Bloody good time in Australia...

Even, perhaps especially, the ER is a place that can make you laugh. And at some pretty interesting things. The other day a woman was brought in bleeding from a stab wound in the neck. Funny thing about blood-- it tends to draw attention to anything it's coating. I think perhaps the fashion world should take note of this. It is eye catching. And while someone standing in front of you spouting poetry or political slogans might at least generate passing interest or a fleeting emotional response, someone in front of you spouting blood is likely to command your rapt attention until the situation changes appreciably. Just one of those things, I suppose. What's also interesting about blood is that when it's splashed or splashing all over the floor, there always seems to be a "whole lot" of it in a way that separates it from other liquid spills. While there may be "a lot" of spilled lemonade on the floor, when asking someone to quantify how much of the same amount of spilled blood there is on the floor you are more likely to get a response along the lines of "Way, WAY more than there should be."

In any event, bleeding patient, everyone upset, etc. When we finally got things sorted and her up to the OR to get the wound attended to, she asked me (my fingers on her carotid), "Am I going to die?" ER doctors hate it when asked this because let's face it, if you've thought to ask me the question I'm probably asking myself the same thing (about you, not me) and more often than I'm comfortable with those patients unfortunately have about their condition what the psychiatrists call "insight." But this patient wasn't dying, and likely wasn't going to, all things considered. So, my response? "Frankly, at this point I'm more worried about all those heart attacks you caused down in the ER when you came in leaking red stuff all over the place." Yup, I'm a caring nurturer. Can't be helped.

Life in Launceston has been pretty good. The best thing about the place, and again the best thing about most places you go, actually, has been the people. It's a really good place to work from a staff point of view and most people that you meet are very friendly (just like in the brochures! :) Here are a few pictures from on of the other Locums' going away party. Frivolity ensued.


I'm relatively certain that the second picture should have the following in a thought-bubble as it's caption: "Quickly! To the Keebab House!" One thing I will say, curry and Thai food aren't all that bad on this side of the world (now Mexican food... :(

The Parents made a point of coming by and taking a few days off their busy schedule of non-stop cruises (Hawaii, New Zealand) to hit the Tasmania highlights. Now think about what you might schedule for your parents if they were to come visit you where you live... Not easy, huh? Well, they did great and Mom even managed to conquer the Dove Lake circuit walk (w/ Cradle Mountain in the background).

In spite of having only the one good leg! The knee replacement, courtesy of the current working US labor force via Medicare, is coming. Side note, only rule of parental trip-- no politics. Probably for the best. Of course, it goes without saying that the walk was rated as "easy" by the Parks Service, and on only one of the 13-scrillion pieces of literature/trip planning I came across did they mention the "apart from one moderate hill" bit. And that was only on the posted map when you got there! So we busted out the ski poles and Mom Robo-Copped it down the last bit. I feel that my providing Transformers-like sound effects for her knee brace really serves as a relaxing yet motivating accompaniment to her getting around.

We also put on rain coats and got on board a boat tour of the Tasman Peninsula/Island when we went down to Port Arthur to check out some well preserved reminders of the convict history of "Van Diemen's Land." Because of some pretty high seas it ended up more like a roller coaster than a leisurely jaunt around the bay, but I loved that. Here, Youngie plays the part of the Red Water-tight Ninja. And the scenery was of course amazing. Closest next bit of land? Yup, Antarctica.

We did a little sight-seeing and so on and then said adieu to the parents. I'm still inwardly amused by a fair amount of the signage I see here. For example, This particular art gallery is relatively difficult to find, partially attributable to their advanced "Cloaking Facilities" located at Visitor Reception.
"Impossible! No ship that small has a cloaking device...!"

And I still enjoy the Public Service announcements, which apparently are a cultural thing-- a friend says that in addition to a warning label the cigs in the UK have actual pictures of diseased lungs, etc. on the packages.

So, I'll leave off this posting with another poem, as well as some pics of what I recently found in my shoe one morning. I mean, where the heck am I? The Sahara?

For those of you who bought the special blog glasses, here it is in 3-D:

(aka out of focus)

The Calf-Path

by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bellwether sheep
Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bellwethers always do.

And from that day, o’er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made,
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because ’twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed — do not laugh —
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet.
The road became a village street,
And this, before men were aware,
A city’s crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed that zigzag calf about,
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They follow still his crooked way,
And lose one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.

They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.