"I can accept that."

I just heard this from the ex-wife of a surgical technician who worked at UCSF during the big San Francisco earthquake ('89? I get confused.)

He worked in the neurosurgical department. There are very few types of doctor whom other doctors consider too arrogant and terrifying to deal with; neurosurgeons happen to be first among them.

At this particular unit, they were just starting surgery on someone's brain. The surgeon was slicing open the head, but hadn't gotten into the skull yet. His view of things wiggled. He growled, "Someone's moving my scope." (The magnifying whatsit that lets him see exactly what he's getting into.)

The earth continued to move. The assorted neurosurgical staff looked at each other in mounting terror.

"Dammit, someone's moving my scope!" the surgeon barked.

More bewilderment percolated through the scarce-controlled panic flowing through the room. Finally, someone piped up timidly, "Um, sir, that's an earthquake."

The room held its breath.

He put his sterile hands up in the air, where he could keep an eye on them and make sure they didn't become contaminated. He stepped back from the table. He said, resolutely, "I can accept that."

The room fell still. I don't think anyone had thought of earthquakes in quite those terms before.

He stood there, calmly holding his hands up in the clear, while bridges fell and parts of the city started to burn. The medical building split down 18 stories. I'm told it was quite a view.

That neurosurgical OR, however, was not along the split. Once the shaking stopped, the surgeon waved a few fingers, knowing that the small gesture would instantly generate the appropriate activity in the crowded room. He dove right back into that brain.