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Entry tags:
Work, Work, Work, Work, Work
Not too long ago I was talking about the sneaky way employers try to pretty up harder and more thankless responsibilities with impressive or exciting titles.
The newest one is that of the MME, or Master Medical Editor, and it's being offered to me pretty aggressively.
MASTER Medical Editor. Sounds very lofty. Sounds like someone who has studied diligently for decades as an Apprentice Medical Editor, developing hardened calluses on their hands from endless hours of training and discipline, to finally attain the right to be called Master.
It doesn't at all sound like something they would mention in passing, apropos of nothing, to a lowly transcriptionist asking questions about her latest feedback errors. Yet that's how it happened:
"Don't worry about the little mistakes! You're our top producer! We can't afford for you to slow down by overthinking things too much. By the way, have you considered applying for the MME position? I think you'd really be an excellent candidate! *hint hint*"
I found it mildly concerning that I was still the "top producer" despite all the faffing around I do on any given day, sometimes wasting up to a whole hour between LJ and Cracked.com. What the hell was everyone else doing during their shifts? Or did they just tell everyone they were the top producer?
Still, I wasn't jumping headfirst into anything without doing some modicum of research. The last time I accepted a promotion without thinking (to area manager for ultra-lame RGIS inventory) resulted in hands-down the worst, most stressful, most miserable year of my entire life -- and that includes the year our house burned down and I had an emergency appendectomy.
I asked some of my fellow MTs (on the same board I habitually avoid because flame wars pop up faster than California wildfires over there), and a lucky thing I did -- Master Medical Editor is the title given to the poor schlubs in QA (Quality Assurance); in other words, the people who try to fill in the MTs' blanks, typically from the most difficult, least English-speaking doctors. I can barely handle these reports when I get them sporadically -- to do nothing but all day would probably end in violence. The job offers more money, but since it's production-based (just like my current position), realistically I don't see it working out to nearly enough to compensate for all that added stress.
Because if there's one thing I've learned in my 40 years on this planet, a bit more money is nice, but having a job with minimal demands and a tolerable amount of responsibility that you enjoy doing is priceless (and if you can work in your pyjamas with a cat in your lap, all the better).
~*~
Speaking of tolerable responsibility, that couldn't be said of my weekend at the kennels. So intolerable that I'll be forced to take on a faint Southern accent in the telling.
See this dog right here? This dog is BATSHIT CRAZY.
This is Toby, a 6-month-old shepherd mix who done ate a baby pacifier and needed surgery. He probably would have been better off eating the baby, easier to digest.
He was there for me both nights, and believe me, neither of us were particularly happy to see the other Saturday after the night we had Friday. The difference was on Saturday he was on a fentanyl drip, which is a heavy-duty painkiller also used by humans. You'd think being all drugged up would quiet him down some, but he didn't really relax until I decided to take the cone off his head (most dogs HATE the cone, especially wearing it in a tight space).
Which brings us to this picture. This is just him sleeping. I swear I looked down and thought he had up and died on me. Yelling his name repeatedly produced no result. Touching his nose gingerly at least made his eyes roll back to the correct position, but apparently he was perfectly comfortable with his jaws clamped around the cage bars, giving him this freaky rictus that was very disturbing to look at.
Come morning I had to put the cone back on, else he would lick his incisions into a nice infection, and that's when the real problems started. He fought having that cone on again something fierce. Then I left him for five minutes to start walking the boarders when I heard an unearthly canine screaming that made my spine stand on end. I raced back to Recovery to find him rearing up on his hind legs, his IV line twisted firmly around his neck. I freed him and tried to calm him down before returning to the boarders.
Then as I was giving his final dose of antibiotics, sitting right there in the cage with him, he did it again -- started wailing and thrashing around so violently he was going to take me down with him. Then, as abruptly as it started, he suddenly collapsed, gave out a mighty sigh, and fell asleep. Bizarre doesn't begin to describe it. It almost seemed like a seizure to me. I called the doc, nervous about leaving him alone. She had me give an extra sedative and he seemed to be out cold, so I went home. I still don't know what became of him after I left.
It turns out fentanyl tends to have this effect on dogs, which is why it's used so rarely (but the doc was afraid minus the fentanyl he'd be even crazier). Whether it was the fentanyl that made him sleep in such an odd position I'm not sure. What I am sure of is if this little hospital visit doesn't screw him up for life, nothing will.
COMING SOON: A whole buttload of reviews for movies no one cares about
The newest one is that of the MME, or Master Medical Editor, and it's being offered to me pretty aggressively.
MASTER Medical Editor. Sounds very lofty. Sounds like someone who has studied diligently for decades as an Apprentice Medical Editor, developing hardened calluses on their hands from endless hours of training and discipline, to finally attain the right to be called Master.
It doesn't at all sound like something they would mention in passing, apropos of nothing, to a lowly transcriptionist asking questions about her latest feedback errors. Yet that's how it happened:
"Don't worry about the little mistakes! You're our top producer! We can't afford for you to slow down by overthinking things too much. By the way, have you considered applying for the MME position? I think you'd really be an excellent candidate! *hint hint*"
I found it mildly concerning that I was still the "top producer" despite all the faffing around I do on any given day, sometimes wasting up to a whole hour between LJ and Cracked.com. What the hell was everyone else doing during their shifts? Or did they just tell everyone they were the top producer?
Still, I wasn't jumping headfirst into anything without doing some modicum of research. The last time I accepted a promotion without thinking (to area manager for ultra-lame RGIS inventory) resulted in hands-down the worst, most stressful, most miserable year of my entire life -- and that includes the year our house burned down and I had an emergency appendectomy.
I asked some of my fellow MTs (on the same board I habitually avoid because flame wars pop up faster than California wildfires over there), and a lucky thing I did -- Master Medical Editor is the title given to the poor schlubs in QA (Quality Assurance); in other words, the people who try to fill in the MTs' blanks, typically from the most difficult, least English-speaking doctors. I can barely handle these reports when I get them sporadically -- to do nothing but all day would probably end in violence. The job offers more money, but since it's production-based (just like my current position), realistically I don't see it working out to nearly enough to compensate for all that added stress.
Because if there's one thing I've learned in my 40 years on this planet, a bit more money is nice, but having a job with minimal demands and a tolerable amount of responsibility that you enjoy doing is priceless (and if you can work in your pyjamas with a cat in your lap, all the better).
~*~
Speaking of tolerable responsibility, that couldn't be said of my weekend at the kennels. So intolerable that I'll be forced to take on a faint Southern accent in the telling.
See this dog right here? This dog is BATSHIT CRAZY.
This is Toby, a 6-month-old shepherd mix who done ate a baby pacifier and needed surgery. He probably would have been better off eating the baby, easier to digest.
He was there for me both nights, and believe me, neither of us were particularly happy to see the other Saturday after the night we had Friday. The difference was on Saturday he was on a fentanyl drip, which is a heavy-duty painkiller also used by humans. You'd think being all drugged up would quiet him down some, but he didn't really relax until I decided to take the cone off his head (most dogs HATE the cone, especially wearing it in a tight space).
Which brings us to this picture. This is just him sleeping. I swear I looked down and thought he had up and died on me. Yelling his name repeatedly produced no result. Touching his nose gingerly at least made his eyes roll back to the correct position, but apparently he was perfectly comfortable with his jaws clamped around the cage bars, giving him this freaky rictus that was very disturbing to look at.
Come morning I had to put the cone back on, else he would lick his incisions into a nice infection, and that's when the real problems started. He fought having that cone on again something fierce. Then I left him for five minutes to start walking the boarders when I heard an unearthly canine screaming that made my spine stand on end. I raced back to Recovery to find him rearing up on his hind legs, his IV line twisted firmly around his neck. I freed him and tried to calm him down before returning to the boarders.
Then as I was giving his final dose of antibiotics, sitting right there in the cage with him, he did it again -- started wailing and thrashing around so violently he was going to take me down with him. Then, as abruptly as it started, he suddenly collapsed, gave out a mighty sigh, and fell asleep. Bizarre doesn't begin to describe it. It almost seemed like a seizure to me. I called the doc, nervous about leaving him alone. She had me give an extra sedative and he seemed to be out cold, so I went home. I still don't know what became of him after I left.
It turns out fentanyl tends to have this effect on dogs, which is why it's used so rarely (but the doc was afraid minus the fentanyl he'd be even crazier). Whether it was the fentanyl that made him sleep in such an odd position I'm not sure. What I am sure of is if this little hospital visit doesn't screw him up for life, nothing will.
COMING SOON: A whole buttload of reviews for movies no one cares about