I seem to constantly skirt trouble. Writing and medicine are fractious bedfellows – a marriage not always congenial. Recently I missed the turnoff to wisdom…
Interpreting ECG’s is trickier than you think. One must have a system, preferably one that will stand up to the pummel of ED situations and environmental influences: time pressures, incomplete information, typhoons, that sort of thing.
Once in a while we don’t have to be Epic. We can be a plain worker bee, low ranking, mission brown, a serf. We are permitted to hitch up our strides like peasants, and get on with the business of hoeing through the garden of the unwell.
Doctors, the world over, are reeling. The global telegraph (#BawaGarba) has been alight with conversations, most of them uncomprehending, shocked, dismayed, fearful.
Back in the days before mandatory training we must have been frightfully underprepared for a multi-trauma. Anarchy held together by skin.
There’s a torso at the front of the queue. Towards the back of the line, patiently waiting their turn, are several uniformed staff-members. Some of them are cracking their knuckles.
Let it never be said that we resist change. We, the consultants in my ED, have been reinvented. We are now EPIC (…the Imperious).
Walking out of the place where people are breathing their tortured last, hopping in the car to drive home under a golden wedge of moon…
Is the Utopia of Thomas Moore attainable, or should we defer to a dystopian existence?
I’m seated here, in upholstered comfort, with two questions. The couch is a dreadful, shameless pun, which I will explain in a moment. The questions though, are real.
A weekly periodical examining a rather extraordinary clinical encounter: Chapter 4: Medical Instincts
A weekly periodical examining a rather extraordinary clinical encounter: Chapter 3: Assault as Therapy