When I was five, my family
nicknamed me “Lutefisk.” They got great joy out of seeing how much the name
annoyed me. For those of you unfamiliar, Lutefisk is a popular Scandinavian
food; it is white fish soaked in lye. (I am not kidding).
Those of us hailing from places
like Minnesota and Iowa, who boast either Norwegian or Swedish descent, often
serve this fish as the main dish during many Christmas and New Year’s
celebrations. And, as a child, encouraged by my relatives to “try it,” I hated
it. To me, it tasted like the slimiest, fishiest fish, soaked in detergent.
Soap was a distinctive flavor, no matter how much hot butter you tried to add to
it. No thank you.
Anyway, having been christened
after this white fish soaked in lye, enduring family gatherings as a tiny tot,
I gradually gained some feistiness in the attitude department. And that led to
one of my first memories, one of me being quite vocal and confrontational.
On a shopping trip with my mother,
we encountered a “family friend” who greeted me in the following manner:
“Hi there, Toots!”
I never met this man before. I was,
however, all fed up with being called a fish by the people I, supposedly, did
know. I had had it! I retorted, with as much five-year-old indignation
as I could muster…
“Oh yeah, well how’d you
like it if I called you Lutefisk!”
I remember the awkward shock, the uncomfortable
laughter and the looks on both my mother’s and this guy’s faces. Clearly, my
clapback created a moment.
It wasn’t long after that my family
stopped called me Lutefisk. Maybe word finally got out.
Anyway, this memory has gotten a
lot of replay for me lately as I have been in doctor’s offices and assorted
appointments since my 2017 Breast cancer diagnosis. It has been within this
context that I found myself not that far removed from five-year-old me. You
see, as I have undergone tests, treatments and now, “survivorship” checkups, I
have repeatedly run into complete strangers calling me by pet names.
“Honey”
“Hon”
“Sweetie”
“Sweetie Pie”
“Baby”
“Baby Doll”
“Darling”
“Dear”
Everything but my actual given name,
even though that’s the first question I answer at the beginning of an
appointment, test or procedure: name and date of birth. No pet names exist within
either of those pieces of data.
Yes, within two minutes, I,
inevitably, get called a term of endearment, usually, “Honey” or “Dear.”
I have nothing against pet names if
there is an endearment present in a relationship, say, older than five minutes.
My husband usually calls me “Honey” or “Baby;” I do, likewise, with him. But
we’ve been together for well over twenty years. And, with my good girlfriends,
I admit, I’ll also drop a “Honey” or “Sweetie” their way.
Why is this name calling
a-happening? Because there is love and a relationship there, not name,
rank and serial number kind of stuff. But, if there is a patient number or code
attached to me in a clinical setting, maybe we can agree there’s not automatic love
and long-term relationships going on here, huh?
It’s just something that has gotten
me a little cranky. And yes, I know, I can hear the murmurings already. It’s
harmless being called a pet name by an ultrasound tech, doctor or even a
receptionist just checking you and I into a medical appointment. It can be
argued, I suppose, that this medical professional simply wants to make
the patient feel more comfortable, relaxed and cared for.
I admit I am a fussy patient. So
being called “Honey,” “Sweetie,” or “Baby Doll” does none of those
things for me. Especially if I hear those pet names falling from the
lips of someone I could have once babysat. Yes, not just motherly women in their
fifties and sixties are addressing me this way, I get twenty-somethings, with
freshly scrubbed faces, calling me this stuff also. Male and female, by the
way, as well.
That is
especially patronizing. I have encountered a male medical professional,
especially someone meeting my “once- could- have- babysat- you” criteria,
calling me by a name I reserve for my loving hubby. When not irritated by this
fact, I sometimes envision this same male medical practitioner calling me
“Sweetie” in the presence of my tall, dark and handsome (and intimidating-looking)
husband. I note, these male doctors and techs never do such a thing
within his earshot. Coincidence?
Regardless, at the end of the day, I’m
still the one who is hearing the pet name applied to my person. Even though
they have, in black and white, in the computer system, my vital statistics,
including my name. My name is Sheryle Cruse. I will gladly spell it again for
you if that makes things crystal clear.
I’m not “Honey.” I’m not “Dear.”
I’m not “Sweetie.” And I am certainly not “Baby Doll.”
Ruminating about this madness in
many a waiting room, I’m reminded of a list of negative reasons for name
calling and bullying I encountered years ago. I know there’s not the malevolent
intent to bully or harm a patient here. Like many of the irritating and harmful
things within our society, it, unfortunately, has more to do with the
insidious, underground attitudes which seep into a person’s assessment of an
individual, especially, if, yes, that individual is female.
According to this bully/name
calling list, some of the reasons for the behavior point to the following…
To cover up mistakes…
To disarm…
To distract or divert attention…
To manipulate into compliance…
Huh. Interesting.
Again, it’s not some maniacal
villain cackling and wringing his/her hands with plans for dastardly deeds. But
there is a reason, perhaps, an infantilizing reason, why you and
I may be called “Honey” and “Sweetie” at our next medical appointment. It’s
assumed, however wrongly, perhaps, that this is a part of standardized
patient care. We are reduced to pet names, ignoring our very real and
documented given names.
Again, if I know you and love you,
pet names are generally welcome, except for Lutefisk, of course.
Everyone else out there,
especially those who tout themselves as “professionals?” You don’t have the
privilege of calling me anything other than my given name. To do
otherwise is assumption and it’s insulting.
Call me by an unwelcomed pet name
and you may hear me respond with, “Thanks, Lutefisk.”
You have been warned now.
Copyright © 2019 by
Sheryle Cruse
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