Geoff is back ALRIGHT, *synth*
Good morning, my pretties, I hope you have all been well, I sit here on hour 1 of this Friday's Pointlessly Long Gap Between Lectures Extravaganza (TM) and, though I should be learning about neonatal jaundice & gastrointestinal problems I am faaaar too lazy and feel a blog is the best way forward.
So what thrilling events have occurred since our last chat?
Well at the beginning of this week I had my first real interaction with kiddies, in what is called a 'Developmental Assessment Session'. What this involves, in reality, is sitting down with kids for 3 hours and playing with toys. At first this was reasonably scary
Me: But whyyyy have you handed me this Mr Potato Head husk, that lacks in all limbs and appendages?
18 month old child: *SCREAMS OF JOY*
Me: But but this serves me no useful purpose. I cannot calculate my mortgage repayments with this!
Child looks at me imploringly, waiting for me to do something with toy
Me: Do you not understand me, man? Can you not cogitate than use of such frivolous things is below my extreme intellect?
You know that bit from Jurassic Park where the previously cute dinosaur tilts it's head to one side, hisses and spits BURNING ACID into that fat guy's face? Well children do this manoeuvre too, only it's not acid it's tears, tears and screaming.
Child: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
All parents/doctors turn to look to see what, the f*ck, I have just done to this child and whether I should be sent to prison forever.
Me: Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit
At this point, as though 'Jesus' himself, and by Jesus I mean millions of years of evolution, had injected the thought into my brain i instinctively picked up the dead remnants of Mr Potato head and peered through one of the holes left behind by his severed limbs.
The child immediately perked up and started laughing. To the max.
The next 24-48 hours were spent with us taking it in turns to look through the holes in Mr Potato Head and mirth was had by all. Especially the parents, who all escaped to some kind of amusement park and got WASTED on vodka.
Probably.
This session made me realise how awesome fun children are when you just give up trying to think logically and do random things with random stuff. A particular Northerner in my group spent a good deal of time cooking a yellow plastic cup in an oven, for some reason, and had a whale of a time; this being said, cooking fake food in a non functioning oven is likely the staple of northern entertainment when there is no coal around (and, these days, there never is so) the fun may have had little to do with the child.
The next day I was timetabled to go to 'Special School'. Now for those of you who were EVER a schoolchild you will know that the word 'special' must always be pronounced with ones tongue firmly embedded under their bottom lip and then followed up with some extremely un-PC grunting noises. This is the way it has always and shall forever be, at least until they think up another word for 'Special' people.
Political correctness in the naming of children who are, let us say, less mentally on the ball than they might otherwise be, is a particular bug-bear of mine. This stems from when we had a GEM 'Multidisciplinary Learning Day' where we were forced at gun point to attend and the nursing students (who were neither smoking hot, dressed in bikinis, or 18 years old as had been advertised to us) were given a casual suggestion that they might want to turn up. As a result: Sausagefest. Anyway at this day we had to sit through an hour long lecture on what the right words to use are. We were told that as each term came along, it gradually got used in a derogatory sense - making out that having 'learning difficulties' (as it should be called, apparently) was a bad thing.
NEWS FLASH: Having an IQ below 50 IS A BAD THING! Under no circumstances is it a good thing!
So Mental Retard is out (even though that scientifically describes the condition; as their mental development is slowed, or retarded), as is Mental Disability, as is Learning Disability. The new term, as I mentioned above, is Learning Difficulties. The plural is important here because if you have a Learning DifficultY then you just have something like dyslexia, or AIDS or whatever. If you have Learning DifficulTIES then you are much more severely handicapped. Though, you can't use the word handicapped either because that implies that people should be pitied.
NOTE: If I am ever in a car accident and lose my ability to function at a highish level. PLEASE DO PITY ME. IT WILL SUCK, I WILL BE VERY ANNOYED ABOUT IT.
Now my real anger towards this (that you may have noticed) stems from the fact that one of the lecturers, who i was inclined to believe had a few learning difficulties of her own, kept using the following phrase: 'Now this girl/boy had severe and MULTIPLE learning difficulties'. With huge emphasis on the multiple. The issue here is that DIFFICULTIES IS PLURAL, BY DEFINITION YOU HAVE TO HAVE MULTIPLE LEARNING DIFFICULTIES.
I may not have got across quite how annoying that was there so you doubtless think i'm insane, but I care not.
I'd also like to point out that I have huge admiration for everyone who works with these children and for the children themselves, who have been dealt rather a shady set of cards in life and deserve the best treatment possible. What annoys me is the airy fairy types who spend all their days thinking of the nicest way to describe the people and spend no time at all helping them in a useful way.
I digress.
So the school. Firstly I was thwarted by Miss Satnav who decided to take me via Milan and the Hanging Gardens Of Babylon before delivering me at the school (just round the corner from the hospital I go to every day and know exactly how to get to much more quickly). What's that, you say? Use a frikking map you moron? Well shhh!
The school had just been rebuilt with a government grant and was hyper wyper sniper fancy, it had been thoughtfully designed so that noone could get lost; e.g. it was in a big circle, had wide corridors for wheelcairs, had colour coded areas so that people who couldn't read could find where they needed to be and was generally top notch.
Nice work there, Labour, sorry to hear the Chavs who read the Sun won't be supporting you anymore for some arbitrary reason, but they'll be laughing on the other side of their burberry wearing faces when the Connies shut down all public funding for anything, including their precious benefits. That said, they don't turn up to vote anyway, so it probably won't make any difference.
I was soon ushered off to THE OTHER SIDE OF THE UNIVERSE by a bus from the 1830s that ran on steam, to go swimming. It has been a long time since I went to the public swimming baths and all I could generally remember was the fact you went in healthy, at some point found a random used plaster attached to your face and came out with varuccas a gogo. This may well still turn out to be the case from this encounter but what I'd missed in my memories was the joy of swimming and, furthermore, the joy of swimming with kids who aren't all that great at swimming (at this school, 'kids' go up to the age of 21).
Why joys? Because when you get success their faces light up like Lewis Barlow in a rehearsal break and there is much clapping and smiling. Sadly the clapping usually causes the kids to begin to drown and floats have to be swiftly administered to avoid death by pneumonia. On the way back from swimming an extremely cute boy cuddled up next to me on the bus and fell asleep fiddling with my watch.
My watch is now broken.
The afternoon was spent helping the kids eat dinner and then attending a French lesson. Sadly, my French was worse than theirs, despite them being unable to recall the meaning of 'au revoir', mere, pere, frere, soere or really anything else ending with 're' (which, in French, is EVERYTHING). I then helped the make bookmarks and then f*cked the hell off home 40 minutes early because Matt, the other medical student with me, had swanned in at 9:30 (I was there from 8:30) and spent the morning, so far as I can tell, chatting up the teachers with great success.
Pffft, just because he's attractive, hmph.
On Wednesday I was with The Health Visitor that, if she'd been a cybernetic robot from the future, would be an excellent premise for a film. Sadly she was not so the day was mainly spent with my face up Mr Potato Head's backside amusing children while she weighed their newborn sibling. I did notice, in my travels, that Postman Pat has made quite the come back. He was reasonably popular back in Nineteen Aught Six when I was a lad, but nowerdays he's bloody everywhere. One kid even had a Postman Pat massive doll thing, that wore a helmet with headset microphone and actually talked. He looked like Neo from the Matrix he was that cool.
Sorry kids but, in reality, the Post Office are a TOTAL LOAD OF GASH and can only be relied upon to go on strike when you'd really rather they didn't.
And that's all I have to say really, except that as of tomorrow we shall be in full swing for Tommy at the Nottingham Arts Theatre, Tickets are on-sale now (probably). It's a show about a boy who becomes deaf dumb and blind, (though he's not REALLY deaf dumb and blind, he is just unresponsive to auditory or visual stimuli and doesn't speak) whose f*ckup parents take him to a drug dealer, a car mechanic, the oracle, David Hasslehoff and a variety of other people before seeing a real doctor. In the meantime he gets raped by just about everyone in his family and then becomes amazing at pin ball. He then gains the ability to see hear and talk (he is freed from his 'strange vibration land', yes that's right, The Who, keep on smoking those drugs, they're clearly good for you) and gains god-like status due to his pin ball skills.
HE PLAYS PINBALL PEOPLE, GET A FRIKKING LIFE!
*cough*
Anyway, the script is terrible and the music is reasonably terrible but a lot of people put a lot of work into it and, most importantly, Hywel is going to be playing and it will ROCK YOUR FRIKKING SOCKS OFF. Furthermore, Graeme Crawford, an extremely talented singer and actor, is playing one of the lead roles so he is worth seeing too.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
The hours may be bad, but the minutes... the minutes are fantastic
Me again.
First day at Derby today, and I've got to say I'm frikkin glad to be back! The hospital is still shiny, the staff are friendly and, most importantly, the car parking is nearer than ever before.
Things started well, with free coffee (that, had I have not arrived 25 minutes early with my glamorous car-pool buddy, Ki-ora... or some spelling like that, and bought a coffee for a wallet stripping £0.35, I might have taken advantage of better. No worries though; as my ever disappointed mother always says at Christmas, it's the thought that counts. Glad you enjoyed those oven gloves, mum.), a group saturated with people I don't want to stab in the face and most importantly of all things: no vaginas. Well I imagine there were some vaginas there, but they were tastefully taken off display for once.
Who am I kidding, if ONLY they'd been on display on O&G, then it might have SUCKED SLIGHTLY LESS ASS.
Now now, Geoff, enough of this moaning. In time, with lots of therapy, you may learn to accept what has happened in the past and move on.
*cough*
So Will Carroll, half muppet (the felt kind not the prat kind), half Simpson's character, three quarters public speaker, nine eights compound time signature and all round enthusiastic muchacho, introduced us to the course which will apparently include so much teaching that we'll be as taught as a virgin's jock strap at a strip club (he didn't use this joke but, frankly, he should have) by the end of it. As he said it I could hear, in the far distance, someone from City hospital, where I was for O&G, die of shock at the thought that medical students should be in some way educated during their attachment. This pleased me.
He then taught us the 3 rules of Paediatrics
1. Never talk about Paediatrics
2. Never talk about Paediatrics
3. NEVER TALK ABOUT PAEDIATRICS
Or was that Fight Club, I forget, anyway whatever the 3 rules are he made damn sure than no-one forgot them by the end of the day.
No-one at all.
After this, and copious more free tea/coffee/laser eye treatment, we were released onto the wards to take a history from a child. Sadly I can't think of anything 'hilarious' about this to talk about and can only state my jealousy about the fact that the super-cute boy we spoke to had Nintendo DS skillz that were more l33t than mine. We then got a tour, also reasonably uneventful, except that he told us how special we are and how we should take any shit from anyone cos we put £1,200 a week EACH into the hospital so we should get our money's worth. This, I assume, means the provision of oiled bikini models, I shall be unimpressed if not.
More happiness was dished out to me when I returned to the lab where I do washing up to an elated welcome from the staff, and MOST EXCITINGLY OF ALL, there was lashings and lashings of ambrosia Devon Acetone there for me to clean those troublesome pen marks off the beakers.
What, stop looking at me like that?
So anyway the rest of the day was taken up learning interesting things and getting an oscar winning pep talk from Dr Will about how amazing Paediatrics is and how one's life would be complete by specialising in it. This talk was so gripping that I imagine he could have recruited an army of students to become neo-nazis to overthrow the government, had that have been his aim.
Key points to remember
Paediatrics: Awesome
Derby: Awesomer
Drugs: Bad
Now I hope not to write a blog for a while now so that the next one is actually INTERESTING IN SOME WAY, so keep checking back for more fun fun updates.
First day at Derby today, and I've got to say I'm frikkin glad to be back! The hospital is still shiny, the staff are friendly and, most importantly, the car parking is nearer than ever before.
Things started well, with free coffee (that, had I have not arrived 25 minutes early with my glamorous car-pool buddy, Ki-ora... or some spelling like that, and bought a coffee for a wallet stripping £0.35, I might have taken advantage of better. No worries though; as my ever disappointed mother always says at Christmas, it's the thought that counts. Glad you enjoyed those oven gloves, mum.), a group saturated with people I don't want to stab in the face and most importantly of all things: no vaginas. Well I imagine there were some vaginas there, but they were tastefully taken off display for once.
Who am I kidding, if ONLY they'd been on display on O&G, then it might have SUCKED SLIGHTLY LESS ASS.
Now now, Geoff, enough of this moaning. In time, with lots of therapy, you may learn to accept what has happened in the past and move on.
*cough*
So Will Carroll, half muppet (the felt kind not the prat kind), half Simpson's character, three quarters public speaker, nine eights compound time signature and all round enthusiastic muchacho, introduced us to the course which will apparently include so much teaching that we'll be as taught as a virgin's jock strap at a strip club (he didn't use this joke but, frankly, he should have) by the end of it. As he said it I could hear, in the far distance, someone from City hospital, where I was for O&G, die of shock at the thought that medical students should be in some way educated during their attachment. This pleased me.
He then taught us the 3 rules of Paediatrics
1. Never talk about Paediatrics
2. Never talk about Paediatrics
3. NEVER TALK ABOUT PAEDIATRICS
Or was that Fight Club, I forget, anyway whatever the 3 rules are he made damn sure than no-one forgot them by the end of the day.
No-one at all.
After this, and copious more free tea/coffee/laser eye treatment, we were released onto the wards to take a history from a child. Sadly I can't think of anything 'hilarious' about this to talk about and can only state my jealousy about the fact that the super-cute boy we spoke to had Nintendo DS skillz that were more l33t than mine. We then got a tour, also reasonably uneventful, except that he told us how special we are and how we should take any shit from anyone cos we put £1,200 a week EACH into the hospital so we should get our money's worth. This, I assume, means the provision of oiled bikini models, I shall be unimpressed if not.
More happiness was dished out to me when I returned to the lab where I do washing up to an elated welcome from the staff, and MOST EXCITINGLY OF ALL, there was lashings and lashings of ambrosia Devon Acetone there for me to clean those troublesome pen marks off the beakers.
What, stop looking at me like that?
So anyway the rest of the day was taken up learning interesting things and getting an oscar winning pep talk from Dr Will about how amazing Paediatrics is and how one's life would be complete by specialising in it. This talk was so gripping that I imagine he could have recruited an army of students to become neo-nazis to overthrow the government, had that have been his aim.
Key points to remember
Paediatrics: Awesome
Derby: Awesomer
Drugs: Bad
Now I hope not to write a blog for a while now so that the next one is actually INTERESTING IN SOME WAY, so keep checking back for more fun fun updates.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
O&G, easy as Fourier transform equations (Part 2)
What? A Part 2 with a different name from the Part 1?! How canneth this man pretend to be well versed in the finer points of English?!
Well deal with it. Punks.
More ranting about O&G, then.
So yes, the background you have. Essentially losing the will to live due to there never being anything to do. Furthermore, the hospital also had in place some kind of 'booking' 'system' for all and sundry things such as theatre that, by the time I knew what was happening, was choc-a-bloc (much like a choc-ice I suppose) with bookings from nursing students, widwifery students, and Duncan Adshead (pronounced, for the purposes of this blog, ad-sheed).
On top of the chaos, we started to worry that, perhaps, we might not be learning enough. Certainly, I had forgotten what a vagina WAS by week 2 (I'm still reasonably unsure) and as for paroxysmal nocturnal haematuria, well, that was just a collection of long words unrelated to this topic. Into the breech, then, came Laura Anthony, or was it Anthony Laura, or maybe Anthony Lynch. Someone, anyway, who wouldn't take 'go off home and watch your porn' for an answer. She, very kindly, because the rest of us were a bunch of fags who couldn't tell an e-mail from a benign uterine polp, sent off an electronogram to the grand uberfurrer (forgive the missing umlaut) of O&G. Dr P.
Now, Dr P, well I'm not going to say anything on here because she'll probably find me and hurt me.
Hurt me in the face.
But Dr P was having none of this. She dragged Laura into her office (which is located in the depths of a volcano, as you could imagine) at 8:30 and yelled at her, suggesting that requesting teaching that has been detailed to us in our timetable pack, and that the NHS pays the hospital £1,200 a week per student for, is an unrealistic expectation and that she should go, frankly, die in hell. Furthermore she insinuated, and by insinuated I mean explicitly stated, that Laura was making a bad name for herself in O&G and that her future prospects as a doctor, nae person, looked pretty bleak if she continued in this rash and rebellious manner.
So Laura, rightly, stabbed her in the face, as is the custom with annoying people.
Around this same time, I too was being dragged into the sulphurous fires of Dr P's office to have a 'discussion' regarding my attitude towards patients. Now, as a fluffy arty type, I had always held my attitude towards patients to be my best skill, and even if people beat me in exams (which, of course, they do not) at least I'll be a nice doctor that patients will like.
DENIED.
Apparently I'm far too nice, and if I continue along this way, law suits, rather than Armani suits will fill my wardrobe and my life will be a sad sad thing. To Dr P's credit, she did state this in an incredibly nice way and was very keen to assure me that it wasn't a problem and that I merely had to keep it in mind in future and that I shouldn't worry.
Shouldn't worry? I'm ME for god's sake. I always take things in the worst possible way, it's my raison d'etre (excuse the missing hat thing). If I didn't take everything in the worst way how would I moan all the time and be a general pest to society?
Hmm? Tell me.
Well, anyway, that was all a bit of a downer too.
The final straw came on labour week, I had done two 12 hour night shifts and had no sleep due to having to come in during the day (sleepy time) for this meeting with Dr P. I returned from theatre where they had been stitching back together a woman who had been QUITE LITERALLY RIPPED WIDE OPEN, YES DOWN THERE, I KNOW, PAINFUL SOUNDING ISN'T IT by having her beautiful and awesomely named child, to find the midwife who was running the place ushering me enthusiastically towards room 101, where a lady was giving birth to twins. Now the way it works on Labour Suite is that the midwives meet the patients, then ask if it's OK if a medical student comes in, bla bla. All the midwives knew I was around and had been told by the in-charge person to ask permission for me to be there, so when I was sent to the room I assumed this had all happened.
I realised that this was, perhaps, not ENTIRELY the case when the consultant (who is very tall, very scary and very female) half-whispered to the midwife 'do you know anything about this student being in here' to which the midwife SHOULD have responded from the below options
a) 'Oh yes, he's been around all night, I asked permission for him to be here and it is/isn't fine'
b) 'Oh yes, he's been around all night, I didn't get a chance to ask permission. Excuse me, Ms Patient, is it OK for him to be here?'
c) (Common niceness option, that, even if she had no idea who I was, she could have used) 'Oh..er... yeeees, yes he's fine come on in'
Instead she said 'pfft, no?'
(Especially shocking, given that I'd spent £20 by that point on cakes & biscuits for the midwives.)
The consultant then turns round to me and says, agitatedly, 'Look, you can't just stand there, either come in and introduce yourself or leave, one or the other'
Me: 'Oh hi, sorry, I'm Geoff. I'm the medical student on tonight'
Her: 'Yes, but have you got consent to be in here for this birth'
What I WANTED to say: I assume so, because otherwise the midwife hasn't done her F**KING JOB PROPERLY
What I DID say: Er.... well....
Her: 'Well you had better ask the patient then'
Patient *AGHHHHHHHH SCREEEEEEEAAAMMM I'MMM IN SO MUCH PAAAAIN OH GGGGOD AAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHGHGHGHGHGHGH*
Me: *waits for opportunity to ask patient when not screaming*
Her: 'FINE, WELL IF YOU HAVEN'T GOT THE COMMON DECENCY TO JUST ASK THE PATIENT THEN YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO GET OUT. NOW'
Me: Ok, I'm sorry, I'll leave.
Her: 'NO, JUST ASK THE PATIENT PERMISSION!!!!!!!!!!'
Patient (Thank, f**king Jesus): Oh is that a student yes he can come in.
At which point I almost left anyway because I felt like total and utter shit.
And that is, more or less how Obs & Gynae ended. Fun times for all, it also didn't help that the one consultant who actually knew I'm not a complete idiot didn't manage to make it to my final appraisal so the consultants there were, like, 'So, Jif, I can't say I've seen much of you, and when I have seen you you seem to be a complete moron. Tell me, can you spell 'Failure' for me?'
Gah.
Anyway, over now, and all is happiness and rainbows.
Well deal with it. Punks.
More ranting about O&G, then.
So yes, the background you have. Essentially losing the will to live due to there never being anything to do. Furthermore, the hospital also had in place some kind of 'booking' 'system' for all and sundry things such as theatre that, by the time I knew what was happening, was choc-a-bloc (much like a choc-ice I suppose) with bookings from nursing students, widwifery students, and Duncan Adshead (pronounced, for the purposes of this blog, ad-sheed).
On top of the chaos, we started to worry that, perhaps, we might not be learning enough. Certainly, I had forgotten what a vagina WAS by week 2 (I'm still reasonably unsure) and as for paroxysmal nocturnal haematuria, well, that was just a collection of long words unrelated to this topic. Into the breech, then, came Laura Anthony, or was it Anthony Laura, or maybe Anthony Lynch. Someone, anyway, who wouldn't take 'go off home and watch your porn' for an answer. She, very kindly, because the rest of us were a bunch of fags who couldn't tell an e-mail from a benign uterine polp, sent off an electronogram to the grand uberfurrer (forgive the missing umlaut) of O&G. Dr P.
Now, Dr P, well I'm not going to say anything on here because she'll probably find me and hurt me.
Hurt me in the face.
But Dr P was having none of this. She dragged Laura into her office (which is located in the depths of a volcano, as you could imagine) at 8:30 and yelled at her, suggesting that requesting teaching that has been detailed to us in our timetable pack, and that the NHS pays the hospital £1,200 a week per student for, is an unrealistic expectation and that she should go, frankly, die in hell. Furthermore she insinuated, and by insinuated I mean explicitly stated, that Laura was making a bad name for herself in O&G and that her future prospects as a doctor, nae person, looked pretty bleak if she continued in this rash and rebellious manner.
So Laura, rightly, stabbed her in the face, as is the custom with annoying people.
Around this same time, I too was being dragged into the sulphurous fires of Dr P's office to have a 'discussion' regarding my attitude towards patients. Now, as a fluffy arty type, I had always held my attitude towards patients to be my best skill, and even if people beat me in exams (which, of course, they do not) at least I'll be a nice doctor that patients will like.
DENIED.
Apparently I'm far too nice, and if I continue along this way, law suits, rather than Armani suits will fill my wardrobe and my life will be a sad sad thing. To Dr P's credit, she did state this in an incredibly nice way and was very keen to assure me that it wasn't a problem and that I merely had to keep it in mind in future and that I shouldn't worry.
Shouldn't worry? I'm ME for god's sake. I always take things in the worst possible way, it's my raison d'etre (excuse the missing hat thing). If I didn't take everything in the worst way how would I moan all the time and be a general pest to society?
Hmm? Tell me.
Well, anyway, that was all a bit of a downer too.
The final straw came on labour week, I had done two 12 hour night shifts and had no sleep due to having to come in during the day (sleepy time) for this meeting with Dr P. I returned from theatre where they had been stitching back together a woman who had been QUITE LITERALLY RIPPED WIDE OPEN, YES DOWN THERE, I KNOW, PAINFUL SOUNDING ISN'T IT by having her beautiful and awesomely named child, to find the midwife who was running the place ushering me enthusiastically towards room 101, where a lady was giving birth to twins. Now the way it works on Labour Suite is that the midwives meet the patients, then ask if it's OK if a medical student comes in, bla bla. All the midwives knew I was around and had been told by the in-charge person to ask permission for me to be there, so when I was sent to the room I assumed this had all happened.
I realised that this was, perhaps, not ENTIRELY the case when the consultant (who is very tall, very scary and very female) half-whispered to the midwife 'do you know anything about this student being in here' to which the midwife SHOULD have responded from the below options
a) 'Oh yes, he's been around all night, I asked permission for him to be here and it is/isn't fine'
b) 'Oh yes, he's been around all night, I didn't get a chance to ask permission. Excuse me, Ms Patient, is it OK for him to be here?'
c) (Common niceness option, that, even if she had no idea who I was, she could have used) 'Oh..er... yeeees, yes he's fine come on in'
Instead she said 'pfft, no?'
(Especially shocking, given that I'd spent £20 by that point on cakes & biscuits for the midwives.)
The consultant then turns round to me and says, agitatedly, 'Look, you can't just stand there, either come in and introduce yourself or leave, one or the other'
Me: 'Oh hi, sorry, I'm Geoff. I'm the medical student on tonight'
Her: 'Yes, but have you got consent to be in here for this birth'
What I WANTED to say: I assume so, because otherwise the midwife hasn't done her F**KING JOB PROPERLY
What I DID say: Er.... well....
Her: 'Well you had better ask the patient then'
Patient *AGHHHHHHHH SCREEEEEEEAAAMMM I'MMM IN SO MUCH PAAAAIN OH GGGGOD AAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHGHGHGHGHGHGH*
Me: *waits for opportunity to ask patient when not screaming*
Her: 'FINE, WELL IF YOU HAVEN'T GOT THE COMMON DECENCY TO JUST ASK THE PATIENT THEN YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO GET OUT. NOW'
Me: Ok, I'm sorry, I'll leave.
Her: 'NO, JUST ASK THE PATIENT PERMISSION!!!!!!!!!!'
Patient (Thank, f**king Jesus): Oh is that a student yes he can come in.
At which point I almost left anyway because I felt like total and utter shit.
And that is, more or less how Obs & Gynae ended. Fun times for all, it also didn't help that the one consultant who actually knew I'm not a complete idiot didn't manage to make it to my final appraisal so the consultants there were, like, 'So, Jif, I can't say I've seen much of you, and when I have seen you you seem to be a complete moron. Tell me, can you spell 'Failure' for me?'
Gah.
Anyway, over now, and all is happiness and rainbows.
Paedia-tricks
What's that, you say, another moan from the Burnster?
Wrong!
In your FACE!
So paediatrics is going well so far. Yes, this may have to do with the fact that we got a lie in until 2pm yesterday, or to do with the fact that we only had 4 lectures in total (1 less than the amount we had PER DAY FOR THREE DAYS in O&G) but I like to see it as a sign. Furthermore 3/4 of the lectures were really good, and I did feel sorry for the 4th guy who lectured us at 9am this morning.
Guy, Dr Earlystart perhaps: OK Guys so let's make this interactive
Us: mumblecheesetoastymumble
Earlystart: Who can think of any reasons why children have different physiology to grown-ups
Us: *tumbleweed*
Earlystart: Anyone at all....
...
Earlystart: OK so lets start with the lungs, what's different in the lungs?
Us: *light coughing from the back somewhere*
Earlystart: Does anyone know anything about young lungs?
Us: *blank faces*
Earlystart: Does anyone even know what lungs are?
Us: *blank, if not blanker faces*
Earlystart: Well f**k you then I'm going on to the powerpoint.
OK, so in reality he didn't REALLY say f**k you.
His word lacked the asterixes.
Of course, O&G did TRY to ruin my otherwise happiness and love filled day yesterday when I attempted to hand in my (mostly empty, and optimally coffee stained) log book.
Girl with cool glasses, Glassina McBlind I believe her name was: Sorry you need to get a photocopy of the book
Me: Oh so do I keep the book and give you a photocopy?
McBlind: No we need the real book
Me: Well I don't need a photocopy, I've seen enough of it, it reminds me of the bible, only somehow it is LESS interesting
McBlind: Yes but we need proof you have all the signatures
Me: Well *snort* for one, of COURSE i have all signatures, who do you think I am (I have NO signatures, more or less, but shhh), and for two surely that's the point of you having the book
McBlind: We might lose the book
Me: Isn't that your problem?
McBlind: You're so hot when you make cogent points
Me: Let's do it here, on the photocopier
McBlind: *gets naked*
Sorry I forget how the conversation really ended because the steams of rage have clouded my memories. Certainly there was no blood on my shirt when I came to my senses hours later... well after I'd washed it off that is. Anyway I like to think that at some point she said 'do you own a photocopier' so I could have said 'Own THIS' and sworn at her with my finger in a grown up fashion.
Will I be as chipper after an 8:30 start at Derby tomorrow, well you'll have to wait and see...
P.S. In other news I got my tyres fixed by the aptly named Mr Tyre (this one I didn't even make up!) today and, yes, it cost me £20, and yes, it was cos some LITTLE SHIT had put a nail in my tyre, but the experience was nothing if not pleasant and so I applaud you, Mr Tyre. May you shine like a thousand suns in next years eponymous company awards.
Wrong!
In your FACE!
So paediatrics is going well so far. Yes, this may have to do with the fact that we got a lie in until 2pm yesterday, or to do with the fact that we only had 4 lectures in total (1 less than the amount we had PER DAY FOR THREE DAYS in O&G) but I like to see it as a sign. Furthermore 3/4 of the lectures were really good, and I did feel sorry for the 4th guy who lectured us at 9am this morning.
Guy, Dr Earlystart perhaps: OK Guys so let's make this interactive
Us: mumblecheesetoastymumble
Earlystart: Who can think of any reasons why children have different physiology to grown-ups
Us: *tumbleweed*
Earlystart: Anyone at all....
...
Earlystart: OK so lets start with the lungs, what's different in the lungs?
Us: *light coughing from the back somewhere*
Earlystart: Does anyone know anything about young lungs?
Us: *blank faces*
Earlystart: Does anyone even know what lungs are?
Us: *blank, if not blanker faces*
Earlystart: Well f**k you then I'm going on to the powerpoint.
OK, so in reality he didn't REALLY say f**k you.
His word lacked the asterixes.
Of course, O&G did TRY to ruin my otherwise happiness and love filled day yesterday when I attempted to hand in my (mostly empty, and optimally coffee stained) log book.
Girl with cool glasses, Glassina McBlind I believe her name was: Sorry you need to get a photocopy of the book
Me: Oh so do I keep the book and give you a photocopy?
McBlind: No we need the real book
Me: Well I don't need a photocopy, I've seen enough of it, it reminds me of the bible, only somehow it is LESS interesting
McBlind: Yes but we need proof you have all the signatures
Me: Well *snort* for one, of COURSE i have all signatures, who do you think I am (I have NO signatures, more or less, but shhh), and for two surely that's the point of you having the book
McBlind: We might lose the book
Me: Isn't that your problem?
McBlind: You're so hot when you make cogent points
Me: Let's do it here, on the photocopier
McBlind: *gets naked*
Sorry I forget how the conversation really ended because the steams of rage have clouded my memories. Certainly there was no blood on my shirt when I came to my senses hours later... well after I'd washed it off that is. Anyway I like to think that at some point she said 'do you own a photocopier' so I could have said 'Own THIS' and sworn at her with my finger in a grown up fashion.
Will I be as chipper after an 8:30 start at Derby tomorrow, well you'll have to wait and see...
P.S. In other news I got my tyres fixed by the aptly named Mr Tyre (this one I didn't even make up!) today and, yes, it cost me £20, and yes, it was cos some LITTLE SHIT had put a nail in my tyre, but the experience was nothing if not pleasant and so I applaud you, Mr Tyre. May you shine like a thousand suns in next years eponymous company awards.
Monday, 21 September 2009
O&G, easy as 1-2-3 (Part 1)
A brief background, if I a may...
Much has happened in my 2 years of being a medical student, some of it superbly gratifying, a little of it terribly sobering but most of it highly embarrassing. Highlights before O&G included;
Much has happened in my 2 years of being a medical student, some of it superbly gratifying, a little of it terribly sobering but most of it highly embarrassing. Highlights before O&G included;
- stopping an entire room of doctors in their tracks by suggesting a good way to deal with a patient's annoying relative might be to 'stab them in the face'
- reducing an onlooking team of students to tears of mirth as, when faced with an arresting (that means about to die) simulated patient, I breathed a sigh of disapproval, rolled my eyes, and placed my hands firmly on my hips as if so say 'well dang', before leaving them to die. When I say die, of course, I mean DO ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AS IT WAS A COMPUTER, PEOPLE *cough* yes...
- playing Phil Collin's 'Against All Odds' at high volumes on my iPhone to help a fellow student through the stresses of having his blood taken, then turning to notice the 10 or so horrified nursing staff glaring at me. Obviously they were not fans of the Philster, heathens.
These situations, and the many others that I either have forgotten or have blocked out, trifle though in comparison to the events during Obs and Gynae.
Of course, O&G would always be challenging. Firstly because I'm a boy, and girls seem less than keen on having boys examine their 'sensitive areas', least of all when there's something wrong with them, and secondly because my ex-girlfriend had excelled at O&G and, as my only reason for existence is to better her in every way possible, I HAD to succeed.
N.B. To those girls who think that boys enjoy looking at their 'bits' - We really don't, they're pretty minging at the best of times, and when there's goo coming out (and, in O&G there is ALWAYS goo coming out), well, it's not hard to keep those naughty thoughts hidden away. I assure you.
So, on the first day we are introduced to each other by the wonderful Dr Wonderful, who, upon learning I was putting on a show, even suggested the whole group came on an O&G trip (Reaction: Please god no, I'd rather die). We were all relieved to know that someone as lovely has her would be looking after us for the whole attachment.
Well until she went on holiday the following week.
And then left to work at a different hospital when she got back.
But this was fiiiiine as Dr Yettoexist would take over and provide a seamless transition for us when he was hired... eight weeks later.
We were then handed timetables of our allocated consultants' whereabouts at any given time and told to 'go forth into the hospital'. Little known to us was the fact that knowing where the consultants were did not necessarily mean that you were supposed to be there, which on retrospect might have been obvious in some cases '10:30-11:30pm Wife Shagging, 11:30pm - 6:00am Sleep'
Once we had established the things we were expected to attend then all was dandy. Well, except that the clinic you had cycled an hour to get in for was often cancelled. If it wasn't cancelled then 30 other students from other, bizarrely disparate, hospitals would have arrived before you and you'd be turned away. If, by some luck, neither situation occurred, and the clinic was your oyster, as it were, then you might get to see a patient - if they didn't turn you away because they were religious (which they sometimes were), under the age of 16 (which they worryingly often were) or were just plain stubborn (which they ALWAYS were).
Part 2 to come after I go to a lecture, or perhaps when I'm IN the lecture, because I'm that much of a rebel.
Starts & Beginnings
So I am, as you must surely all know, a medical student. One of thousands in the UK who spends the majority of their life pretending they are in some way special, and using their prized stethoscope to try and get laid.
Such attempts invariably result in failure.
After a, let us say, eventful Obstetrics & Gynaecology module (that's Babies and Vaginas for you lay-folke) it was suggested that I note down my various hilarious (and/or emotionally crushing) escapades in some kind of log. After investigating alogs, and getting frankly nowhere, I have turned to a blog in the hope of more success.
I hope you enjoy my stories as much as my drunken and very easily amused colleagues did last night, at the pub.
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