Oh Our Lives

The main comment going back and forth between my friend Gen and I these days is, "Our LIVES!" to basically summarize all the insanity going on. Finishing medical school and leaving Ireland continues to unravel in quirky and unexpected ways.

We are both trying to cope with all the aspects of tying up our lives here while suffering from brain asystole, attempting to cram more information into our grey matter which is already packed to the rafters with random facts.

Gen is trying to sell her car and found a potential buyer who is a physician at a hospital 90 mins from town. I offered to go with her to show it so we could study in the car. That way she wouldn't feel like the precious hours before exams start were wasted.

We pulled up to the ambulance bay and waited for the guy to come out. Finally he appeared as we talked our way through rheumatology questions. He wanted to take the car for a test drive so I hopped in the back seat, she sat up front. He took the wheel, told us he didn't have a drivers license, and proceeded to start pulling donuts. Then he began screeching around the ambulance bay, speeding up towards the cement dividers and slamming on the breaks. I hollered at him to stop the car and let me out--he apologized and then began whipping a second donut near the parked ambulance. I told him, "STOP THE CAR AND LET ME OUT!!! So he did.

He then proceeded to take Gen on a terrifying ride through nearby streets, not using the windshield wipers despite the rain, and accelerating towards the waiting cars at the traffic circles. Gen was convinced that she was saying goodbye to life over a 1000 Euro car.

Incidentally, I also posted my car online and so far have received random late-night texts from weird Irishmen and an offer from an "off shore worker" who wanted to pay by PayPal without coming to see the car.

Hmmm. Yeah. No.

So we retreated to the safe enclave of my kitchen where I then received emails of required documents and YET ANOTHER POLICE RECORD CHECK for my residency program. Both for Ireland and Canada. Really?? I am in medical school here. I wish I had the time to have enough fun to get arrested in Ireland. Today my mom asked me if I was going to quit medical school. I told her yeah, it was just one criminal record check too many.

Tomorrow exams start. Six hours of written papers. The books are now closed. Mostly because studying has taken a giddy and ridiculous turn.

Gen, tell me about the life cycle of malaria...

Well, it replicates in the mosquitoes liver...uhh....

Dude, I don't think mosquitoes have livers...

**Cue peals of laughter**

[You had to be there.]

Ok, next question...Pearl, an 89 year old nursing student suddenly develops intractable diarrhea....er...no...nursing HOME resident...

Wait...woah...GO PEARL! 89 year old nursing student!

**Cue peals of laughter**

[You also had to be there].

Oh. 

Our. 

Lives. 

 

6 Pack

Me: Yeah, ugh he said he "met someone else". From his running club, his running club. I mean, how cheesy is that?!

Ryan: Sooo cheesy. 

Me: I am pretty sure I know which one, the one with the six pack. I can't compete with that! I don't have time to get a six pack right now!

Ryan: Oh ppffffffttt! Who cares dude, you've got a six pack right here! [taps side of my head]

This is why we always need close friends around to keep things in perspective. 

I also love to write equations on windows.

Study Daze

I was studying with my friend Gen today (I'm writing EE on 20th, she's on the 28th). The comedic highlight of the day for me was this.

Gen: So what are some other corticosteroid side effects...?

Me: Dunno, I think I've listed pretty much all of them.

Gen: How about hypokalemic metabolic alkalosis?

Me: Never heard of that one...wow! Ok, good to know.

Gen [deadpan]: You have that underlined and starred in your textbook.

Perfect. 

Oh COME on!!

Last Monday I started my placement at yet another hospital. It is the frustrating thing about this rotation: in an effort to expose us to various communities and outpatient clinics we have to travel to a new attachment for each of the six weeks. So, after the debacle in Hospital, Ireland two Mondays ago, I once again gave myself plenty of time, looked at two maps, and plugged my destination into the sat nav. 

I should have known that things were taking a turn for the worst again when the road began getting smaller and smaller, the crumbling castle ruins and petrol stations fading into the distance. Two old Irishman standing at a gate completely stopped talking to watch me roll by. Clearly I wasn't a local and clearly I didn't know where the eff I was going. 

And here, pictured below, was where my trusty sat nav directed me to. You may be able to read the "empty" status of my gas tank and appreciate that I had to back out  down the road because it was too small to turn around on. Yes, back out past the Irish farmers whose expressions may or may not have displayed a smirk at guessing my displacement. 

Of course I had to bail, once again and call the facility and request directions from "somewhere near the castle*". When I arrived, late, everyone made such a fuss over how often people get lost and how sorry they were that I had started my Monday that way. I was told to take a break and tea was made, scones were proffered and I figured, "Hmm, I could really get on board with this whole psychiatry thing!"

---


*Reason #342 that I love Ireland. 

Understandably Lost

Tuesday was the first day of my new attachment in psychiatry. I had google mapped how to get there and saw that it took 39 mins, so I gave myself an hour. My prof had also passed on the typical vague Irish direction set, "Take the road, it kinda veers, follow that for a while, eventually turn right before the motorway, near the hill, you can't miss it..."

I figured, "a hospital in the midlands, how hard can it be?"

In Europe it isn't uncommon for many little towns to be on top of each other. You don't realize you've arrived in a new place because all you've done is cross the river, or cross the street. So when I was quite sure that I was getting close to the town my hospital was in I saw this sign:

So I followed the sign to the hospital, naturally. I was, in fact, delighted that someone had been clued in enough to provide direction to the hospital! I drove and drove, but seemed to be getting farther away from any town, with no hospital in sight. I was getting nervous now too as it was getting close to the hour I was supposed to start. 

Then I see the big sign, "Hospital". Perfect. Except I cannot see an actual hospital-y looking building anywhere. I see the "Hospital Traffic Calming Area" signs so I know I am in the area...but then I start to think that maybe I am having a mini-stroke or something because there is no hospital to be seen. 

Finally, I get out of my car to inspect an old, yet stately looking building which could certainly be a dilapidated Irish community hospital, only to discover it is in fact a town hall. 

I am now 10 minutes late. I give in and call the number given to me during orientation week, having no idea if it is the consultants mobile or the hospital administrator's emergency line . A woman answers and I say, 

"Hello, my name is ABB...I was supposed to start my psychiatry rotation today...but I appear to be lost. I followed the signs to the hospital but I can't seem to find it....anywhere!"

She chuckles. I am now acutely mortified by the fact that I am late and lost on my first day. 

"You're in the town of Hospital. Like how Kilmallock is the name of the town, you're in the town named Hospital...take the road back to Kilmallock and ring me when you get there. I'll give you directions from town."

Of course the town of Hospital had to be spitting distance from the town I was doing my placement in. 

Of course the town of Hospital has no hospital. 

Of course. 

RBC Revisited

12 years ago Keith took the train from Montréal to Halifax to meet me for a mini holiday while I was doing a French immersion program in Pointe D'Eglise, NS. We had very little money and very little idea about local geography, apparently.

After getting halfway to Charlottetown by hitching rides, we somehow found ourselves on the wrong side of the highway with our sign labelled "Bridge". It was only after a couple of long hours that some kind passerby pulled over, manually rolled down the window of her Mercury, and shouted at us that we were on the wrong side of the road if we wanted to get to the bridge.

I should also mention that during that time the sun was hot and we had one line of "Hold me closer, tiny dancer" in our heads. Singing it over and over and over again without knowing any more of the words but being equally incapable of thinking of new songs to replace it with.

We finally arrived in Charlottetown and blew our last $32 on a lobster meal. Somehow we had made a miscalculation of our finances which caused us to discover (too late) that indeed neither of us had any more cash. This was before the days when banks let us have visas or lines of credit. We called Keith's sister (collect) in a panic to have some money wired to us but it was going to take another day to arrive. I knew I had $15 dollars in my bank account so we went on a mission to find a bank machine that doled out cash in $5 bills.

Cue Hallelujah chorus from Handel's Messiah

Eventually we found one and were able to extract my final $15 to make it to the next day. We stayed at a barn shaped hostel run by a tyrant who wouldn't allow any lights on after 2200h. But life was good.

I had completely forgotten about this adventure until I went to visit a fellow blogger / friend this weekend. When I saw the RBC a faint halo appeared around it in my mind and I felt I ought to make a pilgrimage to the automated teller that saved us.

Funny, I thought I was poor then! Oh I had no idea how poor I could go. Sure, I can get wads of cash these days if I want, but I am also six figures in debt with no tangible thing to show for it yet.

Basically, I have the equivalent of a mortgage on the contents of my brain.

Excuse me while I go and put on a bicycle helmet. Always.

My Face Is My Fortune...

...that's why I'm totally broke!

I had a feisty 8 y.o girl come in tonight. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a messy pony tail, an oversized black Karate hoodie hung low over her leggings. I saw she had the beginnings of two black eyes, a bit of a swollen nose, and a bump sitting on the bridge. She excitedly told me about how she got accidentally head-butted yesterday in karate just before winning her competition. She then mock-kissed her biceps.


So what brings you in today? Are you worried your nose is broken?

Yeah, we need to check it out....this [said while circling her face with her index finger] is my money maker.

And that was when an 8 y.o girl became my hero. I mean, she had me at the bicep kissing, but that line cinched it.

Apparently I Look Like a Drug Dealer

So, I am here in BC doing an orthopedics elective. But really, I am doing an everything elective. I've worked in this hospital before as a nurse and most of the doctors know me. I want to scrub for surgeries, stitch wounds in the ER, catch babies, intubate, whathaveyou. So I need a cell phone, otherwise no one can reach me when wounds / babies / femurs are presenting themselves.

I walked into the 7-eleven and looked for the cheapest phone. $39. Brilliant. I asked the attendant to please fetch me the $39 phone from behind the counter. He looked at me strangely and said, "Er....are you sure you don't want a nicer phone? These ones are only $100". I waffled for a moment but held strong. All I need this for is "baby coming" texts. Status symbol, status schmimbol. Give me the ridiculous one. 

I was quite proud of my new phone so during my next shift I whipped it out to show one of the murses. He burst out laughing, "Dude!! You've got a burner!!"


"Uh...what is a burner?"

"It's a phone that drug dealers use so that their calls can't be traced. They're disposable. Hilarious. You totally will look like a dealer every time you take that phone out."

Now I feel old, and crazy out of touch with slang.

The next day I get a text at the nurses station and I'm trying to thumb my way through a response when one of the other nurses starts pointing and laughing, "NICE BURNER!!!!"

Siiiiiiighhhhhh. Am I the only person that didn't know this term? Apparently if I watched The Wire or CSI I'd be well versed in these matters.

I sent a text to my orthopod to give him my number (since we were on call) saying "Here is my mobile number courtesy of 7-eleven" and the next day in theater he tells me that his wife saw the text and asked him who was sending him messages from a burner.

For the record, he's in his 50's.

It's no iphone 4, it's small, it is ridiculous. I look like a complete rube (and low-life, apparently) when I try to text from it. But you know what? It is almost so lame that it feels cool. In fact, I like that it is ghetto. It feels slightly rebellious and hip to not be showing off what apps I can get on it. I wear rubber boots to work and I own a burner. It is just how I roll these days.

Surgical Pearl: Nutrition

Today the locum pediatric orthopod took me down to the x-ray department to look at some films, on our way out he stopped at their desk and poached some chocolate. He clearly saw my judging questioning gaze (I have firm beliefs that you ought to contribute to the trough you graze from).

"Look, when you're a surgical resident you learn to get calories from any source available. It's an old habit. You find every patient fridge that is stocked with ensure or crackers...this hospital is great because the recovery room fridge has cheese. Cheese will be where you get your fluids from."

Residency: when you begin to see cheese as hydrating nourishment.

My Recent Mid-Term Evaluation

Above is photographic evidence of why Dr. Joe is one of my favorite people on the planet. Yesterday we went through my mid-term evaluation. On the back of the score sheet they are invited to make comments on specific strengths and weaknesses (theoretically so we can improve by the final eval).

I pretty much spent the rest of the day chuckling when he handed it over to me to submit to the school.

When Med Students Pretend to Know

Hugh: So, Doc tells me to go ahead and do the vag exam. I'm hoping he'll, you know, teach me how to do it. So I get gloves on...wait for Doc to come and help me out. I pretend to spend ages looking for lube hoping Doc will join me, the nurse gets annoyed and asks if I am going to do exam or not. I put on confidence face hoping that it hides fear face and tell her uh yeah! as I realize doc is actually now scrubbing up and has no intention of teaching me.

So I put a finger in and think Shit! what am i supposed to be feeling for? I kind of move my finger around and try to figure out the noteworthy anatomy and all I can think of is the vagina is so spacious! I can't feel a damn thing! Then I think if only I could put TWO fingers in, then maybe I could feel something...but I don't want to look greedy so I just keep to the one. How are you supposed to feel anything in there? How are you supposed to actually do a vag exam??

Me: [Initially unable to speak due to fit of laughter and piece of chicken lodged in my throat] Dude, first of all, never put the words 'spacious' and 'vagina' together in a sentence ever again. Second, two fingers isn't 'greedy' it is proper technique. Third, there is a reason it is called a bimanual exam.

That was an excerpt from recent dinner conversation with MD student currently on obs/gyn rotation. In fairness, Hugh is actually a very smart, personable, and responsible medical student. And yes, he had consented the patient to perform a vaginal exam under anesthetic prior to her procedure. It is probably good that she was asleep.

I am sure the nurses thought he was a complete idiot while they watched him flounder. But this whole story illustrates one of the pet peeves I have about medical culture. Medical students are students which means they are allowed to not know the right dose of clopidogrel the first time they see a heart attack. They are allowed to not know how to do a bimanual exam the first time they are faced with a real person and not a doll during a 1st year clinical skills lab. But yet the culture of medicine makes you think that you should know everything at all times and if you admit to not knowing, you are admitting to being a sub-standard medical student / future doctor / human. So as I nurse I witnessed loads of medical students pretending to know how to do something and not asking for help or not admitting they hadn't a clue.

It is scary that even as students we are afraid to admit we don't know, admit when we need help, or admit we're in over our heads.  What happens when we grow up to become real doctors?

*Shudder*

I know there is a fine line between looking incompetent and looking like someone who might have a clue, and clearly everyone would rather be in the latter category. But I can honestly say that in the past when I've admitted that I didn't know something in similar situations the person is usually happy to explain or demonstrate (passive-aggressive bullies, aside). In fact, afterwards (again, passive-aggressive bullies aside) the teacher generally trusts you more because they've seen that you're willing to admit your shortcomings, i.e. that you are safe.

I fear that many more botched vaginal exams will occur before medicine accepts learning and ignorance as part of medical education. In the meantime, confidence face?

You Know You Live in Ireland When...

Driving home from the race today we hit a bit of a traffic jam.

Eventually they decided to let us pass...

Never a dull moment behind the wheel in this country!

When Alcohol Should Be Taken Before Exercise: a.k.a Zumba

I was lured into my first zumba class by my eternally optimistic and anti-weightlifting roommate last week. I used to snobbily chortle at the aerobics classes last year in the University gym and vowed never to attend such a fitness monstrosity. I figured zumba must be something completely different...

For those of you who haven't attended a class yet, I'll ruin the surprise: zumba is nothing more than an aerobics class to Latin dance music.

And it doesn't look anything like this:

No, it is more like this:

Which is awesome, actually, because I'd be way too scared an un-glam enough to go to the top class anyway. But the whole experience has been a bit of a disappointment, in myself. I like to think I have rhythm and maybe even some sweet dance moves. Turns out, I have neither. I took highland dancing as a kid which is a very regimented, precise type of choreography. Zumba requires hip gyrating, booty shaking, arm twirling, and general freedom of movement. Possibly some sexiness as well. I am incapable of shaking my money maker with abandon, especially when that money maker is in lycra and not in the gin and tonics. 

Dear Margaret (roommie) and I agreed that we'd probably crush the dance floor if only we arrived a litte tipsy one day. Then we felt like that agreement made us sound like alcoholics. Then we questioned if drink only made us think we were good dancers or if it truly loosened us up enough to display our Jennifer Grey type skills. Either way I think my Irish heritage shows itself well amongst my fellow wooden, self conscious, antitheses of sexy, arhythmic, fair sisters. 

The bottom line, however, is I am sweating and laughing at the end. And possibly expanding my (already killer, right?) repertoire for my next big night out. Which is more than I can say my nemesis The Treadmill can offer!

Zumba, I misjudged you and your aerobic-class self.

The Apples Do Not Fall...

In a complete blog non-sequitar I'd like to present a post by one of my good friends, Ryan. It's like cute overload if you're into children and skiing.

It made me laugh at least.

Oh how I miss Revelstoke, and the great people there (and killer skiing)!

Mind Go Blanko

On Friday my new consultant (MNC) gathered together myself and the other doclings to do some bedside teaching. Normally I try to slink between the folds of curtain during these sessions as I really don't want to be pimped on differentials for pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism or some other disease dredged up from the Annals of Obscure Internal Medicine. But since MNC hasn't seen me examine / present yet he asked the handful of final meds to step away from the morbidly obese no-necked man who was sleeping with his feet at the head of the bed, and told me to conduct a complete cardiac exam and report my findings.

Yeah. It was sub-awesome.

First of all, I could hardly feel his radial pulse and my racing thoughts kept forgetting where I was in my count...was I at 14 or 24 when I had counted 15 seconds...wait...did I start counting when my seconds hand was at the 12 or the 1 position...where DID his radial pulse go--GAH!

Then I attempted to feel his carotid pulse which should have been located somewhere between his clavicle and angle of jaw (which were, in his case, resting comfortably on each other, heavily padded by folds of flesh). No luck, despite the patient kindly allowing me to dig around there for a while.

JVP? No. Bueno.

Ok, and on to the apex beat. Not so much. Heart sounds?? Is this stethoscope on?? Tap. Tap. Tap. I can't actually even hear his heart beating--hark?! Is that it?? No, that is the sound of my own blood rushing through my ears...

And now to my dazzling presentation. Sure, I'll just neglect to mention that he was hooked up to telemetry, and that he had cardiac meds at the bedside...even though MNC kept asking me, "is there anything else you'd like to comment on??"

"Er...he has a midline abdominal incision??"

"No, he's on telemetry."

"Oh, right." Yeah, the device you hooked cardiac patients up to everyday in the emergency department. The painfully obvious tangle of colorful wires stuck to his chest. Yes, those.

Surprisingly MNC did not shred me into tiny bite sized pieces. I suppose he just assumes that 3rd years are clueless. The major bummer was when he turned to the final meds and asked them how to manage the patient. I had to fight hard to not pull a "Summer" from School of Rock...

"Oooh! Ooooh!! ASK ME!! I know how to MANAGE a CCF patient!!! Really!!! YES!!"

But, no. My medical self had failed and my nursing self couldn't help me now.

Ah well, maybe my extremely low bar setting means I will appear to shine upon my next opportunity to examine and present.

Maybe.

:)

Scenes from an Irish Surgical Ward

I went upstairs today to see if I could find my intern, Simon. There he was, filling out yet another cardex of medication orders. The poor guy does such a ridiculous amount of scut it boggles the mind, yet he always has a smile on his broad Burmese face. I am so happy that he's on my team.

We were discussing Mr. Smith's night time sedation as as his current meds aren't doing the trick. The Ward Sister warned that the night nurse would have a fit if he didn't settle again tonight. So as we hammered out some different strategies I leaned back from the nurses station to have a peak in Mr. Smith's room.

And there he is, sitting upright in a big blue padded chair, his tray table in front of him. An open bottle of Guinness is on the table and he's grasping a plastic cup almost empty of it's brown fizzy contents. He gives me a giant dentured grin and I remember how he looked last week, flat out in bed and sucking hard on the 10L non-rebreather mask. I thought he wasn't going to survive the weekend.

"Er.....is he getting...Guinness??"

"Yes, I think they prescribed it for him yesterday." 

So I'd heard that it used to be common practice to prescribe the stout because it was so high in iron and vitamins, but part of me just dismissed that along with so many other back in the olden days stories. Like how my cardiologist grandfather used to round on his patients with a cigarette in hand and the nurses used to smoke at the desk.

But I saw it with my own eyes, today, and hell if Mr. Smith didn't look a lot perkier.

Then while I was taking bloods from another patient a cell phone went off and the ring tone was an Irish jig being played on a fiddle. At that point I wouldn't have been surprised to pull down the bed sheet to see the patient wearing wellingtons and a tweet jacket. Seriously.

I hope when I am practicing in Canada that one day I'll see a patient pouring maple syrup over poutine while a Celine Dion ring tone goes off. Wait, scratch that...a Neil Young ring tone. Otherwise I'll have to give more points to the Irish for being so...(quaintly)...Irish.

Conversation During Clinic: Pimping

My consultant (MC) and I saw around 80 patients today in clinic. And I was in heels. Wow, when I was nursing I really took for granted the privilege of wearing scrubs and runners to work!

Needless to say there wasn't very much talking between patients, but one brief exchange did occur which cracked me up...

MC was trying to describe one of his colleagues to me, when I figured out who it was the conversation went like this...

Me: Oh right, I know the guy you mean. He's the one that pimped me on my first day and I had NO idea who he was!


MC: What did you just say? He what you? 


Me: "Pimped", wait, er...you don't know what pimping is? Didn't you go to Hopkins? Surely they talked about "pimping" there!?

MC: Isn't that like, a pimp, someone who has...you know...

Me: No no no...'getting pimped' means 'getting grilled' in front of patients or other medical students. Like when you ask me what the collateral blood supply is to the rectum. That is pimping. I can't believe you haven't heard that term--especially at Hopkins. Hang on, you were a Fellow so you'd have been the 'pimper' not the 'pimpee'.

MC [grinning madly]: So I was pimping people at Hopkins and didn't know? Wait, is that bad then that I pimp you?


Me: No, it's your job.


MC: Oh, ok, good to know. Pimping. Huh! 

And thus concluded a conversation I never thought I'd have with a consultant surgeon. 

 

Pre-Race Terror

So...tomorrow is my first triathlon and I must admit, I am going through waves of nausea, excitement, and pure fear right now. This morning four of my nieces and nephews were in the kids race which proved to be highly entertaining. The first group were the 5 and 6 year olds...so hilariously awesome I almost had a maternal urge! Half the time they'd come out of the pool and forget that they were supposed to be running to the bike zone. Like this little gang pictured below, they were sort of sauntering and having a chat until some of the parents starting hollering, "RUN!!" which is when they picked it up a notch.

Oh right! We're in a race!

My niece, Rachie, actually won the girls, my nephew Aidan came second for the boys, with Luc and Taylor also in the top ten. Pretty amazing.

Rachie coming out of the swim--it was cold at 0900h this morning!!

Aidan, just one giant fast twitch muscle.

Rachie nearing the finish line. Probably thinking about Justin Bieber.

Aidan looking prepared for combat and finishing the ride.

Luc (my Godson whose birth I attended--making me feel very old) is the football player of the family.

Taylor finishing the run.

Taylor looking frighteningly like a mini-me of my brother!

Random child who wandered onto the course when his older sister started approaching the end of the race. She just started laughing, picked him up and ran across the finish line with him. TOO CUTE!!

Aww...what can I say? I am a proud Auntie!!

The scary part was seeing all the totally ripped parents along the sidelines--where did all these uber-fits come from?? I felt like the fat kid at summer camp who developed a sinking suspicion that I will get my ass handed to me tomorrow. I know, I know...it is supposed to be fun--which, er, I hope it is fun and not humiliating!!!

I must say though, the kids were totally inspiring. When I was that age I was a total butter-ball whose main activities included watching satellite t.v and hiding my fathers cigarettes so I could sell them to the junior high kids at school. Seeing how athleticism is already such a central part of their lives is so wonderful (though it makes me a little sad that I didn't get into sports until later).

Also, did I mention that I was tricked into this race? My brother in law called me up and said that all my siblings/their spouses were doing the race, so I should do it as well. I reluctantly agreed and then when I came home last week I found out they are all in teams!! I am the only one doing the whole thing...ok, ok, I will stop whining now and get back to my studying.

Well at least tomorrow I will be able to make a line on my bucket list! Wish me luck!!

Two Clues...

Looking around my study room today I couldn't help but notice two clues that I am back in Alberta.

Oh how I've missed the Old Country. Heheh.

Can't complain, though...my brother-in-law has kindly let me take over the Man Room for the next four weeks--sweet view, fireplace, and couple of bear skins included. Woot!

---

Update! As per OMDG's comment... :)

Can't believe I didn't think of that! hahah

Our Own Little Strange Acoustic Flash Mob Bette Midler Style

Okay so maybe the title was a little long and self-indulgent, and maybe I should be studying for my mock full length USMLE exam tomorrow morning, but...meh...the canker sores in my mouth and recent surge in nocturnal teeth grinding tells me I could probably use a night off.

Besides, how can I study for the USMLE when I am still buzzing with school-girl-giddiness from our little strange home grown acoustic flash mob (if that is what you'd call it) performance we pulled off today?!? 

To set the stage, it was our last anatomy class*, designed as mostly a review session. Prior to class we rehearsed about 5 times with a handful of people who agreed to be a part of it. All of us were absolutely vibrating in our seats for the whole session, anxious for the cue to start. We told the other faculty and Dean that it was going to happen at noon and they gathered outside in the hall. We had already distributed little flags with a picture of his face on them (see photo below) and sheet music.

Anyway, I'll let you watch for yourself...it starts a bit rough but I figure we pulled it together nicely by the end.

He was definitely surprised, and even a little teary, I think. I've probably watched the video about 30 times and just can't get the grin off my face. It was an absolute blast and I think an appropriate send off. He's a tough Prof, but very good. He has worked hard to design a very clinically relevant anatomy program, and it shows. I am actually going to miss anatomy. Little bit.

The photo we mounted on little sticks.

Now I am going to have to start brainstorming. Grad is only two years away! We put that together with one 30 min rehearsal---we could have a three ring bloody circus by 2013 if we get cracking!!

--

*Usually the class consists of our prof lining us up and drilling us for half an hour, in small groups of about 20. We've had this class every week for the past two years. Yeah, two years of anatomy. He's a very, shall we say, intimidating, gruff man, with an impressive CV about as thick as your arm (if you have thick arms) and a very short fuse for wrong answers. He's the one that tells us to die or hang yourself or jump off a bridge if you say that the facial nerve is the sensory nerve of the face (it's the trigeminal) or something along those lines.