Attention staff!

I made myself some tea this morning.

If I catch the person who filled the little lemon juice thing with Tabasco sauce, your ass is FIRED!

Wednesday Afternoon

(Lady with bad hair comes in, stands at front counter)

Mary: "Can I help you?''

Mrs. Badhair: "What suite is this?"

Mary: "405."

Mrs. Badhair: "Where is 507?"

Mary: "Upstairs, on the 5th floor."

Mrs. Badhair: "Does this building have 9 floors?"

Mary: "Um, no. Just 6 floors."

Mrs. Badhair: "That's weird. Because the parking garage across the street only has 4 floors."

Mary: "Um... Yes it does. But this office building has 6 floors."

Mrs. Badhair: "There are cars in the parking garage, too."

Mary: "It's a parking garage."

Mrs. Badhair: "Well, yeah!"

And she walked out.

Confused, possibly hallucinating. Not incontinent yet.

Dr. Grumpy: "I think your condition will either get better, worse, or stay the same."

Mr. Patient: "Doc, that sounded really stupid."

Dr. Grumpy: "Um, yes, it did. Let me rephrase that."

Kate's Desk

This story is absolutely true, as hard as it may be to believe. It happened roughly 10 years ago, when I had a secretary named Kate. I was reminded of it by a post a while back on Fast Food Pharmacy.


Kate: "Dr. Grumpy's office, this is Kate."

Mr. Collie: "Yeah, does Dr. Grumpy treat seizures?"

Kate: "Yes, he does."

Mr. Collie: "Then I'd like to make an appointment for my son."

Kate: "Okay, what's his insurance?"

Mr. Collie: "He doesn't have any, we'll pay cash."

Kate: "Okay, what's his name?"

Mr. Collie: "Wind. I guess, Wind Collie"

Kate: "Okay, and how old is Wind?"

Mr. Collie: "He's 7."

Kate: "Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Grumpy doesn't see anyone under 18."

Mr. Collie: "Well it's, uh, more like he's an adult, because he's 49 in human years."

Kate: "WHAT! You mean he's a dog?"

Mr. Collie: "No. Ummm... Well, sort of, I mean... Yes."

Kate: "You'll need to take him to a vet, sir."

Mr. Collie: "I don't like our vet. Can't you guys just see him?"

Kate: "No, sir. We only treat people."

Mr. Collie: "That's ridiculous." (hangs up)


Kate quit 3 days later.

Department of Redundancy Department

"I'm being treated for depression, because it's really depressing to be depressed."

Calendar WTF?

Dr. Grumpy: "How often do you miss a medication dose?"

Mr. Gregorian: "Um... Once a month. So in a given year, it would vary depending on the months in a year... so I'd say I miss 8-14 doses per year, depending on that year's calender".

Come on, I hadn't even had a Diet Coke yet

While reviewing notes on patients coming in today, I discovered the following in a hospital discharge summary:

"The patient was seen by Dr. Grumpy. He was confused, incontinent, and hallucinating at the time."

So you came here instead

Dr. Grumpy: "What can I do for you, sir?"

Mr. Orchid: "My balls hurt. And my di..., um, penis, does, too."

Dr. Grumpy: "Have you seen a urologist?"

Mr. Orchid: "No. My internist told me to, but I was too embarrassed to call one. So I thought I'd start here."

Once upon a time...

Okay, everybody, let's take the Way-Back Machine to the early 1990's, when 4th year medical student Dr. Grumpy is interviewing for residency.


After medical school, young docklings go off to residency in our chosen fields.

But before we get into residency (through a mysterious process called "the match") we go off on interviews. Just like any other job.

I did my share of these interviews, traveling to 7 neurology programs in the early 90's to peddle my wares. These aren't quite as stressful as medical school interviews (for those you're begging them to take you, while for residency they need you & you need them, so both sides are trying in impress each other).

And this is the story of my least impressive interview:

I'd flown into the city the night before, and spent a relaxing night at a Motel 6.

The interview instructions said I was to begin by attending the Shitzenfuk Hospital Neurology conference at 7:30 a.m. This was several miles from the residency program's main hospital. And they actually told me to "ask around when you get there, and find a doctor willing to drive you back to our offices after the meeting".

So I took a cab from my motel to the hospital, and found the auditorium. Here I am, in a strange city, dragging my overnight bag around, with a bunch of docs who I don't know and who don't know me, and I'm walking around trying to bum a ride. Finally, after several looked at me like I was a sexual predator, one finally said. "Okay, I'm heading that way. I guess I can give you a ride."

Guess what? He turned out to be the freakin' chairman of the program I was interviewing at! He'd signed the letter telling me to bum a ride. You'd think he could have offered initially, since he knew I'd be there, but no.

So we walk out to his car. Mind you, I'm not a car person. I don't expect doctors to be driving expensive things (my own car is a 2000 Nissan), but was still shocked by Dr. Chairman's mean set of wheels.

It was an early 70's Japanese something. Missing the right front fender. The trunk was half open, held down by a bungee cord threaded through a rust-hole.

I opened the passenger door. And a pile of empty soda cans, newspapers, fast food containers, orange peels, and heaven knows what else, fell out. Dr. Chairman said "sorry, let me clear that off" and began chucking the pile of garbage into the back seat (which was already covered with trash).

And off we went. It was December, and cold. My window was open. I tried rolling it up, but he said, "there's no window there, it broke years ago." The heat didn't work, either. So I was shivering away, with my overnight bag on my lap (no space for it anywhere else in the car). I hoped his driving skills were better than his car-care talents, because my seatbelt didn't work.

So we got to Neurology HQ. Where Ms. Bitchy at the desk (Dr. Chairman abandoned me as soon as we walked in) claimed I hadn't been invited for an interview, even when I showed her my letter. Eventually she realized she was looking at the previous week's schedule, and blamed me for having handed her the wrong schedule (which she'd actually pulled out of her own damn desk).

Then it was time for my tour of the esteemed facilities. Ms. Bitchy directed me down a hall, and told me someone would meet me there.

Fortunately, one did. It was a nice guy named Pete, who (allegedly) was the chief resident. We talked for a minute in the middle of the building's lobby, which had white pillars everywhere, and halls leading in different directions.

After giving me a brief summary of the areas we'd be going to, Pete said, "It's a beautiful hospital. Follow me." He then turned around and walked straight into a pillar, breaking his glasses.

I helped Pete up, while some other guys in white coats ran over to try and stop the blood now pouring out of his nose.

As they led him away, Pete told me to wait in the lobby. A few minutes later Ms. Bitchy showed up, leading a girl in scrubs who'd apparently been on call the night before, and looked (understandably) less then enthusiastic about showing me around. It was a pretty quick tour.

Afterwards I had an interview with a doctor, who used most of our interview time to return patient calls. He also called Mastercard to argue about some charges, which he blamed on his ex-wife.

Then it was (per the schedule) lunch with the residents. None showed up. It was me and 3 attending physicians. Ms. Bitchy, the secretary-from-hell, had only ordered 3 lunches. She gave one to each of the doctors, and told me where I could find the hospital cafeteria.

I just went hungry, and spoke to the doctors. One of them told me he thought the newfangled MRA technology was a passing fad.

Then it was another interview. This time with Dr. Chairman of the crappy car. Who'd inexplicably left for the day. No one knew where he'd gone, or why.

Thus ended the interview. Ms. Bitchy told me she'd arrange a ride for me back to the airport, but given her remarkable organizational skills displayed thus far, I declined. She wouldn't let me use the phone on her desk, so I found a pay phone and called a cab.

I ranked them last. I have no idea where they ranked me. And no, I didn't go there.

Mother's day is over! Get back to work!

From May, 1955.

Put down the club, honey, I'm just joking. Really. Now put it down.

(click to enlarge)

Mother's Day at the Grumpy House

Mrs. Grumpy: "Aw, Frank! You made me a friendship bracelet! How sweet!"

Frank: "I didn't make it. I found it in Mrs. Leverton's garbage can."


AND


Marie wrote a card, with this line: "Dear Mom, I apreshat all of the things you do. Like when I don't get to the bathroom in time. The next thing I apreshat is that you make dinner good."

Doc, can we stop for some water?

This morning I was doing an internet survey on Multiple Sclerosis. If featured this question:


"Which of the following in-office gait evaluations do you routinely do on Multiple Sclerosis patients during their appointments:

A. Timed 25 foot walk.

B. Timed 10 meter walk.

C. Timed 500 meter walk."


(If any doctor out there has an office hallway long enough (or even the time!) to do C, you should probably consider downsizing a bit).

Why I'm a neurologist, Reason #27

Because if someone ever decides to make a statue of my greatness, I REALLY don't want it to look like this:




Thank you to my reader Mark, for sending this in.

Skool Nerse Time

This is Mrs. Grumpy.


Kid: "Nurse, I feel dizzy."

Nurse Grumpy: "When did this start?"

Kid: "A minute ago on the playground. It's better now. I'm not dizzy, 'cause it's gone. But I feel like I might get dizzy again, at any second."

Nurse Grumpy: "What were you doing when this started?"

Kid: "Me and Jamie were spinning around, to make ourselves dizzy."