The Write-off

I forgot how downright fucking depressing this job could be. I am currently typing a letter regarding a patient who, when in labour seven months ago, developed some pain which incidentally complicated the labour. Over the course of the last seven months, she's been discovered to have a) hepatitis B and b) a big honking tumour in the liver with c) multiple lung secondaries.

She's twenty-four years old.

Most of the time I can type on auto-pilot, but I guess stuff like this grabs you. Most of the patients are in the 50-80 year old bracket, which isn't exactly rainbows and flower petals but at least they've had a good run at it. But a woman in her mid-twenties with a seven-month-old baby ... shit.

Anyway.

Another day, another couple of thousand words. I did some calculations last night and it turns out I should have had something like 13,336 words by the end of yesterday to stay on target. With 14,483 at absolute last count, I'm doing good. However, I have to have 15,003 by the end of tonight. And we're playing 7th Sea tonight; what with public transport home and all, tonight's looking like a bit of a write-off (no pun intended) so I'm looking at getting at least that 520 words done in quiet times or during lunch. It shouldn't, by the grace of God and all his angels, be all that difficult. I like it better when I'm ahead of the game. Why did I do this again? Oh yeah; I'm a fucking loony.

But it's all good fun. I'm sure the characters will start taking on a life of their own any day now. And I'm sure it's not my fault that the gaming stuff in the NaNoWriMo project is more fun than the stuff tying it all together (that's basically true of my life). As for my own gaming experiences, there are the notes on the Convivium to get through (places they'll go, people they'll meet, talks they'll hear, various forms of mental torture they'll be subjected to) and musing on exactly how Skank and Lucius are going to explain to Kuo-Li about the current mess. And again, Charge of the Light Brigade is going to be amusing this time around; last time it was an urban primitive, a berserker, a club-kid, the Incredible Ageless Transsexual Man, a harried businesswoman and an eight-year-old girl. Now it's looking like it'll be an urban primitive, a Discordian, the Incredible Ageless Transsexual Man, a tightly buttoned Verbena, a harried and now gibbering businesswoman and ... well, an eight-year-old girl. Ladies and gentlemen ... our heroes.

But for tonight, it's 7th Sea, where we ask the age-old question, "Who's going to make an absolute royal prat of themselves this week?"

Impatient Outpatient

Well, I should count myself lucky. It's been a month since I've had a really rude patient. I was probably due.

A patient rings me and starts barking at me about the fact that, in clinic last week, she'd been told she would hear about a CT appointment in 5-7 days and so far had not heard. She got rather pissy about the entire thing, trying to make sure that the booking had actually been made. If this had been Dr Slevin's patient, I could have said, "Yes, that form was filled in and posted on [date] because I would have done it -- Dr Slevin refuses to fill out his own forms except for the signature. However, this was a Dr Slater patient, and Dr Slater tends to make my life easier by doing all that herself and sticking them in the post. All I could tell her was that very fact -- that Dr Slater would have filled out the forms and wouldn't have said she had if she hadn't. I told the patient that Dr Slater might have meant 5-7 working days to wait for an appointment date and suggested she contact CT.

Except she didn't want to contact CT. "It's ridiculous," she said, "that I have to phone 'round the hospital just to try to get some information". Actually, what's ridiculous is that she refused to contact the right department in the first place. What she thinks a medical oncology secretary dealing predominantly in outpatient clinic appointment admin work knows about the waiting list in CT is beyond me, but she seemed personally offended by the fact that I am not omniscient. I love it when people overestimate my abilities. I would quite happily have put her through to CT reception, but she hung up.

Rang back again ten minutes later, barking, "I want you to tell me exactly when I can speak to Dr Slater".

What do you say to that? Doctors are strange and wonderful creatures; they are like the wind. The only answers I could think to give were either, "When she gets back into the office -- can I take your number and have her call you back?" or "With the attitude you're giving me, lady, when hell starts hosting figure skating tournaments". I settled on the former and got a five minute (by the clock) harangue about how the date CT gave her was unacceptable. So she knows that we have no knowledge or control of what CT's up to, and yet she still calls us to complain. I will give Dr Slater the battleaxe's message so that maybe Dr Slater can use her consultancy-related pull to get her stupid appointment shoved forward, but God I want to bitch-slap her.

It's a very good thing for the patients that I'm not a Euthanatos. The Good Death is so easy when life and death may hang on whether or not you force your consultant to read their messages.

Words' Worth

15,898 / 50,000 (31.7%)

Woo-hoo! I can go and game with a clear conscience! And my minimum word count for tomorrow is 772.

Agh. Slowing down, apparently. But at least I'm relatively happy with what I'm doing. Not happy enough to show it to anybody, mind you. But still happy with it.