To be honest, it wasn’t the first time I’d laid eyes on certain anatomy. My dad had a habit of leaving behind some rather shocking slides from his work in urology, which would pop up at family slide shows like horrifying surprises amid the usual vacation photos. Back then, I aspired to be a doctor just like him—not necessarily in the same specialty, but I wanted to feel important.
My dad’s work involved male anatomy, but I preferred to highlight his kidney surgeries when explaining his job to classmates. In the pre-Viagra ’80s, the field of urology didn’t necessarily have the same prestige as other surgical branches. Sometimes, when asked about my dad’s profession, I’d mumble so quickly that people often thought I said “neurologist.” It was a small deception I didn’t bother to correct, as being the daughter of a “dick doctor” came with its fair share of embarrassment. My mom would always remind me, though, that it could be worse—we could be a family of proctologists. In the hierarchy of medical professions, that one was at the bottom.
Yet, my father was still my hero. He left for work long before we woke up and came home long after the dishes were done. When he finally returned, my grandmother would exclaim, “The King is home!” as if he were a returning conqueror.
One evening, he surprised us by coming home early and invited me to join him at the hospital to watch a surgery. “Will I miss school?” I asked, pretending to be concerned about my academics. “Just one day, and you’ll learn something,” he replied with a wink.
The following Monday, I got up before everyone else and had a quick breakfast with him. He had chosen a kidney transplant for me to observe, which seemed like a good choice for a first experience.
At the hospital, I rushed to keep up with him, trying not to trip on the squeaky linoleum floors in my Hush Puppies. We navigated through a maze of double doors and hallways, finally arriving at the operating room. The bright lights were almost blinding as I stood on tiptoes, eager to see the action.
Unfortunately, the surgery was less exciting than I had hoped. It felt more like a dull sermon than a thrilling spectacle. I had envisioned a gory scene, but instead, I was left wondering if I would need to exaggerate the day’s events to impress my friends. When my dad and his team left the room, the nurses began cleaning up like it was the end of a play. Suddenly, I was reminded there was a real person under those sheets.
As they prepared to flip him over, I caught sight of what was between his legs—my eyes widened like saucers. The head nurse, a robust woman, casually squirted Betadine on the area and started prodding him. I was shocked; it looked like she was tenderizing meat! When my father returned, he whisked me out of the room, perhaps realizing that this wasn’t the best introduction to medicine.
Back home, I excitedly recounted my day to my mom and brothers. They were far more interested in the “balls” story than the kidney surgery. Even my mom tried to hold back laughter while scolding my dad. I began to see the humor in my father’s profession, even if embarrassment lingered for a few more years.
Growing up, there were times I longed for a dad with a more traditional job—someone who wouldn’t share awkward medical anecdotes at dinner. But looking back, I wouldn’t trade those family meals for anything. My dad taught me to embrace the humor in uncomfortable topics, and though it can be tricky to navigate, I’ve learned to handle those subjects with grace.
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In summary, my “Take Your Daughter to Work Day” was far from ordinary. It was a day filled with unexpected moments, laughter, and a deeper understanding of my father’s unique job. Though it came with some embarrassment, it ultimately taught me to embrace the quirks of life.