Journal entries from my rotation in geriatric medicine:

• • • “I think Sister Valak’s coming down with the flu,” the nurse tells us. Our faces simultaneously grimace, knowing this means we have to go and speak to her. Sister Valak is a ninety-year-old nun. She’s as cute as a button and kinda reminds me of Sophia from The Golden Girls. She spends her days in her wheelchair in the dining area, minding her own business, sipping tea and munching on biscuits. Sister Valak also has advanced dementia. And the second you go anywhere near her, may God bless your soul. She turns into a possessed, evil, demonic being that would make Lucifer himself piss his pants. Dr Pops turns pale and gulps in fear. He knows exactly what this means. We all suck it up and approach her. She starts screaming, cursing, swearing, and thrashing about in her wheelchair. She slaps Dr Pop’s hands away the second he approaches her with the stethoscope. I bravely try to auscultate her lungs from behind while she’s busy attacking him and somehow manage. Until she grabs my arm and bites deep into my flesh like a friggin’ zombie. “Will I turn into a demonic nun?” I wonder.

    • During morning handover, the nurses tell us there’s been some drama in the COVID ward. One of the patients in a two-bedded room is missing. It doesn’t take long to find him. Mr Casanova, a hyperactive 85-year-old, is discovered in the same bed as Ms Cougar, a bed-bound 75-year-old lady. The nurses lose their minds and put him back in his bed. “Joke’s on you,” he tells them. “We already did it.”

    • Mr Casanova is found in Ms Cougar’s bed again. This time, he’s feeding her a banana – and not the proverbial kind. How wholesome.

    • I’m called to review a lady who’s passed blood per rectum. I arrive to find her almost drowning in a pool of fresh blood. “She farted and this came out,” the nurse tells me calmly. As I attempt to pop my eyes back into their sockets, I ask for her vital signs. “We haven’t taken them yet,” the nurse replies. I try to remain polite, but my face definitely gives my rage away. “Do you want me to take them now?” she asks. I mumble a very disheartened “yes” and proceed to examine the patient and get IV access. I’m on the phone with the Emergency Department arranging transfer when the nurse throws a paper towel at me with the vitals scribbled all over it. Her oxygen saturations are low. Way too low. Dumbfounded, I ask her to put the patient on a non-rebreather mask. I hang up and find the nurse holding another patient’s mask. “Can I use this? We don’t seem to have another one.” It’s moments like these that make me wanna give up.

    • I’m called about an acutely deteriorating patient. Unfortunately, the nurse fails to tell me who the patient is or which ward he’s calling from before hanging up. I try to retrace the call with no success. He never calls back. Oh well.

    • We walk into a ward to start rounding when we’re drawn to this one room by all the commotion and chaos going on. A carer is visibly shaken and crying inconsolably. Allegedly, Mr Handsy threw his walker at her. Mr Handsy can barely grab a boob, let alone throw a walker at someone. 

    • Sister Valak’s been coughing for the past couple of days. Somehow, against all odds, one of the nurses manages to swab her. And guess who’s COVID positive? Yep, that’s right. And guess who gets to examine her and take her blood? Also right. We know it’s gonna be an ordeal. A team of four nurses and yours truly, all clad in PPE, venture into her room. She’s sitting calmly in her wheelchair, putting on a fake façade. She looks me dead in the eye and scoots out of the room. Two nurses manage to stop her, one of them getting bitten in the process. She screams a string of swear words I never imagined could exist as she’s finally subdued and I can examine her. I’m ready to take her blood when she grabs the needle from my hand and jams it into herself. God bless her soul.

    • My pager goes off. “Doc, I swear, in my 35 years of nursing I’ve never seen anything like this!” After the usual pleasantries, the nurse describes the stool he found in a patient’s diaper. “It’s exactly like meat and mushrooms, I swear!” I go to the ward where I find him still staring at his discovery in awe. He insists the patient hasn’t eaten in days. I take one look. I swear it looked exactly like meat and mushrooms.

    • “Doc, the patient has no parameters.” Well, hello to you too. I ask her to elaborate. “He has no parameters!” she repeats. “Have you tried taking them?” I ask. “I did, but he has no parameters…” “You mean he’s dead?” I ask politely. “Of course!” she replies excitedly, relieved her point has finally landed.

    • Mrs Button – our favourite patient ever – has been chosen to feature on the public healthcare system’s computers’ wallpaper. Clearly, she’s won the heart of someone in power too. 

    • Sister Valak’s being aggressive towards staff and other patients. We’re asked to give her something to calm her down. Instead, I put on a bedsheet over my head, tell her I’m the Mother Superior, and that I insist she goes to sleep. It works.  

    • For the first time in my very short career, I find myself physically and mentally unable to examine a patient. Mrs Crackhead has tripped and hit her head. I should be doing a full neurological exam, but all I can focus on is her teeth-grinding. “Stick out your tongue and lay it in my hands,” she demands. “Off to CT,” I reply.

    • It’s 10PM., and I finally get a chance to eat what was meant to be lunch. My pager goes off and I curse the day I became a doctor. I answer to the sound of uncontrollable laughter. “WHAT?!” I yell. “Theresa just fell and bumped her head,” the nurse finally manages to say. “What’s so funny?” I ask, half angry, half hangry. “She dragged Carmela down with her.”

    • Today, we had to relocate a 94-year-old to another ward because he wouldn’t stop fondling another patient’s breasts.

    • I’m called to a see a patient who’s poorly rousable. I hadn’t seen my great-aunt in over a decade!

    • We’re waiting expectantly in the Doctors’ Quarters for something Rosalie’s been cooking while we were on ward rounds. Her famous carbonara. We can’t wait. Smelled like heaven, tasted like death. Saltiest thing I’ve ever eaten.

    • Paula and I are paged to insert a cannula on this semi-comatose patient. She had excellent looking veins. Took us six tries in total. 

    • Turns out we can use our pagers to vote for the Eurovision Song Contest. Nifty.

    • There’s a nurse who absolutely hates our firm. “You guys have too much fun at work!” she insists. Today, as she tries to catheterise a patient’s vagina instead of her urethra, I feel compelled to remind her that there’s a time and place for that kind of fun – especially at work.

    • “Is the patient on a non-rebreather mask?” Paula asks. “No, doc,” the nurse replies. “The patient isn’t rebreathing. He’s dead.”

    • Dr Sleazy applies for a consultant post. During the interview, he’s asked how to manage a COVID-positive patient. Among his many wrong answers, he suggests starting dexamethasone 500 mg three times daily – instead of the standard low-dose regimen used in COVID. Reassuring.

    • I’m seeing a patient on the dementia ward. Right before leaving, I yell “You can all go home now!” before closing the door. Never looked back.

    • A relative demands to know why her 96-year-old mother hasn’t “bounced back yet”.

    • Today, during our walk between wards, we’re accompanied by a herd of sheep and ponies. Just another day in this hospital.

    • I’m on call with Paula and we’re about to start a morphine pump for a palliative patient. We haven’t prescribed one in ages, so we ring the senior on call to confirm the dose. She isn’t quite sure herself, but she does offer a nugget of wisdom. “Give it slooooowly,” she warns.