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.