Volume 197 - Issue 11
Living the dream
Author: Rosalind L Jeffree
Med J Aust 2012; 197 (11): 671. || doi: 10.5694/mja12.11420
Published online: 10 December 2012
Published online: 10 December 2012
A reflection on surgical life in a public hospitalThe fluorescent tubes in the corridor shine with a watery blue light, casting dappled shadows from the newly hung Christmas decorations. The surgeon opens the door to the operating theatre, but it catches on the tinsel, unsticking it from the ceiling. 8 am. Already the day is in chaos: no breakfast, delayed clinic, unhappy administrators, and now this ...
A reflection on surgical life in a public hospital
The fluorescent tubes in the corridor shine with a watery blue light, casting dappled shadows from the newly hung Christmas decorations. The surgeon opens the door to the operating theatre, but it catches on the tinsel, unsticking it from the ceiling. 8 am. Already the day is in chaos: no breakfast, delayed clinic, unhappy administrators, and now this urgent case.
Inside, the scrubs trolley is in disarray. He chooses a too-small top and too-large trousers and struggles into the ill-fitting garments.
If I were an astronaut, my suit would fit. I’d get regular meals. Things would run on time. Thousands of entranced schoolchildren would watch my every move as I soared through the darkness of uncharted space, diamond stars sparkling against the velvety blackness of infinity ...
He is almost collected by an RMO bursting through the theatre door. “We can’t start. The scans are missing.”
A sandbag is needed to position the patient, but there is no one to help find it. Adjusting the operating lights, the surgeon feels them hot on his skin.
If I were a rock star, people would cheer when I walked into the light. I’d have my own change room. Roadies would fetch and carry. I could sleep in. There would be music, colour, champagne, fun ...
“Scalpel. Forceps.” The scrub nurse passes some grey tweezers, with “Level 4 theatres 1976” engraved untidily on the side. She talks to the scout about her weekend.
Inside the head, the surgeon sucks at the subdural clot in a desultory fashion, holding the sucker like a paintbrush. The patient’s brain sags slackly, bruised yellow-grey. It ebbs and flows quietly like waves in an oil-slicked industrial port.
As a painter, I could control the colour. Flamboyant purple, glowing red, luminous orange. Precisely placed highlights, contrasts and shadows. I could create images that transcend time and place, race and gender. My work would hang on walls for thousands to see ...
“Oh, shit!” Venous blood oozes, leech-like, from a torn vessel. A moment’s pressure with a patty will stop it, but the patty strings are tangled. The scrub nurse struggles with the rat’s nest of green cords, eventually freeing the small gauze square.
Afterwards, sitting at the computer to write up the operation, he stares at the pistachio-green wall. Someone has drawn dinosaurs in biro around the patches where the paint has peeled. He starts to type.
I could write a literary masterpiece: elegant prose, evocative descriptions, compelling plots. My books would ignite debate and stir great passions. They would be discussed on radio and in lifts, online and in the papers ...
Out in recovery, someone tries to open the patient’s already-open file. This crashes the computer, losing everything that has been typed so far. The surgeon starts again.
Late that afternoon, he goes up to the ward. His way is obstructed by some orderlies struggling to get a bed around a narrow corner. The patient’s urinary catheter is caught on the door jamb, stretched taut as a slingshot, but she is too drowsy, or too demented, to complain. He wonders why her urine is green.
If I were a research scientist, I’d work from 9 to 5 and be home in time for dinner. I could discover new diseases, maybe win a Nobel Prize. My findings would change the course of medicine, and younger doctors would hang on my every word ...
The ward has precisely no staff. In the corner bed, the old man from this morning’s operation has his oxygen mask over one eyebrow, and wet egg glistens yellow on the collar of his hospital pyjamas. His wife beams at the surgeon and hands him a gift. It is a small plaster angel, holding an artificial crystal that glints garishly under the fluorescent light. The price, $3, is still on the bottom.
On Christmas Day, the tree is bedecked with crayon-coloured reindeer and suspended elves. At the top, watching over them all, is the plaster angel.
Across town, a small boy runs across a lounge room. He is dressed as a ninja and waving a shiny plastic sword. “What happened to your head, Grandad?” Grandad scoops him up. “That’s where the surgeon cut me open.”
“Mummy thought you might die”, says the ninja.
“Yes, but the surgeon fixed me.”
The boy’s eyes widen and he gesticulates with his sword.
Imagine! You could cut people open, find out what’s wrong inside them, and fix it ...
Competing interests
No relevant disclosures.