’Twas the night before Grand Round …
’Twas the night before Grand Round, when all through the Walton
not a creature was stirring, not even the matron.
The nurses were waiting on the ward in despair
with hopes that the registrar soon would be there.
This educated, thirty-three-year-old chap
had just been admitted after a minor mishap.
The gent had fallen whilst out for a jog
and awoke the next morning, his left leg like a log.
Before his admission he had been so well
With no past history on which we can dwell.
No family history for us to try to link
but had eleven pack-years and took the occasional drink.
A pain in his groin he was suffering
He described as dull and not like a sting
“What a miserable way to spend my Christmas vacation.”
The man remarked using “double air quotation”.
He talked of his issue with sensory supply
noting the numbness of his anterior thigh.
Spreading over his knee and down to his calf
I asked “Which side?”, he said “The medial half.”
Then out on the ward there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my exam to see what was t’matter.
Away to the door it’s our neuro main man
pulling back the curtain, to reveal Dr Doran.
His eyes — how they twinkled!…