Imagine that!

Once upon a time, in the never-never land of my imagination, I thought that one day, I would be the coolest Dr in the world. My imagination and I fancied excellent scenarios of awesome doctorness...

*entering into my imagination now*

Nurse: Oh Doctor, I would love to comment on your brilliant Doctoring, not to mention your fabulous sense of style, but I don't have time as we need you, quickly!

Me ( the fabulous one): Anything for you my dear, I am, without hesitation, always ready to save lives and rock the world with a simple swish of my white coat. ( swish swish, off I go)

Nurse: Well we have this patient, she just tried to commit suicide. She superglued her eyelids open and tied herself to a chair in front of the tv while the Ricki Lake marathon was on.

Me: Good God! that's the most horrific suicide attempt I've heard of! Did she survive?

Nurse: Yes, but she's barely alive, and refuses to talk to anyone. Can you help?

And then *drum roll and fan fare*....I simply walk into the patient's room, and with a swish swish of my coat, the laying of my healing hands on her forehead, the melodious sound of my voice and my phenomenally mad medical skills, I heal that chick. inside and out. I teach her how to want to live...and she goes on to become an astrophysicist.

*exiting my imagination now.*


I hate him, my bastard imagination. My imagination is definitely a man as he is the worst of all the terrible cheating boyfriends I've ever had. This guy, lies to me ALL the time.


What really transpires, at work, is not. that. at. all. Here's what happened yesterday in the trauma unit...

Inbetween the heart attacks, strokes, stabbed chests, and the likes, I get a 16 year old brought in by the ambulance.
Let me rephrase that...dragged in by the ambulance. Dragged in screaming and crying. I immediately hated this patient. I didn't let it show, because that is unprofessional. But I couldn't help it. Inside I hated her and I hadn't even heard the diagnosis.

My few years of government service have taught me that the silent quiet patients are the ones in real trouble, and that if they're well enough to put on a screaming performance then generally,they're full of shit, and not really in as much pain as they profess to be.


Like Malcolm Gladwell, I blinked, and in a second I knew that this one was full of shit and I hated her for bringing this unecessary shit into the trauma unit.

Turns out she was actually full of TIK ( crystal methamphetamine) and experiencing all the nasty self-induced side effects that go with it. ( abdominal cramps,sweating, agitation, perceived shortness of breath etc...)

Now hang on a second. Before you get on my case about the socio-economic circumstances of drug addicts contributing to their habit, let me please tell you that I KNOW. OK!?! I KNOW all of this because I see it every day. And it is sad. really sad. And I believe it.

However, I am not God. I'm a human. I get irritated.

I tried not to judge. So I went over to her,politely introduced myself and asked her how I can help.

She responded by screaming in a manner unlike a stabbed warthog, spat at me and then used colourful swear words involving my mother's nether regions to describe what she thought of my treatment. I tried again, using my gentle voice, the kind you use when trying to calm down a rabid animal. I got the same response. Eventually I called security to hold her down while I injected horse tranquilisers, I mean benzodiazepines, to sedate her. What I really wanted to do was suture her mouth shut for saying those things! I mean,she doesn't even know my mother!

So much for my healing hands. So much for trying to heal the world. This place needs a social worker on call, not a doctor!

Stupid cow didn't even notice my swishing coat....