DOCTOR’S OFFICE HUMOR
Dr. Methuselah and The Night of The Living Dead
Erma Bombeck and the annual zombie apocalypse
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Embedded in my DNA has always been a robust humor gene that manifests itself as an impish commentator. As a lifelong fan of the late great humorist Erma Bombeck, I’ve dubbed this part of my personality ‘My Inner-Erma.’
Erma always worked alongside me with her lapel microphone paired to my brain’s frequency when I managed medical practices. She loved interjecting humorous commentary about the daily goings-on.
Office whiners and staff members making a catastrophe out of small things woke her and propelled her into overdrive. I soon learned not to remain in the vicinity of Negative Nellies for very long.
She could catapult from silent background monitoring to full-blown Dennis Miller mode in nanoseconds. Things could get dicey for me if I didn’t quickly redirect when this happened.
Robert’s Rules Of (Dis)Order
She would blurt out her snark at the most inappropriate moments, so I had to be particularly vigilant in Board Meetings. Bless their hearts; the dear doctors I worked with gave her so much material.
I once snorted my coffee through my nose after she ambushed me with one of her zingers. I stopped bringing beverages into the conference room to avoid future mishaps.
The Annual Pilgrimage
Each year, as the calendar flipped to December and the winter’s chill was in the air, Erma would lob a snark attack to remind me: “It’s that time of year again, dear.”
Mind you; she wasn’t telling me that radio stations would soon be playing Christmas carols around the clock or that visions of sugar plums would soon be dancing in little kiddies’ heads.
No, she reminded me it was time for the physician partners to start their annual pilgrimage into my office.
In my office, with the door closed, each doctor would beat their chest like a primate in heat and declare open season on the squatter, Mr. Methuselah — the elder founding partner who had stayed long past his sell-by date.
The Annual Board Meeting
In late December, the partners would shuffle into the conference room for the year-end meeting and take their respective seats.
After working through the agenda and opening the floor to comments and announcements, all the partners, except Mr. Methuselah, would stare at the conference table and wince. They braced themselves for what they feared would follow.
Soon, Mr. Methuselah would dash everyone’s hopes of a better year with his dreaded announcement. Yet again — rather than retiring on December 31 as he had promised — he uttered his loathsome words:
“I’ve given it more thought. I’m going to stay on another year.”
It was this group’s annual Night Of The Living Dead moment. Like a decaying zombie, grumpy-cuss Dr. Methuselah kept rising from the grave, refusing to retire and finally go away!
Such Stoic Professionals
The agony of the other partners was palpable. But being true professionals, they maintained their dignity, always managing to short-circuit their reflexes in time to silence their guttural groans.
However, the disgusted looks and piercing glances exchanged across the boardroom table made for memorable Kodak moments.
I would raise my head, look out the window, and smirk about this time. A casual observer may have assumed that I favored Dr. Methuselah staying on. I did not! Dr. Methuselah and I were never fond of one another.
I’ll be kind and say that Dr. Methuselah was what medical consultants call a ‘highly disruptive physician.’ Whenever I looked up and saw him standing in my office doorway, I knew trouble was brewing.
Annual Zombie Apocalypse
Erma narrated boardroom scenes like a biased college sportscaster during The Rose Bowl. Disgusted by the doctors’ inability to stand up to Mr. Methuselah, she reframed them as ridiculous comedy skit characters, reducing their acquiescing dialogue to satirical Saturday Night Live sound bites.
The coffee-snorting incident notwithstanding, I did a good job keeping Erma’s existence under wraps during my tenure with this practice. No one was the wiser since I was the only one who heard her commentary.
But had a speech bubble ever appeared over my head, I would have found myself in quite a predicament.
Erma and I agreed on one thing: although each doctor talked a good game, they all fell short when executing following through.
Rinse, Lather, Repeat
Year in and year out, jointly and severally, each doc vowed that this year they would be the one to speak up. They would be the ones to display exemplary leadership; they would hold Mr. Methuselah’s feet to the fire.
Every year, The Royal We promised to veto even the possibility of further extensions.
“Yeah, right, and a meteor might crash through the ceiling and land in the middle of the boardroom table,” Erma said as they left my office.
Nothing these well-intentioned do-gooders proposed ever came to fruition. Nope. Nada. Nil. None of them ever found the courage. No one ever spoke up.
I’ve been gone from that practice for a few years. However, when I looked at their website recently, Mr. Methuselah was still listed as a current partner.
I do not doubt that he still threatens to retire every year, and the other partners are still making their pilgrimage into the new CEO’s office.
A Bad Case Of The Don’t Cares
However, that comedy is someone else’s headache now. Today, I have no trains to catch and no one to please but myself. And since I no longer have to play nice with my toys to get a paycheck, Erma and I have some great conversations about those days.
I ceremonially ditched my Stepford Wife Uniform. I giggled as I pitched that crazy getup back onto my executive chair to be dry-cleaned and used by my successor — poor baby!
Life is short, and I'm taking the time to laugh despite what anyone else wishes to do. We may as well enjoy what life we have left; the rumor is that none of us are getting out of here alive.
Gotta Run
I’ll end this post here because I have some damage control to do. Yesterday, while chatting with a new neighbor in the cul-de-sac, Erma piped up and told me to ask this woman when her baby was due.
Yep, you guessed it … she wasn’t pregnant. Oy vey!
