Shit, piss, blood, and vomit, though unpleasant, do not deter me from my duties to nurture and comfort in the face of adversity.
Being one-eighth Scottish means some of my genes come from Norsemen, savages who hacked gods to pieces and hung their flesh from trees. Brave explorers and noble warriors who fear only feeble old age and death in bed.
Perhaps that explains my ability to thrive in the emergency room to remain calm, even peaceful in the midst of chaos, to laugh and joke while battling death, dismemberment, and contagion.
During breaks my colleagues often ask how I can eat pizza dripping with red sauce, oozing with mozzarella after spending hours titrating medicinal poisons, cleaning and dressing festering wounds, and mopping up bodily fluids.
As I pour another cup of muddy twelve-hour coffee, I simply sip, laugh, and blame it all on that powerful— Viking DNA.
Desert Dweller 