The father brought him along with three other children. He had cut himself in the forehead playing with sharp and dangerous farm implements.
As I handed him the bill he said, “Doctor, can I have my cotton ball back?” I handed it to him and asked, “What do you want it for?” He responded, “Well, everything is so loud now.” Guess I'll be seeing him back in a couple of years.Īnother time I came in after hours on a weekend to sew up a seven-year-old Amish child. After my nurse did extensive lavage, I rechecked the canal and found it clear. I checked the ear and it was indeed packed with cotton and wax.
Well, except for shooting orange seeds at the lecturer and scoring points for accuracy, but that will have to wait for another article.Īn Amish man came in with a chief complaint of having his “right ear blocked for two years.” He had a big piece of cotton stuck in the ear after trying “sweet oil” and other natural remedies. This made for some of the funniest moments I will ever remember in class. To actually collect, the winner had to yell out the word ZINGO so that all in the room could hear it. I use the word “potential” here since simply having a winning card was only the first step in collecting the pot of Zingo money. It may have taken a few lectures or maybe even a few days, but when a card holder had a vertical, horizontal, or diagonal line covered by X's he was a potential winner. For without them, we would never have had Zingo!Īnytime one of the Zingo-ites bleated out a question or comment, whoever had them on their card would scratch an X over their name. We had roughly 20 of these and I loved every one of them. These were the guys and girls who just liked to hear the sound of their own voices and who would ask inane questions or make ridiculously obvious comments for no good reason at all.
No, these were the most special of the 212! These were the few, the proud, the PAINS IN THE ASS! You know whom I mean. Of course, these students had no idea they were actually game pieces in our little adventure. Instead of a grid of random numbers, we placed in each box the name of one of our classmates. We would draw up little cardboard playing cards and for a mere dollar ( remember, we were medical students) one could purchase a card.
It was very much like its semi-namesake Bingo. Say hello to Lecture Hall Zingo! Zingo was a game that anyone who was so inclined could play. Even the most energetic ( in other words, the ass kissers) of the 212 would be hard-pressed to stay conscious during one of these snore fests! So we, the most innovative of the 212, came up with a way to hold interest while these PhD's droned on about matters that would bore the most hardcore member of the NIH. But along with those, thrown in by well-intentioned curriculum engineers, were the once a week “blow offs” like public health and medical jurisprudence. We had our share of the “big ones,” anatomy, physiology, biochemistry et al. Sitting in plastic chairs in the dark room, lit only by the lecturer's slides (in the pre-Power Point era), we often struggled for ways to maintain interest and to basically stay awake. We were like 212 large sponges absorbing every bit of knowledge, useful or useless, that was thrown our way. Back in my medical school days I recall sitting and listening to seemingly endless lectures from faculty members in the huge tiered classroom that was my world for years one and two.
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