Before You Accuse Me
So, you are an intern now, the big headed, freshly passed out idiot who knows how to write answers in the exams and underline them well, copy diagrams from books and color them nice, welcome to the real world.
Here we are, spending our days and nights in this ancient hospital, making the corridors our home and the canteens our gardens, and now you are here to make life easy for us!
Who are you, “Intern”? Tho lowly being with the most grandiose of thoughts, with nary an idea about the simple workings of the universe.
You,with the 5 cc syringe, and the cotton swab, and the blood thirsty demeanor, what is it that you aim to achieve here?! You have just “read” stuff; we are the people doing things in real life. We make this ancient hospital run, we are the ones who make it famous for what it is famous for. We make all the academic progress and the discoveries, having waded through the marsh of so called internship, it is time for us to shine. We have gone through enough hoops to finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Who are you, thou lowly being? You who runs behind me, with a piece of nondescript paper, a scrawny ball pen, lost in the fog of your thoughts, collecting samples, sending forms, scribbling things which make sense to no one but you, waiting to finish that ‘compulsory’ year, so that you get to do real stuff like we people do? Who are you, lowly being, that you listen to whatever we tell you, even though our own knowledge is flawed and incomplete, and full of glaring gaps, but you are the one gullible enough to respect us. Who are you, the lost intern, who spends days and nights ensuring that thoughts do not ascend beyond your spinal sensory tracts, and get processed and worked out at your spinal cord itself? (not that you know what tracts are present in the cord)
Who are you, the confused Intern, that you are excused for what ever you do, and still have the potential to wreck havoc. Why don’t you take your paper, pen, syringes and take some classes in common sense and basic medical knowledge, which our security guard will recite to you. Frankly, he knows more about patient prognosis than you do, and refers patients before they enter our gates.
What do you hope to do? With your new Littman’s, your shiny hammers, equally shiny eyes, that are full of hope, and yet, full of stupidity, that looks so natural on you.
Well, I am the Intern, FRCP (Fetching Reports and Collecting samples), and a lot more, the gratefully lost being, the untarnished soul that has still not learnt how to scheme and con. I am the lost being with the scrawny ball pen, dirty clothes and a sorry look about me, but I am the one who holds the key to the future.
I am the one who basks in the comfortable sunshine on the border, too young to be worried about life, too old to be hassled with school kid issues. I run around, doing ground work that any spinal minded animal could do, and in this I learn; I learn how the veins course through skin, exactly how deep or not; so tomorrow I may be doing big procedures with this elementary knowledge.. I learn the power of abstract thought, when I see that blood gushing in my 5cc syringe, bubbles and all, whats the O2 content, whats the base excess for, let me read, my registrar is ignorant as a dumbbell, he just orders me around, not knowing, it is me who benefits.
In keeping awake day and night, my dreams of doing something ‘medical’ start to come together at the seams, although in a fragile way, but nonetheless forming a foundation for what I will be. I wander around, but it is me, and not you, who meets all his classmates, equally lost, but amazingly focused in a parallel universe, where we meet in the labs at midnight, and discuss the vagaries of life over coffee, and how my registrar troubles more than someone else’s. (and it is me who wins the conversation most of the times). It is me who knows freedom, after having escaped the shackles of books and recitation, finally wearing jeans, trying to be cool, even though I know I am the lowly being in the hospital. Still, I am the seniormost student they have, and all the young kiddos look at me in awe. Who looks at you with awe, apart from the history sheet, my dear registrar?
It is me who has ten people at any given time to bump into, my spinal block notwithstanding, while you bump into metaphoric walls my dear registrar. It is me who reads small handbooks, and sees how my little underlined answers translate into someone’s life being saved, or have you lost that sense of wonder, you highly educated, Harrison’s reciting, numb, cold, highly respected registrar? It is me who is the machine, the actual clog, that tiny little spring that makes the engine sputter along, that small spring being the only young spark in the process.
Yes, I am lost, senseless, confused, but I am the intern, and I am going to be the future. Naive as I am, I still believe in the power of change, and my senses are not clogged like yours!
The Little Intern.
(PS: “Before You accuse Me”, by Creedence Clearwater Revival and Eric Clapton, must listen!)
Originally published August 24, 2011
