Three

Let us not dwell on the mere three weeks for which I am still a medico. That path eventually leads to Prozac.

This week's picture features a bunch of Verry Spechul Peeples. (And my friends. And I. But this is not about us.) Peeples who have known me for a long time, and still like me as much as they did before. OK, they are probably not right in the head, but, they are Veryy Spechul, like I said. Behold!


I know it's not very clear. (Why are you surprised?) Do you have any idea how long it took me to make it that way?*

When we first entered the clinics, we were bewildered by the sight of the wards. Patients on the beds, on the floor between the beds, under the beds, in the corridors, everywhere. We had no idea what to do with our shiny new Littmanns and tendon hammers. And then we saw a bunch of harassed looking house surgeons. And the rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

It has been three years now. Some of them are married, all of them are doing their post graduation, some are not even in the country. But things are still the same between us. We still talk about 'our house surgeons' to anyone who will listen, and there aren't many who haven't heard about them yet.

I know this post does not make much sense. I am a final year medical student, you know, even though I don't act like it. Here is an actual incident to prove it.
Professor (during rounds): Do you remember this patient with pleural effusion?
Medico: No, sir. But I remember his X-ray film.
I did not make that up. Honest. And also, the medico in question was not me. I had completely forgotten what his X-ray film looked like.

* Two minutes, in case you are still wondering.

Four

My review in Internal Medicine began this week. The last posting of my undergraduate life. And I get to spend it tearing my hair out because I have to complete my practical record. I think I am going to cry.

Wait, don't go. You do not want to see this week's picture?


Yet another high resolution image, proving how much fun I had at college. That is how we (my friends and I) decorated a blackboard before the arm wrestling match for our first batch social. As soon as we had finished the masterpiece, we held a practice session between ourselves.

The results of the practice session.

Champion: The A.
Winner's comments: Hahaha, my hand hurts. I hope it isn't going to be rheumatoid arthritis, or something. Ah, who cares? I WON! Hahaha.

First runner up: Twin.
Comments: I would like to thank my parents, my sister, and God for believing in me. Without them, this would just not have been possible. And lastly, I would like to thank my dog, for being so supportive. *sniff* You know, my wrist kinda hurts. Could it be CTS?

Second runner-up: The R.
Comments: Ow, A, did you have to push so hard? My forearm hurts. This is probably compartment syndrome, you brainless...COW!
(The A's reply: Nyah-nyah-nyah. Who is a 'sore' loser? Nyah-nyah-nyah.)

Chump of the day: Me.
Comments: My pectoralis major is on fire!
(The Cruel Others: HAHAHA! The pain went staright to her pec major! She has no muscles in her arm! HAHAHA! HAHAHA!
Me: Major Peccy, don't die!)

That's all for this week, folks. Sorry this is up so late. The net was down for a couple of days. I had MAJOR withdrawal symptoms, I tell you.

Five

Yes, it's a countdown to the number of weeks I have left in college. Completely depressing.

The picture this week is taken from outside our Department of Community Medicine. Yes, that is what the SPM people call themselves now.


That is our college garden. The tree in the foreground obstructs the view of Hippocrates sitting on his dog. One of the best things about our college is that we have lots of trees, and a good many of them are older than our parents.

More pictures next time.

Six

And the countdown begins. Six weeks left...

Unfortunately, apart from marking the end of my college life, *boohoo* at the end of the fateful six weeks, I also have a lot of exams on the agenda. As if that were not wonderful enough, I have to submit my practical records before that time, and well, I have some two hundred pages of writing to do.

Great way to spend my last days as a medico, I know.

It's going to be pictures, the next few posts, I'm afraid.


There. A blurry picture taken on my phone when the unit bunked a day of ROME posting to go to the beach. I don't have a higher resolution (I wish I did), but, guess which one is me and you win a prize*.

*Conditions apply. There is no prize.

The Late Lament

I have 7 weeks left in college.

I realise that this is highly unoriginal, but where did my five years go? It was only last week that we placed our brains inside buckets of formalin, how can I be on the brink of doctor-hood? I don't know where the origin of the pectoralis major is, and that was the very first thing I learnt. What am I doing here?

I didn't know anyone when I joined, and now they are the people I'll be the happiest to run into in the future.
Reminds me of that terrible joke that was doing the rounds in my third year.
Joe: Meet my wife.
Sam: I know her.
Joe: How?
Sam: I've slept with her.
Joe: WHAT?
Sam: Ten years ago. In pathology class.

I could cry oceans.

Why?

Because I could have been spent more time with my books?
Because the library could have been more than a quiet dormitory?
Because I could have poked at more patients?
Because I could have stayed awake in class?

Jeez, who cares about all that? There are plenty of people who do that, and they wear the same harassed expression that I do.

Could I have had more fun?

I remember all of us taking down notes diligently in classes when even the hardiest souls were in NREM sleep. Notes of the lecturer's atrocious grammar and pronunciation.

Once The R and I decided to explore the corners of the campus ordinarily hidden to good, law-abiding medicos and came up on a swing. It so happened that we were both just five years old that day.

The A was watching the river Cauvery (en route to Coorg, on a batch trip) flow by gently, and decided to wade in it. Later that evening, The R and I had a time trying to prevent The A from coming down with pneumonia.

All of us setting out for a lecture five minutes before it began, to reach the class late and breathless, only to find out it had been cancelled.

I remember Eli screaming when her pithed frog showed signs of being un-pithed.

All of us arriving well in time for a class: the lecturer was young and handsome. :)

Singing loud, off-key versions of Chhalak Dhikla Jaa along with the blasting TV enough to disturb the rest of the floor at the hotel in Mysore, and then have the management ring up the guys in the next room to turn down the volume, who had just switched on the telly to 'drown out the unholy din'. Take that, chauvinistic hotel manager.

Grinning across a crowded ward at each other in the middle of yet another night.

Survived the labour room together, with our sanities intact. Or as intact as they were prior to the internment.

Collectively developing vasovagal attacks in the middle of watching autopsies.

Catching the late show of Guru while at Hyderabad, and squeezing each other's hands when Madhavan (ooo, HOTNESS!) kissed Vidya Balan (the BITCH!).

Having nothing to talk about, and sitting around silently like characters from an art movie, and bristling with stories the moment exams are announced, with the peak occurring just outside the exam hall. Always.

Man, I LOVE college! Damn you, for being only five years long.

Foul Mouthed

Bad things have been happening inside my oral cavity. My childhood disdain for toothbrushes has wreaked havoc in my dental enamel, and let's just summarise the results in one word, cavity. Not just any old cavity off the street looking for a sweet tooth, we are talking infected, painful, so-huge-my-voice-echoes-when-I-speak cavity. Combine this with a horizontally impacted wisdom tooth, and another wisdom tooth that chose to become impacted vertically, all of which become complicated at the same time, and you have a fun fest.

The impacted wisdoms will "probably require surgery soon". The cavity needs root canal treatment. ASAP. *gulp*

The only funny (the haha variety) was when the dentist wanted to wait until I was "21 or 22 years old" before yanking out my last claim to wisdom. The lack of wisdom teeth imparts to my face the appearance of a teenager, I guess. Which may be a good thing, because I HATE GROWING OLDER. Gah at you, birthday next month. (Not very subtle, was that? Let's just pretend it was, and say "Let's all gift Pancreas a new cellphone next month, because that is what she desires the most, and we love her.")

The title *ahem* does not mean that I am channelling YELLING BIRD. Nor is it supposed to imply that I suffer from halitosis. It represents the evil-ness inside my oral cavity that is making my life living hell.

I return to Ob-G this week, and I will soon have heart warming stories about old women getting their uteri ripped out by clawed forceps for your reading pleasure. Until then, please, resist the temptation. DO NOT confide your tales of root canal treatment horrors with me, I beg you.

P. S. : My tooth hurts. :(

UPDATE: The deed has been done, and there was no pain AT ALL! and I am doing fine. I have to go back next week to 'crown' it, whatever that is.

Goodbye, Sir Jerry

I am on the review for one of my favourite subjects ever, Orthopaedics. Let's all turn cartwheels for the sheer joy of fractured bones, shall we?

Although I am afraid of a jinx, I will say this, I have been rather happy at college these last few days. I like Surgery, and I enjoyed the review posting. Occasionally, I even got the feeling that I actually knew what I was talking about, because I did not feel blank when my teacher talked about the Bormann's system of classification for carcinoma of the stomach. And also, my current, uh, objet d'affection, knows I exist because I stood up to answer a question in class, and I got that right! So yeah, it's been great.

But things at home have not been wonderful, to balance out the good. My Mom was diagnosed with periarthritis of the shoulder joint, which has been giving her a lot of pain. She might need surgery, because her response to drugs and physiotherapy is not as satisfactory as it should have been. And my cat died. He disappeared one day, and a couple of days later, there was a terrible stink from somewhere outside the house that is too overgrown to explore. We put two and two together, and got four. I miss him.


Rest in peace, buddy.

Now that I am in a melancholy mood, I will probably start talking about my Dad, and then I will start to cry, and my Mom will want to know what's wrong, and then we will both end up using a lot of tissues, and be depressed enough to skip dinner. And since I am trying to gain weight (an exercise in futility, a more accurate description would be 'trying not to lose any more weight'), skipping dinner is inadvisable. Therefore, TTFN, before I start blubbering.