For once I won’t dwell on the fact that I haven’t written a post since the beginning of time. Suffice to say since I got back from my (first) holiday in June- the last post you will have read- things have been a bit manic. I’ve started three different blog posts- and failed to complete any of them. And in fact, I’m actually writing this quite late into the start of clinics; after the lecture based Pathology course finished in June I had a stint in GP land (with a side order of Oncology [cancer medicine]) until now, where I find myself a week into a seven week stint on Obstetrics and Gynaecology.

You’ll hear about my exploits in catching babies and grappling with the niceties of a whole new discipline soon- not least because I start labour ward on Sunday for a string of night and day shifts and I’ll need something to do in the downtime. Before then I thought I’d be semi-serious for once (although the sarcasm is hard to keep away) and tell you about an experience I had yesterday morning on the way to work. There doesn’t seem to be much else to do at the moment (I’m on a train from Oxford) and I’ll be damned if I am using those ridiculous revolving door toilets that will one day result in my inadvertent arrest for indecent exposure when I fail to fully comprehend the locking mechanism that one needs to have a PhD to understand.

The Oxford Handbook of Clinical Medicine- known more commonly as “Cheese and Onion” owing to its colour-based resemblance to said packet of crisps- is our bible, and has lots of advice and pensive asides. One of them is called “The Last roll of the dice” and talks about when it all comes down to you; the time when there is no-one else (written there in the context of a technique to gain access to someone’s circulation when they are critically ill). Primarily I think this is there for junior doctors in their first couple of years, especially when on-call during nights, and the senior doctor is busy with another patient and you’re the one that has to make that call. As students, we don’t get put into that situation much (thankfully- I’m sure if it did come down to us with any frequency it would end up with something completely fire retardant catching fire and other such endings that result in an unhealthy amount of paperwork).

Such moments do happen, however. I was walking (running just on the late side of on-time) to the Tube to go to work yesterday morning; a few minutes from my house I crossed a road and sleepily looked up. Then followed that uplifting sound of crunching metal and screeching brakes; looking up, a motorbike came skidding across the road, followed by the rider face-up in the centre of the road, with the mangled front edge of a car in my peripheral vision. If you’ve ever seen an accident happen in front of you, the silence is deafening; people say these things happen in slow motion and I can confirm they genuinely do. To my never-ending dismay I didn’t have the reactions to do a Hollywood style “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” in the brilliant slow motion voice I’ve been working on in my shower for so long.

As medics, first aiders, ambulance crews etc, we’re often trained to go into things cold. A call comes over the radio or the tannoy, or the crash bleep goes off, and we’re told (and almost know) what to expect- before we even get there we have an action plan in our minds and we slip easily into the chaos without even a whisper of fear or doubt; eventually even the adrenaline doesn’t have much of a kick. I suppose I’m lucky that my interest in trauma and pre-hospital care means that I have a good enough working knowledge of first aid and trauma management to have dealt with it as much as I could for the 8 minutes it takes for the ambulance to arrive. It didn’t make a lot of difference though; although routine kicked in and I could stabilise the guys head and protect his neck, spine and airway, the rest of the drill melted away with the shock.  I think we try and deceive ourseves that as professionals there is nothing that does shock us any more; that is part of the deal to some extent, in that the public and our patients want us to have seen it all and done it all lest they be the one thing that shocks us. I do seem to remember barking orders at everyone who was standing watching and was grateful for the help of various first aiders who appeared at my side after I had made the initial jump to approach him. No doubt I came across as slightly insane, sanctimonious (or both) but all means to an end. Probably.

What was hilarious, however, was the amount of attention this garnered. The accident stopped all the traffic in both directions on a busy main road in Fulham; even before the ambulance arrived all and sundry had turnd out to have a look. This included the Manager of Tesco Express and a man in his dressing gown, casually wandering into the middle of the road and peering over my shoulder before being gently reminded by the paramedic that perhaps this wasn’t a spectator sport. I might try wandering around in my dressing gown on the street- it does look comfortable and oddly liberating, I’ll give him that. That having been said, my housemates will testify that I have enough trouble wearing a dressing gown and/or trousers in the house without venturing on to the street.

So after half an hour of holding this mans head the second crew arrived and I could be relieved and start talking to the police. Armed with an excuse as to why I was severely late for the ward round (and creased, dirtied chinos to prove it) I went back to trudging down the road to Putney to catch my tube. The rider wasn’t too badly injured- winded and with a probable knee injury- and as he disappeared off into the distance I debated whether or not it would have been ethical to catch a ride to the hospital.

So now I find myself on the way home from an academic conference in Oxford, where my girfriend and I played the part of paramedics in a simulated A+E resuscitation room, putting some poor delegate into the thick of things without much notice to see how they coped with running a trauma scenario. Turns out they did pretty well; although I managed to take out the patient’s shoulder by ramming it into the double doors. I think we’ll put that down to experience. Somehow in all of this we managed to get invited to a three course dinner in Balliol College, where we ate with various academics and the Head of the Navy- and as I think is befitting my girlfriend’s enduring attention to detail, she completly managed to miss that she was sitting opposite an admiral all evening. So if tomorrow there is a smouldering wreck where my house used to be and a battleship making haste along the Thames, you’ll know why.

Until next time,
Jaimie

So I realise that it has been two months since I updated, and I did write a reasonably long post about my thrilling trips to the garden centre, a classical music concert, my viva examination, some crazy lady in Oxford Street and all manner of other exciting adventures.

As you can see, it is not here; instead I am on a London bus on the first leg of my journey to Italy, writing this update on my phone whilst my girlfriend talks about maxi-dresses and blazers and other things I don’t understand whilst I pretend to listen attentively. That’s progress eh?

I’ll do my best to keep you up to date with this brief, week long sejour that allows me to recharge my desperately depleted batteries before I start the next year and a half of clinical rotations, starting with the hell that will be pathology. That is, indeed, if I make it back; between staying in the middle of nowhere and hiring a car in Italy isn’t an enirely certain prospect. Luckily I do have a sweet hat…

To keep you entertained in the meantime, here is a ludicrous video I featured in for graduation about handshakes, including a man who has stolen the rector’s clothes and is wearing his face as a mask (no joke): 

http://www2.imperial.ac.uk/imedia/content/view/1505/the-right-handshake/

Jaimie

So I’m back home again, and for some reason that means (statistically speaking) I am much more likely to write a post. This may well be because I’m getting a better night’s sleep on the orthopaedic king-size space mattress I have at home. Yes, I am that old.

Money’s getting tight, I don’t mind telling you. With the lack of holidays I am unable to work much at my holiday job looking after children for the council, although I have managed to squeeze in a couple of days in- it’s all about the cashback.

I’m actually pretty bad for keeping track of my finances; I occasionally have cursory look at online banking, but that normally gives me enough of a shock to not want to have a look again. The best indicator that money is getting tight is when the fridge has nothing but (a recent example here), a 300g block of 1 week old Tesco’s Finest Ardennes Pate, some decomposing Philadelphia, dried out ham, a collection of “purees” (also known as rotting vegetables) and a half empty bottle of soda water- because as you may have guessed, I’m a glass half empty kind of guy. The biggest hint that money was getting a bit tight was when I made a trip to the local Tesco to scavenge some food, and having decided on a pint of milk and a carton of orange juice found myself looking at the Pizzas. However, my keen eye spotted that an erstwhile employee of Sir John Tesco Esq. was- exceptionally slowly- reducing certain items that were soon to go out of date, and was gradually approaching a pizza I had my eye on. So I stood there. And waited. And waited. And stared. And eventually, just as the

Medical cover like a boss

reduced sticker hit the box, I rugby tackled the man out of the way, grabbed said pizza sending a risotto or four flying and charged out of the shop and in to the night waited for the gentleman to move out of the way before gently picked up the pizza and making a swift payment and exit. In retrospect, I realise how off-putting it must be to reduce fresh groceries whilst a sunken eyed, partially clothed man stares at you hungrily whilst holding chilled groceries - although admittedly I have never been in such a position myself. The grand total saving  at the cost of me looking like a lobotomy patient: £1,69.

Admittedly, that’s a mini-cashback. But who cares, every little helps (top pun there).

Incidentally, I realise I keep mentioning Tesco specifically- I promise this is solely because they are the closest to my house; sadly they’re not paying me to keep using their name. Hint if you’re listening though, Tesco.

Speaking of the stupid things people do, I worked at the marathon again this year providing medical cover.

I’ve written about this before, but never before have I looked like so much of a boss whilst saving lives. I also managed to avoid flying ice packs that had been packed in patients groins, which is always a bonus…

So work wise, I’m starting to research my mini-project about how we take consent for autopsies in England and Wales- top subject for killing dinner conversations. At the same time, my counterparts who have been researching a more scientific project for the last five weeks are now cramming as many participants as they can in to their studies- friends, strangers, passers-by; literally anyone will do it seems. Even me. So for your enjoyment, I leave you with the comedy moment of me being spun around in a chair in an effort to confuse my Vestibular system and be sick to aid a friend’s research project (cheers to Flo for the top quality video; HD and everything). Was I sick? Don’t be stupid. No chair can beat me. I did burp more than usual though…

Hello all.

I write this in a dire attempt to procrastinate from writing any more about rat cerebellum. I swear down (apparently that’s the new term the kidz on the streetz are usingz thesez dayz, along with their propensity to add a “z” on to eveything) that if I never read about a mouse who can’t swim properly ever again it’ll be too soon.

Thus I am well and truly in the throes of a new experience- essay writing and deadlines. In medicine at Imperial the emphasis is

The current state of my desk. Note the top-quality dinner scattered around

almost entirely on terminal assessment, with the total number of essays I have written in my time here amounting to one in four years. So having to find a discourse about developmental neurobiology for 2500 words is a far cry from my comfort zone walking up and down poorly painted corridors in an expensive coat finding the best way to wear my stethoscope to attract the lay-deez. In fact, I have become so preoccupied with deadlines that all normal functions appear to have been postponed. Last night’s meal consisted of a carton of orange juice and half a packet of honey roasted cashew nuts (the remnants of which can be seen on my desk). It’s no better for my housemates; the number of 4am finishes that have been endured is obscene, and one of my housemates has been living almost exclusively off the “reduced to clear” shelf from Tescos. I suppose this is what the real student life is like, eh? It’s a good job I like peanuts I guess.

But life has this way of making things worse for you at the best possible times. I’m pretty sure I’ve lamented on the topic of my boiler before, but it has yet again reared its ugly head. This morning, for some entirely inexplicable reason, there was no hot water despite there having been ample for my female compadres; you will appreciate that given the current inclement weather just how cold the cold water is. I guess it’s lucky that my experiences in the India taught me how to shower with nothing but an orange bucket, a plastic pint glass and a kettle (which may have been the best thing to come from the trip). Coincidentally we had a chap from British Gas pop round to do the annual boiler service and apparently there’s some panel that is critically important which is broken and had it fallen into the flames then something bad would have happened. I could tell this was bad because Johnny Gasman explained it by saying “because that could fall into the fire

You should see the advice note: "YOU WILL DIE IF YOU ATTEMPT TO HAVE A SHOWER"

and then…[ominous pause], well you wouldn’t want that to happen.” I’m not entirely sure he didn’t break it himself, but because he didn’t have a replacement part the boiler is now out of service. In fact, it’s so out of service that it’s been classed as “Immediately dangerous” and I have been served with hazard tape and stickers and piece of paper proclaiming “DANGER YOUR BOILER IS IMMEDIATELY DANGEROUS DO NOT USE IT IF YOU USE IT YOU ARE RISKING YOUR OWN SAFETY AND THAT OF THOSE AROUND YOU EVEN YOUR LIFE AND IT IS AGAINST THE LAW AND YOUR BOILER ASPLODE.”

Apparently British Gas have never heard of punctuation.

So that’s one of the world’s mysteries solved: the WMDs were never in Iraq, they were in fact in my kitchen cupboard all along. I wish I had told Tony that sooner.

So apart from boiler-derived comedy, how else have I been keeping myself sane amongst the chaos? Well, there was the Halloween bop a few weeks ago. This was very much like every other alcohol fuelled medic party I have ever documented here, but a special mention has to go to the costumes. I’m not a big fan of dressing up- I enjoy it in principle, but it’s just too much effort for a person as lazy as myself. So in a stroke of genius I burglarised my housemate’s bed sheet, and cut some holes into it, becoming the world’s best ghost (my girlfriend is pictured as some kind of Greek goddess or something; I couldn’t properly see through the misaligned eyeholes):

Girlfriend left, Jaimie right, Stan centre

Unfortunately, it was a little too long and meant that I kept tripping up and getting covered in beer every 3o seconds, and as the eye holes kept moving I appeared more like a bumbling beer soaked rag than a ghost. Turns out it’s actually pretty warm under a bedsheet as well, so spent the majority of the night desperately trying to fan myself and spraying more beer everywhere. Luckily I wasn’t the only one with the same problem…

Double face fail win!

I repaid that debt to society I had accrued by attempting to scare children by teaching some Brownies the basics of first aid. What a nightmare. Lovely kids- they just can’t keep still for more than about 8 seconds and they all kept telling me about the horrific trauma they have experienced as world-wearly 10 year olds. I can’t overstate how surreal it is to be placed into the recovery position by 8 small children working in unity; I can only liken it to Gulliver’s Travels set in a suburban church hall. Jonathan Swift eat your heart out.

And on that note, I must return to my essay. Apparently this post is now 899 words! Maybe I could fill my essay with this guff and get extra points for originality?