A few days ago two young parents brought their baby in for a consultation.
They were so terribly worried that their pigtailed 2-year old child had a runny nose.
When I looked at the child I nearly fainted.
"How many children do you have?" I asked them nervously.
"Just this cute little one." The dad beamed proudly.
"You're lying!" I almost screamed at him! "You actually had THREE kids and this child ATE the other two!"
This kid was the size of three kids.
What in the hell were they feeding this child?
Fried fat wrapped in pastry covered in cream, basted with lard and a side-order of baby?
And she had that hungry look in her eyes.
I examined her very quickly with my left hand.
The left one I was prepared to lose in case she desired a quick snack.
The right was too precious to risk.
Nothing wrong with your child, folks, except that she's morbidly obese.
I explained to the parents the horrors of this delicious death trap they were setting for their little one, and how I would be referrring them to a dietitian for expert advice.
All the while I kept one eye nervously on Junior, and one hand gripping my patella hammer in case she decided to attack me.
With each stomp around my consulting room desk her pendulous belly rippled and a tsunami of fat travelled infero-superiorly up her abdomen, threatening to engulf her head, but then thankfully richocheted off the two Dolly-Parton-sized fat pads that should have been her chest.
It took all my strength not to jump through the window behind my desk and run for the hills screaming that The Blob was going to eat us all!
Baby fat is cute.
Obese fat baby monsters are not.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Why I will NEVER be a paediatrician.
I just remembered the reason I will never ever ever ever ever ever EVER be a paediatrician.
Not because I hate children.
Nope.
I love children, and I feel too much pain when they're ill.
But that's not the main reason.
The main reason is that children come with MAJOR baggage.
Two big lumbering overladen travelling trunks of baggage,
Namely...
THE PARENTS!
I just really can't deal with the parents.
Sorry.
Not because I hate children.
Nope.
I love children, and I feel too much pain when they're ill.
But that's not the main reason.
The main reason is that children come with MAJOR baggage.
Two big lumbering overladen travelling trunks of baggage,
Namely...
THE PARENTS!
I just really can't deal with the parents.
Sorry.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Pregnant? The patient's guide to parenting.
How did it come to be that every time I mention I'm not feeling well, the knee-jerk reaction from friends and colleagues is that I MUST be "with child"?
Is it not a perfectly normal reaction to throw up a little bit in my mouth after I've witnessed runny mustard poo leaking down my patient's leg?
Is it not a perfectly normal physiological response to want to up-chuck the contents of my intestines after examining a most foul-smelling macerated cess-pool of pus that used to be a scrotum before Fournier's Gangrene got hold of it? (Scrot-rot - in layman's terms)
Apparently, according to the four ovary-less-hairy-testicled type of doctors I worked with yesterday morning, it is a clear indication of impending mommy-hood.
Yesterday, the day of constant nausea, I also had my blood drawn for HIV testing as I've now finished my course of ARV's. Happy to report, the test was negative.
YAY!
No more condoms necessary during sex with my long-suffering husband!
Yet, my aforementioned male colleagues were more interested in my obvious pregnancy.
Mastermind MB, of course, used my HIV testing as an opportunity to phone the lab and request a quantitative beta-HCG (formal pregnancy test) on my blood...just to make sure...soooooo funny.
But it got me thinking...
What if I WAS pregnant? I don't know anything about being a parent!
But then I rememembered...
Just take lessons from your patients Dr S!
Over the last two shifts these are the parenting lessons I've picked up:
1: When your twelve year old son gets thrown over a fence by some bigger boys, and tears open his scrotum on the barbed wire, bring him in to the hospital at night, and then leave him there all alone.
Let him open up a folder by himself.
Let him suffer the pain of having his ballsack sewn closed by himself.
Do not leave your cellphone number for the doctors to call you when he is repaired. Tell him to walk home, in the dark, through the most notorious ganglands in Cape Town, by himself.
He is a whole twelve years old after all.
(We ultimately called the police to take him home)
2:When your seventeen year old son's eighteenth birthday rolls around,just before matric final exams, do not remember it.
When he reminds you that it is his birthday, tell him you don't care.
When he asks you if he is not important to you, agree that he isn't.
When he tells you that he might as well then kill himself, encourage him to do it.
When he overdoses on 50mg of benzodiazepines in a desperate attempt for your love and is rushed in to the casualty unit by the paramedics, show him he is indeed not worthy of your love by not visiting him.
(He survived,thank heavens)
3: Drive like an asshole and hit a twelve year old child. Don't bother stopping, even though the kid has flown halfway across the street and is lying on the road motionless. Oh no, what one does in this situation is put your foot on the accelerator and drive away as fast as possible, leaving the helpless child for dead.
(The paramedics who brought him in to be intubated on his way to the children's hospital told us that in a fantastic intervention by karma - the car's licence plate had been left on scene!)
I'm writing all of these lessons in my little book of things to do when I get pregnant.
(Which I'm not. Test turned out to be negative.)
Is it not a perfectly normal reaction to throw up a little bit in my mouth after I've witnessed runny mustard poo leaking down my patient's leg?
Is it not a perfectly normal physiological response to want to up-chuck the contents of my intestines after examining a most foul-smelling macerated cess-pool of pus that used to be a scrotum before Fournier's Gangrene got hold of it? (Scrot-rot - in layman's terms)
Apparently, according to the four ovary-less-hairy-testicled type of doctors I worked with yesterday morning, it is a clear indication of impending mommy-hood.
Yesterday, the day of constant nausea, I also had my blood drawn for HIV testing as I've now finished my course of ARV's. Happy to report, the test was negative.
YAY!
No more condoms necessary during sex with my long-suffering husband!
Yet, my aforementioned male colleagues were more interested in my obvious pregnancy.
Mastermind MB, of course, used my HIV testing as an opportunity to phone the lab and request a quantitative beta-HCG (formal pregnancy test) on my blood...just to make sure...soooooo funny.
But it got me thinking...
What if I WAS pregnant? I don't know anything about being a parent!
But then I rememembered...
Just take lessons from your patients Dr S!
Over the last two shifts these are the parenting lessons I've picked up:
1: When your twelve year old son gets thrown over a fence by some bigger boys, and tears open his scrotum on the barbed wire, bring him in to the hospital at night, and then leave him there all alone.
Let him open up a folder by himself.
Let him suffer the pain of having his ballsack sewn closed by himself.
Do not leave your cellphone number for the doctors to call you when he is repaired. Tell him to walk home, in the dark, through the most notorious ganglands in Cape Town, by himself.
He is a whole twelve years old after all.
(We ultimately called the police to take him home)
2:When your seventeen year old son's eighteenth birthday rolls around,just before matric final exams, do not remember it.
When he reminds you that it is his birthday, tell him you don't care.
When he asks you if he is not important to you, agree that he isn't.
When he tells you that he might as well then kill himself, encourage him to do it.
When he overdoses on 50mg of benzodiazepines in a desperate attempt for your love and is rushed in to the casualty unit by the paramedics, show him he is indeed not worthy of your love by not visiting him.
(He survived,thank heavens)
3: Drive like an asshole and hit a twelve year old child. Don't bother stopping, even though the kid has flown halfway across the street and is lying on the road motionless. Oh no, what one does in this situation is put your foot on the accelerator and drive away as fast as possible, leaving the helpless child for dead.
(The paramedics who brought him in to be intubated on his way to the children's hospital told us that in a fantastic intervention by karma - the car's licence plate had been left on scene!)
I'm writing all of these lessons in my little book of things to do when I get pregnant.
(Which I'm not. Test turned out to be negative.)
Friday, June 19, 2009
Little Pink Shoes
I have tried for four weeks to write this post.
It's been difficult.
I feel as if I have an obligation to tell it, but every time I try I don't know how to write it so that it has the most impact. Whichever way, it's a story that needs to be told, because it is the story of many in South Africa.
This is the best I can do...
Despite the 5am darkness and freezing rain, she was grateful for the job that forced her to get up at this hour.
It provided an income, without which she wouldn't be able to clothe and feed her, beautiful 2 year old daughter Zandi*.
Her little sulky Zandi, she's always grumpy at this hour,and protests bitterly at being forced from the warm mattress they share.
She hugs her and speaks softly in Xhosa, 'get up my child, I have to go to work and you must go to the Aunty's house while I'm gone'.
While getting ready in the tin-walled, leaking shack they live in, she worries about her HIV positive status. Yesterday the clinic doctor told her that her cd4 count was low. She didn't really understand because the doctor spoke only English, but she could tell by the way the doctor spoke that this was not a good thing.
Suddenly scared, she offers a silent request to the ancestors that she will stay healthy long enough to support her child into adulthood. After all, there was no-one else to do it.
Her parents were dead and the father of the child just a distant, regrettable memory.
When she moved to Cape Town from the Eastern Cape, it was difficult as a single mother. But luckily she found a job as a domestic worker in Claremont. An old lady in the township offered to look after her child during the day for a fee of 30 rand a week. That lady was a very clever business lady. She looked after many children during the day for 30 rand a week each. No wonder she had a radio AND a TV in her place.
Dropping Zandi at The Aunty's house was always a difficult part of her day, what with Zandi always crying and pleading with her not to go. Today though, Zandi just looked sad and watched her leave with watery eyes. Perhaps she was beginning to accept her daily fate at the Aunty's House. Her daughter looked thin and small standing in the doorway.
But, there was no time to feel guilty, the queues for the taxi's had already started forming and The Madam is always very upset if she arrives late.
The Madam's house was enormous. And her children had so many toys! She spent most of the day cleaning up after them. Scrubbing floors, making beds, washing windows. It was tiring, but she thought of her daughter and persevered.
If she just managed to keep her job and earn enough to send her daughter to school, their luck would turn around. It was her wish that Zandi do better then her, and be the first in her family to get her matric certificate!
Maybe if Zandi got a good matric, she could get a bursary to university! But that would only happen if she had enough money to send her to school and to pay for all the books and school clothes.
While working in the kitchen, her cellphone rang. The Madam had given it to her. It was an old one that her son did not want anymore.
It was The Aunty."Your daughter is not well", she said.
"What is wrong with her?", she asked.
"She is breathing fast, You must take her to the hospital.". And then the line went dead.
The Madam was very upset when she asked to leave early and did not seem to believe her story. But she had to go. She took the train and a taxi back to the township, and eventually after an hour and a half of anxious, worrying thoughts, arrived at The Aunty's house. There she found her little Zandi lying on the floor, eyes wide open and gasping for air...
I arrived at 5pm that day for the start of my night shift. Merely ten minutes into the shift, I noticed a mom walking calmly into the unit with a little bundle in her arms. As I was busy with another patient, I let the Sister do the triage.
The Sister opened the bundle and immediately called for a resuscitation.
I jumped up and ran over to the bed where the little bundle was now placed.
What I saw was an absolutely beautiful two year old girl, neatly dressed in a pretty top and pants, with a little pink jacket and matching little pink shoes.
She looked like a perfect factory-formed little doll.
And just like a doll, she was unresponsive. Only her little respiratory system showed signs of function, when it made one desperate effort and she gasped twice. She had no pulse. I also had to note that her pupils were fixed and dilated.
However she was still warm. Most of the people brought in from outside needing resuscitation have been adults, who were sickly looking and had cool peripheries. This little girl was well-looking and warm, and despite my doctor's senses screaming at me that this girl had a poor prognosis, the fact that she was warm was playing havoc with my mind.
We started the resuscitation. We called all the other doctors to come and help, even those busy in the clinics. I refused to stop. How could we stop when the mother was waiting just outside the door?
Eventually, when it became clear that we were losing the battle for her life, I knew that any more resuscitative efforts would be inhumane and in vain.
So we stopped.
And Zandi died.
Dressed like a doll in her matching pink shoes.
Her mother looked at me with hope and despair as I approached her.
I could do nothing but confirm her nightmare; her little girl had died, despite us trying to do everything. She cried and cried and cried. And I sat with her for half an hour listening to her cry. I refuse to cry when telling the family. It's not fair on them. I'm not the one who lost a child, so I really have no right to burden them with a blubbering doctor on top of everything.
So I just swallow really hard and take a deep breath.
She told me the story of how she had no-one here to support her and that she had no family left. She had moved to Cape Town for better treatment of her HIV, and for a better future for her Zandi. She told me how she ran to the taxi rank with Zandi in her arms, and begged them to let her jump the queue to get to the hospital quicker. She truly believed that Zandi would be ok. But now she had nothing left. I gave her all the money I had with me and let her use my cellphone to call a friend for help.
I finished my shift that night unaffected. After all, there were others waiting to be treated.
But, as soon as I got home the next morning, I remembered the little pink shoes and the waste of a little girl's life. I cried and cried the whole day.
I knew that Zandi was already gone by the time she got to us, and that there was nothing more I could do. The real tragedy lay in the situation of poverty her mother was in. The desperate lady had no recourse but to find a flipping taxi to get to the day hospital, while her child was busy dying in her arms all the way. This is what our patients face.
If Zandi had been born to a rich family, the signs of her illness would have been picked up earlier. The mother would have been able to stay at home and look after her. And if anything happened they would have called their private ambulance or got in their fast car to bring the child speedily to the emergency unit.
And the child would probably have lived.
Now every time I see little pink shoes I can't help but think of Zandi, and be reminded of the tragic situation our nation's poor patients are constantly battling against. It's too sad to contemplate. Mostly I just ignore it in order to function at work. And so far it's been the best way of going about things.
Zandi and her little pink shoes for forced me to open my eyes again and confront the horror.
*Name changed
It's been difficult.
I feel as if I have an obligation to tell it, but every time I try I don't know how to write it so that it has the most impact. Whichever way, it's a story that needs to be told, because it is the story of many in South Africa.
This is the best I can do...
Despite the 5am darkness and freezing rain, she was grateful for the job that forced her to get up at this hour.
It provided an income, without which she wouldn't be able to clothe and feed her, beautiful 2 year old daughter Zandi*.
Her little sulky Zandi, she's always grumpy at this hour,and protests bitterly at being forced from the warm mattress they share.
She hugs her and speaks softly in Xhosa, 'get up my child, I have to go to work and you must go to the Aunty's house while I'm gone'.
While getting ready in the tin-walled, leaking shack they live in, she worries about her HIV positive status. Yesterday the clinic doctor told her that her cd4 count was low. She didn't really understand because the doctor spoke only English, but she could tell by the way the doctor spoke that this was not a good thing.
Suddenly scared, she offers a silent request to the ancestors that she will stay healthy long enough to support her child into adulthood. After all, there was no-one else to do it.
Her parents were dead and the father of the child just a distant, regrettable memory.
When she moved to Cape Town from the Eastern Cape, it was difficult as a single mother. But luckily she found a job as a domestic worker in Claremont. An old lady in the township offered to look after her child during the day for a fee of 30 rand a week. That lady was a very clever business lady. She looked after many children during the day for 30 rand a week each. No wonder she had a radio AND a TV in her place.
Dropping Zandi at The Aunty's house was always a difficult part of her day, what with Zandi always crying and pleading with her not to go. Today though, Zandi just looked sad and watched her leave with watery eyes. Perhaps she was beginning to accept her daily fate at the Aunty's House. Her daughter looked thin and small standing in the doorway.
But, there was no time to feel guilty, the queues for the taxi's had already started forming and The Madam is always very upset if she arrives late.
The Madam's house was enormous. And her children had so many toys! She spent most of the day cleaning up after them. Scrubbing floors, making beds, washing windows. It was tiring, but she thought of her daughter and persevered.
If she just managed to keep her job and earn enough to send her daughter to school, their luck would turn around. It was her wish that Zandi do better then her, and be the first in her family to get her matric certificate!
Maybe if Zandi got a good matric, she could get a bursary to university! But that would only happen if she had enough money to send her to school and to pay for all the books and school clothes.
While working in the kitchen, her cellphone rang. The Madam had given it to her. It was an old one that her son did not want anymore.
It was The Aunty."Your daughter is not well", she said.
"What is wrong with her?", she asked.
"She is breathing fast, You must take her to the hospital.". And then the line went dead.
The Madam was very upset when she asked to leave early and did not seem to believe her story. But she had to go. She took the train and a taxi back to the township, and eventually after an hour and a half of anxious, worrying thoughts, arrived at The Aunty's house. There she found her little Zandi lying on the floor, eyes wide open and gasping for air...
I arrived at 5pm that day for the start of my night shift. Merely ten minutes into the shift, I noticed a mom walking calmly into the unit with a little bundle in her arms. As I was busy with another patient, I let the Sister do the triage.
The Sister opened the bundle and immediately called for a resuscitation.
I jumped up and ran over to the bed where the little bundle was now placed.
What I saw was an absolutely beautiful two year old girl, neatly dressed in a pretty top and pants, with a little pink jacket and matching little pink shoes.
She looked like a perfect factory-formed little doll.
And just like a doll, she was unresponsive. Only her little respiratory system showed signs of function, when it made one desperate effort and she gasped twice. She had no pulse. I also had to note that her pupils were fixed and dilated.
However she was still warm. Most of the people brought in from outside needing resuscitation have been adults, who were sickly looking and had cool peripheries. This little girl was well-looking and warm, and despite my doctor's senses screaming at me that this girl had a poor prognosis, the fact that she was warm was playing havoc with my mind.
We started the resuscitation. We called all the other doctors to come and help, even those busy in the clinics. I refused to stop. How could we stop when the mother was waiting just outside the door?
Eventually, when it became clear that we were losing the battle for her life, I knew that any more resuscitative efforts would be inhumane and in vain.
So we stopped.
And Zandi died.
Dressed like a doll in her matching pink shoes.
Her mother looked at me with hope and despair as I approached her.
I could do nothing but confirm her nightmare; her little girl had died, despite us trying to do everything. She cried and cried and cried. And I sat with her for half an hour listening to her cry. I refuse to cry when telling the family. It's not fair on them. I'm not the one who lost a child, so I really have no right to burden them with a blubbering doctor on top of everything.
So I just swallow really hard and take a deep breath.
She told me the story of how she had no-one here to support her and that she had no family left. She had moved to Cape Town for better treatment of her HIV, and for a better future for her Zandi. She told me how she ran to the taxi rank with Zandi in her arms, and begged them to let her jump the queue to get to the hospital quicker. She truly believed that Zandi would be ok. But now she had nothing left. I gave her all the money I had with me and let her use my cellphone to call a friend for help.
I finished my shift that night unaffected. After all, there were others waiting to be treated.
But, as soon as I got home the next morning, I remembered the little pink shoes and the waste of a little girl's life. I cried and cried the whole day.
I knew that Zandi was already gone by the time she got to us, and that there was nothing more I could do. The real tragedy lay in the situation of poverty her mother was in. The desperate lady had no recourse but to find a flipping taxi to get to the day hospital, while her child was busy dying in her arms all the way. This is what our patients face.
If Zandi had been born to a rich family, the signs of her illness would have been picked up earlier. The mother would have been able to stay at home and look after her. And if anything happened they would have called their private ambulance or got in their fast car to bring the child speedily to the emergency unit.
And the child would probably have lived.
Now every time I see little pink shoes I can't help but think of Zandi, and be reminded of the tragic situation our nation's poor patients are constantly battling against. It's too sad to contemplate. Mostly I just ignore it in order to function at work. And so far it's been the best way of going about things.
Zandi and her little pink shoes for forced me to open my eyes again and confront the horror.
*Name changed
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Money Hungry ( Human ATM)
Hello. I just got back from gym. Random. But just thought I'd let you in on the fact that I gym.
So I'm guessing none of you know what the yellow drip is yet. Too bad. I'm not telling.
I will tell you this though; that a frantic mom rushed into the unit the other day, dragging her breathless ten year old behind her.
The ten year old was choking.
I kind of had my hands full with an epileptic fitter.
But Sister B wasn't worried.
Her well-practiced and experienced hand suddenly popped out of nowhere and violently smacked the centre of his back.
The unsuspecting child instantly coughed up a five rand coin.
The mom, completely confused with relief, then smacked her child again presumably to teach him a lesson.
"That was our taxi money!" She screamed at him. She then fished the five rand coin out of it's phlegmy pond on the floor, turned on her heel and marched him out of the unit refusing to waste any more time.
Everyone just shrugged their shoulders and carried on with their duties. Nothing unusual about that, just another normal occurrence in the trauma unit.
I must say that I secretly wished I could give birth to a child that would produce money every time I smacked it. Like a human ATM.
That kid would be black and blue by the time it was five.
p.s. my sister wants me to say that she was the one who "coined" the "money hungry" title for this post. Thanks sis.
So I'm guessing none of you know what the yellow drip is yet. Too bad. I'm not telling.
I will tell you this though; that a frantic mom rushed into the unit the other day, dragging her breathless ten year old behind her.
The ten year old was choking.
I kind of had my hands full with an epileptic fitter.
But Sister B wasn't worried.
Her well-practiced and experienced hand suddenly popped out of nowhere and violently smacked the centre of his back.
The unsuspecting child instantly coughed up a five rand coin.
The mom, completely confused with relief, then smacked her child again presumably to teach him a lesson.
"That was our taxi money!" She screamed at him. She then fished the five rand coin out of it's phlegmy pond on the floor, turned on her heel and marched him out of the unit refusing to waste any more time.
Everyone just shrugged their shoulders and carried on with their duties. Nothing unusual about that, just another normal occurrence in the trauma unit.
I must say that I secretly wished I could give birth to a child that would produce money every time I smacked it. Like a human ATM.
That kid would be black and blue by the time it was five.
p.s. my sister wants me to say that she was the one who "coined" the "money hungry" title for this post. Thanks sis.
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