Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought the whole point of scrubs was to have a cleaner set of clothes when interacting with patients, to keep the hospital clean, to be easily tossed in the wash and replaced when things got a tad too messy in surgery.

Doesn’t wearing scrubs on the street negate all that? They pick up the dust from home, the pollution from the roadway, the sneeze from the guy on the bus. And they bring all these goodies in close contact to the vulnerable patients needing care.

I can only speculate why people do this. One hypothesis is that the doctors and poor med students are pressed for time, and it’s such a time savings to not have to decide what to wear, only to get to the hospital and have to change into scrubs. Why, just wear scrubs all day and be done with it!

Maybe hospitals don’t have enough lockers for all the personnel to change into medical uniforms. Or maybe it’s a money-saving measure to have them launder their own, since the hospitals already have to deal with other biohazards and patient gowns and what have you.

Or maybe it’s a status thing: “this is the uniform I wear all day, so I might as well wear it on the street, and oh-did-you-notice-that-I’m-in-medicine?” Not that there’s anything wrong with that; we all want recognition and appreciation, and we all seek to identify ourselves as members of one group or another, whether it’s working for a Good Internet Company or being a policeman or participating in a group ride.

But still, seeing scrubs on the street irks me as a subcultural fashion statement that undermines putting the patient first. (That said, it seems that the lab coat may be on its way out.)

If you read this and you wear scrubs, I’d love to hear your side of the story.

The premise of the show, as you may recall, is that Samantha, a witch, agrees to mortal newlywed Darrin’s request that she stop using her magical powers. She does, for the most part, though of course she slips here or there, or has to user her powers to fix the trouble caused by her supernatural relatives. Her goal is to lead “the normal life of a normal housewife,” doing all the chores manually that she could do magically. Indeed, fitting in and being “normal” is the central idea of the show, lest the neighbors, colleagues, or other mortals find out about Samantha’s magical lineage. And all for what? So that Darrin can maintain the dominant power position in the marriage.

Goodness gracious, the show is all about conformity! It’s not just submissive gender conformity in the Leave it to Beaver sense, though there’s plenty of that: women on the show are either witches, housewives, secretaries, or vixens. It’s conformity as a plot device: Sam actually aspires to be a perfect housewife and she strives to act like a mortal so as to not aggravate her husband!

Sam enters into this agreement with Darrin of her own free will, and it is not my place to second-guess private marital arrangements. I do, however, wonder what was going on in the writers’ 1960s minds. As Wikipedia notes, “some storylines take a backdoor approach to such topics as racism”—and indeed, in early episodes one finds statements that witches are people too, that what counts is on the inside, and that people are uncomfortable with “mixed marriages.” How quaint it seems now that these messages of self-worth were presented in the context of a show based on self-denial!

A gay-lib reading is even more jaw-dropping. Sam is a closet case who desperately wants to hide who she is and be the “normal” that is expected of her, yet she can’t help tapping her fabulous powers to right things. In all of this, there is one voice of reason and self-respect warning Sam that she won’t be happy if she denies her nature and urging her to embrace her birthright. Who is this? It is Endora, the meddling mother-in-law who is often the cause of aggravation, the anatagonist who we are set up to hope is proven wrong!

How delightful to look back with older eyes on childhood fixtures and better understand their complexities! Who would have guessed that the villain in this show would turn out to be the character that most intrigues me now? Who would have guessed that my judgement about the compromises in this fictional marriage is checked by an appreciation of the give-give that makes relationships work?

When we help the needy directly (by giving to a panhandler, say) we are rewarding those who happen to cross our path with a picture that appeals to our sense of need at a moment when we happen to be in a giving mood. That does not mean that the money will be used in the way intended, nor that it will be the best use of our money. What if the food money actually goes to booze? What if the poor family we do not see would use the money more effectively to get out of poverty?

There are similar questions when giving to charitable organizations. Is this charity the best recipient? As a donor, I want my money to go as far as it can; the recipient must have low operating costs and effective programs. Who is eligible for this charity’s aid? If I think that all humans are equally deserving of help and dignity, I would want my money to go help the neediest regardless of artificial boundaries such as membership in a church, town, or ethnic group.

Most importantly, as a liberal, I believe it is the responsibility of society as a whole to take care of the needy and help them get on their feet, and it is the role of government to manage this aid in a way that is impartial and effective. I support helping the needy via progressive taxes on everyone that are used to help our less fortunate brethren fairly. If additional taxes are necessary to fund those (effective!) programs in times of need, I am all for them. Conservatives and libertarians, I’ve found, tend to rail against this compulsory “donation,” but to me it is a fairer way of paying my dues to society. Just as we take care of our elderly parents and disabled friends, we take care of those who need a leg up in the world. And rather than relying on voluntary donations, which invite free riders and cannot attack the problem systemically at the root level, we organize our humanitarian duties into a government role. We, after all, are the government.

I’m not saying so much that private giving is bad (how could it be?), but rather that societal dependence on private philanthropy is wrong, since it runs a high risk of being inefficient (you know overlapping charities must be duplicating some work) and, at best, incomplete in its reach.

Some caveats: I do admit I’m glossing over some practical issues, such as how to make a state system efficient when there are various levels of government. I also hope it’s clear that this argument applies to helping the needy with basic services, which I view as a basic human right society should guarantee. I am not talking about other forms of philanthropy which fall lower in the government’s priorities and which can be significantly advanced by private donations (for example, museums and concert halls).

Finally, though, there is one strong, personal motivation to give back to the community directly. It is a motivation that, perhaps paradoxically, reflects some self-interest, but that does not diminish its value. It is this: giving to the needy directly is a good emotional exercise for the donor in reaching beyond her own comfortable, self-sufficient world and connecting to her fellow man. A tip here or there, a meal for a sick neighbor, shoveling an older person’s driveway: these are the ties that build empathy and community.

Next stop: Crater Lake, OR

Think you know your sweetie? There’s nothing like a joint project to stretch your relationship skills and test whether or not you two could spend the next week together, let alone the rest of your natural lives.

Begin by choosing a simple, fun project that oughtn’t take too much time. For example, how about remodeling that rental apartment you just moved in to? To make the project particularly meaningful, focus on areas that you two are absolutely obsessed about. Better yet, choose areas that are an obsession for one of you but leave the other rather indifferent. Mirth is sure to follow! For example, try tackling the gross, cracking, peeling kitchen countertop that absolutely turns you off food, even if hubby is eating raw cheese and chips off it with construction dust swirling all around. Or how about those dreadful red kitchen cabinets that aren’t particularly pretty but will work just fine, except that contact paper just is not enough for your honeybun and they all have to be stripped, sanded, and repainted to match the (as yet undecided) living room color?

Now that you have a project, you two can split up responsibilities. Remember that a relationship involves give-and-take, so put on a cheerful face (no rolling of the eyes!) as you eagerly take all the instructions, directions, and materials that your mate gives you. Remember, every situation is a learning opportunity! Ask questions when things seem illogical (and you will hear yet again why this is the right way) and feel free to suggest better way of doing things (fantasies keep romance fresh!).

As you work, keep an eye out for your loved one’s work habits, a telling window into his internal world. Is your normally clean-surfaces-everywhere-before-I-can-work freak of a lover now leaving dripping paint rollers, sponges, and water bottles lying on the laundry sink countertop so they’re sure to get splashed by your bucketful of dirty, paint-chip-laden TSP water you’ve just spent the past two hours sweating over? Does he lose his cool when you oh-so-tactfully suggest that he put the paint and electrical tools in their respective drawers even if (true! true!) that may not be the final place they will go once you truly get the whole apartment organized? Does he insist on opening every single moving box and leaving them open all over the apartment, where the paint chips, sawdust, and house lead is sure to land, thus making you have to wash everything before you put it away because of course he won’t and you care too much about both of your healths to ignore the free-floating danger that he is obviously so oblivious to?

Throughout your project, remember that it is important to preserve your mental health. To this end, make sure you schedule some play time to do things you and your partner normally enjoy, such as a bike ride around town. Take the opportunity to see how your cuddlycakes reacts to this break: does he embrace it like manna from heaven, an opportunity to get out for a bit, recharge his batteries, and enjoy what life has to offer? Or does he become a neurotic fruitcake, obsessing about all the work that isn’t being done and his slacker boyfriend who only wants to play while he, the poor darling, is stuck doing all the work? While you’re out in the great outdoors, it’s a great time to air out your accumulated detritus of resentments and listen receptively with lovingkindness to his feelings about the whole situation. Are you really a lazy bum who would much rather surf the net than sand kitchen counters? Or have you had it up to here with caulking, sanding, and painting and are just about to go crazy if you don’t get away from the house into a semblance of normal life?

Finally, though, you will see your efforts rewarded as your project nears its end. Home office set up, boxes put away, kitchen functional, you will admire your handiwork, gaze sheepishly into each other’s eyes, and repeat those sweet words that alone can echo the sentiment in your hearts: “Never again!”

Memories of both events are, in their own ways, painful. The collective tragedy woke us to the fact that being the lone superpower would not bring us safety, that our brawn would not guarantee us peace, not even at home. My personal accident brought an emotional immediacy to the realization that my youth counts for nothing, that no matter how hard I train and how many products I buy, how many Men’s Health tips I follow and how many supplements I take, I am an all-too-vulnerable piece of flesh affected by what others do.

There’s a fear that comes after your foundations have been cleft by trauma. You yearn for things to be as they once were: innocent, unsullied. You strive to turn back the clock. But, of course, you can’t. The event becomes an indelible part of who you are, and the best you can do is hope that the sediments of later experiences that form your life will grow strong and stable. With time, perhaps, it ceases to be an an ominous every-day presence: the rift becomes less noticeable, the scars fade somewhat.

What of our choices in the aftermath? Our nation chose to lash out, at a credible party at first, at a red herring later. Caught up in a defensive reaction, our maladaptive response has only made us more hated and less safe, even as we lose touch with the values that define us.

As for me—well, it’s too early to tell. I like to think my choices remain reasoned and deliberate, but I’d be lying if I said there’s no emotional fallout from the accident. I am feeling cautious and vulnerable; when I get on a bike again, it will be with some trepidation. Nonetheless, cycling and taking calculated risks are part and parcel of what it means to be Victor.

And so, acknowledging the pain, we strive to move forward constructively, with grace and optimism. The future remains an open book.

The van’s dark hood was right in front of me. I caught a glimpse of the passenger-side window as time slowed to a crawl. Powerless, I saw the bike approach the car. A glimpse of the trees and sky. And then, the pavement. I held myself up on my forearms, moaning. A gash on my left arm. Blood. And some white tissue—fat. I whimpered rhythmically, too sore to move, too shocked. Work. I needed to get to work. That’s why I had left early in the first place.

The driver got out of the van. “Are you all right?!” he asked. “The sun was behind you, I didn’t see you.” He flipped open his cell phone, called 911. A stranger stopped and knelt beside me. “Don’t try to move. Did you hit your head? How many fingers am I holding up?” I had no patience for silly games, but I wanted to reassure them I was fine, and I answered.

The police came, and the ambulance. As the paramedics pulled out the gurney, a police officer asked me if I had any ID. I told her to look in the handlebar bag. As they rolled me over so they could slide the stretcher under me, I could see the officer take out my driver’s license and copy down my info. They put a padded orange head restraint on me. I called out to make sure the handlebar bag came with me. “I can’t get it out.” “Push the orange button… and lift,” I feebly tried to shout.

Up I went, looking at the sky, then into the ambulance. We waited there for a moment. What for? Paperwork? I tried not to panic, but my thoughts were swirling: this had happened to me. This would disrupt my plans. Would I ever bike again? Would I want to? Finally, they closed the doors and we were off. The EMT tried to put an IV in me, but it was difficult; I was sweaty from biking. Then he came over to my left side, “I know these bike clothes are probably expensive, but I’m going to have to cut them.” Bye, bye, polka-dot jersey that Knox gave me. “You have big gash right there.” He covered my now-naked form as the ambulance pulled into the hospital.

I watched the ceiling lights stream past, just like on TV. In the big room, a whole team of doctors was expecting me. They lifted me onto the bed. Everyone was talking. “Do you want us to call someone?” They looked up Knox’s number on the cell phone, but couldn’t reach him on the land line. “Oh, it’s long distance.” We decided to wait until after I’d been sutured, which wouldn’t be long, they promised. All the while, nurses and doctors were talking. “Where does it hurt?” “We’re going to stick this in you” “I’ll need to probe your butt to make sure there’s no bleeding.” Like a rag doll, I lay there, trying to be helpful and agreeable, but just letting them poke and prod me.

Finally, I was wheeled to my own curtained-off room. I had a chance to calm down. But I didn’t, not consistently. I was trying to go with the flow and accept this, let it be, but then doom and despair would hit me. One of the nurses came back to talk to me. Then they wheeled me off to get X-rays. A police officer stopped me to get my signature on a form, and said he’d leave an accident report for me. “Your bike looks like an L,” he said. “You might want to get in touch with a lawyer.” Great.

The periods of inactivity were the hardest. When people were doing something, I could hold it together. But during the lulls, in the X-ray room when the film was being swapped out and later back in my room waiting for the resident to come back and finish my sutures, a disconsolate anguish would take hold and make me quiver. A few hours and a couple of doctors later, however, I was finally all stitched up and had time to myself. The nurse had handed me my cell phone. I called Knox.

“How are you?”

“Not so good. I— I’m alright, but I was in an accident.”

And then I completely lost it.

That was three weeks ago, Friday, August 11. During my morning bike commute through Newton, an oncoming driver waiting to make a left turn did not notice me and cut me off. It was one of those chance encounters that would not have happened had I left home five minutes earlier or later, but which instead became a reminder that control over our fates is not as tight as we like to imagine.

At the end of the day—and a long day it was, twelve hours before they discharged me—I had a gash on my groin (off-center, thank goodness!) and one on my arm, both of which required stitches. Two metacarpals were fractured in my left hand. My left shin had a large arc-shaped scab (chainwheel?). Both my left shin and foot were swollen, making it hard to walk. My right buttock was bruised, making it painful to sit. I also had a respectable case of road rash on my right shoulder.

All in all, I was lucky. I could have been killed. I could have had internal trauma. As it was, I was wearing a helmet, did not pass out, and suffered injuries that will heal just fine (with some battle scars I can use as a conversation piece). In the days and weeks that were to follow, I would keep this fact in mind: things could have been worse. Oh, yes, they could have been much worse.

My friend Bill picked me up from the hospital and put me up for two nights in his guest room. As the doctors had warned, the day after the accident was the hardest. I was sore all over, could hardly get around, and was still getting used to having my left hand in a splint (another lucky strike: I’m right-handed). Bill helped me get set up at home on Sunday with a cane he lent me and first aid supplies we bought. Mike brought dinner that night, and the next day I was able to work remotely.

The doctors in the ER and at the follow-up appointment at the hand clinic both said I could go ahead with my previously scheduled trip to Seattle on Wednesday. Knox and I had discussed whether it made more sense for him to come to Boston to look after me instead, but I felt that it would be too frustrating to give up the trip I had so been looking forward to. Having gotten no medical vetoes (but an email warning from my primary care doctor to get up often in flight to prevent deep-vein thrombosis, for which I was now at higher risk), I decided to get on the plane.

As it turns out, that was absolutely the right choice.

We still have twenty minutes to go. That should be enough time for the sun to go down behind the trees and allow me to look at the stage without squinting. I lie back in my rented picnic chair and grab another cracker. I meticulously spread the goat cheese, and then put the last of the smoked salmon on top. I savor this delicacy; smoked salmon and cheese on crackers are synonymous with a picnic.

“What did you think of the smoked tuna?” I ask Bill. He doesn’t like it. Too gummy, he says. I have to agree. It was worth a shot but I’m not buying that again.

I wipe my hands on the already wet napkin. I should have brought more paper towels; it annoys me to run out of napkins. I look around at all the people. Most are picnicking like us, a few are reading, some are sleeping. The volunteers in their bright green T-shirts are making their way haphazardly through the crowd, some handing out programs, some requesting donations. It’s a great thing, this Shakespeare in the Park. I’m glad Bill and I are attending again. I remember last year, we saw MacBeth. Oh no, he says, handing me the program. MacBeth was three years ago, see right here?

Good grief, he’s right! How can that be? It feels like only last year! Is this what getting old feels like, I wonder. All those memories are just compressed, they are so vivid and immediate. I reach down and grab a Roma tomato. I pop it into my mouth.

Oh, my God! I can’t believe this. The tomato just spurted three feet in front of me. On the woman seated in front. Oh, no, she’s got tomato pulp and seeds on her arm. Did she notice? Crap! There’s some on her lap. She’s turning around. I can’t believe this. “Excuse me! I am so sorry!” This can’t be happening. It’s alright, she assures me. Oh that’s so polite. I would be pissed. Maybe she’s pissed. Her dad is seated next to her. Is he going to get mad? No, he doesn’t react much.

I should help her clean up. A napkin. Where’s the napkin? Oh here it is—the used, wet napkin. I offer it feebly. It’s all I have, I say. She takes it and dabs her lap. And she’s got some tomato pulp on her arm and back. Should I pretend it’s not there? She can’t see it. No, it’s too embarrassing. People behind me can see it. Oh, the people behind me! Are they laughing at me? How could they not be? No, no laughter. Maybe no one noticed? No, can’t be. They’re all being more polite than I would be. Note to self: don’t laugh at the misfortune of others.

But the stuff is still on her. She turns back and hands me back the limp scrap of a napkin. “Here, you’ve got some on your back.” I reach over and dab her arm, and the back of her tank top. Oh, my God, what am I doing. I’m pawing a woman, a young girl I don’t even know. It’s sexual harassment! She’s probably a minor. I’ll go to jail. I can see the headlines: “Gay man arrested for fondling woman in the park.” It’s not what you think! I’m not a creep! But I can’t not wipe my gastronomic disaster; I’d be a jerk! I’m just making it worse. “It’s alright,” she says, with a polite smile. No, it’s not! I want to scream. I just inconvenienced you and I don’t know how to make it up. I apologize again and slink back into my chair. Obviously, it’s my turn to be the Obnoxious Stranger Everyone Talks About on the Way Home.

“Apologize profusely and offer to pay for the dry cleaning,” says Bill in response to my query: what would Miss Manners do? Yes, I suppose that is the right thing to do. I did the apology bit. It sounds lame, and repeating it yet again won’t help. And it’s just a cotton top, it can be thrown in the wash. It seems awkward to offer to pay. Right? Or am I finding excuses? All through the play I’ll have those tomato seeds stuck there, taunting me. I wipe the sweat off my brow. So much for being cool.

Oh, look, they’re getting up. Are they offended? Are they taking a break? Moving their chairs? They just walk away. Well, at least I don’t have to see my tomato spurt victim. I catch my breath. “Man, that was as embarrassing as it gets.” I keep eating, more gingerly this time. The next tomato goes into my mouth, the whole thing. Fine. I can handle this. It’s over, move on.

Five minutes till curtain. Here they come. She’s wearing a long-sleeve T. “Shakespeare in the Park,” it says. Oh, good, she changed. I don’t have to feel bad that she’s uncomfortable or dirty. That was a nice way to handle it. Should I offer to pay for the new shirt? It’s a souvenir. They would have gotten the souvenir anyway, wouldn’t they? Or not. She glances at me briefly as she sits back down. I offer her a grimacing smile, as if to say, “I am so embarrassed I wish the ground would swallow me whole.” She and her dad continue talking. I focus my attention away.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company’s production of The Taming of the Shrew. Please turn off your cell phones and refrain from flash photography.”

Showtime!

I support cancer research. Really I do. Like many people, cancer has touched my life on more than one occasion. Inasmuch as I follow sports (which is hardly at all), I also support Lance Armstrong; his record is impressive and his comeback from cancer inspiring.

Nonetheless, the Yellow Bracelet gets on my nerves. I see it on half the people around me and I think “conformity.”

Think about it: why not send a $10 donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation instead of buying a $1 silicone bracelet? You’d be contributing a more meaningful amount (which would probably not break your budget). None of the money would have to cover manufacturing costs for the bracelets. As an added bonus, you’d have one fewer doodad to clutter you wrist, your dresser, and (once the fad passes) a landfill.

In order for the Yellow Bracelet to work as a fundraising gimmick, it must rely on economies of scale: the cost to manufacture thousands of the bracelets must be negligible, and to justify the effort, the money raised by the sheer number of people signing on to the fad (oh, the landfills!) must be greater than what would have otherwise been raised by fewer but more substantive contributions. In other words, the campaign relies on peer pressure and conformity.

The Yellow Bracelet is “cool.” It is, if not conspicuous consumption, certainly conspicuous philanthropy. It shows you care (at least at the $1 level). It makes you feel good (with minimal effort). It proclaims (quite loudly) your involvement (no matter that it’s a non-controversial cause; who isn’t in favor of cancer research?).

I’m not one to pine for the halcyon days of yore, but I can’t help but wish we lived in times in which subtlety was, at least, considered an ideal. One can support causes without making a big production of it; some people have even been known to do it anonymously. Could we not use our compassion, our money, our attention, and our time to further cancer research without turning our support into a facile consumer commodity?