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Wilkommen to my blog - my name is Karin Purshouse, and I'm a doctor in the UK. If you're looking for ramblings on life as a junior doctor, my attempts to dual-moonlight as a scientist and balancing all that madness with a life, you've come to the right place. I'm currently a doctor/research trainee in oncology after spending a year doing research in the USA. All original content is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

'Is there a doctor in the house?'

We juddered to a halt - I, along with the other tourists and commuters, struggled to stay on our feet.  A siren gave its intermittent noises indicating that the emergency stop button had been pressed.  I did a little harumphing and sighing, as did most of us.

But then I heard the words that chill you to your very bones the second they give you your medical degree.  

'Someone's unwell, we need some help'.

I was on my way to sort something out for my American travels - a strict appointment that I had been told in no uncertain terms I couldn't miss.  I was in jeans and a jumper with a casual canvas bag, earphones plugged in listening to my generic music device.  I could not have looked less like a doctor if I tried.  I waited a few seconds to see if anyone else was making any moves, peering to see if anyone else appeared to know what was going on.  Realising that no-one was doing so, I pottered over (I should add - there was no screaming or hysteria suggesting anything truly awful had happened.  I wouldn't want you to think I saunter in this fashion to all medical emergencies).

Again, reassess.  Man on floor.  Definitely awake, talking.  Also, it definitely appeared there there were no nurses or doctors or medical types around. Here we go...

'Um... can I help... I'm a doctor...'

Cue mass relief - 'make room, there's a doctor here'.  Weirdly, it was like a tension in the group of passengers who had crowded to help the gentleman was suddenly released, as if I had some kind of magic wand.  A quick ABC told me there was little I needed to do immediately.  I asked a few questions to rule out some of the worse things running through my mind and felt reassured.  I did by pure chance have my stethoscope in my bag but we were literally perched in the middle of the public transport network with everyone staring, so I decided to leave that.  Confidentiality and privacy had gone out of the window as it was.  We just needed to get moving to the station.  

Once we had made it to a station, I waited with the gentleman until relevant people came to get him to hospital.  Of course by this point I didn't care that I might be late for my appointment, but for what it's worth, I was perfectly on time.

There were a few interesting reflections from this.  One is how Londoners totally get an unfairly harsh reputation - everyone around this gentleman was trying to help.  When I asked if anyone had any water for him, about five people reached into their bags and someone even found a cup from somewhere. A few other people waited with me and were hugely apologetic when they had to head off.  

Another is, I guess, a more personal one about how crazily calm I felt despite having an entire crowd of strangers staring at me, hanging on my professional opinion.  It was like the ultimate OSCE.  I obviously don't know what happened to this gentleman, but I felt really comfortable with what I was doing and thinking.  That was... unexpected.  Does this mean in my two years as a qualified doctor, I actually have some experience to offer, and confidence in myself?

It is very strange to think that when I head to the USA in a few weeks, 'doctor' is a role I will be hanging up, along with my stethoscope, for nine months.  It's moments like this episode that make me realise that being a doctor is as much who I am as what I am.  And that is a very strange thing to accept.

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