Deja Vu

Another three weeks in St Micheal’s Hospital, a place very close to my heart due to the overall atmosphere of the hospital. The people are old; but they’re adorable and kind. The doctors aren’t too busy to tend to medical students; giving tutorials or bedside examinations.

I said hi to a few familiar faces.

Dr Mcsteamy (the girls actually call him that) was still looking as suave as ever in his one-size-too-small shirt and gelled up hair. He winked at me as we passed in the corridor.

Or maybe he was winking at my partner, a tall leggy blond wearing the shortest of skirts.

Little Carrots

In order to pass your final OSCE exams, you have to be street-smart. During your history presentation, throw a few little carrots to the examiner,” said Dr Carthage.

Little carrots are when you pretend to stammer or trail off on certain words, pretending that you don’t really know what you’re talking about. For example :

The patient, err, might be suffering from hypercalcaemia.

In theory, the examiner will pick up on your moment of hesitation and try to catch you off guard. When in fact, you’ve been reading up on hypercalcaemia and can totally hit it out of the ballpark.You’re basically setting the tone for the whole exam and talking about the things that YOU want to talk about, instead of leaving it to chance.

A useful tip, I hope.

A word of advice from our endocrine tutor,

“Only watch Grey’s Anatomy if you want to learn how to start a sex scandal in a hospital,”

Ending on a high

I had finally finished my surgical rotation. No more 5am starts. I felt invigorated. Starting class at nine gives me at least two extra hours of sleep, something I had been sorely lacking during the past six weeks.

Surgery was depressing. Not to mention tiring. On the last day of surgery, I just couldn’t find the strength to get out of bed. I loathed going to the hospital at such early hours in the morning.

I decided to stay home and do nothing.

I texted Adrienne and asked her to pass my attendance sheet to my consultant, Mr McDermott.

Oh, surgeons are addressed as “Mr” instead of “Dr”.

I got a reply from Adrienne.

“McDermott made me stay back after lectures and attend his clinic before he signed my sheet. He refused to sign yours. Sorry!”

Served me right to skip class.

I made my way out to St Vincent’s to meet McDermott. He seemed cheerful after performing a wide local excision of the right breast.

He put his arm around me.

“Now, where were you on Friday?”

I couldn’t decide whether to lie or not.

Somehow it just didn’t feel right to say, “I was depressed so I stayed in bed”

So a white lie it was.

“I wasn’t feeling too well”

He opened his mask and looked at me head on.

“Sounds like you were out drinking”

“Errr, no I wasn’t”

He didn’t seem convinced...

And no, I didn’t get my attendance sheet signed.

Dream of a dream

I stared at the exam questions for a long time. The Bimbo had surprised us by giving out test papers during one of her tutorials.

Classify and define Hyperparathyroidism.

My head started to feel heavy. I know this. I closed my eyes and tried visualize the diagram I once drew in my notes...

“YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO SLEEP DURING MY EXAM!” she shouted.

I was roused immediately. For a moment, I prayed that the nightmare would end. That I would wake up from this potential horror movie scene.

Then I realized that it was totally real.

She stood right in front of me, eyes wide open, breathing heavily.

“Was it THAT easy for ye?” she asked sarcastically.

“Err...I, I”

“You what? Have you finished?” as she grabbed the paper from my hand.

All eyes in the lecture theatre were fixed at the events that transpired. But I was alone in this. There was no get out of jail card...

My heart rate got faster and faster as she read through my answer sheet. I didn’t study and I knew most of my answers were crap...

And no, I didn’t wake up. It wasn’t a dream...