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http://forums.studentdoctor.net/showthread.php?t=477321
I saw the above thread and was amused at the irony that the OP had the balls enough to write the letter but lacked the cojones to actually give it to his intern..............which means it basically changes nothing............so, what was the point?
That was when I came up with this gem -
Dear Intern,
From the moment I showed up at orientation, the other students knew I was trouble. They took one look at my three-button navy suit jacket and my dark, searing eyes, and prayed to whatever God they knew up there to keep their daughters safe from me. I guess it was the way I just waltzed right in, pulled my collar up, looked Ol' Dr.ChiefOfSurgery dead in the eyes and asked if we were gonna sit around talking like a bunch of nancies all day or do something about the ruptured AAA in the ER. "Just what are rotation are you supposed to be on?" he asked. "Well," I said, stubbing out a cigarette on my wingtips. "What do you got?"
See, I'm not like those other medical students who are dedicated to saving succeeding generations from the scourge of disease and promoting social awareness about proper dietary and health regimens. I'm dangerous. I play by my own set of detailed surgical procedures. I'm a rebel. A rogue. And I make the ladies swoon from the recovery room in the OR to the shady looking psych ward on 15 East.
So don't call me The Third Year Medical Student from XYZ Medical College. Call me Daddy.
I came here to do two things: advance the cause of proper surgical technique, and get some poon—and I'm all set on proper surgical technique. Spend a couple SICU rounds sessions with me and I can teach you things no air-dropped pamphlet decrying the dangers of unprotected sex in developing countries ever can. Those special missionaries, they've never seen anything like me. I'm a bona fide, high-ranking medical student- and lady-killer. Give me just one meeting with the Medical Commission on Women's Rights, and I promise institutional sexism won't be the only thing they'll be moaning about all night.
Just don't get too close to me, 'cause you're gonna get burned. I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble has a way of finding me. And when it does, I grab trouble by the horns, take a detailed H&P, compile all relevant labs, draft an organised assessment and plan, and deliver a summarized two-minute presentation to the entire surgical team. I've done it before and I'll do it again.
I won't even blink.
When I was born, the doctor told my mama I had the devil in me. That the medical community had better watch out so long as I'm still breathing. Man, they should have listened—just like you're going to listen right now. During rounds, I come at you like a bolt of lightning and I don't stop till somebody calls a time out and politely requests we move on to the next patient. But I just go right ahead and unravel all the finished dressing changes anyway, because nobody—and I mean NO one—tells me what to do. You won't even have time to accuse me of being late, because I will have already told the entire team about who was actually late this morning - your mom, with my pancakes. I'm like a tumbleweed. Just can't be held down. I'm a free spirit in a mixed-up, crazy world of straightlaced attendings, and if you don't like it, I got three words for you: Kiss my scalpel.
I've always been a drifter. Left home when I was 18 and never looked back. I started running with a bad crowd, a group of ragtag bioscience majors who were itching to take on the entire AMA and didn't care who knew it. All those hours on the open hallways of the surgical ORs may have closed off my wicked heart for good, but I learned a few things, and not just about wound suturing techniques either - I became an expert in wound creating, mostly because I became so handy with a blade. So if you hear one thing, hear this:
If you ever cross me, I'll slash your damn tires and then cut your face. And if you think I won't, go on and ask Dr.ColoRectalSurgeonWhoThinksHe'sAllThatInTheOR what happened the time he got cute and called me chicken in front of the entire Orthopedics team. Or better yet, just look at his face. And if Dr.MyTrainingInIndiaWasFarSuperiorToThisCoddlingBulls*it gives me any guff about medical students performing open heart surgery, I'll send him back to India with a mouthful of bloody Chicklets. That's a promise.
You don't want to know what's behind these eyes. Nothing but pain, baby. Pain and anguish and an intimate knowledge of the positive effect TPN can have on the failing GI tracts of the patients in the eastern SICU. Dark things. Things you could never understand. So go on home before you get hurt. This is my world, and it's only getting worse.
What I'm trying to say, I guess, what all this is about, aw, hell......Please, please, PLEASE give me an "Outstanding" on my evaluation regarding my performance between October 29th and December 18th.
Thank You,
Sincerely,
NYCDesi
I saw the above thread and was amused at the irony that the OP had the balls enough to write the letter but lacked the cojones to actually give it to his intern..............which means it basically changes nothing............so, what was the point?
That was when I came up with this gem -
Dear Intern,
From the moment I showed up at orientation, the other students knew I was trouble. They took one look at my three-button navy suit jacket and my dark, searing eyes, and prayed to whatever God they knew up there to keep their daughters safe from me. I guess it was the way I just waltzed right in, pulled my collar up, looked Ol' Dr.ChiefOfSurgery dead in the eyes and asked if we were gonna sit around talking like a bunch of nancies all day or do something about the ruptured AAA in the ER. "Just what are rotation are you supposed to be on?" he asked. "Well," I said, stubbing out a cigarette on my wingtips. "What do you got?"
See, I'm not like those other medical students who are dedicated to saving succeeding generations from the scourge of disease and promoting social awareness about proper dietary and health regimens. I'm dangerous. I play by my own set of detailed surgical procedures. I'm a rebel. A rogue. And I make the ladies swoon from the recovery room in the OR to the shady looking psych ward on 15 East.
So don't call me The Third Year Medical Student from XYZ Medical College. Call me Daddy.
I came here to do two things: advance the cause of proper surgical technique, and get some poon—and I'm all set on proper surgical technique. Spend a couple SICU rounds sessions with me and I can teach you things no air-dropped pamphlet decrying the dangers of unprotected sex in developing countries ever can. Those special missionaries, they've never seen anything like me. I'm a bona fide, high-ranking medical student- and lady-killer. Give me just one meeting with the Medical Commission on Women's Rights, and I promise institutional sexism won't be the only thing they'll be moaning about all night.
Just don't get too close to me, 'cause you're gonna get burned. I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble has a way of finding me. And when it does, I grab trouble by the horns, take a detailed H&P, compile all relevant labs, draft an organised assessment and plan, and deliver a summarized two-minute presentation to the entire surgical team. I've done it before and I'll do it again.
I won't even blink.
When I was born, the doctor told my mama I had the devil in me. That the medical community had better watch out so long as I'm still breathing. Man, they should have listened—just like you're going to listen right now. During rounds, I come at you like a bolt of lightning and I don't stop till somebody calls a time out and politely requests we move on to the next patient. But I just go right ahead and unravel all the finished dressing changes anyway, because nobody—and I mean NO one—tells me what to do. You won't even have time to accuse me of being late, because I will have already told the entire team about who was actually late this morning - your mom, with my pancakes. I'm like a tumbleweed. Just can't be held down. I'm a free spirit in a mixed-up, crazy world of straightlaced attendings, and if you don't like it, I got three words for you: Kiss my scalpel.
I've always been a drifter. Left home when I was 18 and never looked back. I started running with a bad crowd, a group of ragtag bioscience majors who were itching to take on the entire AMA and didn't care who knew it. All those hours on the open hallways of the surgical ORs may have closed off my wicked heart for good, but I learned a few things, and not just about wound suturing techniques either - I became an expert in wound creating, mostly because I became so handy with a blade. So if you hear one thing, hear this:
If you ever cross me, I'll slash your damn tires and then cut your face. And if you think I won't, go on and ask Dr.ColoRectalSurgeonWhoThinksHe'sAllThatInTheOR what happened the time he got cute and called me chicken in front of the entire Orthopedics team. Or better yet, just look at his face. And if Dr.MyTrainingInIndiaWasFarSuperiorToThisCoddlingBulls*it gives me any guff about medical students performing open heart surgery, I'll send him back to India with a mouthful of bloody Chicklets. That's a promise.
You don't want to know what's behind these eyes. Nothing but pain, baby. Pain and anguish and an intimate knowledge of the positive effect TPN can have on the failing GI tracts of the patients in the eastern SICU. Dark things. Things you could never understand. So go on home before you get hurt. This is my world, and it's only getting worse.
What I'm trying to say, I guess, what all this is about, aw, hell......Please, please, PLEASE give me an "Outstanding" on my evaluation regarding my performance between October 29th and December 18th.
Thank You,
Sincerely,
NYCDesi
