When You 're A Surgeon

A surgical team is a ‘treatment team’, tends to be ongoing and relatively permanent in nature, which consists of a collection of individuals who are independent in their tasks (known as formal group), such as; surgeon, anaesthesiologist, sometimes medical staff (depending on surgery), certified registered nurse anaesthetist (CRNA), operating nurses, surgical technician. Poor teamwork and inadequate communication are donating to the lack of improvement in the number of patients in healthcare sector. When I was an intern in surgical department, I had experienced number of patients were died within few days after medical/surgical intervention. Among them more than fifty percent who died were emergency admissions, who often failed to be fully evaluated for other medical problems before intervention. As there were inadequate medical information about emergency admitted patients, sometimes anaesthesiologists were made medication error at some stage

During my observation, I followed the patient from her preparation of surgery, into the operating room, to recovery. I gain insight on what happens during surgeries from nurses, surgeons, and other hospital staff. This experience was much different than any other clinical I have gone to. After having first-hand experience, I now know that surgery is nothing like what is portrayed on television.

At the chaotic Ridgeview Medical Center’s Emergency Room, doctors were scrambling, yelling out for hospital equipment and blood. Police officers flooded the area. Everywhere, bodies were rolling on stretchers. Zach ran beside the stretcher with Erika. She was badly wounded, shot up with bullet holes and bite marks. Zack kept yelling his wife’s name, but she made no response. Erika was wheeled into one room. Her body appeared lifeless. Tears leaked from Zach’s bloodshot eyes.

“Aubri Bowen.” the nurse said. I looked up, I saw the nurse standing right there. I really didn’t want to do this, but I had to. I stood up, my heart was pounding. I followed the nurse down a hall and into a little room. I was so nervous for the I.V, even more than I was for the surgery. I really didn’t want to be at that hospital, I was already shaking and they didn’t even start doing anything. I couldn’t stop thinking about the I.V, and how bad it was going to hurt. I laid down in the bed, and then the nurse started talking, I hoped she wasn’t

During recovery, Anita shared a room with another patient. A man with thick dark brown hair and eyes that were a mesmerising, deep ocean blue colour was laying in the bed beside her. Behind the bed head, his named was scribbled on the whiteboard, Aiden Westley. Anita could see his almost healed arms and face which resembled her burns.

It was a usual day at work, the sounds of beeping heart monitors, baby cries, and nurses talking about their patients. No one in the hospital had any idea of what would turn our lives upside down in the following hours.

On February 11, 2016, I, Justice Fisk, had the opportunity to experience a day in the operating room at Northcrest hospital. Upon arrival I was not sure of what to expect, but I was hoping that I would be able to see some interesting stuff. After talking to several classmates each person had I difference experiences so, I was nervous of what was to come.

Even though I didn’t speak a word of Spanish and the patient didn’t speak a word of English, his moans were clear enough. He was in agony and all I could do was try and hold his massive gash closed long enough for someone to inject pain medication. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I kept reassuring, not knowing if he understood what I was saying. After what seemed like an eternity that went by in a flash, more people filled the room and the man was wheeled under the surgical light reserved for those with serious injuries. A doctor turned to me and said, “Can you please take off my watch?” I jumped to the command like a seasoned pro and changed my gloves to help with the next procedure.

Imagine an emergency room on a calm day; the air fluttering with quiet conversations between families and doctors, the constant clacking of the receptionist’s fake nails on the keyboard, and the occasional cry of a baby. Suddenly, sirens start to wail and everything slows down as if time becomes like molasses on a cold winter day. The phrases “incoming trauma” and “GSW (gunshot wound) to the left-upper quadrant” resonate through the air. In a split second, the relaxed ambiance of the quiet emergency room has been interrupted by loud, raucous voices, machines, and clattering gurneys. A young woman, Karly Lance, who is noticeably injured from an involvement in some sort of accident is rushed into the nearest room and the curtains are drawn

Her nose was a work of art. Slightly crooked at its bridge, narrow and defined, it was the nose crafted by the great sculpture Phidias himself, carved into marble where the rest of her was carved into bone and skin. She was nothing special. She had average tan lips and average brown skin dotted with average freckles and average brown eyes and average eyelashes and average black hair. She would be pretty enough to be noticed by passing strangers for perhaps a half second but average enough to sink into the waves of a crowd, had it not been for her beautiful nose. When she walked into the consultation office begging to have her nose “fixed”, my heart sank and my throat swelled shut. An obscure trait would be scrutinized a few horrible times by a few horrible people, or perhaps subliminally frowned upon by the narrow scope of societies beauty standards, and people would run to me to solve their issue. However, it is my job as a plastic surgeon to often talk people out of procedures; it is my job to make people look exceedingly extraordinary, not dreadfully normal. I knew the second this woman walked in that, if I took her money and put her under the knife to rework what she considered a flaw, regret would be iminent. Within 45 minutes, I successfully talked her out of getting the procedure and she walked out of my office with the $3,000 she would have paid and a lamenting realization that she had almost made an unretrievable mistake. Throughout this project, I have

My mom and I sat in the hospital waiting room for hours. I hated that waiting room. It was painted a pale yellow color that was trimmed with wallpaper was lined with ugly pink flowers. Finally, Rusty’s doctor came out. He did not look right. He was as pale as a ghost, and I knew what was to come. He said to us, “The surgery went perfectly normal, but there was a

He walked in, greeted his team, and asked for a scalpel. An hour or so later, Dr. Colin walked out of the room sweating but sighed in relief. With a swipe of his hand, he took off his cap and walked over to clean up himself up. Then he headed to the waiting area, found the patient’s family, and told them the good news. Smiling, he watched their anxious glances evaporate as they exhale slowly and then their looks are replaced with an air of giddiness and comfort as they hug each other and smile back at him. He gives them the usual spiel following each surgery with instructions on how to care for their patient following the procedure.

Imagine an emergency room on a calm day: the air fluttering with quiet conversations between families and doctors, the constant clacking of the receptionist’s fake nails on the keyboard, and the occasional cry of a baby. Suddenly, sirens start to wail and everything slows down as if time becomes like molasses on a cold winter day. The phrases “incoming trauma” and “GSW (gunshot wound) to the left-upper quadrant” resonate through the air. In a split second, the relaxed ambiance of the quiet emergency room has been interrupted by loud, raucous voices, machines, and clattering gurneys. A young woman, Karly Lance, who is noticeably injured from an involvement in some sort of accident is rushed into the nearest room and the curtains are drawn shut to allow the trauma team the best environment to work on saving this young woman’s life. Despite their best efforts, the trauma team is unable to revive Karly, and the last words spoken echo clearly: “Stop compressions. Time of death: 1521.” At that moment, Karly’s parents emerge from outside the sliding doors that lead into the emergency room and search frantically for their daughter. Finally, an emergency room nurse takes the family aside and explains that despite their best efforts they were unable to save her. The head doctor emerges from the room and sits the family down to offer her condolences and explain to the parents that the medical team discovered that Karly carried an organ donor card in her wallet. As a registered organ

“Is it just me or am I seeing this crazy doll?” asked Sally’s mom, sweat trickling down her neck, her heart pounding, and her forehead wet. She sprinted to Sally and put her onto a soft chair. She took a band-aid and patted it onto her cut. Blood gushed out of a hole. Sally’s mom fixed the position. Sally was lucky that her mom used to be a person who worked in a hospital so she knew a nearby hospital. She carried Sally into the car she and started the engine. They arrived and sended her daughter into the emergency room. She carried the cot up the small stairway.

Her shallow breathing and her mother's sobbing is the soundtrack we listen to as we prepare her for the drive back to the hospital. Time is of the essence, so we move quickly. Cautious of the slick blood pooled on the bathroom floor, we place her onto a stretcher, carefully wrapping her delicate wrists with thick gaze, before loading her into the back of the ambulance.