Bourbon

It's my first day on a new rotation—rheumatology clinic, with the attending physician who, I hear, crafts awful puns on the fly and lives for his so-called no-delta visits, his social time with his endless panel of stable arthritis patients. I log in to the health record, with the MS-DOS interface that hearkens back to my days as a 5-year-old booting up our computer with those big floppy disks. I'm greeted by a few notifications on the patients I cared for last month on the wards. A few consults completed, a few laboratory test results that I forward to the inpatient team. One notification catches my eye, a canceled laboratory order for Clostridium difficile. I chuckle—we all knew he didn't have C difficile. With the chemotherapy regimen that he was prescribed, he had plenty of other reasons to have diarrhea. I double-click, curious as to why it took this long for the laboratory to finally cancel this weeks-old order.

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