Thursday, 31 May 2012


How I have missed the blogosphere. The things I have been through lately in the medical realm have been immensely preoccupying. If the persistent haunt of incoming examinations severely obliterating the posterior sphincters of my intelligence, physiology and anatomy (in that order) are anything to go by, my day lasts at least eighteen hours. Oh, add my ward rotations to that. That leaves six hours for social life and other activities. Paradoxically enough, sometimes I feel like I have overslept when I wake up before the alarm clock. I think I need to see my Shaman.

Talking of alarm clocks, lately, I hardly even use mine. Thanks to the numerous sirens, courtesy of living in the vicinity of two major hospitals and right next to a major road, I can wake up any time other than the designated time. Here is how the situation plays out; I fall asleep after a tiring day. Next thing I know, Siren! Siren! SIREN! First thought: maybe it’s a VIP (Very Idiotic Person) maneuvering their way to be on time for a breakfast that’s on my tax or, an ambulance transporting unauthorized morons or contraband to some location. Either way, this calls for Plan A:

 *Gets out of bed, calmly screws the silencer onto the muzzle of his Dragunov and pivots it on the window sill before aiming and squeezing the trigger, sending a single round flying in the cold morning air and watching it sharply connect with the siren- obliterating it on impact. Silence*

Take that you Banshee.

But then again, it may be an ambulance desperate to reach the A&E before the victim inside gives up in which case Plan B comes into play:

*Sinks deeper into bed covering his head with a pillow hoping its sound proofing qualities suffice the current scenario*

Not a very good idea, but at least I gave the victim a fighting chance. I can live with that. I resign to dragging myself to the freezing shower. I’ll skip all the uninteresting details until the part where I walk into the hospital gate [slow motion effects] clothes neatly pressed, groomed as per protocol, tie tethering my thyroid, stethoscope and all in place… Then a weaver bird flies by and offloads on me the products of what I later diagnosed as a transient constipation… [Remove slow motion.] Needless to say, my ‘matrix’ skills are not word worthy. I hold on to the idea that being shelled on by avians is considered a blessing by some tribes to keep up with my so far crappy day.

Later, when a few accomplices and I are at the A&E looking to learn a thing or two about clinical practice, a stretcher comes in. Guy on board: an Unknown African Male in stupor smelling of urine, the mud stains on him suggestive of a night of one-too-many ending in an unpremeditated swim in some ditch. After some shaking he finally wakes up with the ‘I’m-I-in-heaven?’ look in his face. A few cheeky questions follow all to establish his state in the time, space and person orientation. At least he remembered that he was over-indulging and that his ‘friends’ are all turds for letting him go home on his own. We can work with that.

First thing to do: fluid therapy. After efforts that almost culminated in us calling a bouncer, the guy calmed down so we could set a drip. Amidst all that, we had brushed off some of our English into his wasted brain and he kept yelling ‘What’s up!’ then staring at us like a retarded goblin. He was then wheeled out to recuperate.

Another U.A.M. is wheeled in and his stretcher parked right next to where we are standing. Other than being schizophrenic, this fellow was either too sleepy or had also partaken of the bottle, the latter more likely. Simple math: ‘The-crazies + Alcohol = Comedy. No?’ *Slaps knee* ‘As you were.’ He pointed at us and said that we had colluded with his wife to steal his land, his beloved goat and his wife while he was asleep. For these charges, he condemned us to a HIV infection, a sentence that would be in effect starting the next week. *Gavel-knock* Case closed.

We try not to laugh as we leave for lunch break. Hardly three paces on, we see Mr. Alcohol, blood dripping from his forearm as he stares at it blankly. He had ripped off the drip that we’d taken forever to fix. When he notices our presence, he stares at us and shouts ‘What’s up!’, then smiles sheepishly. *In my mind* [thick Irish accent] ‘Waiting for a round applause ey?’… We quickly patch him up, recommend close monitoring and walk away. As it all sinks in, I remember a sticker I saw someplace: ‘If you must drink and drive, drink milk.’ My take; if you must drink and take yourself home, at least drink something that won’t make you 'confuse' some culvert for your bed. In related news, any one up for a glass milk?

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