Mr Kill-Me-Now is this pompous, arrogant, hateful, insufferable, spoiled seventy-year-old gnome. I talked him through his bowel resection in infinitesimal detail, knowing he’s as meticulous as they come. I go out of my way to provide the best care possible, from the occasional cup of tea to propping up his megalithic body every time he slides down the bed. His poor wife is always there to pick up the slack and attend to every single whim of his when I’m away. A few days after his surgery, Mr Kill-Me-Now noted some mucus in his stools. We reassured him it was normal at this stage. He insisted we look at the sample he’d kept rolled up in a piece of tissue by his bed. We obliged. Second time round, we took his word for it. Third time round, he stood up and took a massive dump in the middle of the corridor. No mucus this time!

We’ve been invited to attend this drug sales pitch. It’s always something we look forward to, mostly cause these events are sponsored by large pharmaceutical companies, which not only give us a break from our hectic working days, but also free food and goodies. Today, Sasha’s talking to us about an antibiotic called Zavicefta. (It’s ceftazidime-avibactam, for the record.). She tells us all about its magical and wondrous effects, and then, as is customary, she mentions its side effects. As is not customary, she also tells us she’d never use herself it in the first place, given that there are much better alternatives on the market. Worst part is, she didn’t get the name of the drug right once. The sandwiches were quite nice though.

It’s Pink October, so I decided to put on my pink scrubs. They have a really nice fit and hey, they pop! My patients are loving it and my colleagues all want a pair, but this one nurse thinks I look like “a gay” and offers me a Pride Month badge as a joke.

I got a CPR call that cut off the second I answered. I called the operator and she connected me to the ward. “Oh no worries, doc – a patient choked on some chicken wings, turned blue, arrested, but we got him back after a few compressions.” “How is he?!” I asked. “Oh he’s just fine – eating, actually.”

It’s 3AM and I have to assist with a C-section. I’m barely managing to keep my eyes open, but at least the consultant lets me close the incision. Would’ve been better if my socks weren’t completely drenched in blood.

By now I’ve inserted a few thousand cannulae. I’m renowned for my skills, and most junior doctors call me when there’s a difficult one. Today I was met with my biggest challenge yet. I managed to find this one tiny vein right on the patient’s left knee. As they say – any vein is a good vein.

I’m at the pre-op clinic and I came up with the brilliant idea of using the PA system to serenade the patients with some karaoke. It was a huge success – some even wanted an encore as they all joined me in song. Mr Vladimir didn’t quite share their delight.

I was paged to review a patient’s chest X-ray. The more I looked at it, the more it became glaringly evident there was something wrong with it, mostly cause the patient’s head was right where her chest should’ve been. Some of the nurses couldn’t even make out what exactly they were looking at. Let’s just say the Hunchback of Notre Dame has some major competition.

Mr Kill-Me-Now is back for a routine check-up. He requested a different doctor, as I’m always “walking and talking” and never sitting down beside him. I seem to recall spending countless hours by his bedside, answering every single one of his endless questions. I didn’t say anything to his remark – good riddance!

Chuck is this twelve-year-old kif who’s been in a persistent vegetative state (PVS) for some nine years after a drowning incident. He’s hooked up to all kinds of tubing and is a sorry sight, to say the least – a perpetual tragedy that haunts everyone working in paeds. Whilst writing a discharge letter for another patient, I heard an alarm going off in Chuck’s room. “It’s okay,” the nurse told me. “He’s just having a seizure,” before swiftly turning off the monitor as I stared in utter shock. 

I got pretty used to seeing sparrows flying into hospital and lizards scurrying around the basement. The cat munching on a rat next to the Doctors’ Quarters was new.

I’ve been asked to insert a cannula on this living relic who’s been on the ward for ages. The second I pat her hand to make the vein pop out, one of her veins bursts. She now has a golf ball-sized haematoma on her hand.

A patient asked me if I was married. I said no. He nodded sympathetically, like I’d just told him I was terminal. Guess that’s where Gozitan culture comes in.

I had to vet a CT, so I did what we always do – I found the on-call radiologist on the roster and rang him up. “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, CALLING ME ON MY PERSONAL NUMBER?!” he goes. After telling him I’d called the number published on the roster, he freaked out and had me holding the line. After about fifteen minutes, he reassured me everything was taken care of and that he wasn’t, in fact, on-call. Thanks!

Someone changed the CPR pager’s ringtone to Astronomia – the Coffin Dance. Someone’s a legend.

I might not be on board with the whole religion-at-work kinda thing, but I have to admit that on most night shifts, the priest’s secret stash of holy hosts makes for a pretty decent midnight snack. If I’m not blessed, I don’t know who can be.