ghostbusting for a grateful public
This year my job involves seven 13-hour shifts in a row, followed by about six days off. Followed by seven 13-hour nights shifts, followed by about six days off, ad infinitum.
So it's probably not hard to imagine that by working day 7, the wheels have started to fall off. Last week on Day 7, my resident and I had a long conversation about how medicine is an absurd profession. There are so many other fulfilling, worthwhile jobs that don't require basically constant study for over a decade plus horrendous working hours.
I was reminiscing about my year 10 aptitude test that suggested I should become an economist or an art critic. At the time I thought they were terrible suggestions but now I marvel at how much I'd love those jobs. My resident was keen on events planning or floristry.
At one point I realised that the medical student thought we were joking. I wheeled around to her, "You think this is a joke?!? It's NOT TOO LATE FOR YOU!!"
Into this ballyhoo wandered my favourite characters in the ICU, the ghostbusters. Two middle aged men in grey jumpsuits. One inches along with a radar pointed at the upper walls, whilst his partner records readings on a clipboard. I'm am always astounded that no one else finds this hilarious. Every time I ask if they've found any ghosts and every time they tell me not to worry, they're just checking for water vapour.
Of course, this time I asked how I could become a ghostbuster.
Today we went to Trentham to celebrate Jason's dad's birthday. For the past few weeks, my mum kept telling us about Dr Wisewould from Trentham. When my mum worked at Ballarat Base Hospital in the 1960s, Dr Wisewould would visit each Friday afternoon dressed in her gumboots and long black farming raincoat. This had clearly made an impression on mum.
I reckon this Dr Wisewould must have had plenty of gumption, as well as gumboots, to be the sole doctor in the Trentham community. She'd have done it all- delivering their babies, caring for their mad and their dying. And the Trentham community appreciated her. Look what we found in the main street, "erected by a grateful public":