Doctors are like hookers, I've already explained that in earlier posts.
Doctors are also like priests, in that we are in the very privileged position of being told secrets.
(This humbles me without fail. Every time I am privy to such sacred and volatile information, I am humbled immensely.)
Totally top secret.
Makes me feel like a supercool secret government agent handling top secret state-of-the-nation information.
Like James Bond.
Oh yes!
Did you see how I did that? Are you smart enough to follow my logic?
I just proved that doctors are cool like James Bond.
Uh...Oopsy...sorry!
Don't mind me, just got a little carried away there.
I should have warned you that my mind is usually served twisted, not stirred.
What I mean to say is this:
We are human vestibules for people's secret fears and whispered confessions...
For example, "Hi Doctor, I have crabs."
Which was how my last patient of the day introduced himself.
I was thereafter also politely introduced to the actual crabs, enshrined in a little plastic bag and thrust in my face for me to inspect.
"Hi crabs." I said.
They were dead though, suffocated I think, so they didn't return the greeting.
The recognition of crabs (pubic lice or pediculosis pubis to those in the know) is immediately followed by the feeling that one has them crawling all over one's body.
Suddenly scratching myself vigorously, I thanked him for being clever enough to bring the offending evidence in for me to scrutinize.
I do love it so when my patients play "show and tell" with me.
Reminds me of being at pre-school.
(Hey Teacher! Look what mommy got as a present from the poolboy!)
Friday, February 26, 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.
The Sore Sound
This one's for you, Dr MJ.
There is a sound, made by patients, that I am incapable of reproducing.
This sound is akin to nails screeching down a chalkboard in its ability to cause me physical pain.
Needles, like poison-tipped needles puncturing my tympanic membranes.
It is not the agonising groan of the patient with the ruptured appendix.
Nor is it the gasp of the patient being given the horrifically painful bicillin injection to cure their syphilis.
Oh no, it is the sound made by the “otherwise well” patient.
The patient that you spot happily chatting away to the receptionist in the waiting room.
The patient, that jumps up when the receptionists calls their name.
The patient that, as soon as they walk into your office, and see your face, immediately makes “THE SORE SOUND”.
No, “ Hello Doc”.
No, “This is my problem”.
Just. This. Damn. Sound.
I can’t even describe it – let me try,
“SSSsssthhhhhhmm”.
NO wait, that’s not right, it’s more like,
“Phffffffffffffffhhhhhshhhtttmmmm”.
Jees, I’m not doing this properly...
It’s like the sharp indrawing of a breath while at the same time exhaling and whistling through one’s teeth and moaning.
It is also invariably accompanied by sorrowful head shaking, the avoidance of eye contact and the slow rubbing of a fat thigh.
They make the sound for about sixty seconds. Unmercilessly.
By this time I am hiding under the desk...whimpering, clutching my knees, and rocking slowly back and forth while a little drool dribbles out the side of my cheek.
My regression into a basket case is due to the knowledge of what the Sore Sound actually means. It is signal that announces that the next seven hundred hours of your life are going to be spent listening to this patient complain about a painful something - usually a knee, or foot.
A knee or foot, that is under immense physical pressure from the unjust weight of the gargantuan monstrous thigh and buttock that is certainly the cause of the pain in the first place.
Oh no you don't, don't you dare call me a fattist!
Only when you have a morbidly obese patient sitting across from you making the sore sound, who:
1:Refuses to listen to your multiple counselling sessions to lose weight.
2:Refuses to keep the many appointments you have made for the dietitian because they coincide with the annual church cake sale.
3:Never went to the orthopaedic surgeon you referred her to because the state health service is so overwhelmed that an appointment could only be made for 7 months down the line and therefore was forgotten about.
4:Prefers to sit in your office and make the sore sound, and complain about the pain, so that she can just be prescribed the damn voltaren tablets that, "the other doctors know to give me, Doctor."
Then, only then, after suffering all of this, are you allowed to tell me I'm being rude...
Of course,by then it will be too late...
I won't be able to listen to you seeing as the patient has just successfully worked on my last nerve, namely the cochlear!
There is a sound, made by patients, that I am incapable of reproducing.
This sound is akin to nails screeching down a chalkboard in its ability to cause me physical pain.
Needles, like poison-tipped needles puncturing my tympanic membranes.
It is not the agonising groan of the patient with the ruptured appendix.
Nor is it the gasp of the patient being given the horrifically painful bicillin injection to cure their syphilis.
Oh no, it is the sound made by the “otherwise well” patient.
The patient that you spot happily chatting away to the receptionist in the waiting room.
The patient, that jumps up when the receptionists calls their name.
The patient that, as soon as they walk into your office, and see your face, immediately makes “THE SORE SOUND”.
No, “ Hello Doc”.
No, “This is my problem”.
Just. This. Damn. Sound.
I can’t even describe it – let me try,
“SSSsssthhhhhhmm”.
NO wait, that’s not right, it’s more like,
“Phffffffffffffffhhhhhshhhtttmmmm”.
Jees, I’m not doing this properly...
It’s like the sharp indrawing of a breath while at the same time exhaling and whistling through one’s teeth and moaning.
It is also invariably accompanied by sorrowful head shaking, the avoidance of eye contact and the slow rubbing of a fat thigh.
They make the sound for about sixty seconds. Unmercilessly.
By this time I am hiding under the desk...whimpering, clutching my knees, and rocking slowly back and forth while a little drool dribbles out the side of my cheek.
My regression into a basket case is due to the knowledge of what the Sore Sound actually means. It is signal that announces that the next seven hundred hours of your life are going to be spent listening to this patient complain about a painful something - usually a knee, or foot.
A knee or foot, that is under immense physical pressure from the unjust weight of the gargantuan monstrous thigh and buttock that is certainly the cause of the pain in the first place.
Oh no you don't, don't you dare call me a fattist!
Only when you have a morbidly obese patient sitting across from you making the sore sound, who:
1:Refuses to listen to your multiple counselling sessions to lose weight.
2:Refuses to keep the many appointments you have made for the dietitian because they coincide with the annual church cake sale.
3:Never went to the orthopaedic surgeon you referred her to because the state health service is so overwhelmed that an appointment could only be made for 7 months down the line and therefore was forgotten about.
4:Prefers to sit in your office and make the sore sound, and complain about the pain, so that she can just be prescribed the damn voltaren tablets that, "the other doctors know to give me, Doctor."
Then, only then, after suffering all of this, are you allowed to tell me I'm being rude...
Of course,by then it will be too late...
I won't be able to listen to you seeing as the patient has just successfully worked on my last nerve, namely the cochlear!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
A little pee to help you see?
Please note:
Urinating onto a dirty washrag and then squeezing drops of urine into your eye is NOT the correct treatment for conjunctivitis.
Regardless of what 'Aunty Marie down the road with the daughter who is a cleaner by the chemist' told you.
Urinating onto a dirty washrag and then squeezing drops of urine into your eye is NOT the correct treatment for conjunctivitis.
Regardless of what 'Aunty Marie down the road with the daughter who is a cleaner by the chemist' told you.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Private Practice
A young lady Dr, beaming, opens the door of her very own, clean, air-conditioned GP consulting room. Feeling particularly professional in her black satin pencil skirt, silk blouse and expertly applied make-up, she represents the polar opposite of the cranky, pee-stained, sleep deprived trauma doctor she was a few weeks ago.
A mornings only stint in a lovely private practice for the month of February.
This should be a breeze.
Would she like it? A gentle GP breeze as opposed to the tornado of trauma she's used to.
Snotty noses versus gunshot face?
Sore throats versus panga to the cranium?
Will she even have to engage in any taxing cerebral activity?
Flashing a radiant smile at the long queue in the waiting room she welcomes her first patient.
The patients all look at each other nervously.
Nobody makes eye contact with her.
Nobody stands up.
This is not going as planned.
She tries again, this time clutching the stethoscope around her neck. This serves both to remind the patients that she is a doctor, and to remind her of what that stethoscope has helped her to achieve in terms of patient care.
Number 5 in the queue, a middle-aged gentleman, eventually stands up and makes his way into her office.
“Are you new here?” He asks her.
She responds, “Yes, I’m filling in for one of the doctors who are on leave. How can I help you sir?”
“Are you really a doctor? You look too young. And you don’t look like a doctor. They are saying outside that you’re too young to know anything and that they would rather wait to see the older Doctor that’s been here for years. But he’s not here yet and I’m in a rush so I thought I’d try you out. I hope you can help me.”
She takes a deep sigh, this is not the first time she has been sorely accused of youthfulness.
She wonders if a few greying streaks and some crow’s feet would help instill confidence in her patients.
As the morning progresses and she is confronted with skin rashes that didn’t read the textbook definition of their supposed morphology, vague symptoms that do not tie neatly into one specific diagnosis, complaints of being stressed, and other such symptoms that she was not taught how to treat at medical school...it dawns on her that there is more to being a GP than meets the eye.
Thankfully, The Universe has decided not to punish her completely for being so blasé about GP’s in the past, and has given her the gift of Dr BD in the consulting room next to hers. Dr BD, is a bubbly, enthusiastic doctor with what can only be described as an inspirational passion for GP medicine. (Who knew these Dr's actually existed!)
Dr BD is in possession of all the little secret GP tricks that one can only gain with experience and she makes excessive use of his knowledge throughout the day.
Luckily for her he is keen to teach her the art of this general practitioner stuff!
That first brave patient who took a chance on her poured out his soul in 20 minutes, and discussed very intimate details of his troubled relationship with her.
She is supremely humbled by this, and unsure of what concrete medical treatment to give him, she lets him talk, probing gently here and there for signs of depression or suicidality. There are none that she can detect. He leaves her office with a referral to a psychologist and social worker.
“I hope that I helped you in the end, sir.” She says before he leaves, wondering if the patient would be satisfied with the lack of anti-depressants/anxiolytics she had not prescribed.
“You’re young, but at least you listened to me.So yes, you did help me.” He says.
Hmm...Listening.
A new weapon to add to her medical arsenal?
Sometimes no medicine is the best medicine, apparently.
And like a war veteran returned home after surviving the battle, nervous that she would be bored by anything other than the constant adrenaline rush that had so dominated her life, she ended her morning satisfied that wherever she goes, there are knew things to learn and secrets to discover, both about herself and the world around her.
It's just a matter of being receptive to the lessons...
p.s. Stupidosaur, Deluded, Ketan...this one's for you. I have recently moved residences and have been without an internet connection for days, with no wifi on the horizon for at least a few more weeks thanks to the non-efficiency of our telecommunications company in SA. I won't go into the details of the killing,maiming, pleading and selling of my soul I had to go through to be able to publish this post...I'm just saying...I hope you're satisfied?!?! :)
A mornings only stint in a lovely private practice for the month of February.
This should be a breeze.
Would she like it? A gentle GP breeze as opposed to the tornado of trauma she's used to.
Snotty noses versus gunshot face?
Sore throats versus panga to the cranium?
Will she even have to engage in any taxing cerebral activity?
Flashing a radiant smile at the long queue in the waiting room she welcomes her first patient.
The patients all look at each other nervously.
Nobody makes eye contact with her.
Nobody stands up.
This is not going as planned.
She tries again, this time clutching the stethoscope around her neck. This serves both to remind the patients that she is a doctor, and to remind her of what that stethoscope has helped her to achieve in terms of patient care.
Number 5 in the queue, a middle-aged gentleman, eventually stands up and makes his way into her office.
“Are you new here?” He asks her.
She responds, “Yes, I’m filling in for one of the doctors who are on leave. How can I help you sir?”
“Are you really a doctor? You look too young. And you don’t look like a doctor. They are saying outside that you’re too young to know anything and that they would rather wait to see the older Doctor that’s been here for years. But he’s not here yet and I’m in a rush so I thought I’d try you out. I hope you can help me.”
She takes a deep sigh, this is not the first time she has been sorely accused of youthfulness.
She wonders if a few greying streaks and some crow’s feet would help instill confidence in her patients.
As the morning progresses and she is confronted with skin rashes that didn’t read the textbook definition of their supposed morphology, vague symptoms that do not tie neatly into one specific diagnosis, complaints of being stressed, and other such symptoms that she was not taught how to treat at medical school...it dawns on her that there is more to being a GP than meets the eye.
Thankfully, The Universe has decided not to punish her completely for being so blasé about GP’s in the past, and has given her the gift of Dr BD in the consulting room next to hers. Dr BD, is a bubbly, enthusiastic doctor with what can only be described as an inspirational passion for GP medicine. (Who knew these Dr's actually existed!)
Dr BD is in possession of all the little secret GP tricks that one can only gain with experience and she makes excessive use of his knowledge throughout the day.
Luckily for her he is keen to teach her the art of this general practitioner stuff!
That first brave patient who took a chance on her poured out his soul in 20 minutes, and discussed very intimate details of his troubled relationship with her.
She is supremely humbled by this, and unsure of what concrete medical treatment to give him, she lets him talk, probing gently here and there for signs of depression or suicidality. There are none that she can detect. He leaves her office with a referral to a psychologist and social worker.
“I hope that I helped you in the end, sir.” She says before he leaves, wondering if the patient would be satisfied with the lack of anti-depressants/anxiolytics she had not prescribed.
“You’re young, but at least you listened to me.So yes, you did help me.” He says.
Hmm...Listening.
A new weapon to add to her medical arsenal?
Sometimes no medicine is the best medicine, apparently.
And like a war veteran returned home after surviving the battle, nervous that she would be bored by anything other than the constant adrenaline rush that had so dominated her life, she ended her morning satisfied that wherever she goes, there are knew things to learn and secrets to discover, both about herself and the world around her.
It's just a matter of being receptive to the lessons...
p.s. Stupidosaur, Deluded, Ketan...this one's for you. I have recently moved residences and have been without an internet connection for days, with no wifi on the horizon for at least a few more weeks thanks to the non-efficiency of our telecommunications company in SA. I won't go into the details of the killing,maiming, pleading and selling of my soul I had to go through to be able to publish this post...I'm just saying...I hope you're satisfied?!?! :)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Confession Time
Forgive me reader, for I have sinned.
I have lied to you.
In the way that an omission is also a lie.
I am not still working in the front room of that amazing hospital that is a beacon of light in a sea of poverty and despair.
My compulsory government service came to and end on the last day of December 2009.
I'm currently unemployed. ( Oh the shame!)
And for the first time since I was 6 there is no plan for my future.
This is how my life plan until this moment went:
1:School BANG!
2:Medical School BAM!
3:Internship BOOM!
4:Community Service KEPOW!
And now........?
Well now I have the peculiar feeling that I've been cruelly severed from the umbilical cord of institutional protection.
Like I've been ripped away from my comfort zone of striving together through shit situations with a team towards a common goal.
Or like my family has disowned me or something similarly nonsensical.
I miss my colleagues.
I miss the patients.
And I feel kind of...lonely?!?!
Take charge of my own destiny, you say?
Not sure if I know how, think you can help me with that? ( ho hum)
Three weeks of holiday later and I'm uttery dumbfounded as to what to do with my day.
I find myself praying that someone will collapse in a shopping centre and need resuscitation. (this has actually happened to me before, but that's a story for another post)
Or that I'll come across an accident scene with a patient in need of some kind of trauma assistance.
But it's not all doom and gloom...I have some things in the pipeline...
Namely:
*A possible post in Infectious Diseases as a medical officer at the end of Feb.(pending results of an intense interview that felt more like my final medical oral exam)
*A GP locum job seeing private patients with minor illnesses starting on Thursday.(This might prove mind-numbing after the madness of 2009)
*Joining MSF and going to work in some war-torn part of the world.
*Becoming a stripper.
Oh, this doesn't mean the posts will disappear...on the contrary! Now that I have all this free time on my hands, I might delve into all sorts of introspection and subject you to unending mundane musings about the most banal trivialities of my life...
Or I might remember the hundreds of mad medicine stories I didn't post purely because there wasn't enough time.
We'll see...
It's all up in the air right now...
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Retarded Referrals (4): Passed Away Disease
Honestly, I have no words for this referral, which I am not shitting you, is exactly how it was sent to us, punctuation and all.
Read it and weep.
I did.
Dear Doctor,
Thank you for seeing above mentioned patient with Parkinson's Issues "best friend passed away" disease, otherwise stable, social.
Please assist with further investigations and management.
Thank you,
Dr Retarded.
Read it and weep.
I did.
Dear Doctor,
Thank you for seeing above mentioned patient with Parkinson's Issues "best friend passed away" disease, otherwise stable, social.
Please assist with further investigations and management.
Thank you,
Dr Retarded.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Incontinence: The emotional kind
We're a funny bunch, us doctor-types.
Funny "strange", not funny "ha ha".
(Although some of us have been known to be in possession of a rather hilarious wit.)
What I'm trying to say is that we are not what one would call... normal people.
Oh, we can fool you, and put on our professional serious bedside-manner hats.
And pretend that we've shut down our emotions in order to stay objective.
But you need to know that underneath that white coat lurks a complete lunatic, who after years of desensitisation, and total sleep deprivation, is usually cruising along at work, at a speed known as, "this close to cracking".
And...well...somewhere along the line there's that one poor sod who's going to push that doctor over the edge.
Sorry for you buddy, but you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Like the guy who stumbled into the front room, trashed out of his mind and stabbed in the hand... and proceeded to vomit, and bleed, on my chair.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed at him, that's MY CHAIR!!!!! My chair, my place to rest my bum! My place to sit down and pretend to be civilised and write my notes. MY CHAIR!!!!
Not, "Oh dear, sir, I see that you are bleeding and having some trouble with your retrograde intestinal motility, how can I help you?"
Just, "NO". (What's wrong with me!?!)
En.
Oh.
That's known ANGER and IRRATIONALITY.
The IRRATIONAL ANGER was recently preceeded by SYMPATHY and DESPAIR, having just held a sobbing mother in my arms after telling her that we'd failed to resuscitate her son. He was stabbed in the back and brought in by the ambulance in cardiac arrest. She told me that she knew who had stabbed her son, and that this criminal had also killed her firstborn child one year ago. (Believe it, because it's true.)
And before the SYMPATHY and DESPAIR, there was MANIACAL ELATION when I checked the lumbar puncture result of my ?meningitis? patient and there were NO red blood cells in my perfect CSF sample, prompting a spontaneous victory dance in front of my colleagues in casualty.
Quite rapid cycling through some extreme emotions in the space of about two hours, wouldn't you agree?
I think it's safe to say that I was suffering from emotional incontinence...
That sphincter on my amygdala needs some major re-tightening, it's slightly worn out at the moment ... just dribble dribble dribble, emotions seeping out with no filter of restraint...
Someone needs to put a diaper on this mental diarrhoea.
Any offers?
Anyone?
Funny "strange", not funny "ha ha".
(Although some of us have been known to be in possession of a rather hilarious wit.)
What I'm trying to say is that we are not what one would call... normal people.
Oh, we can fool you, and put on our professional serious bedside-manner hats.
And pretend that we've shut down our emotions in order to stay objective.
But you need to know that underneath that white coat lurks a complete lunatic, who after years of desensitisation, and total sleep deprivation, is usually cruising along at work, at a speed known as, "this close to cracking".
And...well...somewhere along the line there's that one poor sod who's going to push that doctor over the edge.
Sorry for you buddy, but you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Like the guy who stumbled into the front room, trashed out of his mind and stabbed in the hand... and proceeded to vomit, and bleed, on my chair.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed at him, that's MY CHAIR!!!!! My chair, my place to rest my bum! My place to sit down and pretend to be civilised and write my notes. MY CHAIR!!!!
Not, "Oh dear, sir, I see that you are bleeding and having some trouble with your retrograde intestinal motility, how can I help you?"
Just, "NO". (What's wrong with me!?!)
En.
Oh.
That's known ANGER and IRRATIONALITY.
The IRRATIONAL ANGER was recently preceeded by SYMPATHY and DESPAIR, having just held a sobbing mother in my arms after telling her that we'd failed to resuscitate her son. He was stabbed in the back and brought in by the ambulance in cardiac arrest. She told me that she knew who had stabbed her son, and that this criminal had also killed her firstborn child one year ago. (Believe it, because it's true.)
And before the SYMPATHY and DESPAIR, there was MANIACAL ELATION when I checked the lumbar puncture result of my ?meningitis? patient and there were NO red blood cells in my perfect CSF sample, prompting a spontaneous victory dance in front of my colleagues in casualty.
Quite rapid cycling through some extreme emotions in the space of about two hours, wouldn't you agree?
I think it's safe to say that I was suffering from emotional incontinence...
That sphincter on my amygdala needs some major re-tightening, it's slightly worn out at the moment ... just dribble dribble dribble, emotions seeping out with no filter of restraint...
Someone needs to put a diaper on this mental diarrhoea.
Any offers?
Anyone?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Retarded Referrals (3) V-Fib
Write! ( Yes, I'm doing that.)
I mean,
Right! ( In that authoratitive, I'm the doctor in charge, let's get this shit on the road voice)
This, my dear readers is another lesson in retardedness.
The moronic, blockheaded, boneheaded cretin-ness of this, the dimwitted,nincompoopy, pinheaded sheer stupidity of this referral, defies reason, defies logic, is as a matter of fact simply incredulous, spectacular in its stupidity, so utterly mind-blowing that my brain actually exploded all over the front room when I read it.
Please sit down before you read this:
Dear Doctor,
I have diagnosed ventricular fibrillation via Ultrasound in my consulting rooms.
Please do ECG and manage further.
Kindly,
Dr Retarded.
Ok just breathe.
Calm down, take a deep deep breath,
Here...have some of this sweet milky tea while I collect your grey matter off the floor and shove it back into your cranium through your nostrils using a spatula.
Yes,my darling, I know... VENTRICULAR FIBRILLATION! *insert blood curdling scream here*
V-fib ( which is what us cool kids call it) is a medical EMERGENCY.It is a sudden, lethal arrythmia characterised by twitching, fibrilliating, unco-ordinated heart muscle contractions that will kill you in seconds as there is no output of blood from the heart's ventricles to the rest of the body's vital organs.
Like the brain.
Which is why the patients I've seen with V-fib are unconscious.
Always unconscious.
This patient,totally raped of his hard-earned cash, had this v-fib medical lethal emergency "diagnosed" by Dr Retarded, and was then given a letter to bring to us, and as such, walked, fully conscious, into the front room with it.
(Makes the v-fib diganosis highly unlikely hey!)
Secondly a diagnosis of V-fib warrants immediate CPR and defibrillation (Electrical shocks delivered to the chest).
Which Dr Retarded, after making "this brilliant diagnosis" via ultrasound, did not think it necessary to do.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Fail.
Do not pass go.
Do not collect your R200.00
Go directly to jail.
I mean,
Right! ( In that authoratitive, I'm the doctor in charge, let's get this shit on the road voice)
This, my dear readers is another lesson in retardedness.
The moronic, blockheaded, boneheaded cretin-ness of this, the dimwitted,nincompoopy, pinheaded sheer stupidity of this referral, defies reason, defies logic, is as a matter of fact simply incredulous, spectacular in its stupidity, so utterly mind-blowing that my brain actually exploded all over the front room when I read it.
Please sit down before you read this:
Dear Doctor,
I have diagnosed ventricular fibrillation via Ultrasound in my consulting rooms.
Please do ECG and manage further.
Kindly,
Dr Retarded.
Ok just breathe.
Calm down, take a deep deep breath,
Here...have some of this sweet milky tea while I collect your grey matter off the floor and shove it back into your cranium through your nostrils using a spatula.
Yes,my darling, I know... VENTRICULAR FIBRILLATION! *insert blood curdling scream here*
V-fib ( which is what us cool kids call it) is a medical EMERGENCY.It is a sudden, lethal arrythmia characterised by twitching, fibrilliating, unco-ordinated heart muscle contractions that will kill you in seconds as there is no output of blood from the heart's ventricles to the rest of the body's vital organs.
Like the brain.
Which is why the patients I've seen with V-fib are unconscious.
Always unconscious.
This patient,totally raped of his hard-earned cash, had this v-fib medical lethal emergency "diagnosed" by Dr Retarded, and was then given a letter to bring to us, and as such, walked, fully conscious, into the front room with it.
(Makes the v-fib diganosis highly unlikely hey!)
Secondly a diagnosis of V-fib warrants immediate CPR and defibrillation (Electrical shocks delivered to the chest).
Which Dr Retarded, after making "this brilliant diagnosis" via ultrasound, did not think it necessary to do.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Fail.
Do not pass go.
Do not collect your R200.00
Go directly to jail.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Christmas Carnage
I worked every single day of the Christmas weekend.
It was tough. Doctors, paramedics, police throughout the country celebrated Christmas by working themselves to the bone.
Oh but there's one dude responsible for this:
I blame Santa Claus...you drunken red-suited buffoon!
Well done buddy.
Good Job.
Good Job.
Maybe you did you not read the freaking tourist manual to the Cape Flats that I sent you?!! Huh??!
Rule ONE: Do not drink the tik-laced milk and dagga cookies left out for you. IT’S A TRAP!
Oh it seemed tasty did it?
Oh you just couldn't help yourself, right?
What's that? It would have been rude not to partake of what was offered to you then hey?
Is that why you screwed up and rewarded the good little gangsters, and drug-induced psychotics, and alcohol sodden short-tempered aggressive folk with knives, and guns, and bullets, and other such cheerful weaponry? Huh? Because you were HIGH?
Panga's: The gift that keeps on killing.
Tra la laaaa! ( That's me warming up my voice for the Cape Flats Casualty Christmas Carol)
Ready? Here we go:
On the weekend of Christmas, those shifts they offered me:
One dead child
Two thoracotomies
Three gunshot abdomens
Four beaten wives
Five drunk drivers
Six stabbed chests
Seven drug-induced psychotics...
Can you tell that I was not impressed by the Christmas weekend's holy shitstorm and emphatically not overcome with the spirit of Christmas joy and love?
So here's a tip for next year, Santa Claus: Rudolph and that gang, me thinks it best to leave them at home. That red nose of his is like a shiny conspicuous beacon, and that jolly red suit of yours - BURN IT!
To achieve successful delivery of the goods, without getting stabbed or forced to feed on narcotics, you need to blend in man!
First, remove your two front teeth. ( This will have the added benefit of making you sympathetic to the plight of those cute freckle-faced munchkins who desire just that waiting for them under the christmas tree.)
Next, get a tattoo of something obscene on your forehead. Something like, "I kill for fun and rape for joy". That's just a little something I read on the face of one of my patients a while ago - maybe you could use that one.
Learn some choice phrases in Afrikaans to throw them off the scent that you're actually a do-gooder come to bring light and joy to the dark corners of the Cape Flats.......you know the filthy vulgar ones I'm talking about.
No?
Go back a few posts and have a little read - you'll be sure pick some up from those.
This way - you can wander around the freaky scary place our patients call home and offer those in need some assistance. Your goodie bag may need to be slightly different from the one you're traditionally used to. If you can fit in one first-class education system, a health system run by competent people and some regular nutritious FOOD for the poor...perhaps I'll reconsider your current low-ranking on my list of favourite people of all time...
At the moment you are down there with the Easter Bunny ( who dropped mandrax laced eggs over the Easter Weekend) and the Tooth Fairy - who went rogue and is making a killing off the lessor-incisored natives of this crazy town, used her takings to start smuggling drugs and is now known on the Flats as...the Tik Fairy...*drum roll *
It was tough. Doctors, paramedics, police throughout the country celebrated Christmas by working themselves to the bone.
Oh but there's one dude responsible for this:
I blame Santa Claus...you drunken red-suited buffoon!
Well done buddy.
Good Job.
Good Job.
Maybe you did you not read the freaking tourist manual to the Cape Flats that I sent you?!! Huh??!
Rule ONE: Do not drink the tik-laced milk and dagga cookies left out for you. IT’S A TRAP!
Oh it seemed tasty did it?
Oh you just couldn't help yourself, right?
What's that? It would have been rude not to partake of what was offered to you then hey?
Is that why you screwed up and rewarded the good little gangsters, and drug-induced psychotics, and alcohol sodden short-tempered aggressive folk with knives, and guns, and bullets, and other such cheerful weaponry? Huh? Because you were HIGH?
Panga's: The gift that keeps on killing.
Tra la laaaa! ( That's me warming up my voice for the Cape Flats Casualty Christmas Carol)
Ready? Here we go:
On the weekend of Christmas, those shifts they offered me:
One dead child
Two thoracotomies
Three gunshot abdomens
Four beaten wives
Five drunk drivers
Six stabbed chests
Seven drug-induced psychotics...
Can you tell that I was not impressed by the Christmas weekend's holy shitstorm and emphatically not overcome with the spirit of Christmas joy and love?
So here's a tip for next year, Santa Claus: Rudolph and that gang, me thinks it best to leave them at home. That red nose of his is like a shiny conspicuous beacon, and that jolly red suit of yours - BURN IT!
To achieve successful delivery of the goods, without getting stabbed or forced to feed on narcotics, you need to blend in man!
First, remove your two front teeth. ( This will have the added benefit of making you sympathetic to the plight of those cute freckle-faced munchkins who desire just that waiting for them under the christmas tree.)
Next, get a tattoo of something obscene on your forehead. Something like, "I kill for fun and rape for joy". That's just a little something I read on the face of one of my patients a while ago - maybe you could use that one.
Learn some choice phrases in Afrikaans to throw them off the scent that you're actually a do-gooder come to bring light and joy to the dark corners of the Cape Flats.......you know the filthy vulgar ones I'm talking about.
No?
Go back a few posts and have a little read - you'll be sure pick some up from those.
This way - you can wander around the freaky scary place our patients call home and offer those in need some assistance. Your goodie bag may need to be slightly different from the one you're traditionally used to. If you can fit in one first-class education system, a health system run by competent people and some regular nutritious FOOD for the poor...perhaps I'll reconsider your current low-ranking on my list of favourite people of all time...
At the moment you are down there with the Easter Bunny ( who dropped mandrax laced eggs over the Easter Weekend) and the Tooth Fairy - who went rogue and is making a killing off the lessor-incisored natives of this crazy town, used her takings to start smuggling drugs and is now known on the Flats as...the Tik Fairy...*drum roll *
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