"Hilariously funny and in many cases
unbelievably believable"
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HERE
SO WHY DID I DO MEDICINE?
As a medical student, after seven years of training in medicine, you soon realise you won’t be like Doctor House, the TV doctor, or the Grey’s Anatomy actors, who regularly unbutton pretty blonde girls’ blouses.
You are stuck – the course is too long to go back.
As the Eagles sing about Hotel California,
“you can check out any time you like but you can never leave”.
But it’s a treasure chest of hilarity.
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MY STORY
Every event described in this book actually happened and I hope that between Twitter, WhatsApp, Facebook and the rest of social media you’ll find the time to read my experiences.
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While my stories are not all funny, I hope that when you next consult a doctor, you might recall some and remind yourself that despite the tragedy there is at least some humour in medicine.
A doctor might experience some of the most hilarious things imaginable and frequently some of the most heartbreaking things imaginable.
Sometimes it's a combination of the above.
SAMPLE CHAPTER - THE 4th YEAR
Thank goodness Gynaecology and Obstetrics are subjects only done in the 4th to 6th years. If introduced any sooner, I suspect there would be a mass exodus of students out of medical school.
Although giving birth is a natural process, it is never easy.
I have to this day an enduring horror of an obstetric mishap, mainly because of the following incident which occurred at the end of my fourth year.
It was raining one evening in December and we had a full day of Obstetric practicals at the Old Moederbond Hospital in Beatrix street.
We were in the hospital tearoom huddled around a coffee table idly scanning through magazines when a large and somewhat officious looking man in a dinner jacket with his tie undone and loose around his neck, appeared. His booming presence commanded attention.
In a thundering voice and pointing his finger he bellowed “Doctor, you have just completed the 3rd stage of a normal vaginal delivery, and your patient is bleeding. What do you do?”
I was unnerved by the challenge in his tone- he appeared to be talking to me, and since his stiff posture, suggested that he was a lecturer or someone important, I felt obliged to answer the query about a postpartum haemorrhage (PPH)
“Well, I can rub up the uterus.” I stammered.
On the wall opposite us was a washbasin, and he nudged the faucet handles open letting the water flow into the basin. “She’s still bleeding,” he said.
“Well, you can give Ergometrine by injection,” I added.
He pushed the handles further apart, and more water flowed.
“She’s still bleeding,” pointing at the stream of water.
“we can put up a drip and give Oxytocin,” I said.
He pushed the handles further, and the water flowed briskly.
“she’s still bleeding.” He snapped.
I scratched my head.In desperation I added “Blood transfusion.”
He pushed the handles further.
“still bleeding.” He growled.
The houseman prompted with more options:
“Compressing the aorta, packing the uterus, tie off the uterine arteries,” were choices.
Then he pushed the tap handles fully open.
The water was flowing full force, striking the bottom of the basin and splashing onto the floor.
I was too busy gawking at the puddle to even notice him accidentally stepping into it.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
There was an uncomfortable silence, then he said, “It’s time to say:doctor, call a doctor!” and walked out.
“Who’s that?” I asked the houseman.
He whispered, “it’s Prof Frans Geldenhuys head of Obstetrics and Gynaecology.”
