Of the zillion appendages that attire a doctor (flapping tourniquets, plastic ID badges, and battered stethoscopes), I believe passwords warrant some further attention. It's these little wonders which, in the frantic whirlwind of medicine, afford the doctor something unique: one, access to computer systems; two, something more, much more.
Passwords offer escapism — one split second of detachment from the world of smelly dinners and high pitched bleeps — seven/eight/nine letters entirely of your choosing, whose significance is known to you alone. These precious letters could be personal, calling to mind a lost relative, a lover, a favourite pet, a (backed) winning race-horse, an exotic holiday, a childhood haunt, a word of prayer. Or, for the academics among you, a mathematical formula, a chemical element, a word in translation that helps you keep up your foreign language skills. Maybe they're provocative letters, a nickname reworking of your least favourite consultant or a memorable expletive.
This may be pushing the boat out but I've one last levy of praise to add to the theme. Even your logon can be exciting — a fancy rejuggling of your initials and surname can concoct something exotic out of something extraordinarily simple. I've actually become quite fond of my ‘elinga’. Its got a ring to it.
And so I propose this. Next time you log onto pathology to see whether X's renal function has improved or onto radiology to see whether that bizarre CT scan of Y has at last been reported, afford yourself a treat. Take a deep breath and let your mind actually relish the seven/eight/nine letters that trickle out from your fingertips.
- © British Journal of General Practice, 2010.
