Another psychiatry experience today. This man hallucinates fisherman turning into giant frogs. He describes smells coming to attack him. He was jealous of his brother’s success so set fire to his mother’s house. He tells us all of this while smiling. He says that his sister, who died years ago from GI cancer, visits him in recurring dreams. She keeps trying to have sex with him, he says. He’s missing a leg. Really ‘missing’ it, as in, can’t remember where it went. His file says that after setting fire to his mother’s house, he attacked his guards in prison and they shot him in the knee. No heroic measures were taken to save the limb.
All of that sounds interesting except I can’t focus on any of it. There’s a patient in the courtyard outside the window whose been playing the guitar for the last two hours. He’s a very good player and singer. I wish I were outside and far away from this guy’s problems.
I told my roommates today that I was very close to ruling out psych altogether. They all laughed at that: “Like you could ever be a psychiatrist.” I’m not offended by this at all because it’s just so completely true.