Twice in the last four days I've gone into hospital out of rostered hours to check up on patients of mine that were a little sicker than most. My reg and my fellow intern would probably roll their eyes if I told them that. We have this on-going joke that if it's my afternoon off, they know they can still hand me work to do at 4:45pm. I'm weird about taking afternoons off. My reg assures me that that is a passing phase.
One of these patients had been under our care for about a week. When she first came in she was a little wary of us, and we thought she was a little weird too. I think we had all pegged her as someone who might retreat into the sick role and give us some trouble in terms of refusing tests, procedures and just generally be someone we couldn't get along with.
We found that she was, in fact, a real trooper. It probably helped that she was getting opiate analgesia four times a day, but she was a good sport about our repeated failed attempts at getting intra-venous access and the multiple blood tests and radiology tests we needed to essentially tell her we weren't sure what was going on.
Yesterday, after a week of tests, fate pushed the agenda, and her bowel perforated. We rushed her to surgery yesterday afternoon. My fellow intern and I assured her that she was in good hands and that we'd see her after the Anzac day holiday.
Today I called the hospital just to see how the surgery went. The ward told me, "She's not here, she's just in recovery after her procedure and she's going to ICU soon." I didn't like the sound of that. What procedure? She couldn't have gone til today without having her surgery, which meant this 'procedure' must've been something else entirely.
I padded into the hospital, feeling somewhat naked without a tie or stethoscope, and far too comfortable in sneakers.
I found her in the recovery ward. She lay there with multiple arterial and venous access lines, and her breathing was assisted by a large ungainly BiPAP mask. Being a public holiday the rest of recovery was entirely empty, and the mechanical Darth Vader like hissing from the mask created a surreal mood.
I quickly flipped to the last entry in her notes.
CT Pulmonary angiogram: multiple pulmonary emboli. 1st and 3rd segment of some artery in some lobe or somesuch. Even if had known what they meant I had stopped registering the words after "multiple pulmonary emboli." They are, for the non-medical, blood clots in the lung, the same entity that drove the media wild back when they bayed about "economy class syndrome."
They are a complication in surgical patients we try to aggressively prevent.
I explained what was going on to our patient. She could hear me, despite the fairly heavy analgesia that was running in her veins. She seemed to take it well, the trooper that she was. I stood by her bedside for another 20mins while the nurses got things ready to move her to ICU. Before they moved her she looked up at me and I gave her a crooked smile. I was wondering whether I had done all the right things to prevent this, whether we could have picked it up earlier, whether she'd be okay.
She reached up for my hand and I gave it a little squeeze. It might as well have been the other way around.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Boy's club
Things you don't expect to hear a man say while fondling/manipulating another man's genitalia, even if it for a vasectomy:
Surgical registrar (losing traction on the vas deferens): "Prick!"
(coaxing it back): "Come here, you..."
(grimacing): "It's a little tight in there."
Surgical registrar (losing traction on the vas deferens): "Prick!"
(coaxing it back): "Come here, you..."
(grimacing): "It's a little tight in there."
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Matlock'd
People exert and display their power in different ways. My consultant has several tricks up his sleeve to let people know that He is the Boss.
He is, firstly, an imposing figure - by towering over most medical staff at at least 6'3" he can simulatenously give you an inferiority complex and create a vertical illusion that diminishes his middle-aged pot-belly. His voice is deep, controlled and also distinctly Australian. He is, I'm told, a incredible surgeon with tens of thousands of operations under his belt.
He is also a wily fox.
Yesterday he asked myself and my registrar to look up the results of a patient's test for him. The results weren't back, so we said we'd chase them up. Today he asked me, "Did you see the results yet?"
I said, "No, I haven't had a chance, I'll look it up as soon as possible sir." (I had actually forgotten).
I managed to check the results and hours later when I was passing him in the hall I decided to try to prove that I was a hard-working intern. "Sir, those results..."
"I already know. I already saw them. I just wanted to see if you had."
A few weeks ago my colleague attended his theatre list as our registrar suggested it would make this consultant happy. The registrar helpfully briefed my colleague on the sorts of questions to expect from this operation - it was an excision of a pleomorphic adenoma, so the anatomy of the facial nerve was the key information. My colleague studiously memorized the branches of the nerve and their relations. When she arrived at the theatre, she was met with,
"Which number cranial nerve is the facial nerve?"
She knew the right answer, "The seventh."
"....are you sure?"
(For the non-medics, imagine the previous exchange like so: After you've prepared for a high-level maths exam including imaginary numbers - "What is 2 plus 2?" "Four." "...are you sure?")
It reminds me of an episode of one of those legal shows back in the early 80s - I think it was Matlock. Tha Lock had some poor schmuck on the stand for brutally assaulting some other poor schmuck. Matlock didn't have quite enough evidence for a conviction, so he says,
"What if I told you that your victim has just died in hospital?"
The schmuck on the stand breaks down and confesses, sobbing, to the whole crime.
The victim then turns up, making a grand entrance into the courtroom. The schmuck on the stand, shocked, turns to Matlock and yells, "You lied to me! You said he was dead!"
Tha Lock quips back, "I only said 'What if I told you he was dead?'"
Wily. I'm still not sure what to think of my consultant. He seems to have sent a clear message: "I am two steps ahead of you - because I am one step in front and you one step behind."
He is, firstly, an imposing figure - by towering over most medical staff at at least 6'3" he can simulatenously give you an inferiority complex and create a vertical illusion that diminishes his middle-aged pot-belly. His voice is deep, controlled and also distinctly Australian. He is, I'm told, a incredible surgeon with tens of thousands of operations under his belt.
He is also a wily fox.
Yesterday he asked myself and my registrar to look up the results of a patient's test for him. The results weren't back, so we said we'd chase them up. Today he asked me, "Did you see the results yet?"
I said, "No, I haven't had a chance, I'll look it up as soon as possible sir." (I had actually forgotten).
I managed to check the results and hours later when I was passing him in the hall I decided to try to prove that I was a hard-working intern. "Sir, those results..."
"I already know. I already saw them. I just wanted to see if you had."
A few weeks ago my colleague attended his theatre list as our registrar suggested it would make this consultant happy. The registrar helpfully briefed my colleague on the sorts of questions to expect from this operation - it was an excision of a pleomorphic adenoma, so the anatomy of the facial nerve was the key information. My colleague studiously memorized the branches of the nerve and their relations. When she arrived at the theatre, she was met with,
"Which number cranial nerve is the facial nerve?"
She knew the right answer, "The seventh."
"....are you sure?"
(For the non-medics, imagine the previous exchange like so: After you've prepared for a high-level maths exam including imaginary numbers - "What is 2 plus 2?" "Four." "...are you sure?")
It reminds me of an episode of one of those legal shows back in the early 80s - I think it was Matlock. Tha Lock had some poor schmuck on the stand for brutally assaulting some other poor schmuck. Matlock didn't have quite enough evidence for a conviction, so he says,
"What if I told you that your victim has just died in hospital?"
The schmuck on the stand breaks down and confesses, sobbing, to the whole crime.
The victim then turns up, making a grand entrance into the courtroom. The schmuck on the stand, shocked, turns to Matlock and yells, "You lied to me! You said he was dead!"
Tha Lock quips back, "I only said 'What if I told you he was dead?'"
Wily. I'm still not sure what to think of my consultant. He seems to have sent a clear message: "I am two steps ahead of you - because I am one step in front and you one step behind."
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
The circle
I was invited to sit at the table in the nurses rec room today. I was only looking for a working tap to quench my parching tongue but it was nice to be included. The nurses rec room is a private sanctum, and interns don't intrude on tea breaks unless something Truly Bad is Going Down. I sat there quietly sipping lukewarm water and listening to amusing stories about wrangling maternity leave and having babies. This is the second time in a couple of days that something similar has happened. I appreciate that maybe this means I'm not messing up too much on the ward. The first time it happened, one of the NUMs had just made me a nice hot cross bun and said, after I thanked her, that it was because she "looked after those who looked after ours."
There are small things in everyday that keep you going and this was one of them. A small word from one person to another takes seconds but it's enough to give things meaning. I'm starting to feel at home on my ward and I feel ready to give that extra mile if needed. Granted, I'm not on a busy team so I have quite a few extra miles to give. I'll look after those who look after mine.
There are small things in everyday that keep you going and this was one of them. A small word from one person to another takes seconds but it's enough to give things meaning. I'm starting to feel at home on my ward and I feel ready to give that extra mile if needed. Granted, I'm not on a busy team so I have quite a few extra miles to give. I'll look after those who look after mine.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Make with the clicky
I've been heavily censured all round for the delays in posts. My "friend" Marcus likes to call me "Milo", because I'm not "Quik" har har har (not in regards to blogs, just in regards to life). And my other "friend" Carmen loves that joke so much that between them I can never again drink flavoured milk.
So I thought I'd give a shout out to some other noteworthy blogs from terrific people that you might like to read (all medical interns, btw) in lieu of my tiresome tardiness.
Chronic Vertigo - esme's blog is (much like the author) true grit and no nonsense
The Intern Experiment - Another well-written blog from the always amusing Dr J
my aimless ramblings - from the bubbly Themis
Peekaben - from the equally bubbly Ben Lee
So make with the clicky. In the company of such esteemed writers I have no choice but to lift my game. Or send their sites trojan horses.
So I thought I'd give a shout out to some other noteworthy blogs from terrific people that you might like to read (all medical interns, btw) in lieu of my tiresome tardiness.
Chronic Vertigo - esme's blog is (much like the author) true grit and no nonsense
The Intern Experiment - Another well-written blog from the always amusing Dr J
my aimless ramblings - from the bubbly Themis
Peekaben - from the equally bubbly Ben Lee
So make with the clicky. In the company of such esteemed writers I have no choice but to lift my game. Or send their sites trojan horses.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Back in the game...but still losing
Humour me for a few minutes and let channel a bit of Bridget Jones. Somewhere in the last three months I had bought into the myth that as a fresh new male doctor I suddenly represented security, benevolence and good grooming to the opposite sex - the next best thing to George Clooney. My mojo, despite being battered through some abortive campaigns during uni, had been instantly rejuvenated! Bouyed by an inflated sense of self-worth and amnesia over past failures I headed back into the trenches of the dating battlefield.
Day 1; 2000hrs, Dizzy's Jazz club 6/4/06
I roll up to Dizzy's alone to see Axle Whitehead, the VJ on Video Hits and a former Idol contestant. It's an extremely crisp night in Melbourne. Dizzy's is a cute little club where the people standing at the bar are literally within spitting distance of the performer. It used to be an old post office, so what it loses in floor area it makes up for in history. It is so small though, that the poor girl selling tickets at the door is sitting outside the club in an equally tiny vestibule warming her hands to an element heater that might just be warm enough to heat her left pinky.
I pay for the cover charge, and she says to me, "I really like your jacket." This in itself is unfamiliar enough to make me bluster and bluntly change the topic to the weather. I excuse myself and head indoors. Indoors it's warm enough for the mojo to thaw out, which somehow gives me the chutzpah to head back out.
"Do you, um, want something to drink?"
She seems surprised by this for a moment, but goes with it and smiles,
"Um, a peppermint tea would be great."
"Uh, one or two sugars?"
"A dollop of honey, thanks a lot."
We exchange names. She speaks with confidence and ease and it doesn't surprise me when she says she's a politics/english major hoping to become a journalist. Her nature is easy-going and inquisitive which I find initally very comfortable until she stumbles on the fact that I'm a doctor which she finds fascinating.
I'm not particularly ready for this - she has a myriad of interesting questions to which I have boring answers (dropping the gory details of the latest failed faecal disimpaction is fun with friends but simply kamikaze with a stranger), and as anyone who's seen the 40 Year Old Virgin knows, you really ought to be talking about her, not you. I find myself trying every conversational tact but each somehow leads back to doctoring - parents: her father is a doctor, what's uni like: must be nothing like working as a doctor. It's like trying to play chicken, only you're driving a tram.
After the show I try to find her to say goodbye but she's gone. As I drive off I spot someone that looks suspiciously like her making out with a bald dude at a tram stop.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of women 1
Day 2; 2400hrs, Lavish nightclub 7/4/06
I go out for after work drinks to try and get to know some of my colleagues and end up trawling with two hotshots who dress big and talk bigger. When I talk about buying into the myth that young male doctors are the shit, I've only got options. These guys are majority shareholders.
Lavish on Fridays is an Asian club. I've been wary of trying to meet women at Asian nights, not just for fear of rejection, but for fear of getting stabbed, trolley-pole'd or otherwise violently beaten down for looking at someone's woman the wrong way. Tonight I swallow these fears with a few potent Jager bombs. For those of you not familiar with the Jager bomb - it's a shot of Jagermeister thrown down in half a can of Red Bull. It is essentially a drink that mangles your common sense by over-caffeinating your senses to the point where you gleefully allow the Jagermeister to sneak up on your inhibitions and stomp on them.
I'm wobbling somewhat, and decide that the previous night's trial of the "I'm a doctor" card was not rugged enough. Shamelessly I go up to a girl who caught my eye earlier in the night. She's got good game - well dressed in a slinky strapless, and stylish looking despite rocking the 80s hairstyle that's in fashion these days. I can't complain, because it means her hair is up off her shoulders, and she scores points for elegance.
Amateurishly, the words that come out do not reflect the situation. I hear myself say,
"Hi, I like your style. Let me introduce you to someone, this is my friend, he's a doctor."
I'm such a n00b. Now, granted, my opening gambit wasn't particularly clever, but my friend should have prepped me a little better - as it turns out this girl I tried to introduce him to was friends with a girl that he has this on/off thing with. She came back to me later,
"Your friend? He's a player. He's a doctor? You're a doctor? You know, I don't trust doctors. You and lawyers, you're all full of shit."
So much for elegance. And please, don't ask me why I tried to introduce this girl to my friend, when I had my own eye on her. I blame the Jager.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of Women 2
Day 3; 2300hrs Unk cafe, 8/4/06
I'm at a 25th birthday party of a friend of a friend. I'm telling my good friend what I have just told you, and he's talking out of his ass, the sort of talk you can talk when you are fortunate enough to be in a stable relationship. He's goading me into chatting up the waitress. There's no alcohol on board, but he's talking just enough to make me do this so I can shut him up.
His girl offers me a way in - this waitress has an accent. Why not ask her where she's from?
Some of you might know that I've not had a great record at chatting up foreign waitresses. The most famous knock-back I've received was, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English" followed by an immediate exit.
Still, let the fact that I continued impress on you my immense desire to shut my boy up. The cute waitress turns up with some appetizers, and I take my chance,
"I notice you have an accent..." (again, no points for an elegant opening) "...where are you from?"
She's from Germany, on a working Visa. In a couple of weeks time she's heading off to New Zealand. I recommend the South Island, having *never* been there, and desperately try to dig some high school German out of the dusty crate I call the hippocampus. Banishing the long repressed memory of Frau Graham's tobacco stained teeth and oddly masculine voice I sheepishly utter,
"Um...wie heissen Sie?"
She laughs at the stilted formal grammar and answers,
"Katie"
and walks off.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of Women 3
Day 1; 2000hrs, Dizzy's Jazz club 6/4/06
I roll up to Dizzy's alone to see Axle Whitehead, the VJ on Video Hits and a former Idol contestant. It's an extremely crisp night in Melbourne. Dizzy's is a cute little club where the people standing at the bar are literally within spitting distance of the performer. It used to be an old post office, so what it loses in floor area it makes up for in history. It is so small though, that the poor girl selling tickets at the door is sitting outside the club in an equally tiny vestibule warming her hands to an element heater that might just be warm enough to heat her left pinky.
I pay for the cover charge, and she says to me, "I really like your jacket." This in itself is unfamiliar enough to make me bluster and bluntly change the topic to the weather. I excuse myself and head indoors. Indoors it's warm enough for the mojo to thaw out, which somehow gives me the chutzpah to head back out.
"Do you, um, want something to drink?"
She seems surprised by this for a moment, but goes with it and smiles,
"Um, a peppermint tea would be great."
"Uh, one or two sugars?"
"A dollop of honey, thanks a lot."
We exchange names. She speaks with confidence and ease and it doesn't surprise me when she says she's a politics/english major hoping to become a journalist. Her nature is easy-going and inquisitive which I find initally very comfortable until she stumbles on the fact that I'm a doctor which she finds fascinating.
I'm not particularly ready for this - she has a myriad of interesting questions to which I have boring answers (dropping the gory details of the latest failed faecal disimpaction is fun with friends but simply kamikaze with a stranger), and as anyone who's seen the 40 Year Old Virgin knows, you really ought to be talking about her, not you. I find myself trying every conversational tact but each somehow leads back to doctoring - parents: her father is a doctor, what's uni like: must be nothing like working as a doctor. It's like trying to play chicken, only you're driving a tram.
After the show I try to find her to say goodbye but she's gone. As I drive off I spot someone that looks suspiciously like her making out with a bald dude at a tram stop.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of women 1
Day 2; 2400hrs, Lavish nightclub 7/4/06
I go out for after work drinks to try and get to know some of my colleagues and end up trawling with two hotshots who dress big and talk bigger. When I talk about buying into the myth that young male doctors are the shit, I've only got options. These guys are majority shareholders.
Lavish on Fridays is an Asian club. I've been wary of trying to meet women at Asian nights, not just for fear of rejection, but for fear of getting stabbed, trolley-pole'd or otherwise violently beaten down for looking at someone's woman the wrong way. Tonight I swallow these fears with a few potent Jager bombs. For those of you not familiar with the Jager bomb - it's a shot of Jagermeister thrown down in half a can of Red Bull. It is essentially a drink that mangles your common sense by over-caffeinating your senses to the point where you gleefully allow the Jagermeister to sneak up on your inhibitions and stomp on them.
I'm wobbling somewhat, and decide that the previous night's trial of the "I'm a doctor" card was not rugged enough. Shamelessly I go up to a girl who caught my eye earlier in the night. She's got good game - well dressed in a slinky strapless, and stylish looking despite rocking the 80s hairstyle that's in fashion these days. I can't complain, because it means her hair is up off her shoulders, and she scores points for elegance.
Amateurishly, the words that come out do not reflect the situation. I hear myself say,
"Hi, I like your style. Let me introduce you to someone, this is my friend, he's a doctor."
I'm such a n00b. Now, granted, my opening gambit wasn't particularly clever, but my friend should have prepped me a little better - as it turns out this girl I tried to introduce him to was friends with a girl that he has this on/off thing with. She came back to me later,
"Your friend? He's a player. He's a doctor? You're a doctor? You know, I don't trust doctors. You and lawyers, you're all full of shit."
So much for elegance. And please, don't ask me why I tried to introduce this girl to my friend, when I had my own eye on her. I blame the Jager.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of Women 2
Day 3; 2300hrs Unk cafe, 8/4/06
I'm at a 25th birthday party of a friend of a friend. I'm telling my good friend what I have just told you, and he's talking out of his ass, the sort of talk you can talk when you are fortunate enough to be in a stable relationship. He's goading me into chatting up the waitress. There's no alcohol on board, but he's talking just enough to make me do this so I can shut him up.
His girl offers me a way in - this waitress has an accent. Why not ask her where she's from?
Some of you might know that I've not had a great record at chatting up foreign waitresses. The most famous knock-back I've received was, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English" followed by an immediate exit.
Still, let the fact that I continued impress on you my immense desire to shut my boy up. The cute waitress turns up with some appetizers, and I take my chance,
"I notice you have an accent..." (again, no points for an elegant opening) "...where are you from?"
She's from Germany, on a working Visa. In a couple of weeks time she's heading off to New Zealand. I recommend the South Island, having *never* been there, and desperately try to dig some high school German out of the dusty crate I call the hippocampus. Banishing the long repressed memory of Frau Graham's tobacco stained teeth and oddly masculine voice I sheepishly utter,
"Um...wie heissen Sie?"
She laughs at the stilted formal grammar and answers,
"Katie"
and walks off.
Scoreboard: Dave 0; Axis of Women 3
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Circadian again
24 hours after I left my final night shift I stepped back into hospital and it was, once again, a strange place. I joined my new surgical team at 7am and by 8am I could feel the physical pressure of having people around me again, palpable and almost measurable with a barometer. In amongst the throng, I am once again a lowly intern - answering a page with simply "Hi it's Dave" is no longer enough, but I have to include my full branding "Hi, it's Dave, General Breast Endo Surg Intern number six-one-five."
The compensation to anonymity is the relative abundance of pretty young things wandering about. In one day I almost managed to walk into two IV trolleys after my retinas re-registered what a cute woman looked like. Go Pharmacy! Go Physio! Go hot older NUMs! Go! Go! Go!
Big ups (or downs) too, to cute medical students too, who wear totally impractical clothes to hospital! Girls, you look cute enough to make my brain temporarily dump the definition of heart sound S3, but if you brought handbags big enough to fit a Talley O'Connor in there you wouldn't have to ask me, would you?
I decided to send them to see my favourite patient, who wasn't surgical in any way. He was initially seeing our surgeon for a lump and they found he was anaemic. I was the one who admitted him to hospital and it turned out his anaemia was haemolytic, a condition where the immune system breaks down red blood cells. We turned him over to the haematologists and a few days later I spoke to his wife who told me that he was disappointed that I wouldn't be looking after him personally, which warmed my heart and made my day.
There's a general feeling that surgeons just like to cut things, and don't really care about their patients. I think it's more a product of an overloaded public health system. If you've only got five patients on your list (like I have), then you can afford to take a few more seconds with a patient and make them feel unique. If I've got a light list, then it's not just a privilege, but a responsibility to take those few extra seconds.
I have to thank Caz and Paul, friends of mine who were holidaying and staying with me this week. It made the transition to surgical internship much more enjoyable knowing I had something to come home to in the evening.
Two small plugs:
1) Masala Magic in Flemington - great, affordable Indian food.
2) Hyde bar on Russell St - managed by my fellow intern Marty, who was nice enough to hook me up on the guest list for the grand re-opening on Thursday. The decor was eclectic - plush couches sat next to thumping RnB, while Terracotta warriors sat at the bar either reading the random books about the place, or checking out the gorgeous bartenders. Caz, Paul and I turn up to see Marty sitting in the back corner with his posse looking like he's this town's Jay-Z and I think to myself that sometimes a little bling ain't a bad thing.
The compensation to anonymity is the relative abundance of pretty young things wandering about. In one day I almost managed to walk into two IV trolleys after my retinas re-registered what a cute woman looked like. Go Pharmacy! Go Physio! Go hot older NUMs! Go! Go! Go!
Big ups (or downs) too, to cute medical students too, who wear totally impractical clothes to hospital! Girls, you look cute enough to make my brain temporarily dump the definition of heart sound S3, but if you brought handbags big enough to fit a Talley O'Connor in there you wouldn't have to ask me, would you?
I decided to send them to see my favourite patient, who wasn't surgical in any way. He was initially seeing our surgeon for a lump and they found he was anaemic. I was the one who admitted him to hospital and it turned out his anaemia was haemolytic, a condition where the immune system breaks down red blood cells. We turned him over to the haematologists and a few days later I spoke to his wife who told me that he was disappointed that I wouldn't be looking after him personally, which warmed my heart and made my day.
There's a general feeling that surgeons just like to cut things, and don't really care about their patients. I think it's more a product of an overloaded public health system. If you've only got five patients on your list (like I have), then you can afford to take a few more seconds with a patient and make them feel unique. If I've got a light list, then it's not just a privilege, but a responsibility to take those few extra seconds.
I have to thank Caz and Paul, friends of mine who were holidaying and staying with me this week. It made the transition to surgical internship much more enjoyable knowing I had something to come home to in the evening.
Two small plugs:
1) Masala Magic in Flemington - great, affordable Indian food.
2) Hyde bar on Russell St - managed by my fellow intern Marty, who was nice enough to hook me up on the guest list for the grand re-opening on Thursday. The decor was eclectic - plush couches sat next to thumping RnB, while Terracotta warriors sat at the bar either reading the random books about the place, or checking out the gorgeous bartenders. Caz, Paul and I turn up to see Marty sitting in the back corner with his posse looking like he's this town's Jay-Z and I think to myself that sometimes a little bling ain't a bad thing.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Jaz made me do it
The last post managed to generate THREE replies, which is a record for the Lone Banana.
The first was from Jaz, who I named in the post. I should clarify that I wasn't picking on Jaz when I singled her out for saying she was often too tired to read a post that didn't grab her immediately. Although it was funny that in her reply she should say the mention of her name in the third paragraph was enough to get her attention. (I should use name-dropping more often). Anyway, for the record let it be known, Jaz Is A Lovely Lady. She brought this up:
"actually my thing about blogs is.. is there a point if no one reads it?"
My buddy Meng followed that up with
"does a tree falling in an empty forest make a sound?"
The general consensus was that each writer needs to create their own goals for their blog, just like any other creation. Oh, and that photoblogs are better. But I am Poor, and cannot afford a digital camera.
In other news, JESSICA ALBA still stalks the screens with Latina good looks and B-grade acting talent. (Can you feel the name-drop hit the floor like a dope beat from Timbaland?)
JESSICA!!!
Does a name-drop in empty cyberspace make a sound?
The first was from Jaz, who I named in the post. I should clarify that I wasn't picking on Jaz when I singled her out for saying she was often too tired to read a post that didn't grab her immediately. Although it was funny that in her reply she should say the mention of her name in the third paragraph was enough to get her attention. (I should use name-dropping more often). Anyway, for the record let it be known, Jaz Is A Lovely Lady. She brought this up:
"actually my thing about blogs is.. is there a point if no one reads it?"
My buddy Meng followed that up with
"does a tree falling in an empty forest make a sound?"
The general consensus was that each writer needs to create their own goals for their blog, just like any other creation. Oh, and that photoblogs are better. But I am Poor, and cannot afford a digital camera.
In other news, JESSICA ALBA still stalks the screens with Latina good looks and B-grade acting talent. (Can you feel the name-drop hit the floor like a dope beat from Timbaland?)
JESSICA!!!
Does a name-drop in empty cyberspace make a sound?
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Small fish in a big pond
I found out pop/blues/acoustic artist John Mayer blogs on his Myspace page. I've been thinking about the purpose of blogging a bit lately, and this latest development has me floored. (Is there anything this man can't/doesn't do?)
It's hard enough to read the newspaper these days, even online. The advent of Blogging, as with many things tied to the internet, expanded and exploded the reading choices of your average web surfer. In this age of the 2 second attention span it's almost impossible to catch someone's reading attention unless you've got a flashy animation/cool graphic or some mention of sex somewhere in there. Even that doesn't work so well anymore since any self-respecting email client will spam anything with "HUGE 36DD BREASTS PENIS ANAL" anyhow.
My friend Jaz said to me the other day that my blog had nice prose but she was just too tired to read the whole thing. Which was nice to hear, but it presents a new set of problems. We used to be taught in English class in high school that writing articles meant you needed to get 90% of your important information out in the first paragraph and a half. Which means most of you probably have opened a new browser by this point in this article, and that if you're still reading here I should send you chocolates.
That model of writing is like writing/assembling a movie trailer. You've got to get the best bits and cram them into a 30 sec spot, and to hell if you ruin the suspense or reveal the ending. It's not even like writing a pop song, where the catchy hook hits you hard about 1 minute into play. It sure isn't like writing a symphony.
My friend Shona has this neat trick she uses when sending travel emails: a short blurb and a long version that follows - a considerate and flexible format. Unfortunately it doesn't transfer so well into this blog, which is not so much about itemisation of the day-to-day events of a lowly intern. I have to work harder than that to earn your readership.
Which brings me back to John Mayer. I know many people read celebrity/gossip related blogs, but here is a blog one better - a blog *by* a celebrity. I'm guilty of a fair amount of celebrity worship, and I could probably be easily tempted into reading some mundanity that John Mayer ate Oreos for breakfast, or ties his left shoe first. But Mayer, the bastard, goes one up on that - he can actually write, with much of the humour and insight his lyrics suggest he would. His blog is pretty random, but very readable. There's a recent blog entry that posts a hypothetical response to one of those "HUGE 36DD BREASTS PENIS ANAL" spam emails.
I ask you then, what chance does a small blog like this have against a Goliath like that? Mayer already sings, plays guitar, has a swag of Grammys and now he blogs too. If he gets anywhere near a stethoscope I'm leaving and going to live on a mountain somewhere.
It's hard enough to read the newspaper these days, even online. The advent of Blogging, as with many things tied to the internet, expanded and exploded the reading choices of your average web surfer. In this age of the 2 second attention span it's almost impossible to catch someone's reading attention unless you've got a flashy animation/cool graphic or some mention of sex somewhere in there. Even that doesn't work so well anymore since any self-respecting email client will spam anything with "HUGE 36DD BREASTS PENIS ANAL" anyhow.
My friend Jaz said to me the other day that my blog had nice prose but she was just too tired to read the whole thing. Which was nice to hear, but it presents a new set of problems. We used to be taught in English class in high school that writing articles meant you needed to get 90% of your important information out in the first paragraph and a half. Which means most of you probably have opened a new browser by this point in this article, and that if you're still reading here I should send you chocolates.
That model of writing is like writing/assembling a movie trailer. You've got to get the best bits and cram them into a 30 sec spot, and to hell if you ruin the suspense or reveal the ending. It's not even like writing a pop song, where the catchy hook hits you hard about 1 minute into play. It sure isn't like writing a symphony.
My friend Shona has this neat trick she uses when sending travel emails: a short blurb and a long version that follows - a considerate and flexible format. Unfortunately it doesn't transfer so well into this blog, which is not so much about itemisation of the day-to-day events of a lowly intern. I have to work harder than that to earn your readership.
Which brings me back to John Mayer. I know many people read celebrity/gossip related blogs, but here is a blog one better - a blog *by* a celebrity. I'm guilty of a fair amount of celebrity worship, and I could probably be easily tempted into reading some mundanity that John Mayer ate Oreos for breakfast, or ties his left shoe first. But Mayer, the bastard, goes one up on that - he can actually write, with much of the humour and insight his lyrics suggest he would. His blog is pretty random, but very readable. There's a recent blog entry that posts a hypothetical response to one of those "HUGE 36DD BREASTS PENIS ANAL" spam emails.
I ask you then, what chance does a small blog like this have against a Goliath like that? Mayer already sings, plays guitar, has a swag of Grammys and now he blogs too. If he gets anywhere near a stethoscope I'm leaving and going to live on a mountain somewhere.
Bangers and mashups v3
The remix frenzy continues...I suppose it's easier to push other people's stuff together than to make new stuff of your own. *sigh*
Anyway - for your enjoyment, StudioGypsy presents:
Beyonce feat Blackstreet - Work it out (No diggity) and Beyonce and Amerie feat Jay-Z - Crazy in love - One thing (remix)
Pop music almanac: Work it out was featured on the Austin Powers 3 Soundtrack and originally produced by Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo of the Neptunes. Williams and Hugo initially got their start co-writing for producer/singer Teddy Riley, the founder of Blackstreet.
Beyonce's monster hit Crazy in love was produced by Rich Harrison, the man also responsible for Amerie's One thing.
I *am* a geek.
Anyway - for your enjoyment, StudioGypsy presents:
Beyonce feat Blackstreet - Work it out (No diggity) and Beyonce and Amerie feat Jay-Z - Crazy in love - One thing (remix)
Pop music almanac: Work it out was featured on the Austin Powers 3 Soundtrack and originally produced by Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo of the Neptunes. Williams and Hugo initially got their start co-writing for producer/singer Teddy Riley, the founder of Blackstreet.
Beyonce's monster hit Crazy in love was produced by Rich Harrison, the man also responsible for Amerie's One thing.
I *am* a geek.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
One can dream
I saw this in the mail room at my hospital
Re-hee-he-ally! And then, later:
Bootylicious?
Re-hee-he-ally! And then, later:
Bootylicious?
Monday, February 06, 2006
Too left feat
"This is the part where you..."
I've been hitting up a few dance classes lately, on my weeks off. Apparently I'm one of those rare male cats that doesn't have a problem with self-awareness and dignity, and likes to flail my arms and legs around semi-synchronized to a beat. Last week I went to a Ceroc, or French Latin Jive, dance class, and it turned into a memorable night for more than a few reasons.
Ceroc is a partnered dance, part ballroom, part dirty dancing. It's fun for both the guy and the girl - lots of twirling, it's fairly open-ended and can be danced to anything in 4/4. The trouble with any partnered dance for the men, of course, is that they have to lead - so on top of remembering the steps, you have to improv on the spot what the hell you actually want to do. So after a while, a rookie like me starts hearing a lot of this -
"This is the part where you..."
I mean, it's hard enough for a guy to co-ordinate his mind and his mouth when in front of an attractive stranger, let alone spontaneously co-ordinate a series of elaborate physical movements in time and in reasonable style without repeating himself in close physical proximity to an attractive stranger who's paid $15 to learn how to dance.
"This is the part where you..."
But I've found Ceroc to be a lot of fun, so we persist. It's social - you meet different types. There are, naturally, a few semi-pro dancers who look like pure money on the floor. We try to avoid the dull glaze in their eyes when it's their turn to dance with us (everyone has to rotate partners around during the class). There are, thankfully, a few ladies of our age and dancing experience around too. We joke about tripping over own feet and the pros and cons of using your shoulders in a body roll. There is, almost inevitably, at least one older lady with latent exhibitionism, who tries to lead you, and we try to avoid her lunging and flailing limbs as she puts on her own one-woman cabaret show.
Then there's a couple of middle-aged ladies who've come for a good time, and they're living it up, giggling like schoolgirls about how "slutty" they can make their moves. They're having a ball, giving each other high fives, and it's fun to dance with them. I find myself dancing with one of the pair, we'll call her Mrs Robinson for now. She's got a slim build, and dressed tastefully in a green skirt that has just the right amount of swish for the twirl. The years show a little bit on her face but she's still pretty. She's enjoying the move we just learnt, a twirling, twisting move aptly named the pretzel, and we're about to move into a section where the lady freestyles a bit. I tell her this is the bit where she boogies (she knows this anyway, she's been whooping this section up with her friend all night anyway).
"This is the part where you sex me up," says Mrs Robinson.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. HOLD UP. What the hell did she just say?
I'm panicking. I'm not sure if she's just kidding around, or if she actually, you know, wants me to make coffee and get grindin'. I take a quick look at her hands. No rings. Crap. No help from that quarter. I almost wish I was dancing with the exhibitionist, I could probably stop dancing, go get a drink and she wouldn't notice. Crap crap crap crap what's a gentleman to do crap although it's been like forever since I've heard those words from a women never in fact and then I woke up and it was all a dream...
No. Actually, the song ended, and thank god for the finite-ness of the Sugababes meme-like "Push the button."
"This is the part where..."
On my way home, I wonder about Mrs Robinson - whether she was in fact Mrs Robinson, or just Ms Robinson, and why. In the end, I decided it's just nice that she had some fun on a Friday night. And it's nice that I almost suffered a small stroke.
"Mrs Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"
I've been hitting up a few dance classes lately, on my weeks off. Apparently I'm one of those rare male cats that doesn't have a problem with self-awareness and dignity, and likes to flail my arms and legs around semi-synchronized to a beat. Last week I went to a Ceroc, or French Latin Jive, dance class, and it turned into a memorable night for more than a few reasons.
Ceroc is a partnered dance, part ballroom, part dirty dancing. It's fun for both the guy and the girl - lots of twirling, it's fairly open-ended and can be danced to anything in 4/4. The trouble with any partnered dance for the men, of course, is that they have to lead - so on top of remembering the steps, you have to improv on the spot what the hell you actually want to do. So after a while, a rookie like me starts hearing a lot of this -
"This is the part where you..."
I mean, it's hard enough for a guy to co-ordinate his mind and his mouth when in front of an attractive stranger, let alone spontaneously co-ordinate a series of elaborate physical movements in time and in reasonable style without repeating himself in close physical proximity to an attractive stranger who's paid $15 to learn how to dance.
"This is the part where you..."
But I've found Ceroc to be a lot of fun, so we persist. It's social - you meet different types. There are, naturally, a few semi-pro dancers who look like pure money on the floor. We try to avoid the dull glaze in their eyes when it's their turn to dance with us (everyone has to rotate partners around during the class). There are, thankfully, a few ladies of our age and dancing experience around too. We joke about tripping over own feet and the pros and cons of using your shoulders in a body roll. There is, almost inevitably, at least one older lady with latent exhibitionism, who tries to lead you, and we try to avoid her lunging and flailing limbs as she puts on her own one-woman cabaret show.
Then there's a couple of middle-aged ladies who've come for a good time, and they're living it up, giggling like schoolgirls about how "slutty" they can make their moves. They're having a ball, giving each other high fives, and it's fun to dance with them. I find myself dancing with one of the pair, we'll call her Mrs Robinson for now. She's got a slim build, and dressed tastefully in a green skirt that has just the right amount of swish for the twirl. The years show a little bit on her face but she's still pretty. She's enjoying the move we just learnt, a twirling, twisting move aptly named the pretzel, and we're about to move into a section where the lady freestyles a bit. I tell her this is the bit where she boogies (she knows this anyway, she's been whooping this section up with her friend all night anyway).
"This is the part where you sex me up," says Mrs Robinson.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. HOLD UP. What the hell did she just say?
I'm panicking. I'm not sure if she's just kidding around, or if she actually, you know, wants me to make coffee and get grindin'. I take a quick look at her hands. No rings. Crap. No help from that quarter. I almost wish I was dancing with the exhibitionist, I could probably stop dancing, go get a drink and she wouldn't notice. Crap crap crap crap what's a gentleman to do crap although it's been like forever since I've heard those words from a women never in fact and then I woke up and it was all a dream...
No. Actually, the song ended, and thank god for the finite-ness of the Sugababes meme-like "Push the button."
"This is the part where..."
On my way home, I wonder about Mrs Robinson - whether she was in fact Mrs Robinson, or just Ms Robinson, and why. In the end, I decided it's just nice that she had some fun on a Friday night. And it's nice that I almost suffered a small stroke.
"Mrs Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"
Bangers and mashups v2
See the previous post on mashups.
Click here for two more remixes; "Try again" remix by Aaliyah feat Kanye West and Jay-Z, using the terrific instrumental from 112's It's over now; also find the "Jesus walks" remix by Kanye West feat Talib Kweli, using the instrumental from Talib's Get By.
Click here for two more remixes; "Try again" remix by Aaliyah feat Kanye West and Jay-Z, using the terrific instrumental from 112's It's over now; also find the "Jesus walks" remix by Kanye West feat Talib Kweli, using the instrumental from Talib's Get By.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Saturday soap: General hospital
For those who wanted a little bit of a trashy blog entry: fresh from the Gossip mags!
Night shift is not a real glamorous time of day!
The cute nurses tend to come out at the 0730hr handover, by which time you're so sleep deprived you might as well be wearing beer glasses. So who knows, really? (I don't want to slight or otherwise incense the terrific and friendly nursing staff I have worked with though - that's just death-wish material)
There are a few cute interns, but they tend to have weird growths called boyfriends. I will probably have to say though, to my UNSW ladies, that on a hotness per capita basis, you guys(gals) still have the upper hand. For the ladies: there is a registrar with a lush Scottish accent who I thought was fairly chiselled until I started thinking he looked a bit like Ruben. And, continuing on accents, there's another gentleman here if you'd like a Jamaican/Dominican for coffee.
For the fellas, nobody yet matches your unique blend of xbox-beating/inspired lunacy/golf club waving machismo.
The hunt continues.
Night shift is not a real glamorous time of day!
The cute nurses tend to come out at the 0730hr handover, by which time you're so sleep deprived you might as well be wearing beer glasses. So who knows, really? (I don't want to slight or otherwise incense the terrific and friendly nursing staff I have worked with though - that's just death-wish material)
There are a few cute interns, but they tend to have weird growths called boyfriends. I will probably have to say though, to my UNSW ladies, that on a hotness per capita basis, you guys(gals) still have the upper hand. For the ladies: there is a registrar with a lush Scottish accent who I thought was fairly chiselled until I started thinking he looked a bit like Ruben. And, continuing on accents, there's another gentleman here if you'd like a Jamaican/Dominican for coffee.
For the fellas, nobody yet matches your unique blend of xbox-beating/inspired lunacy/golf club waving machismo.
The hunt continues.
Lit review: Maus + The Little Prince
Working night shift has afforded me the pleasure of stealing away into some literature when things settle down around 4am.
My friend Euni gave me The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery, one of her favourites. I'm not really sure how to describe it. The prose is simplistic, like a children's novel, the narrative is fantastic and full of wonder as in a fairytale or fable, but the meaning, while certainly not buried deep, really ought to mean more to adults than children.
The Little Prince tells the story of a boy from a planet so small he can walk across it in steps, and uses his broom to clean out his (dormant) volcanoes. He travels across the solar system and lands on earth, where he runs into a stranded pilot in the desert.
It's such a slim volume that to say anymore would be to reveal most of the narrative, but suffice it to say that it's principle charm is to present things from the wonderful, expansive and creative viewpoint of a child, unemcumbered by the compartmentalization of adult life.
It recalls a conversation I had with the young daughter of a woman I once worked with at a pharmacy. I forget, unfortunately, the little one's name.
She: Look at what I drew! Me: What did you draw? She: A cow. (proudly shows me a blank piece of paper) Me: Um, that's...um, where is the cow? She: It's eating grass, right there! Me: It's not there... She: It ate so much grass it exploded! (grinning)
***
Maus, by Art Spiegelman is the account of one man's survival through the Holocaust. Spiegelman won a Pulitzer Prize for it, and with merit - it is unique on many levels. It is a graphic novel, for one (that's a fat comic book, for any non-believers). Spiegelman cleverly renders the Jews as mice and the Germans as cats, which serves three-fold: it takes the edge off a somber tale without sacrificing sincerity, it ties neatly into a propaganda statement the Nazi regime issued against Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse (a symbol of America and democracy), and it also allows the writer to, in moments of heavier introspection, to break the fourth wall by presenting himself as a human wearing a mouse-mask. Spiegelman, naturally, has the Jewish speech patterns and neuroses embedded deep, and the voices ring out.
Above all though, it's the very personal and unfiltered story of the survivor (Vladek), and how this affected his relationships with his son (Art), his wife (Anja) and his second wife (Mala).
Highly recommended. Anyone else out there got some good reading going?
My friend Euni gave me The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery, one of her favourites. I'm not really sure how to describe it. The prose is simplistic, like a children's novel, the narrative is fantastic and full of wonder as in a fairytale or fable, but the meaning, while certainly not buried deep, really ought to mean more to adults than children.
The Little Prince tells the story of a boy from a planet so small he can walk across it in steps, and uses his broom to clean out his (dormant) volcanoes. He travels across the solar system and lands on earth, where he runs into a stranded pilot in the desert.
It's such a slim volume that to say anymore would be to reveal most of the narrative, but suffice it to say that it's principle charm is to present things from the wonderful, expansive and creative viewpoint of a child, unemcumbered by the compartmentalization of adult life.
It recalls a conversation I had with the young daughter of a woman I once worked with at a pharmacy. I forget, unfortunately, the little one's name.
She: Look at what I drew! Me: What did you draw? She: A cow. (proudly shows me a blank piece of paper) Me: Um, that's...um, where is the cow? She: It's eating grass, right there! Me: It's not there... She: It ate so much grass it exploded! (grinning)
***
Maus, by Art Spiegelman is the account of one man's survival through the Holocaust. Spiegelman won a Pulitzer Prize for it, and with merit - it is unique on many levels. It is a graphic novel, for one (that's a fat comic book, for any non-believers). Spiegelman cleverly renders the Jews as mice and the Germans as cats, which serves three-fold: it takes the edge off a somber tale without sacrificing sincerity, it ties neatly into a propaganda statement the Nazi regime issued against Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse (a symbol of America and democracy), and it also allows the writer to, in moments of heavier introspection, to break the fourth wall by presenting himself as a human wearing a mouse-mask. Spiegelman, naturally, has the Jewish speech patterns and neuroses embedded deep, and the voices ring out.
Above all though, it's the very personal and unfiltered story of the survivor (Vladek), and how this affected his relationships with his son (Art), his wife (Anja) and his second wife (Mala).
Highly recommended. Anyone else out there got some good reading going?
Friday, February 03, 2006
Loose ends
I mentioned a few things in some previous blogs that I probably won't have time to fully elaborate on now, but I'll put them out there just so someone knows.
Back to the future - 1984: New Australian Industrial Reform (IR) legislation was passed recently which introduced the Australian Workplace Agreement (AWA). AWAs, as my limited understanding allows, are contracts that employees negotiate individually with their employers - and these AWAs are not bound by any notion of "standard wage" i.e. each person is free to use lower wages as leverage to secure a position should they so desire. This clearly undercuts the aims of Worker's Unions, which exist to negotiate a minimum standard for workers as far as pay and conditions go.
Under the new legislation, the fact that any one person has negotiated an AWA with their employer is meant to be confidential, and should any other person openly expose this fact they are liable to prosecution and imprisonment.
I can see how this is meant to protect both the employee and employer, but at the time this struck me as frighteningly Orwellian. I understand now also the furore in the media that blew about when the sedition laws were also proposed - together they suggested ominous things for civil liberties.
Back to the future - 1984: New Australian Industrial Reform (IR) legislation was passed recently which introduced the Australian Workplace Agreement (AWA). AWAs, as my limited understanding allows, are contracts that employees negotiate individually with their employers - and these AWAs are not bound by any notion of "standard wage" i.e. each person is free to use lower wages as leverage to secure a position should they so desire. This clearly undercuts the aims of Worker's Unions, which exist to negotiate a minimum standard for workers as far as pay and conditions go.
Under the new legislation, the fact that any one person has negotiated an AWA with their employer is meant to be confidential, and should any other person openly expose this fact they are liable to prosecution and imprisonment.
I can see how this is meant to protect both the employee and employer, but at the time this struck me as frighteningly Orwellian. I understand now also the furore in the media that blew about when the sedition laws were also proposed - together they suggested ominous things for civil liberties.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
banana v2.1
I like having smart friends. Thanks to my buddy Meng, my banner no longer looks like it's trying to escape to a cooler blog. Cheers bro!
Friday, January 20, 2006
All tired on the southern front
I haven't seen the sun in four days.
This is, as some of you know, because I just started work as the night shift junior doctor at hospital. The days(nights) had started to blur into each other, and by Wednesday night I was so glad to come up for air and experience real human contact again (not to discredit the nursing staff I've been working with, who are lovely people.)
All this, and I have yet to experience the full seven-night working week that my roster calls for.
I've been told by my colleagues that they are being run off their feet during the day, the poor soldiers. Internship, for them, has been more or less what we were told to expect - lots of busy-work that is half what we've been training for, half learning new ways to cram more tasks into a working shift.
So I don't think I can complain about night shift. It has been so far uneventful - no catastrophes, no code Blues (an emergency where a patient goes into cardiac arrest). I've had to insert a few intravenous cannulas (5 from 8), some urinary catheters (0 from 2; damn prostates) and attend a few patients who had minor chest pain and chase blood results.
In between I wander the hospital, which is an eerie place at night. All the hustle and bustle of the day seeps away at night, the chatter of medical staff and air of purposeful if hurried movement replaced with silence punctuated by lone footsteps, or the moans of a patient in pain.
As poetic as I'd like to make it sound, though, there are things about working on nights that border on the absurd. I have to make a conscious effort to remember where the damn light switch is on the wall; Although patients have a light switch on the end of a remote, it's best not to grope around in the darkness for that particular button. In the dim light at five in the morning I managed to ensnare a patient's cathether tube on his bedrail as I pulled it down. and couldn't interpret his flustered gesturing for a good few minutes.
This gentleman I've attended to each night of my week, and he's a nice guy. He was unfortunately afflicted with a neurological disease such that he is virtually quadriplegic and has difficulty speaking. We get by on half syllables, hand gestures and twenty questions. We had a laugh at the Scud's expense a couple of nights ago together.
The lady in the bed next to him, despite being Polish, can speak perfectly in fluent english, and yet I can't understand her at all. She is old, much older than the gentleman, and is convinced it is her time to go. Granted, she has a fair few afflictions, but I doubt she's heading to the pearly gates in the immediate future. I doubt even, that she suffers as much as her neighbour.
The nursing staff have seen to her three or four times already during the night and tell me she's fine. I go to see her myself on the fifth time and run the usual checks. Pulse regular, within normal limits. Respirations within normal limits. She talking to me in full sentences without the aid of an oxygen mask. She complains that she's short of breath. Chest sounds clear. Heart sounds are unremarkable. I reassure her that she's fine, and to buzz if she needs anything. She buzzes within half an hour and we go through the checks again.
Despair is her disease, and I have nothing for it. It worries me, because I have no immunization against it for myself either. Everything I had been told about treating your patients with respect, everything I had tried to brace myself with against becoming jaded - they seemed a futile defence against the cracks I can see forming in my foundations.
I try a different tack on the second visit. I'd been reading Art Spiegelman's Maus, a graphic novel about Polish Jews and the Holocaust, so I tell her this - maybe we can strike up some rapport, and that'll help me reassure her.
Twenty minutes and the full agenda of the Polish Retirees Club later, I'm no closer to helping her relax and go to sleep, and frustration sets in.
A couple of days later now, I can look back on this episode and wonder about how people ever made it through the Holocaust sane. All I had to do was get through twenty minutes with *one* despairing patient - some people had to live through years where despair was what you breathed in every minute of the day.
If Roche ever makes a pill for Patience(R) or QuikEmpathy(R), tell me where to sign up. I'm scared I'll need them.
***
I'm off to see a buddy and see whether he survived his first week of surgical internship. In the next blog: part 2 of this meditation, gossip from hospital, The Little Prince, James Frey and egg on Oprah's face and Australian Workplace reform/facism. Let me know how you're all doing.
This is, as some of you know, because I just started work as the night shift junior doctor at hospital. The days(nights) had started to blur into each other, and by Wednesday night I was so glad to come up for air and experience real human contact again (not to discredit the nursing staff I've been working with, who are lovely people.)
All this, and I have yet to experience the full seven-night working week that my roster calls for.
I've been told by my colleagues that they are being run off their feet during the day, the poor soldiers. Internship, for them, has been more or less what we were told to expect - lots of busy-work that is half what we've been training for, half learning new ways to cram more tasks into a working shift.
So I don't think I can complain about night shift. It has been so far uneventful - no catastrophes, no code Blues (an emergency where a patient goes into cardiac arrest). I've had to insert a few intravenous cannulas (5 from 8), some urinary catheters (0 from 2; damn prostates) and attend a few patients who had minor chest pain and chase blood results.
In between I wander the hospital, which is an eerie place at night. All the hustle and bustle of the day seeps away at night, the chatter of medical staff and air of purposeful if hurried movement replaced with silence punctuated by lone footsteps, or the moans of a patient in pain.
As poetic as I'd like to make it sound, though, there are things about working on nights that border on the absurd. I have to make a conscious effort to remember where the damn light switch is on the wall; Although patients have a light switch on the end of a remote, it's best not to grope around in the darkness for that particular button. In the dim light at five in the morning I managed to ensnare a patient's cathether tube on his bedrail as I pulled it down. and couldn't interpret his flustered gesturing for a good few minutes.
This gentleman I've attended to each night of my week, and he's a nice guy. He was unfortunately afflicted with a neurological disease such that he is virtually quadriplegic and has difficulty speaking. We get by on half syllables, hand gestures and twenty questions. We had a laugh at the Scud's expense a couple of nights ago together.
The lady in the bed next to him, despite being Polish, can speak perfectly in fluent english, and yet I can't understand her at all. She is old, much older than the gentleman, and is convinced it is her time to go. Granted, she has a fair few afflictions, but I doubt she's heading to the pearly gates in the immediate future. I doubt even, that she suffers as much as her neighbour.
The nursing staff have seen to her three or four times already during the night and tell me she's fine. I go to see her myself on the fifth time and run the usual checks. Pulse regular, within normal limits. Respirations within normal limits. She talking to me in full sentences without the aid of an oxygen mask. She complains that she's short of breath. Chest sounds clear. Heart sounds are unremarkable. I reassure her that she's fine, and to buzz if she needs anything. She buzzes within half an hour and we go through the checks again.
Despair is her disease, and I have nothing for it. It worries me, because I have no immunization against it for myself either. Everything I had been told about treating your patients with respect, everything I had tried to brace myself with against becoming jaded - they seemed a futile defence against the cracks I can see forming in my foundations.
I try a different tack on the second visit. I'd been reading Art Spiegelman's Maus, a graphic novel about Polish Jews and the Holocaust, so I tell her this - maybe we can strike up some rapport, and that'll help me reassure her.
Twenty minutes and the full agenda of the Polish Retirees Club later, I'm no closer to helping her relax and go to sleep, and frustration sets in.
A couple of days later now, I can look back on this episode and wonder about how people ever made it through the Holocaust sane. All I had to do was get through twenty minutes with *one* despairing patient - some people had to live through years where despair was what you breathed in every minute of the day.
If Roche ever makes a pill for Patience(R) or QuikEmpathy(R), tell me where to sign up. I'm scared I'll need them.
***
I'm off to see a buddy and see whether he survived his first week of surgical internship. In the next blog: part 2 of this meditation, gossip from hospital, The Little Prince, James Frey and egg on Oprah's face and Australian Workplace reform/facism. Let me know how you're all doing.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Going underground - Satanic verse - family values
Tomorrow I start orientation at my new job - which means I'm over at my unit more permanently, where technological basics like a phone line, ADSL connection and a working front door buzzer are still to be arranged. So I'm posting this just to tide the blog over as it might be a while before the next post.
Things I will hopefully get around to blogging about - the Australian government's new proposed legislation that will encourage/force couples to see family counselling before applying for divorce sounds like an interesting move. Need some time to think on it.
Salman Rushdie wrote an interesting article here and draws a damning link between the "corruption of language" and the corruption of morality by the Bush government. A few things came to me while reading this. Firstly, I realized the article raises similar concerns that were in the George Clooney film Goodnight and Good Luck, which I referenced in my first post. (Although I should have seen that coming, as many reviewers of the film pointed out the film's relevance to the current political landscape). However, secondly - and more importantly - amid all this valid criticism of the Bush government is the slightly depressing notion, for myself at least, that we're simply playing catch-up. I guess it's a fair enough plan for the critical press to uncover each and every dirty trick the Bush administration pulls - but despite how much certain journalists and writers scream to the wind, it's never quite enough shame to make them stop.
Maybe we should try something more passive-aggressive, that seems to work for me. (oops, too flippant? too candid? hmm. It's on my new-year's resolution list of to-eradicate-habits. Sigh. ;)
See you when I resurface.
PS: bite-sized review of Chicken Little - 3.5/5 - hugely entertaining and concise animation from a Pixar-less Disney studios; cute old-school style cartoon models rendered to 3D; positive but not treacly family values; continuous stream of pop-culture references for the adults; voices by Zach Braff, Joan Cusack; Steve Zahn and an awesome cameo by Adam "1960s Batman" West
Things I will hopefully get around to blogging about - the Australian government's new proposed legislation that will encourage/force couples to see family counselling before applying for divorce sounds like an interesting move. Need some time to think on it.
Salman Rushdie wrote an interesting article here and draws a damning link between the "corruption of language" and the corruption of morality by the Bush government. A few things came to me while reading this. Firstly, I realized the article raises similar concerns that were in the George Clooney film Goodnight and Good Luck, which I referenced in my first post. (Although I should have seen that coming, as many reviewers of the film pointed out the film's relevance to the current political landscape). However, secondly - and more importantly - amid all this valid criticism of the Bush government is the slightly depressing notion, for myself at least, that we're simply playing catch-up. I guess it's a fair enough plan for the critical press to uncover each and every dirty trick the Bush administration pulls - but despite how much certain journalists and writers scream to the wind, it's never quite enough shame to make them stop.
Maybe we should try something more passive-aggressive, that seems to work for me. (oops, too flippant? too candid? hmm. It's on my new-year's resolution list of to-eradicate-habits. Sigh. ;)
See you when I resurface.
PS: bite-sized review of Chicken Little - 3.5/5 - hugely entertaining and concise animation from a Pixar-less Disney studios; cute old-school style cartoon models rendered to 3D; positive but not treacly family values; continuous stream of pop-culture references for the adults; voices by Zach Braff, Joan Cusack; Steve Zahn and an awesome cameo by Adam "1960s Batman" West
Bangers and Mash-ups
A year ago I read about DJ Dangermouse's mashup project, The Grey Album, which was involved in an internet protest against EMI and in a larger sense, a protest for creativity. For those of you who missed it - "mashups" are like remixes of songs that mix genres to new, unexpected and vital effect. The Grey Album took the acapella tracks from Jay-Z's Black Album and chopped and cut backing tracks from songs from the Beatles White Album together to create an album that can be listened to on it's own merit, as well as for the novelty of it's punning title. The copyright owners of the Beatles material, EMI, attempted to ban the Grey Album and were met with derision and a 24 hour period were mutiple internet sites were offering downloads of the work. In more popular press, Jay-Z released a "legal" album of mashups with alt-rock band Linkin Park, which spawned the hit Numb/Encore.
I went a bit nuts on Limewire over the last couple of weeks trying to find more mashups, as I'm both a sucker for novelty and a sucker for finding new permutations on old material. Some choice cuts I found were -
Beyonce and Led Zeppelin - Crazy in love
Christina Aguilera and the Strokes - Genie in a bottle
Destiny's child and the Cardigans - Say my name
Usher and Axel F - Yeah (it's the cheesiest, catchiest damn thing I've heard in ages)
Anyway. This got me all excited to make my own - so for your consideration, click here to download the Studiogypsy remixes of Destiny's child - Say my name (In the end piano remix) and Survivor (Used to love u remix feat Jay-Z and Mos Def).
Feel free to leave comments - and for those of you who've wanted to but were put off by not holding a blogger account - it's free, you don't have to actually blog yourself and having that extra security helps keep spam off my boards.
I went a bit nuts on Limewire over the last couple of weeks trying to find more mashups, as I'm both a sucker for novelty and a sucker for finding new permutations on old material. Some choice cuts I found were -
Beyonce and Led Zeppelin - Crazy in love
Christina Aguilera and the Strokes - Genie in a bottle
Destiny's child and the Cardigans - Say my name
Usher and Axel F - Yeah (it's the cheesiest, catchiest damn thing I've heard in ages)
Anyway. This got me all excited to make my own - so for your consideration, click here to download the Studiogypsy remixes of Destiny's child - Say my name (In the end piano remix) and Survivor (Used to love u remix feat Jay-Z and Mos Def).
Feel free to leave comments - and for those of you who've wanted to but were put off by not holding a blogger account - it's free, you don't have to actually blog yourself and having that extra security helps keep spam off my boards.
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