Seriously, heal thyself.

I work part-time at a hospital where amazing things happen.

I am a licensed social worker, but because I am only employed there two days a week and a lot of my work is off-site, unlike my peers, I don't have an office anymore. People got territorial --it happens--so after about six years of having my name and graduate initials on a door, I was relegated to Life in a Cubicle. It is challenging to therapize in a cubicle (or to search for an empty office in which to do so), and it initially felt like a corporate reprimand, but I quickly learned it could be worse. It could always be worse.

I get along famously with the woman with whom I share a cubicle wall. This is a good thing, as, for all intents and purposes, we practically sit on each other's lap. She is the Clinic Director's Administrative Assistant, and she knows how to make the trains run on time. As we are at eye level, I know that our first takes on most hospital situations are so similar, there are moments I think we were separated at birth, except for the fact that she is, like, 22 years younger than me and was born in Barbados. She makes coming to work much more bearable, but I wouldn't play poker with her.

Life in a Cubicle also gives me some insight into the newly minted doctors who have just found employment at this hospital. I don't mean to spread a wide net, but it makes for better copy; and the fact remains that most of these recent medical school graduates (Ivy League, one quickly learns) behave in a manner that implies they believe that their job was getting into and through medical school.
"Hey, Dr. Oz," I itch to respond,"Great job getting through school. NOW you have a JOB. Get used to it! Learn about the corporate culture!  You're getting PAID."

I don't say it. To them. But when they come into the administrative offices (where my cubicle is located), look at the copier, and without even giving it a try say to me--who they assume to be an administrative assistant, given the seating chart--"Does this copier work?" I just smile and say, "I have no idea."  If they don't bother reading the directions aimed at 12-year-olds and just throw up their hands and say, "How does this work?" I reply, "I have no idea." I'm still smiling, mind you. Then they say, "Who do I call to fix it?" I just shrug my shoulders.

Jesus H. Christ, why don't these kids know that they should immediately learn the difference between gatekeepers and those who couldn't care less if they spontaneously combust. If my cubicle mate is present, she immediately helps them in a manner more gracious than they merit. But I particularly like it when they think she has memorized their work schedules, like that isn't their job. When one of them comes in and asks her, "Am I on call this weekend?" I immediately duck my head. Although the AA will behave in a professional manner, I will not.
I won't grab the Young Turk and yell, "Hey, how high up on the food chart do you think you are? I'm not your mother. You figure out your schedule," no matter how tempting. But I will be forced to stifle the urge to snort in a very unladylike manner.

So, listen up, Dr. New Doctor: you might be an MD and fulfilled your parents' dream, but you're new at it. Because you know your pancreas from your duodenum, this doesn't mean you shouldn't know that there are certain rules and rituals in the workplace.  Close your mouth, open your eyes; see how things work. Not only will you find you get what you want, it will improve your relationship with your patients, er, clients, in the long run.