It wasn’t the first instance I’d encountered unusual anatomy, if you considered the slides of mangled male parts my dad would inadvertently leave in the carousel he borrowed from his office. During family slide nights, they’d pop up like gruesome jack-in-the-boxes amid images of our annual family ski trips.
Back then, I dreamed of becoming a doctor like my father. I wanted to feel important like he did, even though I had no intention of going into urology, the specialty he practiced. I knew he dealt with male genitalia, but when explaining his profession to classmates, I preferred to highlight his kidney surgeries, which seemed more respectable. In the pre-Viagra ’80s, urology didn’t quite carry the same prestige as other surgical fields.
When asked what my father did, I often mumbled my response so quickly that people would mistake it for “neurologist” — a misunderstanding I rarely corrected. Being the daughter of a “dick doctor” was a source of embarrassment, but my mother would always remind me that it could be worse; at least we weren’t the family of a proctologist, which, as she put it, was the very bottom of the medical hierarchy.
Still, my father was my hero. He left for work before I got up for school and returned long after dinner was finished. My paternal grandmother would dramatically announce “The King is home” when he finally returned after saving lives all day.
One evening, surprisingly, he came home early enough to share dinner with us. He asked if I wanted to accompany him to work and witness a surgery. “Would I have to miss school?” I feigned concern for my academics. “It’s just one day, and you’ll learn something at the hospital,” he replied with a wink.
The following Monday—his surgery day—I awoke before the rest of the family and joined him for a quick breakfast. He had chosen a kidney transplant for me to observe that day, which seemed fitting.
At the hospital, I hurried down the corridors to keep pace with him, who moved like the wind. The endless white linoleum squeaked beneath my shoes, and I found myself skipping just to keep up. We pushed through double doors and down another hallway, taking so many turns that I lost track of where we were. The walls changed from tan to blue, and the corridor narrowed as we approached the operating room, my excitement building.
Inside, the lights were blinding and hot as we gathered around a small, pink area of flesh. My feet ached from standing on tiptoe to glimpse the delicate, gloved hands working in and out of a bloody cavity. My father occasionally locked eyes with me, smiling, as though he could sense my mounting anticipation.
The surgery, however, was more tedious than anything. I had hoped for a dramatic display of blood and guts, but it felt more like waiting in line at the DMV. I was starting to question whether I’d have a decent story to share with my friends. Then my father and his residents exited the room, leaving me alone with the nurses, who were all business as they began to clear the operating room.
As the lights dimmed and instruments were wheeled away, I realized I had forgotten there was a living person beneath the sheets. He appeared lifeless. The nurses summoned a male orderly, and they proceeded to roll the man over. My eyes widened in shock at the sight of that purplish mound of flesh. It looked like turkey gizzards.
To my surprise, the head nurse, a robust Greek woman, wheeled over a cart and began preparing the area with Betadine. I thought I might get scolded for staring, but instead, she started slapping the man’s anatomy around as if she were tenderizing meat. I wasn’t an expert, but I instinctively knew that would have hurt had he been awake. He groaned and shifted slightly, but she continued with the enthusiasm of a chef preparing a gourmet meal. When my father returned, he quickly whisked me out of the room and took me to lunch in the cafeteria.
When we got home, I recounted my day in vivid detail to my mother and younger siblings. No one seemed interested in the kidney surgery; they were all fixated on the “balls”—even my mother, who struggled to hold back laughter while trying to scold my dad. The embarrassment of being the child of a “dick doctor” lingered, but I was starting to appreciate the humor in my father’s profession.
Dad worked long hours, and we rarely saw more than the top of his salt-and-pepper hair peeking over the evening newspaper. He didn’t know much about parenting, but he knew how to entertain us. At dinner, we’d invent ridiculous names—“Harry Butz” was a perennial favorite. As I grew older, he shared many hilarious urology stories, some of which I still tell today.
There were times I wished my father had a more conventional job, like a banker or an insurance agent with regular hours, someone who wouldn’t share tales of erectile dysfunction at the dinner table. Yet, reflecting on it now, I realize how dull our family dinners would have been without those colorful stories. I’m thankful he taught me to laugh at even the most delicate subjects. I admit it can be tough to keep a straight face about anatomy, even in intimate moments, but I’ve certainly learned to handle them with care.
Summary
In this humorous account, Lily Thompson reflects on an unforgettable Take Your Daughter to Work Day spent observing her father’s work as a urologist. Initially embarrassed by her father’s profession, she later finds humor and value in the lessons he has imparted, including an appreciation for laughter in the face of life’s awkward moments.
Keyphrase
“Take Your Daughter to Work Day”
Tags
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