Music in the Theatre

Another One Bites the Dust

Most days when I am operating, I choose a playlist on my iPhone and plug it into the speaker. I don’t have it on particularly loud, but I do have it playing, as to create background noise. Silence can often convey tension, and I find people work better together when everyone is relaxed. Often, patients will comment on the background music as they are being wheeled into the operating theatre, and some appreciates it as it takes their minds off on what’s to come. Sometimes I use it as a topic for conversation, to distract the patient as he or she is going to sleep.

My playlists consist of a wide range of music. I remember trying to load up my husband’s iPhone with music a few years ago, so he too can play music in the operating theatre. I asked him what he wanted on it. He told me whatever I want. The next question that came out of my mouth was, ‘Do you want something you like, or something that’s cool?’ It took me a while afterwards to realise why he was sulking.

I have lots of playlists. One for early in the day, all calm smooth jazzy stuff, then one full of pop and lively tunes for the afternoon. I even have a playlist called ‘closing music’, just something to put on when I am finishing up a long case – the first song being ‘We gotta get out of this place’ by The Animals.

Lately, the shuffling on my playlists seems to have a life of its own, with very bad timing. Just a week ago, I noticed my patient’s eyes look at me in horror as he was going to sleep. I couldn’t work out what was causing his distress until I realised that the sound system was softly playing Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’. It was not the first time in the last month that my playlists have shown impeccable timing and bad taste. Because the week before, Queen was blaring ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ as my patient was being wheeled into the operating room.

So here I have compiled a list of songs that should not be played when patients are about to have surgery. I have erased them from my work playlists.

Knockin On Heavens Door – Guns N Roses and Bob Dylan

Tears in Heaven – Eric Clapton

Dancing with Mr D – The Rolling Stones

Kill you – Eminem

Ready to Die – The Notorious B.I.G.

Great Gig in The Sky – Pink Floyd

If Tomorrow Never Comes – Ronan Keating

Killing Me Softly – The Fugees

Now if anyone else can think of any other inappropriate songs that they may not want to hear as they are being put to sleep, please feel free to add to the list.

 

 

 

 

10 Things I Hate About You – Part II

10things5

Well, when I wrote the original ’10 Things I Hate About You’, I actually had no intentions in writing a Part II. However, as hubby pointed out, it was totally unfair that I got to vent all his less-than-appealing traits to the public without any input on his part. He felt that since he didn’t get to defend himself, everyone should know about the things he hated about me; our’s being an equal relationship and all.

Hang on a minute. As far as I was concerned, he loves everything about me. Absolutely everything. I am flawless, perfection itself, and can do no wrong.

Well, wasn’t it a reality check when he unceremoniously handed me this list.

1. You are permanently attached to your phone.

Ok, I need to be contactable at all times for my patients. You should understand that, you are a surgeon yourself. So what if I occasionally use it to check my Facebook, Instagram, WordPress, email and maybe crush some candies. I can’t NOT have it on me! What if a patient desperately needed my advice after surgery? And what if I missed out on my best friend posting her latest hot date on Instagram? I may need to give a life urgently on Candy Crush. It’s life-saving stuff, this little phone and all that it conveys.

2. You don’t know how to say ‘No’ except to me.

That’s a bit harsh. I can’t always say yes to you, otherwise we would permanently be stuck in bed. You know you might actually have an issue, the number of times you ask for it, maybe you should seek counselling or something like Mr X-files in Californication. Oh, what? Oh, you didn’t mean that? *Blush* Oh, ok. Yeah, you are right, I just can’t say no to people. It’s just one more patient to add to the list, one more favour to do for a colleague, one more committee to join or one more meeting to organise. I know it takes up too much of my ‘spare-time’ *insert sarcastic laughter here*, but I am just trying to help out. I don’t always say ‘no’ to you. I mean, you don’t really need me to cook dinner for you, do you? There’s Lite’n Lazy in the freezer that you can pop in the microwave if you are hungry. You do know how to operate the microwave on your own, right? How about some take-away? Just look it up on google and dial it on your iPhone. I am sure you will be able to find a present for your mother’s birthday – you don’t really need me, it’s not as if she’s liked anything I’ve given her in the past. It’s just that other people really need me, and you are so capable, darling.

3. You are always rushing me

Well, if you don’t always drag your feet whenever we are heading out, or take so damn long getting ready, I wouldn’t be rushing you at all, would I? If you would just spend one minute less admiring yourself in the mirror, and stop practising your Blue Steel, I wouldn’t have to scream at you to hurry up.

4. You don’t like my friends

You don’t like my friends. So we are even. You think my friends are opinionated, loud, and coo-coo. Well, let me tell you, your friends are narcissistic, chauvinistic and appreciate the wrong things about women. Yes, I know all about the tits and bum scoring system that you and the boys whip out on your nights out. And I don’t even want to know where they take you during those escapades.

5. You don’t find my jokes funny

I know, I am sorry I may have misled you. I used to laugh at your jokes when we were dating. I was being polite, and I wanted you to like me. Then, when we were past the dating stage, I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Now, I really just don’t find male stupidity funny. And you have to admit, the quality of your jokes have deteriorated from our dating days. You weren’t exactly telling me the types of jokes you are relaying to me now. No, I definitely don’t remember the words ‘boob’ or any references to the male genitalia in any of the jokes you told me all those years ago.

6. You don’t listen to me when I am talking to you

Sweetheart, let me know tell you something about women. We multi-task. Yes, it may seem as if I am not listening to you when I am texting on my phone, reading a post on Facebook, watching TV or ‘working’ on my computer, but in actual fact, I have been listening to you. I may not respond – usually because I don’t really like what you are telling me, but trust me, I heard you. I may make sympathetic noises, which I know annoys the crap out of you, but that just means you are ranting and raving about something totally inconsequential again. You do realise that you talk at me and not to me sometimes, especially when you start a tirade about some political issues in the paper. You would raise your voice, get all hot and bothered, and then you look at me as if I was the culprit causing all the trouble. What do you want me to say? I am sorry for everything that the Australian Labour Party has done?! Trust me, Hon, I am listening. I heard you the first time, as well as the second, third, fourth and fifth time.

7. You can’t sleep in and that means I am not allowed to sleep in either

You always complain that we don’t spend enough quality time together. Well, having breakfast together is quality time, right? I mean, if you want to spend as much of my waking moments with me, then you need to get up when I do. There is no point me eating on my own at 5am on a Sunday morning, if you ate with me, you could talk and I promise to listen.

8. You fall asleep at the dinner table

Trust me, this takes talent. It’s not easy to snatch speed naps in between courses. You should know better than to book an 8-course degustation menu at the 8.30pm sitting. By the time the dessert arrived, it was midnight. I am getting old, if you haven’t noticed; I am usually passed out with my glasses around my nostrils by 9pm. So if you want me to stay awake for dinner, you better feed me at nanna time by 6pm. Or clear my schedule for a nanna nap in the afternoon so that I can be prepared for a big night out.

9. You count my drinks

Ok, this is easy. There are a multitude of reasons I don’t like you drinking. You have a strong family history of alcoholism. You use it as an excuse to get out of driving (and you know I hate driving in the dark). You have very posh taste in alcohol – you would have nothing but Moet, Grange and 18 year plus single malt whiskey. You can tolerate such a huge amount of alcohol (thanks to your Eastern European genes), it gets rather expensive when we go out. You are a terrible drunk. You go straight from sober to the funny drunk with no warning. And you know exactly how I feel about your jokes when you are trying to be ‘funny’. The funny drunk stage only lasts for 10 minutes before you become the sleepy drunk, or rather, the unconscious loud-snoring drunk who obviously has issues with his own airway, because the snores are regularly punctuated by convulsive thunderous snorting when your addled brain reminds you to breathe. And you wonder why you find yourself sleeping on the couch the morning after.

10. You break the Fart Trust

Just give me a minute to explain the Fart Trust. The Fart Trust is the ultimate form of trust in a marriage. The problem lies in the fact that you and I have very different definition of the Fart Trust. To me, it means that you own up to your fart. To you, it means that you warn your spouse before you fart. Now, I understand you have issues with my ‘silent killers’, but I am a lady after all, and I don’t go around letting it rip loud and clear like you blokes do. If you asked me, I would gladly own up to my own farts but I don’t see why I have to verbally announce them.

 

So there, I do hope you feel better now that you have exposed my unappealing side to the public. Maybe it’s not fair that I get to defend myself with your list, but Hon, this is my blog. Get your own if you think your views have been poorly represented.

Oh, and of course,I love you too.

The Doctor’s Handwriting

doctors-handwritingECG

Once upon a time, I used to have very neat writing, but medical school, surgical training, and the endless beauraucratic paperwork has beaten it out of me by the time I have become a fully qualified specialist.

My writing got so bad – that this week, when I left my husband a shopping list of things I needed urgently, I got a surprise in return. The list was:

  1. face wash
  2. moisturiser
  3. coffee beans
  4. shampoo
  5. conditioner

When I got home, I asked him whether he got the stuff I needed, and he said it was in the kitchen. I found the shopping bag sitting on the bench, I looked inside. And I found, face wash, moisturiser, coffee beans, shampoo and not one but two boxes of condoms. He must have thought all his birthdays and Christmases have come at the same time when he saw that on my list.

It is a good thing that most medical records are converted into electronic files, and doctors are no longer required to write, other than scribbling their signatures on printed reports, scripts and request forms. I was told once that the secret in writing doctor’s handwriting is to look at the first letter, and then the last letter. Look at the length of the line in between these two, and the brain should fill in the rest. To me, it’s a bit like deciphering an ECG (and for a surgeon, that is no small feat, as it is often the physicians who actually has the ability to read the subliminal messages in the wavy lines of an ECG). I would have a look at the squiggles, and see if at least one of the lines is recognisable. One can often decipher the overall meaning of an ECG (and a letter for that matter) once a something in the middle makes sense.

Even though now it is considered to be negligent if the writing in medical charts or communications is not decipherable, this has not stopped some hilarious misunderstandings due to bad hand-writing.

I was reviewing an inpatient with facial burns, whilst covering for a colleague. The patient asked me if he had to keep using the ointment my colleague prescribed him. I asked if he was getting a rash or reaction from the ointment. He said no, but he was getting bad diarrhoea and going to the toilet at least 4 times a day, usually after he has used the ointment. I looked at the notes to see what my colleague has written, and he wrote “Paraffin, top, prn” which basically means, vaseline topically to the burn wound, pro re nata (as required). I then looked at the medication chart, it was transcribed by the pharmacist into his medication chart as “Paraffin, 10g, PR” which means, 10g paraffin per rectum. Poor man was probably wondering why the nurses kept shovelling vaseline up his bottom when his burn is on the face.

Once, during a consultation, my patient handed me his referral letter from his doctor. He told me that he came to see me about his skin cancer. I nodded and read the short brief scribbled note.

“Dear Dr T, thank you for seeing this 46 year old man with a biopsy proven basal cell carcinoma over his right scrotal area.”

I stilled for a moment. Silently, I cursed my colleague, and wished he had sent this patient to a male surgeon. But I gave a mental shrug and got over it very quickly. I tried to make the patient feel comfortable by having a chat with him about his medical history, medications etc. Then I told him that if the cancer was small, I should be able to excise it under local anaeasthetic only, a bit like a vasectomy. I ignored his strange look. Finally, when I ran out of things to say, I asked if it was ok for me to call a chaperone so that I can examine him properly. He gave me another look, but shrugged ‘whatever you want, doc.’ I asked him to step behind the curtain, get undressed and lie on the bed.  He looked distressed, then said, ‘but doc, I just need to roll up my sleeve, it’s here.’ He stuck his right wrist under my nose. Over his scaphoid area, was a small skin cancer. (For the non medics – scaphoid refers to the area at the back of the hand, near the base of the thumb.) Yep. I was walking a close line to being reported to the medical board for inappropriate sexual harrassment behaviour.

Once I received a letter from a doctor working in the country, who has been dressing my patient’s wound at home. Mrs M was a 50 year old lady who had very bad ulcers on her legs, and her doctor felt that they have deterioated, so sent her back to my office. I got her onto the bed, and opened the handwritten letter while my nurse was undressing her wound.

“…..I would be grateful for your input in her wound management, as I feel it is worse. The woman is pregnant, so I have tried to use some topical antibacterial dressings. If you feel that she requires oral antibiotics……..”

I looked up at Mrs M and frowned. ‘Is there something you would like to tell me?’ I asked her. She smiled sheepishly and admitted that she’s put on too much weight since she last saw me. I thought, well there are women who are having babies in their fifties, so I said ‘Congratulations, so how many weeks are you?’ Mrs M looked up with a start, then started laughing so hard she couldn’t get her words out, but I eventually worked out she was denying her pregnancy. I told her that’s what her doctor wrote. She insisted on reading the letter, after which, she started on another fit of laughter, with tears running down her face. My nurse snatched the letter out of Mrs M’s hands, and squinted her eyes as she read it several times. Then she pointed to the sentence ‘The woman is pregnant’ and said, ‘I think this says, the wound is pungent?’ Yep. The wound did stink out my office when the bandages came off. Mrs M needed to be readmitted to hospital, for antibiotics and dressing on the surgical ward. Not the maternity ward.

When I was working in general surgery, I once received a patient  with questionable bowel obstruction transferred from another hospital. They were particularly concerned about him because he has not been able to tolerate any fluids orally. I was not convinced he had a true obstruction, but reluctantly accepted him despite the fact I was up for my second night on call in a row. He arrived through emergency with a hand written letter.

“….Mr XX has had ongoing retching for 24 hours, he last opened his bowels 3 days ago, and has farted since 6am this morning……”

I was livid. If Mr XX has passed wind, it meant he wasn’t really obstructed. He probably just needed to have a good enema. I couldn’t believe that I got woken up at 2am in the morning to see someone with constipation. I rang up the referring doctor and ripped through him (fuelled by lack of sleep) about unable to diagnose and treat constipation. When the poor man on the other end of the line got his chance to say something (because I stopped to take a breath), he said that Mr XX hasn’t passed wind for 3 days. I put on my self-righteous tone and referred to his letter. ‘No, no, no!’ the young doctor cried, ‘I wrote he has fasted since 6am’. Let’s just say, humble pie was not easy to eat at 2am after 48 hours of no sleep.

The best one arrived via fax. It was another handwritten referral letter I received from a local family doctor. Luckily, I was reading this before the patient came to her appointment. (Warning: I apologise in advance for the foul language you are about to encounter).

“Thank you for seeing Mrs Z, her cunt has been worrying her. she has tried many self-remedies to treat it  she has applied several different herbal salves, soaked it in methylated spirits, pricked it with a needle, and tried to level it with sandpaper. She’s so fed up with it, she would like to see you about having it cut out…..

Ouch. Ouch. OUCH?!?!

Nah, I thought. I must have misread something. So I re-read the letter again and again. I scruitinised the offending word. But it was as if I was hypnotised, once the word ‘cunt’ was in my head, I couldn’t possibly see another word within that particular scribble. The harder I tried, the more blinded I was to any other possibilty. There was a curve like a ‘c’, and an end that is definitely a ‘t’. I took the letter to my secretary and asked her to read it. She started, ‘Dear Dr T, thank you for seeing Mrs Z, her…’ she stopped suddenly. Go on, I urged her. She looked at me with pleading eyes and told me she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. I gave it to my nurse, she raised her eyebrows at me. I thought about ringing the doctor and get him to send her to a gynaecologist. But my curiosity got the better of me. When she came into my room, I asked her to show me her problem. She smiled, bent over in her seat, and took her shoe off.

Under her big toe, was a plantar wart.

I have to admit, I have always struggled with hand-written letters from my colleagus, and I hang my head in shame on behalf of my profession. But personally, I have a valid excuse. After all, English is my second language and I failed spelling when I was in primary school, so I am pretty much illiterate when it comes to reading letters anyway.