Our Last Summer

Clarification: It was not summer. More like the period just after the monsoons when it's stopped raining and it starts to get a lot warmer but not the bake-you-to-a-crisp summer heat yet. Yeah, that. We need a name for that. I christen it... Monlater. I am SO clever.

All right, let's get down to the actual reason I'm sitting down here to write a blog post. This is yet another of those posts where I try to tell you (and by you, I mean, me, because I do not have a single reader left since I began to take extended breaks of a 'few' months duration) that I have exams and will write a 'proper' post as soon as they end. And by 'as soon as they end' I mean two months after they end.

Here is yet another picture of the lovely Adorable Pancreas and her wonderful husband Duodenum C. Loop. You are welcome.

Not my handbag, by the way

Tan Tan Tara!

Amidst great fanfare and rejoicings (or more accurately, sobs and screams of "FIX IT! FIX EET! FEEX EET!"), we The Husband fixed my his laptop. You know what means, don't you? Other than The Husband Is A Genius? It means pictures, people!

Here are some from our trip to Ooty in the dead of winter. Best. Honeymoon. Ever. I looked like a homeless person, bundled up from head to foot, wearing ALL the clothes I had with me at the time, and STILL shivering like I had malaria.

View from some dam.

This is where we stayed. Point to note, bring your own radiators if you do not wish to wake up as a block of ice.

Nice and toasty in the car, with the heater going at full blast.

Basking in the sun at noon.

Wait a minute. I can hear some of you complaining that there are no pictures of us. Here you go!

Gotcha!

Take particular notice of the bony black horse on the left. I have no idea whether it ever lifted its head long enough to stop eating. Just like me, says The Husband. The horse and I have similar metabolism, I guess. Eat your hearts out in envy.

That's all for tonight, ladies and gentlemen. As a parting gift, here's a picture of Us. No, really.

The Husband is on the left, in a stripey tee. I am the nondescript tramp on the right.

I'm Lovin' It

I have been married eight months now. Except for all the prepping I've got to do (y'know, for yet another exam *sigh*), life's great. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out when you have found treasure. Yes, I am talking about The Husband. I mean, he buys me shoes without being asked, and that was more than enough to convince me that I'd struck Solid! Gold!

I sort of destroyed his laptop, (unintentionally, of course) and he was really nice about it and did not even yell at me. He did refuse to speak to me, but since neither of us can shut up for a minute to save our lives, the silence lasted all of five minutes. But, we have not got around to getting it fixed it yet, so, sorry folks, no pictures.

Someday soon, I hope to be able to write something that is more than a placeholder post. Until then, ciao.

Pancreas, over and out.

Break Ke Baad

So. Full-fledged doctor and all that. And also, found someone brain damaged enough to want to marry me, so, yeah. Got hitched too. Yippee.


And there are exams. And more exams. Because if a medical graduate wants to specialise (and I do), you need to qualify in at least one of the few million entrance tests for post graduate courses. Not that I expect to clear them this year or anything, but people keep looking disappointed when I am not buried beneath a textbook. Seriously, any kid who says he/she wants to become a doctor should have their heads examined.

Exam. Gah.

Where Have All The Readers Gone?

I don't update anymore, so it isn't any good my whining about you lovely people not reading my blog anymore. *sigh*

This isn't a real blog post, it's just a quick message to all those loyal souls who still visit this here blog hoping for a new post (who could possibly be that sad?). I have finished my stint in Surgery (HALLELUJAH!) and will soon finish off Orthopaedics, and it's going to be (comparatively) less hectic SPM days. The only reason I found the time and energy to type up even this bit in the middle of Ortho is because I'm down with an infection and a sprained foot and am taking a break. That means extension, but I'm past caring.

Not actually my foot

Stay tuned.

Please.

Wanted

Food and sleep are my holy grail. (Sort of. Despite not being Dan Brown, I don't care about inaccuracies.) I can never have them when I need them. I think the worst time is two in the night, when even the roaring from my stomach cannot keep me awake.


Thus goes the life of a hapless intern, who, as the saying goes, is overworked and underpaid. Not for long, maybe. A huge maybe.

It kills me that slaving for perfect strangers who don't know me from Adam leaves me with absolutely no energy to lift a finger to help my mom, who thinks me her entire world. It makes me feel incredibly guilty. So guilty that I can't even imagine 'borrowing' the lovely sari I bought her.

Sometimes, I wonder about what it was like to be normal. I can't remember.

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?