It’s the holiday party for the local university proctologists. Pretty standard gig, you should be fine.
That’s what I was told earlier that day. My boss knew that my wife was in cancer treatment at the time. Neither one of us knew what the proctology department holiday party would be like in reality.
It was a jovial gathering of dorks. Everyone there was a dork. The planners, the admin staff, the residents and of course the doctors were all dorks. I reckon that next to sex workers, there are few people on this earth who have put more fingers in more assholes than these folks.
If cardiologists have their fingers on the pulse of a nation, the proctologists have their fingers on the assholes of the nation. Every HR firm should hire a proctologist when it comes to screening potential new employees as no one knows assholes like proctologists.
I’m joking right now about these folks. Their jokes that night? They were a lot worse. It was a night filled with irreverent cancer jokes. The jokes were dark and ugly to the point that I won’t even repeat them. These doctors mocked men. These doctors mocked women. These doctors mocked the dying and those when they were first diagnosed.
The entire place laughed and guffawed royally.
The entire place was pretty fucking happy.
That is to say everyone there was happy except me.
At that time Laura and I were waiting for a test result. Something had shown up on a scan and we hadn’t met our oncologist yet. Her treatments were coming to an end and we were still unsure how long she’d be with us.
And all these fucking doctors could do was make insensitive jokes all the time.
But then and there? It was their party. It wasn’t about Laura. It wasn’t about me. It was about these people who care for others. I know and love their dark humour. These doctors performed a highly paid shitty job. They faced death and anxiety daily.
Anyone who faces death daily isn’t precious about it or the feelings of others about what they do or how they do it.
At the time, I knew their joking was both functional and necessary. At the time, I knew my role and job there was to merely show up and get the dance floor going to the best of my abilities.
At the time, I knew all of this and I hated their guts for every care free, callus joke they made.
Their barbs had an impact. I did the best I could but the party was shit. I may have helped a bit. When people requested terrible songs that I KNEW would kill the dancefloor, I played them with delight. The host would complain. I’d shrug and point to the one person dancing, enjoying the sonic diarrhea steaming out of the speakers.
On that night, my best work was pretty darn shitty. I did my best. I was professional, but their joking and what we were dealing with at home weighed heavily on my heart.
Looking back, I’m proud of that night.
We all face times when we’re dealing with utter shit.
We can become derailed by every bump if we expect the world to adapt to what might hurt us.
Or, people could ‘just be more sensitive and think about all of the different ways that people could be disadvantaged or suffering.
We could also try to lick our own assholes. It isn’t going to happen.
Instead?
Shut up and step up.
There are times that you need to take your shit - whatever garbage life hands you - and put it in a box, swallow it whatever, and just do your fucking job.
You are not entitled to a trigger free workplace.
Life is offensive, get used to it.
Once one has had a colonoscopy, the prostate check is really meh.
I do wonder how many people had their fingers in a butt hole when 9/11 happened.
My primary physician, when I groaned in response to his saying that I was due for the annual prostrate exam: "...nothing I'm looking forward to either. Its probably why we don't have more men choosing general practice."