low poly vulpix

so i'm no huge fan of rideshare and delivery apps, but this? this post?

And so the two surgeons filmed a handover after heart surgery and sent it to the Ferrari pitcrew who were told to critique and improve handover process

And from this:

we got this:

The error rate during patien handovers dropped from 30% to 10% with the F1 informed protocol.

I love this!

And it that it wasn't a one and done.

The doctors went to the race tracks to watch the car changes and the pit crews went to the hospitals and watched a live transfer and offered suggestions and they kept working with them to improve.

After there was a successful improvement of the most vital metrics of a handover of a patient from surgery to ICU, the pit crews also worked with other hospitals for other procedures and it's now a whole thing of trying to apply the specialized, streamlined and speedy teamwork and nonverbal coordination of pit crews to other high-risk fields.

This sounds preposterous to an extent. The idea of transforming based on how you dress and carry yourself feels superficial, but it made an incredible difference. Though I knew deep down I was still the same boy who’d never fit in, the soft kid who’d disappointed most every man he ever knew, I was able to lose myself in the role and fake it enough to make it through the day. I strolled into class and pretended I didn’t care about anything. I practiced the nonchalant air the men around me projected, I stifled my natural inclination to talk and express myself.

In turn, this is how I met my first group of college friends. Because they hadn’t known me my entire life, I could be whoever I wanted with them. They didn’t need to know my secret shame. They could think I was tough, a little dangerous. With them, I was the guy who might make a show out of drinking Jack Daniel’s straight from the bottle. At the bars, I was the guy who got liquored up and didn’t shy away from a confrontation. I got aggressive. And even though I was performing, and even though I knew deep down the whole thing was a charade, I couldn’t help but take pride in the changes nonetheless.

Sometimes, out and about, loaded or else high from copious amounts of pot, I’d think of my dad, my stepdads, my high school peers. All of them had seen me for what I was. A sensitive, soft kid. A mama’s boy afraid of his own shadow. If they could only see me now, I’d think, and with each new exploit, each new instance of gambling with my health, slowly the line between who I was pretending to be and who I really was began to disappear.

I started thinking like somebody else. The performance turned to mimicry and that mimicry became deeply rooted. I had constructed a shell, a hardened exterior meant to hide my vulnerabilities, and after wearing it enough I molded to the casing. This, I’ve come to learn, is how toxic masculinity works. Most every man suffers for his inability to live up to the rigors of masculinity as a child, and most every man feels like an outsider. But they build up that shell at a much earlier age, and they conform to it as the years pass. The performance continues until there’s no performance anymore. There’s just a man who knows no other way.”]