Today, a 24-year-old who sustained a severe traumatic brain injury after crashing into a tree while riding his bike spoke his first word after three months in hospital. “Julia!” he uttered, as he reached his hand out to his wife, Valeria. 

Mr Miracle is deteriorating again. Christa overhears Gary muttering, “Why do we even bother with him?” and I quite literally had to restrain her from lunging at him.

Ms Hopeful is this sweet elderly lady who’s been through absolute hell. She had a massive brain tumour that we successfully removed, but she then went on to develop multiple surgical wound infections. Just as she was about to be discharged, we had to break the news that she’d tested COVID positive. With tears in her eyes, she jumped out of bed to hug us all. Poor Ms Hopeful got her positives mixed up. Poor Stacey, one of our nurses, got two weeks of quarantine.

I get paged at 2AM for a cannula in the COVID ward. I forget to put on my overshoes, and the nurse in charge completely loses it. He gives me a full lecture on their importance (no published trials prove this, by the way) and how I’m personally contributing to rising COVID numbers. I apologise, put on the damn overshoes, and go in to site the cannula. Only the patient already has two brand-new, fully functional cannulae in place – something which happens all the time. Guess COVID-positive doctors don’t count, huh?

I’m doing rounds with Gary and I’m this close to offing myself. He gives me an unsolicited lecture on the importance of pain relief. He then asks me the dose of codeine – an analgesic most of our neurosurgical patients are already on.

Ms Glamour is a forty-year-old lady admitted for excision of a huge meningioma. We got along so well during her stay that she gave me the cutest handmade Christmas card, complete with a crocheted Santa. I still have it.

I’m called to review a man with a headache rated “10 out of 10”. He’s scrolling TikTok, laughing, and eating crisps when I walk in.

I’m doing rounds with Dr Queen when a patient repeatedly addresses me as the consultant and her as the nurse. After the third time, I stop him so as not to perpetuate the sexist culture. “She’s the consultant – I’m just an idiot,” I blurt out. “Jesus Christ…” she mutters, rolling her eyes like a true professional.

I had to tell a guy I’d been chatting with on Tinder for a couple of weeks that his father was my patient – and that he was, in fact, going to die.

Jacqueline asks me to review a patient with her because she’s unresponsive. She approaches gently, pats her shoulder, and softly whispers her name – the patient still not rousable. “You see?” she says, worried. Lacking her finesse and elegance, I rouse the patient instantly with a single sternal rub.

A relative corners me in the corridor and asks if her husband’s personality change after surgery means he’ll finally stop being stubborn. I tell her neurosurgery has its limits.

One of my patients has a run of supraventricular tachycardia – an abnormal electrical rhythm that can be treated with manual manoeuvres or drugs. It’s the first time I successfully perform a carotid sinus massage, and I’m so proud I take an extra copy of the pre- and post-manoeuvre ECG home with me.

Getting tipsy at the Christmas staff party, with the full encouragement of my consultants, was certainly a new experience. Man, I love this department.