Excellent One morning in the life of a Med. Student The Grand Round by Terry Reilly Nonfiction Writing Contest contest entry Artwork by VMarguarite at FanArtReview.com

Shit! Slept in again. Again! I tried to focus on my wristwatch through sleep-encrusted eyes. Was that 09.30? Oh-oh. I sat up, rather too quickly. My head swam, my chest heaved. Manfully, I resisted the temptation to flop back into supine slumber. I put my feet on the floor, stood up hesitantly. Why was my tiny room rotating? My mouth felt like the bottom of a gerbil's cage. The taste of stale alcohol on my breath made me retch. Alcohol? That was it. I had a hangover. A real humdinger. Oh, yes. Last night's party. The student nurses' flat. Too much free booze. Too little self-control. My recollections of the evening were fragmented, incomplete. I remembered kissing Alice. Yeah, that was nice. We were getting on really well. But I obviously came home alone. I must have blown it. What the Hell did I do? I wasn't sure I wanted to try too hard to remember. I had form for behaving outrageously. I groaned with unjustified self-pity. Plonker! Action required. Banish self-indulgent reveries. To the bathroom. Don't look in the mirror. Half an hour later, a vestige of functioning humanity had been regained. I took stock. I had missed the first two classroom lectures. I could catch up with that stuff. Much more important. It was Friday. The day of the Grand Round. I couldn't afford to miss that. Ward rounds occurred daily, allowing the senior doctors to review each in-patient's progress. The weekly Grand Round was pure theatre. The Prof., who rarely appeared, orchestrated the show. Its secondary purpose was to provide teaching, particularly for the medical students. Like me. Non-attendance would be noted and have adverse consequences for the end-of-term appraisal. I couldn't risk the unreliable bus service so jog-trotted the two miles or so to the Infirmary. I changed quickly into my white coat and made it to Ward Four just in time to slink in at the back of the line queuing at the first bed. Hot, sweaty, head thumping. This was strictly hierarchical. At the front, of course, was Prof., flanked by Senior Registrar and Sister. Registrar, Senior and Junior House Officers made up the second phalanx. Then the Staff Nurses. An Enrolled Nurse and two student nurses edged in front of the two Med. Students, John and I. We were at the bottom of the food chain. But we were going to provide entertainment for the rest. This was Prof.'s opportunity to strut his stuff. To demonstrate the depth of his knowledge. To reveal his expertise as an educator. In the case of this Prof., a chance to show his acolytes his capacity for empathy with the common man, his understanding of the human condition. But we all knew this Prof. was not a man of the people. He was an ivory tower resident. A socially awkward brainbox who lived on a different planet from most of the patients he came across. Wee Jimmy, sitting up nervously in the first bed, proudly displayed his sporting affiliation. He wore his bunnet clamped down over his ears. Emblazoned on the front was "Clyde F.C." We all knew this meant he was a supporter of the Glasgow football team called "Clyde." Having delivered a lecture about Jimmy's condition, no doubt highly informative, Prof. paused before moving on. This is where he would expose his "we're all Jock Tamson's bairns" credentials. "So, my good man," he asked, "what do you do for a living?" "Scaffieman," came the terse reply. Looking perplexed, Prof. turned towards Sister who whispered in his ear. "Ah, a waste disposal operative," nodded the Prof. "A laudable profession." I could feel John cringing with embarrassment beside me. "And what do you do with your free time? Music? Theatre, perhaps?" "Every second Setterday I go an' watch the Clyde." Prof. was initially silent, presumably digesting and trying to decipher this apparently coded response. The penny seemed to drop. "Commendable. Given the opportunity, you stroll down to the banks of our mighty river, the heartbeat of our proud metropolis, and stare in awe at its churning waters, no doubt giving thanks and praise for its immeasurable contribution to Glasgow's prosperity." I couldn't be sure if Prof. had heard the suppressed sniggers from some of the lesser beings behind. However, he wheeled and wagged a finger. "A lesson to us all, I'd say. A simple man like this can appreciate the true value of Nature's benisons while most of us too easily lose sight of the beauty which we carelessly take for granted." Prof. looked well satisfied with his oration. He moved onto the next bed. Prof. wielded his stethoscope and listened to the patient's heart. An elderly man, quite deaf. Prof. seemed to like what he heard. He turned and looked towards the back of the line. "You, skulking at the back, hoping to evade detection. I see you. Come down to the front." Oh, no. This was my worst nightmare. I would have to endure some kind of ritual humiliation. Alice, who was a student nurse, was just in front of me. I thought she was ignoring me. As I brushed past she tapped my arm. "Good luck, big boy," and she winked and giggled. Before I could decrypt that communication, although the vibe seemed positive, I was at the front. "Auscultate this man's chest," ordered Prof., "and tell us all what you hear." I took a deep breath. I was a duffer with a stethoscope. I was a duffer, period. I applied the diaphragm of the stethoscope to all the right places on the patient's chest. I knew the theory. But. I listened intently. I could hear the usual heart sounds, nothing more. My thoughts were racing. This must be a trap. It must be something very rare. I had to go for it. My father's words echoed in my head: "always answer confidently, even if unsure." "Well?" enquired the Prof. impatiently. "This poor chap suffers from Wenckebach phenomenon," I declared pompously. The condition to which I referred resulted in progressive lengthening of the gap between successive heart beats until one was dropped completely. I guessed that might be sufficiently obscure. Prof. always wore a monocle. Surely pure affectation. The glass disc popped out of his eye and dangled, reproachfully , on the end of its cord. He fixed me with a glare. "Are you being facetious, young man? Listen again." Hands shaking, squirming inside, I did as requested. Nope. Nothing new. Prof. stared, silent. I stared back, silent. It was a stand-off. I sensed he was losing interest in the encounter. "Stay behind after the Round," he said, "and I will help you to auscultate effectively. What you should be hearing is a friction rub, through all cardiac phases. This 'poor chap' has acute pericarditis. Inflammation of the lining of the heart. A serious condition, but one presenting not infrequently." Oh. Right. I hoped that might be the end of the ordeal. No. He wasn't finished with me yet. "Should you find yourself walking through George Square and you chanced to see a bird, would it more likely be a sparrow or a golden eagle?" George Square, in central Glasgow, was notorious for being overrun by sparrows. "A sparrow, Professor," I croaked. My cheeks were burning. I could hear muffled titters and stifled chuckles coming from the back of the group. "Correct," he replied disdainfully. "You have learned one valuable lesson today. Common things are common. Never forget it." I thought that would be a given. "I can see no future for you in the medical profession," he continued. "Perhaps you should consider a career in ornithology." And he waved me away contemptuously. Tail between my legs, I shuffled back to my starting position. As I passed Alice, she whispered, "he's used that line before. Cheer up!" And my spirits lifted. Just a little. * Postscript. As it happened, I graduated from Glasgow University with full medical qualifications and proceeded to have a long and successful career within the profession. I did enjoy bird-watching now and then in my free time! And Alice? Our relationship developed, but didn't last the course. She dumped me after ten months. I should have known better than to think she wouldn't mind me snogging her best friend. Plonker! Author Notes Plonker = fool, idiot. bunnet = cap. Clyde = (a) Glasgow*s river and (b) a Glasgow soccer team. Jock Tamson*s bairns = a Scottish phrase roughly equivalent to we are all the Lord*s children, of equal merit. scaffieman = dustman. Setterday = Saturday (Glasgow dialect.) auscultate = to listen with a stethoscope.

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