Heard Around The Hospital

This is part of a series of posts that contain funny things I hear in medicine. You can find the previous posts by clicking here.


Don't Mess with the Pharmacists

Today I took my mother to the hospital pharmacy.

Me: And this is all the medication, is it?

Pharmacist: Yes, make sure she takes it on time.

Me: Oh don't worry, I'm a doctor.

Pharmacist: ...oh God, not another one.

Was it something I said?

Failed Medical Entrance Exam Answers
This has been making the rounds on Facebook. Apparently Mr Bean wanted to become a doctor and took a university entrance exam. The question was "Define the following terms". Here are his answers:

Antibody : A person who hates his body.

Artery : The study of fine paintings.

Bacteria : The back door of cafeteria.

Coma : A punctuation mark.

Labour pain : A workplace accident.

Cardiology : The advanced study of playing cards.

Sounds like he'll make a fine doctor. (Strangely enough, that's the same reaction my lecturers had when talking about my exam answers...)

If you liked this, you can get more laughs round the clock by following me on Twitter @theangrymedic, where I have over 300 followers now. 300 poor souls taking my crap can't be wrong! Also like my Facebook page pretty please with sugar on top.

The End Of House M.D.

For my fellow unworthy foreigners not lucky enough to be born in/have crawled through the underdeveloped waste of our respective homelands into the United States of America, I have a piece of bad news.

After 8 seasons, the TV series House M.D. aired its final episode last night.

"As if there aren't already few enough role models with disabilities on TV!"

(For added atmosphere, click here and press the big blue button in the middle of the page. You won't regret it.)

House M.D. has literally lasted me through medical school. I remember watching it in my first few depressed months at Cambridge, after my first girlfriend dumped me to get together with my best friend behind my back (yes, that happened. And you wonder why I'm screwed up in my head! --Editor) and I googled 'angry doctor' to find an angsty profile picture (for Friendster. Yeah, this was, uh, before Facebook existed. DON'T MAKE ANY AGE JOKES --Ed.) and I discovered House. And the rest, as they say, is history (as were my exam grades that term).

I haven't watched the last episode yet, but I will soon. Until then, I'm going to pretend it hasn't ended.

And for those of you who HAVE watched the last episode and are on the floor crying whilst sucking your thumbs in the foetal position, leave some space for me, will ya?

Do justice to the memory of House M.D. and like my Facebook page. Or follow me on Twitter. It's what Dr House would have wanted.

Heard Around The Hospital

This is a weekly series of funny stuff I overhear in medicine. For the previous post, click here.

I'm still busy with stuff I discussed in A Death In The Family, so I'm doing reruns. You may have seen these on Twitter and around teh interwebz, but I bet they'll give you a laugh anyway. See if you can spot where these doctors went wrong:

ACTUAL UNEDITED NOTES WRITTEN BY DOCTORS ON PATIENTS MEDICAL CHARTS

Both breasts are equal and reactive to light and accommodation.

Exam of genitalia reveals that he is circus sized.
 

The patient stated that she had been constipated for most of her life until she got a divorce.

I saw your patient today; who is still under our car for physical therapy.

The lab test indicated abnormal lover function.

The pelvic examination will be done later on the floor.

Large brown stool ambulating in the hall.

That awkward moment when a patient sees 'SOB' written on his chart and thinks you're insulting him: 

Click this picture for the full comic. 

(Courtesy of PoorMD via Cartoon Guide)

If you've got any that I missed, dump 'em in the comment section below. Have a happy Monday folks!

If you liked this, don't forget to like my Facebook page and follow me on Twitter. I promise to entertain you, and with more than* just toilet jokes!

*"more than" may be subjective

When Doctors Troll

(Note: This post was published originally in 2007, but was taken down at the request of the doctor mentioned, as he's become quite well-known. All names have been changed to protect privacy.)

When I was a baby medic*, we were given a talk by Dr Noob, the author of a now-popular textbook, who gave us a grave warning about why you should never accept chocolate from a doctor.

On Dr Noob's first day at a new hospital, a senior doctor walked up and shook his hand. "Hey, I'm Dr M. Welcome to Freakshow General Hospital**," he grinned, and gave Dr Noob a Cadbury Creme Egg. "It's always been a tradition here to give the new doctor one of these. For good luck. Eat up, and if you have any questions, I'd be happy to help."

"Wow, thanks, that's really nice of you." Dr Noob popped the egg into his mouth and picked up a patient's chart. "Actually I do have a question; see this--"

But Dr M cut him off. "Actually Doctor, I'd like you to check the medication I've just administered, ."

Dr Noob looked at him. There were no patients around to give medication to. Then Dr M grinned evilly.

"Oh, didn't I say? It's also always been the tradition that the chocolate egg given to the new guy is injected with furosemide." (Furosemide is a water tablet that makes you pee. If you STILL have no idea what I'm talking about, here's a clue. --Ed.)

Dr M patted Dr Noob on the shoulder. "If I were you, I'd stay close to the toilet today, old chap. Wet pants flop a lot when you walk. Cheers!" And off he went. And you can imagine what the rest of the day was for poor old Dr Noob. 

And so a rivalry started between the two young doctors. But after a few weeks, they became friends, and two months after the whole incident, Dr Noob told Dr M, "You know, we've become friends now. Let bygones be bygones. Here, have a Cadbury Egg. As a token of peace." Dr M was suspicious, but Dr Noob said he'd take one too. So they both ate one.

Then Dr Noob stood back, grinned insanely, and said, "And now, Doctor, I'd like YOU to check the medication I've just administered."

Dr M's eyes widened. "Oh no you didn't."

Dr Noob stared at him for a moment, then smiled. "Heh. Nah, I didn't."

Dr M sighed with relief. "For a moment there, Noob, I tho--"

"I injected castor oil instead." (Castor oil is a laxative. It makes you shoot more shit out of your ass than Mitt Romney shoots out of his mouth. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, click here. --Ed.)

Dr M froze.

Dr Noob slapped him on the back and said, "If I were you, I'd stay close to the toilet today, old chap. Pity that scrub pants don't come in brown colour." And off he went.

And you thought doctors only stayed crazy whilst they were still in university...

*yes, I was young once. DON'T MAKE A HAIR JOKE. If you make a hair joke I will track you down, break into your house and stuff a wig made from Britney Spears' shaven hairs into an orifice of my choice. Then I'll plead 'temporary insanity' to the judge. This blog is all the proof I need that I'm batshit insane anyway.

**hospital name changed to protect privacy. Hospitals have feelings too, you know.

My Guardian Article: Medical Student Nudity in French Hospitals

(Oh I bet that title got your attention, didn't it? In fact, you may even have gotten here by Googling something perverted. In which case, make sure you're using Private Browsing Mode  um GET AWAY FROM ME, SICKO. Cough. --Editor)

Today my article was published in The Guardian Online's Comment Is Free section. It's a piece on a really strange tradition in French hospitals, where giant murals depicting the current medical students (interns) having sex with their doctors, professors and other hospital staff are drawn on the walls of the students' break rooms. Think that's weird? Get this - these drawings are commissioned by the students themselves.

Yep. Take your time picking your jaw off the floor.

And you guys thought I never wrote anything respectable. LOVE ME NOW, MOM?!

Anyway, people coming over from the Guardian site have no idea who I am and are probably fast getting nauseous, so a quick introduction:

Hello, I am The Angry Medic, a doctor who writes on medical issues in a humorous fashion (more accurately: what I think is humorous, but what my readers would probably generously describe as vomit-inducing --Ed.) Before you run off, here's a sample of some of my more popular posts:

Emergency at 35, 000 Feet: An account of how I helped resuscitate an elderly lady on a long-haul flight out of Heathrow - and got slapped by her for my trouble

Inflight Emergencies: A valuable tip on what to drink if you feel nauseous (not water!) shared by the senior doctor in the post above

The Cambridge Interviewer Interviewed: After I enrolled at Cambridge University, I met my interviewer, who shed some light on the interview process and getting into Cambridge

Some Wounds Never Heal:  An award-winning post about how one patient wishes he didn't survive his recent surgery, and why

Doctors vs Nurses: Medicine's Oldest Battle: The original post that shot me to fame by being featured on the front page of the then-popular NHS Blog Doctor site. A nurse blogger had ranted against doctors and the online backlash was spectacular

The Last Valentine: A somber lesson shared by a grieving patient on Valentine's Day, dedicated to those who have lost a Valentine

 I also used to write for WedMD.com's medical student blog The Differential. Some popular posts from there attracting over 80 comments:

Why Do Surgeons Have Such Big Egos?:  A group of medical students observe that surgeons behave far more arrogantly than other doctors in the hospital. Big surprise

A Moment of Truth For Every New Doctor: An account of that first moment when someone needs urgent medical attention, and you're the only medical person there - and what makes you hesitate

Is Medicine Really My Passion?: An examination of why doctors become doctors, and whether they really love their job (for the right reasons)

If my writing hasn't yet made you throw up/bleed out of your ears/call for an ambulance, I hope you stick around and come back from time to time. You can also like my team's Facebook page, or follow us on Twitter. Just please don't send me hate mail saying what a terrible writer I am - I already get loads of that. (What, you actually thought I get real fan mail? Suckers. --Ed.)

Pain Tolerance Level: Asian

Why yes that IS Justin Bieber crying in the middle of a Scrubs meme. Sue me.

I see this elderly Asian farmer on the ward who has his foot covered by a cloth.

Me: Hello sir, I'm told you have necrotising fasciitis (flesh-eating bacteria). Would you mind if I took a look?

Patient: No, go ahead. It's nothing great though.

Me (uncovering the leg): Oh, I've only seen NF cases in the UK. They're just red rashes mostly.

Patient: Yeah, this one is nothing much either.

I uncover his leg - AND THE ENTIRE FOOT'S SKIN IS GONE. Seriously, it looks like a dissection model.

Me: ...holy crap. Why did you wait so long to come to hospital?!

Patient: Oh, it was starting to itch a little in the field, so I thought I'd get a doctor to check it out.

Excuse Me Whilst I Go Graduate

So I haven't put up a post in a while, and haven't even responded to the angry comments and hate mail building up in my inbox. This is because I flew back to England to attend my M.A. graduation ceremony in Cambridge University - yes, I am now Dr Angry Medic M.A. (Cantab).

Ridiculously handsome, right? And you thought I was joking about my good looks.

Not that any of you care - it's also an excuse for me to catch up with old friends, get ridiculously drunk, fall asleep on a random roadside in Cambridge and spend the next morning running away from the same University proctors that I insulted years ago on my blog. (Not that I, uh, actually did any of that. Oh no. --Editor)

Anyway, proper post and photos are on their way. Thanks for all your kind comments on Facebook (I know you just want free medical leave certificates out of me. --Ed.)

Stuff They Don't Teach You In Medical School: Who's The Boss

I have always believed in helping my fellow medical students. That's even why I set up this blog: so that I could share experiences and insights about the illuminating journey that is medical schoo-- ah screw it, okay fine I set up this blog because life hates me and I figured, I should at least share my misery and make people laugh. There.

Anyway as part of my effort to warn educate other medical students and members of the public, now that I'm a real doctor (I SEE YOU LAUGHING! STOP THAT! -- Editor) I thought I'd start a little series on the real-life stuff you find out as a doctor that you wish those bastar-- uh, loving lecturers had remembered to teach you in medical school.

So for our first lesson, children, I'm going to ask you a simple multiple-choice question. A simple one, but bloody hell is it an important one for doctors, students, and any poor fool who has to visit a hospital actually. Ready? Here it comes:

FROM AMONG THE FOLLOWING STAFF ON THE WARD, WHICH ONE IS THE BOSS?

Click to enlarge. Go on, it's worth it. I slaved five hours to make this! 

(OK so I suck at Photoshop. Leave me alone.)

Choose from among the following answers:

1. House Officers/Interns/Slaves - the lowest on the food chain, even lower than medical students (YES FOLKS! You think you're getting a PROMOTION when you graduate and become a real doctor? HAHAHAHAHA-- wait, you're being serious. --Ed.) and responsible for doing all the crap that other doctors don't want to do.

2. Registrars/Residents/Medical Officers (MO) - senior doctors with years of experience, one step down the food chain from big boss. They run the ward when no boss doctors are around, and are generally the source of both great teaching and great misery for junior doctors.

3. Head of Department (HOD)/Chief of Medicine/Chief of Surgery - the biggest, baddest, most experienced doctor around. Top of the ward food chain and has doctors fleeing before him in terror. House officers have been known to kiss the ground they walk on.

4. Nurses - The front line of medical care to the patients. They do the stuff even junior doctors won't/aren't allowed to do. Run things on the ward when doctors aren't around.

5. Patients - The point of the whole health service actually. Known to be either really nice or complete freakshows. If patient also happens to be a doctor, you're REALLY screwed.

Choose one. Done? Okay what did you answer? Check your number below:

IF YOU ANSWERED

1. - HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Nice one. Seriously, I needed a laugh. Thanks.

2. - Not as ridiculous as the previous answer, but still no. Sometimes they are the boss, especially when it's 4am, the boss doctor who usually protects you is asleep, none of your friends are around, and the registrar/resident/MO remembers you as the funny-looking junior who insulted his hairstyle behind his back when you thought he wasn't listening. Oh yes.

3. - If you chose this, congratulations! You have a working brain! 90% of readers chose this option.

It is however, FALSE. Gasp! Why, you ask? Has Angry Medic lost his mind? (He has, but that's a story for another time.) I'll explain in a bit.

5. - Well...this is a tough one to explain. Patients SHOULD be in charge, especially with all this touchy-feely 'patient-centered care' crap that they pound into medical students' heads from day one. But sadly, they are not.

This leaves:

4. Nurses - That's right folks!

And don't you forget it.

A very, VERY important part of life on the wards that they don't teach you in med school (but surprisingly do in Grey's Anatomy. See Mom? And you scolded me for spending more time watching that crap than actually studying. HAH. --Ed.) is that nurses are REALLY in charge of the ward. Piss them off, and they can make life a LIVING. HELL. Treat them nicely and they'll help you put that central line in, tell you which doctors are nice and which doctors to avoid like a Justin Bieber album, and warn you wayyy ahead of time when Mr No-I'm-Just-Going-Down-For-A-Walk is actually smoking at the hospital entrance and is about to set his face on fire.

See, who says reading my blog isn't a waste of time?

*Thanks to Mother Jones RN of Nurse Ratched's Place for inspiring this post. Sort of.

What I Did Right After Getting Finals Results

The email I sent immediately after getting results. Okay so my exam co-ordinator's name isn't really Awesomesauce, but she is AWESOME. SAUCE. 
I've taken a lot of crap from some of Imperial's admin departments, but she's God's gift to administrative services. (And speedy email replies -  these two emails were like 45 seconds apart. Which begs the question - how in God's name does she type so fast?)

In my last post I mentioned that what I did right after getting my results was send an email to my university asking for confirmation that these were really exam results and they weren't playing a massive April Fool's joke on me as revenge for all the times I fell asleep in lectures. You guys thought I was joking, right? I wasn't. Here's the proof. These images are a little doctored* to protect anonymity, but they are original, complete with crappy Imperial College email client background.

Seriously. I couldn't believe it. I thought they were trolling me one last time. Only after getting that second email did I finally start to celebrate (and by "celebrate" I may or may not mean lying on the ground in a fetal position crying my eyes out screaming "IT'S FINALLYYY OVERRRR". Cough. These are emotional moments, okay?! --Editor).

*AHAHA seewhatIdidthere? "Doctored", cos this was the email that told me I'd become a doctor, geddit geddit? Yes? No? Hello? Hi mom!

The Angry Medic Becomes The Angry Doctor

My graduation at Imperial College London, October 2011.  What's that you say? 

Your mother could Photoshop better than me? Oh, shaddap.

Yes, that's right folks. Amidst stunned looks of disbelief, screams of fainting ladies and angry curses muttered by my med school lecturers, I finally graduated as a doctor in October 2011. Why the long wait to update? Cos I've been sitting here for the past few months pinching myself repeatedly asking myself if I didn't just dream the whole thing.
(I'm only joking. Partly. --Editor)

It wasn't easy. The finals were tough, and I didn't think I did as well as I ended up doing. I had a LOT of help along the way, and sitting the exams was a truly humbling experience. I could never, never have done it without the help of a few key people whom I hope to thank in coming posts (in a completely serious and non-humorous manner. Cough. Why are you looking at me like that? --Ed.) In fact, the first thing I did when I got the results email was contact the exams co-ordinator right away asking if the results were real. No, really. Don't tell my mom.

Also, now that I'm safely far far away, I can finally reveal the university I've been terrorising studying at for the past 3 years after Cambridge:

Geddit geddit? Cos it's Imperial College, and the bad guys in Star Wars are Imperials, 

so it's funny cos I drew Imperials in Imperial, hahaha...

okay so I haven't done this for a while, okay? Leave me alone.

So yeah. I'm a real doctor now. 

How does it feel? Is it worth it? Short answer: I'm scared shitless. Long answer: That's for another post, the second part to my Cambridge graduation post. (MWAHAHA now you have to come back and read more of my crap if you want to find out! Or you could...not come back. Probably healthier in the long run. --Ed.)

If you've been here before, thanks for staying with me all these years. I'll write again soon about graduation and what it's like to be a Real Doctor (in two words: scared shitless. Oh wait, did I say that already? --Ed.). Happy Chinese New Year!

The Trials and Tribulations of General Practice

What's a GP? That much-loved, much-maligned creature that nobody ever knows quite how to classify, that first-line defence against common illnesses, that gatekeeper to the entire healthcare system - everybody has a different opinion of GPs.

So what's a GP?

I don't know, and I don't give a rat's arse either.

All I do know is that for the next 3 weeks, I am medical student (read: unpaid secretary, general dogsbody and coffee bitch --Ed.) to five of 'em. And I'm already finding out that contrary to all the tales of cushy, boring, golf-afternoon-filled lives we've all heard about GPs, their lives are anything but boring.

But because I'm far too generous and giving (snigger --Ed.) to keep all my misery to myself, I'll be sharing choice morsels of my adventures in GP-land with all my glorious fans (yes, all two of you! I lost one reader last month. --Ed.) in an attempt to 1. stave off all the hate mail I've been getting since stopping blogging, and 2. stop my brain from leaking out of my ears in boredom whilst I wait for this damn tea kettle to start working for the 36th time today. God, you'd think with all this money they'd at least get a working kettle.

*****

These are actual anecdotes heard in clinic. You can't make this shit up, folks.

To an 87-year-old woman today: "Hello ma'am, I'm going to give you your injection."

"What?"

"Hello ma'am, I'm going to GIVE you your INJECTION."

"Eh? What?"

"HELLO MA'AM I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU YOUR INJECTION!"

"Quiet, boy. What d'you think I am, deaf?"

*****

"Hello sir, how can I help you today?"

"Promise me you won't judge me, doctor."

"Um, okay. What seems to be the problem?"

"I can't stop eating those Big Daddy boxes from KFC, doctor."

"Sigh...I know the feeling."

Happy New Year - Now Gimme Your Stuff

Brand new year! Full of energy, I walk into my hospital's locker room on my first day, brimming with love and joy and the desire to help as many patients as possible. My mind full of all the reasons I chose medicine and all the ways I can make humanity better today, I walk to my locker and see this:


Thankfully even a mince-pie-addled idiot like me knew better than to leave anything in it over the holidays. As I turn away I see this pasted on the back of the door, along with some astute medical student's scribbled warning underneath:


Nice of them to give us warning though, isn't it?

Writer's Block

Everyone gets it. Sometimes you sit in front of the computer, and you want to write, but it just. Doesn't. Happen.

It's not that I've been lazy to update this blog. It's not that I have no stories to tell - on the contrary I've just finished my General Practice rotation, and have had my whole worldview on GPs radically altered. It's not that I haven't pissed off any doctors/nurses/janitors with access to lots of sharp pointy objects recently - on the contrary some of my colleagues have suggested wearing a paper bag on to the wards to avoid persecution.

And I've had ups and downs. Rollercoaster rides the likes of which I haven't experienced in years. People who've come into my life whom I can't decide whether I love or hate. In short, the things that medical school does to you.

But it's all happened so...suddenly.

So I'm kinda reeling from it all right now. And I ask for your patience (yes, all three of you who still bother to check this blog. It's an old joke, but probably never more true than now. --Editor) Updates will come soon. You'll laugh. You'll cry. But most of all, you'll wonder--

How the hell did they allow this guy into medical school?

Do Not Disturb: Medical Students At Work

Newly graduated doctors, class of 2009.

As a medical student you get used to a feeling of power very quickly. Striding down the hospital hallways, stethoscope draped prominently across your shoulders and an important look on your face, patients and staff make way for you, reverent looks on their faces. There is an implicit trust across the consultation room table, even though the only lives you're going to save anytime soon are those of your greedy intestinal bacteria as you choose which sandwich you're going to have for lunch.

It is with full awareness of this trust that I bring to you these vignettes from med school. I've only been on the wards one week, but have managed to piss off two consultants, three janitors and one VERY large clinical teaching co-ordinator who may or may not have been the local wrestling champion in her original village in Africa. Stay tuned for more faith-reinforcing tales like this:

On Tuesday afternoon, three supposedly world-class medical students in a supposedly world-class university stand in the hallway of a supposedly world-class hospital. Their brows are furrowed in intense concentration, as if lives hung in the balance of their deliberations. Thick textbooks are clutched in their hands. The conversation goes something like this:

"Hey dudes. You watch House, right?"

"Um yeah. Why?"

"Cause here comes Asian Cuddy. Act natural."

"Dude, why're you using that textbook to cover your--"

"ACT NATURAL!"

Three supposedly world-class medical students, between them holding degrees in Cardiology, Surgery & Anaesthesia and Experimental Psychology, whistle nonchalantly as the Clinical Teaching Co-ordinator walks by, smiling sweetly as she chats on the phone.

"Dude that did NOT look like Cuddy."

"It so totally DID! Did you see the cleavage on that one?"

"Meh...I see the resemblance. But-- ooh she dropped a pen. She's bending over!"

Silence for a moment.

"Okay."

"Yeah."

"NOW she looks like Dr Cuddy."

More silence.

"Hey, didn't surgical rounds start like ten minutes ago?"

"SHIT."

What They Don't Tell You About Medical School

1. That calling a doctor "Sister" or worse, "Nursie" by mistake is going to earn you an hour-long scolding (during which the word "bastard" is used, and not in reference to the illegitimate child being born to the crack-dealing prostitute in the next ward), a very sore ear from previously-mentioned scolding, and a knowing snigger from every nurse you pass by for the next two weeks. (Not that I'd know anything about that, of course. Cough.)

2. That when you put in a cannula in an elderly patient in ICU (Intensive Care Unit) for the first time, YOU ARE NOT GOING TO GET IT RIGHT. And yes, the ward nurse WILL call you in two hours telling you that the patient's arm has swelled up bigger than Donald Trump's ego, and the patient's family wants to know which third-rate night-school retard doctor put that cannula in. (Not that I'd know anything about that either, of course. Cough cough.)

3. That your time management skills are going to decrease to those of a hyperactive chimpanzee addicted to Ritalin, and that this combined with a succession of emo posts and a very unfortunate exam timetable (Sunday afternoon clinical OSCE. 'Cos that's the only time they can clear the hospital's outpatients department --Editor) is going to reduce your previously impressive blog readership (three whole readers! --Ed.) to shameful (myself. Ooh, and my flatmate's dog. --Ed.)

That's all for now, folks, but right after exams I'm going to start posting reasonably regularly again. Med school has once again become the widescreen madhouse it started out to be, and hey I figure as long as I'm suffering, I might as well make some people laugh. (And if exams DON'T go well, forget the blog - come see me at your local McDonald's and I'll tell you the story in person. I'll be the guy mopping the floors - did you know they DON'T pay minimum wage? --Ed.)

The Power To Choose, Part One

The sun shines into the room as it slowly begins to set over the small hill behind the hospital, dotted with cottages and church steeples. I squint in the dusky light as Komrad Konsultant Kardiologist, my latest boss, flips open my end-of-term assessment form and sits down at his table.

"So, Angry...let's see." He begins.

I brace myself. Here come the hard questions about why I wasn't at ward rounds, why his patients have no idea who I am, and that one time I fell asleep in a patient's bed...

But Komrad Konsultant stops flipping the file, and looks out the window. "I think you've done quite well, Angry. I think you'll go far, in fact."

I blink. Me, going far? ME? Has he got the wrong file? What has he been smoking?

Komrad Konsultant adjusts his glasses as the sun glints off them. "You see...all this work you do now may sometimes seem pointless. All the slogging, all the early mornings, all the nasty doctors ordering you around..." He closes the file.

"What you have to remember is that you're storing choice for the future." Now he looks at me directly. "The really successful people in life, Angry, they reach a level where they can choose where they want to go. Which hospital, which specialty, which job. They write their own tickets. Everybody else, they have to hope and pray. But if you're REALLY good...you get to choose."

He signs the assessment form, ticks the 'EXCELLENT' box and hands it to me. "I think you're one of those who'll get to choose."

I sit for a while, just staring at him, stunned. Then I walk out of his room in a bit of a daze.

I don't think I deserved such high praise. Not at all. I haven't been focusing my energies where I should be lately. And to some extent I've betrayed my dream of clinical medicine, after moaning and ranting about it for three years in Cambridge. And I've made a few big mistakes. But hopefully it's not too late to correct them.

And it's not just me Komrad Konsultant was talking about. We all deserve the power to choose. So here's to working harder. Here's to storing up choice for the future. Thanks, Dr B.

Lost In Translation

Me being examined by Dr Kim Jong-il. (Fine, so I've put on a bit of weight, okay?)

After an extended Christmas holiday spent mostly getting fat on turkey and junk food (see above picture) and trying very, very hard to get the lyrics for this hilarious Saturday Night Live music video (and it's medically-related too! --Ed.) out of my head, I returned to Stalingrad General Hospital for a week of lectures this week. And I don't know if it was just me or Komrade Professor's droning voice putting even the flies in the lecture theatre to sleep, but I heard some pretty weird stuff every time I actually paid attention to what was being said:

"You may be surprised to hear that the field of medicine is not so like to the aviation industry. In fact, the two fields are quite different." Heard during a lecture on patient safety and statistics (and almost certainly taken out of context, because I heard it as soon as I woke up.) No shit, Sherlock! DU-UH.

"Be careful what you say during your exams. I once examined a student who gave 'Huntington's chorea' as an answer, and so I followed up by asking him "So what can you tell me about chorea?" The student sat there for a second, then leaned forward slowly and, in all seriousness, asked me, "Which one? North or South Korea?" "

Okay that woke me up.

Happy New Year to my loyal readers (yes, all three of you) and stay tuned - I've got no shortage of miserable tales to keep you entertained. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a Suicidal Medical Students support group meeting to go to. Bonne nuit!

The Chronicles of Hernia, Week 2

After enduring an entire first week of pep talks by clinical school bigwigs who spend more time posing for newspaper pictures than actually spending time with students and whom we'll probably never see again until Graduation Day, I stepped into Stalingrad General Hospital on my first day full of admonitions to "make it a positive experience" and "clinical school is what you make it" and "think positive!" (and also "for God's sake, don't accept a verbal caution from the police when you get caught piss drunk at the local pub", but that's slightly beside the point. -Ed.) So like a good little boy who's read The Secret twice cover to cover without falling asleep/clawing my eyes out/having to buy the movie instead, I gird my loins, tell myself it's gonna be an abso-friggin-lutely amazing day, and step into the hospital.

My ward is on the 9th floor. I have 15 minutes to make it upstairs. Plenty of time, right? Right. Until I see that the one lift that isn't hovering resolutely near the top floor is out of service. And just to rub it into our faces, it's even got a special icon to tell us poor sods that it's on a coffee break:


Har har. We have a comic genius on the maintenance staff! I scoot over to the stairs and leg it up 9 flights of stairs, stopping only twice to have a minor heart attack. When I finally arrive half-dead on the 9th floor but fearful of Komrade Professor's wrath, I meekly enter the teaching room but lo and behold! Komrade Professor isn't there. He's been called away on urgent business, probably to give the Queen her annual physical or check out this new wart on President Obama's finger or whatever. So us peons do some practice physical examinations, then I go out to get a drink. Returning to the room, sure to find my fellow students eager to proceed in productive horizon-widening learning, I see instead scrawled on my notes:

I'm sure they had something urgent to attend to. How nice of them to leave me a note! Ah well, I can get on with things myself. It's not like they were being mean and scribbling all over my notes or anything! Walking to the ward, I turn over to my patient list and see:

Yes, that DOES say what you think it says.
("I want Angry to come and examine me...mmmm...")

Oh, I am feeling SO positive right now.

The Adventure Begins (Again)

The Angry Medic's new home, a top socialist NHS

teaching hospital in London.

London! The financial centre of the world. A city bustling with life, teeming with people from all walks of life, headed towards all sorts of destinies. A metropolis full of excitement, dreams, possibilities, adrenaline--

-- and one clueless medical student who can't read a Tube map to save his life. (Literally. Who knew that chavs liked to beat up clueless-looking people wandering around in Cambridge University hoodies? And why the hell did they call me a "toff"? I don't even like toffee. --Ed.)

So I'm in London, situated at a top teaching hospital and finally in the thick of the good ol' socialist NHS. For simplicity's sake (and because I have fewer comedy ideas than Will Ferrell on a good day), I shall refer to my hospital as Stalingrad General Hospital from now on. (refer to above mind-bogglingly brilliant Photoshopped picture. Who needs sex when you have Photoshop? Who's with me? Huh? HUH? No not you David Schwimmer, you're just ugly. --Ed.)

Two months into clinical school, I have managed to acquaint myself with nearly every personality of note (and their respective bootprints, which have all become very good friends with my ass) in Stalingrad General, and for simplicity's sake (and because I have fewer comedy ideas than Prince Philip on a really, really good day) I shall refer to them all as they appear in the following Who's Who in Stalingrad General Hospital:

Komrade Professor - Our Professor of Medicine, in charge of the integration of Oxbridge transfer students into a "proper" medical school (read: teaching us poor pre-clinical sods how to hold a stethoscope properly.) Literally looks like a tanned version of Rowan Atkinson, complete with biting wit and a glare that makes you feel like Mr Bean presenting a chest x-ray.






Komrade Konsultant - Supreme Overlord of his medical specialty, and at the direct opposite end of the hospital food chain from me. I'll use this title for whoever's in charge of teaching me at the moment (read: bossing me around a bit, pretending they care about medical training, then disappearing faster than George W. Bush's approval ratings when I approach them for teaching).





Komrade Konsultant Surgeon - The consultant surgeon in charge, whenever I have the fantastic misfortune to be on a surgical specialty instead of a medical one. A heckuva lot more scarce than the medical variety, but (as any medical student will tell you) worse than medical consultants. A lot worse. (And hey, how appropriate will this picture be when I start Respiratory Surgery?)




Komrade Klinikal Skills Tutor - THE poor bastard in charge of teaching us poor bastards how to hold a stethoscope properly. Loses hair faster than John McCain lost the election. Probably got the job in return for a foreign work permit or because he got caught stealing cookies from Komrade Professor's personal tin. Either way, I pity the man. (And so will you, once you hear what we've done to him. --Ed.)




So there we go - a small sampling of the crazy characters perpetrating the wide-screen madness that goes on daily at my clinical school. (Boy, the stories I have for you! And I haven't even introduced the nurses yet.) Stay tuned*!

*Anybody (and I mean ANYBODY) who makes the ol' tuning-fork-neurological-exam joke at this point gets to be the first subject in my clinical trial to test whether humans can feel tuning-fork vibrations in the inner rectum, okay?

Some Wounds Never Heal

"Take it from me, son - some wounds never heal."

I stand by the side of the bed, twirling my stethoscope around my neck, trying to look competent. He stares at me with those all-knowing, penetrating blue eyes. And tired. His eyes seem so tired.

"Uhm - okay. But Mr Wilson, really, from what I can see here - you're doing really well. You've definitely pulled through."

I flip through his folder. Fluid balance, temperature, blood pressure, drug chart. Improvements everywhere. The fluid in his lungs is drying up, the scars from his bowel surgery receding nicely. Three days ago he could have been dead.

"And I don't have to tell you this, I'm sure you've read your own chart - heck, you could teach me a thing or two about what these readings means." I smile. Mr Wilson was an army surgeon. He's seen enough of the cruel realities of life, of love, loss and what it means to die for your country. And he remembers. I know he's no doddering old fool. Those eyes say it all.

He turns away. Stares out the window, at the sun setting over the London skyline. I bet he remembers what it used to look like. How many times must he have stared at the Houses of Parliament, wondering if the people inside knew how much he was sacrificing so they could keep their lives?

"Some wounds don't heal."

I blink. I don't think he's talking about the scars on his stomach.

"After a while, son...after a while, you start thinking about what really matters."

It is only then that I notice what he's been doing with his hands. The dying sun glints off the ring on his finger as he twirls it round and round.

I put back his folder and begin muttering my goodbyes, wanting to give him some privacy.

"And the worst thing is...you remember. You remember everything. And you wonder if things could've gone differently." He looks down at the ring.

"Maybe...maybe if I hadn't been so selfish...she wouldn't have left. Maybe if I'd spent more time with her. If I hadn't been away from home all the time..." His voice trails off.

I hesitate. I am only a medical student. What right do I have to offer judgment? This thin frail figure on the bed before me could easily give me a tongue-lashing for forgetting my place with patients. And he would be right. But I venture anyway.

"Mr Wilson...I doubt selfish is a word anyone would use to describe you. Ever."

He turns to me, a faint smile creasing his face. Those eyes again.

"You're kind. And I shouldn't be wasting your time with an old man's mutterings. Go home, son. It's late."

I smile back, and promise to come look in on him tomorrow. As I leave, I hear his voice again.

"Just remember - some wounds never heal. The textbooks don't tell you that." I turn around. He isn't looking at me. The ring gleams as he turns it round and round.

I shut the door behind me, leaving him to his memories. For the briefest of moments, I think he'd be happier if he had died. I wonder if that makes me a bad person.

Image: "The hole in me since the day you died", copyright Mary Molnar.