Every morning, I try to get to the hospital about an hour before the rest of the team arrives, so that I can run around and try to find the overnight nurses for my patients and get the inside scoop from them about things that might have happened to our patients. Fevers, desperate pleas for pain meds, or even stuff like frequency of bowel movements.
Yeah. The life of a medical student. It's real glamorous.
Anyhow, after we get all that info, we go into the patient's room to see how they're feeling, and do a quick physical exam, to make sure there weren't any crazy changes to their heart rate or lung function since we've last seen them.
Then, we ROUND.
At first it's fine. I normally stand in the back of the crowd, nodding my head as the team visits new patients. And then, before I know it, it's my turn. My turn to present. And I stand there in front of five people who definitely know way more medicine than I do, and probably know that all this information I'm giving them is just stuff I'm regurgitating from the article I read last night.
But, if you can stand there, using big medical terms and exuding confidence, without having your knees knock together, you'll get high marks. Even when you're sweating like a pig and have no idea what you're talking about.
After all, you gotta fake it til you make it.
Yet, for some odd reason, no matter how many times I practice or how many articles I read, my oral presentation always degenerates and turns into a three minute comedy routine.
Yesterday, I admitted a homeless man with severe anemia. He didn't have any obvious trauma or bleeding sites, so we decided to send him for a colonoscopy. So this is what I presented:
Mr. Carlson is a 53 year old man who presents with severe anemia. While there were no adverse events overnight, the nurse reports that the patient was resistant to his overnight colonoscopy prep, alledgedly throwing his goly-tely down the toilet instead of drinking it to clear out his system.
Here, my resident cracked a smile. But I continued.
His vitals were stable overnight and physical exam is unremarkable. So for today, the plan is to consult the floor pharmacist and see if there is a suitable pill form alternative to goly-tely.
Here, my intern stifled a giggle. But still, I continued.
After rounds, I intend on going back into the room to discuss the importance of goly-tely to the patient, and will consult GI to see if we can reschedule his colonoscopy for later this afternoon.
Effectively at the end of my presentation, I paused and held my hands behind my back, proud that I had been able to memorize a presentation in front of my attending - the oral presentation master. Heck, I did a pretty good job, I thought.
At the end of all of our presentations, my attending would discuss our plan for the patient (such as whether or not he agreed with the colonoscopy), pimp us on all things related to the patient (in this case, everything you should know about anemia and more), and then critique our presentation and tell us what we could do better tomorrow.
Well, I think a colonoscopy is definitely needed in this case, since we can't find another site of bleeding. And while your presentation was good, I think the patient might be more amenable to the GoLytely if it were pronouced as such, and not goly-tely.
The team burst out laughing.
And I blushed so red, I could take over Rudolph's job for Santa.
Goly-tely. GoLytely. So much for trying to impress the team.
At least I've never mispronouce it ever again.
