[yeliab_cram]

Oh dear, im not very good at this regular bloggin lark am i?

Never mind. Time for a bit of catch up time. I am have returned to Leeds with avengence and whilst we all thought 4th year was hard (and it was) 5th year is even worse. Its just very busy indeed. Not a lot of time for eating, sleeping, socialising, blogging or even working most of the time.

Anyway, i am currently doing elderly medicine in pinderfields, officially the worst hospital in the UK. Built as a temporary military hospital some time towards the dawn of time, the porta cabin metropolis is still going strong, although they are finally building a new version. Despite appearances, pinders is always rather welcoming and the elderly medicine lot are lovely. although it can be hard to tell the consultants apart from the patients.

I dont have a lot to say about elderly medicine, except that everyone tends to be old and fall over, very grateful to the staff and deaf as a post. I did just read this though, which i quite liked "sucess is often impossible - there are just too many grey areas, but if you can stumble from one ambiguity to another without being too disenheartened then that is good enough"

Far more interesting was the previous four weeks doing general surgery in Bradford. Now, as avid readers will be aware, i like a bit of slicing and dicing. However, have never actually done any proper hard core poo-related surgery. Unfortunately, straight back from the elective, 2 years plus since doing any general medicine whatsoever is probably not the best time to meet the old-school surgeons from hell. They are infamous.

The placement didnt start on the right food when a certain Dr M gave 8 of us a tutorial on jaundice. Well it was kind of on jaundice, but was also on being completely retarded at the start of 5th year, answering all questions like a surgeon and being made to cry. I think they call it didactic teaching. I developed rabbit-in-headlights syndrome, and couln't look away, despite all the knowledge draining from my ears. It was not pretty. who knows about auto-immune hepatitis anyway.

This, however was nothing compared to our first theatre list with the surgeons. Mr A, the at least 70 year old big boss, who believes diathermy to be the tool of the devil and Mr G, his particularly infamous for being a complete bastard, younger protege. Me and my colleague were supposed to be in with Mr A for a morning list. We had been all productive and already and seen both the patients on the list. A guy with a probably rectal cancer and a lady having a subtotal colectomy (i forget why, i didnt see that one).

Heads held high we said good morning to the big boss:

Mr A: Morning boys
Me: Is it alright if we join you in theatre this morning?
Mr A: Well you can, but there's no ****ing point. they've cancelled half my list.
Me: ah
Mr A: quite, go in with Mr G.
Me: (shite)

We slipped in to the theatre next door where Mr G was already operating, well, he wasnt quite operating but he did have his hand a long way up a lady's arse. Dont worry she was sleeping... not like that. never mind.

Mr G: So what can you tell me about this lady
Me: (shit... bugger all, i saw Mr A's case) erm... not a lot i'm afraid.
Mr G: what do you mean not a lot, are you a retard?
Me: no, but I was supposed to be with Mr A this morning, but they've cancelled his list.
Mr G: so what, as soon as you were put on my list you should have got off your arse and seen the patients.
Me: [undignified silence]

At this point i should probably tell you a bit more about Mr G. So he is renowned for being a bastard to students. He is built like a brick shit house and looks like he would be more comfortable in a tracksuit and whistle on a games field screaming "run faster boy, run" not in an operating theatre with his hand up someone's arse.

He proceeded to grill us on fistulas for the next hour or so. Unrelentingly. It went a bit like this:

Mr G: what's Goodsall's law?
Me: something to do with anal fistulas (trying hard to remember)
Mr G: [shoots evil look through mask] what about anal fistulas.
Me: (partially bulshitting) isn't it that anterior fistulas drain directly into the anus but posterior ones curve round to the midline?!
Mr G: NO, well, yes, but why does it happen?
Me: I have no idea.
Mr G: Ha, well you will. By 8am tomorrow morning i want a hand written account of why Goodsall's law applies on my desk - non of this copying and pasting from the internet crap either.

What a bastard.

At this point, Mr A came in. "come with me boys" he said invitingly. Phew, i thought, we are saved. Go the old school surgical cavalry.

no, no, wrong again.

After shoving my entire hand up a little old man's arse (strangely not that wired after doing obs and gynae... anyway) he decided to quiz us on rectal cancer.

i dont know very much about rectal cancer.

Mr A: well go back to basics then... what's the lymphatic drainage of the anal canal?
Me: (oh shit)
Medic 2: erm, para-aortic
Mr A: Para-****ing-aortic, don't they teach you ****ing anatomy???
Me: (i really hope he doesnt ever find out that the two of us have a degree in anatomy)
Mr A: well?
Me: erm...
Mr A: (shouting) INGUINAL, bloody INGUINAL. You're a bit ****ing dense aren't you boys.

At that point we left, and wen't back to grilling with Mr G. Mr A came with and they tagteamed. It was not pretty. In fact, it was like watching a slow car crash, rewinding and watching again, and again, and again, and again, and again. Until the tape broke.

I hate poo.