I was not prepared for my last day of fellowship. I had vague good intentions of buying lollies or chocolates for various groups: the PMH MRI techs, the TGH US techs, the PMH breast techs… But we’d over booked ourselves over the Pride weekend, and 2 last days at work that followed and I ended up following my routine of waking up a few minutes before 7 am, showering, eating a few mouthfuls of porridge, catching the elevator to ground and grabbing a share bicycle.
I paid extra attention to the traffic cutting past me on Bloor St, a main East-West artery for traffic at any time of day in Toronto. It would be bad form to get hit by a car and killed on my last day. I wished I’d got around to purchasing a helmet. I was glad it was overcast and not a picture-perfect day; I would’ve felt sadness and regret otherwise. I quietly wished for more miserable weather so we felt glad to leave for Australia next week.
Work was busy and the day dragged on for what felt longer than normal. Jenn and I ordered pizza delivery for lunch, stupidly at lunchtime so had to wait 90 minutes for it to get made and delivered. I was hungry by 2 pm when somebody indiscrete shouted across a waiting area of melancholic patients, fasting for abdominal imaging scans, “WHO ORDERED PIZZA!?”.
At 16:36 one of the MR techs who is not accredited to inject the IV buscopan for body MR scans, rang the reporting room and said, “Injection!” Despite 2 years of me answering the phone with, “Abdo MRI, Dr Lo speaking,” or some variation she never caught on to the base professional and most useful ISOBAR-like expectation I have for people who call me at work. Firstly, identify yourself… Then maybe ask a question as an actual sentence and state where you are calling from, if it’s about a patient giving the name or UMRN… She always said one of only two things: “Check!” or, “Injection!” I don’t think she cares that she isn’t the only person who rings that phone or that the Abdo Fellow who answers it is not a Pavlovian Dog answering to a call bell. I always intended to take a cheque book, and tear one off for her, instead of checking the monitored pelvic MR scan on table. She asked, “Are you happy to be leaving us?” either fishing for compliments or being suddenly insightful. “What do you think?” was all I could reply. I had been unable to get into the MRI scanner because, at 16:30, hospital security decided to revoke my ID swipe badge access, even though I had an hour left to be at work. Seriously. My last case as an overseas fellow and I’m booted to the kerb before the working day is even over.