My Warped World

You stand alone, horrified at the scene of depravity that plays out before your eyes. Every breath you take you smells the scent of fear and sadness that permeates the air. You close your eyes but yet cannot block out the cries of those who weep and gnash their teeth. With fumbling steps, you try to make your way out of that wretched abyss, but alas, it’s too late, for a monster has locked you in its gaze, and now makes its way towards you, ready to ask you about differential diagnoses and critique your history-taking techniques.

Welcome to the hospital wards.

We are finally exposed to clinical medicine, the nitty-gritty, down and dirty stuff. An integral part of our real-life education are ward teaching sessions, which have opened up my eyes to the realistic setting of medicine, widened my horizons, lowered my self-esteem to the point of self-loathing and humbled me to such a degree that I don’t feel qualified to look down on beggars, criminals and Arts students anymore. This is all thanks to some of the wonderful teaching staff that through the years of torturing prisoners of war, have honed the unique Art Of Goreng.

The AOG is the ability to make anyone of average intelligence to feel as if they were denied half a brain during their embryological development and subsequently attempt suicide, which inevitably fails because all sense of awareness would have been lost after mutiple goreng sessions and students tend to fail at slashing the right part of the wrist or choosing the right type of song, like Avril Lavigne’s Girlfriend. An error punishable by goreng would be if a student was unable to, for example, distinguish an enlarged parotid gland from a scrotal swelling.

A particular specialist of the AOG is a lecturer who shall be named in this article as Mr. X, a tall, dark and fearsome looking man. His cold, lifeless eyes penetrate the thickest of walls and egos, his pupils reflecting the fiery glow from the flames that he has for a moustache. Where he walks, those brave enough to remain are reduced to whispers of terror, while those smart enough to run away, never to return.

My very first teaching session was with Mr. X on a gloomy Monday morning, a day when the sun refused to shine. Mr. X likes to start his day early and as a result we were there at 7. 30am, a time that I never knew existed. Somehow, we ended up on the subject of right iliac fossa pain.

“So, what’s the differential diagnoses for right iliac fossa?” asked Mr. X, as he slowly stroked his tie, the source of all his powers. The fear and the heat from his Fiery Moustache made us sweat.

Immediately remembering my hastily read paragraph in Talley and O’Connor, I blurted out, “Appendicitis!”

“Okay, and what are the causes of appendicitis?” asked Mr. X again, this time letting his tie hang loose, a sign that he is relaxed.

This was entering dangerous territory. I tried to stall for time. “Inflammation!” I cried.

“I KNOW it’s inflammation, don’t try and stall for time!” roared Mr. X, as he looked around my group members, stroking his tie with renewed vigour. My group members, showing deep loyalty as medical students, laughed at me. My good friend Chris, who is eternally superior in brainpower, shook his head sadly at me.

I began to panic. It can read my mind!” Uh… uh… is it due to a faecolith trapped in the appendix?” That was it, the tank was by now truly empty. I looked to my other groupmates in desperation. Chris knotted his eyebrows, estimating how much better he would fare if he were asked that question.

Mr. X looked at me as one would look at a dog with rabies, and stopped stroking his tie. He smelt blood. “Okay, but what is the MOST COMMON CAUSE OF APPENDICITIS?” The room shook.

Blank.

“C’MON NOW, DON”T…WASTE… MY…TIME!” he roared with the intensity of a ship’s foghorn. In the adjacent ward, seven people died. Half my group members defecated on the spot.

I looked at Chris. He did not return my gaze. He looked very sad and disappointed, like he was at a funeral.

“My goodness, your basic pathology is atrocious! Fine, let’s forget about the appendix. What are the other differentials for pain in the right iliac fossa?” By now he was tugging at his tie, which is probably the reason his face became purple-red.

Still blank.

“So right iliac fossa pain is ONLY indicative of appendicitis, is it? The one and only organ in the right iliac fossa is the appendix and nothing else, is it? No nearby intestines, stomach, fallopian tubes, nothing of that sort, yes?

At this stage, I myself began to develop acute appendicitis. For some strange reason, Chris began stroking his tie.

“You’re as useless as a psychiatrist. Okay, you!” Mr. X pointed to Chris, “Prove to me that you are all not idiots!”

Chris smiled in delight as if he was appointed the new owner of the Playboy Mansion, and began a long monologue lasting for almost 10 minutes on the wonderful pathology of appendicitis, the aetiology, clinical features, investigations and management and then continued with a comprehensive list of the causes of right iliac fossa pain. When he finished, the people who died in the adjacent ward came back to life, awed by the brilliance of his delivery and the whole room erupted into a standing ovation, with the exception of Mr. X, who remained seated and looked down at his tie and said, “Okay, fine.”

After a goreng session, students feel thoroughly drained, like being raped, but on an intellectual level You feel scarred, alone, worthless and contaminated. But yet, we must persevere and stand firm against the tyranny of humiliation and degradation! We must draw the line here, and no further! I call upon all my fellow students to unite for our dignity and pride!

Everyone that is, except Chris.