Cogito, ergo sum.
Первое издание уже было в марте 2012 года. Второе вышло на днях - 22 января.
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Аннотация к книге в основном та же, что и к первому изданию:
"Понедельник утром" доктора Санджея Гупты прослеживает жизнь пяти хирургов госпиталя Челси - то, как они расширяют границы своих возможностей и противостоят своим личным и профессиональным неудачам, нередко - представ перед своими коллегами на совещаниях M & M. "Понедельник, утром" - это размышление и самоанализ, который совершается, как правило, наедине с самим собой. "Понедельник, утром" предоставляет уникальный взгляд на подлинный метод, на котором учатся хирурги - на своих ошибках. "Понедельник, утром" - это время, когда, если вам повезет, у вас будет шанс на спасение."
На английском
Monday Mornings, by Dr. Sanjay Gupta, follows the lives of five surgeons at Chelsea General as they push the limits of their abilities and confront their personal and professional failings, often in front of their peers at M & M. It is on Monday mornings that reflection and introspection occurs, usually in private. It is Monday Mornings that provides a unique look at the real method in which surgeons learn - through their mistakes. It is Monday Mornings when, if you're lucky, you have a chance at redemption
(M & M - это не Monday-Mornings, а тематика совещаний: Morbidity and Mortality (заболеваемость и смертность))
Гм ... у Гупты говорится о 5-ти врачах, на обложке - четверо, в основном касте сериала - 8 (???) Непонятно. На обложке первого издания было, действительно, пятеро:
Купить книгу можно ЗДЕСЬ
Ну и самое интересное: если пройтись по этой ссылке и кликнуть по картинке (обложке), то можно прочитать 1-2 главы из книги.
Книга начинается с д-ра Villanueva, к которому поступила пациентка после автомобильной катастрофы. Имя доктора Тая всплывает в конце его разговора со студенткой-практиканткой. Ему нужен нейрохирург для консультации. Появляется Тай - подтвердить диагноз, который поставил герой Винга Реймза.
Отрывок из 1 главы с появлением д-ра Тая - под катом:
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“This young lady has a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. See here, a little disconjugate gaze,” he said.
“Disconju—what?” the med student replied.
“It means her eyes aren’t quite lined up.” Another squint. “Jesus, what are they teaching you these days? You think between the sensitivity training and the financial investment classes, they could teach you some medicine.” The med student blushed. “Oh, and her pupil on the right is larger than the one on the left. It means the aneurysm was pushing on one of the nerves in her brain that controls eye movements.”
“Oh, I get it.” A light went off in the med student’s brain. “The aneurysm ruptured while she was driving. Rendered her unconscious. That’s why she crashed her car…” He trailed off.
“Yes!” Villanueva shouted. “Like I said, she had a bomb go off in her head. Speaking of which, did anyone page Neurosurgery?”
“Yes, Dr. Villanueva,” an unseen female voice answered from across the room.
“Well, where the hell are they?”
“On his way,” the same faceless voice said.
“Which one of those overpaid and underutilized guys is it this time?” Villanueva asked.
“Dr. Wilson.”
Squint.
“Oh boy! I am surprised all you nurses haven’t already run to the powder room to doll up your hair and put on some lipstick,” Villanueva bellowed. “Oh, Dr. Wilson, can I help you, anything at all…really, Dr. Wilson…anything at all.” He had an alarmingly good falsetto.
The nurses giggled and shook their heads.
“Hey,” Villanueva said to the medical student. “Since I taught you all that, why don’t you go and get me a sandwich?” The student looked around, trying to figure out if Villanueva was joking or not. To no one in particular, the doctor called out, “And will someone please page pretty boy Wilson again?”
In a darkened call room, Ty Wilson sat, eyes closed, motionless and very still. There was a window cracked, and the smell of freshly fallen leaves wafted through the air. In the distance, the ripple of the Huron River could be heard. Other than that, the room was absolutely silent. His scrubs were a deep shade of blue, seemingly designed to match Wilson’s eyes. They also fit him perfectly, with no extra folds or wrinkles. He was on his knees, with his back straight as a dead man’s EKG. The neurosurgeon visualized his breath as he inhaled. In through the nose and then around the sinuses. First the maxillary and then the ethmoid sinuses, followed by the frontal sinuses. He visualized the breath going down the trachea, anterior to the esophagus. “About fourteen millimeters anterior to the esophagus,” Wilson had told his therapist.
“I don’t think you necessarily need to go into that level of detail,” the therapist had replied. “Actually…I do,” Wilson said.
Now he visualized the breath making its way into the progressively smaller bronchioles and then slowly getting absorbed into the bloodstream. It was his form of relaxation. Meditation didn’t really fit with his image of being a neurosurgeon, which was why Wilson mainly practiced it in the solitude of the call room. His beeper went off again. Gato needs you. Now.
Wilson opened his eyes, stood and walked out of the room. A minute later, when he pushed through the ER’s swinging doors, he looked every bit like a USC quarterback in to run the two-minute drill and win the game. He was tall and fit, with wavy dark hair and those blue eyes, which had a hypnotic effect on nurses, patients, just about anyone locked in his gaze. Villanueva, as it turned out, was an exception.
“Trauma Bay Eight,” Villanueva called to him. Villanueva glanced down at his beeper, which had just gone off. It said simply, 311. 6.
The medical student had returned with his sandwich and was peering over Villanueva’s shoulder at his beeper.
“What do all those numbers mean?”
Villanueva quickly crammed his pager back on his scrub pant waistband.
“What are you, a spy or something?” Villanueva took the sandwich and started eating, garbling a thank-you through his full mouth.
“No, just trying to learn,” the med student answered. “From the master,” he added, laughing.
Villanueva cackled. “Good, kid, I like that.” He thought about it for a second. “Those numbers represent an invitation to the most secret and best-guarded meetings that ever take place in a hospital,” he whispered. “Every few weeks, a select group of surgeons get together and discuss mistakes.”
The student’s eyes widened. “What kind of mistakes?”
“All kind of mistakes. Morbidity and Mortality, some call it. Others call it Death and Complications. I call it the Someone Effed Up Conference. Capiche?”
“Can I come?” the student asked.
“You one hundred percent, absolutely, without a doubt cannot come,” replied Villanueva. “Did you not hear me when I said this was a secret meeting? Strictly invitation-only. No other doctors, no administrators, and certainly no friggin’ lawyers! This conference is for us, and us only.”
In the trauma bay, Wilson assessed the situation in just a few seconds. As he started to examine the young woman, he agreed with everything Villanueva had said. It was a classic case of chicken-and-egg in the world of neurosurgery. Doctors at many hospitals around the country would have heard the woman’s story and deduced in a matter of moments that the blood in her brain was a result of the car accident. They would also deduce that since she’d been in a single-car crash into a telephone pole, she was trying to kill herself. The truth was far different. The aneurysm, a small blister on the surface of an artery, had suddenly let loose, spraying blood throughout her brain. She had likely felt a sudden thunderclap headache, and within seconds was rendered unconscious. That was why she’d crashed her car. In this case, the aneurysm was the chicken. The car accident was the egg. The science of deduction, and Ty knew there was no one better at it than Villanueva.
Ty’s beeper went off again. Like Villanueva’s, it read 311. 6. He took the message like a punch, sucking in air involuntarily. Tomorrow morning, he was going to be where no doctor at Chelsea General wanted to be. Ty forced himself to breathe out slowly, then caught Villanueva’s eye across the room. He wanted to see if the trauma chief had gotten the page. One glance at Villanueva’s expression of near pity, and Ty knew he had. Damn, Ty thought. The last thing he wanted was the fat man feeling sorry for him.
Villanueva muttered to himself, “Poor bastard.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Источник
На обложке - знакомые лица:
читать дальшеИспользовано это промо-фото:
«Промо-фото» на Яндекс.Фотках
Аннотация к книге в основном та же, что и к первому изданию:
"Понедельник утром" доктора Санджея Гупты прослеживает жизнь пяти хирургов госпиталя Челси - то, как они расширяют границы своих возможностей и противостоят своим личным и профессиональным неудачам, нередко - представ перед своими коллегами на совещаниях M & M. "Понедельник, утром" - это размышление и самоанализ, который совершается, как правило, наедине с самим собой. "Понедельник, утром" предоставляет уникальный взгляд на подлинный метод, на котором учатся хирурги - на своих ошибках. "Понедельник, утром" - это время, когда, если вам повезет, у вас будет шанс на спасение."
На английском
Monday Mornings, by Dr. Sanjay Gupta, follows the lives of five surgeons at Chelsea General as they push the limits of their abilities and confront their personal and professional failings, often in front of their peers at M & M. It is on Monday mornings that reflection and introspection occurs, usually in private. It is Monday Mornings that provides a unique look at the real method in which surgeons learn - through their mistakes. It is Monday Mornings when, if you're lucky, you have a chance at redemption
(M & M - это не Monday-Mornings, а тематика совещаний: Morbidity and Mortality (заболеваемость и смертность))
Гм ... у Гупты говорится о 5-ти врачах, на обложке - четверо, в основном касте сериала - 8 (???) Непонятно. На обложке первого издания было, действительно, пятеро:
Купить книгу можно ЗДЕСЬ
Ну и самое интересное: если пройтись по этой ссылке и кликнуть по картинке (обложке), то можно прочитать 1-2 главы из книги.
Книга начинается с д-ра Villanueva, к которому поступила пациентка после автомобильной катастрофы. Имя доктора Тая всплывает в конце его разговора со студенткой-практиканткой. Ему нужен нейрохирург для консультации. Появляется Тай - подтвердить диагноз, который поставил герой Винга Реймза.
Отрывок из 1 главы с появлением д-ра Тая - под катом:
читать дальше
“This young lady has a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. See here, a little disconjugate gaze,” he said.
“Disconju—what?” the med student replied.
“It means her eyes aren’t quite lined up.” Another squint. “Jesus, what are they teaching you these days? You think between the sensitivity training and the financial investment classes, they could teach you some medicine.” The med student blushed. “Oh, and her pupil on the right is larger than the one on the left. It means the aneurysm was pushing on one of the nerves in her brain that controls eye movements.”
“Oh, I get it.” A light went off in the med student’s brain. “The aneurysm ruptured while she was driving. Rendered her unconscious. That’s why she crashed her car…” He trailed off.
“Yes!” Villanueva shouted. “Like I said, she had a bomb go off in her head. Speaking of which, did anyone page Neurosurgery?”
“Yes, Dr. Villanueva,” an unseen female voice answered from across the room.
“Well, where the hell are they?”
“On his way,” the same faceless voice said.
“Which one of those overpaid and underutilized guys is it this time?” Villanueva asked.
“Dr. Wilson.”
Squint.
“Oh boy! I am surprised all you nurses haven’t already run to the powder room to doll up your hair and put on some lipstick,” Villanueva bellowed. “Oh, Dr. Wilson, can I help you, anything at all…really, Dr. Wilson…anything at all.” He had an alarmingly good falsetto.
The nurses giggled and shook their heads.
“Hey,” Villanueva said to the medical student. “Since I taught you all that, why don’t you go and get me a sandwich?” The student looked around, trying to figure out if Villanueva was joking or not. To no one in particular, the doctor called out, “And will someone please page pretty boy Wilson again?”
In a darkened call room, Ty Wilson sat, eyes closed, motionless and very still. There was a window cracked, and the smell of freshly fallen leaves wafted through the air. In the distance, the ripple of the Huron River could be heard. Other than that, the room was absolutely silent. His scrubs were a deep shade of blue, seemingly designed to match Wilson’s eyes. They also fit him perfectly, with no extra folds or wrinkles. He was on his knees, with his back straight as a dead man’s EKG. The neurosurgeon visualized his breath as he inhaled. In through the nose and then around the sinuses. First the maxillary and then the ethmoid sinuses, followed by the frontal sinuses. He visualized the breath going down the trachea, anterior to the esophagus. “About fourteen millimeters anterior to the esophagus,” Wilson had told his therapist.
“I don’t think you necessarily need to go into that level of detail,” the therapist had replied. “Actually…I do,” Wilson said.
Now he visualized the breath making its way into the progressively smaller bronchioles and then slowly getting absorbed into the bloodstream. It was his form of relaxation. Meditation didn’t really fit with his image of being a neurosurgeon, which was why Wilson mainly practiced it in the solitude of the call room. His beeper went off again. Gato needs you. Now.
Wilson opened his eyes, stood and walked out of the room. A minute later, when he pushed through the ER’s swinging doors, he looked every bit like a USC quarterback in to run the two-minute drill and win the game. He was tall and fit, with wavy dark hair and those blue eyes, which had a hypnotic effect on nurses, patients, just about anyone locked in his gaze. Villanueva, as it turned out, was an exception.
“Trauma Bay Eight,” Villanueva called to him. Villanueva glanced down at his beeper, which had just gone off. It said simply, 311. 6.
The medical student had returned with his sandwich and was peering over Villanueva’s shoulder at his beeper.
“What do all those numbers mean?”
Villanueva quickly crammed his pager back on his scrub pant waistband.
“What are you, a spy or something?” Villanueva took the sandwich and started eating, garbling a thank-you through his full mouth.
“No, just trying to learn,” the med student answered. “From the master,” he added, laughing.
Villanueva cackled. “Good, kid, I like that.” He thought about it for a second. “Those numbers represent an invitation to the most secret and best-guarded meetings that ever take place in a hospital,” he whispered. “Every few weeks, a select group of surgeons get together and discuss mistakes.”
The student’s eyes widened. “What kind of mistakes?”
“All kind of mistakes. Morbidity and Mortality, some call it. Others call it Death and Complications. I call it the Someone Effed Up Conference. Capiche?”
“Can I come?” the student asked.
“You one hundred percent, absolutely, without a doubt cannot come,” replied Villanueva. “Did you not hear me when I said this was a secret meeting? Strictly invitation-only. No other doctors, no administrators, and certainly no friggin’ lawyers! This conference is for us, and us only.”
In the trauma bay, Wilson assessed the situation in just a few seconds. As he started to examine the young woman, he agreed with everything Villanueva had said. It was a classic case of chicken-and-egg in the world of neurosurgery. Doctors at many hospitals around the country would have heard the woman’s story and deduced in a matter of moments that the blood in her brain was a result of the car accident. They would also deduce that since she’d been in a single-car crash into a telephone pole, she was trying to kill herself. The truth was far different. The aneurysm, a small blister on the surface of an artery, had suddenly let loose, spraying blood throughout her brain. She had likely felt a sudden thunderclap headache, and within seconds was rendered unconscious. That was why she’d crashed her car. In this case, the aneurysm was the chicken. The car accident was the egg. The science of deduction, and Ty knew there was no one better at it than Villanueva.
Ty’s beeper went off again. Like Villanueva’s, it read 311. 6. He took the message like a punch, sucking in air involuntarily. Tomorrow morning, he was going to be where no doctor at Chelsea General wanted to be. Ty forced himself to breathe out slowly, then caught Villanueva’s eye across the room. He wanted to see if the trauma chief had gotten the page. One glance at Villanueva’s expression of near pity, and Ty knew he had. Damn, Ty thought. The last thing he wanted was the fat man feeling sorry for him.
Villanueva muttered to himself, “Poor bastard.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Источник
@темы: Monday Mornings, Новости