Posts Tagged ‘clinical years’

Wisdom from the Psych Ward

September 9, 2011

Wisdom gleaned from current patients:

– God is a 40 something male with very clean fingernails. On my ward at the moment.  I can’t tell you much more as he doesn’t want anyone else to know…

– The Greeks are the oldest bloodline dating back to the beginning of mankind. Thus they are better than anyone. Much better than Germans. French people are okay though.

– If you find a strong woman don’t marry her. Strong women can’t be tied down and married.

– To counter depression you need to balance it out with exercise and diet. If you are really intelligent you need to counter it with lots more exercise and a better diet because being intelligent makes you even more off balance and depressed. Either that or you should walk barefoot. It keeps you balanced and in touch with the earth. Which brings me to the next pearl:

– Shoes should be banned in schools. Children growing up need to feel the earth between their toes. But then they should wear thongs in the classroom. Of course. (Which isn’t a bad thought really, until you read in the file that the particular patient has a history of attempting to abduct children from his old primary school…no doubt to liberate them of their shoes)

– Everything and everyone is corrupt. We could all be shot on the street. There are conspirers everywhere. Especially Beyonce. She’s the worst.

– The mastermind behind 9/11 is a 50 something homeless man with a predilection for amphetamines, cannabis and the occasional hit of street morphine.

 

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serendipitous dining

September 6, 2011

I stayed back late at uni to go to a friend’s lecture on ECGs (because I think they look like great fabric patterns and not much more). It turned out to be more beneficial as this decision led to a series of events that resulted in one of those nice perfect opportunities.

It finished up at 7:30 so I popped into a great Japanese place that does amazing hot chilli noodles with kimchi. Waiting for my takeaway I spied my surgical registrar from earlier in the year eating with another colleague. We had had a great relationship, and struck up a funny friendship. She smiled and waved. I waved back. Once I had my steaming noodles I stopped at her table on the way out to say goodbye.

Her colleague is lovely as well and asked a few questions about my new rotation, how our exams went, chatting about his new students, enquiring into how we enjoyed surgery etc. Before I knew it I’d been leaning against the wall near their table for nearly fifteen minutes. I made a move to leave but they insisted I stay and eat my noodles at their table.

It was one of those lovely, spontaneous meetings that had great flowing conversation, laughter and great stories. They’re both surgical registrars with high ambitions, tough jobs and insane work hours, yet they had so much joy about uni, life, travel, career options,hospital gossip and of course, food. It was really refreshing, especially after a whole day at uni, to see that at the end of all these, even in the midst of a gruelling program people are still people with *gasp* great personalities, and hilarious conversation.

I mentioned how much I missed the teaching this reg had given during our time with her, as its not available in all the other rotations I’ve been on (she had done diplomas in medical education and really made a point to get us involved). She said that she’d just changed jobs and didn’t have any med students so any time I wanted to spend time with her if I had a day off I could spend it with her, doing plastics.

I nearly choked on my noodles. Acting nonchalant I was all like “Oh yeah, that would be great, thanks. I’ll totally take you up on that.How great are these noodles, hey?”

Here comes the embarrassingly nerdy confession. I love plastics. Not the “boob and nose job” aspect of it (which does predominate in my particular area…) but the finesse and skill of the surgeons. The art. The sewing. My name is MedicallyBlonde and I totally get off on suturing. To the degree that my freezer holds six pig trotters, ready for defrosting when my suturing buddy comes over and we drink wine and …well…suture on a friday night.*

The opportunity to be able to shadow a plastics registrar and consultant is beyond exciting. I don’t want to actually *be* a plastic surgeon (although if there was some kind of dream world where I could be one for one day a week and the rest be a GP that would work), but I want to have the neatest suturing skills possible. Because if a patient comes into my (imaginary future) GP practice with some trivial laceration I want to be able to do it as close to how a plastic surgeon might. I’m competitive about that particular skill. Venepuncture and ABGs can be damned, but by god I need to do a perfect stitch. It might come from being an OCD knitter. And crocheter. And embroiderer. It was that damn cross-stitch they teach you in primary school. Got me hooked.

So there. I’m officially a dork. I love basic suturing and…dermatology. The uncoolest aspects of medicine. I just get off on skin in general. Just pass me the thick bifocals and I’ll sit in the corner reading my derm books and playing with my 4.0 nylon.

*what do you think of my trotter-work? 

how to write a form (or “the clinical years”)

September 6, 2011

I should be recording the events of this year.
This ridiculous, ridiculous year.
This year that started on the 10th of January, with one week holiday in June and 47 something weeks of uni with early starts, late nights, being stuck in surgery, being humiliated, being triumphant (in the smallest of things), being crushed, being humbled, witnessing the slowest of deaths, the swiftest of deaths, the slowest of births, the swiftest of births, the phelgm, the blood, the tears, the families (oh god, the families), the residents, the registrars, the consultants, the nurses, the hospital food, the free lunches, the hilarious patients, the sad patients, the angry patients, the stitch cutting, the blood taking, the holding of surgical instruments, the firsts, the moments of clarity (with their emphatic promises that you will NEVER go into that speciality/do that procedure/watch another one of those/do another one of those ever again), the learning. The godforsaken learning.
So much learning.
The fevered collection of tips and tricks scrawled onto scraps of papers, or hands.

How to organise your day as an intern, how to tick all the boxes, where to put the Xray form in, who to call when the login won’t work for the blood results, where to find staff phone numbers on the intranet directory, how to write a request form, a consult form, a *insert anything* form, where to get a coffee at any hour of the day, how to request an MRI or angiogram and actually get it, how to answer a question without actually answering it, how to look interested whilst mentally doing your shopping list, how to actually say something other that “um… increase in squiggly lines” when interpreting an ECG, how to placate to angry famillies/coworkers/patients/cafeteria staff, how to avoid killing someone.
That last one is reaaaaally tricky.
My expectations have shrunken so that instead of aiming to be super-mega-doctor. I’m going to start with “Not killing people” and then build on that.

I’ve noticed that all this learning, accumulating has become addictive. If I spend too much time off, wandering, floating through op shops, visiting family or reading books I actually start to get down. I get itchy, feeling like I should be doing more. Overwhelmed by this guilt of “Oh god. I could have learnt SO much in this day and I frittered it away”. There is something unsettling, unnerving about becoming aware of the potential of a days learning. What a day wasted can mean.

Despite this, there are days (often concurrent) when I live in my pyjamas, eat over the sink, forget to brush my hair and don’t go into uni at all. The perfect antidote.

So Ronery…

March 13, 2011

This year is hard. Not because of the hours. The workload. The early mornings. That’s fine. Whatever.

It’s hard because none of us can get our shit together to have coffee or decent catchup when we used to run each other multiple times every day. I miss locker room chats, library chats, before lecture coffee chats. I miss seeing my friends. We’re all split up and doing long hours, looking stupid, learning heaps, getting stressed, comfort eating, being grilled on shit we should know but don’t, and running up and down the stairs every day because those goddamn lifts would have to be the slowest in the southern hemisphere. Some of us are within walking distance of each other but shut up in different clinics, different rooms, different wards. Occasionally waving hi in the corridor. Others are up to three hours away at different hospitals.

Its great and a huge sigh of relief after pre clinical years, but it’s strange to go from learning the same thing every day as a cohort to being split into pairs or groups of three. Sometimes you’ll go the whole day only seeing your partner, or if you get split up, then only seeing your registrar, occasionally your consultant and the interns. I don’t think I really contemplated how big of a change clinical years would be…I’m a teensy bit jealous of the first years and second years with their days off, and their bbq and beach filled facebook photo albums.

But then I did get to take staples & stitches out of a weeping arsecheek wound last week.

Who needs bbqs?