our faces as we wheeled her down that hallway. It was a humbling expereince.
Some sick children don't really look sick. This wasn't the case with her. She was yellow. No other way to put it. And her abdomen was swollen about twice as large as the rest of her body combined. And those parents trusted us with her to fix her. Usually, I don't see that. And usually, they don't even know who I am. And this was still true. They had no idea who I was, or what my role in that surgery was. But they knew that I was part of the people who had to possibility to save their child.
And I knew that we had to do our best. Because the numbers were a life. And they were the life of a little girl who wanted to go away from the "aloe crew," and back into the arms and kisses of her parents.
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