Sod’s Law

I’ve started yet another new term, this one surgical.

Now I don’t know about you, but to me dressing up in blue pyjamas (which have a nasty habit of exposing a cheeky side of thigh and underwear) and silly hats and holding retractors under hot lights for hours on end whilst some elderly surgeon asks me what all the wobbly bits are is not my idea of fun.

Particularly since the insides of the average patient are a lot more, well, bloody than I remember from my anatomy textbook and also I’m looking at the bit of interest from upside down peeking in from over the head. It makes it hard to guess right, and boy do I look stupid when I parrot back “I’m not quite sure.”… (usually with a mental you bastard tacked on the end of that sentence).

So surgery is definitely not my idea of fun.

Despite this, I was brimming with (apparently imprudent) confidence about my medical abilities after my rather easy last term. I thought that I had some idea about enough of the common things to get by. After all at this point in the course, it’s all about turning up, looking interested, getting hurdle requirements ticked off and hopefully scraping through exams. I’m so damn over studying.

Sadly the illusory impression of knowledge was very quickly corrected before ten am.

The intern (who is by definition the most junior doctor of any team of doctors) was delighted to have new minions to do his menial jobs for him. I don’t blame him, I would be too. But he decided to ask questions. Bastard. Some of them I could answer, but many had me simply giving my best dumb look. Over all, not a good feeling when you know the asker has precisely 10 weeks more undergraduate education than you currently have.

After managing to dredge the symptoms of acute gall bladder inflammation out of my rusty neurones, he went one step further and asked for the (eponymous, they’re always freaking eponymous after famous Dr so-and-so which is a real bastard since either you know it or you’re stuffed) name of the clinical sign one should elicit in this condition.

I had no idea, so more blank looks and a pantomime of the procedure for eliciting the sign ensured.

He took pity on me.

Gesturing helpfully, he uttered:

“It’ssss……’M'……..’Mmm’…’Mmmmmmm”…….”

At this point he paused, but still receiving dumb looks, he pressed on.

Raising his eyebrows for effect, he said:

“……..’Muh’……..’Muh’……..’Muh??’……………’Murphy’s Sign’. You should probably know that.”

I told him that hitherto our meeting I was only familiar with dear Mr Murphy’s Law. I’m not sure that he got the joke.

Please excuse me while I inhale a textbook or ten.