Geriatric Medicine – First Day?
II.III.I
FIRST DAY?
My next rotation would be in a specialty I never quite liked. One I was kinda forced to choose in order to get neurosurgery and general surgery. One I’d be stuck with for three months. Geriatric medicine. Blech.
Imagine going from this wannabe hardcore neurosurgical trainee to working in a hospital for the elde… zzzzz. Sorry, I actually fell asleep. What a friggin snooze fest. The only silver lining I could see was that I’d be working in the same firm as Paula, another house officer who also happened to be one of my best friends, and Rosalie, a higher specialist trainee I’d known since med school. Not to mention, I’d be assigned to Dr Pops, the friendliest and most well-natured consultant in the geriatric hospital.
Okay, maybe there was more than one silver lining. I’d also be leaving behind the relentless stress of the general hospital and the neurosurgical ward for a far more easy-going workplace. After neurosurgery, I was definitely in need of a break.
And I certainly got one. As is customary before starting work at a long-term care facility, we had to undergo COVID testing – a routine precaution to avoid infecting the vulnerable elderly.
At that point, one could say I was the very picture of health (despite my ongoing nicotine addiction). I was working out three to four times a week and I felt and looked good. So you can imagine my surprise when I tested positive – again. I’m pretty sure it was a false positive, given that rapid antigen tests are less specific and that two follow-up PCR swabs came back negative. But as per Public Health instructions, I was once again stuck in quarantine, this time for a full week.
Though not one to shirk off work, I can’t say I was displeased by the extra week of sick leave. I hadn’t had the opportunity to stay home for longer than a couple of days since my previous quarantine back in Gozo. While most people would go bonkers at the idea of being stuck indoors, I knew I could live my best life from the confines of my room too. Looking back on my time during lockdown and quarantine, I’d been productive as hell – and now I had another golden opportunity.
I spent that week working on myself. I worked out, read, and wrote. I played video games and watched TV. And I finally got around to working on my resume. I lost track of how many online courses, conferences, and webinars I attended. I also caught up on my e-portfolio, all while studying for the MRCS Part B exam. It was practically a rehash of my first quarantine – except this time I had the luxury of being in my own home, with all my needs tended to by my mother. Guess I really am a spoiled brat after all.
All the while, of course, Paula had to pick up my slack. She was somewhat of a spy, driving by my house every day to keep me up to speed with everything happening at the hospital. I’d step out onto the balcony while she stood by my porch, cigarette in hand, updating me on her day. And lemme just say, by the end of it, I was actually looking forward to working there.
Fast-forward a week, and there I finally was. I stepped into the ancient-looking hospital and headed to the Doctors’ Quarters – an old, worn-down, rustic, honest-to-God house with about five bedrooms, a kitchen, and a couple of bathrooms. This was where we’d be starting and finishing our days – a place I’d soon come to call home. And that was easy enough, considering how homey it felt.
I walked in to find some of the other junior doctors sitting comfortably in the kitchen, chatting mindlessly while waiting for their firms to assemble for ward rounds. Paula and Rosalie were there too, and I felt at home from the very start. Dr Pops would be joining us later, as he was on outpatient duties. Someone poured me a cup of coffee and made me some toast, and, all full and content, we headed down to the garden for a cigarette before starting the day. That’s how we’d start our mornings here. Friggin’ unbelievable.
Ward rounds were a bit different in this setting. Long-term care facilities like this one sit in a grey area – somewhere between a hospital and a nursing home. We had around seven wards under our care – most under different roofs, meaning we’d have to walk around the entire hospital complex. You’d think it’s a chore having to do so, but with the serene and idyllic landscape surrounding us and the charming old buildings, it’d feel like a nice walk in the middle of town. I guess the chapel at the heart of the hospital kinda helps with that vibe.
We’d visit each one, but we’d only review patients who actually had issues. Rounding on hundreds of residents simply wasn’t feasible. Instead, we’d go ward by ward, with the nurses handing us lists – bloods to take, patients to review, cannulae to insert, and so on. Some wards would have nothing at all. Others would hand us never-ending to-do lists.
That said, we got through the work with ease. By the end of the first week, Paula and Rosalie had already grown close, and once we were all together, it felt like we were this tight-knit unit working seamlessly as one. We’d split tasks between us, with Rosalie – the senior – happily doing the lowly scut work without so much as a complaint. There was no real hierarchy here. Just one guiding principle behind everything we did – providing the best possible care for our patients. What a breath of fresh air.
After our first ward round, it felt as though I’d been working there for ages. By then, I could finally use the medical knowledge I’d built up over the years to take initiative and manage patients independently – always knowing Rosalie was there if we needed her.
By the time we wrapped up, it was only 11AM. As we made our way back to the Doctors’ Quarters, Paula and I both felt we’d earned ourselves a cigarette break. The second I lit my cancer stick, Dr Pops parked his car right in front of us. That was his first impression of me. I braced myself for his reaction – expecting him to tell me off or to act like the professional I was meant to be. I’d be spending three months with him as my consultant – starting off on the wrong foot was less than idea.
Well, perhaps that wasn’t really gonna be the case. “Oh my god! Hi! Welcome! How are you? I’ve heard so much about you!” exclaimed this sixty-something-year-old man in his trademark cardigan, giving off some serious hardcore grandpa vibes. He barely gave me time to introduce myself before launching into how thrilled he was that I’d joined the team and how much fun we were going to have together. “This must be a dream,” I kept thinking to myself.
