This Is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Young Doctor

by Adam Kay

I notice that every patient on the ward has a pulse of 60 recorded in the observation chart so I surreptitiously inspect the health-care assistant’s measurement technique. He feels the patient’s pulse, looks at his watch, and meticulously counts the number of seconds per minute.

“Apricot stones contain cyanide,” he replies drily. “The death cap mushroom has a fifty percent fatality rate. Natural does not equal safe. There’s a plant in my garden that if you simply sat under it for ten minutes, you’d be dead.” Job done; she tosses the tablets. I ask him about that plant over a colonoscopy later. “Water lily.”

the depth of the lows is the price you pay for the height of the highs.

The other miracle of childbirth is that I can put metal forceps on a baby’s head and lean backward—applying fifty pounds of traction force on it, generally getting a sweat on—and the baby comes out absolutely fine rather than, as you might expect, decapitated.

The other thing I realize is that none of her many, many concerns are about herself; it’s all about the kids, her husband, her sister, her friends. Maybe that’s the definition of a good person.

You don’t cure depression, the same way you don’t cure asthma; you manage it. I’m the inhaler he’s decided to go with and I should be pleased he’s gone this long without an attack.

Christ knows we need people to go into it with both eyes open. So I told them the truth: the hours are terrible, the pay is terrible, the conditions are terrible; you’re underappreciated, unsupported, disrespected, and frequently physically endangered. But there’s no better job in the world.