There ought to be a law about job interviews. They ought to have to tell you the truth about the job.

When I interviewed for my nightjob no one mentioned how many night workers in the company had been robbed or assaulted. I’m not a brave person. I would have passed on the job.

When I interviewed for my dayjob no one mentioned how many “peripheral” duties I would have, and no one, I mean no one, mentioned the word “nurse.” I am absolutely firm on that fact. If I had been told I’d be dealing with first aid, I would have, very honestly, stated I was unqualified for the position. But they didn’t mention what would turn out to be the absolute worst part of my job and they hired me.

Yes, Kate the Coward, Kate the Hemophobe and Hypophobe, Kate the Ninny Who Makes Mountains Out of Boo-Boos, Kate is the onsite medical personnel. When any one of the near fifteen hundred people on site gets sick or injured, he marches his rump into my tiny little office to bleed or puke or complain in minute detail of exactly how he “lost his dignity” (as the family phrase for suffering from diarrhea goes). I’m supposed to try to keep their rumps (and all thereto attached) on the job by whatever means I can think of. Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, Imodium, Benadryl, Ace bandages, gauze, Band-Aids, butterflies, ice packs, & more (don’t forget burn salve for the occasional advent wreath conflagration) – I’ve got the whole nine yards. Since I took this silly job I’ve attended to three broken bones, two broken noses, wounds requiring uncounted stitches, and more cases of miscellaneous bodily ooze than I care to discuss. I’m the one who has to determine whether they can be patched up and sent back, or whether I can justify (to my superior) sending them home. I’ve even called 911 twice. I’ve got nothing in my big box of tricks for severe abdominal pain or airway obstructions.

It hasn’t been easy. I am slowly, surely, becoming better at dealing with these things. I almost passed out trying to staunch the gash on the first wounded warrior who dripped his way into my office, a lovely twelve-stitch head wound that bled exactly like a twelve-stitch head wound bleeds. Just Friday I took a huge breath and pretended not to be completely grossed out by the practical anatomy lesson on the underlying structures of the kneecap that hopped in my office and ruined my carpet.

I take precautions, of course, I wipe down surfaces with antiseptic after the coughers and the heavers leave my office. When the bleeders come, I definitely do the gloves and biohazard bags on the off chance that some poor soul carries the unthinkable. I even got my first flu shot this year, something I’ve always avoided, thinking I was not at undue risk.

Even with the precautions, I have gotten sick more in the past five months than I have in the past five years. Currently I have a nasty throat situation going on, probable fever (again!), some excessively disgusting congestion, and eyes a lovely shade of fuchsia. Wonderful. Let’s see. This week I dealt with quite a few cases of flu, one case of suspected pinkeye, and two bona fide diagnosed cases of strep. Which ones have I brought home with me? Take your pick.

I love my jobs.