Lust in Translation

I was told last week by my attending that having a medical student sit in on consultations all day was "a bit like having a hitch hiker in the car". That it made him feel slightly self conscious and ill at ease. I thought this was a rather hilarious analogy and so I repeated it to my new attending this week.

He too found it amusing. 

At the end of the day I was saying thank you and going on my merry way and down the hall I called out, "thanks for giving me a ride all afternoon" in reference to the hitch hiker statement. He was smiling and waving and then abruptly stopped with a strange and slightly embarrassed look on his face. 

Yeah. Then it clicked. I've made this mistake before. 

Ride in Ireland = Sex. 

Smooth, ABB. Really, smooth. 

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. 

Hospital Fashion

This week has been comprised of mostly lectures and case-based learning for psyche. It's been a nice way to wade back into the hospital pool. My head would probably explode if I were doing 4h ward rounds and being pimped on things like the causes of ascites.

Also, our professor of psychiatry is a very dynamic, engaging lecturer who ensures we don't get bogged down in the language and the esoteric aspects of mental health. So that part has been entertaining and educational.

The other day I thought something he said was quite simple, but interesting. We were talking about the dress code on the psyche ward. He scanned the room to take in what we were all wearing (various degrees of LL Bean, basically).

Turtlenecks, they're so hip right now...turtlenecks.

He nodded and gave his approval, then said, "Just think, when you're getting dressed to come to the psyche ward, it is not about you, it is about the patients. If you're wearing provocative clothes, loud, dangly jewelery, etc., you might distress or distract some of the patients in ways that are uncomfortable for them. Bottom line: it is not about you."

I really liked that way of framing it. Because the school has given us detailed lists of 'acceptable' clothing options, though I have seen some...er...interesting outfits trotted out. I think looking at what you wear to work in that light is probably the best gauge for appropriateness. Who am I wearing this for? And I'd say it applies outside the realm of psyche too.

All this, of course, coming from a woman who hopes to spend her life in scrubs and outlandish clogs. 

Back in Eire

More airports, dragging my luggage behind me. More waiting at stuffy gates and cueing for dingy bathrooms. I was able to slightly balance my suitcase on my thigh while weighing in, which allowed me to avoid the $250 excess charge. I didn't feel guilty because last week they charged me $106 and then promptly lost my luggage for two days. I was worried my meeting with Brian was going to be in 3/4 length pajamas with hearts on them and a team-building exercise 1999 t-shirt.

The bright side was being met in Shannon by a friend who had packed an airport picnic lunch. Nothing like arriving to smoked salmon, Greek yogurt, and fresh berries, and a weak cup of Irish coffee.

Two days of mini-vaycay on the west coast, going to my treasured beach and drinking coffee at Moll's Gap was punctuated by having to wake up at 6am to drive to the hospital for my first day of placement.

Thankfully, I am doing a psyche rotation first which means a week of lectures before hitting the ward. It's been a nice way to ease back into school after a fairly frenetic summer, couch surfing from Squamish, BC to Charlottetown, PEI.

Right now life is a little hectic, 1/3 of my belongings in Kerry, 1/3 in the house I am moving into, and 1/3 in my current digs (a spare room at my friend Marg's parent's place) . I was going through bags finding camera battery chargers, hand blenders, lavender oil, textbooks, protein powder, pencil cases, and mittens, all thrown together. Needless to say I'm trying not to feel as scattered as my possessions.

For now, I have my notebook, two pens, clothes for work, and a travel mug. I'll survive the next few weeks until the dust settles. 

Final med: no excuses!

Inside Job

Yesterday I had the chance to finally meet Dr. Brian Goldman. It was quite the adventure, getting there and away. But, how many times do you get to to eat seared tuna with one of your medical heroes?

And how many times do you get to be inside CBC Toronto??

The answer to both is: not very many.

It was starting to unfold like a 1993 comedy. Of course, there was the tornado warning west of Ottawa just a few hours before my flight. Then the flight was delayed. Then just as we were about to taxi for takeoff they grounded the plane on the tarmac for an hour because of a major thunderstorm warning in Toronto. Followed by my arrival in a 31 degree city and a broken down shuttle bus.

Eventually I arrived at the hotel, which happened to be hosting a massive Make-Up-Sold-in-Houses convention. The scene was of drunk middle aged women smoking out front, in completely over the top prom dresses with sashes, proclaiming their yearly sales. Yes, yes I did also see a tiara.

The next morning I arrived at the CBC building in downtown Toronto and had to keep my credit card far far away from the schwag store (I'll take two coffee mugs, one aviator bag, an old-school CBC logo t-shirt and a scarf, thanks). By the way, CBC, if you're reading this I wear medium and I will shamelessly promote you forever on this blog...CBC.....CBC.......CBC.....!

Brian and I did manage to get a lot of work done despite my urges to photograph everything from the security guards to the Anna Maria Tremonti elevator. What do I need to do from this moment forward to someday have an elevator with my face on it?! Seriously. CBC radio is the soundtrack of my life. My earliest memories often involve long car rides with Peter Gzowski's gravelly voice or the As It Happens theme song. 

I was in my Mecca. But I think I behaved. I didn't leave any little Jian Ghomeshi action figures lying around, collect cigarette butts that could have been touched by Peter Mansbridge, or steal pencils off Elanor Wachtels desk. 

I did, however, manage to miss my flight back to Ottawa and ended up having to take the train. All well worth it. Brian and I have worked together on pieces for WCBA before but it was great to finally meet him. Bottom line, if you miss a plane because you're having lunch with a CBC radio host, there really is nothing to complain about.

I was pleased though, to arrive back at Dan and Lisa's for an arctic char feast, and relieved that the final leg of my journey did not involve riding in the back of a pick up truck with migrant workers and hillbillies. 

Though, it would have made a good story, I suppose...

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.

And Now for Something Completely Different...

I am waiting to fly across the country (from Pacific to Atlantic) to get ready for my next elective.

Spent my week between gigs trying to cram in as many visits as possible with family, friends, fine dining establishments, and watering holes. More often seeing many people for too few minutes. Soaking up cuddles and Champagne wherever I could. Though I am looking forward to this next experience I am tired from living out of two very heavy suitcases and sleeping in a different spare room every night. (Don't get me wrong, I LOVE that all my friends are grown ups now and actually have spare rooms...)

Two weeks of elective, a week of limbo in Ontario, lunch with my CBC BFF* and then it is back to Ireland for the last round of doctor school. The major downside to my relocation is no internet or mobile phone at my billet...I repeat no internet or mobile phone at my billet. 

It is going to feel a lot like when I was in Asia, circa 1999...walking the streets hoping to find an internet cafe that doesn't smell like body odor. In other words, I am apologizing in advance for not replying to emails, sending tweets, blog posting, or being on skype. I am sure I'll have plenty of time to catch up as I doddle around Ottawa for a week waiting to fly back to Ireland on the 27th.
  
Enjoy the sun (but not too much).

Yours in interweb withdrawal...

ABB

*My designation, not his.

Rolling Stone

Feels like I am back to my nomadic travel nursing days. Once again living out of suitcases and buying tinned fish and microwave meals to avoid over-using kitchen spaces. I had to chuckle when in one day I received emails from several different people all with the same subject heading "Where Are You??". My friend Kara says she has a separate page in her address book just for me. The phone numbers and addresses have changed so many times that she's erased through the paper in some places. I think I have "Z"  all to myself.

I've been planning to spend a few days on the west coast but hadn't quite nailed down when I'd be in specific towns. Kara knew when to expect me (roughly) so I called her yesterday to firm up when I'd be arriving at her house. I had forgotten that I was calling from my friend Erin's American cell phone.

"Hi Kar, how are you?!"

"Hey! Where are you?"

"Sorry I haven't been in touch this week. It's been really crazy and my phone doesn't work outside of the major cities because I am on a crap network--".

[she cuts in]"--Where are you??"

"I am in Squamish! I was thinking of coming to your place....tomorrow?"

"You are in Squamish? Really? Because your phone number says Idaho and if there is one person in the world who could plan on being in the lower mainland but end up in Idaho, it is you."

I think I am going to take that as a high compliment, a reflection of my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-wanderlust tendencies which I often think have long faded away. 

Pearls

He had a little turban of gauze wrapped around his shaggy blonde head. Perfect rows of white teeth and blue eyes. I imagined that when Jack Johnson was 4 years old he probably looked like him; brightly colored board shorts, a mini ROXY hoodie, and lime green flip flops.  Despite the bloody gash (thanks to a fall on his grandparents fireplace) he was chatty and informed me he loved visiting Canada because he could play in the snow, his middle name meant "wave" in Hawaiian, and that he'd rather have an apple juice than a spider man sticker thankyouverymuch. 

After I unwound the gauze and inspected his scalp, I had to irrigate the wound with some saline to clean up the bloody tangle of hair before stapling it. He brought his hand up just above his head and hunched his shoulders down while I cleaned it, but didn't cry or pull away.

I was dropping the used bandages and gauze into the bin and untangling the situation when he cocked his head in my direction, studying my face while I scrubbed.

I really like your earrings.

Aw, that is so sweet of you, thank you!

You're welcome.  

Can't think of the last time an adult complimented my jewelery while I was repairing their head wound. Mind you, adults in that situation are usually fallen down drunk and mildly abusive.

I almost feel like most of my patients in the ED have been part of an elaborate ruse to woo me into pediatrics. It's working people, it is working!!