Backdated Backlog - 15 June
The first thing I learned today, after I'd slammed almost-late in the OR workroom, with my sad, desperately-needed breakfast cereal baggie in hand, at 6 am, to look over the Patient List and the charts of the patients on the List, was that one of our patients had died. Not my patient, but, our patient, sort of. The patient had had a extensive operation just before Naomi and I arrived, and during our week of piloting morning rounds without our vacationing resident, we faithfully checked on her every morning in her intensive care suite, despite our complete lack of available interventions or expertise. When we appeared and made our inquiries, her nurse, different every morning, would always sigh and look directly into our eyes - an unusual amount of attention for students to receive - pretty much enough to let us know that this shit was not going so goddamn well. But we would have known that anyway, from the aggressive use of resuscitative machinery. It was a grim picture. It made us sad. The nurse would unload on us about all of the patient's problems in an efficient and classic narrative of multi-system organ failure, and I decided our function there was mostly to let him or her ventilate. We would nod in a serious fashion, check her oddly terrific-looking incision, then Naomi would have a distressed look and pat the girl's leg, and we'd wish the nurse the best of luck and move on to other, less complicated patients for whom we might have some blessedly simplistic, unobjectionable orders to suggest. Let's try clear liquids today! Sure, take a shower! When our resident came back, the little girl got pushed down the List to the special bottom section, where people go when we're done with our part of fixing them and all we do is stop by if someone pages us, or some attending has a mysterious compulsion to visit them. Still, we walked by her room every day on our rounds. The ICU rooms all have moods, and the moods drift into the hallway, and some of them you want to avoid. Some of them are good places, and others have a darkness. Today her room was empty.
Some time later, we were completely losing our shit in traditional looped-out gigglefest fashion. Sitting in the workroom, I put my feet up on the desk behind the in-out trays holding ORDERS and PROGRESS NOTES and ate some more cereal. We began to feel very lonesome and hungry and un-looked after. I quizzed Naomi on the differences between the inflammatory bowel diseases. The funniest of the anesthesiologists poked his head in and asked if we knew what had happened to our case. "We are always the last to know," we reminded him. Naomi suggested we leave a note saying, WE WENT HOME BECAUSE YOU IGNORED US. I suggested "MED STUDENTS ARE LIKE PLANTS: WE NEED FOOD, WATER, AND ATTENTION - OR WE DIE." Sometime in there, I decided to get some food. The cafeteria, which is always closed, was closed. So I raided the entirely deserted staff lounge, to which we have access via badge, but were admonished not to patronize. Catering had left a plate of congealing poached salmon and two stale multigrain bagels. I took one of the latter and stuffed it into my coat pocket, and fixed a cup of coffee, while muttering stuff like "motherfuckers" and "if they expect me to work like a doctor, they better give me food like a doctor."
We debated about what we might possibly do with ourselves. Naomi suggested that we walk over to Radiology and find out what was on the suspected appy's CT scan. I thought this was a good idea, because it would involve both a walk - a 100-foot one, which is better than no walk at all - and a chat with a radiologist, maybe even two radiologists, in their cozy dark catacombs. Naomi had a second thought, though - if we found an appy, we might be held responsible for sticking around - i.e. we would have the privilege of sticking around - and seeing it through to its final resting place of a surg path specimen cup in OR Two, probably somewhat less than eight hours before class the next morning. Despite this unpleasant thought, we went to visit the radiologists' cave anyway...
Some time later, we were completely losing our shit in traditional looped-out gigglefest fashion. Sitting in the workroom, I put my feet up on the desk behind the in-out trays holding ORDERS and PROGRESS NOTES and ate some more cereal. We began to feel very lonesome and hungry and un-looked after. I quizzed Naomi on the differences between the inflammatory bowel diseases. The funniest of the anesthesiologists poked his head in and asked if we knew what had happened to our case. "We are always the last to know," we reminded him. Naomi suggested we leave a note saying, WE WENT HOME BECAUSE YOU IGNORED US. I suggested "MED STUDENTS ARE LIKE PLANTS: WE NEED FOOD, WATER, AND ATTENTION - OR WE DIE." Sometime in there, I decided to get some food. The cafeteria, which is always closed, was closed. So I raided the entirely deserted staff lounge, to which we have access via badge, but were admonished not to patronize. Catering had left a plate of congealing poached salmon and two stale multigrain bagels. I took one of the latter and stuffed it into my coat pocket, and fixed a cup of coffee, while muttering stuff like "motherfuckers" and "if they expect me to work like a doctor, they better give me food like a doctor."
We debated about what we might possibly do with ourselves. Naomi suggested that we walk over to Radiology and find out what was on the suspected appy's CT scan. I thought this was a good idea, because it would involve both a walk - a 100-foot one, which is better than no walk at all - and a chat with a radiologist, maybe even two radiologists, in their cozy dark catacombs. Naomi had a second thought, though - if we found an appy, we might be held responsible for sticking around - i.e. we would have the privilege of sticking around - and seeing it through to its final resting place of a surg path specimen cup in OR Two, probably somewhat less than eight hours before class the next morning. Despite this unpleasant thought, we went to visit the radiologists' cave anyway...