Blog: Short Stories (Reflections from the Window)

The greetings of the gods

22 May 2020

As we walked through the streets of Reykjavík some years ago, during Iceland’s financial crisis, a band suddenly appeared, marching through town. We followed, like kids, to the town square, and when they finished, we asked one of the musicians what was going on. She explained that, with people being so discouraged, they decided that each day, at noon, one band or other would play, to raise the people’s spirits. I found that so charming that I never forgot it. Now, I would like to do my bit to raise some spirits. Years ago, I wrote a number of short stories, mostly light-hearted, almost all non-fiction, about my personal experiences. (I hope to publish them one day, under the title Reflections from the Window. Reflecting on Doors, the first one, was posted here in 2015; it explains the title.) Today we have “The greetings of the gods”, a small visit with the heath care providers who are now serving us so well.

As we walked through the streets of Reykjavík some years ago, during Iceland’s financial crisis, a band suddenly appeared, marching through town. We followed, like kids, to the town square, and when they finished, we asked one of the musicians what was going on. She explained that, with people being so discouraged, they decided that each day, at noon, one band or other would play, to raise the people’s spirits. I found that so charming that I never forgot it. Now, I would like to do my bit to raise some spirits. Years ago, I wrote a number of short stories, mostly light-hearted, almost all non-fiction, about my personal experiences. (I hope to publish them one day, under the title Reflections from the Window. Reflecting on Doors, the first one, was posted here in 2015; it explains the title.) Today we have “The greetings of the gods”, a small visit with the heath care providers who are now serving us so well.

“What’s the difference between God and a surgeon?”
“I give up.”
“God never thought he was a surgeon.”

Fabienne, the head nurse on 4 Northwest, a post-op ward, told me this joke when I met her during a study of physician “well-being” at the hospital. She tells it to all the surgeons, she said, just to make sure.

Operating rooms are the sanctuaries of these gods. So when Jane, who organizes these rooms—and, thus, those gods—invited me to see for myself, I accepted, with great interest as well as the usual apprehension. “Oh no, you can’t do that!” she replied to my obvious question. “You’re not allowed to get a cerebral hemorrhage in there. There’s no one to look after you.” When I told Susie about this, my daughter whose work as a free-lance photographer then included a day a week in medical photography, she asked to join. Good, I thought, she can drag me out, with my cerebral hemorrhage.

Jane was more than happy to accommodate both of us—nothing seemed to phase her, which explains why she could run these sanctuaries of the gods. So we arrived one morning, ready to go. Finally I could play doctor almost for real: we put on green cotton shirts, pants, booties over our shoes, face masks, and surgeon caps as the cherries on top of us cakes—the whole McGilla, so to speak (the Jewish General being a McGill University hospital). Looking like the real thing—only our eyes revealed the truth—we headed into the surgeons’ sanctuaries.

“Hi! Come on in. Let me show you what I’m doing. It’s a hip replacement. You see we …“ This was Dr. R’s exuberant greeting as we walked in. He was standing behind a green sheet on a table, with a splash of red in the middle. There must have been a real person under there, but the whole thing looked rather like modern art. Ten other people moved about the room, including several residents and even a company sales representative (there to “check out a new kind of cement”, no less).

As we gawked from the side sheepishly, Jane explained what was happening, while a resident exhibited the props—a lump of something about the size of a baseball that had come out and a piece of something silver-like that was about to go in.

We left after a few minutes, and headed for the next room, where a tumor was being removed from the side of a head—over the course of ten hours! Jane warned us that this surgeon did not tolerate any noise in his sanctuary. Again there was the green sheet, this time with a smaller zone of red exposed near one end.

It was Jane who whispered something, after a few minutes, and the surgeon looked up in surprise. She introduced us and explained what I was doing in the hospital. “Are you happy, Dr. M?” Jane asked teasingly. “We’re happy when we’re in the operating room” he retorted with somewhat less delicacy than his work on the head. Then, contemplating my presence, he got angry. He thought I had come to interview him on physician well-being—right then and there! We thanked him quickly and high-tailed it out of there.

I guess Jane thought we had now been sufficiently acclimatized, because next we headed into open heart surgery. The “heart,” as the surgeons call the human being under te sheet (or the “hip” or the “head”), was open all right. It sat there, not beating, in a small rectangular cavity, with that ubiquitous green around it. Two surgeons worked on either side, with all sorts of other hearts beating in support, including one monitoring a machine that was beating for the patient’s heart. “That cost us $100,000.00,” Jane said proudly of their newest piece of equipment.

When one of the surgeons finally looked up, Jane introduced us, to which he replied dourly: “We already met,” continuing to work. “He didn’t show up for our meeting last week.” Ye gods, what a place to find out!

From the side of the room, two intriguing eyes fixed on us. They belonged to a nurse, as if in a niqab. As Jane left to attend other things, the nurse took Susie under her wing, explaining everything, while the anesthetist, for whose interview I had shown up, did the same with me. “That’s the cream cheese,” he explained of the yellow blob next to the heart. And “no, that’s not wrinkled skin; it’s the plastic plates we put on either side.”

Suddenly, the whole chemistry of the room shifted, with high alert in everyone’s posture. A critical moment had been reached in the operation—the patient was coming off the machine. Soon they relaxed, as the real heart began beating again on its own. The anesthetist said, “That’s a fairly routine transition. The patient came out OK” but later admitted that the situation had in fact been a delicate one.

Susie went back on the stool that the nurse had provided for her, absolutely enthralled as she peered straight into the cavity. Then the two surgeons sewed in some heavy thread, and as they pulled hard on either side, the cavity gradually closed. “Oh shit,” Susie blurted out in awe. “No,” the anesthetist shot back, “that’s in Room 12. This is blood!”

We had been there the better for part of an hour when Jane returned to collect us. Next was a cataract operation, where a lens was to be inserted into an eye. This time there was no greeting at all, since the surgeon was deep in concentration. Here we encountered the eeriest scene of all—just one tiny hole in all the sheeting, this time blue, out of which peered a single eye, also blue. The surgeon was using a television monitor to see things blown up—like the CBS logo for real.

So far the visits had gone remarkably well. Susie had no need to drag me out, and there was no way I was going to drag her out. Peering into a heart cavity, let alone seeing green, red, and blue on a table, is somehow OK, a visual abstraction. But watching an eye being worked on, especially when the blue turned to red as the lens was inserted, is another matter. I wear glasses, so I figured that I had more chance of finding myself here than in “blood.”

That eye operation finished quickly, and the sheets were pulled back to reveal a conscious patient. “A little old lady under there”, Susie whispered to me. “Suddenly the human appears!” Jane explained that she would be going home in an hour, but when we were taken to see the recovery room twenty minutes later, the little old lady had already disappeared.

Last was  a laparoscopic investigation of a knee, of special interest to Susie because she had torn ligaments in both knees ski racing.  Before we even got through the door, the surgeon greeted us with “We have Eric Clapton or Elton John.” It took us a minute to realize that we were being offered the choice of music to play. A number of doctors and nurses were chatting, about Sesame Street of all things, while the patient, a big guy, sat on the bed with his head bowed like a prisoner of war. An epidural was being administered to his lower back by the anesthetist who, after having some difficulty, announced: “Thank you for watching, everybody; it does not always turn out the way you like.”

This didn’t turn out the way Susie liked either, because we had to leave before the procedure began. That ended this amazing experience. We live in a world of dazzling technology, yet where else can we see it so vividly displayed.

There are, of course, no gods, at least among men (although I did interview a young woman surgeon, who works in that Room 12, of all places). But when mere human beings can handle a heart in someone’s chest that they themselves stop and restart, perhaps we can understand, if not quite appreciate, the association of that God with these gods. So hail to you, the gods of the operating rooms. I hope we never again meet in your sanctuaries.
_____________________________________________
© Henry Mintzberg 2020, first written in 1993. We did meet again, 22 years later, in the blood room (quadruple bypass for me). Our hips and our heads remain well, thank you, and our four knees are under control. Although at the time of this revision, cataract operations scheduled for me have been delayed by the coronavirus—while the truly heavenly work of all the gods of health care take over. An article from the hospital study was published in the Health Care Management Review, and you can also see my 2017 book Managing the Myths of Health Care.

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Reflecting On Doors

31 December 2015

Here’s a little gift—a change of pace for your happy holidays! For some years I have been writing short stories—thirty in all by now. Not fiction, mind you: almost all are about personal experiences (which of course can be fictionalized). One day I hope to publish a collection of them, under the title “Reflections from the Window.” This onea short, short storyis intended to go first, because it explains the title of the collection.

The fellow who introduced himself as a public entrepreneur―a creator of advocacy groups―persisted. “You didn’t get my point,” he insisted, although we did. Ian was one of the presenters in the session, a no-nonsense South African. “You’re knocking on an open door,” he replied, a little impatiently. Such an apt metaphor: funny that I never heard it before.

Here’s a little gift—a change of pace for your happy holidays! For some years I have been writing short stories—thirty in all by now. Not fiction, mind you: almost all are about personal experiences (which of course can be fictionalized). One day I hope to publish a collection of them, under the title “Reflections from the Window.” This onea short, short storyis intended to go first, because it explains the title of the collection.

The fellow who introduced himself as a public entrepreneur―a creator of advocacy groups―persisted. “You didn’t get my point,” he insisted, although we did. Ian was one of the presenters in the session, a no-nonsense South African. “You’re knocking on an open door,” he replied, a little impatiently. Such an apt metaphor: funny that I never heard it before.

Funnier still how metaphors converge.

An hour later, in another session, I was presenting and Ian was listening. (We scratch each others’ backs in academe, although sometimes we draw blood.) The conference was at the Harvard Business School, and the facilities were impeccable. Why, then, did that door have to slam so loudly every time a person came into the room. “Could someone please fix that door to stay open,” I asked, and carried on.

Don was the commentator in our session. He and I see things differently. As I put it later in responding to his criticisms, drawing on another apt metaphor I heard somewhere, Don is a “mirror” person while I am a “window” person. In fact, I wondered out loud whether it was fair for a mirror person to be criticizing a window person, at least for missing the reflection.

Don mostly ignored the content of my presentation, to draw on the experience at hand. He wanted the door closed, he said, preferring the feeling of intimacy, while there I was, exploiting my position at the front to keep the door open. He didn’t use that favorite mirror label for us window people―“insensitive”―but his point was clear enough.

Well, I think he had it reversed.

You see, the trouble with mirror people is that they often fail to see past their own reflection. (Of course, the trouble with window people is that we often have to hide behind some glass—a camera or another pane.) In that room, I thought I was the sensitive one. I actually preferred the door closed, being aware of the same intimacy. But I noticed the effect on the audience every time that door slammed, while Don apparently did not―too busy consciously reflecting, I guess.

But it didn’t seem appropriate to point this out to him. Why knock on a closed mirror?

© Henry Mintzberg 1989, with revisions 1992 and 2014-15. See some other stories on www.mintzberg.org/stories.

Why I Climb Mountains Anyway

17 July 2015

It’s summer. Time for vacation. (TWOGs need vacations too, as do you, from all that measuring and managing.) If you are going to climb a mountain, or engage in some other peak experience, here’s something to help you up—a short short story. If it’s not short enough, you can reach the top of this story by scrolling down to the underlined passage near the bottom.

“Why do you climb mountains anyway?” Not again. This time it was in the English Lake District, about to head up to this miserable peak in the rain. Didn't we have enough troubles? She and her husband were going to take a little walk under the umbrella. If I answer her question, maybe no one will ever ask it again. OK, why do I climb mountains anyway? Let me recount the answers.

1. Because they're there. So's the pub.

2. If you have to ask the question, you wouldn't understand the answer. True. But what's the answer?

It’s summer. Time for vacation. (TWOGs need vacations too, as do you, from all that measuring and managing.) If you are going to climb a mountain, or engage in some other peak experience, here’s something to help you up—a short short story. If it’s not short enough, you can reach the top of this story by scrolling down to the underlined passage near the bottom.

“Why do you climb mountains anyway?” Not again. This time it was in the English Lake District, about to head up to this miserable peak in the rain. Didn't we have enough troubles? She and her husband were going to take a little walk under the umbrella. If I answer her question, maybe no one will ever ask it again. OK, why do I climb mountains anyway? Let me recount the answers.

1. Because they're there. So's the pub.

2. If you have to ask the question, you wouldn't understand the answer. True. But what's the answer?

3. To get away from people who ask such questions. No doubt. It works every time. But not much more of an answer. Dick, one of my climbing partners, said I should have answered, "So I can look down on you." Dick should understand that having to be on top is the mountain climber’s burden.

4. To have time to reflect on such questions of no consequence. Little did she realize.

5. Because daddy made me. Too often too true. But my daddy didn't. Maybe that’s why I do.

6. To eat the cheese. Now you're talking. Especially in France. You don't know what Tomme de Savoie tastes like until you’ve eaten it above 2,000 meters. Here, however, I got a funny look when I asked for Stilton in my picnic. But even just short of 1000 meters, I never ate Stilton like that.

7. To see what's on the other side. Jonathan volunteered this answer on our second day, as we were approaching a col. For me, however, it's just plain to see. Nowhere do I see the way I do from a mountain that I have climbed. I don't know if it's the joy, the adrenaline, or just the blood finally flowing freely in my veins. Maybe it’s the altitude beyond the attitude. The air is thinner up here—less of it gets in the way. But I believe it’s because what we see is really ours. Jacques Balmat, the first person to stand on top of Mont Blanc, claimed that: "Everything that surrounded me seemed to be my own property. I was the King of Mont Blanc—the statue of this tremendous pedestal." He was right: we do own those views that we have earned, which are not the same as those we buy in a cable car.

8. To lose yourself. Maybe. But only temporarily. I figure it takes me anywhere from an hour to a day to get the city out of my blood.

9. To find yourself. No way. No one has ever found himself on top of a mountain. (Herselves are usually too smart to look.) If this is what you need, go lose yourself in the latest group experience. Anyway there are far better places to find things. Like under a sofa cushion. (Personally, I like to find myself in a good restaurant.) I read a story years ago about a hotshot magazine editor who quit his job in the States to go find himself atop the highest mountain in South America. (Why must it always be the highest? Wouldn’t the second highest do?) After suffering all the usual catastrophes, he got there. He could look down on everyone in South America. So, did he find himself? Who knows? What I do know is that there was a place on that path where he could have found himself, one precise little place, just a hundred or a thousand paces short of the peak. All he had to do was stop there, turn around, and go back down. But he never noticed. He had to be on top, just like back in the life he was trying to escape. Anyway, on that first day, I did find myself on top of that mountain…cold, wet, and miserable. So much so that I forgot to look for myself a hundred or a thousand paces back. 

10. To be cold, wet, and miserable. You may know this as "to make a man out of me." Frankly, I can confirm my gender any time I like. But there are times, I must admit, when it feels good to stop climbing. (Of course, it can feel equally good to stop beating my head against a glass in the pub.) To tell you the truth, when I haven't done this for a while, I find the going up tiring. And the going down worse. How are we supposed to balance ourselves on our two little feet? (Getting off our front paws was one of the dumbest things we ever did.) But leaving all the goings up and goings down aside, the rest is wonderful—the cheeses, the questions, the answers, the searching, the seeing, the scenery—especially when you sit on top knowing there's no more up and conveniently forgetting that there's still a down. In fact, you’re not always cold, wet, and miserable at all. There are times, like on our second day (not the highest peak in England, I hasten to add—that was on the first day), when you are warm, dry, and mesmerized. And when you’re in shape, the goings up, even the goings down, can be delightful. Add up all the moments of exhilaration and you can end up with a lifetime of exuberance.

So tell me: Why don't you climb mountains? Anyway?

“You are a fool if you don’t climb Mount Fuji, but you are a bigger fool if you climb it twice.” (Japanese expression)

©Henry Mintzberg 2015, first draft in 1993. The photo below, HM atop a little bump in another part of the Lake District, was taken by photographer Lisa Mintzberg.