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 their 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