One Month Anniversary

So it's the end of my first month with the blog. I've experimented a bit, and tried to mix current affairs and trivia with the general events of my life. In the end I suppose I settled on a half-sceptical half-humorous take on the life of an overworked medic. It might not always be glamorous, hell it might not always be interesting, but it's always different, and honest.
Incredibly I managed to fall out of bed before 8am this morning, without much thought of dozing all day. Even after getting back home at midnight from a hockey match in Poole against some doctors I felt much more conscious than usual.
Part of the inspiration for getting to the hospital on time were my two scheduled clinical skills sessions, somewhat informal teaching about issues that are useful to the work of an everyday junior doctor. Today it was fundoscopy (looking at the back of the eye with a special torch) and drug documentation. The fundoscopy was a lot harder than I remembered it to be, I looked in the odd eye every now and then in my first two years but today it seemed to be like trying to read a map through a pinhole. Luckily, in our third year exams we are only asked to perform our technique on dummy heads with photo-slides inserted into the sides, which are deliberately much easier to use. As for drug documentation, filling in drug forms and the associated paraphernalia will come easily with a few days on the job, it's all about remembering countless abbreviations and interactions.
The tutor told us about a doctor who ran over a cat and gave it 100mg of pethidine to put it out of its misery, before realising that pethidine is a controlled drug and had to be accounted for or the police would have to be informed. He crushed up and ampules, put them back in his bag and told his boss that he'd run over that and not the cat. Shipman would've been proud.
Fiddled around with my essay, it's all I have to do between now and the deadline in three weeks. That's the beauty of biting the bullet early, it gives me time to stand back and read what I've written when it's not fresh in my mind, and hence be objective. Well, I always do essays fairly early anyway because I'm an obsessive neurotic mess who can't sleep until he knows if the correct grammar is percent or per cent. Seriously.
I also broke the world record for cooking a full dinner for one with the lowest amount of utensils and crockery. I did meat, potatoes and veg with only one pan and a plate. I've forgotten what colour the worktop is because all the dirty crockery is in the way. And for the first time it's not even my washing up!
In case you we're wondering, it's per cent in Britain and percent in America....

Rage!

Earlier I could've ripped someone's head off. Anyone. In the space of half an hour everything went tits up. It started when I shut the front door behind me at a quarter to six, just enough time to drop off a cheque at a mate's house before karate at six. I forgot my glasses, so back inside I went. I finally got outside, and found a wonderful yellow sticker on my windscreen. Excuse my language, but yes, a fucking parking ticket. I got a ticket on the road that I live on. For leaving the frigging car there for a few sodding seconds too long. When I got to the road on which my mate lives, I couldn't remember the number and no-one I rang could tell me. Great. And on the way back, I blocked two lanes of traffic after a coach decided to slam on the brakes in front of me when I'd just pulled out of a side road and wanted to get into the far right lane. They beeped their horns at me, and I'd had more than enough. Up the fingers went, down the windows went. I would've gotten out of the car and kicked their doors in if the lights hadn't changed at the last second.
Rage over now. It can't be helped. I've already written a letter to the council explaining my case (which will obviously be refused), and about how I haven't been able to get into town to get a permit recently because I'm training to save their lives when they finally have enough of the pen pushing monotony and jump out a window. I'll write the cheque another time, I guess. I'm just sometimes a very volatile man, that's all.
Despite oversleeping (this constant fatigue is now starting to worry me a little), I did get the majority of my essay finished, and read through a few pages about hyperthyroidism. I booked a few days in Lyon over Easter to see my girlfriend, who by now probably thinks I have an allergy to French people or something (I just don't like their scarves).
Oh, there was an email all the med students got today about unprofessional behaviour, regarding visible navels, "scruffiness" and a general disregard for Victorian ethics. The final point, however, was regarding how a small group of students had been spotted cannulating eachother in the sluice! It went on to say that it is not allowed, ill advised and very unhygenic. For their information, we weren't cannulating eachother, we were trying to cannulate eachother. I had bruises on both my forearms as big as playing cards for 2 weeks...

Me, the Mentor

It appears that I've settled into a nice little rhythm of getting about 40 hits a day. Although my writing this blog has very little to do with publicity, it would be cool to get a few more reads every day, so if you know anyone who might be at all interesting in my mutterings then just give them a nod. And comment too, on anything you think would be better said than not.
Okay, so down to business, today I got some proteges. Before Christmas I applied to become an "online mentor", a student who is assigned some sixth formers, and replies to their questions and gives them academia-related advice over the net. I was interviewed, and apparently got one of the positions ahead of about ten other candidates- a curiosity as my interview technique is poor. Today I met my mentees. The project organiser asked me which school I was from, as I stood there with a week's stubble. It's nice to be complimented, but I'd rather wait until middle age for that kind of smooth talk. My students were three sixteen year old girls (yes, my girlfriend knows) from a local sixth form. They seemed enthusiastic enough, and reminded me of how immature I was when I was that age, yet how mature I felt. I was a bit disappointed that none of them had medicine in mind, because I had been told that that would be the case, but nursing and social work are both very challenging careers and I'm hopeful that I can give them a few tips. There was a buffet provided by the uni, and I got to keep whatever wasn't eaten or drunk so at current I have a two litre bottle of spring water and two trays of stale sandwiches to get through, I'm a sucker for a freebie.
I did another two pages of my essay without as much hard labour as I expected. When I get going I do break into fluency eventually, maybe this blog is helping me with my articulation. I can always use the "synonym" function on Word if I draw a blank.
And I applied for my 4th year project, I unsurprisingly chose the project involving being a personal lab assistant to a doctor working on Alzheimer's. The enticing offer of presenting the findings in Scotland and Iceland free of charge was the cherry on top of an interesting proposition.
Ah, and finally, for a change I saw a patient, admittedly not on my designated ward but a patient no less. A gentleman who had suffered a stroke two weeks ago after sixty years of not so much as a stubbed toe. It's a funny old game, medicine.

<- Diversion ->

At about 11pm last night, I was trotting on home after a suspiciously early exit from Jesters. I was still tired, it's a continuous affliction for me as anyone who's read this blog more than once can attest to. Also, full to the brim with buffet curry from earlier on, I wasn't in the mood for shuffling away on the dance floor for the odd 4 hours. Well, anyway, it's been a good while since I've done anything slightly illegal, so on the way back home, as I casually swaggered past a diversion road sign, it may or may not have disappeared. It may or not not be on the top shelf of my bookcase right now. It's absence may or may not have caused a massive pile-up in downtown Southampton. Feeling quite happy with my street furniture haul, I was settling off to bed when one of my less, shall we say, exciting housemates knocked on my bedroom door and asked me if the sign wasn't the property of the Highways Commission. I despair of some people's sense of fun, I really do. By the way, don't go shouting this around guys, I don't want to get evicted quicker than Jade was.
I bought travel insurance for my upcoming summer medical elective to India today. I lied a little. Do I have any reason to believe that my trip will be dangerous or require cancellation? Oh no, none at all. Apart from malaria, gastroenteritis, needlestick injury, typhoid, failing my exams, and a million other consequences of fate. But hey, I could get hit by a bus, as they say.
Bristol City predictably held their own against Middlesborough, so confidently in fact that we decided that we may as well beat them at their place and take some more gate receipts.
Back to Older People's Care (geriatrics to you un-PC, normal people) tomorrow. I'm currently only doing as much work as necessary and waiting until after my essay is handed in to knuckle down to the clinical stuff.

Punching Someone in the Face

Getting out of bed this morning, the eternal clash between good and evil, the id and the superego, was surprisingly painless. Even after an inadvisable amount of Famous Grouse, Red Square and a brief outing to Jesters, my head seemed clearer than it would on a dreaded weekday. My evil sleep-craving side only bartered an extra 5 minutes of snoozing before I slung the nearest clothes on and dragged myself down the road to the student union for karate at 10.30am. In another strange twist of fate, my head didn't even ache, let alone throb and spin into surges of nausea as it usually might. It took a good hour and a half of constant shuffling around transferring my weight from arm to back to feet to wherever before I even felt a bit light-headed. At one point, the instructor even threw out a compliment about my improvement, and when it was time to change partners for the next exercise, my more experienced partner requested that I stay with him as I'd "got the timing down really well". That was too much, and fate was duly tempted into bringing me crashing back down to earth with a simmering bump. During one of many practice punches to his mid-chest level, which were harmless and for the intention of him blocking them, I aimed slightly higher than usual, and my partner compounded the problem by deflecting my fist up even further with his block. He blocked it right into his own mouth. He spun away fairly dramatically, but the blood was minimal and he carried straight on. Of course, I apologised, holding my tooth-dented knuckle into my chest like a sick baby. I have to admit though, that it does give one a certain rush to punch somebody else in the face. And without any rage, as well. Doing it to someone you despise must be wholly satisfying, or maybe I'm just a sadist. He told me that it was also quite painful when I later punched him on the end of the finger and nearly broke that too, but I didn't get a fix from that one.
When I got in last night, in a semi-wasted haze, I loaded $50 onto an online poker site and played on the internet for the first time in three weeks. I'd never do it when I'm sober, I promised myself that work would come first (and to be fair, it has, and I'm enjoying it). I vaguely recall being grossly unfairly beaten in one tournament (the opinion of a drunk man, bear in mind), but then winning another. I believe I withdrew $57 after about 2 hour's play. Not as stinging a loss as some people think the game is all about, with practice it's a solid, skillfull game. In my defence, I looked for a "proper" job for months before finally settling on learning cards. And it's the only time I've ever made roughly £7,000 sitting around in my underwear. And strangely, through no shortage of non-scientific testing, I play just as well when I'm tanked as when I'm not.

Appropriate Health Care

The only work I actually did today was to attend my weekly student-selected unit, on Global Health (I missed the morning lectures after my body decided to take a 5 hour lie-in). The session was based on the theory that medical care and funding is useless and cannot work unless the treatment is appropriate. Successfully transplanting a heart is a great achievement, but if 300 babies a year are dying from cholera down the road, then what is the point? The speaker's point was illustrated by a pyramid they had constructed to demonstrate appropriate care for cystic fibrosis. The stages of the pyramid rise from the cheapest, most common sense treatments like lifestyle advice and routines check-ups, to the top of the pyramid, which was lung transplant. If the system is implemented well, no stage should be attempted until the lower stage has been accomplished. In theory, this would provide a basis for appropriate health care in developing countries, and curb the vastly unrepresentative funding allocation problems that plague the third world. Countries like Nepal, which I have visited, seem far to keen to appear as westernised, and hence skip stages of the pyramid and provide ridiculously expensive tertiary treatments when none would be necessary if basic measures had been implemented. It's akin to Indian shanty towns having electricity and plumbing fitted. It may not be "sexy" medicine, but that's not the point. The most basic, monotonous things like immunization and maternal education are the most helpful in modern medicine, and save the most lives. And there isn't anything more glamorous than saving lives, as any first year medic will tell you.

"Age is not an Issue"

In the first of three bedside teaching sessions today, my tutor group and I were in our new consultant's office, discussing the case history of a gentleman on the ward. At some point, one of my colleagues said something along the lines of "but he was a little forgetful", at which point I chirped in with the sympathetic and harmless "well, he is 91". The consultant promptly leapt up in his chair and said "please don't say that". He went on to explain that the patient's age, on paper, should have no bearing on their care, beside the academic notes and cut-offs for specialist services. If a patient is fit enough for a certain treatment, then they should receive it. He has a very valid point. Beside the fact that my comment was harmless, and he accepted the fact that no apology was necessary, his argument is perfectly correct. I've seen plenty of fit and active 80 year olds, and even more lazy broken 50 year olds to know that some people are significantly older or younger in body than their birth certificate. I myself have a great aunt who is pushing 100 and still to my knowledge accepts absolutely no help from others. Whether it's genetic, involving theories about telomeres, or social, accounting premature or late aging to stress, smoking or booze, the fact remains, that some people, many of us in fact, have ages that differ remarkably to the number printed on our driving licence. Whilst we're on the subject, I have no intention to live any longer than my body can comfortably cope with. Have kids, have grandkids, retire, learn golf or whatever, but when the hips start to creak and I find myself having to sit down on my way to the kitchen even though I'm walking from the hall, someone remind me to go out gloriously by pushing a kid out of the path of a bus, or shielding some disabled people from a suicide bomber. Lord knows that I'm just to proud to have time inflict itself on me in that way.
Wow, moving on, after my teaching sessions I drove to Boldrewood (my first and second year lecture campus) to have an interview with an anatomy doctor about the possibility of me taking up one of her projects next year. The projects on offer weren't wonderfully stimulating, but I have the sense to ask her if she had any vacancies for a student in her own personal research, which is on Alzheimer's disease. She said the thought hadn't occurred to her, but now that I'd mentioned it would be a great idea. She even mentioned that there was a chance of presenting the findings in Scotland or Iceland, all expenses paid (she has funding, well spent!). The possible travel is nice, but to be honest the chance to work as the sole assistant to a leading researcher is incentive enough. Unfortunately, when I asked her, there were 3 other student in the room who promptly jumped on the bandwagon. Hopefully she'll recognise my enthusiasm (I did originally ask). I sent her a follow-up email to confirm my interest.
Hockey in the evening, no better way to relax than to have small shards of plastic hit at you at speeds of around 75mph in cases.

Parking and Conquering Fears

So much for one of my mates who told me it would be fine to park in the BUPA hospital car park over the road from the main hospital. I got back to my Punto today and found a lovely A4 plastic-pocketed sheet attached to my windscreen wiper by an elastic band. Warning me of the dangers of parking there. It is now blu-tacked to my bedroom door, like I've stolen a traffic cone of something. Couple that with the joy of being charged £11 for 4 hours parking in Soton city centre last week and I just want to drive my bloody car through the Civic Centre right into the council chambers and leave it there. Preferably on a parking attendant.
It seems like every week that we're asked, neigh expected to carry out some new and fearful task on the wards. It started out simple, like just finding a patient on the ward and getting a basic history out of them. Then we were asked to incorporate a relevant examination into the history. Then that was adapted to being told which patient to see, getting a quicker history out of the customer and giving the consultant the bare bones of it during the ward round. That may sound like a fairly responsibility laden task, but if you forget anything then the consultant has all the angles covered anyway, you just look like a bit of knob when she asks you. It gradually gets worse. A few weeks ago we had begun to get looked upon as the blood slaves, people with a clinical knowledge just good enough to stick a needle into somebody, and therefore eternally abusable. I seemed to deal with that lot okay. But now I have to conquer one of my current remaining fears-old people. Everyone has their weak spot, I know medics who are scared of blood. Some can't click with kids. My Achilles heel is people of a certain age, and their common added trait of delirium. For the first time today I got onto the geriatric (whoops, Older People's Care) ward and asked the sister who might be good to clerk (take a history and examination from). She reeled off a few names, of the ladies and gents who might be compis mentis. I took my pick, and introduced myself. It didn't take long before I realised that the nice gentleman may have a touch of cognitive impairment. I asked, "so when did you come in?". He didn't know. Not a good sign. Shit. There is a list as long as my arm of things that make older people delirious (memory loss, hallucination, delusions). And this gent obviously had at least one. We muddled through the history, but his recall was fairly poor and I couldn't tease much from him. I spared him the trial of an examination, but I did notice that his left arm was weak when I put his jumper back on. It turned out that he had left sided weakness from a previous stroke. My point is this-practice rarely fails to improve your ability, at most medical things. I'm sure, over time, I'll develop a better technique for taking histories from forgetful patients, and learn to be opportunistic in examining them, much like with paediatric or psychiatric patients. Because to be honest, it's not their problem that they can't remember-it's mine.
Did a few more pages of my essay today, I'm forced to write the bulk of the text early so I have enough time to ruminate on it and change everything at the last minute.
Finished watching the second series of Green Wing on DVD. Dr Statham, as my girlfriend will grudgingly attest to, is now another one of my surrogate fathers. The list includes Bruce Forsyth, and the guy who ran the local burger van close to my first year halls.

The Great McDonalds Drive-Thru Swindle

Firstly, cheers for the hits guys. 70 in one day kept me happy!
I buried my guilt at lunchtime today and drove down to McDonalds. It's just another superfluous use for my recently acquired car, like at sixth form when I'd offer people lifts into town when I had lessons to go to, and nothing to do in town. Anyway, I revved into the drive-thru lane and just caught sight of a noisy little souped up Micra in front of me, full of chavs. They drove straight past the ordering window, and I had a silent laugh at their stupidity. I pulled up quietly at the ordering window and said my piece. As I pulled away to collect my McHeartDisease, I noticed the chav-laden shite mobile being given some food from the second, serving window. When I myself pulled up there and asked for my order, they said it had already gone. That's right, the bloody baseball cap wearing wasters had taken it. No skin off my nose, they had my order made up again in about two seconds, but the ingenuity of the whole thing stuck with me. You'd think someone would have noticed. In fact, the cashier even said that it happens "all the time".
Ladies and gentlemen, evolution in progress. The chavs that cannot devise clever schemes to scrape food from McDonalds will starve, and their blood lines will perish, leaving only the slightly more devious chavs (and the ones that win the lottery) to live on, and breed.
A few minor flaws, however. The chavs in question had apparently ordered already, and been waiting in the car park for a special item of some kind. When they got tired of waiting, they drove through again and took my food. Enough for one, at the most. There were four of them. And also, if they choose to drive souped-up Micras like they did, then they'll probably be scraped off the road before they even digest the stuff.
As for the other aspects of my day, I spent the morning in a diabetes clinic reinforcing a few concepts I'd forgotten about the whole, multi-faceted disease, it's complications and treatment. I suppose you could say that I had the afternoon off, unless you count lying around on the bed thumbing through three textbooks on cancer as work. I suppose you do.
Karate from 6pm til 8pm, I had a word with the instructor about getting my yellow belt by Easter, he seemed confident. Knees still feel as solid as Watford's away record though.
Oh, and Bristol City waltzed past Brighton 2-0 in the big game of the night, the semi final of the southern section of the Johnstone Paint Trophy. Couple that with a FA Cup 4th round spot, and a league placing of 2nd with a game in hand, and it might just be our season. There, I jinxed it.

Speccy Kids and Spicy Salad

I'm watching Junior Mastermind. Some speccy kid (one of four) is smirking as he reels off the tenth consecutive answer to questions that would stump your average bloke. I know about as many as he does, but he's only twelve. Still, that smirk is grating on me. What element has the abbreviation Pb? Lead. The capital of Australia? Canberra. The name of King Arthur's magician? Merlin. Shit, I know them but so does he. And his specialist subject was Take That, for God's sake. They split up before he was even born.
But then it happens. Which galaxy contains a cluster of stars, one of which is our own Sun? I know this one, the Milky Way. But his punchable smirk drops. He pauses, and mumbles...the Universe?
No, it's not the fucking Universe, thicko. That's Alex : 1, Speccy Kid : 0. And also, I have a girlfriend, he probably never will. Two nil.
Now I've gotten that off my chest I can chat about something less inflammatory. I went shopping today and noticed that Tesco's have started grading their pre-prepared salads in order of spiciness. The ratings start at "Mild", which includes my own personal favourite Jardin, and then on to "Moderate". Finally you get to the "Spicy" stuff, which includes the presumably tongue boiling variety Rocket. I can picture grown men around the dining table with a Carling, saying things like, "Bloody hell Steve, you always have a Rocket, and you never finish it!", and "Another Crispy Green Baz? You pussy!". For once, my testosterone is not tempted to compete.
I was up at 8am today to start my new rotation, Old Age Care. When we finally find our consultant, he eventually find an empty side room and ran through a case of a patient with renal failure. All very interesting, and it jogged a few points that I need to revise, but it was a little distracting to be spending more than a short while on a ward, neigh an entire hospital level, that smelled so obviously of piss. And the central heating was down too, so it felt like the roof had been blown off and the reconstruction workers had relieved themselves where they worked.
I've got nothing personal against old people. They were young once, and of course, I'll be old in time, and they've had long, interesting lives which have collected much wisdom. But caring for them when they get ill is not easy. Many of them have totally checked out, and only offer a vague piercing stare and extremely limited control of their limbs and bladder. I can and will be caring to the patients under my care but compared to working in A+E, obstetrics or paediatrics for example, the doctors who specialize in Elderly Care must have a subtle feeling that their efforts are eternally in vain. Mrs. Smith's hip op at the age of 85 is not going to give her another sprightly 20 years. She won't have that extra child she craved, be able to continue with her sparkling tennis career, or even go back to work at the Post Office. I sound like such a skeptical bastard, but all I'm saying is that nearly every other speciality must be more rewarding, and I don't see why a competent doctor would freely choose Elderly Care over so many other choices.
I hung around in the library in the afternoon, trying to get some more essay done against my will. I have a strange feeling that I'll still be writing the night before the deadline. Again.

Weekend with Vera

My girlfriend was back from France for the weekend so I had a bit more to do than usual. To start with I nearly booked then had to cancel a hitchhike to Morocco, it would have been a great experience but as it turned out I have an assessment that week.
We went shopping for a while, only buying a few books and a coffee or two. We saw Rocky Balboa at the Odeon, it was fairly good. A bit too slow at the start, and a slightly tenuous plot line coupled with a highly unrealistic finish made it a film probably best left to the fans of the previous 5 movies (like me). After that, we chilled out for a while and eventually ended up in the Hobbit at about 8.30pm, to catch up with one of my good poker mates, and his girlfriend. Played a few games of pool (2 out of 3) and eventually wandered on down to Jesters to see the usual crowd. A pretty good night, and some of my mates finally got to meet my girlfriend, as they swim in very different circles at the moment. Stumbled home at around 1.30am with a pineapple burger.
In the morning, strangely headache free, I chatted to the landlady for a while whilst my girlfriend signed the contracts for next year. Yes, she's moving in next year, and soon there will be no escape from constant supervision!
At 12.30pm I drove down to play hockey against Highfield Halls, who actually turned out to be fielding more than a few Wessex players. Still no match for us though, and our second-string team beat them easily, 3-1. The most action I got was during the warm up, and at half-time, when I got the girlfriend onto the pitch to push a few balls at me.
I think the big game is next weekend, us against Sheffield in the NAMS semi-final. The last two years they've beaten us in exactly the same scenario.
Waved Vera off at the megabus stop at 4.30pm and drove home to an evening of essays, 4th year study applications, ironing and washing up. You can run but you can't hide!
Only consolation is the snooker final, Ronnie is 5-3 up on Ding, and it's first to 10.
A few quick notes, Bristol City thumped Oldham 3-0 away from home to go joint second with a game in hand. And tomorrow I start my 4 week Old Age Care placement. Not to sound unenthusiastic, but oh, the joy.

Shaved Head and Hitching to Morocco

Yesterday evening I trotted on down to the student union to play in the fortnightly poker tournament. I was president last year, so it made a change to play and not have to get up every 5 minutes to check on the running of the whole thing. Around 65 people showed up, a smaller field than usual, probably due to exams. I finished 6th, and was only knocked out after a prolonged period of being dealt distinctly below average cards. I even managed to pop in a few well timed bluffs. I owe whatever skill I have at the game to the booze, I'd never have the balls to raise with nothing if I'd not had a few JDs and Aftershocks beforehand.
My girlfriend turned up during the event, great to see her, as she lives in France this year, because of her languages degree. By coincidence I spent a few hours during the tournament playing against a few French guys. When one of them got knocked out we ingeniously shouted "poisson!" and "poulet!". One of them responded quietly by taking all my chips.
Not surprisingly I woke up with a tad of a headache and slept through the morning lectures, on rheumatoid disease, which I was subsequently told were very average. I did make it in for my afternoon student-selected unit, Global Health. This week it was malaria, again more epidemiology than clinical info. Followed by a few photos and anecdotes from an ex-Medicins Sans Frontiers doctor who'd previously worked in Afghanistan and Sudan. Inspiring, if I needed any further encouragement to go into aid work.
When I got back I fulfilled an earlier agreement and called a close to the reign of the long hair, which had been growing for about a year. It wasn't girly long, but if I'd have left it much longer then it might have been getting that way. So now, courtesy of my girlfriend and a home-hair shaver, I'm the proud owner of a grade 2 buzz cut.
Spotted an advert for a charity event where the participants hitchhike to Morocco, and them I assume them hitchhike back again. I'll check my diary but I'm very interested. The £300 minimum fund raising total shouldn't be a massive ask. It would also fulfill my resolution to visit 3 new countries this year (Holland for hockey tour and India for elective are the others).

Barbarian Comparison and Blood Rounds

Ancient tribes used to take souvenirs from their conquered enemies, like scalps, teeth, bones and all that. Doctors and medical students are similar. Given, we don't take them from our victims, but they still mince around with countless artifacts draped off their person that signify their abilities. The stethoscope around the neck, demonstrating at least a basic ability to listen to the lungs and heart. The tourniquet around the belt or mini-bag, to signify an ability to tease blood out of someone's arm. The tape (to tape gauze to puncture wounds) around the arms of the stethoscope to labour the point. The bleep on the belt, to signify being needed on occasion for an opinion (hence I don't have one). X-ray request forms in a clasp of the bleep to signify busyness and an ability to request special tests. The ID badge around the neck, the finishing touch, which on closer inspection could read anything from "consultant", to "medical student". The final product is a professional who resembles too much a Christmas tree of paraphernalia to possibility save any lives. You don't half look cool though.
God knows how I did it but I got up earlier than I could have this morning, at 7am. I had to get in to the hospital for 8.15am, for an interview with a researcher about the possibility of me working with him next year for my fourth year project. As it turned out, he quickly put me off by insisting that the research had no implications for treatment and no patient contact, like it was a good thing. And then he made me feel extra guilty for not choosing to take an extra year to intercalate (do a BSc in one year, next year). I don't see the point, and it doesn't fit with my career path at all, but I still left feeling like a naughty schoolboy. I decided that I want a clinical project, where I get to meet people who aren't total nerds and might even do some good. Personally, I think the whole fourth year project is a bit of a strange idea, a waste of a good 6 months in some respects.
As soon as I made it back to the ward after the interview, I was lumbered with a stack of blood request forms and a tray of needles. I christened it "blood rounds", and set off with one of my mates to conquer the ward. We took it in turns, and on my turns, I generally took my time, but got the goods in the end. Towards the end I missed a lot, and once I even mistook a tendon for a vein, and felt like a moron, but hey, it's the kind of mistake that only happens once.
After lunch I went to another interview, but there turned out to be a whole room of people hoping for the same research spot. And guess what, the doctor gave massive preference to those with a BSc. I hate the fact that just because I want to actually get onto a ward and see patients, and not waste another year of my life in a lab measuring some tiny fractions of meaningless factors, I'm treated as a second class student.
Did some other menial jobs for the first time, like requesting an echo, and bleeping the fast-collect specimen guys.
I'm onto the JD already this evening, waiting for my girlfriend to get here on the train from France, for the weekend. Then we'll be off to the Poker Nite at the student union, the first event since my tenure as president ran out in December. Let's gamble!

Bleed....Please!

As I clumsily plunge the needle even deeper, and even more hopelessly into the patient's arm, I grit my teeth and pray for red gold. Taking blood is all well and good when the guy on the end of the needle is fit, healthy, one of your mates, and is actually talking you through it. But patients are another deal. For the most part, they're old, thin, and have had more injections than Pete Doherty. All these things make it nearly impossible to find a vein, and to get a needle in it. Not that my patient seemed to care though, he just lies back in his semi-conscious state and bears the ineptitude of it all. I'm lucky in the fact that I have quite thick skin (figuratively) so I can take messing it up a few times in my stride. I'll get there in the end.
That was the end to my hospital day today. It began at 7am as a lurched for the alarm clock, which I'd set to play my long-lost Linkin Park CD. I knew it would wake me up, one way or the other. Actually not bad stuff....
I'd been scheduled to get to CCU (Cardiac Care Unit) for 8.15am, and after all that effort, of course they didn't know we were meant to be coming. We trailed around on the ward round, glancing at quickly shown ECGs and arteriograms, trying to glean info. After that, I clerked a nice man who'd suffered a heart attack last week, and had put it down to indigestion for eight hours before coming in. Unbelievable. The pain, he told me, was excruciating. Still, a nice bloke, with a very thin notes folder. This is an excellent sign, it means an uncomplicated patient, with no nasty past problems to find and remember. A rare entity.
Some marmite toast and coffee from the League of Friends shop filled the gap between then and the usual ward round, back on the respiratory ward. Not a bad one, they always start with lots of questions, and get stretched at the end as the doctors run out of time. Heard a textbook pansystolic murmur (at third time of asking), and bilateral bronchial breathing.
Also clerked a lovely old lady with an occlusion in one of her spinal arteries, some patients are just a joy to talk to. She had roughly a million cards, and an all singing-all dancing ant on a pot plant toy. Don't ask!
Bristol City only bloody won their replay against Coventry to make it to the FA Cup 4th round, home against Middlesborough. It's winnable, I tell you.

Medic Pincushion

Before I start, please comment! I'm curious as to who the hell reads this thing.
Taking a four hour lie-in is beginning to become a bit too much of a habit. I wake up, decide to snooze for half an hour, and every half an hour until noon I come up with new and exciting reasons why I don't have to get up yet. Mind you, it doesn't help when you finally get the hospital, and two of your three scheduled sessions never happen. I was booked to do a clinical skills session at 12:30, but the room was locked and empty when I arrived on time, so I suppose I must've copied the date or time wrong into my timetable. And God knows I tried to write a bit more of my essay at lunchtime, but I ended up getting challenged to a few games of chess on my workstation and wasted a good 45 minutes. At least I won every game...but the uni chess club has been slow to contact me this term about fixtures. No-one can argue about my record for them on paper before Christmas, I won two games out of three, but I don't think turning up to serious matches with a pint and dozing off during games did me much good.
My rheumatology lecture at 2pm also didn't happen, the lecturer never turned up. A shame actually, the ones before Xmas weren't all that bad.
We eventually got some teaching when my neuro lecturer ( a stand-in actually, but who cares) turned up for our fourth and final session on his speciality. A fairly textbook session of case histories, matching the set of symptoms and signs to the section of the nervous system from which the disease originates. Some of the upper motor neuron/lower motor neuron stuff is actually starting to lodge in my head-a year after our neurology module ended, and I got an E.
The bulk of my educational day was spent drifting around the wards on D level with 3 other medics, trying to find the equipment and privacy to practice taking blood and cannulating each other. We were finally turfed into the sluice (home of the bedpan cleaner, bathroom supplies, clinical waste bins), an excellent place to open somebody's skin. The fact that we practice on each other is apparently quite shocking to some people, but believe me, you'd rather we gave each other little lumps on the arm than gave your 80 year old grandmother an arm-long deathly black bruise. I'm a bit of a venesection/cannulation virgin, so I watched it being done twice (on me, actually, and both times they missed the vein) before I stepped up to try it myself. Needle in, blood out, needle out. Smooth as silk. I'm 100% on taking blood! Mostly due to the excellent tutelage of the rather more experienced medic on the other end of the needle though, I dare say.
Having needle marks and accompanying bruises on both arms wasn't a great asset for the karate session in the evening, because as it turned out it involved rather a lot of lower arm grabbing/pulling etc. Maybe I'm getting slightly better, but as I can't ever see my own posture and movement it's hard to tell. I'd like to make yellow belt by Easter but these things are beyond my control. Snuck in a cheeky four JDs in the Stag (campus bar) after the session. Retox.

Young Medics : Rabbits in the Headlights

For one of the first times at the hospital, I felt like I wasn't the lowest link on the food chain. Of course, the doctors are higher than me. The nurses too, generally know more about medicine and are better respected. The patients are exempt from classification, and hell, even the cleaners get paid. But there is one group of individuals that make even my command of the caring profession look masterful; first and second year medics. They tiptoe around the wards, following their doctor in a perfectly obedient line, holding the door open for anything that moves. God forbid, if someone or something enters a corridor that they happen to be waiting on, they leap up against the wall and wait for the danger (or maintenance man) to pass. As for patients, they treat them like a medusa made from glass. Get to close, and you'll turn to stone. And for Christ's sake don't handle them too clumsily, or they'll shatter. As I watch the herd of medics pass by, a put the drug chart back on the end of the patient's bed, casually but politely tell her to take care and realise for a second that maybe I actually have learnt a few things.
After the ward round, for which I clerked and presented a gentleman with myasthenia (muscle weakness to the face and tongue), I felt pretty good. I was complimented, unusually for me, on the clarity of my presentation. And the patient even told the consultant that he enjoyed speaking to the "young gentleman". Bloody hell!
Lecture on respiratory failure followed, where I failed to understand the same single essential diagram on the subject for the ninth consecutive time.
After lunch I went for an interview with an anaesthetic consultant, discussing the possibility of me undertaking a research study devised by him for my fourth year study. We spend the fourth year mostly writing a lengthy research paper, and around this time we have to apply for positions with different doctors to do their chosen ideas. My first interview was based around the concept of me convincing people to sleep for 28 straight nights in an oxygen-decreased tent. Their haemoglobin would be measured each week, to check for increase. Hopefully this increase in haemoglobin is useful for upcoming surgery patients, to limit the need for transfusions. It would definitely be a unique study amongst my peers, and probably very interesting. I'll see what I can glean from my other up coming interviews, which include studies based on stem cell research and DNA cancer vaccines.
In the late afternoon, I had a casual two hours writing up another page of my essay and being lightly quizzed by an F1 doctor on mesothelioma, a type of asbestos-induced lung cancer that attacks the pleura. She also took me to see an abdominal ultrasound, quick and easy to understand. A good doctor and a good teacher, I'll be sure to hang around her a bit more in the future.

Death by "Hold your Wee for a Wii"

I actually did something useful with my time today! Granted, it happened after I'd gotten up at 2pm, but it was still useful. I slung on my sports gear and drove down to Wide Lane, for the termly Firsts versus Seconds match for the Medic's hockey team, the Gophers. Because I'm the only goalie, and we only have one full goalie kit, I played for the second team and the firsts went without a goalie. I had a lot of work to do, and couldn't help feeling that the first team were being unusually kind in not shooting the way they usually do... The second team won 4-1. It's far from the first time I've played against the first team, I recently played for RUMS (London) against Southampton in a national cup game because RUMS were an awful team, and didn't have their own goalie anyway. We won 9-0 that day.

Drove home, and got all the little chores out of the way. It was actually a bit rewarding to sort out the washing up, hoover my room, and iron two weeks worth of creased shirts. But don't tell anyone. And even then I wasn't done, I wrote a rough draft of the first page of my essay, on adenocarcinoma, the most common, but not the most severe form of lung cancer.

When I finally got some rest I switched on the darts, and watched what could been the greatest some back in the history of the game. Nixon, practically a pub player, had reached the final of the World Championships against Adams, world number one (in a different organisation to Taylor and Barneveld). He went 6-0 down, but pulled it back to 6-6 before the professional eventually dragged his sorry carcass over the line. As for the snooker, Ding Junghui made a 147 on the first day of the Masters. I can't argue with his talent, but for God's sake smile. The BBC do such a good job of highlighting the personalities of all the top pros, and really turn them into celebrities. But poor old Ding couldn't charm a lemming off a cliff.

A mate of mine drew my attention to a woman in America (where else, he said, and I agree with him), who died due to water intoxication. Tragic, you say, and how did this awful accident happen? She entered a competition, run by a local radio station, to win a Nintendo Wii. It was called "Hold your Wee for a Wii" and the contestant who could drink the regulated amount of water without urinating for the longest period of time would win the console. I find it incredible that someone (a radio station for that matter) could be so irresponsible as to allow this. Any half-ecent doctor would have told them that the results could be horrific, and easily equate to what happens if you give someone IV water. The blood sodium drops, cells become hypotonic, swell and burst, and various lovely effects include cerebral oedema (brain swelling), seizures and kidney failure.

Laziness, Hangovers, etc.

Yesterday I once again showed a total disregard for the laws of the alarm clock, getting up a good 3 hours after I'd woken up. Part of me (the neurotic part) thinks that I have chronic fatigue syndrome, or a melatonin problem. But most of me knows that I'm just lazy. Anyway, the second half of SBOM was average. The radiology section was fairly good, but the video about breaking bad news was just another piece of commumication skills rubbish that treats us like we're all sociopaths.
Wasted another lunchtime on stickcricket.com, and scrounged money from mates for the second day in a row because the only 2 cash machines in the whole hospital (and one of them charges £1.85) are out of order.
My new student selected unit, "Global Health", was thought provoking. It turns out that it's not based on tropical disease as such, but about the political, ecomonical, and sociologial aspects of the state of world health. Puts Beckham's new salary of $1 million a week at LA Galaxy into perspective. But you'd have to pay me more to play with ex-Coventry players, in America. This week's session was based on Globalisation. The course co-ordinator was extremely well travelled, and also a consultant. Confirmed my beliefs that medicine and globe trotting are compatible.
Pub golf in the evening, but I called peri-birthday privelige and turned up in normal gear. Quickly tried to catch up with everyone else, seeing as I arrived one hole late. By the third hole I was happily playing golf with a tennis ball and miniature plastic club like everyone else. I ingeniously stood as the "pin", about ten metres away, only expecting putts. The first shot nearly took my head off. When it was my turn, I swung the club back and the head came off, hitting someone on the table about 5 metres behind us. Luckily I knew him from the poker society and he didn't need our medical attention. After that, the rest is blurry, but I remember two of us carrying one of my mates down the road until she screamed to be let down, and chatting/dancing in Jesters until about one o'clock. I also remember the pineapple burger and chips I ate on the way home. Beautiful. The CD in my CD player had been changed as well, so I must have switched it and listened to it before I got to bed.
Missed karate this morning. At first I thought it was because I was being lazy again, but when I tried to get up realised that my head did actually ache quite badly. Am still in bed now, at 4.30pm, watching the darts. Nothing better to do (that's a lie).
Had an idea, but probably too busy to implement it- drive a few medics up to Ben Nevis and climb it for charity. It's all walking rather than actually climbing per se, and we could check in to a B+B the night before. I'll do a quick scan to see who's interested and if it's worth my time.
I always save loads of little jobs for the weekend, and none of them ever get done.
At the risk of inoriginality, I found this slice of The Guardian on another medical blog site, NHS Blog Doctor. GPs make virtually no clinical decisions. "Their job is to act as gatekeepers on the medical service and refer patients to a real doctor. There is no reason why this should require an expensively trained professional and as this anecdote shows most of their job can be done by a competent clerical worker." I can say from more than a little personal experience hat GPs have a more rounded and hence more generally useful medical knowledge than any other type of doctor. Their knowledge is, for the most part, astounding.

Birthday...Drumroll Please....

My 21st birthday today. I don't know what I expected to happen, a brass band, hordes of strippers, Noel Edmonds and Jimmy Saville outside my front door with a medal? Well whatever it was, although I didn't really hold out for much, I can't help feeling a little melancholic. When I come to think of it, for each birthday for the past few years I've actually felt quite reminiscent, maybe even a bit low. I had my birthday meal last week, and all the presents. And I got the obligatory Facebook mass of messages from my mates. But somehow, for some reason, I miss the days when I'd get a surprise present or party. Silly really.
Late as usual, to old age lectures for 9am. The first on Parkinson's was fine, although a little dry as I find most neurology. The second, on the sociology of aging, was as tedious as hell and I was fairly lucky in that I had to duck out for a scheduled tutorial. I enjoy tutorial teaching, it gives me a good chance to get some time talking to someone who really knows what they're on about. I do have a nasty habit though, of knowing the answer to most questions but being about a second too slow to answer each time. Then when it's specifically my turn, and I'm asked what rare changes to look for on an ECG of a patient with a pulmonary embolus, I look like a tit.
Wasted a good few hours past lunchtime on stickcricket.com with a mate. I kill him every time, even though of the two of us he's the only one that plays in real life.
After my cyber triumph, I actually bothered to go up to D5 and see some sick people. They're everywhere up there. Saw a lady who had not yet been told about the presence of an adenocarcinoma (common lung cancer) in her right upper lobe. She did seem pretty savvy about it though, and will probably have her inklings. She has emphysema as well already, but is only 63. I will almost certainly use her as my essay patient.
Missed hockey, partly through birthday "blues" and partly through laziness.
Cue the fireworks- my spot is on the way down!!

January 10, 2007

As I sip my third JD of the evening whilst watching my second film, I contemplate my next blog entry. I was given three bottles of my favourite bourbon for Xmas and my birthday, along with a separate bottle of Famous Grouse, so I have a lot of relaxed drinking on the weekday evenings to come I suspect.
I just read my first comment, which although basic serves to remind me that I'm not talking to myself. I wouldn't mind that, but it does provide extra impetus to write, knowing that someone somewhere is listening. Again, feel free to comment, no matter how irrelevant it may seem.
I woke at about 8 today, on time and ready to go, but for the first time this term I suffered from my terrible affliction of just never quite being able to get that first foot out of bed. I bargained and pleaded with myself, until I convinced my poor self to stay in bed all morning. I didn't miss anything important, but if I take too many free days then it will definately show in the end. I eventually did turn up at the hospital for a clinical skills session on oxygen therapy. Attaching masks to faces, and the reason why etc. The man running the session had to step out for a minute to take a call. It turned out that it was his vet, telling him that his cat had to be put down. It put a slight downer on things, but when it turned out the cat was as old as me, then it didn't seen so harsh. It reminded me of an old sketch, where the vet picks a dog up, looks in it's mouth, and tells the owner he has to put it down. When asked why by the distraught owner, he says "because he's very heavy".
Spent too much on my shopping in Tescos, I suppose that's what I get for buying healthy for a change.
The film I just finished watching was called "Identity", about a man with multiple personality disorder, whose different personalities fight against each other in a thriller/whodunnit type mystery in a motel. Excellent idea, and well played by Cusack.
Apologies for the rather unexciting post, I suppose that's what life is about sometimes. I'll try and mix myself into some intriuging hospital politics so I have something to harp on about.
P.S. My birthday tomorrow, send money!

Back to Work with a Vengeance

Well and truly back to the grind now, the list of jobs to do is already starting to pile up. On top of my usual 7-8 hours a day in the hospital, I have to plan my summer elective to India, plan my research study for next year, and also find a suitable patient to write an essay on, and then of course write the essay. But it's only for breif moments that I wish I was less busy. To a certain extent I survive on the heavy workload, and find myself at a loose end when I have little to do.
I spent the morning as the sole student on the ward, due to the others being at clinics (fair enough) or on planes over Greenland (distinctly unfair). I tried to make the most of it by soaking up the info without the usual crush, but in truth the junior doctors took advantage of the absence of our Consultant and students and tried to get it all done sharpish. I chatted with the F1 doctor and revised how to fill out a death certificate and cremation form, but didn't get to see the body, as the mortuary was conveniently closed unil noon. Between you and me, even 3 years into the course, I still feel a bit strange when I realise that the patient whose death certificate you are watching get filled out is the same lady who was suspiciously shaky at yesterday's ward round. I suppose with time I might grow to deal with it, maybe not. Either way, it's not so much of a problem for me.
I ended up taking a quick history and examination from a pleasant lady with a pneumothorax. Originally it was with a view to using her for my essay but later on I realised that the "treatment" section, on which the largest part of the essay will be based, may be a little difficult to find enough info for. I'll have another look tomorrow.
Spent lunchtime and early afternoon on Facebook, carpet bombing one of my friend's "walls" with general humorous abuse. I said she had a face like a crushed up ironing board, and even Big Brother would tell her that she was too weird. In response, she told me that I was the owner of some particularly fragrant body odour, and made a nasty jibe at the rather too visible spot on my forehead. 21 on Thursday for Christ's sake, and I have my first spot for about 6 months.
First Karate session in a few weeks in the evening, knees felt like shit and my timing was rusty, only to be expected.
On to current affairs, I woke to the news that America had attacked (nothing unusual so far).....Somalia (there we go). I know nothing about the situation, but at first thought it smacks of what may well turn out to be an embarrasing mistake. Somalia, really?
Not too labour the point too much, but if we live on a planet were 6 billion people make that man the most powerful, then something has gone seriously wrong. I honestly believe that any person elected to British Government could do a better job, if not me or you.
It's good to see the hits racking up slowly, calms the initial worries that I might be posting comments onto a deserted page...feel free to leave comments, they'd give me something to think about when writing.

First Day Back

My day started well, woke up at 8.45am, slightly surprised that my alarm clock hadn't done it's job. Was certainly not surprised by the fact that I'd actually set it for 8pm. So I was a bit late for the first ward rounds of the new year, not that any of the doctors noticed that I was ever gone. Of course, we medics are the parasites of the hospital, leeching everybody's time and patience. No chance to use my incredible raspberry coloured (but not flavoured) stethoscope, one of my Christmas presents, and just another crutch on which to lean my flimsy medical ego. All these little trinkets that make us feel more able and knowledgeable but frankly aren't a bit more useful than their most basic equivalent.
The patients weren't making the morning much more fun either, by insisting on having incurable diseases. Of the first 3 patients, 2 had already been "signed off", handed over to palliative care. Had a slight revival with a group of more cheerful patients but I've learnt already that the majority of patients have been admitted to have their demises temporarily postponed, and not averted for any vast length of time. It sounds cruel, but if you look any honest caring doctor in the eye and ask him if Mrs. Smith's tenth course of antibiotics will give her a good strong ten years then you're only getting one answer. In fact, it's a tribute to these same doctors that patients can get so old these days. Caring and naivety are two very different things.
After a case-based-teaching session on diabetic foot ulcers (actually learnt somthing that might stick), I nipped to the canteen for some lunch. I know sometimes eateries have a "curry day" or "Scottish day", but to have a "crap food" day is simply poor management. And not even advertising it was even worse. In the two horse race between baked potatoes that looked more like rockery stones and vegetable lasagne that reminded me of my recent learning on diabetic feet, I took the latter. God knows why.
Went back up to the ward, but found it devoid of doctors (driving to the golf club in their Porsches no doubt) and medics (getting the bus to Clowns no doubt). Took an early finish and buggered off home to catch the late Neighbours after an afternoon nap. That's right, a nap. I'm nearly 21 and I still get drowsy after lunch. But just because I'm a medic doesn't mean I'm not also a student at heart...

Pro-Anorexia Websites and a Unique Invention

Medical news issues are like buses it appears, and luckily for me, as it means that I have plenty to write about aside from my own doings! The latest story is the appearance to the media of pro-anorexia websites, on which anorexics tout the disease as a desirable condition and offer advice about how to attain an unhealthily low BMI. Disgusting, was my natural reaction. But the problem is complicated. Anorexia, the fear of gaining weight accompanied by a decrease in food intake, is a mental illness. A vast number of mentally ill patients lack what the medical profession calls "insight", the realisation that one is actually ill. Just like a schizophrenic may honestly believe that voices are controlling him, anorexics believe that their bodies are overweight, despite the opposite being blatantly true. And if an outspoken, computer literate person were to become anorexic and lack insight, then the appearance of these websites can be easily explained. I don't think that there is any malicious intent here, the people in charge of these sites are genuinely ill themselves and punishment in these cases would not be fitting. A better plan would be to further raise the profile of anorexia as a cureable illness, and to teach parents and friends how to spot the subtle signs of it's incidence. As for the sites themselves, they should be closed down and their clientelle should be followed up as thoroughly as possible for consultation, if possible. Anorexia kills often, and almost always carries many unpleasant symptoms.
As for me, I woke up with a cracking headache, thanks to my vindaloo/champagne/JD special yesterday night. I think I was slurring something about being deserving of a Nobel Prize because I had invented (in theory) the mint flavoured oral contraceptive pill. The best ever method of birth control, and a bonus that makes birth control more likely to become useful....
I drove the 130 miles from sunny Weston-super-Mare back to Southampton late this evening in my new Punto, in fact it was the first time that I'd driven to my Uni city in the 3 years of me being here. 3 hours of boredom, if I hadn't had torrential rain and Pete Tong to keep me entertained, I might well have dozed off...

Embryos and Instant Noodles

It seems all the chat right now is about the new process of using cow's eggs to help create human embryos. Cow's eggs are readily avaliable from slaughterhouses as oppose to human eggs which are closely regulated and scarce. The gist of the theory is that human DNA, taken from skin cells, is injected into the cow's egg and allowed to grow into an embryo after some stimulation. The embyro is then harvested at an early stage ("smaller than a pinhead"). The stem cells collected can be used to aid research into curing degenerative diseases such as luekaemia, diabetes and Alzheimer's. The embryo would be approximately 99.9% human, and 0.01% cow. I think was this is a wonderful theory, and it's realisation is just as spectacular. The sheer fact that we can do these kinds of things is a testament to the distance modern medicine has travelled. But unfortunately, as usual, there are certain groups of public opinion that disaprove with the experiments. They have various arguments against the science, and all, in my opinion, are flawed. Many groups, including but not limited to religious groups, argue that to create and kill an embryo is murder, an unlawful and unethical ceasing of life. To begin with, using my rather intermediatary knowledge of genetics, it is very probable that the chimera (embryo of 2 or more creatures) would not survive to anywhere near full term, even if given optimum surroundings. The body has a natural way of terminating flawed embryos, and this is the most common reason for miscarriage. In addition, it is under contention if these oligocellular embryos should even be classed as life. I understand that this is a possibility, and many people have argued persistently for this distinction. But I'll tell you what life really is to me. Life is the 35 year old mother of three with luekaemia. Life is the 50 year old builder with half a mortgage and early onset Parkinson's. Life is the baby that will never leave hospital, speak, or walk. And if we have to cull a few 16-cell organisms to give this people healthy, happy lives where there would otherwise have been only pain and sadness, then call me a murderer. Another basically flawed argument is that we shouldn't "play God". Well, to be frank, God isn't helping with these diseases, so why shouldn't we? I know I'm an atheist, but if God gave us the sick, and the tools to cure, then what's the problem?
Of course, with every ethical debate, there is a grey area, and eventually, either side, black and white. The problem with allowing these kinds of experiments is that one day we may slip into the unethical without even noticing. Harvesting (such a morbid word, by the way) stem cells from disabled children, for example. But currently, I believe we are firmly on the right path.
On a lighter note (and an immense tangent) a hero of mine has passed away....yes, Momofuku Ando. No? Never heard of him? The inventor of instant noodles. Click here.
As for me, got some surprise birthday presents form the girlfriend yesterday, including a poster, book, jumper, trip on the "Bristol Eye" and night in a posh hotel. I'm starving myself in waiting for my curry tonight (at last!) and hopefully I can thoroughly embarress myself by downing a vindaloo and suffering the after effects.
Finally got my mark back for an essay we did last term, I chose congenital heart disease for mine. I love it how we have an extremely strict procedure and deadline for handing in essay, but when it comes to the School of Medicine's feedback date, it gets universally ignored. And they only have to write down ONE letter... Anyways, I got 5 out of 5 on four of the criteria, and 4 out of 5 on the other. Should be enough for an A, but this is the School of Medicine we're talking about here....Deadlined essay are my ponchant anyway, for my sins, I need to start backing them up with some As in other places.
Adios for now. Alex

Telesales Morons and Restricting Growth in Mentally Disabled Children

Another stagnant day waiting for something interesting to happen. Ended yesterday (well, 5am this morning) with a poker tournament, finishing 8th out of 370 players. I won $220, first was $2,000 but I learnt long ago not to think like that. That means from $25 I now have $750 in just over a week- not bad! Will do nicely for two months rent, takes the pressure off my savings.
My day was brilliantly interrupted by one of those fabulous telesales people. The converstaion (if you can call it that) ran something like this-
Me:Hello?
Telesales Rep: Hello, is that Eddie Langford?
Me:No.
TR: Oh, but you're a family member?
Me: Yes......
TR: Let me tell you about the new package contracts we have right now....
Me: I'm not interested. (I'm honestly not, I'm watching Deal or No Deal).
TR: Great, it's a new way to save money.
Me: I'm not interested.
TR: Wonderful then, let's talk about your present contract.
Me: I'm not interested.
TR: Could I start by confirming your current add****click****

I hung up, mid sentence. In my defence, I had told him fairly clearly three times to piss off. And when someone is in the middle of an all-blue round (No Deal Noel!!) then frankly I don't have the time or the patience.
England look like their usual selves, letting Warne get 70 odd and even Clarke got a quick 35. Just one unfavorable comparison between the two teams, our tail would be lucky to get out of single figures if you added all their scores up.
Saw a news article today about an American couple who have chosen to administer drugs to their severely mentally disabled child, to stop her growing too large for them to comfortably care for. I'll have to check the facts about the drugs used. The papers are using tag lines like "a child forever", but to be honest the girl in question has a mental age of 3 months and she wouldn't be able to use her body in a adult manner even if she was physically fully grown. I think, in danger of allowing the thin end of the wedge, that the couple's decision wasn't all that bad.If they are so hard pressed to make her quality of life good if she's physically fully grown, I can't see what the large problem is with stopping her body (which she has no power to use) growing to a difficult size. Everyone will benefit, it seems. The danger comes from allowing cases like this one, but with fundamental differences, to recieve the same liberal treatment, and set in motion a spiral of unethical treatments. We'll see what the papers say, no doubt some group somewhere will loathe the idea.
In the medical vein, check this link out. We know the NHS is understaffed and underfunded, but your bed collapsing whilst you're giving birth must have been a little unexpected..
Of for a warm up curry tonight, in preparation for the big event on Saturday. 21st birthday, and do I feel that old? Sometimes...

The Ashes, and Consultant Radiologists

Feeling guilty. When you work 9 to 5 every weekday for 15 straight weeks, plus coursework and societies, sleeping til 6pm will probably do that. After another night of eternal grind on the online poker (which, by the way, ended almost profitless), I watched the Ashes until it started raining at about 6am, then after some reading I finally hit the sack. The cricket, obviously, has been dismal in general, and if I have to watch Pietersen bat like he's wearing an invisible blindfold one more time I might fly out there and shoot him. Cook too, for the millionth time dismissed after pleasantly wafting his bat around for ten minutes in the vague direction of that little red thing. Monty of the other hand, has been a pleasure to gaze upon. His prancing celebration, his comical batting, and the simple fact that he throws the ball to another fielder who then throws it back to the wicket keeper. The best spinner in the world, full stop. Screw Warne, and the rest of the Aussie bowlers, they lose serious marks in my book for looking like tossers. Brett Lee, most of all, has one of those exceptionally punchable faces. When a close LBW appeal has been turned down, I can't resist shouting "because you're a cock!" at the TV when Lee put on his "cheated" face. My own cricketing fame stretched to the school team, for whom in one match I ran someone out from the boundary. When I came to bowl, I was announced as "the owner of that runout", upon which I bowled like an epileptic ferret. I also batted like a baseballer.
Off on a tangent, what is it with fictional Consultant Radiologists? On Green Wing, Dr Statham is a gormless fool who memorably gets peeved at every syllable of the students' banter. In one episode, he pauses after saying the words "to which", and before he can finish his sentence, Boyce (medical student=class) chips in with "toowoo", to complete the owl sound effect. I wish I was that sharp with my Consultant. Or do I.. And the radiologist on Scrubs, who only makes a brief appearance, in his dressing gown after a urgent bleep for a CAT scan at 3am, is equally agitated. He says "Who ordered this scan? These are my machines, my machines, MY MACHINES!!!" whilst jumping up and down. Turk tries to clarify the situation by timidly asking "Whose machines?", and the result is not pretty. To sum up, radiologist is struck from my list of possible career paths, which is now down to hypnotherapist and chocolate tester.

January 2, 2007

I spend all term harping on about how badly we need a rest, and when the holidays finally roll around it takes me at least half of their duration to realise that I am officially meant to be enjoying myself! I stayed up until the early hours last night, winning overdraft money dollar by dollar on the poker tables of the electronic superhighway. Far from the neon eternity of Las Vegas, my brush with gambling success is actually fairly mundane, blinking boxes and tacky pixellated chips litter the screen as my increasingly needy account balance drifts from $400 to $300. In the past, I have been financially comfortable, maybe even affluent as students go, thanks to my modest talent for the game. At one point, I even converted $50 into $5500 after a few large wins. But now, without the money to invest, one cannot expect to win something for nothing. I have carelessly blown my previous profits on jollities such as food, and rent. What little is left is earmarked for next summer's medical elective to Mumbai, and is strictly vetoed. In the days following Christmas I enetered the online fray once again, using only $25 which I only incidentally happened to find loitering in one of my accounts. I performed my handy party trick of converting this into $450 in two days, but to be frank this is equatable to making a hole in one when your opponent is already downing his third celebratory pint. It's not going to make much difference... Still, it's all I can do to stem the tide of my financial downfall. By the way (rant #1), for the first time ever I failed to pay my credit card on time. In my defence I'd forgotten I'd even used it, and quickly paid of the £50. For my heanous sin, I recieved a £12 late payment charge, £2 interest, a 50% reduction of my credit limit, and a removal of my cash withdrawing priveliges. And not a reprimand too small, either. My disgusting abuse of the system had to stop!
Aside from having my masculinity torn to pieces at poker, I spend a significant amount of my free time reading these days, and my new reading list displays this. Michael Palin's book, although obviously not written with mind towards publication, is notable for the fact that it contains many characters which unbeknowst to the author would become famous in their own right. David Attenborough, Connie Booth, and of course all the Monty Python team for example. Jonh Man's biography of Atilla the Hun is detailed, maybe or maybe not for the best, and goes to great lengths about background information.
My 21st birthday curry in a few days (I'd kill for a vindaloo), and despite the apathy of my distant family (for whom I believe I never was quite refined enough for) I think it should go pretty well, as long as my girlfriend is there then I'll have a great time. She's spending this academic year in France, for her languages degree, and I hardly get the time to se her form month to month. Our second anniversairy is on the 7th, and I think I'm correct in saying that we're closer than ever.
No inflammatory remarks here yet, mainly due to my Xmas hibernation. As soon as something rubs me up the wrong way, I'll let you know. Promise.

January 1, 2007

After several failed attempts, I begin another suspiciously sedentary attempt to chronicle my life. For many reasons, including auspiciousness, free time, and maybe even a touch of vanity, I deem my current existance worthy of some kind of reference.
It only seems apt that I should begin with a quick summary of my life as it stands. If I were to be defined, I would have to say the category into which I most pertinently fall is "medical student". Third year, actually. My first was free of complication, my second was a meeting between me and the pass-grade boundary, a duel from which I emerged only victorious by the slightest of margins. Now in my third year of five, I have rediscovered an interest in medicine, the absence of which was more to do with my troubles than an absence of potential, I feel.
I am based in Southampton General Hospital, in the south of England, at the university of the same name. It was at one the halls of residence at this institution that I met my present girlfriend of two years, on only my second day after moving away from my family. Vera is the single most influential person in my current life, and carries the most responsibility for my character aside from my parents. She is in short, one in a million.
Don't be fooled by the apparently articulate text, I am in fact averaging around a minute a word in a foolish attempt to appear vaguely literate. This is somewhat underlined by my choice of part time occupation, namely online poker. I know, I know, before you say it, I make money. More than my student loans donate to the cause, anyway. In the past the game has funded trips to various exotic places including Nepal, Paris and Prague, and is currently doing what it can to avert overdraft disaster (I don't play during term-time anymore due to the emotional "disturbance" the swings of profit and loss give me).
As for hobbies, I am a jack-of-all trades, and believe me, a master of none. I played chess as a boy and reached a respectable level, I now play on 3rd board of my university team, on which I have so far scored 66%. I am the goalkeeper for the medical student's hockey team, for whom I produce (I'd like to think) acceptable performances for, and we are persistently a national semi-final team. I have been attending karate lessons for the last 4 months, and the change is visible, although I remain on the lowest rung of the ladder.
I of course remain a staunch supporter of acute alcoholism.
For now, I think that is all. In time I'll pad out the details, and of course include current affairs. I might even drop this upper-class tone and type like I actually talk.
Adios!