Meanwhile, there are other folks doing God’s work, too, in places I’ve not been called. Like firefighters. I can only wish I was that brave and strong, but I’m not. Sitting in a corner crying, “Mommy!” in a time of crisis is not that helpful. And at 4 feet 11-1/2 inches, I could carry the water bottles, but that’s about it.
Then there’s this. I’m embarrassed to say it, but it’s the helmets. They’re so big. And heavy. And, well, they squish your hair. Which is why men who fight fires have buzz cuts. They don’t stand in front of a mirror, primping, poofing and spraying their hair when the bell ding-dings. They can’t. They slam the helmets on, cinch up those extra-heavy trousers and go.
And I? I’m in my corner office, hair uncrushed, cheerfully typing. In my not-heavy pants with no helmet, doing reps with my favorite mug.
On the other hand, I take consolation in this: while I can’t do what they do, they can’t do what I do, either. Mr. Schrock claims that I can type faster than he can think. That may be true. Without the software, my record was 96 words per minute. Then came the program that allowed me to insert entire sentences with several keystrokes, and the word count went through the roof. This, in spite of the, uh, challenges the doctors will throw.
In my darker moments, I wish I could dictate for them just once. This black, unworthy thought usually follows the round of bronchial pyrotechnics that’s just lifted me from my seat. I’d use barking dogs, kids playing tubas, the sounds of a car chase and gunshots going off in the background, all while I’m dictating a report. “Type that,” I say to the imaginary physician as I wait for my heart rate to drop.
I’d never do it, of course. After all, these are the folks who deliver our children, palpate our spleens and check our rashes, and they surely deserve our respect.
So do mechanics, the fellows who fix up our cars, another job I could never do. You have to know stuff, see, like where the alternator is, and how to fix transmissions. All I know is that mine starts to splutter by 10 if I don’t get caffeine. Just don’t ask me to find yours.
The moral here is that no one can do everything. And no one should try. You do what you’re good at. I’ll do the same, and together we’ll get the job done.