Ash
Lancer
Dr. Vasliev. A Doctors Footlocker
Introduction:
Comedy as a doctor.
Having been born in Russia until I was the age of sixteen, having been placed into a lifestyle and educational background of medical science with helicopter parenting from both sides of the fence, and obtaining multiple doctorates and PhD’s as I remained within the United States, I was placed into clinical based operations for a majority of my employment at various hospitals; spending over thirty years in what people would call the ‘front-lines’ of medical care.
These details that I am going to describe in this book are from numerous memories that I hold from hospitals I’ve been pleasured with working with, although names and details will be substituted to protect identities as the goal of this book is to bring light and humour to the less favourable place of a hospital, including that of my world, a surgeons office. Additionally, there will be short stories that took place after the introduction of our benefactors as well as during my conscription as a Field surgeon.; the same process applies where details will be omitted.
Glory to the Universal Union.
To help me start this short book, I was going through my briefcase while enjoying some homemade soup one of the interns at Clinic 24 brought in when I came across my portfolio; it’s suggested that all doctors keep a detailed log of their clinical experiences, a type of ‘reflective practice’. Looking through my portfolio, I could look back on everything that I would consider remotely interesting, skipping over the brutal hours I worked as a doctor. I was able to relive some of these incidents. Yes, I am reaching an older age now, albeit it is still within working age, but some of these entries into my portfolio are experiences I will never forget.
The decision for me to get into the medical field was predetermined before I even had the ability to have that choice. At sixteen, the typical reasons for someone to pursue a career in medicine are generally like, ‘My father or mother is a doctor, which is perfectly fine. Still, in my case, where that was not the fact, and I lived up to the line of ‘I am your father, you will become a doctor’ was something I had just accepted. I faintly remember painting a race-car driver at age five or six, but I don’t think it could be seen as a legally binding document for me to become a race-car driver. Poor boy Vasliev was put in schools designed to spew lawyers, doctors, nurses and politicians. Thirty years later, I don’t think that was the wrong choice.
My first day working as an intern at Los Angeles County General Hospital was similar to watching the movie Titanic, a true horror but with a story that moves people's hearts. In this case, minds wonder why anyone in hospital care needed a medical degree.
As an intern, I was shadowed by a doctor who watched my every move, questioned my processes and quizzed me on things that, at the time, I had no idea about. It was early morning in the clinic, and my very first patient walked into the consultation room and started to list off his various symptoms in a robotic-like fashion.
“ My arm hurts a lot during the day, especially in the morning. It’s never hurt like this before, and I’ve never had any history with it. I looked at some books, and I think it may be arthritis. It only hurts when I sleep on it, though.”
Having listened to what the patient had said, it should be noted that he was only nineteen at the time, and I had to take him seriously due to the lurking shadows over me.
“It only hurts when you sleep on it, you say?” - I asked inquisitively.
“Yes, I sleep on my side, laying on my arm during the night”.
“Have you tried not doing that?”
“No. “
The laughter coming from the shadowing doctor was deafening. My first patient and I solved an entire case within a matter of consolation.
“You should try not doing that.”
“Can’t you give me some pain-medicalation?”
“No.”
The patient did not return to the clinic.
My internship was short-lived at the Los Angeles hospital before the Queen's hospital in Hawaii picked me up; people consider this a massive jump that someone with only a year and a half of experience should not take, but I ignored it. I’m glad I did, in some respects. This was the path to becoming a doctor.
One of the days that has stuck with me was the most uneventful day in the hospital. Having been transferred, I was considered a doctor, but not … officially. I was on paper, but in the social circle of the hospital, I was just another intern.
It was a day in December, close to Christmas, when I was called to pronounce death on an elderly patient. He had been sick since I first got to the hospital, with no attempt at resuscitation and in all brutal honesty, we were expecting it, and so was the family. I arrive at the cubicle, point out the former patient, and speak to the then-wife, who … is technically not a window yet but soon to be as I was yet to sign the forum. I expressed my condolences and suggested that they were to wait outside, but they insisted on staying. I didn’t fight against their wishes, but perhaps they wanted to be together, front-row seat and centre. I should have laid out refreshments for such a procedure. It was odd having an audience.
After confirming who the patient was, I began checking their respiratory functions and any responses to physical stimuli. I checked for a pulse before listening to their lung function with a stethoscope for two minutes. Two minutes is a very long time to stand beside someone dead … checking that they are dead, while there are on-lookers watching everything you’re doing. The audience kept asking me if I was ok; I hadn’t moved because the check had to be concluded; it was agonizing two minutes before, and eventually, death was declared.
Finishing my duties, I handed the rest of the responsibility over to the on-duty nurses when I returned to my so-called office, only to find that a once precise, immaculate and lack-their-of paperwork desk was piled high with paperwork consisting of a small post-it-note saying ‘To be done by the end of the day, followed by a smile and the lovely name of the Senior Doctor in the ward.’ - I was gone for two minutes, looking back on this, I think I was baited out of the office. What fun.
Introduction:
Comedy as a doctor.
Having been born in Russia until I was the age of sixteen, having been placed into a lifestyle and educational background of medical science with helicopter parenting from both sides of the fence, and obtaining multiple doctorates and PhD’s as I remained within the United States, I was placed into clinical based operations for a majority of my employment at various hospitals; spending over thirty years in what people would call the ‘front-lines’ of medical care.
These details that I am going to describe in this book are from numerous memories that I hold from hospitals I’ve been pleasured with working with, although names and details will be substituted to protect identities as the goal of this book is to bring light and humour to the less favourable place of a hospital, including that of my world, a surgeons office. Additionally, there will be short stories that took place after the introduction of our benefactors as well as during my conscription as a Field surgeon.; the same process applies where details will be omitted.
Glory to the Universal Union.
To help me start this short book, I was going through my briefcase while enjoying some homemade soup one of the interns at Clinic 24 brought in when I came across my portfolio; it’s suggested that all doctors keep a detailed log of their clinical experiences, a type of ‘reflective practice’. Looking through my portfolio, I could look back on everything that I would consider remotely interesting, skipping over the brutal hours I worked as a doctor. I was able to relive some of these incidents. Yes, I am reaching an older age now, albeit it is still within working age, but some of these entries into my portfolio are experiences I will never forget.
The decision for me to get into the medical field was predetermined before I even had the ability to have that choice. At sixteen, the typical reasons for someone to pursue a career in medicine are generally like, ‘My father or mother is a doctor, which is perfectly fine. Still, in my case, where that was not the fact, and I lived up to the line of ‘I am your father, you will become a doctor’ was something I had just accepted. I faintly remember painting a race-car driver at age five or six, but I don’t think it could be seen as a legally binding document for me to become a race-car driver. Poor boy Vasliev was put in schools designed to spew lawyers, doctors, nurses and politicians. Thirty years later, I don’t think that was the wrong choice.
My first day working as an intern at Los Angeles County General Hospital was similar to watching the movie Titanic, a true horror but with a story that moves people's hearts. In this case, minds wonder why anyone in hospital care needed a medical degree.
As an intern, I was shadowed by a doctor who watched my every move, questioned my processes and quizzed me on things that, at the time, I had no idea about. It was early morning in the clinic, and my very first patient walked into the consultation room and started to list off his various symptoms in a robotic-like fashion.
“ My arm hurts a lot during the day, especially in the morning. It’s never hurt like this before, and I’ve never had any history with it. I looked at some books, and I think it may be arthritis. It only hurts when I sleep on it, though.”
Having listened to what the patient had said, it should be noted that he was only nineteen at the time, and I had to take him seriously due to the lurking shadows over me.
“It only hurts when you sleep on it, you say?” - I asked inquisitively.
“Yes, I sleep on my side, laying on my arm during the night”.
“Have you tried not doing that?”
“No. “
The laughter coming from the shadowing doctor was deafening. My first patient and I solved an entire case within a matter of consolation.
“You should try not doing that.”
“Can’t you give me some pain-medicalation?”
“No.”
The patient did not return to the clinic.
My internship was short-lived at the Los Angeles hospital before the Queen's hospital in Hawaii picked me up; people consider this a massive jump that someone with only a year and a half of experience should not take, but I ignored it. I’m glad I did, in some respects. This was the path to becoming a doctor.
One of the days that has stuck with me was the most uneventful day in the hospital. Having been transferred, I was considered a doctor, but not … officially. I was on paper, but in the social circle of the hospital, I was just another intern.
It was a day in December, close to Christmas, when I was called to pronounce death on an elderly patient. He had been sick since I first got to the hospital, with no attempt at resuscitation and in all brutal honesty, we were expecting it, and so was the family. I arrive at the cubicle, point out the former patient, and speak to the then-wife, who … is technically not a window yet but soon to be as I was yet to sign the forum. I expressed my condolences and suggested that they were to wait outside, but they insisted on staying. I didn’t fight against their wishes, but perhaps they wanted to be together, front-row seat and centre. I should have laid out refreshments for such a procedure. It was odd having an audience.
After confirming who the patient was, I began checking their respiratory functions and any responses to physical stimuli. I checked for a pulse before listening to their lung function with a stethoscope for two minutes. Two minutes is a very long time to stand beside someone dead … checking that they are dead, while there are on-lookers watching everything you’re doing. The audience kept asking me if I was ok; I hadn’t moved because the check had to be concluded; it was agonizing two minutes before, and eventually, death was declared.
Finishing my duties, I handed the rest of the responsibility over to the on-duty nurses when I returned to my so-called office, only to find that a once precise, immaculate and lack-their-of paperwork desk was piled high with paperwork consisting of a small post-it-note saying ‘To be done by the end of the day, followed by a smile and the lovely name of the Senior Doctor in the ward.’ - I was gone for two minutes, looking back on this, I think I was baited out of the office. What fun.
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