Teamwork

What Teamwork Really Means

Teamwork is one of the most overused words in medicine.

It appears in job descriptions. In appraisal forms. In interview questions. In mission statements. Everyone claims to value it.

But I have learnt that there are two versions of teamwork.

There is the cosmetic version — where one person quietly does most of the work to keep the system afloat while others attach their names to the outcome.

And then there is the real version.

The version surgery was built on.

I saw the real version one ordinary day.

Orthopaedics in Britain has long been stereotyped as a sporting specialty. Rugby-playing types. “Strong as an ox and half as clever.” The cliché persists even though the modern reality is far more nuanced. But embedded within that sporting stereotype is something useful — a team ethic.

In trauma meetings, that team ethic is tested.

Every morning, cases are presented. X-rays projected. Decisions scrutinised. Registrars are questioned in front of peers. The atmosphere can oscillate between rigorous and ruthless.

There is a certain transparency in good trauma meetings. You are told where you are below standard. You are expected to improve. That is healthy.

But sometimes consultants take it too far. Humiliation masquerading as education. Cowardice disguised as authority. It is easy to be harsh when you are in a position of strength.

True teamwork reveals itself not in public grilling but in private action.

On this particular day, I had an important meeting with my academic supervisor at lunchtime — my end-of-placement review. I had prepared thoroughly. Portfolio updated. Evidence organised. Reflections written. I was ready.

I had structured my morning carefully to ensure all clinical work was complete before the meeting. Every patient reviewed. Blood results checked. Documentation updated.

Organisation was my armour.

Then my clinical supervisor walked into the hospital.

“I’d like to do a quick ward round.”

Unplanned.

Unavoidable.

And perfectly timed to derail my schedule.

I knew immediately what this meant. The ward round would eat into the margin I had built. I would be late for my academic meeting. Being late would not look good. It would suggest disorganisation — the very opposite of what I had worked to demonstrate.

I had a choice.

I could ask someone else to accompany him.

Or I could do it myself.

But I was the most prepared person. I had the full patient list, complete with blood results already updated. I knew every case.

So we went round together.

As we reviewed one patient, my clinical supervisor asked for an urgent blood test. The phlebotomists had already completed their rounds. Which meant the task would fall to me.

I felt the clock tighten.

I would need to draw the blood. Label the bottles. Ensure they reached the lab. And still make it to my meeting on time.

There wasn’t enough time.

I explained the situation — calmly but clearly. I had a fixed academic meeting that could not be missed.

He listened.

Then he asked a nurse to prepare the equipment while we saw another patient.