The last time I posted, I was just a first year medical student, naive to the ways of the world and ignorant of the practice of medicine. Much has changed since that last post. Specifically, two things have changed. First of all, I'm now a second year medical student which means I'm allowed to shove first years into their microscope lockers or slip cholera bacteria into their drinks in the cafeteria. The second change is that I've almost completed our Brain and Mind course. So, while I'm still entirely ignorant of the practice of medicine, I'm only largely ignorant of the way a healthy head is supposed to work.
Last year, most of my patient contact was with patients from a small general practice. These folks were typically getting checked up to make sure their diabetes or hypertension was under control. Later in the year, I hung out at the lymphoma clinic at the cancer hospital next door. While lymphoma can be a serious and life-changing diagnosis, the patients I worked with weren't acutely ill. More often than not, I would spend my time chatting with them about their medical, social, and family history then watch the doctor glance over a few charts and say something along the lines of, "I see no reason to begin treatment now. How about you come back in six months?"
Over the course of the year, I became very comfortable taking a patient history, so I didn't think much would change this year when we started interviewing our psych patients. It's just an interview, right? I ask questions, write down answers, smile when it's appropriate, frown when they frown. Piece of cake, right?
So there are a couple of reasons why my interviews with psych patients have been difficult. The first is that some of my patients have had fairly profound cognitive deficits. Before my first interview, I had assumed that the course administrators would start me off slowly. Maybe a patient with a mild mood disorder that's in remission. Maybe someone with hypomania and I'll diligently write down that "the guy talks fast." But, no. My first interview with a psychiatric patient in a clinical setting was with a schizophrenic patient with a string of suicide attempts on her record. The interview was not much like the medical histories I'd taken before (and, of course, the details I'm about to provide are changed from the patient's actual story, but the gist is there). The patient, who was bandaged up pretty well and confined to a wheelchair, told me that she was brought to the hospital after she fell off a subway platform and was hit by a train. Her expression didn't change, but I frowned anyway. It seemed like the right thing to do.
"So, can you tell me what happened before you fell off of the platform?"
"I needed to get away. I needed to get away to join the army, but I couldn't get on the train because I'd get caught and taken back to the hospital, so I jumped into the tunnel."
You know what's not an appropriate follow-up question in a medical interview? You're about to find out.
"Seriously?"
I was rarely able to elicit both a relevant and decipherable answer from this patient. The rest of the interview involved tangential and nonsensical discussions of whatever she wanted to talk about.
The second reason that I've found these interviews so difficult is because the information is so unreliable. This isn't because psychiatric patients are unreliable (though, obviously, there are some conditions that impair cognitive function to a degree that the history you get is clearly untrue). Rather, the information is unreliable because the interviews focus on the one subject that elicits the most guilt or embarrassment from the patient. If I spent forty minutes talking to a hypertensive patient about his salt and cholesterol intake ("Oh doc, I've been eating real good. Last night I had this, like cauliflower gratin with capers, it was DEE-lectable!"), I guarantee you that the meals he describes would all come from Weight Watchers commercials he watched while eating potato chips and licking sticks of butter.
Psychiatric patients often know exactly what would concern their doctor, and if they're not concerned about it, their doctor's not going to hear about it. Often, it's not until I get back to the nurses station and read reports from other clinicians or family members that my questions get answered. Like all those questions I had about the kindly, older woman who thinks I have "just the most beautiful smile!", who houses stray dogs, and who told me that she never drinks and didn't even touch alcohol until she was 28. It turns out that woman has about a half dozen drinks a night to wash down her benzodiazepines.
Accordingly, most of our patients don't think they have anything to discuss, but they'll chat with me to help me complete my school assignment. And at the end of the interview, I have to determine exactly what it is that the patient is most worried about. That thing, their chief complaint, is listed first our reports. Last year my reports started like this:
CC: Patient has had a productive cough lasting two weeks
or
CC: Patient is experiencing acute lower right quadrant abdominal pain
This year the chief complaints look different. Like this one for the homeless, alcoholic who believes the CIA is watching him from cameras in traffic lights:
CC: "The nurses won't give me a second cup of apple sauce."
Or from the woman addicted to an enormous list of prescription drugs:
CC: The doctors here are too young, and "lack the sophistication to understand me."
I graduated college with a double major in english and psychology. By the time I completed my psychology coursework, I had become one hundred percent certain that I didn't want to pursue it as a career. But many of my closest friends and family members have been treated by a psychologist or a psychiatrist, and I've always been aware of the profound impact a psychiatric disorder can have on a person's life. The science behind psychiatry is only now starting to catch up with the theoretical component of the profession. For that reason, I've heard lots of doctors and future doctors scoff at psychiatry, saying that it's make-believe, not a science. But over these last 10 weeks, I've found it hard to imagine a more important area of study.
Schizophrenia affects more than 1% of the adult population, a figure that I find absolutely staggering. Now I understand that, unless schizophrenia drives you to suicide (and teens with schizophrenia have approximately a 50% risk of attempted suicide), you're not going to die from a psychiatric disorder. But I suspect that if you had to wake up tomorrow morning with schizophrenia, an unremitting major depressive disorder, or lung cancer, you probably wouldn't mind rolling the dice with surgery and some chemotherapy. For precisely that reason, I believe we need our best minds researching treatments for psychiatric conditions.
Fortunately, mine is just a mediocre mind, so I can do whatever I want.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Monday, July 02, 2007
The Scholar Athlete
Sometime in the early spring, one of my classmates was inspired to start a dodgeball league for our class. He sunk hundreds of dollars and an unseemly amount of time into running this league in the gym underneath the school's dorms. As ridiculous as it may sound, by the time the first whistle was blown, our league had eight teams of 7-10 people each. In a class of a hundred neurotic science geeks, that's not so bad.
Slowly over the course of the spring, I began to realize exactly why the neurotic science geeks flocked to the dodgeball courts. As it turns out, the students in my class are some of the most wildly competitive people I've ever seen. The idea of beating someone else at something - anything - is like heroin to these folks.
It should be noted here that I am purposefully not including myself in this description. I've been working fastidiously for the last four years - since The Monopoly Incident - to prove to the fiancee that I can be trusted to control my competitive instincts during playtime. For the purposes of this post and for the sake of my upcoming marriage, let's say that my behavior on the court never wavered from that of a good-natured sportsman.
The games varied pretty widely from a rollicking good time to endlessly frustrating. Even while watching other teams play from the sidelines, I would see the same guys get hit, sometimes three times in one game, without ever leaving the floor. Competition's one thing, but doesn't the face-rubbing lose a little bit of its joy when you're the only one on the court who believes you won?
You wouldn't guess it from the victory dances.
In some ways, the unbridled competition was impressive. Even inspiring. One of my classmates, K, absolutely sucked at throwing the dodgeball. It's clear that, though K keeps himself in good shape, he did not grow up playing baseball. Actually, it's unlikely he threw anything at all, though even that couldn't explain the motion of K's arm when he throws a ball. I imagine that K probably grew up with his elbows sewn to his nipples. Nonetheless, he seemed to spend hours each day down in the gym working out with the dodgeball. His progress was remarkable. By the end of the season, K was one of the better players on his team. He threw reasonably well and nobody could get him out. No matter how many times they hit him with a dodgeball.
Slowly over the course of the spring, I began to realize exactly why the neurotic science geeks flocked to the dodgeball courts. As it turns out, the students in my class are some of the most wildly competitive people I've ever seen. The idea of beating someone else at something - anything - is like heroin to these folks.
It should be noted here that I am purposefully not including myself in this description. I've been working fastidiously for the last four years - since The Monopoly Incident - to prove to the fiancee that I can be trusted to control my competitive instincts during playtime. For the purposes of this post and for the sake of my upcoming marriage, let's say that my behavior on the court never wavered from that of a good-natured sportsman.
The games varied pretty widely from a rollicking good time to endlessly frustrating. Even while watching other teams play from the sidelines, I would see the same guys get hit, sometimes three times in one game, without ever leaving the floor. Competition's one thing, but doesn't the face-rubbing lose a little bit of its joy when you're the only one on the court who believes you won?
You wouldn't guess it from the victory dances.
In some ways, the unbridled competition was impressive. Even inspiring. One of my classmates, K, absolutely sucked at throwing the dodgeball. It's clear that, though K keeps himself in good shape, he did not grow up playing baseball. Actually, it's unlikely he threw anything at all, though even that couldn't explain the motion of K's arm when he throws a ball. I imagine that K probably grew up with his elbows sewn to his nipples. Nonetheless, he seemed to spend hours each day down in the gym working out with the dodgeball. His progress was remarkable. By the end of the season, K was one of the better players on his team. He threw reasonably well and nobody could get him out. No matter how many times they hit him with a dodgeball.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Who doesn't love a pygmy marmoset?
In between the last post and this one, I had a course in Host Defenses. It was a nice course, but generally unremarkable. Except that now, on top of all of the other specialties that I've been certain I'll make a career out of, I've added infectious disease to the list. Do you think they'll let me be an emergency orthopedic neonatologist that specializes in infectious disease?
They would if I worked at Seattle Grace.
So first year is done with, and I've started an eight week research fellowship at the Hospital For Special Surgery. The goals for this summer are two-fold. First, I need to get some research experience under my belt. Strangely, my teaching resume is pretty sparse when it comes to basic science or clinical investigation. Second, I would LOVE to rule out surgery as a future profession. Getting into surgical residencies can be pretty cutthroat... and if I could avoid that, it'd be nice. My hopes that orthopedic surgery will be profoundly unfun spring primarily from two sources.
Source A: I've said it before, and I'll say it again, cutting people open is gross. I remember when I studied abroad in Scotland, I used to walk into their fry shops (shops in which they fry things), and ask them to drop a Mars bar into their frier for me. I can't accurately describe the taste of this beautiful, deep fried, golden brown confection. But I remember that when I bit down on it, I'd pierce its thin, tough fried skin, and out would ooze this melted, gooey, chocolate center. After my first experience watching surgery, I don't think I can eat a deep fried Mars bar ever again. I have a new rule: If something's got skin, the skin should stay on.
Source B: Rumor has it that orthopedic surgeons are misogynistic, weight-lifting, ass-slapping, scalpel jockeys. I did notice that some of the young, male orthopedic attendings who dropped in on our anatomy labs used to spend inordinate amounts of time at the tables of the more attractive female med students. But I have a cousin who's an orthopedic surgeon, and he's not one of those guys, so the jury's still out.
So far this summer, the surgeons and staff that I've met at HSS have been terrific. Funny, down to earth, with just the right amount of ass-slapping.
This week, I've been going to the residents' lectures. It's nice, because I get to get up before 6 am and go sit in a lecture hall and watch powerpoint slides. This morning, as the lecturing pathologist was poring over slide after slide of unhealthy bone, he turned to a slide that looked much like this inset picture. He summarized by saying in the droning monotone he'd used since slide 1, "so if you notice anything in a histological section that shouldn't be there, well, it's probably pathological. Like this, for instance."
Pause, no reaction from the residents.
"This baby, pygmy marmoset does not belong on anyone's finger."
Pause, no reaction.
"It belongs on your stethoscope"
...
"In the pediatric wards."
Still nothing.
"They are a... they're a hit."
So, now I'll have to add pathology to the list. Those guys are a riot.
They would if I worked at Seattle Grace.
So first year is done with, and I've started an eight week research fellowship at the Hospital For Special Surgery. The goals for this summer are two-fold. First, I need to get some research experience under my belt. Strangely, my teaching resume is pretty sparse when it comes to basic science or clinical investigation. Second, I would LOVE to rule out surgery as a future profession. Getting into surgical residencies can be pretty cutthroat... and if I could avoid that, it'd be nice. My hopes that orthopedic surgery will be profoundly unfun spring primarily from two sources.
Source A: I've said it before, and I'll say it again, cutting people open is gross. I remember when I studied abroad in Scotland, I used to walk into their fry shops (shops in which they fry things), and ask them to drop a Mars bar into their frier for me. I can't accurately describe the taste of this beautiful, deep fried, golden brown confection. But I remember that when I bit down on it, I'd pierce its thin, tough fried skin, and out would ooze this melted, gooey, chocolate center. After my first experience watching surgery, I don't think I can eat a deep fried Mars bar ever again. I have a new rule: If something's got skin, the skin should stay on.
Source B: Rumor has it that orthopedic surgeons are misogynistic, weight-lifting, ass-slapping, scalpel jockeys. I did notice that some of the young, male orthopedic attendings who dropped in on our anatomy labs used to spend inordinate amounts of time at the tables of the more attractive female med students. But I have a cousin who's an orthopedic surgeon, and he's not one of those guys, so the jury's still out.
So far this summer, the surgeons and staff that I've met at HSS have been terrific. Funny, down to earth, with just the right amount of ass-slapping.
This week, I've been going to the residents' lectures. It's nice, because I get to get up before 6 am and go sit in a lecture hall and watch powerpoint slides. This morning, as the lecturing pathologist was poring over slide after slide of unhealthy bone, he turned to a slide that looked much like this inset picture. He summarized by saying in the droning monotone he'd used since slide 1, "so if you notice anything in a histological section that shouldn't be there, well, it's probably pathological. Like this, for instance."
Pause, no reaction from the residents.
"This baby, pygmy marmoset does not belong on anyone's finger."
Pause, no reaction.
"It belongs on your stethoscope"
...
"In the pediatric wards."
Still nothing.
"They are a... they're a hit."
So, now I'll have to add pathology to the list. Those guys are a riot.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Hurts so good
Today was the last day of our Human Structure and Function course. During the closing lecture, one of our professors, Dr. Palmer, offered this quote from Rene Descartes:
"It is not enough to have a good mind; the main thing is to use it well."
Dr. Palmer then told us that we might recognize the quote from the opening lecture, presented by a different instructor, Dr. Maack. Dr. Maack, it seems, felt that the quote was more critical in inspiring students to perform well in the course, whereas Dr. Palmer believes that "one should never put Descartes before the course."
And this comes only a handful of hours after my reflections on punning. Bravo, good sir.
"It is not enough to have a good mind; the main thing is to use it well."
Dr. Palmer then told us that we might recognize the quote from the opening lecture, presented by a different instructor, Dr. Maack. Dr. Maack, it seems, felt that the quote was more critical in inspiring students to perform well in the course, whereas Dr. Palmer believes that "one should never put Descartes before the course."
And this comes only a handful of hours after my reflections on punning. Bravo, good sir.
Monday, April 16, 2007
"Words, words, words."
If I've learned nothing else this semester, I've learned this: medical students love puns. Admittedly, punning is not the highest form of comedy, but it's arguably a form of comedy. And, though I feel like I'm standing alone on this one, I have great admiration for puns and punners.
For reasons that aren't entirely clear to me, I've compiled a list of some of the most egregious puns and other acts of wordplay that I've heard on campus. I present them here for your - for lack of a better word - enjoyment.
For reasons that aren't entirely clear to me, I've compiled a list of some of the most egregious puns and other acts of wordplay that I've heard on campus. I present them here for your - for lack of a better word - enjoyment.
- Before even arriving at school, we were invited to a wilderness orientation weekend. The awkwardly formatted name of this trip was both descriptive, and is the common abbreviation for the intracellular signalling molecule "cyclic Adenosine monophosphate." Or "cAMP." Awesome.
- Our anatomy TA's name was Won. Invariably, when we couldn't find a structure, one of us would cry plaintively, "Is there any Won who could help us?"
- The name of the school's a Cappella group is The Aneurythms. Though, to be fair to med students, there has never, ever been a cleverly named a Cappella group.
- Punning does happen to come in handy when naming dodgeball teams. For instance, the season opener will be played by my team, "The Supinators," against the formidable "Smooth Obturators." Though it's not a pun, my favorite team name in the tournament is the aggressive and intimidating, "Incompatible With Life."
- When asked by an instructor in biochemistry how much we knew about the biological molecule lecithin (pronounced "less-uh-thin") I regrettably remarked, "less uh than you might think." I was told the next day that one of my friends now has that as her away message on IM. And, damn it, I was proud.
- I say, "Don't you think we could get in there and find the crus ourselves?" To which he replies (...drumroll...) "Hey man, it's her crus to bare."
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Bringing Culture Club to the Anatomy Lab
It's difficult for me to describe what it's like to dissect a cadaver. I learned in college that when a project appears difficult, one should do that project poorly or not do it at all. Accordingly, I haven't written anything about gross anatomy. But now, after hearing the outcry of one voice (hi Mom!) wondering forlornly why I haven't posted in WEEKS, I've decided instead to complete my project poorly. Prepare to be either underwhelmed or offended. Maybe even both.
I've been hesitant to write about the dissection of my cadaver, because my description might appear as though I'm unappreciative of those people who've generously donated their bodies to medical schools. That is certainly not the case. Inside the lab, it's almost imperative that the body itself be depersonalized. That's one of the reasons why I consider a whole-body donation such an tremendous act of generosity. Organ donation seems inherently less personal. Most people draw a clear distinction between their liver and their self. Organ donors often rationalize their gift by saying something like, "why not? I'm not using it anymore." It's much harder to draw the same distinction between your body and your self. If your family sees your body on a table, they'll say, "hey, that's Joe! He was a nice guy. I miss Joe." If they see your kidneys there, not even your family would say, "hey those're Joe's kidneys! Those little suckers could really concentrate Joe's urine when he needed it. I really miss Joe's Kidneys." But when a medical student sees either a body or some kidneys, they're not thinking about either in an emotional context. Body donors know this. They know that the student of anatomy, a perfect stranger, isn't remembering the self that once animated their body. Whether or not this makes a prospective donor uncomfortable, they view the education of future healthcare professionals as a more important goal than the clean and pretty burial of their intact husk.
For me and most of my colleagues, dissecting a cadaver has felt peculiarly unstrange. Navigating my way passed 26 tables of corpses on the first day of anatomy, evoked more emotional discomfort than actually working on the bodies. Before the covers were lifted from the cadavers, we were all very aware that underneath lay recently deceased people. We wondered about those people's names, their ages, their lives, and their causes of death - the kinds of things that most people outside of medical school ask me about my cadaver. But once the covers were removed and we started working, those questions rarely came up. Only once has a classmate described to me any emotional connection to the dissection. That student was working on the upper extremities of a cadaver whose fingernails still shone with bright red nail polish.
For the most part, however, cutting those bodies open and identifying, isolating, and cleaning off relevant structures is nearer to boring than emotionally taxing. Sometimes it feels like I'm carving a turkey, but more often it feels like I'm rooting around in an overfull toolbox looking for an instrument that does a job I'm only vaguely familiar with. It's as if someone were rebuilding a car engine and said, "hey, go into my toolbox and grab me a gasket scraper. Oh, and this morning I poured 10 liters of oatmeal in there. My bad."
Cutting people open is a privilege afforded to a very few people. If an MD does it, it's applauded. If an MFA does it, it's assault. Similar rules apply regardless of whether the person being cut open is dead or alive. MFAs aren't allowed to tinker with a corpse without being arrested. Clearly this has nothing to do with the safety of a patient. An MFA couldn't do any harm to my cadaver. IT likely stems from a collective belief that the human body is, at least sort of, sacred. We want to ensure that corpses aren't picked apart unnecessarily. Healthcare students and professionals can learn on bodies, because that's a good enough reason to desecrate a corpse. Funeral directors can cut open a corpse to make it look nicer for the funeral. But nobody thinks it's ok to be opened up by a some guy just because he always wanted to know what someone's insides look like.
So, is it wrong to think of another human as a toolbox filled with oatmeal? Maybe. Should I have restrained myself from speaking to my classmates through the two halves of a sliced-open kidney for an entire 2 hours lab session? Almost certainly. Was singing through the kidney an irrefutably bad idea ("Do you really want to huurt meeee... do you really want to make me cry...)? Of course. But if I were constantly aware of the person on the table, I don't know how effectively I'd be able to teach myself the relevant anatomy. If I were overly concerned with how my cadaver's liver tumors may have affected her relationship with her family, I would be distracted from identifying the vessels supplying that liver. In a sense, I'd be thwarting the intentions of the woman who chose to donate her body to educate medical students.
I've been hesitant to write about the dissection of my cadaver, because my description might appear as though I'm unappreciative of those people who've generously donated their bodies to medical schools. That is certainly not the case. Inside the lab, it's almost imperative that the body itself be depersonalized. That's one of the reasons why I consider a whole-body donation such an tremendous act of generosity. Organ donation seems inherently less personal. Most people draw a clear distinction between their liver and their self. Organ donors often rationalize their gift by saying something like, "why not? I'm not using it anymore." It's much harder to draw the same distinction between your body and your self. If your family sees your body on a table, they'll say, "hey, that's Joe! He was a nice guy. I miss Joe." If they see your kidneys there, not even your family would say, "hey those're Joe's kidneys! Those little suckers could really concentrate Joe's urine when he needed it. I really miss Joe's Kidneys." But when a medical student sees either a body or some kidneys, they're not thinking about either in an emotional context. Body donors know this. They know that the student of anatomy, a perfect stranger, isn't remembering the self that once animated their body. Whether or not this makes a prospective donor uncomfortable, they view the education of future healthcare professionals as a more important goal than the clean and pretty burial of their intact husk.
For me and most of my colleagues, dissecting a cadaver has felt peculiarly unstrange. Navigating my way passed 26 tables of corpses on the first day of anatomy, evoked more emotional discomfort than actually working on the bodies. Before the covers were lifted from the cadavers, we were all very aware that underneath lay recently deceased people. We wondered about those people's names, their ages, their lives, and their causes of death - the kinds of things that most people outside of medical school ask me about my cadaver. But once the covers were removed and we started working, those questions rarely came up. Only once has a classmate described to me any emotional connection to the dissection. That student was working on the upper extremities of a cadaver whose fingernails still shone with bright red nail polish.
For the most part, however, cutting those bodies open and identifying, isolating, and cleaning off relevant structures is nearer to boring than emotionally taxing. Sometimes it feels like I'm carving a turkey, but more often it feels like I'm rooting around in an overfull toolbox looking for an instrument that does a job I'm only vaguely familiar with. It's as if someone were rebuilding a car engine and said, "hey, go into my toolbox and grab me a gasket scraper. Oh, and this morning I poured 10 liters of oatmeal in there. My bad."
Cutting people open is a privilege afforded to a very few people. If an MD does it, it's applauded. If an MFA does it, it's assault. Similar rules apply regardless of whether the person being cut open is dead or alive. MFAs aren't allowed to tinker with a corpse without being arrested. Clearly this has nothing to do with the safety of a patient. An MFA couldn't do any harm to my cadaver. IT likely stems from a collective belief that the human body is, at least sort of, sacred. We want to ensure that corpses aren't picked apart unnecessarily. Healthcare students and professionals can learn on bodies, because that's a good enough reason to desecrate a corpse. Funeral directors can cut open a corpse to make it look nicer for the funeral. But nobody thinks it's ok to be opened up by a some guy just because he always wanted to know what someone's insides look like.
So, is it wrong to think of another human as a toolbox filled with oatmeal? Maybe. Should I have restrained myself from speaking to my classmates through the two halves of a sliced-open kidney for an entire 2 hours lab session? Almost certainly. Was singing through the kidney an irrefutably bad idea ("Do you really want to huurt meeee... do you really want to make me cry...)? Of course. But if I were constantly aware of the person on the table, I don't know how effectively I'd be able to teach myself the relevant anatomy. If I were overly concerned with how my cadaver's liver tumors may have affected her relationship with her family, I would be distracted from identifying the vessels supplying that liver. In a sense, I'd be thwarting the intentions of the woman who chose to donate her body to educate medical students.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Five reasons why I almost passed out while watching my first surgery, and a rebuttal by interested parties
#1 It was way too hot in that operating room. Anybody would have felt faint in that heat. Sure the patient was shivering, but she was in surgery. She was losing blood. The rest of us, those of us with all of our blood, we were way too hot.
You only lasted about fifteen seconds into the surgery. By the time you were squatting in the corner, all they’d done is nicked her skin. You lose more blood every time you shave.
#2 And I’m always cold after I shave. Plus, I was wearing one of those gowns. And two pairs of gloves. And these absurd space boots up to my knees. And a face mask with a plastic shield that covered my eyes. It was sweltering under there. As soon as the surgeon made the first cut, that whole shield fogged right up and I couldn’t see. That’s hardly my fault. Those things are a liability.
Those things? The sterile surgical masks? Those are a liability? Were the other folks in the room wearing the same masks?
#3 Of course they were, don’t be ridiculous. That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea that they were wearing them. I mean, what if all of those masked folks overheated and passed out? What then? You have an anesthetized patient lying on a table with unconscious surgeons and nurses splayed out on the floor all around her.
Did everyone else wearing a mask pass out, too?
No, but can you imagine if they did? It’s like that episode of Gray’s Anatomy, when that patient was taking some sort of herbal supplement, and it combined with the drugs in her body and made her blood toxic and it almost killed all of the surgeons at Seattle Grace. It’s like that.
…you should never be allowed in an operating room ever again.
#4 I know, I know. Nobody actually passed out. And most of the surgeons and nurses in the room made it through the whole procedure. BUT! the scrub tech felt nauseous, and she ran out of the room to throw up.
What? Really? Was she overheated? Did her face shield fog up?
#4 No, she wasn’t wearing a face shield. But she said she’d had fried fish for lunch, and SO DID I. I'm not denying that fish and chips is a terrific meal, but probably too heavy for this particular occasion. I ate it way too quickly and didn’t drink anything with it. So I was dehydrated with a stomach full of fish batter.
So you’re saying that the reason you felt squeamish is because of the fish you ate for lunch?
#5 Yeah, mostly. And because cutting people open is disgusting.
You only lasted about fifteen seconds into the surgery. By the time you were squatting in the corner, all they’d done is nicked her skin. You lose more blood every time you shave.
#2 And I’m always cold after I shave. Plus, I was wearing one of those gowns. And two pairs of gloves. And these absurd space boots up to my knees. And a face mask with a plastic shield that covered my eyes. It was sweltering under there. As soon as the surgeon made the first cut, that whole shield fogged right up and I couldn’t see. That’s hardly my fault. Those things are a liability.
Those things? The sterile surgical masks? Those are a liability? Were the other folks in the room wearing the same masks?
#3 Of course they were, don’t be ridiculous. That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea that they were wearing them. I mean, what if all of those masked folks overheated and passed out? What then? You have an anesthetized patient lying on a table with unconscious surgeons and nurses splayed out on the floor all around her.
Did everyone else wearing a mask pass out, too?
No, but can you imagine if they did? It’s like that episode of Gray’s Anatomy, when that patient was taking some sort of herbal supplement, and it combined with the drugs in her body and made her blood toxic and it almost killed all of the surgeons at Seattle Grace. It’s like that.
…you should never be allowed in an operating room ever again.
#4 I know, I know. Nobody actually passed out. And most of the surgeons and nurses in the room made it through the whole procedure. BUT! the scrub tech felt nauseous, and she ran out of the room to throw up.
What? Really? Was she overheated? Did her face shield fog up?
#4 No, she wasn’t wearing a face shield. But she said she’d had fried fish for lunch, and SO DID I. I'm not denying that fish and chips is a terrific meal, but probably too heavy for this particular occasion. I ate it way too quickly and didn’t drink anything with it. So I was dehydrated with a stomach full of fish batter.
So you’re saying that the reason you felt squeamish is because of the fish you ate for lunch?
#5 Yeah, mostly. And because cutting people open is disgusting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
