How did I ring in my quarter quell, you ask?
Oh, you flatter me with your interest.
I was in Casualty. On call. Managing a stab chest with a waiting cue of drunk drivers to test and examine afterwards. This all sounds very Grey’s Anatomy glamorous, but it really wasn’t. The guy was bleeding like crazy and it ruined even my trustee on-call jeans.
Two separate sets of police sang “Happy Birthday” to me. It was touching and yet deliciously bizarre. I never thought I would ever be in the middle of a rural small town having my Birthday rung in by the local police force while suturing a gaping chest wound. It was almost poetic, like I was doing what I was born to do.
Fun puns aside, I would much rather have not been on the on-call/post-call cycle for my birthday. Not because I particularly care about the anniversary of my birth, but because so many friends and family do and they did not take kindly to me choosing sleep over answering their phonecalls and replying to their well-wishes.
To lighten the mood a little, here’s a picture of some fully grown women–who may or may not be the doctors that will be suturing you the next time you decide to get drunk and do something stupid–doing what any respectable grown-ass women do to celebrate major life events: