This image was taken by a friend of mine in the street outside his and his wife’s house in Brisbane, 12-01-11.

Sometimes life can get on top of you.  You feel like you’ve got a handle on life and then all of a sudden it changes.  Slowly – so slowly – the water creeps higher and higher until you’re in over your head, and you can’t feel the floor beneath your feet.

But I’m not here to complain about my pathetic little wories.  The flood waters are rising, literally, and there are much bigger concerns at the moment.

Queensland has had the wettest summer I can remember, and being around more rural towns and suburbs I have gotten used to seeing swollen rivers and flooded roads for the last month.  But the latest downpour – topping Melbourne’s annual rainfall in one night – was the straw that broke the camels back, and the banks of the Brisbane and Ipswich rivers. 

I’m sure you’ve all seen the visuals on the news.  Media here in Australia has ground to a halt to devote itself to ‘rolling coverage’ of the Queensland floods that now see 80% of the large state declared a disaster zone.  We’ve been showered with images of the ‘inland tsunami’ in Toowoomba that saw an angry wall of water slam through the formerly quaint town.  The Brisbane city, our state capital, with a broken river that is steadily insinuating itself on the surrounding suburbs, all whilst dragging away the restaurants, cars and boats that once clung to it’s banks.

Fortunately, I and my family are all safe and well away from the flood waters.  I am nestled in a curious location that is both tensely close to the affected areas and also relatively safe from the rising water.  Some of my friends, however, are right in the heart of it.  I can’t imagine how they’re going to recover from this.  And then I realise that it’s not only them, but an entire suburb, city, and state that is now waiting to see just exactly how much destruction it must come back from. 

Of course, the problems already caused by the floods are just the beginning.  Disease, displacement, supply to unaffected areas – these issues are just beggining to emerge as we wait for the waters to recede.

Sometimes life can get on top of you.  But if you look hard enough – say, at how a state can fight to rescue itself from unfathomable ruin – you can find the inspiration to persevere, and survive.

Lame joke alert: this post is all about change.

In all seriousness, my motivation to write to you, O blogosphere - apart from the impending exams and the inevitable recommencement of my legendary procrastination – stems from big changes going on in my life at the moment.  I even commented to my mum on the phone the other day – “life can plug on for ages, not changing, until all of a sudden everything is different.”  She offered me some wise words.

Rapid change and radical change can be scary – but sometimes you have to go with the adventure. 

It all stemmed from meeting ‘Ryan’, actually.  Since we’ve met, we have been inseparable.  Because we didn’t want to do the ‘meet-the-family’ thing too early on, he would spend his nights at my place.  I had a discussion with my roommate / landlady about this, and she reassured me that she would talk to me if she felt like he was around too much.  Given the relationship that we’d built over the last 10 months that I considered to be very open and honest, I took her at her word.

But things between she and I fell apart, and they fell apart in a big way.  It started with her asking me to wash her kitchen utensils immediately after using them, and not placing them on the sink to be washed later.  This wasn’t a big deal for me – I’d already abandoned indoor shoes for her, had been switching off all appliances for her at the end of each day, had never boiled a full kettle of water unless I was going to use it all and a myriad of other concessions that painted her as a harmless eccentric in my eyes. 

But then one night she confronted myself and ‘Ryan’, rattling off a laundry list of things I do that have apparently annoyed her since the birth of our co-habitation.  These items ranged from being around when she was trying to study (in the living room, of all places) to not respecting her property.  The latter was incredibly easy to do, apparently – by her own admissions all I had to do was put one or two too many towels in the washing machine to constitute ‘disrespectful use of property’. 

I told her that I was disappointed in her lack of honesty in the past, and that I wasn’t wasting my breath when I asked her if there was anything she was concerned about.   I resented her for holding it all in, but put it down to her personality and the fact that she is quite bad at dealing with stress and had upcoming exams.   But then a week later, after returning home from a beautiful weekend away at the beach with ‘Ryan’ for my birthday (which is tomorrow – send gifts in the mail), there was a small saucepan with a big note underneath it.  The saucepan had been sub-optimally cleaned.  The note was a 3 page rant explaining how I was to no longer use her living room and how I have never offered to pay water bills, which are in fact not paid for by tenants unless they are in excess.  Basically, it was 3 pages of anything and everything, but nothing actually to do with what her problem with me actually is.

The note ended with “we can discuss this if you want.”

Well, I don’t want to discuss this.  My roommate has always been ‘anti-people’, saying the humans are bastards.  She is quite adept at seeing the bad in everything, but it’s much harder for her to see good.  I have been a shoulder to cry on for her during her break-up, have helped her self esteem, and even taken over the hosting of her dinner party one night when she ran off to bed crying during the main course and refused to resurface.

What she doesn’t yet know is that I am moving out.  There is no way I will live with someone who thinks it is okay to treat people like second-rate citizens, and to be quite honest – I don’t care what has happened to make her so upset.  I’m tired of her negativity. 

This is a big change that creates two more big changes – the first is that I have decided to move in with ‘Ryan’ and his family, as they were generous enough to open their home to me.  The second is that Angus will not be joining me.  I’m trying to find a new home for him within my extended family, so that I can at least know he’s gone to a good home and that I can have visitation with him.  I find it difficult to leave him in the mornings.  I hate to think what it will be like on the day that I give him away.

So moving in with the boyfriend and his parents is a huge deal, but there’s more.  Yesterday afternoon I accepted their offer, and yesterday evening – their house having been on the sale market for a whole week – they accepted someone else’s offer to buy the house.  This means that about 2 weeks after I move in with the family, we’re all moving out again.

3 months ago I was sadly single, with my dog and my roommate.  But these days, it’s all about change.

I realised that you and I (you being the ‘audience’) left things on a rather negative note last time I visited.  But things have been going really well, professionally and in my love life.

I finished OBGYN about 8 weeks ago, and have since completed my paediatrics rotation.  At that time I was wildly behind in my paperwork, which I think I mentioned in a previous post.  Now, I’m all up to date, and I’m in my final block for the year before exams – surgery.  Everyone said that surgery was the worst block to have just before exams, but it turns out that so far it’s been quite a good block for revision.  The surgeries aren’t overwhelmingly exciting – lap cholies, colectomies and a thousand hernias – but it’s fun nonetheless.  I know I said I was going to document all the surgeries I’d been in, but that became quite inconvenient as there have already been loads.  The novelty wears off.

What’s not wearing off is my love for ‘Ryan’.  I’m smiling now just thinking about him, because I was about to type his real name, and it made me laugh because he claims that I’ve actually called him Ryan on several occassions – which I haven’t.  Things are also going well in that department.  Our feelings for each other keep getting stronger.  We’ve met each other’s parents.  This weekend we are going away.  Life is good.

And that’s exactly why I haven’t been blogging in a while – life is good.  Life is also very busy, but when things are going well, I’d much rather be out there living life, rather than here whining about it. 

I will say that recently I have become much more conscious of my ‘responsibility’, if you like, for the gay community and GLBTI rights.  As a result, I find myself more interested in keeping tabs on how the Australian Government deals with the GLBTI issues that come up, and have developed strong views where I would normally have no interest.  I think it comes down to the fact that I have always distanced myself from the gay community, because I didn’t think I fit the mold.  Now I realise that the gay community is diverse by it’s nature, and that I am a part of it, even if I don’t participate or even agree with all of it.  As I now feel more connected to the community, I’ve become more interested in community service.  ‘Ryan’ and I tested the waters and helped pack safe-sex packages to be handed out at events, and we met some nice people.  I’ve now decided that being a medical student and gay, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t volunteer to do health promotion work – so that’s what I’ve done.  The Queensland Association for Healthy Communities (QAHC) is there to promote the health of gay and lesbian people, and it’s going to feel good to give back to the community that I’ve denied for so long.  Every community has it’s members you’d rather see ostracised, but on the whole, I’m finally comfortable with saying that I’m part of the gay community.  And I’m proud.

The following is a letter I have written to vomit some of  the hate out of my body.  Hate is a toxic substance, and you should never allow it to stay in your system for very long.

Dear peices of shit,

I hate you.

I have never met you, but I know you, and I’ll never forget you as long as I live.  I can’t understand why you do what you do; how you can live without wanting to kill yourselves – I want to kill you.  My only hope is that you do feel that way, and someday follow through with it.  I know that’s harsh and I would usually never say that, but for you I will make an exception.

You took something that didn’t belong to you – something that was worth more than your worthless lives.  You took it, and you smashed it into a million peices, so small it could never ever hope to be put back together.  And why?  There’s no justification.  You’re evil.  And you don’t deserve to live.

As it turns out, the thing you broke was stronger than you thought, and it was patched back together.  Granted, it will never be the same thing it once was, but it’s still a thing of beauty and strength.   You lost.

I hate you for bringing out the darker side of me.  Because – God help me – I want you to suffer.

Adrian.

While recently in Melbourne, my sister and I stumbled across a public rally for marriage equality.  We joined the march to parliament, and this is a photo I took from my iPhone.  On this day, I felt good as a gay man, because I was part of the mass of people saying that we’ve had enough  – discrimination needs to go.

I’ve always been quite interested in politics.  Right after highschool, I moved away to study a bachelor’s degree in journalism with a major in politics.  Having said that, I’m not very aware of the intricacies of our political system, and – in truth – I am probably more interested in the psychology surrounding the political motivations of everyday Australians.  As a result of this, I’m likely to gravitate toward political discussion rather than shy from it, even if I’m not as well-informed as the other participants.

Nevertheless, I realised recently that, like it or not, I am part of a ‘minority group.’  This has never really factored into my ethos, but the more I grow, the more I begin to realise that there is discrimination against gay and lesbian people – against me.  And for the most part, this discrimination does not emanate from ordinary members of society, by from the government itself.  I will take the opportunity to say that I am heartened by the complete indifference to the ‘differences’ between hetero- and homosexuals; by the acceptance from the majority.  I have always believed that homosexuality is not something that requires the ‘acceptance’ of the heterosexual majority, but I am grateful for it – the acceptance is really just the outward expression of the fact that most people no longer feel prejudicial about sexuality.

Some people will know that Australia has just undergone a federal election – in other words, the potential election of a new government and new Prime Minister.  Our political system is such that one of two preferred major parties – the Australian Labor Party (ALP) and the Liberal National Party (LNP) - gains the power in the various levels of government and effectively has control.  But for a while, the Greens have been on the scene, generally pushing for a more eco-friendly approach to life, and with a greater general humanitarian focus.  This year, the Greens party has openly renounced Australia’s political criminalisation of gay marriage.

As it turns out, this was the best thing the Greens could have done for their pre-election campaigning, as they gained record votes in this election, and the seat of Melbourne in the senate was won by a Greens candidate – Adam Bandt – in an historic and encouraging turn of events.  While both the ALP and LNP refuse to pass legislation allowing gay marriage, Adam Bandt and Bob Brown (Greens senator for Tasmania since 1996) are adamant that times are set to change.

As it turns out, Australia had no confidence in the candidates from both major parties, and a hung parliament sees us weeks after the election without a new Government.  I think this speaks volumes – the candidates and their agendas are out of touch with what Australians want, or are at least discordent with the needs of the country.  With the Greens having more strength in the senate than ever, it seems to my admittedly politically uneducated mind that the lack of confidence in the major parties could be just what we need in terms of marriage equality.  Australians want to be seen as current and progressive, and yet we are so behind when it comes to civil rights and some social paradigms.  Our attitudes toward women are outdated.  Paid maternity and paternity leave is a joke.  The welfare system – Centrelink – rewards the unmotivated-unemployed (please note – not saying all unemployed people are unmotivated!) while students live on less.  And gay people still cannot express their love in the same way as heterosexuals can.

I have may friends who have strong Christian beliefs.  I am not so small-minded as to avoid these people, given that I am not religious.  Likewise, these friends of mine are not so blinded that they do not associate with me – an agnostic homosexual.  Evenso, they still believe homosexuality is a sin, and that to allow us to marry would be to destroy the sanctity of marriage.  As far as I am concerned, love is love.  With so much violence and crime and degradation of humanity going on in the world, I fail to see how something as benign and inspiring as two men or two women in love can cause so much dissent. 

One friend of mine explained that while he considered homosexuality a sin, he agreed that we should be able to express our love – and then he used two words in combination that grate on me – ‘civil union.’  The reason this term annoys me is that it is used more to placate those vocalising their discontent than to give us the basic civil right of marriage.  A civil union is not the same thing as a marriage; many of us grew up in an environment where marriage is the norm.  Just because I don’t want a woman in a white dress to stand by me for the rest of my life doesn’t mean I didn’t grow up wanting to get married.  The term ‘marriage’ has many social, cultural and spiritual (whether that be emotional or religious) connotations, and some of us are not prepared to give up on that for a ‘civil union,’ whatever that is.

Those that know me well will be surprised by this long rant, as they will recall conversations in which I adamantly opposed the idea of marriage for myself.  The one thing I can say in defense of that is be aware of internalised homophobia.  If a young gay boy grows up in a society where it’s ‘abnormal’ for two men to have a wedding and get married, then there is every chance he will grow up unesay at the thought of two grooms standing at the altar.  A lot of homophobic or anti-gay thoughts are often internalised by gay and lesbian people, to the point that we – sadly – believe them.  I have constantly developed my self-image since coming out of the closet not that long ago, and I can now say that I am proud to be gay because of the perseverance of the community.  There are seamy parts to every community, and ours is no different.  I have not ‘abandoned’ the heterosexual world that I grew up in, I have simply found my place in both.  And this means that one day, I would like to get married legally, and have a husband with children.  I would like to spend the rest of my life showing them how deeply I love them.

How the fuck is that wrong?

I’ve been out of the blogosphere for a while, and for a good reason.  I’ve been focussing on having a life, rather than spending the one I had online lamenting all my itty-bitty problems.  So – down to business!

School life.  Things are going well at the moment, but they haven’t been that way for a while.  While I was in obstetrics and gynaecology, there were certain unexpected turns in a woman’s management that could see you going to interesting place – for me one day, it was the operating theatre for an emergency Ceasarian section.  The surgeon, being about as chilled a human as I’d ever met, asked me if I wanted to scrub-in and assist him.  One Ceasar turned into three, and I was having a blast being taught by him and helping out.  During the second last Ceasar of the day, my phone went off and a scout nurse answered it for me.  When the surgery was over, she came up to me.

“That was someone from your school.  They want you to stop placement and leave the hospital now, not finish out the day.  And then they want you to call this number.”

My heart leaped and I knew what was up – my Blue Card.  This was my second last day in O+G, and I was to move into my paediatrics rotation the following week – but as a student, placement in paediatrics requires a Blue Card, which certifies that you have not been charged with any child-related crimes or other serious crimes.  It usually takes about 6-8 weeks to process.  Mine had already expired.

To make an incredibly long story somewhat shorter – I was not allowed to attend any clinical placement that might involve people under the age of 18.  I wanted to finish my term in O+G, but given the fact that only Ceasarians were on my list tomorrow, I was going to be coming into contact with newborns, who are – of course – under the age of 18.

The other problem this created was that I still had to interview patients in O+G and present them – which I was yet to do, and was now unable to do.  In the end, I missed 2.5 weeks of paediatrics which may or may harm.not mean I fail paediatrics and have to come back to it next year, but I am now playing with children and have even caught up with my paperwork – miracle!  I wouldn’t dare complain, but as it turned out my first paediatric clinical exam was 2 days after I had been granted access to the ward – and I still passed!

Now, on to the love life.  Sparky didn’t work out.  Sparky turned out to be not the guy for me, which was evident really early on.  He preferred to read the paper, watch the news, check facebook on his phone and fall asleep to the TV rather than engage with me.  No harm.

A friend of mine was leaving Brisbane, and she wanted to hang out one last time before she moved away to work in the mines.  We had an incredibly fun and long day, that ended up in an underground Irish pub full of real Irish boys.  We had a good perve until I couldn’t handle it any more.  Being fair, Jessica decided to take me to a gay pub.  Afternoon beers turned into evening beers, which turned into a night of debauchery.  Jessica left me to sleep before her flight, and I called Joe, who I knew lived in Brisbane.  Joe and I had never before met in person, but had been internet friends for several years through medicine.  He agreed to meet me for a drink, and later that night drove me home.  He wanted to come in, but given he’d just broken up with his long-term boyfriend, I didn’t want to get involved.

After he left, I started drunkenly cruising some online profiles, and came across a guy who I thought was achingly beautiful.  In my drunken state, I had the balls to send him a message.  The following day, I had a response from him, saying he’d be interested in meeting for a chat.  Two days after my message we met – and it was less than ideal.

We were both sick with colds, but decided to brave the night air for a restorative beer.  I was in the car on the way to the pub, and got the strange sensation that I was heading in the wrong direction.  I decided to call him.

“Hi.  Am I supposed to be heading north on the highway?”

“Um, no.  South.”

“Oh.  Shit.  Sorry, I will be a little late in that case.  Sorry.”

“It’s okay.  Don’t rush, drive safely.”

I was halfway to the city by this stage, so of course I began to drive quickly.  After what seemed an interminable amount of time, I saw the bright lights of the centre where the pub was – and drove straight past the exit.  The next exit wasn’t until 3 km down the road, but I decided it would be easy enough to double back and follow the lights.  It wasn’t.  The result was me, on the side of a dark dirt road in the middle of nowhere, phoning him.

“Are you here yet?”

“Erm, no.  I’m actually more lost.”

“Oh.  Well, where are you?”

“Erm.  I don’t know.  It’s a dark road.  I think it’s actually near where you live?”

“Okay, well – “

I interrupt with – “Oh, shit!”

“What?”

“I’ve just run out of fuel.”

“Oh.  Well, find out where you are, and I’ll come for you.  I’ll call RACQ and get them to come out to where you are, too.”

Fuck.  I got out of the car and began walking down the dark road to find a sign, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.  I realise that I have blown it, and that he’s being gracious.  There will be no repeat date; there will probably be no first date.  After about 20 minutes, he arrives and jumps out of the car.  I introduce myself and shake his hand and fall all over myself apologising to him.  He doesn’t once say “oh that’s okay.”

As it turns out, RACQ had no desire to help me with my fuel situation, so we jumped in his car and found a petrol station where I filled a little tank and took it back to my car.  Eventually, the both of us were on the road again, and surprisingly he told me to follow ‘closely behind him’ to the pub.  Even more amazingly, once we finally reached the pub 2 hours after we were supposed to meet, he says:

“I’m buying the drinks – you’ve had a rough night.”

The conversation was good, and he joked that he already had leverage over me.  From that point on, we have spent almost every day with each other, and I know that we’re going to spend the rest of our lives doing so.

We were obviously attracted to each other, and there was a good deal of lust when it came to the point where it was appropriate to act on our mutual attraction.  But what happened – and has never happened before – is that something else started to develop under the lust.  One night while fooling around, he indicated as usual that he wanted to take it further, and of course so did I.  But what was unexpected was what followed – it wasn’t just sex and lust and attraction anymore.  I don’t care how cheesy it sounds – I finally understood the difference between sex and love-making.

I’m falling in love.  I used to think I was going to be alone forever, and I felt like I was almost over the hill, and now I feel the way I do about ‘Ryan’, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have found him so soon.  I’ve ‘gone through the numbers,’ as my roommate put it, and I’ve experienced everything from complete indifference to intense lust.  But with confidence, I can say I have never experienced anything close to how I feel about ‘Ryan’.

I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

So that’s why I’ve been out of the blogosphere for a while!

After our one week break, all the third year medical students started new rotations, and I’m in obstetrics and gynaecology.
Now, for some people, they might read this and laugh, given that I am a gay man and this specialty is vagina-heavy. Others may think it’s a perfect specialty for someone like me for the very same reason. All I know is that when I started medical school, there was absolutely zero chance I’d be spending my life with speculum in hand.

Then, sometime during second year, I allowed my brain to toy with the idea of obstetrics. There was probably a lot of factors that began to influence this change of heart, not least of all the fact that I enjoyed reproductive medicine, and that I was starting to think a lot more about having kids someday. I probably wouldn’t do it, but at least it didn’t disgust me.

Before too long, I’d come to the conclusion that it’s what I want to do with my life. Always knowing I wanted to do surgery, id never considered something like O+G. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was the perfect combination of medicine and surgery for me. Plus, I love endocrinology.

The only issue was that up until now, I’d never actually experienced obstetrics or gynaecology. After 5 months of placements, I’d failed to find anything I was passionate about, and though my respiratory term was great, it was because of the wonderful team I was attached to.

After one week, I know it’s what I was meant to do.

As per usual, I’ve neglected to write about anything of substance here for a while. I’ve also noted reading back on previous entries that I have left some stories unfinished.  But what I’ve been seriously neglecting is my love life.

I emailed the guy who read my blog and tried to reconnect with him – to no avail. This was a little while ago now, and I feel quite ambivalent about this. No harm in trying.

A few months ago I was using my iPhone to sift through the profiles of gay men in my area (god bless the iPhone) when I was contacted by a guy I’ll call Mr K.  He didn’t appear overly attractive, but he did seem very sweet.  I decided I would meet with him and see how things went.
About a week later, I was at my least favourite hospital having lunch when he sent me a text message.  It turns out he was in the area, working as a paramedic.  On a whim, we decided to meet for coffee.
As he walked toward me, I realized he was a lot better looking than in his online profile.  For the next few hours, we chatted easily, only ending things so that he could pick his daughters up from his ex-wife. He had layed his past on me fairly early, and I guess it was as much to relax him into things as it was being honest.  Having had it out of the way, he was a lot more comfortable.
We saw each other a few more times before we talked abou where we wanted things to go.  It’s no secret that I’m after something serious if and when it develops, and at 34, so was he.
We dated for three months, and everything was going well. It was everything I wanted in a relationship – we were well matched, without any clear dominant and passive roles.  He was contientous and mature. He was attentive.  But I began to think of him as a friend as time went on.
For the last few weeks of the relationship, I knew that my feelings toward him were becoming less and less romantic.  Meanwhile, his were becoming more intense.  I had to let him know how I was feeling.
After we discussed it for a while one night, he left, telling me that it was my decision and that there was nothing he can do.  One week later, I ended the romantic side of our relationship.  We are still friends.

It was only a few days later that I was back online checking out the profiles, more out of boredom and curiosity than anything.  I came across the profile of a man thst grabbed my attention for the usual shallow reason – physical attraction.  I decided he had an interesting face and a cute smile so I said hello.
We chatted for a while and I found him to be intelligent and mature, but probably not too serious.  In his own words, he is a ‘grumpy old man’, which I can often relate to.  Unlike Mr K, we don’t have work in common, but also unlike Mr K, we seem to be able to chat more realistically, without him immediately thinking I’m right or wonderful.
We’ve only met a couple of times, but the attraction is definitely there.  On our first date, we were shopping and our hands brushed accidentally.  I say accidentally, because he is so beautiful to look at I have not yet been able to work up the nerve to touch him voluntarily.  When our hands touched, I received an electric shock. I joked that if anyone asked him if there was chemistry, he could honestly say there was a spark.  He laughed and looked at me like I was a cheesy idiot.
Which I am.

So now I guess I spend more time with Sparky and see if there’s anything there.  For my part, I hope there is.  I know he’s reading this, so I won’t go on and on.  All I know is that I feel like he’s too good to be true, and it’s nice to finally feel that spark.

Wish me luck.

The following is an article I have written for the school magazine.

When the time came to choose what hospital to elect for third and fourth year placements, the decision was surprisingly easy for me.  Much more difficult was whether or not I would commute to Logan hospital each day, or pack-up my things and head for a much less glamorous postcode.

I took a gamble and decided that living in the region would give me a little more of an insight into the larger community and the issues affecting it, and I feel it has payed-off, even if in my complete naivety I did happen to move into what is affectionately known as ‘the ghetto’ of Logan.

There are actually some redeeming factors about the region, including the great real estate you can get on the cheap, the beautiful surrounding regions and parkland, but quite noticeably the best part about living in Logan is the hospital itself.

If one word sums up the Logan hospital experience, it would undoubtedly be ‘community’.  The word is loaded with meaning, and includes the relatively small number of students, but extends also to the relationships that can be formed with the medical staff and even the patients.

However, if you felt the need for a second word, it would have to be ‘experience.’  The teaching at the hospital is unparalleled, and very often you have one-on-one tuition with a consultant or senior registrar, who help you to de-mystify simple things that you’ve possibly never considered, such as how to treat a patient with epistaxis, or hyperkalaemia.  It may not sound exciting as a student, but in two-years time when you receive a wardcall about something you have no idea how to manage, things may get exciting for all the wrong reasons.

Speaking of experience, I would like to regale you with the story of my second day on placement at Logan hospital.  My partner and I were on general medicine block at the time, and were attached to the respiratory unit.  We were enjoying our morning coffee when one of the registrars (an ED reg on gen med rotation) received a distress call from the Beaudesert hospital emergency department.  There was apparently one doctor holding the fort in the ED, and needed a little help.  QHealth would send a car and take him to Beaudesert for the day.  He agreed to go, but only if he could take his two medical students with him.

A short while later, we stepped into the ED for a brief handover from the lone consultant.

“Okay, thank you for doing this.  I have to be off now.”  He said to our registrar.

“What?  You mean you’re leaving?”

The consultant looked incredulous.  “Well, someone has to look after the wards.”  And with that, he turned on his heels and left.

Our registrar – who was normally calm but by now was turning an interesting shade of purple – turned to us.

“Alright, look.  You guys are great; we can do this.”  Deep breath.  “So, files of unseen patients are kept here.  Just pick one up and call the patient in from the waiting room.  Just find an empty bay and do your interview and physical.  Write up their notes, particularly for admissions.  If you think they need an IV, just go ahead and do it.  If you need blood tests or anything, just do them and I’ll write the forms up for you.”

We stared at him, uncomprehending.

“If you run into any problems, just come and find me,” he added distractedy.  “You’ll do great.”

After eight hours, two cases of respiratory distress, one necrosing hand wound, one case of boy vs barbed-wire fence, a sick baby, and a host of minor traumas and complaints, we retreated to Logan hospital. 

On day two of our placement, we had done admissions, formulated management plans and put them into action, and had performed our first cannulations and blood gases.  We dealt with the angry, the terrified, and the loney.  We got a chance to practice a lot of skills – those taught in D+P, and those not – including how to auscultate with nothing separating you from a screaming nine-year-old but a thin curtain.

This is not, by any means, an isolated case of students being ‘thrown in the deep end’.  In preparation for this article, I have been told stories of students closing surgical sites, solo interviewing in pregnancy clinics, comforting family members as their loved one dies in front of them and much more.  But what makes Logan so special, is the unique patient experience.

Yes, you’ve probably cannulated by now.  But have you done it on a trypanophobic hepatitis C infected IV drug user whose veins are almost impossible to penetrate, such is the extent of her scarring?  Have you diagnosed scurvy?  Or have you had the bizarre experience of living out a PBL case, treating a 51-year-old Kurdish refugee for respiratory symptoms and seeing his eyes widen in shock behind his N95 mask as he’s told he has active tuberculosis?  Or have you interviewed a schizophrenic patient who tells you the government is monitoring him, and they actually are, given that he is in the country illegally under his nephew’s name?

If not, then I urge you to consider Logan hospital for future placements.  The somewhat depressed socioeconomic state of the region and the relative isolation from the rest of your cohort fosters a level of community and humanity that you were sure you did not possess given your experience in DHC tutorials laughing surreptitiously at the scenarios presented.  This place throws you into the fondue pot of nationalities and levels of education, and it’s difficult sometimes to remain untouched by the trials and tribulations of these very real people.

He sits in front of me lighting one cigarette off another.  He pauses to light it, holding intense eye contact.  He grins at me.

“He’s sleeping, man.  We fucking went in there and took on all 90 of them, and now he’s so weak after the fight he’s in hiding somewhere.”

It’s getting dark, and a little bit cold.  I shiver a little, and wonder how he can sit there in shorts and a t-shirt with no shoes.  He notices my shivering.

“Are you cold, dude?” he asks me.  “I can get him to give you some heat.” 

He laughs.

For the next forty minutes, I sit and watch him chain smoke.  I listen as he tells me his incredible stories – the battles he’s been in, and the amazing things he has experienced.  The espionage that sounds right out of a spy movie.  He tells me about his tempestuous childhood.  He rages and laughs and cries bitter tears of pain that runs right to the core.

Our conversation is interrupted by a voice I can’t hear, speaking to him through Blue Tooth technology.  He holds an index finger to his ear and stares distractedly into space.

“Yep.  Yep,” he says, speaking to the voice in his head. “Yeah, roger, mate.  Everything’s in place.”  He pauses, shooting a quick look at me.  “It’s the freemasons.  I’ll tell you ’bout it later.”

Our conversation resumes, but only after he shoots me a charismatic smile that lights his face up.  When he speaks, you feel like the only person in the room.

After a while, he becomes tired of talking.  I take it as a cue to leave.  I thank him for taking the time to chat, and he graciously accepts the thanks.  We stand up to leave, and he offers his hand.  I shake it, and he pulls me in for an embrace. 

“You’re one of the good ones, Adrian.”  he says.  “I’ve told God about you, and he agrees.”

I stand in the cold twilight, watching the 24 year old paranoid schizophrenic walk off into the darkness, full of voices and delsions of granduer.  I turn in the opposite direction, my notes in hand, and walk away, full of sadness.