I turned 26 yesterday and as always, my mind turns back to the days of old… i’ve now reached the stage where ‘days of old’ are actually days as a fully sentient being- i truly am old now! I’ve dug up my old blog posts after much searching for old and lost passwords, and have laughed and sighed at the thoughts and range of high emotions of the younger, naiver me. As I read through them, i’ll intermittently post up the “best bits” as a testament to a soul in formation. I can confirm that the dynamic flux continues as i take each breath, alhamdulillah 
(nb- pseudonyms used to uphold patient/healthcare worker confidentiality):
Man, have I had my good days my good days and my bad days there. I have laughed and smiled, I have learnt, I have observed, I have appreciated, I have been told off, I have reflected, I’ve even cried into my alky-gelled hands and watched others turn away from the crowd and do the same. I have seen how the people thought to be the ones to rely on, in the end were only there when it suited them; and saw other individuals, people who had been written off at the first glance, absolutely shine. I hope that maybe, despite everything, I shined sometimes too.
For me, the best moments at the hospital were when I was left to sit beside patients’ beds, and smilingly (tentatively) ask “how are you doing today?” And after this, and many other, ice-breakers most people would deem me worthy enough to unfold their lives before. Many didn’t, and I appreciate that too- reminds me of how far I still have to go, yet.
“Mr. Sycamore”, a cheerful elderly gentleman with lung bronchiectasis and overlying infection- as well as an absolute cracker of a goitre- had been in the corner of the respiratory ward for as long as I could remember. I had been briefly introduced to him by the respiratory consultant on a routine ward round, on account of the defibrillator box implanted in his chest wall and the course crackles plaguing his lower zone breath sounds. As the consultant concentrated on listening for whispering pectoriloquey, I had also noticed the fantastically huge midline swelling on his neck. On asking the boss whether this was a goitre, he nodded his head slightly and turned back to Mr. Sycamore.
I went back a few days later, intent on targeting Mr. Sycamore for a run-through of h thyroid examination. My introduction and enquiry into his health wandered into a general conversation about his life. He told me about all the things that he had done as a young man- how he had been a member of the British Army in the Second World War and had travelled to North Africa. He told me about how he had visited Paris this year, and fulfilled his ambition to climb up the Eiffel tower (only being seventy-something young :O ) and saw the Moulin Rouge. A sigh escaped as he continued to stare out of the window, and explained that it was nothing like what it had been 50 years ago. How he didn’t really expect much from life at his age now, and literally spewed at the notion that his goitre of 25 years may be growing retrosternally and slowly compressing his main airway. I found myself returning again to look at the big blue squiggly lines contrasting vividly against the red-hot skin over the zinger of a swelling, mentally making a note of something I had read; “distended veins over a thyroid goitre may be a sign of thoracic inlet obstruction due to retrosternal growth of the goitre”. Mr. Sycamore just scoffed.
He asked me about my training as I looked for chemosis and exophthalmus, and I described how I had just started out and was “enjoying every minute of it” (it becomes an automated response of sorts). Out of the blue, Mr. S then questioned why women “wore that towel on their head”, as he gestured towards my headscarf. I instinctively cringed on the inside and tried to explain how it was a symbol of faith that some women wear, rather like crosses for Christians. The one thing I’ve rated about all elderly folks, is the delight they exhibit when they’ve discovered something that results in happiness for whatever reason. Often for no reason at all, I’ve noticed. This was no exception, and I beamed in amusement right back at him as he clapped and exclaimed, “You learn something new everyday!”
As I got up to leave and go to the midday lecture, he reached out with a frail, wasted hand and gently tapped the side of my face twice, and said, “You’re going to be a wonderful doctor”. And on the many days that you genuinely have your gravest doubts about that, the sincere words of the people who matter the most at the end of it all, can be the thing you need to pick yourself up and brush off that surprisingly heavy load of dust you’ve been collecting along the way.
The last time I saw Mr. S was as he slowly walked out of the respiratory ward in his hospital pyjamas, in order to “stretch the bones” as he put it. Exhausted from a week of no sleep due to his new, noisy patient-neighbour and accompanying snores, his irritability and weariness were testament to his wish to “just go home”- and I patted his arm sympathetically before hurrying on to meet the rest of the firm for teaching. I took the rest of the week off because I was ill. The next Monday, I went to enquire after him but found a new patient in what had been his hospital bed for nearly 3 months. In a weird way, it seemed sacrilegious. He was an institution on that ward bay.
In the entire hullabaloo of the upcoming O.S.C.E.s, I never got round to stopping the S.H.O. and asking how it had been decided to discharge Mr. S. Sometimes, I find myself thinking of that weary, lop-sided smile and hope that he’s managing okay, alone again in the ground flat he longed to get back to.
To all the doctors, nurses, and especially all the accommodating, patient patients (no pun intended),
Thanks.
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