Combat Pay

In the middle of a Monday morning that had already been mostly derailed, there was a blood curdling howl from one of the exam rooms - a long drawn out wail that resonated with operatic fullness all the way to the waiting room - several patients looked up in nervous concern, one hastily put down a copy the AARP monthly magazine and made a discreet but hurried exit.  

In a few seconds, it came again - only lengthier and considerably more amplified - The Call of the Wild meets The Hound of the Baskervilles, I thought uncharitably as one of the nurses hurried past me.  With the third, fourth and fifth mournful aria, the waiting room begins to sound like a flock of chattering chickens. I can hear the low hum of voices trying to calm, quiet and reassure the poor patient but it's pretty much a lost cause and after several more minutes, the doctor and nurses emerge - a little shaken and literally a little bloody - but victorious.  

Well, the doctor says resignedly as the nurses bandage his wrist and get him ice for an arm that is certain to bruise, that was unexpected.

Next time, the little nurse tells him, I'm putting in for combat pay.

You and me both, he says and grins.