Our new writers: results of the column competition
Our new writers: results of
The competition for two new soundings columnists attracted many entries - thank you to all those who submitted a column. The winners were James Thomas and Sally Morrison-Griffiths. You can read their columns, along with those of the two runners up, who will receive £75 each.
I won't...
If I have learnt anything during my intercalated degree, it
is that I spent far too long drinking coffee during my third
year. Not only have I suffered horrendous withdrawal
symptoms, but I am lacking in confidence when it comes to
anything vaguely clinical. My third year was little more than
an extended tour of the various League of Friends cafés
around the hospital.
Where did it go wrong? Perhaps it was because of ill health
back home. I wasn't in the right mood, my heart wasn't really in it. Perhaps I wasn't wearing the right hat. Perhaps I
should do away with the hat altogether. Whatever happened,
as I re-enter clinical medicine, I have vowed to my friends not
to revert to the coffee guzzling monster that I was. "Nonsense," they reply. "You'll be drinking coffee by Monday," they
shout. "Why don't you iron your own shirts?" they cry. (That
last one may have been my mother.)
It was with a sense of dread, then, that I went to the hospital library earlier this week. I headed straight for the book
I wanted, determined to steer clear of all hot beverages. It
was not until I handed the book to the librarian that I heard
it. It was barely audible but unmistakably the coffee
machine. It was calling me. The League of Friends on level
D was beckoning. I asked the librarian if she could hear it
but she only looked at me with pity. I guessed that the massive rims on her glasses were somehow deflecting the
sound from her ears.
I struggled out of the library, desperately fighting the urge
to climb the stairs. I contorted and writhed past the bookshop, at which point I must have blacked out. The next thing
I knew I was sitting in the coffee shop on level D. I looked
around me. There was no smell of coffee and no registrars
fighting over pieces of shortbread. It was Sunday, the coffee
shop was closed, and the women who ran it were probably at
home trying to drain some of the oedema from their ankles.
The coffee shop was no more than a small room with strangely sticky blue seats and a slight smell of sweat. The spell was broken.
Perhaps my fourth year won't be so bad. Still, there's always
the one on level F. . . .
James Thomas, fourth year medical student, University of Southampton
Communication crisis
In an increasingly technological world it is becoming
harder and harder to escape. People don't say, "Have
you got a mobile phone?" any more. They say, "What's
your mobile number?" It is assumed that you are contactable by phone, fax, email. It never stops.
A few years ago my friend had a mobile phone, when
they were still new and trendy. It went off when we were in
the pub and I was mortified. I muttered under my breath
and glanced furtively around in case anyone should see
me. Now, I've joined the gang. The William Tell overture
strikes up and "HI" - shouting over the noise in the student
bar - "YEAH, I'M IN THE BAR" - irritating laugh - "OKAY,
MEET YOU IN SCOOBIE'S LATER. BYEEEEE."
And when my mum eventually gets hold of me, the
accusations fly: "I left several messages, dear, at the flat and
on your mobile. Why didn't you get back to me?"
There simply are no excuses. So many phones go off in our
lectures that the speakers have given up glaring at offenders.
They simply ignore the noise and carry on, while a couple of
hundred students all fumble guiltily in their bags to check that
their phone is definitely off-except for the people who always
sit at the front. They have already checked, double checked,
and safely wrapped the phone in a woolly scarf.
You cannot escape; wherever you go, you can be tracked
down and harassed for that ten quid you've owed for
weeks. The "gorgeous" bloke you gave your number to
while you were wearing your vodka goggles (who curiously resembled Ricky Martin at the time) knows that you're
deliberately ignoring him, by not answering when his number flashes up. He catches you out by phoning from a pay
phone. "Are you trying to avoid me?" he accuses. "No, no,
I...erm...I'm actually in the GU clinic at the moment. Can't
talk now, call me later, okay?" That one works every time.
So what does the future hold? Will people just beam a
holographic image of themselves into your personal space?
You're having a mega lie-in, your head thinks it's going for
the world record in banging, and you are surrounded by
half a kebab, a road traffic cone, and a pint of water (with
curious foreign bodies floating in it, some resembling carrots), when, "Hi, love," beams the holographic image of
your mother. "Just checking to see how your exam revision
is coming on...."
It's not that I'm a technophobe. I'm not harking back to
the days of the carrier pigeon. I just want some peace. It's
not a lot to ask.
Sally Morrison-Griffiths, first year medical student, University of Liverpool
I was shocked and saddened...
My mother died in an accident last month. The
cards started to arrive before we had even told
anyone. A typical condolence card was a poor
watercolour of washed out flowers with a message along
the lines of "I was shocked and saddened to hear of the
tragic death...no words can express...."
Well, what's wrong with that? A neutral card with a message that shows that the writer cares.
Here's what's wrong with it. Firstly, the sheer volume of
cards was choking-more than I ever receive on my birthday. Each one was a fresh reminder of what I was trying so
hard to avoid, yet each one had to be read, if only to find
out who it was from.
Next, the awful watercolours. Flowers are vibrant and
alive. They are for happy times. They say, "I love you" or,
at worst, "I'm sorry, can we still be friends?" Washed out
renderings of flowers say only that the sender has poor
taste.
Lastly, the message. The problem is not that the message is wrong - an accidental death is nothing other than
"shocking," "sad," and "tragic" and "no words can express"
how people feel at such times. The problem, like the cards
themselves, is the repetition. Anything becomes a cliché
when repeated endlessly. Cards written with sincerity were
read with emptiness.
But a small group of cards stand out as memorable and
touching. They were landscapes, fine art, abstract paintings.
The messages contained memories - of Mum picking flowers on her wedding day, of Mum making outrageous comments when she should have held her tongue, of Mum
championing a cause at one of many demonstrations. Most
were banal, many were new to me, all made me cry. But by
sharing their memories, friends were showing that they also
shared my grief.
It is desperately hard to know what is the "right" thing to
do when someone dies. In many ways, everything was
wrong-when people called I didn't want to talk. When they
didn't call I was lonely. When more cards arrived I felt sick,
but I noticed who didn't write. What was really wrong was
that my mum had just died and I was too shocked and saddened to find the words to express myself.
Jean Adams, fifth year medical student, University of Newcastle
Cats, dogs, and paediatrics
If you regularly get asked by good minded
relatives and friends about what you want
to specialise in - read on. The further you
progress through the undergraduate course the
more the question is asked and the greater is the
difficulty in choosing a specialty to suit your own
style.
I have developed a rather polished response
to the question, seeing it leaving an innocent
questioner's mouth, be it at a barbecue, a family gathering, or outside the bakery with my buns.
The response is to say what I don't want to
do, rather than specify any wishful intentions.
Public health, microbiology, haematology,
Geriatrics - if you can avoid that with the ageing population - they roll off my tongue, and,
of course, PAEDIATRICS. Paediatrics is
something that in my gut instinct I know is not
for me, but perfect for many others. Despite
being an irritating child myself, the one who
never stopped asking stupid questions,
whinged about the classmate next to me, and
refused to do country dancing with girls
because they "smelt," I don't want to spend my
medical career devoted to lots of children.
Paediatrics to a cynical, purist medic like me
is strikingly similar to being a vet. Animals don't
talk - neither do young children (and many of
those who can are reluctant to do so). Animals
find it difficult to respond with thanks and
always think your interventions are for the
wrong reasons - just like kids. Animals have the
propensity to make noises and repetitive actions
completely uncalled for - so do many kids.
Overcritical and harsh these comments are,
uncalled for and unjustified to many, but there
is a moral to this tale. The five years that we
spend in medical school is only the step on a
long ladder of education and career advancement. Not too long from now you and I will
have to make a decision as big as getting married, buying a house, or, dare I say, having a
child - choosing a specialty. Make the right decision for yourself by thinking about what you
enjoy and will continue to please you throughout your life. I hope that there are some budding
paediatricians out there to look after my kids.
Ian Bickle, third year medical student, Queen's University, Belfast
studentBMJ 2000;08:303-346 September ISSN 0966-6494
