I don't believe in my own abilities enough to be a neurosurgeon, and I question the judgement and motives of those who do
---
maybe humans aren't built to be responsible for as many people as doctors are on a daily basis
---
Medical school makes you a certain way. It's a bit scary really. When my supervisor asks me how my attachment has been going and what skills I feel I'd like to practice more - I instantly think to myself, oh great, she cares. She wants to engage, and so I ramble on about hands on experience and feeling more competent as a doctor. She nods patiently with a great listening face and then later towards the end of the meeting fills in the 1st assessor meeting checklist by paraphrasing my words, and then my heart sinks a little. I was so convinced this doctor genuinely wanted to hear about how I'd been getting on. But no. She only asked so that she could fill in a form. Because this is her job.
Just today a 78 year old woman brought into the emergency department for a collapse was telling me about the sudden death of her 50 year old son on a scuba diving trip whose funeral she was scheduled to attend tomorrow - 4th family member to go in 3 weeks, she tells me, voice shaking and choking back tears
and all I can do is put on a sympathetic face and think:
I need to ask her about her cough
Showing posts with label general anesthesia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label general anesthesia. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Saturday, August 4, 2012
your bruise / 魔睡
wanted: empathetic idealists to make objective decisions and detached statisticians
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doctors, to some extent, must learn to tune out corporate suffering and global plight, or else collapse under its weight
---
at the foot of bed 2412U, white coats and smart shirts assemble round a man holding a clipboard, leafing through pages of harried graphs and laborious results. The steady beeping of some vital machine fills the afternoon air with monotony. The rooms are sterile, tasteless, like the insipid pink curtains that surround each bed, meant to preserve privacy and provide some form of protection from the roving eyes of strangers and neighbours who are not as qualified to poke and peer and prod. The light enters mildly through the pane of windows on the far wall, weak and pale, as if affected by the restless and weary residents of the ward. Tired nurses traipse up and down the busy corridor as the ill laze dazed in their beds.
Initially admitted through GM... caustic ingestion... 500ml... esophageal-cardiac perforation... scope revealed widespread corrosive damage to upper GI... The medical officer lists the girl's afflictions meticulously as she lays languid in her cot, listless eyes gazing vaguely across the faces of her would-be saviors. Any strictures? The MO briefly consults his notes. Just one significant, above the pylorus. A man with unruly grey hair dressed in a neat brown striped shirt folds his arms and rubs his chin thoughtfully, as if it may produce some staggering epiphany. As he ponders, the group respectfully waits on his seniority. She's on oxycodone, is that right? Yes, Prof. The doctors, six of them altogether, continue their scholarly gossip in a manner and tone suggestive of undecided patrons at a restaurant or diner, keenly conferring over their menus, taking turns to select and consider the exotic dishes on offer.
She finds herself surrounded by a teacher and his disciples, shadows of serious figures looming about. The crowd chatters amongst themselves in feverish tongues; the words are slippery, their meanings elusive, lurking just out of reach. Some cast a cursory glance at her from time to time, but none ever actually venture to address her. Then again, judging by her current state, she doesn't appear particularly eager to be heard. Indeed, it is doubtful that she was ever the loquacious sort, with her long tangled hair and solemn lips conveying an exquisite frailty - a brittle quality that would shatter at the slightest of syllables. She regards the doctors as a queen would her subjects, surveying them with impassive insouciance. Her features radiate strength despite her sunken cheeks and ashen complexion. Completely inert save for the fluttering of her delicate lashes; unlike the other patients, she does not follow their gestures and expressions and invests no effort into deciphering their jargon-mangled, acronym-punctuated speech. If she is listening at all, she shows no sign of it - a disinterested guest at a poorly planned party, just waiting to leave.
Her mother, sitting anxiously beside her daughter's cot, does not share her sullen disposition. Eager to comply, she bargains with pleading eyes, hanging on every confounding word the intelligent samaritans utter to each other, as if her manner might determine the measure of mercy her beloved child receives, as if her earnestness may just earn some extra healing - a helpless interceder.
Does she recall the sensation, of the searing liquid pouring down her throat? What does she remember of the incident? What visions did she witness while her soul was away? Trapped between worlds again, ulcers burning slowly in her gut, a sharp reminder of her attempted foray into other realms; it serves as an anchor, occasionally jolting her back to reality, fated to stay forever awake. Whatever memories she may have had of that land will most likely remain there, at least till she visits it again. Even with the salve of chemicals pumping through her veins, she stills feels the throbbing pain pushing and pulling behind a makeshift wall of numbness. Tears appear along the edges of her eyes, her palpebral commissures, but her expression does not soften. Where do they come from? Not even the most genius of physicians could hope to fathom. But for now they're of no immediate concern. It's not a symptom, or at least not one that matters. The flock moves on. Doctors only deal with lives.
---
doctors, to some extent, must learn to tune out corporate suffering and global plight, or else collapse under its weight
---
at the foot of bed 2412U, white coats and smart shirts assemble round a man holding a clipboard, leafing through pages of harried graphs and laborious results. The steady beeping of some vital machine fills the afternoon air with monotony. The rooms are sterile, tasteless, like the insipid pink curtains that surround each bed, meant to preserve privacy and provide some form of protection from the roving eyes of strangers and neighbours who are not as qualified to poke and peer and prod. The light enters mildly through the pane of windows on the far wall, weak and pale, as if affected by the restless and weary residents of the ward. Tired nurses traipse up and down the busy corridor as the ill laze dazed in their beds.
Initially admitted through GM... caustic ingestion... 500ml... esophageal-cardiac perforation... scope revealed widespread corrosive damage to upper GI... The medical officer lists the girl's afflictions meticulously as she lays languid in her cot, listless eyes gazing vaguely across the faces of her would-be saviors. Any strictures? The MO briefly consults his notes. Just one significant, above the pylorus. A man with unruly grey hair dressed in a neat brown striped shirt folds his arms and rubs his chin thoughtfully, as if it may produce some staggering epiphany. As he ponders, the group respectfully waits on his seniority. She's on oxycodone, is that right? Yes, Prof. The doctors, six of them altogether, continue their scholarly gossip in a manner and tone suggestive of undecided patrons at a restaurant or diner, keenly conferring over their menus, taking turns to select and consider the exotic dishes on offer.
She finds herself surrounded by a teacher and his disciples, shadows of serious figures looming about. The crowd chatters amongst themselves in feverish tongues; the words are slippery, their meanings elusive, lurking just out of reach. Some cast a cursory glance at her from time to time, but none ever actually venture to address her. Then again, judging by her current state, she doesn't appear particularly eager to be heard. Indeed, it is doubtful that she was ever the loquacious sort, with her long tangled hair and solemn lips conveying an exquisite frailty - a brittle quality that would shatter at the slightest of syllables. She regards the doctors as a queen would her subjects, surveying them with impassive insouciance. Her features radiate strength despite her sunken cheeks and ashen complexion. Completely inert save for the fluttering of her delicate lashes; unlike the other patients, she does not follow their gestures and expressions and invests no effort into deciphering their jargon-mangled, acronym-punctuated speech. If she is listening at all, she shows no sign of it - a disinterested guest at a poorly planned party, just waiting to leave.
Her mother, sitting anxiously beside her daughter's cot, does not share her sullen disposition. Eager to comply, she bargains with pleading eyes, hanging on every confounding word the intelligent samaritans utter to each other, as if her manner might determine the measure of mercy her beloved child receives, as if her earnestness may just earn some extra healing - a helpless interceder.
Does she recall the sensation, of the searing liquid pouring down her throat? What does she remember of the incident? What visions did she witness while her soul was away? Trapped between worlds again, ulcers burning slowly in her gut, a sharp reminder of her attempted foray into other realms; it serves as an anchor, occasionally jolting her back to reality, fated to stay forever awake. Whatever memories she may have had of that land will most likely remain there, at least till she visits it again. Even with the salve of chemicals pumping through her veins, she stills feels the throbbing pain pushing and pulling behind a makeshift wall of numbness. Tears appear along the edges of her eyes, her palpebral commissures, but her expression does not soften. Where do they come from? Not even the most genius of physicians could hope to fathom. But for now they're of no immediate concern. It's not a symptom, or at least not one that matters. The flock moves on. Doctors only deal with lives.
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