Day 222, Traffic

Day 222, “Traffic”, that’s how it is known here. It is a quality that certain individuals possess in medicine, but it is not one to be desired. Basically there are certain doctors who attract work, not usually through their own devices but through chance. They will have the busiest calls, the most complicated patients and least sleep. My last call was with a doctor who is traffic, it was true to form.

I was relatively optimistic at the start of my call, by 6pm the OPD was quiet, I had dealt with all the patients there and I was looking forward to heading down for some downtime. My colleague rings me as I’m finishing up to let me know that we have to take a twin pregnancy for a Caesarean and I duly to head to the operating theatre. She tells me we can only get a good heart trace from one baby and having previously had a Caesarean, this lady would be tricky.

The concept of traffic is a stigma, if the nurses start labelling you as well then the subsequent air of expectant chaos can almost be a self fulfilling prophecy. We struggled to get through to the babies through the old scarring but the first glimpse of baby was not promising, I saw a limp scrawny leg flap about. Delivering the rest of the baby was similar, a torted foetus, dusky and lifeless, there was no attempt to resuscitate her.

We proceeded to the second baby, we delivered him and he spluttered and yelped a cry. We were grateful that this one was more successful than his sibling when we realised there was another bulging sac. The words “friggin’ kidding me”, may have escaped my lips as we realised there was yet another baby to deliver. As this one came out screaming I thought that was our lot of traffic for the evening. That’s when the nurse shouted across the room to let me know there was an emergency in the OPD, a gun shot wound.

I may have shot my colleague a very dirty look as I rushed out of theatre and headed to OPD where I found, amongst the commotion, a young man thrashing around on the trolley. He had an entry wound in the right armpit and I could feel the bullet near his left kidney. With the bullet having pierced through his lungs into his abdomen, I was grateful when the cavalry arrived to assist me. The guy was well known locally and within minutes there were dozens of people crowding the cramped cubicle as we inserted a drain into his chest and stabilised his condition. We managed to maintain him until the infamous Emergency Medical Rescue Service (EMRS) made time to come and pick him up.

When I eventually made it down I managed to wolf down some food and fell quickly asleep. With two hours rest I was awakened by the dulcet tones of my colleague informing me of yet another caesarean. We didn’t manage to get any further significant rest and soon I found myself trying muddle though my ward round in the daylight.

I try not to be superstitious for fear it might provoke misfortune, but the concept of traffic genuinely is undeniable in its existence. My colleague is diligent and conscientious but clearly somewhere along the lines she has majorly ticked off the gods of fate or perhaps it is merely a witch doctor’s curse. There is an old wives’ tale that the moniker of traffic can be got rid of by the arrival of another who is equally afflicted. For the sake of a good night‘s sleep, I can only hope that we recruit a karmically challenged patsy before our next call together.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4oB00TCb7Y