Monday, February 13, 2017

A Bit of a Catastrofuck

Image result for blonde child with stomach cramps
This is not I, but it might just as well have been

I return to work this morning on a light schedule. I'll report to the office of the OBGYN practice before the first employee reports to work. My normal routine is to show up however early I need to in order to be sitting idly in my car [covertly studying, actually, as time is too precious to waste in this stage of the game], waiting with feigned thinly-veiled impatience for someone with a key to appear and grant me access to the office. It's little more than a game, but, just the same, it's a prudent self-promoting (or self preserving) act for a third-year med student to be the first one on the premises for any given day's assignment. It's a bit complicated for me at this point in my recovery, as it would be ill-advised for me to remain in any place with no restroom access for any extended intervals so I have to arrive a bit later for work and risk the chance of not being in the first car to arrive  in the parking lot. The risk of no restroom access  is attached to far graver consequences.

 Once inside,  I shall begin the all-important work of  trying to convince at least one conscious (all of the office patients should, in theory, be conscious; procedures requiring anesthesia or sedation should be in an ambulatory surgical center or hospital) patient to allow me to perform what is euphemistically termed an internal exam. I've performed my share of internal, i.e. vaginal,  exams on patients who are either drugged, whose view of what is happening to them is occluded by the fabric cover put in place to minimize patient freak-out factor during c-sections and other procedures, and on women in mid-to-late stages of labor who probably wouldn't care if the hospital janitor was the one performing the vaginal exam if it meant the baby would come out faster.  For some reason, conscious women seem reluctant when it comes to allowing medical students who look like they barely escaped high school probe their most intimate areas.  I was denied access by seven patients before my illness and surgical procedure. Here's to hoping the procedure and ensuing convalescence  has had a maturing effect on at least my appearance, though I'm skeptical.  Realistically, my best bet would be at least one sixteen-year-old patient in the office today [without her mother] who, with her limited perspective, thinks I look old.

Last night I experienced considerable abdominal cramping, ostensibly as a result  of my transition to a "full liquid" diet, which includes ice cream. I may have overdone the ice cream ever so slightly.  When the cramping, which had its onset at about 5:30 p.m., had yet to subside by 11:00 p,m., I made the choice to take a Vitamin V. It took care of most, though not all, of the discomfort. Hydrocodone has a soporific effect for most people. For me, it's an opposite reaction.  I cannot sleep after taking it, so I will work today after having been awake for twenty-six hours. Between the Vitamin V itself and the lack of sleep, I should not drive. My neighbor is giving me a ride to work, and I'll arrange transportation home. I'll head home at about 1:30. At that time I'll probably crash for the night.

Last night, in my hydrocodone-induced state of insomnia, I caught a few On Demand episodes of a TVLand "comedy" series Teachers.  It's fundamentally pretty stupid and  - at least I think - doesn't even pretend to be realistic. The characters appeared to be hyperbole versions of stereotypes. I think all the teachers were female, and I'm not sure anyone was over thirty-five. The principal was, of course, male. I don't know where this series was set, but in California, more than half of elementary school principals are now female.  I was a bit too drugged to determine if it was funny. I'll catch a few more episodes when I'm too ill or drugged to sleep or study.

On a totally unrelated note, I've been introduced to an app called "Confide." It allows conversations that cannot be saved, replicated, or forwarded. You really don't want to use it to harass a person (though doing so would be more prudent than doing so using conventional media), but it's a fun place to hold a conversation that you don't want to bite you in the butt at some time in the future.


  1. Confide, huh? That's interesting...

    I don't let anyone do exams on me.

    1. I don't blame you. We have to learn, but no med student is touching me, either.