Life and loathings of a new doctor: A grave subject

Part of the almost daily routine of a junior doctor is to certify the death of patients who die on your ward. For various reasons I have found that the grim reaper tends to swing his scythe in the medical wards more often when compared to my experiences in the surgical wards. Legally it's a huge responsibility to certify a death and therefore it's important not to become too lackadaisical about it, despite the almost monotony of it. Emotionally it can be quite tough; my first death was a patient younger than me. I like to think that my degree in anatomy has hardened me to dealing with the deceased. It can be disconcerting, however, to certify someone dead when they are still warm.

In the United Kingdom, a family may choose to bury or cremate the remains of their deceased relative. If they decide on the latter method then two doctors have to complete a cremation form stating that there is nothing suspicious about the death and that there is nothing left in the patient that is likely to blow up the crematorium - for example, a cardiac pacemaker.

Again this is an onerous task, which I take seriously. If the patient dies overnight we have to make the long tour down to the hospital mortuary to see the body the next morning. Hospital architects seem to always place the "pathology outpatient department" in the basement, at the end of a long dark tunnel. They seem to want to keep the dead far out of sight of the living. Low hung halogen strip lamps dimly light the path deep into the dull gloom of the hospital bowels. The electric air here is warm and oppressive regardless of the season outside. Insulation clad pipes hum and buzz with the mechanical groan of hospital activity. We do what we have to do then turn and run for the pure fresh air of our wards, as if lingering too long would risk following the fate of our departed patients.