Nailed It

My nails were never glamorous. Short and trimmed, they were practical — fitting easily inside latex exam gloves. Well-suited for a busy life as a mom and physician.

But when my wedding rolled around, I opted for the total bride experience: hair styling, manicure, pedicure, and makeup.

I arrived at a local nail salon owned by a tiny, energetic woman named Kim. I don’t speak Vietnamese. She barely spoke English.

Kim inspected my stubby nails and recommended tapered extensions for a more elegant look.

Reclining in an oversized massage chair, a technician worked on my feet while Kim expertly trimmed and buffed my shaggy cuticles. When they finished, I slid limply out of the chair.

I didn’t recognize my hands or feet. Instead of dry, chapped skin, my hands were soft and smooth. Smiling at my splurge, I spent the rest of the evening admiring my hands, feeling like a Disney princess.

The next morning, I returned to my work as a doctor. I was greeted by my medical assistant, patient schedule in hand.

“Your first patient is waiting in exam room one,” she said.

“And good morning to you,” I said, laughing, and proceeded to get to work.

I grabbed the chart from the door and entered the room.

My first patient was a middle-aged woman who was there for a routine physical. She complained of some mild indigestion after eating but had no other problems.

“While you’re at it, Doc, just kick the tires and look at my check engine light,” she said with a grin.

After questioning her about any issues in the past year, I started to examine her.

Focusing on her abdomen now, I asked her when she first noticed the indigestion. How would she describe the discomfort? What made it better? What made it worse? How long did it last?

I listened with my stethoscope for bowel sounds. Normal.

I placed one hand on top of my other then gently pressed to feel her organs.

As I pushed on her left upper quadrant, I noticed her flinch.

“It hurts there?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

Providers are trained to not react with facial grimaces, noises that convey bad news, or even a diagnosis until we have a full picture. I stayed silent.

“Deep breath,” I said. I rolled my fingers over the liver edge. “Okay, breathe out.”

She again winced.

“Did that hurt?” I asked.

She nodded.

“What does it feel like — sharp, stabbing, burning?” I asked.

“Sharp and stabbing,” she said.

My thoughts raced. What was causing the discomfort? How was this related to her indigestion? Peptic ulcer? Irritable bowel?

I inspected her abdomen to see if there was any swelling. There was none. Instead, I saw multiple pink, crescent-shaped spots.

Could this be a rash? Hives?

My patient looked up at me with concern. “Is everything okay, Doc?”

It hit me.

My nails.

I had forgotten that my hands were also instruments; even dressed up, they had work to do.

Holding a hand up so she could admire my new acrylics, I then moved to re-examine her using just the pads of my fingertips. As expected, her abdominal tenderness disappeared.

“See, no pain,” I said. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “For a second, I thought I was going to need an oil change!”

We laughed.

“Yes, everything is fine,” I said. “Just consider yourself as mani-cured.”

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Did your self-care routine ever collide with your job? Tell me about it in comments.

For more humorous stories, check out “Imposter for the Win or Bound to Look Good