...got to observe all sorts of procedures, most exciting of which was a stroke assessment. Afterwords, the nurse who'd performed it went over the findings with me outside of the room and asked me how I'd rate certain aspects according to the provided scale. Also, we went to a computer and pulled up the CT and MRI images. There was one image in the MRI series that looked a lot like something from ERP's blog and I got all kinds of excited when I saw it.
I knew precisely where the problem was...
...and as I was thinking this, the nurse asked me if I could point it out! Heck yes, I can. Without a second of hesitation I pointed to a bright white spot and said, "There!" He was quite impressed and I felt on top of the world.
It was one of the better days I've had at Big City Hospital. This week I'd been having some doubts as to whether I'd made the right decision in quitting my job and becoming a volunteer, but all of that doubt was erased within an hour of turning up. Very much looking forward to what lies in wait!
Showing posts with label Neurology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Neurology. Show all posts
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
It's such a perfect day
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
Upon waking this morning, I took to running, skipping, hopping, and ecstatically moving all over the flat. I even stood there, silently, admiring the place for several minutes. Excitement swept over me as I thought about purchasing a classically-styled wall clock, a nice floor lamp, and some other little bits and pieces to add a touch of character. Ooooh, I could even haul out my record player and show off my impressive jazz collection to several close friends. Some of them have never seen the place!
The possibilities sweeping through my head were exciting and endless. The realisation set in that, in two weeks, three new flatmates will have arrived to spend a year and that at least one of them might be sloppy. Sort of put a damper on my festivities, but I quickly brushed that aside to enjoy the moment and reassure myself that nobody could be as bad as Party Boy.
Pharmacology and I parted ways this afternoon. Overall, I was really disappointed at the shallowness of the material...the book seemed as if it were written for high school students. The biggest tragedy was the last chapter, and the one for which I'd been so excited all term: Neurological Disorders. I was expecting some good info on Parkinson's and dementia, but instead, received only 3/4 of a page for each. The majority of the chapter had to do with blasted headaches and those confounded seizures. Booooooooooring. Ah, should've known better. Now that I'm thinking about it, there wasn't even the slightest mention of neuropathy. To think!
My pharmacology book was a rental and was due back by 5 p.m. Seeing as how the bookstore is in relatively close proximity, I reckoned I could spend the afternoon watching a little golf before I subjected myself to the unbearable heat of summer.
4:30 arrived before I knew it and it was out of the flat with me. I dragged an armful of books with me to the car and started it up... but there was a bit of hesitation before the engine cranked up. Hmm, that's not good. I turned the car off and waited a minute or two. Upon trying to start it up again, I was greeted with a rapid clicking sound from the dashboard...nothing from the engine.
Stupendous.
I know a great deal about automobiles. I'm so good (HOW GOOD ARE YOU!?), I'm so good that I can look at a car's headlights and tell you...exactly which way it's going. Thank, Mitch Hedberg, for the joke.
As I was saying, I know next to nothing about automobiles. I did, however, find that I knew enough to realise the battery was kaput. I phoned in for help at 4:40 p.m. Next, I phoned the bookstore to tell them of my tale of woe. The gentleman politely told me that he was sorry about my luck, but that if the book was not back by 5, I'd be charged late fees. Nothing anyone can do about that, so, there you have it. I thanked him for his time and disconnected. It took but one phone call to find a place nearby that could get me set with a new battery in under 10 minutes. Great!
At 15 minutes past 5 p.m. (nearing the expected arrival time of The Man With The Jumper Cables, everything capitalised), the bookstore phone and said that they'd be open a little later and that I could drop it off without charge until 5:45. I told them I was still waiting for assistance and then had to get a new battery, but I'd do my absolute best to be there before they shut the doors.
Help arrived at 5:40 p.m. Furthermore, I had to stand near my car in the heat for precisely an hour. Not only that, but it began to rain as The Man began to dissolve mountains 10 km high of corrosion crusts from the battery terminals. Perfect.
Ordinarily, I'd have been fuming mad. There's another situation which I won't go into that required my presence. I wanted to be there, as well. With all of this, however, it was looking like an impossible task. But yes, I decided to just throw my hands up and surrender to the circumstances I'd been dealt.
I'm so glad that I did.
The Man was rather friendly and we had a good conversation as he resurrected, however temporarily, my car's battery. I got the feeling, a feeling I don't often get, that he was a good and honest man through and through. A thousand utterances of thanks were delivered, and received well, as we parted ways.
The automobile service joint is, at least from what I remembered, right off of one of the main roads near the university. As I approached where I thought it was, I felt my phone vibrate. I'd missed a call and whomever it was had left a voicemail. I listened to it without checking the number of the caller.
It was the bookstore.
The time, it was nearly 6 p.m. The same guy I'd dealt with earlier said that they'd just closed and were sorry that I hadn't made it in time.
...BUT, as long as I could drag my carcass in there when they first open tomorrow, I can avoid being charged anything extra.
It was a beautiful moment for me. The money, ehh, even though I haven't got it (hurry up, financial aid!), isn't was bothered me. It was the situation. Another situation in which I find myself at the receiving end of a solid blow to the kisser, as they used to say. This, too, I resigned myself to and went about my business. To hear, however, that someone was going to cut me a break... cut me a break...really made me feel incredibly thankful! I tried to phone them back to thank them, but there was no answer. I'll arrive in the morning with chilled bottles of champagne, then. heh.
There were two university-aged guys in the auto store (which, by the way, was nowhere near where I'd thought)...and once more, I found myself in the company of friendly, talkative people. We laughed about how much we'd each paid for books for the coming year, and I spread to them the gospel of e-books via torrents and such. The younger guy, just starting out his college career, was beyond thrilled to find that he could return one of his brand-new, unopened books and take back his hard-earned $170-something. I was glad to have been a part of that moment. haha.
The changing of the battery was, of course, swift. The conversation as it was switched was lively and ended with the both of us wishing each other the best of luck in the upcoming year.
The situation in which I wanted to become involved had been canceled, so there was nothing left to do but go back to my lovely flat and do, for the first time since May, precisely as I wanted! I cooked a nice dinner and as I was sipping away at my Yorkshire Tea, my phone buzzed.
Miss South America returned today. She was on my committee for the project that failed, and I'm rather sure that she fancies me a bit. I wasn't too interested, being all swept up with The Nurse and everything at the time... but now that I'm off of that, and sort of in limbo with the lovely shy girl from lab, I realised that I thought of her frequently while she was away. Our conversation ended with me asking her to visit before classes begin. She agreed, but then took off on me... probably chased her off somehow. Ha.
Things are just lovely, all the way around. I can't believe my luck to be experiencing such joy so shortly after being such a miserable wreck. That much sweeter.
I'm off to watch a film on Netflix before bed. Haven't seen a film all the way through in a while. Nice treat, with a glass of Newcastle to accent it!
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Upon waking this morning, I took to running, skipping, hopping, and ecstatically moving all over the flat. I even stood there, silently, admiring the place for several minutes. Excitement swept over me as I thought about purchasing a classically-styled wall clock, a nice floor lamp, and some other little bits and pieces to add a touch of character. Ooooh, I could even haul out my record player and show off my impressive jazz collection to several close friends. Some of them have never seen the place!
The possibilities sweeping through my head were exciting and endless. The realisation set in that, in two weeks, three new flatmates will have arrived to spend a year and that at least one of them might be sloppy. Sort of put a damper on my festivities, but I quickly brushed that aside to enjoy the moment and reassure myself that nobody could be as bad as Party Boy.
Pharmacology and I parted ways this afternoon. Overall, I was really disappointed at the shallowness of the material...the book seemed as if it were written for high school students. The biggest tragedy was the last chapter, and the one for which I'd been so excited all term: Neurological Disorders. I was expecting some good info on Parkinson's and dementia, but instead, received only 3/4 of a page for each. The majority of the chapter had to do with blasted headaches and those confounded seizures. Booooooooooring. Ah, should've known better. Now that I'm thinking about it, there wasn't even the slightest mention of neuropathy. To think!
My pharmacology book was a rental and was due back by 5 p.m. Seeing as how the bookstore is in relatively close proximity, I reckoned I could spend the afternoon watching a little golf before I subjected myself to the unbearable heat of summer.
4:30 arrived before I knew it and it was out of the flat with me. I dragged an armful of books with me to the car and started it up... but there was a bit of hesitation before the engine cranked up. Hmm, that's not good. I turned the car off and waited a minute or two. Upon trying to start it up again, I was greeted with a rapid clicking sound from the dashboard...nothing from the engine.
Stupendous.
I know a great deal about automobiles. I'm so good (HOW GOOD ARE YOU!?), I'm so good that I can look at a car's headlights and tell you...exactly which way it's going. Thank, Mitch Hedberg, for the joke.
As I was saying, I know next to nothing about automobiles. I did, however, find that I knew enough to realise the battery was kaput. I phoned in for help at 4:40 p.m. Next, I phoned the bookstore to tell them of my tale of woe. The gentleman politely told me that he was sorry about my luck, but that if the book was not back by 5, I'd be charged late fees. Nothing anyone can do about that, so, there you have it. I thanked him for his time and disconnected. It took but one phone call to find a place nearby that could get me set with a new battery in under 10 minutes. Great!
At 15 minutes past 5 p.m. (nearing the expected arrival time of The Man With The Jumper Cables, everything capitalised), the bookstore phone and said that they'd be open a little later and that I could drop it off without charge until 5:45. I told them I was still waiting for assistance and then had to get a new battery, but I'd do my absolute best to be there before they shut the doors.
Help arrived at 5:40 p.m. Furthermore, I had to stand near my car in the heat for precisely an hour. Not only that, but it began to rain as The Man began to dissolve mountains 10 km high of corrosion crusts from the battery terminals. Perfect.
Ordinarily, I'd have been fuming mad. There's another situation which I won't go into that required my presence. I wanted to be there, as well. With all of this, however, it was looking like an impossible task. But yes, I decided to just throw my hands up and surrender to the circumstances I'd been dealt.
I'm so glad that I did.
The Man was rather friendly and we had a good conversation as he resurrected, however temporarily, my car's battery. I got the feeling, a feeling I don't often get, that he was a good and honest man through and through. A thousand utterances of thanks were delivered, and received well, as we parted ways.
The automobile service joint is, at least from what I remembered, right off of one of the main roads near the university. As I approached where I thought it was, I felt my phone vibrate. I'd missed a call and whomever it was had left a voicemail. I listened to it without checking the number of the caller.
It was the bookstore.
The time, it was nearly 6 p.m. The same guy I'd dealt with earlier said that they'd just closed and were sorry that I hadn't made it in time.
...BUT, as long as I could drag my carcass in there when they first open tomorrow, I can avoid being charged anything extra.
It was a beautiful moment for me. The money, ehh, even though I haven't got it (hurry up, financial aid!), isn't was bothered me. It was the situation. Another situation in which I find myself at the receiving end of a solid blow to the kisser, as they used to say. This, too, I resigned myself to and went about my business. To hear, however, that someone was going to cut me a break... cut me a break...really made me feel incredibly thankful! I tried to phone them back to thank them, but there was no answer. I'll arrive in the morning with chilled bottles of champagne, then. heh.
There were two university-aged guys in the auto store (which, by the way, was nowhere near where I'd thought)...and once more, I found myself in the company of friendly, talkative people. We laughed about how much we'd each paid for books for the coming year, and I spread to them the gospel of e-books via torrents and such. The younger guy, just starting out his college career, was beyond thrilled to find that he could return one of his brand-new, unopened books and take back his hard-earned $170-something. I was glad to have been a part of that moment. haha.
The changing of the battery was, of course, swift. The conversation as it was switched was lively and ended with the both of us wishing each other the best of luck in the upcoming year.
The situation in which I wanted to become involved had been canceled, so there was nothing left to do but go back to my lovely flat and do, for the first time since May, precisely as I wanted! I cooked a nice dinner and as I was sipping away at my Yorkshire Tea, my phone buzzed.
Miss South America returned today. She was on my committee for the project that failed, and I'm rather sure that she fancies me a bit. I wasn't too interested, being all swept up with The Nurse and everything at the time... but now that I'm off of that, and sort of in limbo with the lovely shy girl from lab, I realised that I thought of her frequently while she was away. Our conversation ended with me asking her to visit before classes begin. She agreed, but then took off on me... probably chased her off somehow. Ha.
Things are just lovely, all the way around. I can't believe my luck to be experiencing such joy so shortly after being such a miserable wreck. That much sweeter.
I'm off to watch a film on Netflix before bed. Haven't seen a film all the way through in a while. Nice treat, with a glass of Newcastle to accent it!
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Monday, June 28, 2010
Ms. Edinburgh, Mr. Houdini, and me
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
The weekend brought a few surprises, all pleasant. For starters, someone had mentioned to me a site called Chatroulette, whereby one is randomly connected via webcam chat to someone else elsewhere in the world. The prospect of entertaining conversation with strangers was of interest to me one particular evening after another strange day at Big City Hospital. More on that in a bit.
What I found upon visiting the site was cause for alarm. The first three people I came across were young men in the nude. Thanks, just the same, but I'll take my business elsewhere. Had a lovely, albeit brief, encounter with a middle-aged couple (!!) from the Midwestern US. A Prairie Home Companion was mentioned and we were all in agreement on its entertainment value. Three French teenagers were next and they kept asking if I listen to Tupac Shakur. Had to reply in the negative as a general rule, but stated that there are occasions on which I may be found to be listening to the man's music.
My last Chatroulette encounter was nothing short of extraordinary. She was as blonde as the day is long, but it was all very natural in appearance. She was lovely, and when she spoke, I was but a smiling, blushing fool. She came from Edinburgh, you see, and my, what an accent. For nearly three hours we spoke, and laughed, and laughed some more. Out of nowhere, she told me that I'm "terribly attractive."
Hold the presses.
This is front-page news.
I told her so, and she seemed to get a great delight out of it. We laughed some more and, as the conversation carried on, I felt glad to speak to an intelligent, beautiful, and ambitious woman who generally found me attractive on all fronts. Gave me one of those little pushes of hope, a sort of, "Ah, go forth, boy!" from the lord above that come round, never a moment too soon.
We spoke until nearly 3 a.m. my time and I had to work hard to force myself away. We exchanged contact information and already she's sent an email. It was a lovely message, typical of what I romantacise all letters from the island to be like. Almost straight from literature, it was. Superb in its styling. Oh my.
Three and one-half hours later, I was turning off my alarm and trying desperately to chase away the fatigue from my eyes and mind. That morning, my dear, I had a date with the golf course. The end result was impressive considering the circumstances, just two over my approximate per-game average! Beautiful course, not crowded, and friendly residents. Good day.
Now, on to tales from Big City Hospital.
Traffic prevented me from arriving at my appointed time. It's an irritating occurrence for me, and surely for all involved, and I do my best to avoid it on a consistent basis. As I entered the nurse's station, The Nurse teased me a little about my tardiness. Off to a good start.
I scrambled around the hospital, running all manner of errands, and encountering generally friendly people wherever I went. Some tasks were executed with a speed unanticipated by the nurse who requested the favour, and I got many big smiles and warm expressions of gratitude. It was, as always, a pleasure to do something for people who do so much for others...and often without so much as a proper, "Thank you."
There were four, yes, four, would-be escape artists on the ward. It was an exciting prospect to me, albeit perhaps a bit on the scary side. These are, after all, not well-minded people. All but one of them were well-behaved, aside from a minor incident here and there. The one who would not comply was a bit of a doozy.
Never did find out his reason for taking up temporary residence on our floor, but he surely displayed signs of only having a lightly-placed foot in reality. Kind of a irritable chap, he was. When there was an emergency in another room, the "guard" for Mr. Houdini had to be called into action. He chose this opportunity to attempt an escape. However, he only made it ten feet down the hallway before he was escorted back to his room by me and one of the nurses. For a few interesting minutes, I stood guard. He was well-behaved and settled in his bed to watch a little television. Hmm! Upon the return of his previous "guard," he was up to his old tricks. Perhaps their personalities clashed. heh. Guards were exchanged and things went on without incident for nearly two hours.
I was on my way up on the lift from running an errand for a stunningly gorgeous nurse (married, of course). My mind was on The Nurse and if I'd have the opportunity to inquire as to whether she might soon be available for a night of entertainment when the doors opened. Standing there, gown half-open and a bag full of assorted items in hand, was Mr. Houdini. I had not anticipated this.
Three nurses and one tech were on the scene. I stood before the open lift, blocking his entrance. For a brief moment, I saw in his eyes a glimmer of, "You'd best remove yourself from my path, otherwise suffer the wrath of my anger and desperation."
...and I reacted by nearly laughing.
Oftentimes in my life, when I'm experiencing something novel that perhaps I'd never imagined would happen to me, my natural reaction is to be overwhelmed with its novelty and be...well, entertained by it. It sometimes takes every ounce of effort to restrain myself and instead display the emotion appropriate to the situation.
So, there the six of us stood. The doors of the lift closed shut behind me. Mr. Houdini went for the button to call it back, but the five of us surrounding him moved accordingly, thereby denying his access. One nurse was gently trying to coax him back to his room with calm speech, but it was not having any effect. Another asked, "What's the matter? Don't you like us?" He said that most them were alright, but that he absolutely must leave to avoid being cited for an expired parking meter. I piped up and asked why he was in such a hurry to leave behind so many beautiful women, and that his insistence upon leaving must be hurting their feelings. He thought about this for a moment, but went right back to slight agitation and talking about insufficient funds to pay a fine.
Around this time, a couple of security guards showed up. Under their authority, he (mostly) calmly returned to his room. However, he lashed out at one of the guards and subsequently wound up being rendered unable to do anything of the sort again.
Just as that settled down, a man on the other side of the hall began yelling an endless stream of obscenities. The last thing that I heard him say before quieting back down was, "Well, I don't want to watch the (expletive) soccer, football, kick the (expletive) ball past some group of (expletive). This is unconstitutional!" It was a light-hearted, amusing moment for those of us at the nurse's station.
...but it did not last.
Stroke alert.
At the end of the day, a frazzled-looking RN hopped on the lift to head to the floor above my destination. I smiled and asked whether she was on her way home soon. She turned to face me. Her frizzy brown hair, pulled back, revealed hints of grey above her ears. Heavy bags, like someone had packed for a three-month expedition to the antarctic, under her bloodshot eyes... "This is only the beginning," she said. At this moment, the doors slid open and she made her exit. I spent a lot of the drive home wondering about her, what she'd experienced to make her look so war-torn.
Finally, in a completely unrelated note, as I made my way to an open desk at the library this morning, a book nestled in on one of the countless shelves caught my eye. It was an anthology of the works of a Japanese writer. A cherry blossom tree adorned the cover. I wanted nothing more than to pluck it from its resting place and devour it. I was put in the literary mood this morning on the way to university when I heard a bit of poetry from days long past recited on the radio. Hm.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
The weekend brought a few surprises, all pleasant. For starters, someone had mentioned to me a site called Chatroulette, whereby one is randomly connected via webcam chat to someone else elsewhere in the world. The prospect of entertaining conversation with strangers was of interest to me one particular evening after another strange day at Big City Hospital. More on that in a bit.
What I found upon visiting the site was cause for alarm. The first three people I came across were young men in the nude. Thanks, just the same, but I'll take my business elsewhere. Had a lovely, albeit brief, encounter with a middle-aged couple (!!) from the Midwestern US. A Prairie Home Companion was mentioned and we were all in agreement on its entertainment value. Three French teenagers were next and they kept asking if I listen to Tupac Shakur. Had to reply in the negative as a general rule, but stated that there are occasions on which I may be found to be listening to the man's music.
My last Chatroulette encounter was nothing short of extraordinary. She was as blonde as the day is long, but it was all very natural in appearance. She was lovely, and when she spoke, I was but a smiling, blushing fool. She came from Edinburgh, you see, and my, what an accent. For nearly three hours we spoke, and laughed, and laughed some more. Out of nowhere, she told me that I'm "terribly attractive."
Hold the presses.
This is front-page news.
I told her so, and she seemed to get a great delight out of it. We laughed some more and, as the conversation carried on, I felt glad to speak to an intelligent, beautiful, and ambitious woman who generally found me attractive on all fronts. Gave me one of those little pushes of hope, a sort of, "Ah, go forth, boy!" from the lord above that come round, never a moment too soon.
We spoke until nearly 3 a.m. my time and I had to work hard to force myself away. We exchanged contact information and already she's sent an email. It was a lovely message, typical of what I romantacise all letters from the island to be like. Almost straight from literature, it was. Superb in its styling. Oh my.
Three and one-half hours later, I was turning off my alarm and trying desperately to chase away the fatigue from my eyes and mind. That morning, my dear, I had a date with the golf course. The end result was impressive considering the circumstances, just two over my approximate per-game average! Beautiful course, not crowded, and friendly residents. Good day.
Now, on to tales from Big City Hospital.
Traffic prevented me from arriving at my appointed time. It's an irritating occurrence for me, and surely for all involved, and I do my best to avoid it on a consistent basis. As I entered the nurse's station, The Nurse teased me a little about my tardiness. Off to a good start.
I scrambled around the hospital, running all manner of errands, and encountering generally friendly people wherever I went. Some tasks were executed with a speed unanticipated by the nurse who requested the favour, and I got many big smiles and warm expressions of gratitude. It was, as always, a pleasure to do something for people who do so much for others...and often without so much as a proper, "Thank you."
There were four, yes, four, would-be escape artists on the ward. It was an exciting prospect to me, albeit perhaps a bit on the scary side. These are, after all, not well-minded people. All but one of them were well-behaved, aside from a minor incident here and there. The one who would not comply was a bit of a doozy.
Never did find out his reason for taking up temporary residence on our floor, but he surely displayed signs of only having a lightly-placed foot in reality. Kind of a irritable chap, he was. When there was an emergency in another room, the "guard" for Mr. Houdini had to be called into action. He chose this opportunity to attempt an escape. However, he only made it ten feet down the hallway before he was escorted back to his room by me and one of the nurses. For a few interesting minutes, I stood guard. He was well-behaved and settled in his bed to watch a little television. Hmm! Upon the return of his previous "guard," he was up to his old tricks. Perhaps their personalities clashed. heh. Guards were exchanged and things went on without incident for nearly two hours.
I was on my way up on the lift from running an errand for a stunningly gorgeous nurse (married, of course). My mind was on The Nurse and if I'd have the opportunity to inquire as to whether she might soon be available for a night of entertainment when the doors opened. Standing there, gown half-open and a bag full of assorted items in hand, was Mr. Houdini. I had not anticipated this.
Three nurses and one tech were on the scene. I stood before the open lift, blocking his entrance. For a brief moment, I saw in his eyes a glimmer of, "You'd best remove yourself from my path, otherwise suffer the wrath of my anger and desperation."
...and I reacted by nearly laughing.
Oftentimes in my life, when I'm experiencing something novel that perhaps I'd never imagined would happen to me, my natural reaction is to be overwhelmed with its novelty and be...well, entertained by it. It sometimes takes every ounce of effort to restrain myself and instead display the emotion appropriate to the situation.
So, there the six of us stood. The doors of the lift closed shut behind me. Mr. Houdini went for the button to call it back, but the five of us surrounding him moved accordingly, thereby denying his access. One nurse was gently trying to coax him back to his room with calm speech, but it was not having any effect. Another asked, "What's the matter? Don't you like us?" He said that most them were alright, but that he absolutely must leave to avoid being cited for an expired parking meter. I piped up and asked why he was in such a hurry to leave behind so many beautiful women, and that his insistence upon leaving must be hurting their feelings. He thought about this for a moment, but went right back to slight agitation and talking about insufficient funds to pay a fine.
Around this time, a couple of security guards showed up. Under their authority, he (mostly) calmly returned to his room. However, he lashed out at one of the guards and subsequently wound up being rendered unable to do anything of the sort again.
Just as that settled down, a man on the other side of the hall began yelling an endless stream of obscenities. The last thing that I heard him say before quieting back down was, "Well, I don't want to watch the (expletive) soccer, football, kick the (expletive) ball past some group of (expletive). This is unconstitutional!" It was a light-hearted, amusing moment for those of us at the nurse's station.
...but it did not last.
Stroke alert.
At the end of the day, a frazzled-looking RN hopped on the lift to head to the floor above my destination. I smiled and asked whether she was on her way home soon. She turned to face me. Her frizzy brown hair, pulled back, revealed hints of grey above her ears. Heavy bags, like someone had packed for a three-month expedition to the antarctic, under her bloodshot eyes... "This is only the beginning," she said. At this moment, the doors slid open and she made her exit. I spent a lot of the drive home wondering about her, what she'd experienced to make her look so war-torn.
Finally, in a completely unrelated note, as I made my way to an open desk at the library this morning, a book nestled in on one of the countless shelves caught my eye. It was an anthology of the works of a Japanese writer. A cherry blossom tree adorned the cover. I wanted nothing more than to pluck it from its resting place and devour it. I was put in the literary mood this morning on the way to university when I heard a bit of poetry from days long past recited on the radio. Hm.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Strange days have found us
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
Another really cute nurse was added to the growing list today. She approached me and we had a great series of conversations throughout the day. Her name, however, is not one that I've ever been too terribly keen on. In fact, it draws to mind 1980s hairspray hair, gum-smacking, and loop earrings so large I could put both of my fists through with room to spare. An unattractive mental image. She was cute enough, though, that I didn't think much about it. Besides, she can't help the name her parents pinned on her.
It was a strange day. Quite slow, lots of discharges. When I went round to each room to have a bit of a chat with the patients and fill any requests that they may have, I found that everyone was asleep, with a room full of visitors, or with their door shut. I didn't feel that I should go barging without a good reason besides friendly banter.
Later, one of the patients called and when I answered, he asked if I could hear him. I answered in the affirmative and asked what he sought. No answer. Hello? Hello? Hellllooo? I hung up and went briskly to his room, thankful for the opportunity to do something productive with patient interaction.
He just wanted to know when the doctor would be in to speak with him. I told him that I didn't know, but that I'd ask his nurse and get back to him. As the words were leaving my lips, I noticed his peculiarity...not what put him on this floor, but probably occurring simultaneously with the injury that did. I felt my eyes go wide. Stop it. STOP IT. I resumed eye contact, but I wanted out of there in a hurry. I felt awful that he'd suffered so, especially since every yokel he comes across upon discharge is going to stare mercilessly. I felt awful that I was briefly one of those yokels. I've always prided myself in being highly sensitive to the feelings of others, especially in situations when other folks would just gawk, moths agape. I've seen my fair share of terrible injuries on television and online. I even have been known to eat lunch or dinner while watching surgery videos, so something so tame in comparison shouldn't have been worth a second glance. Sort of disappointing, that was, but I suppose it's only natural. As time goes by, I'm sure I'll be less affected.
During my break, two nurses were sitting across the room in the cafeteria. I smiled at them, but got nothing in return. They looked back to each other and kept talking. Ooh. Par for the course today, I'm afraid.
Not long after resuming position at my desk, the call bell went off. It was the patient who spoke very little English, only some dialect of Chinese, and surprisingly had no family or friends. He said nothing on the phone. I entered his room and spoke slowly without being patronising. He was not understanding that I was asking what he needed. I asked if he wanted a nurse. Blank, frightened look. "Maybe later." ...so, what do you want? I asked if it was his bed or pillow which needed adjusting, or if he wanted the rolling tray pulled closer. I pointed to each item as I asked about them. "No," to each. Silence. Blank, frightened look. I began to feel frustrated, but certainly not at him. I want to help, but don't know how! He was holding the remote with the call button, tv button, etc. and kept looking at it. Finally, it came out that he wanted to watch television. I showed him how to turn it on, change channels, and adjust the volume. That was all he wanted. He looked sheepish and thanked me. It must be very hard for him to be hospitalised and not be able to meaningfully communicate with anybody. I kept thinking about that blank, frightened look. It was like some sort of primal fear that a wild animal might exhibit. No family. No friends.
Not half an hour had passed and a white coat enters the room...and plops down right next to me at the desk. Ohmyohmyohmy. Doctors don't stick around long during my shift. They probably sense that I am pre-med and want to avoid my thirty trillion questions and requests to shadow. Don't blame them...sometimes. He was around for nearly 40 minutes. My hands were shaking, as if it were someone I've long admired. When calls from other departments came in, I bumbled around like a fool...uncertainty and a lack of confidence had set in. I tried to talk myself out of it. These people don't know just how little confidence you have. You're an actor in a film; be what the scene calls for. No one will be the wiser. It worked. Soon, I was joking with the charge nurse and handling calls confidently...but I couldn't muster the courage to say anything to the doctor. Part of that was not wanting to bother him.
The doctor was looking at MRI images. Somebody had something bad going on. Tumor.
Another doctor came in and I got to listen to a bit of the conversation about risks and benefits of surgery. They ultimately decided that the best course of action would be to try to cut the beast out.
They turned to me, asking whether or not I knew if the patient's family were around...to translate.
Oh, my. It was Mr. Blankenfrightened.
Someone actually happened to be around, a nurse on another floor, who spoke the patient's dialect. After a 5-minute discussion, everyone exited and the doctor sat down beside again and began dictating. The patient wanted to proceed with surgery.
Good for him, I thought. I began hoping that the surgery would be a success and there'd be no lasting effects from the invasion (and removal) of that awful mass.
I carried on, having a good time joking with the charge nurse. Very funny, very, very dry and morbid sense of humour. It was brilliant. Everything about him was slow and calculated and he always appeared to be on the verge of a smile. He was a reassuring presence, and I do hope that in the future, my attendings are all like him.
Not going to happen, but it's nice to dream.
As my shift winded down, I couldn't shake the feeling of strangeness that had been cast over the entire day. I was glad to clock out and be on my way home.
After dinner, I was still feeling a bit off and had a fair amount of pent-up energy I wanted to rid myself of before resuming my studies. Ah, let's take it on out to the driving range. I'm happy to report that the funk that I'd been in is getting further and further away in the review mirror. I even had an enourmous drive of nearly 270 yards...that's about 40-50 yards more than usual! That was just a one-time deal, you understand. It was a nice surprise.
Upon returning home, three hours somehow passed without an ounce of studying taking place. I can't, for whatever reason, particularly account for them. I was watching a bit of golf and had some physio slides pulled up, but I guess the distractions of the Internet got the better of me. I dozed off at one point...and woke up about 1 a.m. I stumbled into the bathroom and performed my nightly routine. By the time it was over, I was wide awake.
I crawled into bed, passively wishing that I was joining someone, and didn't feel a bit like sleeping. I've been absolutely devouring a book lately, so I picked that up to read a couple of chapters. The book, Something for the Pain: Compassion & Burnout in the ER by Paul Austin, had me hooked in the first couple of pages. It was nice to read the words of a man who made it through medical school talking about his pre-med experience and to find that there are overwhelming similarities. I found his personality to be a lot like mine, as well, which was all the more engaging. I'm nearly through with the book. I started it Monday and have been reading as much as I can when I can.
Later in the book, he treats the broken leg of a woman with Down Syndrome. As he described her howling in pain, the mental image of the woman became the image of Mr. Blakenfrightened. He wasn't screaming and didn't seem to be in any sort of pain, but the barrier to being particularly helpful seemed similar...obviously it isn't, but let's just go with it.
I started feeling a little guilty for, of all things, not speaking the man's dialect. This is irrational. There is nothing you could've done about that! I began thinking about him, all alone, in a big city hospital with a tumor about the size of a ping pong ball in his head, and it started eating at me. My mind began searching desperately for ways that I could've had a positive impact on his stay, even if it meant walking into his room and just smiling and waving. With each possibility, I asked myself why I didn't think of it then. That poor man doesn't have anyone to console him. No one in which to confide his fears about his future health. I thought about how I'd feel in that situation, and a creeping, chilling panic swept up my spine.
Maybe there are some things I could've done. Maybe not. Maybe my patient presence as we worked out that he wanted to television on was enough. I smiled a lot. He was smiling when I left. Maybe that's all anyone could've done.
I passed out last night while writing this entry. Looking back on it now, it seems a bit melodramatic and I'm almost embarrassed to have written some of it. It was such a weird day, all the way around. I'm happy that it's over, but not happy about the mountain of work before me today. Three exams this week. Three finals next week.
Cabinet full of coffee? Check.
We're cleared for take-off.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Another really cute nurse was added to the growing list today. She approached me and we had a great series of conversations throughout the day. Her name, however, is not one that I've ever been too terribly keen on. In fact, it draws to mind 1980s hairspray hair, gum-smacking, and loop earrings so large I could put both of my fists through with room to spare. An unattractive mental image. She was cute enough, though, that I didn't think much about it. Besides, she can't help the name her parents pinned on her.
It was a strange day. Quite slow, lots of discharges. When I went round to each room to have a bit of a chat with the patients and fill any requests that they may have, I found that everyone was asleep, with a room full of visitors, or with their door shut. I didn't feel that I should go barging without a good reason besides friendly banter.
Later, one of the patients called and when I answered, he asked if I could hear him. I answered in the affirmative and asked what he sought. No answer. Hello? Hello? Hellllooo? I hung up and went briskly to his room, thankful for the opportunity to do something productive with patient interaction.
He just wanted to know when the doctor would be in to speak with him. I told him that I didn't know, but that I'd ask his nurse and get back to him. As the words were leaving my lips, I noticed his peculiarity...not what put him on this floor, but probably occurring simultaneously with the injury that did. I felt my eyes go wide. Stop it. STOP IT. I resumed eye contact, but I wanted out of there in a hurry. I felt awful that he'd suffered so, especially since every yokel he comes across upon discharge is going to stare mercilessly. I felt awful that I was briefly one of those yokels. I've always prided myself in being highly sensitive to the feelings of others, especially in situations when other folks would just gawk, moths agape. I've seen my fair share of terrible injuries on television and online. I even have been known to eat lunch or dinner while watching surgery videos, so something so tame in comparison shouldn't have been worth a second glance. Sort of disappointing, that was, but I suppose it's only natural. As time goes by, I'm sure I'll be less affected.
During my break, two nurses were sitting across the room in the cafeteria. I smiled at them, but got nothing in return. They looked back to each other and kept talking. Ooh. Par for the course today, I'm afraid.
Not long after resuming position at my desk, the call bell went off. It was the patient who spoke very little English, only some dialect of Chinese, and surprisingly had no family or friends. He said nothing on the phone. I entered his room and spoke slowly without being patronising. He was not understanding that I was asking what he needed. I asked if he wanted a nurse. Blank, frightened look. "Maybe later." ...so, what do you want? I asked if it was his bed or pillow which needed adjusting, or if he wanted the rolling tray pulled closer. I pointed to each item as I asked about them. "No," to each. Silence. Blank, frightened look. I began to feel frustrated, but certainly not at him. I want to help, but don't know how! He was holding the remote with the call button, tv button, etc. and kept looking at it. Finally, it came out that he wanted to watch television. I showed him how to turn it on, change channels, and adjust the volume. That was all he wanted. He looked sheepish and thanked me. It must be very hard for him to be hospitalised and not be able to meaningfully communicate with anybody. I kept thinking about that blank, frightened look. It was like some sort of primal fear that a wild animal might exhibit. No family. No friends.
Not half an hour had passed and a white coat enters the room...and plops down right next to me at the desk. Ohmyohmyohmy. Doctors don't stick around long during my shift. They probably sense that I am pre-med and want to avoid my thirty trillion questions and requests to shadow. Don't blame them...sometimes. He was around for nearly 40 minutes. My hands were shaking, as if it were someone I've long admired. When calls from other departments came in, I bumbled around like a fool...uncertainty and a lack of confidence had set in. I tried to talk myself out of it. These people don't know just how little confidence you have. You're an actor in a film; be what the scene calls for. No one will be the wiser. It worked. Soon, I was joking with the charge nurse and handling calls confidently...but I couldn't muster the courage to say anything to the doctor. Part of that was not wanting to bother him.
The doctor was looking at MRI images. Somebody had something bad going on. Tumor.
Another doctor came in and I got to listen to a bit of the conversation about risks and benefits of surgery. They ultimately decided that the best course of action would be to try to cut the beast out.
They turned to me, asking whether or not I knew if the patient's family were around...to translate.
Oh, my. It was Mr. Blankenfrightened.
Someone actually happened to be around, a nurse on another floor, who spoke the patient's dialect. After a 5-minute discussion, everyone exited and the doctor sat down beside again and began dictating. The patient wanted to proceed with surgery.
Good for him, I thought. I began hoping that the surgery would be a success and there'd be no lasting effects from the invasion (and removal) of that awful mass.
I carried on, having a good time joking with the charge nurse. Very funny, very, very dry and morbid sense of humour. It was brilliant. Everything about him was slow and calculated and he always appeared to be on the verge of a smile. He was a reassuring presence, and I do hope that in the future, my attendings are all like him.
Not going to happen, but it's nice to dream.
As my shift winded down, I couldn't shake the feeling of strangeness that had been cast over the entire day. I was glad to clock out and be on my way home.
After dinner, I was still feeling a bit off and had a fair amount of pent-up energy I wanted to rid myself of before resuming my studies. Ah, let's take it on out to the driving range. I'm happy to report that the funk that I'd been in is getting further and further away in the review mirror. I even had an enourmous drive of nearly 270 yards...that's about 40-50 yards more than usual! That was just a one-time deal, you understand. It was a nice surprise.
Upon returning home, three hours somehow passed without an ounce of studying taking place. I can't, for whatever reason, particularly account for them. I was watching a bit of golf and had some physio slides pulled up, but I guess the distractions of the Internet got the better of me. I dozed off at one point...and woke up about 1 a.m. I stumbled into the bathroom and performed my nightly routine. By the time it was over, I was wide awake.
I crawled into bed, passively wishing that I was joining someone, and didn't feel a bit like sleeping. I've been absolutely devouring a book lately, so I picked that up to read a couple of chapters. The book, Something for the Pain: Compassion & Burnout in the ER by Paul Austin, had me hooked in the first couple of pages. It was nice to read the words of a man who made it through medical school talking about his pre-med experience and to find that there are overwhelming similarities. I found his personality to be a lot like mine, as well, which was all the more engaging. I'm nearly through with the book. I started it Monday and have been reading as much as I can when I can.
Later in the book, he treats the broken leg of a woman with Down Syndrome. As he described her howling in pain, the mental image of the woman became the image of Mr. Blakenfrightened. He wasn't screaming and didn't seem to be in any sort of pain, but the barrier to being particularly helpful seemed similar...obviously it isn't, but let's just go with it.
I started feeling a little guilty for, of all things, not speaking the man's dialect. This is irrational. There is nothing you could've done about that! I began thinking about him, all alone, in a big city hospital with a tumor about the size of a ping pong ball in his head, and it started eating at me. My mind began searching desperately for ways that I could've had a positive impact on his stay, even if it meant walking into his room and just smiling and waving. With each possibility, I asked myself why I didn't think of it then. That poor man doesn't have anyone to console him. No one in which to confide his fears about his future health. I thought about how I'd feel in that situation, and a creeping, chilling panic swept up my spine.
Maybe there are some things I could've done. Maybe not. Maybe my patient presence as we worked out that he wanted to television on was enough. I smiled a lot. He was smiling when I left. Maybe that's all anyone could've done.
I passed out last night while writing this entry. Looking back on it now, it seems a bit melodramatic and I'm almost embarrassed to have written some of it. It was such a weird day, all the way around. I'm happy that it's over, but not happy about the mountain of work before me today. Three exams this week. Three finals next week.
Cabinet full of coffee? Check.
We're cleared for take-off.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Josiah in the big city hospital
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
What a day it has been. I retired to my quarters at 10 last night and was promptly visited by the sandman. Not only was I not stirred from my sleep by my flatmates, but I had some of the best sleep I've had in a few weeks. I woke up at 6:30 a.m. feeling refreshed and rarin' to go. I'd better have felt that way, for this morning was my interview with one of the local hospitals!
On my way there, I opted to take a toll road to ensure I arrived in plenty of time. I got trapped in a lane for those who have a pre-paid toll pass. I don't own one. Whoops. There was a one dollar toll to pay at my exit later on, and I did indeed insert four quarters into the machine, but it only counted three! Not having any more change, I had no choice but to drive on. Two times a toll offender.
I haven't been to the downtown area of my city for many years. I'd forgotten just how many tall buildings there are. A rush of excitement, on top of the excitement I was already feeling, surged through me. You've got to understand, I'm still a small-town yokel, essentially. Even at 27 years of age, the everyday world of millions of Americans still has so much I've yet to discover. I feel like such a hick, but the excitement is genuine and, indeed, even childlike and I quite enjoy it.
There was a very nice man, a parking garage security attendant, of whom I had to ask a question. Normally in such situations I adopt an accent, just for my own amusement. As I was parking, I thought that I might have started something I shouldn't have. What if I was selected for the position and saw this chap on a regular basis? Oh, dear.
It was a cool morning, a bit breezy. I walked with purpose, head held high, towards the main entrance. To my right as I was nearing the doors, two doctors in scrubs and white coats were walking in my direction. One woman, one man. The woman was quite attractive. They actually both fit the general stereotype of new doctors. Young, beautiful, confident. I grinned at them and waved before I realised what I'd done. They looked a little curious, as if they should know who I was. Ha. I'm just an extremely excited pre-medical student entering a major hospital for the first time...and to interview for a position!
As I passed through the entrance, I instantly felt at home. In passing the cafeteria, there were doctors, nurses, and other hospital employees alike hanging around, drinking coffee, etc. I looked at them like my colleagues, my peers. Several times I had to remind myself that I still have some milestones to pass before all of that is true, but boy, never have I felt so strongly that I belong somewhere. A wholly inexplicable feeling, that is. But it feels good.
REALLY good.
I was grinning from ear to ear by this point, a spring in my step, all was right with the world. The corridor down which I had to travel to meet my interviewer couldn't have left me with more than an inch of headroom, no lie. It reminded me of that part in the Gene Wilder Willy Wonka film where the passageway kept getting more and more narrow.
The lady who interviewed me was quite nice and seemed to be excited by my excitement. None of the positions for which I applied seemed to be of any concern to her...she kicked in with all of the medical units! All of them sounded absolutely brilliant and I wanted to work in them all. I noticed neurology wasn't in her list...at first. When she mentioned it, I couldn't help but light up. We talked a lot more, about all sorts of things, and then she moved to her computer where she sought to schedule me to work...
...in the neuro unit!
My trousers very nearly became unsuitable for wear.
The whole thing was like God smiling down on me, saying, "Yes, boy. Go on. Do me proud."
If you thought I was in a good mood going in, you should've seen me on my way out! A dancing man I most certainly am not, but I sure felt like gettin' down all the way out through the exit and into the parking lot. "Top of the world, ma!" as Cody Jarrett said...only mine were much more favourable, and sane, circumstances.
In passing the physician's parking area, I saw a doctor come in driving some sort of new, sporty car (figured him for a surgeon...initial reaction, but who knows). As we passed, I was still smiling and nodded to him, which he returned with a smile.
I felt ten feet tall.
As I was leaving, I took further notice of a big grouping of large buildings overlooking a (probably man-made) lake. They all had to have been at least twenty storeys tall. Impressive feats of architecture. I imagined scenes from a time gone by, what with men in suits and suspenders and women very stylish but reserved in their dress, typewriters dinging and file cabinets all over the place. Lots of wood...desks, chairs...
Then I noticed for which kind of companies these buildings served.
Banks.
The anti-capitalist in me was instantly outraged and sickened by the kinds of nice, honest imagery I was imagining. No, it isn't like that at all. It never was, I know.
Then I began to wonder why there were so many floors. I wanted to walk in and take a tour, to be honest. Again, with the lil' hick in the big city business. Curiosity ate at me for a bit there at that red light with this imposing cityscape laid out before me, but almost as swiftly as the light changed colour, I'd decided that I didn't care to know the reason for so many floors. Best to leave it to the imagination. It's fun and probably much more satisfying than knowing the actuality of the situation.
My orientation is to take place in two weeks and I start in three. Looks like I'm going to have a lot of patient and nurse interaction, which is bleeding brilliant. Not sure how much I'm going to have the chance to interact with any physicians. High on my agenda is making some connections to perhaps set up some shadowing opportunities and such. I have a feeling that I should consult with the nurses to see if I can suss out which doctors are friendly and welcoming to students and which are not. My interviewer said some of the doctors can be real beasts and to steer clear, which I...I find really disappointing. Ah, well. I understand that the life of a physician is a busy and oftentimes stressful one, and I've got a mind to avoid being annoying and in the way as much as possible.
She did speak, however, of a few doctors who absolutely love to take students under their wings. One doctor is all the time trying to get interested parties in to witness procedures, and she'll even "let" us perform some easy and routine things under her supervision. Heh, reminded me of Huck Finn, but you'd better believe I'm going to snap up every possible opportunity.
To say that I'm thoroughly excited is a massive understatement. This is yet another point in my life where I am reaping the rewards of hard work. Sometimes, sitting down in the windowless first floor of the university library all alone and completely jazzed out on caffeine to keep my eyes peeled open, I get a little put off. Every time, though, that I start to really feel the pressure and the loneliness, something comes along and sets me straight again. For that, I'm eternally grateful.
Can't believe I pried my way into the hospital. Look out, nurses!
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
What a day it has been. I retired to my quarters at 10 last night and was promptly visited by the sandman. Not only was I not stirred from my sleep by my flatmates, but I had some of the best sleep I've had in a few weeks. I woke up at 6:30 a.m. feeling refreshed and rarin' to go. I'd better have felt that way, for this morning was my interview with one of the local hospitals!
On my way there, I opted to take a toll road to ensure I arrived in plenty of time. I got trapped in a lane for those who have a pre-paid toll pass. I don't own one. Whoops. There was a one dollar toll to pay at my exit later on, and I did indeed insert four quarters into the machine, but it only counted three! Not having any more change, I had no choice but to drive on. Two times a toll offender.
I haven't been to the downtown area of my city for many years. I'd forgotten just how many tall buildings there are. A rush of excitement, on top of the excitement I was already feeling, surged through me. You've got to understand, I'm still a small-town yokel, essentially. Even at 27 years of age, the everyday world of millions of Americans still has so much I've yet to discover. I feel like such a hick, but the excitement is genuine and, indeed, even childlike and I quite enjoy it.
There was a very nice man, a parking garage security attendant, of whom I had to ask a question. Normally in such situations I adopt an accent, just for my own amusement. As I was parking, I thought that I might have started something I shouldn't have. What if I was selected for the position and saw this chap on a regular basis? Oh, dear.
It was a cool morning, a bit breezy. I walked with purpose, head held high, towards the main entrance. To my right as I was nearing the doors, two doctors in scrubs and white coats were walking in my direction. One woman, one man. The woman was quite attractive. They actually both fit the general stereotype of new doctors. Young, beautiful, confident. I grinned at them and waved before I realised what I'd done. They looked a little curious, as if they should know who I was. Ha. I'm just an extremely excited pre-medical student entering a major hospital for the first time...and to interview for a position!
As I passed through the entrance, I instantly felt at home. In passing the cafeteria, there were doctors, nurses, and other hospital employees alike hanging around, drinking coffee, etc. I looked at them like my colleagues, my peers. Several times I had to remind myself that I still have some milestones to pass before all of that is true, but boy, never have I felt so strongly that I belong somewhere. A wholly inexplicable feeling, that is. But it feels good.
REALLY good.
I was grinning from ear to ear by this point, a spring in my step, all was right with the world. The corridor down which I had to travel to meet my interviewer couldn't have left me with more than an inch of headroom, no lie. It reminded me of that part in the Gene Wilder Willy Wonka film where the passageway kept getting more and more narrow.
The lady who interviewed me was quite nice and seemed to be excited by my excitement. None of the positions for which I applied seemed to be of any concern to her...she kicked in with all of the medical units! All of them sounded absolutely brilliant and I wanted to work in them all. I noticed neurology wasn't in her list...at first. When she mentioned it, I couldn't help but light up. We talked a lot more, about all sorts of things, and then she moved to her computer where she sought to schedule me to work...
...in the neuro unit!
My trousers very nearly became unsuitable for wear.
The whole thing was like God smiling down on me, saying, "Yes, boy. Go on. Do me proud."
If you thought I was in a good mood going in, you should've seen me on my way out! A dancing man I most certainly am not, but I sure felt like gettin' down all the way out through the exit and into the parking lot. "Top of the world, ma!" as Cody Jarrett said...only mine were much more favourable, and sane, circumstances.
In passing the physician's parking area, I saw a doctor come in driving some sort of new, sporty car (figured him for a surgeon...initial reaction, but who knows). As we passed, I was still smiling and nodded to him, which he returned with a smile.
I felt ten feet tall.
As I was leaving, I took further notice of a big grouping of large buildings overlooking a (probably man-made) lake. They all had to have been at least twenty storeys tall. Impressive feats of architecture. I imagined scenes from a time gone by, what with men in suits and suspenders and women very stylish but reserved in their dress, typewriters dinging and file cabinets all over the place. Lots of wood...desks, chairs...
Then I noticed for which kind of companies these buildings served.
Banks.
The anti-capitalist in me was instantly outraged and sickened by the kinds of nice, honest imagery I was imagining. No, it isn't like that at all. It never was, I know.
Then I began to wonder why there were so many floors. I wanted to walk in and take a tour, to be honest. Again, with the lil' hick in the big city business. Curiosity ate at me for a bit there at that red light with this imposing cityscape laid out before me, but almost as swiftly as the light changed colour, I'd decided that I didn't care to know the reason for so many floors. Best to leave it to the imagination. It's fun and probably much more satisfying than knowing the actuality of the situation.
My orientation is to take place in two weeks and I start in three. Looks like I'm going to have a lot of patient and nurse interaction, which is bleeding brilliant. Not sure how much I'm going to have the chance to interact with any physicians. High on my agenda is making some connections to perhaps set up some shadowing opportunities and such. I have a feeling that I should consult with the nurses to see if I can suss out which doctors are friendly and welcoming to students and which are not. My interviewer said some of the doctors can be real beasts and to steer clear, which I...I find really disappointing. Ah, well. I understand that the life of a physician is a busy and oftentimes stressful one, and I've got a mind to avoid being annoying and in the way as much as possible.
She did speak, however, of a few doctors who absolutely love to take students under their wings. One doctor is all the time trying to get interested parties in to witness procedures, and she'll even "let" us perform some easy and routine things under her supervision. Heh, reminded me of Huck Finn, but you'd better believe I'm going to snap up every possible opportunity.
To say that I'm thoroughly excited is a massive understatement. This is yet another point in my life where I am reaping the rewards of hard work. Sometimes, sitting down in the windowless first floor of the university library all alone and completely jazzed out on caffeine to keep my eyes peeled open, I get a little put off. Every time, though, that I start to really feel the pressure and the loneliness, something comes along and sets me straight again. For that, I'm eternally grateful.
Can't believe I pried my way into the hospital. Look out, nurses!
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
One of my first experiences with...um, exceptional patients
To whom it may concern:
I've just seen the fantastic "Patient faking seizure in ER" and was reminded of an experience whilst shadowing a neurologist one fine morning.
All the best,
J.O. Morris
I've just seen the fantastic "Patient faking seizure in ER" and was reminded of an experience whilst shadowing a neurologist one fine morning.
All the best,
J.O. Morris
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Unraveling, remembering...
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
It seems impossible that some of the most significant and defining moments of my early adulthood were taking place at this very time ten years ago. My first love had just casually waltzed into the picture...for an accurate description of how I see that in retrospect, please give a listen to Nat King Cole's "Orange Coloured Sky." The Beatles had just recently become a huge chunk of my musical diet, and at the time, the early years were my preference. Christmas that year, when I received Sgt. Pepper, Revolver, and Abbey Road as gifts, my stance was forever changed. I can still recall how it felt to hear "For No One" and "And Your Bird Can Sing" for the first time that beautiful morning. Oh, my, and "Eleanor Rigby!" Revolver blew me clean out of my britches. Also that Christmas, I was the enthusiastic recipient of a grey cardigan sweater, which was to become my trademark sweater for the duration of my high school experience. My best friend at the time lived right next door, and it was his younger sister who had introduced me to my first love. She went to visit my neighbour that day and we watched a little of Yellow Submarine, which Lil Sister had received from Best Friend. LS made a hasty exit, citing a craving for some left-over turkey, and Girlfriend and I wasted no time immediately engaging in frantic osculation. Later, the two of us, during the golden hour, sat together under a tree in the yard, each with rosy cheeks, twinkling eyes, and pounding hearts. Merry Christmas.
A year later, the relationship had been over for a month, having been brought to its demise by my depression and insecurity, for which I sought treatment. Yet again, the nice, crisp December weather would blow in a beautiful set of ingredients from which life-long memories were made. Coffee shops, jazz musicians, a homeless man, a new girlfriend, antique typewriters, Jack Kerouac..."On the Road" changed my life. This whirlwind of excitement was over in six months. Got dumped after a month, coffee shop closed just after graduation, homeless man disappeared (never to be heard from or of again), typewriters took up space...but ol' Kerouac, he stuck around. Matter of fact, Jackie-boy saw me through my political and spiritual transformation and growth, and introduced to me, together with George Harrison, eastern religions from which I've gleaned an incredible amount of joy and countless hours of imaginative contemplation. Tea. I discovered tea, thanks to "The Dharma Bums," and haven't let it go since.
The next several years of my life, during which time you entered and subsequently exited, were filled with weekends of excess...too much to drink, too many cigarettes. Not an incredibly unhappy period, but none of this will make the highlight reel. Things began to look up again in 2005.
I was promoted at the job I'd taken on and it looked as though a career in IT was my calling. It seemed a natural fit, having always been given to technological wizardry, if you will (and I think you might). However, this was not to be, and the project I was a part of had been abandoned. Once again, "What next?" was on my mind and I turned to foreign film for an escape. Quite naturally, I decided to become a filmmaker.
Best Friend/Drinking Buddy got swept up in my passion and, using his father's Hi-8 camcorder, we suited up, slapped a tablecloth on a card table, and started acting out a mobster tale. Later, I'd saved enough for a miniDV camcorder with all sorts of knobs and levers and I began writing short films about spiritual happenings, especially awakenings. Never could reliable "actors" hit upon my projects, and around the time of my 24th birthday, I hung the filmmaking idea up indefinitely.
...I had met a woman, someone with whom I was sure I'd be spending the rest of my days. I went back to college, having a mind to become an architect, but was soon put off of that when I found that most do commercial work instead of residential. The housing market crisis gleefully hammered in the final nail in that coffin. So there I was, without any direction once more.
It was at this moment that family, work, and personality combined in such a way as to reveal the path down which I am currently strolling. My grandmother began exhibiting signs of what I thought was Alzheimer's Disease. She soon began complaining of constant dizziness, nausea, and other uncommon distressing feelings. I knew what was coming, but I couldn't admit it and my family dared not discuss it. Everything was going to be okay. Everything had to be okay.
Nothing was okay.
Pancreatic cancer. Less than a month after the initial symptoms, she was gone. In the meantime, we learned that the cancer had metastised, reaching portions of her brain and just about everywhere else. Aha, it was this that caused the changes in her personality. Hmmmm, I should be grieving more, but I'm having an awfully hard time not being curious about the mechanics of consciousness and perception. This took me way back to my mid-teens when I first met people who regularly ingested LSD and shrooms. My exposure to psychedelics prior to these interactions came from Woodstock concert footage and a couple of episodes of Dragnet--the "Blue Boy" episode, most notably. In listening to trip reports from these individuals, always my mind sort of drifted away from the specifics of what they were telling me and towards the mechanics of the process. How? WHY? I happened upon a notable street drug reference website and essentially printed off everything there was to know about LSD...in the high school's library. Far too terrified to try these things out for myself, trip reports and pages upon pages of meaningless jargon were all I had. It was a valiant effort to make sense of the mechanical (or maybe, the theorised mechanical) aspects of acid-induced hallucinations, but it was beyond my understanding. I finally threw in the towel and moved on. Funny how things such as this resurface.
My obsessive personality took hold and anything that had even a remote association to the brain and its functions that I could get my hands on, I spent inordinate amounts of time with. V.S. Ramachandran became my hero and somewhere along the way, I just knew neurology was in the cards for me.
Please allow me to back up a few steps and explain that during this time, I worked for a document imaging company whose primary clients were hospitals. They'd ship to us boxes upon boxes of ED reports and it was our job to digitise them. I ended up in quality analysis, so I was the last pair of eyes to see the images before being sent back to the client. This afforded me ample opportunity to read through the charts, which I took to doing almost immediately, before the desire to become a doctor had hit me. After a few months, I got to where I could sometimes guess correctly the diagnosis, but this was rare. Eloquent language has always turned me on, and there was just something about the reports doctors would write that grabbed me...also of great interest were post-op reports.
As far as my personality is concerned, I've always had a grand desire to take care of people, to be someone that a soul in need can turn to for a shoulder to cry on, to offer solutions, to stand firmly by someone when perhaps no one else can or will...all of these things that are undoubtedly the wistful dreams of billions of premed students. But I'm different! Hmm. I know, my dear, that I am on the right path and that my enthusiasm shall not waiver.
Last fall, I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to shadow several doctors at a neurology practice not far from my home. There were five there in total, and I sat in with four of them over the several months I visited. The first doctor seemed a little impersonal with patients, but to me, between patients, he was eager to answer all of my silly questions and expound indefinitely on conditions and treatment. I could not, however, get over the slightly cold manner with which he dealt with patients. The second doctor I sat in with was easily in his late 60s and did not seem to want to stop laughing, which is fine by me! During examinations, he was highly personable and asked plenty of questions about patients' interests, hobbies, family... almost all of the patients seemed receptive to this and, at times, it was easy for me to lose a sense of where I was and to what I should be paying attention. Nearly every patient left the examination room smiling and seemingly unwilling to part ways! That's the kind of doctor I want to be...taking care of business and getting serious as needed, but generally relating to these patients as people (as opposed to the next ailing thing in line to be treated), keeping their spirits up when things might not look so good for them in the long run. My favourite doctor was the one I shadowed next. Not only did he also display this desire to get on well with his patients, he was extraordinarily thorough, in both his examinations and in involving me in the process!! He made me feel as though I could contribute to the diagnosis and recommended treatment (although we both were well aware that I could not), which very nearly made me pass out from excitement. Before a patient arrived, he'd tell me their issue, what he'd done for them in the past, and a little about the condition if I was not familiar. He'd introduce me to the patient, instead of just saying "Do you mind if this guy sits in?", and during the examination he'd explain in detail what he was doing and what he was looking for, including those things which are normal and those which are not. At the end of his time with each patient, he'd open it up to me to ask any questions of the patient I so desired! I had died and gone to heaven. Needless to say, I spent the majority of my remaining visits with him.
I'll have to admit, out of all of the cases I got to see, Alzheimer's patients were by far my favourite. Apparently, lady luck was great to me in that all of the patients were subdued and gentle, and nothing like the agitated and violent people one of my nurse friends so often encounters. Dementia. To say that I am fascinated is insufficient. A girl I briefly dated when I was 19, or thereabouts, had a grandmother who was severely afflicted. We were all at some family member's house for dinner, and as I brought my dishes into the kitchen, I saw the kindly old grandmother bent over the kitchen counter examining the toaster. I was unaware of her condition at this point, and didn't know what to make of what she was doing. As I began to offer assistance, she turned to several decorative salt and pepper shakers on the adjacent counter. Still bent over, hovering over them, she appeared to be murmuring to each of them. I put two and two together, coming to the conclusion that she must have diminished eyesight. Again as I was about to offer assistance, I was interrupted, My girlfriend walked in and seconds later, her grandmother leaned in further and kissed each of the shakers. She pointed to one nearer to the middle, kissed it again, and said, "Don't tell the others, but I like you the best!" I laughed, thinking she was fooling around, but I was soon informed of her dementia. It was still a funny sight, but a wave of sickness, despair, and a large damned amount of curiosity washed over me. I had never felt so moved by something in my life up to that point. I didn't know what to do with it, so like the curiosity about perception-altering drugs, I filed it away and moved on with my life.
For fear of need of extra postage, I shall cease these self-indulgent explorations of the past and turn you loose.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
It seems impossible that some of the most significant and defining moments of my early adulthood were taking place at this very time ten years ago. My first love had just casually waltzed into the picture...for an accurate description of how I see that in retrospect, please give a listen to Nat King Cole's "Orange Coloured Sky." The Beatles had just recently become a huge chunk of my musical diet, and at the time, the early years were my preference. Christmas that year, when I received Sgt. Pepper, Revolver, and Abbey Road as gifts, my stance was forever changed. I can still recall how it felt to hear "For No One" and "And Your Bird Can Sing" for the first time that beautiful morning. Oh, my, and "Eleanor Rigby!" Revolver blew me clean out of my britches. Also that Christmas, I was the enthusiastic recipient of a grey cardigan sweater, which was to become my trademark sweater for the duration of my high school experience. My best friend at the time lived right next door, and it was his younger sister who had introduced me to my first love. She went to visit my neighbour that day and we watched a little of Yellow Submarine, which Lil Sister had received from Best Friend. LS made a hasty exit, citing a craving for some left-over turkey, and Girlfriend and I wasted no time immediately engaging in frantic osculation. Later, the two of us, during the golden hour, sat together under a tree in the yard, each with rosy cheeks, twinkling eyes, and pounding hearts. Merry Christmas.
A year later, the relationship had been over for a month, having been brought to its demise by my depression and insecurity, for which I sought treatment. Yet again, the nice, crisp December weather would blow in a beautiful set of ingredients from which life-long memories were made. Coffee shops, jazz musicians, a homeless man, a new girlfriend, antique typewriters, Jack Kerouac..."On the Road" changed my life. This whirlwind of excitement was over in six months. Got dumped after a month, coffee shop closed just after graduation, homeless man disappeared (never to be heard from or of again), typewriters took up space...but ol' Kerouac, he stuck around. Matter of fact, Jackie-boy saw me through my political and spiritual transformation and growth, and introduced to me, together with George Harrison, eastern religions from which I've gleaned an incredible amount of joy and countless hours of imaginative contemplation. Tea. I discovered tea, thanks to "The Dharma Bums," and haven't let it go since.
The next several years of my life, during which time you entered and subsequently exited, were filled with weekends of excess...too much to drink, too many cigarettes. Not an incredibly unhappy period, but none of this will make the highlight reel. Things began to look up again in 2005.
I was promoted at the job I'd taken on and it looked as though a career in IT was my calling. It seemed a natural fit, having always been given to technological wizardry, if you will (and I think you might). However, this was not to be, and the project I was a part of had been abandoned. Once again, "What next?" was on my mind and I turned to foreign film for an escape. Quite naturally, I decided to become a filmmaker.
Best Friend/Drinking Buddy got swept up in my passion and, using his father's Hi-8 camcorder, we suited up, slapped a tablecloth on a card table, and started acting out a mobster tale. Later, I'd saved enough for a miniDV camcorder with all sorts of knobs and levers and I began writing short films about spiritual happenings, especially awakenings. Never could reliable "actors" hit upon my projects, and around the time of my 24th birthday, I hung the filmmaking idea up indefinitely.
...I had met a woman, someone with whom I was sure I'd be spending the rest of my days. I went back to college, having a mind to become an architect, but was soon put off of that when I found that most do commercial work instead of residential. The housing market crisis gleefully hammered in the final nail in that coffin. So there I was, without any direction once more.
It was at this moment that family, work, and personality combined in such a way as to reveal the path down which I am currently strolling. My grandmother began exhibiting signs of what I thought was Alzheimer's Disease. She soon began complaining of constant dizziness, nausea, and other uncommon distressing feelings. I knew what was coming, but I couldn't admit it and my family dared not discuss it. Everything was going to be okay. Everything had to be okay.
Nothing was okay.
Pancreatic cancer. Less than a month after the initial symptoms, she was gone. In the meantime, we learned that the cancer had metastised, reaching portions of her brain and just about everywhere else. Aha, it was this that caused the changes in her personality. Hmmmm, I should be grieving more, but I'm having an awfully hard time not being curious about the mechanics of consciousness and perception. This took me way back to my mid-teens when I first met people who regularly ingested LSD and shrooms. My exposure to psychedelics prior to these interactions came from Woodstock concert footage and a couple of episodes of Dragnet--the "Blue Boy" episode, most notably. In listening to trip reports from these individuals, always my mind sort of drifted away from the specifics of what they were telling me and towards the mechanics of the process. How? WHY? I happened upon a notable street drug reference website and essentially printed off everything there was to know about LSD...in the high school's library. Far too terrified to try these things out for myself, trip reports and pages upon pages of meaningless jargon were all I had. It was a valiant effort to make sense of the mechanical (or maybe, the theorised mechanical) aspects of acid-induced hallucinations, but it was beyond my understanding. I finally threw in the towel and moved on. Funny how things such as this resurface.
My obsessive personality took hold and anything that had even a remote association to the brain and its functions that I could get my hands on, I spent inordinate amounts of time with. V.S. Ramachandran became my hero and somewhere along the way, I just knew neurology was in the cards for me.
Please allow me to back up a few steps and explain that during this time, I worked for a document imaging company whose primary clients were hospitals. They'd ship to us boxes upon boxes of ED reports and it was our job to digitise them. I ended up in quality analysis, so I was the last pair of eyes to see the images before being sent back to the client. This afforded me ample opportunity to read through the charts, which I took to doing almost immediately, before the desire to become a doctor had hit me. After a few months, I got to where I could sometimes guess correctly the diagnosis, but this was rare. Eloquent language has always turned me on, and there was just something about the reports doctors would write that grabbed me...also of great interest were post-op reports.
As far as my personality is concerned, I've always had a grand desire to take care of people, to be someone that a soul in need can turn to for a shoulder to cry on, to offer solutions, to stand firmly by someone when perhaps no one else can or will...all of these things that are undoubtedly the wistful dreams of billions of premed students. But I'm different! Hmm. I know, my dear, that I am on the right path and that my enthusiasm shall not waiver.
Last fall, I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to shadow several doctors at a neurology practice not far from my home. There were five there in total, and I sat in with four of them over the several months I visited. The first doctor seemed a little impersonal with patients, but to me, between patients, he was eager to answer all of my silly questions and expound indefinitely on conditions and treatment. I could not, however, get over the slightly cold manner with which he dealt with patients. The second doctor I sat in with was easily in his late 60s and did not seem to want to stop laughing, which is fine by me! During examinations, he was highly personable and asked plenty of questions about patients' interests, hobbies, family... almost all of the patients seemed receptive to this and, at times, it was easy for me to lose a sense of where I was and to what I should be paying attention. Nearly every patient left the examination room smiling and seemingly unwilling to part ways! That's the kind of doctor I want to be...taking care of business and getting serious as needed, but generally relating to these patients as people (as opposed to the next ailing thing in line to be treated), keeping their spirits up when things might not look so good for them in the long run. My favourite doctor was the one I shadowed next. Not only did he also display this desire to get on well with his patients, he was extraordinarily thorough, in both his examinations and in involving me in the process!! He made me feel as though I could contribute to the diagnosis and recommended treatment (although we both were well aware that I could not), which very nearly made me pass out from excitement. Before a patient arrived, he'd tell me their issue, what he'd done for them in the past, and a little about the condition if I was not familiar. He'd introduce me to the patient, instead of just saying "Do you mind if this guy sits in?", and during the examination he'd explain in detail what he was doing and what he was looking for, including those things which are normal and those which are not. At the end of his time with each patient, he'd open it up to me to ask any questions of the patient I so desired! I had died and gone to heaven. Needless to say, I spent the majority of my remaining visits with him.
I'll have to admit, out of all of the cases I got to see, Alzheimer's patients were by far my favourite. Apparently, lady luck was great to me in that all of the patients were subdued and gentle, and nothing like the agitated and violent people one of my nurse friends so often encounters. Dementia. To say that I am fascinated is insufficient. A girl I briefly dated when I was 19, or thereabouts, had a grandmother who was severely afflicted. We were all at some family member's house for dinner, and as I brought my dishes into the kitchen, I saw the kindly old grandmother bent over the kitchen counter examining the toaster. I was unaware of her condition at this point, and didn't know what to make of what she was doing. As I began to offer assistance, she turned to several decorative salt and pepper shakers on the adjacent counter. Still bent over, hovering over them, she appeared to be murmuring to each of them. I put two and two together, coming to the conclusion that she must have diminished eyesight. Again as I was about to offer assistance, I was interrupted, My girlfriend walked in and seconds later, her grandmother leaned in further and kissed each of the shakers. She pointed to one nearer to the middle, kissed it again, and said, "Don't tell the others, but I like you the best!" I laughed, thinking she was fooling around, but I was soon informed of her dementia. It was still a funny sight, but a wave of sickness, despair, and a large damned amount of curiosity washed over me. I had never felt so moved by something in my life up to that point. I didn't know what to do with it, so like the curiosity about perception-altering drugs, I filed it away and moved on with my life.
For fear of need of extra postage, I shall cease these self-indulgent explorations of the past and turn you loose.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
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