Thursday, March 28, 2019

The Day I Decided I Didnt Want to be a Doctor :: Personal Narrative Medicine Papers

The daytime I Decided I Didnt Want to be a setWeve got one unconscious 14-year old young-begetting(prenominal), struck by a train. living is labored and shallow. A weak carotid pulse is 42. BP is 80 oer 60. Skin is cyanotic, moist, and clammy. Pupils are dilated and non-reactive. Multiple complicated injuries broken ribs protruding with left side, tension pnuemothorax, distended abdomen with obvious internal bleeding, fractured humerus, and pelvis. Massive injuries to wit and face lacerated nose, fractured zyogos, fractured cranium with obvious ecchymosis around eyes, hemorrhaging and leaking cerebrospinal politic from ears and cranium. Have the trauma team ready when we arrive.I chose to do my clinical on a Friday night because I wanted a rangy messy injury like the ones in our class videos but so far its been a rather uninteresting evening. The only injuries, a fractured arm, an avulsed finger, a lacerated chin, and, of course, herds of complaining geriatrics. Just my luck. Being enthusiastically bored with these unreal injuries, I stroll up to the central call-in desk and slump crop up on a wooden, three-legged stool and insipidly finger the flexible ID badge clipped to my front collar. WAIT, what is this. The trauma team has assembled and is impatiently time lag by the accordion glass door. Something big must have happened. by the glass door, lucently flashing red and white lights ignite the sine qua non room. An ambulance has just arrived. The glass doors fold open and a ocean of savoury and teal scrubs frantically attacks the wheeled coping stone. This is it this is the big one Ive been waiting for. A spark of excitement shoots down my veins. Adrenaline jump-starts my heart and my headland is immediately racing. I launch from my stool and shuffle around the swarming sea of blue and teal. A blaring voice rattles off the patients latest diagnosing a 14-year old struck by a train. BP is 68 everywhere 40, pulse is 34, broken ribs, tension p nuemo, fractured cranium . . . The stretcher is wheeled to an discriminate back room. A sons tattered body lay quiet and still. Two, latex-gloved male nurses grasp each end of the spine board on which the boy is strapped and lift it onto a rectangular, white padded bed. A football-sized pool of bright red blood remains on the white padded stretcher where the boy once lay. The small body, stripped of all clothing turf out for a small white towel covering his genitalia, is grotesquely deformed.

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