Yesterday I stopped procrastinating on a core task – writing up a year planner with my timetable. If I had done this when I intended to, at the start of the holidays, I would most likely have done a bit more uni work and a bit less relaxing. Not that the relaxing hasn’t been fantastic.

I’m trying to develop a routine for the next semester, and the second-last week of holidays seemed a good time to kick it off. Up at 5:30, exercise 6:00-7:00, eat, get to work.

Today’s ‘get to work’ part started off with… well… taking the Yellow Dog of Happiness (who has been a bit down in the dumps) for a trot through the bush and a swim in the creek. I was more up for the trot than the swim, and had passed up swimmers for my pre-dirtied bootcamp shorts and socks from earlier, a fresh crop top and shirt, and my running shoes. Eyes peeled for snakes.

He had a lovely dog-only paddle in the first swimming hole, and as we trotted on down the track I pondered an impending visit from my paternal parental unit. I haven’t yet brought them to the creek. I must call them and get them to bring their swimmers. And maybe a fishing rod.

I spotted a faint track from the path to a shady spot on the creek bank and whistled the dog back to check it out. As I stood on the boulder overlooking a nice deep bit of creek, a school of eating-sized fish cruised by, followed by a dog-like splash.

Having taken a nice refreshing slide down the boulder into the creek, he paddled calmly for about three seconds before he realised the creek bed was far, far beneath his furry feet. He turned back to the mostly-vertical rock face. Oh SHIT, his face said. Quite futile even trying to climb out. Nevertheless he tried in vain to haul himself up with his front paws while scrabbling against, well, nothing with his back legs.

Stay calm, Dogface. I surveyed the surroundings as I stripped down to the crop top and my spotted undies. It was a big boulder, but either side was shallow bank covered by mangroves. Easy for a dog to climb out. Fixated on the rock face and hanging on with front paws for dear life, he could not be convinced to let go and swim to safety.

And so it was that I slid down the none-too-smooth boulder and into my new favourite swimming spot. Treading water just clear of the boulder, armpit-depth with my feet in the leafy mud near the edge. I tried to guide the hound around the boulder to the mangroves, but he would have none of it. Your hand is on my rump, clearly that means you can lift me out. He willed himself up the face of the rock, with me as his launch pad.

Admittedly I could now have swum around to the mangrovey bit and waded out of the water. But it was… creepy. And leafy. And there could be snakes. From water level, I could see the dog’s point.

Add rock-climbing to my skills list.

I gathered up the dry bits of my ensemble and we trotted on to his usual swimming hole, complete with jetty. Yellow Dog said no thanks. I said come on, Dogface, I’m still in my soggy cottontails, let’s get back on the horse. We swam. Neither of us drowned or were eaten by sharks. Passers-by failed to materialise until I had my shorts back on.

All up, a good morning’s work. ;l.

If a patient asks me something and I don’t know the answer, I admit it. If it’s appropriate, I’ll look up the answer while they’re with me, or while they’re waiting for Part Two of their consultation – the part with the real doctor. If I don’t get the chance, and it’s important, I’ll just ask the doc when I’m handing over.

If it’s more of a point of interest and knowing the answer only matters to me, or if the patient is happy to wait for obscure info, I’ll look it up later. On that list: Effects of chromium supplementation, fructose intolerance, sugar content of soy milk.

Not going on that homework list, not getting looked up while he’s in the waiting room, and most certainly not during our consult: (and I’m paraphrasing here for the sake of already having enough dodgy words inviting creepy google-stalkers) is today’s special offering. “My junk has shrunk… Is that a normal part of getting old?”

I don’t know.

Apparently he’s discussed his concerns with the doctor before, and my ignorance was reassuring. “So if you don’t know, maybe he didn’t know either, because he didn’t seem to want to look into it…”

Maybe I should have taken baseline measurements so we could track the alleged shrinkage over time. Something about the fact his eyes had trouble elevating above my chest level gave me the feeling such a scientific approach would be rendered inaccurate by an excessive degree of operator dependance.

Some things, I’d just rather not know.

I guess I enjoy maths more than I pretend to.

I spent some time wondering how four months of boot camp would affect my pool re-entry. My togs are too big. That was an encouraging start.

Too much maths meant I got to the pool just as school finished. Not quite so encouraging, but there were still two rugrat-free lanes.

My tiny brain: What if I’ve forgotten how to swim?

I am mildly fascinated by the self-doubt I can generate around a straightforward physical activity.

Naturally I had not forgotten how to swim, but my consistently lousy lap-counting skills suggest that my short-term memory could use an exercise regime all of its own.

McCat is most closely bonded to me, especially since his brother has become irritable with hyperthyroidism. We have a few things in common. We both like birds. We both like my armchair and its lambskin throw. We both like raw salmon and roast lamb (not together). For a while there, unbeknownst to me, we shared a bedside glass of water.

One of us is a little OCD.

At bedtime, McCat enforces the following routine:

1. Human is to brush teeth.
2. Human is to fill cat’s bedside water glass with fresh water.
3. Human is to top up biscuit bowl.
4. Human is to pat Brother Cat.
5. Human is to seek out Superior Cat lounging place; this step to be conducted under cover of darkness, simulating safari conditions.
6. Human is to advise Superior Cat of imminent bed entry.
7. Human is to stop faffing and get into bed.
8. Superior Cat shall drink water; four swipes of paw on beside table to accompany drink, indicating primal origins.
9. Superior Cat shall sit staring at Human until such time as Human switches off light.
10. Superior Cat shall patrol perimeter, ensuring all doors and windows secure.
11. Human is to assume supine position; left arm to be bent like tea-pot handle.
12. Superior Cat shall grace Human with presence between left arm and left flank; Human is to remain motionless until 4am.

The penalty for deviation from any of the above routine may range from gentle rebuke to forced sleep deprivation, with such penalties administered vocally, by strategic bladder-trampling, or by judicious use of paws to ensure Human eyes are open and airways clear.

Every so often I escape desert the McCat for education-related purposes, such as placements away, or conferences. The Girl does her best to meet his exacting standards of bedtime care, however as she has the Yellow Dog of Happiness to care for, as well as Brother Cat, McCat tends to develop abandonment issues and his vocal and paw-to-face admonishments eventually become unbearable. Or so I am told.

And so it is that I find myself on the phone to the cat. I am fluent in McEse, and though it pains me that my communications are delivered via speaker phone for all to enjoy, it does seem to settle him down.

I can only guess at what “Brrt, brrt, micmicmic meow” means, but I think it’s something like “Hello, honeycat, I’ll be home soon.”

Mock me and I’ll scratch your eyes out.

Evidence supporting Fact #1: Not counting years beyond my conscious recall (say, prior to primary school), I have suffered less than ten episodes of vomiting nausea. This figure includes those episodes unfortunately induced by excessive alcohol consumption (hello, Gloucester Rd tube). A gastro bug for me involves lots of time sitting in a small room wishing in vain that I could empty my stomach upwards rather than downwards.

Evidence supporting Fact #2: I see weird stuff, I want to taste it. Think beached jellyfish, orange wood fungus, strange white clusters of bubbles on eucalypt leaves, random berries on random shrubs, seaweeds, witchetty grubs. My experience of nature is incomplete if I can only see, hear, smell and touch it.

That wise monkey with his hands over his mouth? He’s not speaking no evil, he’s snarfing a possible bush-food.

So when I realised, while cooking a late dinner, that the pasta had been joined in the boiling water by a small collection of minuscule baby cockroaches, I wasn’t going to tell you.

Scoop them out, most certainly. This took a few minutes, and my arm was nicely steamed. But I was reasonably confident I had them all out. No mysterious speckling in the capellini.

I thought about all the fine meals you have cooked me, and wondered if you had ever faced a similar dilemma. Slightly delirious with hunger, boiling up the last of the long pasta… Surely the essence of baby cockroach would be an imperceptible, proteinaceous addition to the bolognese?

I sighed. Your distinct lack of enthusiasm for sampling the flotsam and jetsam of our nature walks did not bode well for your appreciation of the essence of baby cockroach. And if I kept it from you, well, that would be a dark secret, a festering sore on the gastronomic soul of our relationship.

Furthermore, if I was willing to eat (and share) baby cockroach, where would it end? If rice-grain sized cockroaches are ok, why not oat flake sized? Or those little German ones? Why not bite the head off a nice, clean, mouse-sized native Australian bush cockroach? Surely they’d taste like gumleaves?

A creepy, crawly, slippery slope.

I fessed up. I ate a cracker, and set another pot to boil. Penne bolognese would suffice.

That was the night I almost served you bugs.

Her: … So have you killed anybody yet?
Me: No… What makes you think I’m in a position to kill anybody?
Her: Oh I don’t know, maybe you prescribed the wrong drugs or something.
Me: No, I’m not actually a doctor yet, I can’t prescribe anything… But hopefully when I’m qualified, I’ll manage to avoid killing anyone.
Her: Well we were watching Doc Martin the other night and there was a locum and he was giving everyone the wrong medications, I don’t think his training was very good. That made me think of you.

Gee, thanks.

At this point, very little is out of the question.

So, I’m taking opportunities where they arise. I’ve signed up for some extra paediatric placements, and take every opportunity I can to see kids in the Emergency Department. I’ll spend some more time in oncology if I can. And a very kind person has arranged for me to spend a couple of days with a team in a sub-specialty of psychiatry, outside of my placement area. I’m excited like it’s an overseas holiday.

I would like an overseas holiday – one thing that IS out of the question.

I do two full days a week of General Practice in a small town a half-hour drive away, half a day in the Emergency Department of my local hospital, a day on campus, and sundry random activities to fill up the rest of my timetable.

The random activities to date have included placements with a dentist, an optometrist and a diabetes educator, a day of oncology, radiology, and a weekend on the labour ward (yay babies). These were all good learning experiences.

It has taken me this long to find my footing in the ED, but I feel like I know now what it is I’m supposed to be doing there. Even better, I have an approximate idea of how to do it.

One day a week, my GP placement feels like utter drudgery. The other day is fine. The practice staff are great, and the GP Registrar in particular makes me feel like I’m part of the team.

The day of utter drudgery is putting me right off General Practice as a career. This is a little disturbing. Rural GP was pretty much the plan from the get-go.

On the upside, there are a couple of patients who I’ve been seeing for repeat visits on mental health matters. Those consultations are definitely my comfort zone.

I’m not at the point of taking GP off the table, but I’m definitely adding dishes to the smorgasbord.