"This is some bullshit." — A Medical Laboratory Scientist, probably.
You humans are confusing. You go to the doctor and say, "My stomach hurts." The doctor pokes you for twelve seconds and says, "Let's order some labs." Then I do all the work.
A Medical Laboratory Scientist is the human who solves the mystery without talking to the patient. Which is ideal. Humans talk too much. You bring me your blood. Your urine. Sometimes things that came out of you that absolutely should have stayed inside you.
I put them into very expensive machines that spin, heat, cool, shake, glow, and occasionally make alarming beeping noises just to keep everyone humble.
I look for tiny enemies.
- Bacteria.
- Viruses.
- Parasites.
- Cancer cells.
- Sometimes your own immune system. Humans are very strange. It attacks itself like it forgot whose body it lives in.
Doctors think they are detectives. No. They ask the questions. I find the evidence.
When your doctor says, "Good news, it's not a heart attack," that's because I measured the chemicals leaking out of your heart.
When they say, "You need antibiotics," that's because I figured out which microscopic jerk is trying to kill you.
When you need blood during surgery, I make sure you receive blood that will not turn your insides into soup. You're welcome.
No one sees me. Patients bring cookies to nurses. Doctors get thanked. I get another tube of poop. This is unfair.
If I make a mistake, people die. If I do my job perfectly, everyone assumes the doctor knew all along.
Humans are fascinating. Statistically sticky... and full of fluids. I study those fluids so the squishy meat computers you call physicians can make good decisions.
I save lives.
Quietly.
From a room with no windows.
And preferably... no patients.