[QUOTE=Crescend]
I’m not gabriela, nor do I play her on TV. However, I was doing a search on PubMed one day for ‘autoerotic fatalities involving power hydraulics’ (don’t ask), and I found the following gem:
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Yeah, I remember hearing about that guy. He was a topic for awhile among those of us who can top that. Hard to top. The poems were awful.
Of course the tractor was a John Deere…
Hey, Crescend, you can play me on TV. I am too quiet of face and manner to be a TV star. I imagine myself looking like Lissa, if that’s not taking too much credit unto myself.
My best story (and one that did its part in bringing my husband and me together) is from way, way, way before I was in forensics. I was a lowly intern in surgery in Brooklyn. I had been remanded for my sins to a hospital that shall remain nameless, God I hope it’s closed down, only that kind of snake pit never closes. We called it HellHole and also U-Haul, for its habit of sending patients out to anywhere else. I knew I was not a very good intern, and it was scary as hell to realize I knew more basic medicine than some of the attendings. For instance, there was my main surgery attending, who had some striking lab values named after him. Let’s call him Dr Demento. “Dr Demento’s IV bolus” meant sodium higher than systolic blood pressure. “Dr Demento’s dialyzable” meant potassium greater than respirations.
But we also had some very good attendings. Always a few stars that shine brighter iin a coal mine like that. One was the surgery attending, a 5’2" size 3 model-gorgeous black woman named Dr. Webb, who always wore black spike heels on rounds, and who was of course referred to behind her back as “Spider” Webb. Kiss of the - dream on, guys. She was married, and never exhibited the slightest interest in residents or patients.
She was actually kinda short on patience. A model of spike-heeled impatience.
There was also a guy, I regret that I’ve forgotten his name, who was one of these truly generous souls who offers up his extraordinary medical skill in hell pits like that, for the benefit of those who would never benefit from him on a cost benefit basis. He was an internal medicine doctor with an emphasis in renal. Let’s call him Patch Adams.
I called Dr. Adams to come consult on a 21 year old white male whose heroin habit had gotten him thrown into the ICU with nephrotic injury from his heroin abuse. Forget the exact lesion - was it FSG, QtM? Anyhow, I didn’t know beans about kidneys (sorry, QtM), and I called Patch in to tell me what to do.
He duly arrived in the ICU, and I began my recitation with a piece of internal lingo that I had almost forgotten I was using, which we used every day in multipe situations: “This is a 21 year old white shpoz…”
Patch stopped me, horrified. He knew what Shpoz means. (It should be spelled with a terminal S - I was spelling it phonetically.) It means Subhuman piece of shit.
He wanted to know how I could ever refer to a patient of mine that way. He wanted to rebuke the spirit in me that had brought me to that disgraceful place. He wanted to instill the gentle wine of medical ethics back in my strung-out intern soul. He had made me start to cry when Dr. Demento walked through the ICU, waving an X-ray, shouting, “Everybody come look at this son of a bitch who stuck a Brut bottle up his ass!”
to be continued…