History of Present Pregnancy

If internship were a pregnancy, it is due for a targeted anomaly scan around now. Here is a quick review.

WARNING: Boring post ahead. Nothing like internship for killing your sense of humour.

Internal Medicine
My first trimester was Internal Medicine, or General Medicine, as it's known here. When normal people wake up in the morning, they go about their ablutions. Interns start writing their patient's orders for that day, adjust insulin doses, check blood pressures, and truly lucky ones like me can expect at least one round of resuscitation, usually unsuccessful, giving us the added pleasure of not only losing a patient but also a lot of paperwork. When the relief comes in, the intern goes home, pretends to brush, bathe and change, and goes back for grand rounds.

The other day, Yamraj, the God of Death, had some guests. They were mystified to see one fellow appearing at the door, then disappear, then reappear, then fade away again, lather, rinse, repeat. Yamraj was absolutely nonplussed, and explained to his friends that the guy would get there soon, it was just Dr. Pancreas performing CPR.

My nickname in the Med wards was Angel of Death. Any patient who was expected to get his passport and visa to the next world would receive them by express courier on my shift. Without fail.

Behold! Our palatial sleeping area!


We shared it with a cat and her family, who also shared our food whether we wanted to or not.

We often worked straight 36 hours, often more, and considered ourselves lucky if we got 3 hours of sleep a day. Still, I loved it, and I will talk about my horrible 60 hour shift to anyone who will listen.


Psychiatry
Just two weeks there, thank His Noodly Appendage. Initially, I was not entirely sure I could distinguish the doctors from the patients, but later I realised that the patients were the ones who did not bore you to death (and beyond) with classes. They dedicated FORTY FIVE MINUTES trying to decide whether a particular patient had delusions or hallucinations, and by the time they had finished, Kurt Cobain* was playing the bagpipes with a jar of pickled fish balanced on his head.

I am convinced that Psychiatrists lose their sanity somewhere along the way, but it could be that their understanding of the human mind makes them seem crazy to everyone else. They are all probably laughing at the rest of us, with our silly emotions and defence mechanisms.


Ophthalmology
It was... OK. 'Nuff said.


Labour Room
I am still recovering from that trauma, so here is a picture of a nasty couvelaire uterus.

The patient survived, but her baby did not.

Labour room was bloody awful. Well, bloody and amniotic fluidy awful, to be more accurate. The only advantage was that people from outside would be sure to keep a respectful distance when talking to you, especially if they were standing downwind. Now I know how Pumba felt.

That is it, folks. I have lots of stories that I want to share, and some of them are even funny, but, I don't feel like myself at the moment. It's as if someone more sober and serious than I has taken over my body (GOK what for, it's not like I have a very exciting life), and until that being is exorcised, you won't be getting anything funnier than a humerus from me.


Two humerus-es are twice as funny, would you not agree?

*God, was he hot. Why, Kurt, why?