Saturday, January 31, 2004
Reality is a Cruel Master
and that is all that needs to be said.
and that is all that needs to be said.
Friday, January 30, 2004
The Late Shift
My last shift at this hospital today. Now that it's over and I'm coming back down, it feels rather anti-climatic. The highlight of the moment was two drunk kids in the confinement room unexpectedly becoming aggressive and violent. The two security blokes weren't able to pin them down and I jumped forwards and put one of them in an arm lock (odd. it just came out of nowhere). we had them pinned to the wall for a while but they still broke loose, and in the scuffle I accidentally lost my spectacles (they're rather loose). I suppose the flying specs must have made everyone think I'd taken a blow to the head and everyone started frenziedly trying to rescue my specs to my rather weak calls of "I don't really need them, really!" (mild astigmatism, the specs are really more an aide than a neccessity). The matron nudged me hard when police arrived and asked if i'd been struck, but in my typical slightly dim-witted manner I said, well no I dropped my spectacles.
And they're still in one piece too dammit. I coulda got new specs paid for by the NHS.
ah well.
******
Sunday was good for me. I woke up and attended service at a CoE cathedral, had breakfast, audited in Borders, then attended mass along Tottenham Court street.
I suppose my life's history entitles me to attend both, really. And the rulebooks don't make the services mutually exclusive (shock horrow. how many of you knew that?) only that I cannot now take communion at a protestant church.
Once upon a time I hated that idea, and felt that Catholics were isolating themselves and putting themselves on a pedestal.
In the aftermath of the gay-schism in the anglican church, I begin to comprehend it a little better.
Communion. The meaning of the word - togetherness -- has been lost to history. Jesus called us all to break his body and drink his blood - together.
Today, we still do those things, in memory of him - alone. Apart, from other churches. Apart, from other denominations. Apart, from any other brand-name but our own.
The protestant movements make weak efforts to appear united, but the harsh reality is they stand alone. And as time passes, their quests for unique identities broaden the divides between them - and the Catholic church still more.
Communion?
Attending both service and mass in a day reminded me of all the things I loved about the Anglican church, and the things I have come to appreciate about the Catholic church.
It is said that the Catholics are too mired in ritual to understand, too used to being sheep to think critically.
It is said that the protestants are too persistent in change and progressiveness to remember the "old ways", and that they have lost their focus.
Both, I believe to be true.
Yet at the same time, listening to a humourous and intelligent, analytical sermon at Langham church, I couldn't help but think -- they do it so, so much better here. The preachers at anglican churches - in london at least, explain. They are teachers. They seek ways to make things personal to their audience, they touch heartstrings. They tell you the Why and the Wherefore about the readings - they tell you what the words meant, what happened in the old days, why Jesus / his apostle / Solomon (Ecclesiastes) said what he / they did, and what it really meant.
But I couldn't help noticing how the rest of the service, the endless upbeat "hymns" (which had a church warden doing the cha-cha in the corner), the serenely beautiful songs by the choir - were all feel-good window-dressing. Were they a celebration of the story of Jesus? Or were they just catchy words with catchy tunes? Is it truly adulation to ecstatically repeat Jesus, we love you, God, we love you, you are my rock? Or is it... in a strange way... consumerism? What does it remind us? Aside from that we are happy now.
Mass was a whole different flavour. The hymns calm, solomn, and slightly ancient - and also rather unimportant.
The structure of the mass, the profession of faith, confessing of sins -- all these tell the story of Jesus, and God. Every week, retold; to the numbed part-time Catholic, just words to bounce off the subconsciousness into oblivion, just ritual. To the listener -- reminders. Lest ye forget. And sobre reminders that we are NOT good. We are not wonderful. And we do NOT deserve. But yet we are given - be grateful. We are not happy - we are sorry.
And yet at the same time, the sermon was insipid and wholly insufficient. Almost just another reading, with a weak, and short reminder why the words should be relevant to us. No explanations Why, no explanations wherefore. Just a short parable on What we should do, which left me struggling to understand the reading. Which left me asking - "how did that tie in with the reading?".
No engaging and keen analysis there, just words. Ritual.
Ironically, the keenly analytical mindset of the protestants has led to justifications - why the church does condone Gay marriages, why we should be different. Why the old ways are dead. Why we should do this new thing, this new way. Why........
Somewhere along the line, much has been forgotten, or erased. We have become more important than God's word, and God.
The crosses in anglican churches lie stark, unadorned of the figure of Jesus. Yet in the stained-glass windows, if anyone cares to look - he is there, on his cross. The saints are there, some of them anyway. In the older churches. Sometimes mother Mary is there. How came it that Mary, so prominent in the liturgy (the Hail Mary) was completely erased from protestant memory -- and turned almost into a derisive figure of hate to use against the Catholics? "Mary worshippers, misguided. Praying to Mary." etc -- I've been there myself. I was anglican once, too. I firmly held the same convictions with quiet apathy, like I'm sure, the rest of my peers.
And yet at the Catholic churches, individuals do go to mass with the sole intention of touching the figurine of St Anthony at the end of it all. Blinded in the reverance for an individual, from the greater Glory of God. Blind in their quest for succouring salvation to the story that plays out, every mass, in the words they solemnly intone.
Taking communion in an Anglican church was always strange to me. Something that happened once a month, something that seemed almost unnecessary -- after all, it's the thought that counts, more than the deed isn't it? Isn't that why the cross, and not the crucifiction? Isn't that why the suit, and not the robe? Isn't that why...
Taking communion in a Catholic church is humbling. I don't know why, but it's a long pause for repentence. For memory. And for hope. Maybe it's because it lasts so, so long. Maybe it's because the hymns are so, so muted and so sad when communion is received. Maybe it's simply beause the answer to "isn't that why..." is simply -- Because.
I don't know where this ramble goes, except that I feel that there is much Goodness in both churches. And that there is God in both churches.
Whether, at the end of days God will think the same, I do not know.
Whether, at the end of days God will forgive, or condemn for forgetting, or not moving on, none of us can possibly say.
I only wish that both sides of the coin could learn from each other. And perhaps, one day there may be steps towards unification -- instead of more autonomy-motivated schisims.
Christianity (and here I include Catholicism) Isn't a brand name.
It's not about us. It's not about the consumers, or the customers. It's not about bending it around the wills, and evils of men.
It's about Him. It's about Then. It's about why Today, we have today. It's about hope for the future -- not hope for today.
Today, will be as today is. Today I will sleep. And I will wake, and I will go back to London, bearing half my room on my back. Perhaps the other half will follow me the day after.
Today, I may write forlornly again about You, today I may bump into You unexpectedly, or I might not. And another today, I might, or might not.
Tomorrow, I will die - and God willing, I will die into life.
And before any of you dimwits text or call me to say don't kill yourself tomorrow!! Read it again. Metaphorically.
********
Some nutter wrote fanmail to DrGoat (he told me!) expressing her admiration for his way with words.
He's asked me to write here :
DrGoat doesn't have a way with words.
It's really very easy - you just make it up as you go along.
Think in terms of images, then paint the images to the screen, choosing words as your colours.
That's all DrGoat does. He isn't a lyricist. He isn't a poet. He isn't a songwriter, or a performer. He doesn't have any particular skill or talent. He just tries to turn the pictures in his head into words. Which is probably why, so often he employs almost-oxymorons -- because reality is not simple. Because sometimes words are not enough.
When words are not enough (thirty seagulls standing forlornly on a frozen lake), he takes a picture.
And rarely, when pictures are not enough, he sears a memory that lasts a lifetime into his mind. (a trailing strand of hair caressing the upturned corner of a subtle smile, on gently inclined head; eyes -normally bursting with life and humour - shut in momentary serenity - trailing still further down to lie upon a gently feminine neck)
My last shift at this hospital today. Now that it's over and I'm coming back down, it feels rather anti-climatic. The highlight of the moment was two drunk kids in the confinement room unexpectedly becoming aggressive and violent. The two security blokes weren't able to pin them down and I jumped forwards and put one of them in an arm lock (odd. it just came out of nowhere). we had them pinned to the wall for a while but they still broke loose, and in the scuffle I accidentally lost my spectacles (they're rather loose). I suppose the flying specs must have made everyone think I'd taken a blow to the head and everyone started frenziedly trying to rescue my specs to my rather weak calls of "I don't really need them, really!" (mild astigmatism, the specs are really more an aide than a neccessity). The matron nudged me hard when police arrived and asked if i'd been struck, but in my typical slightly dim-witted manner I said, well no I dropped my spectacles.
And they're still in one piece too dammit. I coulda got new specs paid for by the NHS.
ah well.
******
Sunday was good for me. I woke up and attended service at a CoE cathedral, had breakfast, audited in Borders, then attended mass along Tottenham Court street.
I suppose my life's history entitles me to attend both, really. And the rulebooks don't make the services mutually exclusive (shock horrow. how many of you knew that?) only that I cannot now take communion at a protestant church.
Once upon a time I hated that idea, and felt that Catholics were isolating themselves and putting themselves on a pedestal.
In the aftermath of the gay-schism in the anglican church, I begin to comprehend it a little better.
Communion. The meaning of the word - togetherness -- has been lost to history. Jesus called us all to break his body and drink his blood - together.
Today, we still do those things, in memory of him - alone. Apart, from other churches. Apart, from other denominations. Apart, from any other brand-name but our own.
The protestant movements make weak efforts to appear united, but the harsh reality is they stand alone. And as time passes, their quests for unique identities broaden the divides between them - and the Catholic church still more.
Communion?
Attending both service and mass in a day reminded me of all the things I loved about the Anglican church, and the things I have come to appreciate about the Catholic church.
It is said that the Catholics are too mired in ritual to understand, too used to being sheep to think critically.
It is said that the protestants are too persistent in change and progressiveness to remember the "old ways", and that they have lost their focus.
Both, I believe to be true.
Yet at the same time, listening to a humourous and intelligent, analytical sermon at Langham church, I couldn't help but think -- they do it so, so much better here. The preachers at anglican churches - in london at least, explain. They are teachers. They seek ways to make things personal to their audience, they touch heartstrings. They tell you the Why and the Wherefore about the readings - they tell you what the words meant, what happened in the old days, why Jesus / his apostle / Solomon (Ecclesiastes) said what he / they did, and what it really meant.
But I couldn't help noticing how the rest of the service, the endless upbeat "hymns" (which had a church warden doing the cha-cha in the corner), the serenely beautiful songs by the choir - were all feel-good window-dressing. Were they a celebration of the story of Jesus? Or were they just catchy words with catchy tunes? Is it truly adulation to ecstatically repeat Jesus, we love you, God, we love you, you are my rock? Or is it... in a strange way... consumerism? What does it remind us? Aside from that we are happy now.
Mass was a whole different flavour. The hymns calm, solomn, and slightly ancient - and also rather unimportant.
The structure of the mass, the profession of faith, confessing of sins -- all these tell the story of Jesus, and God. Every week, retold; to the numbed part-time Catholic, just words to bounce off the subconsciousness into oblivion, just ritual. To the listener -- reminders. Lest ye forget. And sobre reminders that we are NOT good. We are not wonderful. And we do NOT deserve. But yet we are given - be grateful. We are not happy - we are sorry.
And yet at the same time, the sermon was insipid and wholly insufficient. Almost just another reading, with a weak, and short reminder why the words should be relevant to us. No explanations Why, no explanations wherefore. Just a short parable on What we should do, which left me struggling to understand the reading. Which left me asking - "how did that tie in with the reading?".
No engaging and keen analysis there, just words. Ritual.
Ironically, the keenly analytical mindset of the protestants has led to justifications - why the church does condone Gay marriages, why we should be different. Why the old ways are dead. Why we should do this new thing, this new way. Why........
Somewhere along the line, much has been forgotten, or erased. We have become more important than God's word, and God.
The crosses in anglican churches lie stark, unadorned of the figure of Jesus. Yet in the stained-glass windows, if anyone cares to look - he is there, on his cross. The saints are there, some of them anyway. In the older churches. Sometimes mother Mary is there. How came it that Mary, so prominent in the liturgy (the Hail Mary) was completely erased from protestant memory -- and turned almost into a derisive figure of hate to use against the Catholics? "Mary worshippers, misguided. Praying to Mary." etc -- I've been there myself. I was anglican once, too. I firmly held the same convictions with quiet apathy, like I'm sure, the rest of my peers.
And yet at the Catholic churches, individuals do go to mass with the sole intention of touching the figurine of St Anthony at the end of it all. Blinded in the reverance for an individual, from the greater Glory of God. Blind in their quest for succouring salvation to the story that plays out, every mass, in the words they solemnly intone.
Taking communion in an Anglican church was always strange to me. Something that happened once a month, something that seemed almost unnecessary -- after all, it's the thought that counts, more than the deed isn't it? Isn't that why the cross, and not the crucifiction? Isn't that why the suit, and not the robe? Isn't that why...
Taking communion in a Catholic church is humbling. I don't know why, but it's a long pause for repentence. For memory. And for hope. Maybe it's because it lasts so, so long. Maybe it's because the hymns are so, so muted and so sad when communion is received. Maybe it's simply beause the answer to "isn't that why..." is simply -- Because.
I don't know where this ramble goes, except that I feel that there is much Goodness in both churches. And that there is God in both churches.
Whether, at the end of days God will think the same, I do not know.
Whether, at the end of days God will forgive, or condemn for forgetting, or not moving on, none of us can possibly say.
I only wish that both sides of the coin could learn from each other. And perhaps, one day there may be steps towards unification -- instead of more autonomy-motivated schisims.
Christianity (and here I include Catholicism) Isn't a brand name.
It's not about us. It's not about the consumers, or the customers. It's not about bending it around the wills, and evils of men.
It's about Him. It's about Then. It's about why Today, we have today. It's about hope for the future -- not hope for today.
Today, will be as today is. Today I will sleep. And I will wake, and I will go back to London, bearing half my room on my back. Perhaps the other half will follow me the day after.
Today, I may write forlornly again about You, today I may bump into You unexpectedly, or I might not. And another today, I might, or might not.
Tomorrow, I will die - and God willing, I will die into life.
And before any of you dimwits text or call me to say don't kill yourself tomorrow!! Read it again. Metaphorically.
********
Some nutter wrote fanmail to DrGoat (he told me!) expressing her admiration for his way with words.
He's asked me to write here :
DrGoat doesn't have a way with words.
It's really very easy - you just make it up as you go along.
Think in terms of images, then paint the images to the screen, choosing words as your colours.
That's all DrGoat does. He isn't a lyricist. He isn't a poet. He isn't a songwriter, or a performer. He doesn't have any particular skill or talent. He just tries to turn the pictures in his head into words. Which is probably why, so often he employs almost-oxymorons -- because reality is not simple. Because sometimes words are not enough.
When words are not enough (thirty seagulls standing forlornly on a frozen lake), he takes a picture.
And rarely, when pictures are not enough, he sears a memory that lasts a lifetime into his mind. (a trailing strand of hair caressing the upturned corner of a subtle smile, on gently inclined head; eyes -normally bursting with life and humour - shut in momentary serenity - trailing still further down to lie upon a gently feminine neck)
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Through Rain, Snow, Sleet or Hail
I hope You caught the snow today - so much glorious snow, blanketing the land in a gentle white cloak. I hope You saw the finches playing in the snow too. But I hope that You stayed warm.
It's been freezing in A&E tonight. And mind-bogglingly, nurses and consultants have been too snowed in to attend their shifts, but strange nutters are still ringing up ambulances for their sprained toes, or trekking through the snowdrifts to have their supraspinatous tendonitis looked at. And they're happy to trek all the way back home through the snow just because some doctor put his hands on their back. :\
I hope You caught the snow today - so much glorious snow, blanketing the land in a gentle white cloak. I hope You saw the finches playing in the snow too. But I hope that You stayed warm.
It's been freezing in A&E tonight. And mind-bogglingly, nurses and consultants have been too snowed in to attend their shifts, but strange nutters are still ringing up ambulances for their sprained toes, or trekking through the snowdrifts to have their supraspinatous tendonitis looked at. And they're happy to trek all the way back home through the snow just because some doctor put his hands on their back. :\
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
No, re-minisce has not been on hiatus, although he's come close to developing a hiatus hernia, he thinks. Thanks to an Auditus Horribilis, re-minisce has had 12 hours of sleep in the last 72 hours. The many things which he dreamt about writing over the weekend are fast evaporating from memory.
So, for my benefit, I wanted to write about :
1) Catholicism vs Christianity
2) Snow
3) Snow
4) Rotten, stinking audits
5) head injury, RIP
6) hanging, RIP
7) ? massive ICH, RIP
8) bleeding rude, abusive drunk, not RIP but I wish he was!
another day. another time.
now, my shift beckons. This is Re-minisce, signing off. 1500 hrs
Saturday, January 24, 2004
Rare moments
Walking along in the rain, in pensive and remniscenct reverie, as is normal for me, I glanced up briefly and found myself being ogled by an oriental girl, flanked by her two girl-friends. I glanced down for a while, and back up again in disbelief, and she was still making excessive eye contact as we passed, her head swivelling slightly in the passing. I didn't know her at all. It was a strange experience.
*******
After struggling though a referral for a gentleman with an almost-acute abdo and a head injury today, a nurse came up to me to tell me "that gentleman and his wife think you're a star!". I told her to tell them that they must have got the wrong doctor.
*******
I dreamt about You again last night. It was a lifetime in a dream, and we had a happily ever after, and grew old.
And then, waking up, I came down to reality.
I read somewhere that the Japanese have invented a machine to create the dream of one's choice. I'll wait till the day they invent a gadget that creates pure, unadulterated dreamless sleep.
Walking along in the rain, in pensive and remniscenct reverie, as is normal for me, I glanced up briefly and found myself being ogled by an oriental girl, flanked by her two girl-friends. I glanced down for a while, and back up again in disbelief, and she was still making excessive eye contact as we passed, her head swivelling slightly in the passing. I didn't know her at all. It was a strange experience.
*******
After struggling though a referral for a gentleman with an almost-acute abdo and a head injury today, a nurse came up to me to tell me "that gentleman and his wife think you're a star!". I told her to tell them that they must have got the wrong doctor.
*******
I dreamt about You again last night. It was a lifetime in a dream, and we had a happily ever after, and grew old.
And then, waking up, I came down to reality.
I read somewhere that the Japanese have invented a machine to create the dream of one's choice. I'll wait till the day they invent a gadget that creates pure, unadulterated dreamless sleep.
Friday, January 23, 2004
A poor innings
A fourteen hour shift, and only fourteen patient's seen. It's been a day worth forgetting. The last hour was tainted by an obstructive patient who wound up in a full-nelson applied by two security guards.
Today was a non-hitter.
Strangely, I welcome the fatigue I feel now. The next thing I'll be doing, is waking up for an early shift.
whee.
A fourteen hour shift, and only fourteen patient's seen. It's been a day worth forgetting. The last hour was tainted by an obstructive patient who wound up in a full-nelson applied by two security guards.
Today was a non-hitter.
Strangely, I welcome the fatigue I feel now. The next thing I'll be doing, is waking up for an early shift.
whee.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Cradle to the grave
It appears that spacefan is intent on driving re-minisce to an early grave...
**********
In other news - Today was scary, attending the induction course for my next A&E job. Slick, shining, spanking and cutting-edge -- with an anal-retentive obsessiveness for results, evidence-based medicine, and protocols.
Where I'm at now, it's a battlefield. The doctors and nurses are pragmatic. If it's broke, fix-it. If it hurts, magic-it-away. If it's too broke to fix and too painful to magic away, then get someone else to fix it.
After half of my induction course (to be continued tomorrow) I'm now rather unsettled - there are, apparently, Correct ways to fixit. Correct ways to magic-it-away -- not just correct in a common-sense, all-the-books-say-so way. Correct in a As Of Hospital Policy, you must do Step A.... through to Z way.
It's rather terrifying to hear about the PULSE technique for treating moderate asthma in children, for the first time after having gotten used to the gung-ho nebulise it, recheck Peak Flow, and if not getting better needs admission and refer to paeds approach we take here.
I'm not going in tomorrow, I've decided to stay where I'm at, and work my last days of Real World Medicine, and treasure them before I turn into a bookworm academic.
Also, C, the other oriental (but female) colleage where I'm at now, with the attractive hair and shoulders (but disturbing brain) helped me today by taking some hours off me so I could attend the course. I returned an hour late thanks to London Transport, full of resolve not to do this to her (or me!) again tomorrow.
So today I worked 8pm to midnight.
Tomorrow I work The Longest Day. 10am to midnight.
She fully expects me to be admitted on friday for exhaustion. whee.
*****
In other news, I forgot to mention in the article below - amidst the sound and fury of the resusc. attempt, amidst the myriad needles flashing into pulseless arteries, it wasn't the ortho SHO, or the surgical SHO who succeeded at the femoral stab. And it wasn't the medical SHO who picked up the cardiac output returning.
It was, for the first time ever, and much to his own surprise, Re-minisce. Yay me.
******
In yet other news, re-minisce has been pondering to vaya whether he writes these pages any differently now that he has a not-so silent audience. Because that would violate everything re-minisce believes in, and necessitate the closure of this blog.
Re-minisce doesn't think he does, reading his most recent comments. He still writes about the things that matter to him, in frightening med-speak, readers be damned.
He still writes about his (occasionally psychotic) thoughts and worries.
The things he writes here, he writes as he always has. A few select thoughts have been shifted elsewhere, more out of paranoia than anything else. Re-minisce is worried that somewhere, somehow someone who knows him In Real Life (IRL) will stumble across these pages.
Re-minisce is a very private person. About some things.
The rest, well devil-may-care.
And to the silent readers re-minisce has somehow acquired :
PISS OFF, THE LOT OF YOU! AND DON'T COME BACK!!!
heh heh heh. just kidding.
***********
In still other news, Re-minisce has wandered fleetingly along lines similar to marcelle's (see his post about Torches). His answer though, is a heartfelt
I don't know.
***********
end transmission.
It appears that spacefan is intent on driving re-minisce to an early grave...
**********
In other news - Today was scary, attending the induction course for my next A&E job. Slick, shining, spanking and cutting-edge -- with an anal-retentive obsessiveness for results, evidence-based medicine, and protocols.
Where I'm at now, it's a battlefield. The doctors and nurses are pragmatic. If it's broke, fix-it. If it hurts, magic-it-away. If it's too broke to fix and too painful to magic away, then get someone else to fix it.
After half of my induction course (to be continued tomorrow) I'm now rather unsettled - there are, apparently, Correct ways to fixit. Correct ways to magic-it-away -- not just correct in a common-sense, all-the-books-say-so way. Correct in a As Of Hospital Policy, you must do Step A.... through to Z way.
It's rather terrifying to hear about the PULSE technique for treating moderate asthma in children, for the first time after having gotten used to the gung-ho nebulise it, recheck Peak Flow, and if not getting better needs admission and refer to paeds approach we take here.
I'm not going in tomorrow, I've decided to stay where I'm at, and work my last days of Real World Medicine, and treasure them before I turn into a bookworm academic.
Also, C, the other oriental (but female) colleage where I'm at now, with the attractive hair and shoulders (but disturbing brain) helped me today by taking some hours off me so I could attend the course. I returned an hour late thanks to London Transport, full of resolve not to do this to her (or me!) again tomorrow.
So today I worked 8pm to midnight.
Tomorrow I work The Longest Day. 10am to midnight.
She fully expects me to be admitted on friday for exhaustion. whee.
*****
In other news, I forgot to mention in the article below - amidst the sound and fury of the resusc. attempt, amidst the myriad needles flashing into pulseless arteries, it wasn't the ortho SHO, or the surgical SHO who succeeded at the femoral stab. And it wasn't the medical SHO who picked up the cardiac output returning.
It was, for the first time ever, and much to his own surprise, Re-minisce. Yay me.
******
In yet other news, re-minisce has been pondering to vaya whether he writes these pages any differently now that he has a not-so silent audience. Because that would violate everything re-minisce believes in, and necessitate the closure of this blog.
Re-minisce doesn't think he does, reading his most recent comments. He still writes about the things that matter to him, in frightening med-speak, readers be damned.
He still writes about his (occasionally psychotic) thoughts and worries.
The things he writes here, he writes as he always has. A few select thoughts have been shifted elsewhere, more out of paranoia than anything else. Re-minisce is worried that somewhere, somehow someone who knows him In Real Life (IRL) will stumble across these pages.
Re-minisce is a very private person. About some things.
The rest, well devil-may-care.
And to the silent readers re-minisce has somehow acquired :
PISS OFF, THE LOT OF YOU! AND DON'T COME BACK!!!
heh heh heh. just kidding.
***********
In still other news, Re-minisce has wandered fleetingly along lines similar to marcelle's (see his post about Torches). His answer though, is a heartfelt
I don't know.
***********
end transmission.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
In the dying moments of a tense, frenzied but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to resuscitate a fading old woman cruelly cut down outside her house by some hit-and-run kid on his moped, I found myself privy to a scene rarely depicted on snazzy telly shows like ER and Scrubs.
It was surreal watching the ageing be-collared reverend gravely speaking her last rites, and leading the grieving family into The Lord's Prayer. As he concluded the final Ever, I glanced up in surprise as the anaesthetist by my side, still pressing in that last litre of hartmann's echoed my silent "Amen" out loud.
Listening to the Orthopedic SHO recount the story some time later in the mess, it strikes me how little the A&E SHO is noticed in these situations. "It was a while before Someone put out the crash call", "thankfully Someone finally got an arterial gas", "someone called the family in" etc. I guess it doesn't matter, but that someone was me.
There are days when I feel invisible. Today, I felt... I don't know. I can't begin to explain the jumble of emotions one goes through after fighting desperately against the odds to save someone from the massive HI she's sustained : heroic resusc. efforts successfully restoring a cardiac output (from EMD), only to have her slip away again an hour later. It's a mixed blessing - successful resuscitation would have left her with horrendous anoxic brain damage in addition to the primary injury she must have sustained (she had a constant fast flow through her nose, mouth and a tennis-ball sized haematoma / panda eye, as well as a fast leaking posterior head laceration). Yet the trauma team, disbanding in dribs and drabs looked : exhausted, disgruntled and disappointed.
Did I write earlier in this diary that I love A&E?
Well... I do.
It was surreal watching the ageing be-collared reverend gravely speaking her last rites, and leading the grieving family into The Lord's Prayer. As he concluded the final Ever, I glanced up in surprise as the anaesthetist by my side, still pressing in that last litre of hartmann's echoed my silent "Amen" out loud.
Listening to the Orthopedic SHO recount the story some time later in the mess, it strikes me how little the A&E SHO is noticed in these situations. "It was a while before Someone put out the crash call", "thankfully Someone finally got an arterial gas", "someone called the family in" etc. I guess it doesn't matter, but that someone was me.
There are days when I feel invisible. Today, I felt... I don't know. I can't begin to explain the jumble of emotions one goes through after fighting desperately against the odds to save someone from the massive HI she's sustained : heroic resusc. efforts successfully restoring a cardiac output (from EMD), only to have her slip away again an hour later. It's a mixed blessing - successful resuscitation would have left her with horrendous anoxic brain damage in addition to the primary injury she must have sustained (she had a constant fast flow through her nose, mouth and a tennis-ball sized haematoma / panda eye, as well as a fast leaking posterior head laceration). Yet the trauma team, disbanding in dribs and drabs looked : exhausted, disgruntled and disappointed.
Did I write earlier in this diary that I love A&E?
Well... I do.
Sunday, January 18, 2004
Catcherless in the Rye
Warwick has gone to ground
I need a piano.
*****
In other news,
when You said my God, you sound so Pommy, I forgot to say :
Well, my God, You sound so Ozzie.
I win.
Warwick has gone to ground
I need a piano.
*****
In other news,
when You said my God, you sound so Pommy, I forgot to say :
Well, my God, You sound so Ozzie.
I win.
Deja Vu
"Faces chance across boundaries
Our touching fingers are strangers
Sharing intimate moments"
- Intimate Stranger
how strange.
"Faces chance across boundaries
Our touching fingers are strangers
Sharing intimate moments"
- Intimate Stranger
how strange.
I have not the words
to describe:
- the humble magnificence of a flotilla of drakes, silently cruising down the night-blackened mirror of the hospital lake in the frigid still of the night
- the relentless, infinitely-cycling wavelets born of a blustery mid-winter's gail, disrupting the surface of an otherwise frigidly-still lake and agitating it into almost organic life
- the sanctuary of a smile too rogueish to be considered serene, yet a perpetual source of peace to his cynical mind; and in its absence a still-fond memory that brings a moment's calm amidsts the anarchy that surrounds him in daily living
- the indomitable, oxymoronic spirit of fierce self-reliance and fiery contrariness incongruously intermingled with gentle goodwill and irrepressible humour that burned brightly within the soul of a woman
Some things simply cannot be captured - only experienced, and remembered.
to describe:
- the humble magnificence of a flotilla of drakes, silently cruising down the night-blackened mirror of the hospital lake in the frigid still of the night
- the relentless, infinitely-cycling wavelets born of a blustery mid-winter's gail, disrupting the surface of an otherwise frigidly-still lake and agitating it into almost organic life
- the sanctuary of a smile too rogueish to be considered serene, yet a perpetual source of peace to his cynical mind; and in its absence a still-fond memory that brings a moment's calm amidsts the anarchy that surrounds him in daily living
- the indomitable, oxymoronic spirit of fierce self-reliance and fiery contrariness incongruously intermingled with gentle goodwill and irrepressible humour that burned brightly within the soul of a woman
Some things simply cannot be captured - only experienced, and remembered.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
An ordinary man
In the aftermath of the (fortunately transient) passover of the Spotlight of public attention upon his humble blog (three "ofs" in one sentence. record high-score, whoo-hoo!) re-minisce has found himself undeservingly bestowed with expansive accolades like "terrific writer" and "great writer".
Re-minisce is grateful, but is simply, none of the above.
He once knew someone who wrote in the same vasculature as he did - not quite in the same vein - for where his writing (he likes to imagine) flows, Hers pulsed. Were his wit honed, Hers was mercurial. Her turns of phrase wound convoluted spirals about his clumsy attempts at humour. In the shadow of a gifted mastercraftswoman, re-minisce was reminded that he was but a common tinker with words.
Since Her passing from his existence, he has had to settle for poor second-place substitutes like this, and this (tongue firmly in cheek).
Small wonder then that he can't help but to fondly Re-minisce.
In the aftermath of the (fortunately transient) passover of the Spotlight of public attention upon his humble blog (three "ofs" in one sentence. record high-score, whoo-hoo!) re-minisce has found himself undeservingly bestowed with expansive accolades like "terrific writer" and "great writer".
Re-minisce is grateful, but is simply, none of the above.
He once knew someone who wrote in the same vasculature as he did - not quite in the same vein - for where his writing (he likes to imagine) flows, Hers pulsed. Were his wit honed, Hers was mercurial. Her turns of phrase wound convoluted spirals about his clumsy attempts at humour. In the shadow of a gifted mastercraftswoman, re-minisce was reminded that he was but a common tinker with words.
Since Her passing from his existence, he has had to settle for poor second-place substitutes like this, and this (tongue firmly in cheek).
Small wonder then that he can't help but to fondly Re-minisce.
Re-minisce.
Reading DW's little short story, I can't help but feel the slightest touch of envy at a masterpiece in progress. I'm almost tempted to pick up that cyberquill, smear some cyberink across my forehead and pen my own Masterwork of a lifetime. Except knowing me it'll just end up another sad, tired little piece of Paddington.
Reading DW's little short story, I can't help but feel the slightest touch of envy at a masterpiece in progress. I'm almost tempted to pick up that cyberquill, smear some cyberink across my forehead and pen my own Masterwork of a lifetime. Except knowing me it'll just end up another sad, tired little piece of Paddington.
Passionate Love Scene from Ghost (Girl with ducks)
Re-minisce is rather bemused that the two entries of the month that elicited the greatest furore on his blog were about ducks, and a girl.
*shrugs*
In other news, hordes of sex-crazed recalcitrant miscreants have descended upon spacefan's blog, taking her to hithero unimagined heights of ecstacy.
Okay, reality check. Actually she's just been getting a lot of hits from my site (eh? A lot of people read my site?) via the url link on the left (Disturbingly rabid Clay groupie).
After a gentle chiding (pow! biff! bang! etc) re-minisce has decided for the well being of various individuals (himself notwithstanding, kindly left standing) to state explicitly that the Clay in "Clay groupie" refers specifically to Clay Aiken, and not the common garden variety that resembles a small, unintelligent lump of putty. (Recommended read : Feet of Clay, Terry Pratchett)
So to you perverts flocking to Spacefan's site : get yer minds outta the gutter and purge from yer nasty little minds those deviant, gooey erotic images of Demi wossname and Patrick whositwhatsit, passionately (but productively) transforming a messy, shapeless lump of clay, into a messy, shapeless lump of clay.
;)
Re-minisce is rather bemused that the two entries of the month that elicited the greatest furore on his blog were about ducks, and a girl.
*shrugs*
In other news, hordes of sex-crazed recalcitrant miscreants have descended upon spacefan's blog, taking her to hithero unimagined heights of ecstacy.
Okay, reality check. Actually she's just been getting a lot of hits from my site (eh? A lot of people read my site?) via the url link on the left (Disturbingly rabid Clay groupie).
After a gentle chiding (pow! biff! bang! etc) re-minisce has decided for the well being of various individuals (himself notwithstanding, kindly left standing) to state explicitly that the Clay in "Clay groupie" refers specifically to Clay Aiken, and not the common garden variety that resembles a small, unintelligent lump of putty. (Recommended read : Feet of Clay, Terry Pratchett)
So to you perverts flocking to Spacefan's site : get yer minds outta the gutter and purge from yer nasty little minds those deviant, gooey erotic images of Demi wossname and Patrick whositwhatsit, passionately (but productively) transforming a messy, shapeless lump of clay, into a messy, shapeless lump of clay.
;)
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Observations from a Cold Place
Did you know that the colder it is, the further ducks sleep from the water? Meaning that on a balmy evening they float, berthed together in a long, huddled line along the shore, making them look for all the world like the Queen's Royal Navy. (there are about thirty ducks here)
On a frosty winters morn they lie in peaceful somnolence, in a long, huddled line ten feet from the shore. Where I'm at, that's the carpark : Small, obese motorcycles.
Did you know that the colder it is, the further ducks sleep from the water? Meaning that on a balmy evening they float, berthed together in a long, huddled line along the shore, making them look for all the world like the Queen's Royal Navy. (there are about thirty ducks here)
On a frosty winters morn they lie in peaceful somnolence, in a long, huddled line ten feet from the shore. Where I'm at, that's the carpark : Small, obese motorcycles.
Spacefan Vs Re-minisce
It's just struck me what the real difference between spacefan and myself is.
Spacefan's an ER doctor.
I'm a casualty doctor.
Over in Singapore everything's slick, shiny spandex. (ok maybe no spandex, bugger.)
Here in the UK it's a battlefield... us vs management, us vs poor funding. Two of the three sats probes in Resusc. are dead. The BP cuff in the middle bay is down. The backup cuff gives ME a b/p of 40/20. My sats in the first bay on air is 42%. (Maybe I'm just working too hard...)
There're so few porters I have to wheel my patients to X-ray myself (I swear I'm gonna get a hernia one of these days)
And the needleholders in minor ops are so buggered they can't grip the 4/0 sutures, which makes sewing up someone's face laceration just that much more challenging.
Bring it on, baby.
It's just struck me what the real difference between spacefan and myself is.
Spacefan's an ER doctor.
I'm a casualty doctor.
Over in Singapore everything's slick, shiny spandex. (ok maybe no spandex, bugger.)
Here in the UK it's a battlefield... us vs management, us vs poor funding. Two of the three sats probes in Resusc. are dead. The BP cuff in the middle bay is down. The backup cuff gives ME a b/p of 40/20. My sats in the first bay on air is 42%. (Maybe I'm just working too hard...)
There're so few porters I have to wheel my patients to X-ray myself (I swear I'm gonna get a hernia one of these days)
And the needleholders in minor ops are so buggered they can't grip the 4/0 sutures, which makes sewing up someone's face laceration just that much more challenging.
Bring it on, baby.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Lord of the Wossnames - The Two Towerblocks
It seems that Re-minisce and Xiaxue have come to an impasse.
What, you ask, is an impasse?
Well, do any of you remember LOTR, you know, that bit when beat-up boy Aragorn is tryping to persuade pretty boy Legolas and ugly-troll-boy oops dwarf-boy wossname not to accompany him into that deep, dark pass that belches out scary music everytime it's glanced at? (What do you mean you were asleep at the time?) You know, that big crack-thing in the mountains, sorta like the butt cheeks of evil carved in stone, where ethereal shades of doom and gloom resided, condemned to all eternity to... okay. I guess you get my drift.
Well, an impasse is very much like that, but on a smaller scale. Habited by imps. Yeah. that's it.
***********
Re-minisce maintains, however that many of the things Xiaxue has written, and done are ugly. Like a beacon of dark in the light, they cast shadows on the darkest parts of ourselves, they highlight in shadow the ugliest of the Ugly Singaporean. They remind me about the things I hate about myself - except, somehow unlike Xiaxue's readers, I don't find them funny.
Encouragingly enough, Xiaxue seems to have had a rethink as well. She's taken down the picture, she's even apologised for her previous outbursts (I can do whatever I want, I this, I that, it is my site, I can insult whoever I like, even your girlfriend, etcetc). It remains to be seen if she realises that her campaign of hate against those who hated her -- earned the same response when she badmouthed Jeremy (whoever he is)'s girlfriend, along with posted photograph on her blog.
One has to wonder how much of her regret is sincere, and how much is owing to public reaction. One tends to remain a cynic after too long watching everyone else destroy themselves.
Re-minisce would like to think that Xiaxue was sincere. And that perhaps, in the future she'll think twice. Possibly even thrice, before unleashing the spacious void between her ears unto the world :) (that was a joke, xiaxue.)
It seems that Re-minisce and Xiaxue have come to an impasse.
What, you ask, is an impasse?
Well, do any of you remember LOTR, you know, that bit when beat-up boy Aragorn is tryping to persuade pretty boy Legolas and ugly-troll-boy oops dwarf-boy wossname not to accompany him into that deep, dark pass that belches out scary music everytime it's glanced at? (What do you mean you were asleep at the time?) You know, that big crack-thing in the mountains, sorta like the butt cheeks of evil carved in stone, where ethereal shades of doom and gloom resided, condemned to all eternity to... okay. I guess you get my drift.
Well, an impasse is very much like that, but on a smaller scale. Habited by imps. Yeah. that's it.
***********
Re-minisce maintains, however that many of the things Xiaxue has written, and done are ugly. Like a beacon of dark in the light, they cast shadows on the darkest parts of ourselves, they highlight in shadow the ugliest of the Ugly Singaporean. They remind me about the things I hate about myself - except, somehow unlike Xiaxue's readers, I don't find them funny.
Encouragingly enough, Xiaxue seems to have had a rethink as well. She's taken down the picture, she's even apologised for her previous outbursts (I can do whatever I want, I this, I that, it is my site, I can insult whoever I like, even your girlfriend, etcetc). It remains to be seen if she realises that her campaign of hate against those who hated her -- earned the same response when she badmouthed Jeremy (whoever he is)'s girlfriend, along with posted photograph on her blog.
One has to wonder how much of her regret is sincere, and how much is owing to public reaction. One tends to remain a cynic after too long watching everyone else destroy themselves.
Re-minisce would like to think that Xiaxue was sincere. And that perhaps, in the future she'll think twice. Possibly even thrice, before unleashing the spacious void between her ears unto the world :) (that was a joke, xiaxue.)
A Good Innings
I've had a good 20something hours off. It's hard to imagine that I was at work yesterday morning, still, at 9.30 and that I went back to work again today at 6 pm.
In between I caught enough sleep to feel recharged, played around with my computer enough to feel renewed, and wandered out to Borders to buy Dido's Life for Rent.
Today I breakfasted on an exquisitely unhealthy artery-occluding fryup - bacon - with just-enough fat, tomatos and an omelete, washed down with a mediocre cup of coffee whilst seated in the bitter cold, outdoors of the Russel Square park cafe, surrounded by half the population of the Great Ormond Street Hospital. I've always loved breakfasts in the cold. Except toast, which turns rock-solid in a hurry. Today was no different except I captured the moment on film, having taken to carrying a disposable camera around in my overcoat for frozen-lake (& potential Preserved-English-Duck Au-Natural) moments.
I also learnt that the distance between London Liverpool Street station and Bank is precisely fifteen minutes (ok so that's not a distance) at a decent pace. Unfortunately, I ran out of time and didn't get to sit by the Thames as I'd intended, but it made me realise that at heart, I love large, messy sprawley cities like London, with their shares of nooks, crannies and surprises. And in the day the threat of an unpleasant mugging is much diminished.
I feel a bit the hedonist for having my quickie-back to london, for a mere twenty-four hours. But what they hey, I'm a happy hedonist. Seven days to my next mid-week "weekend".
*************
I also realised that if I should die unexpectedly, my passing would be pretty much in quiet contentment (and possibly a bit of resignation). Bit morbid, but yeah. I always imagined as a child I would die in my late teenagehood / early twenties - I never had a clue why though. Possibly something to do with an ex-best-friend becoming victim to a wild, untamed rogue SBS bus.
For a coming-up-to-middle-aged nobody, I've done pretty good. I might not be remembered, sure, but I've had my dreams come true; some came undone, some didn't.
How many people can say that?
(aside from Lucian who is automatically disqualified on account of his being a lucky ******* who is insanely happy with his life and takes ridiculously beautiful photographs with his camera)
I think I'd probably try to call two people before I died. Three if you count mum and dad as two people. I see them as a single entity. How saccharine. Shudder :)
I've had a good 20something hours off. It's hard to imagine that I was at work yesterday morning, still, at 9.30 and that I went back to work again today at 6 pm.
In between I caught enough sleep to feel recharged, played around with my computer enough to feel renewed, and wandered out to Borders to buy Dido's Life for Rent.
Today I breakfasted on an exquisitely unhealthy artery-occluding fryup - bacon - with just-enough fat, tomatos and an omelete, washed down with a mediocre cup of coffee whilst seated in the bitter cold, outdoors of the Russel Square park cafe, surrounded by half the population of the Great Ormond Street Hospital. I've always loved breakfasts in the cold. Except toast, which turns rock-solid in a hurry. Today was no different except I captured the moment on film, having taken to carrying a disposable camera around in my overcoat for frozen-lake (& potential Preserved-English-Duck Au-Natural) moments.
I also learnt that the distance between London Liverpool Street station and Bank is precisely fifteen minutes (ok so that's not a distance) at a decent pace. Unfortunately, I ran out of time and didn't get to sit by the Thames as I'd intended, but it made me realise that at heart, I love large, messy sprawley cities like London, with their shares of nooks, crannies and surprises. And in the day the threat of an unpleasant mugging is much diminished.
I feel a bit the hedonist for having my quickie-back to london, for a mere twenty-four hours. But what they hey, I'm a happy hedonist. Seven days to my next mid-week "weekend".
*************
I also realised that if I should die unexpectedly, my passing would be pretty much in quiet contentment (and possibly a bit of resignation). Bit morbid, but yeah. I always imagined as a child I would die in my late teenagehood / early twenties - I never had a clue why though. Possibly something to do with an ex-best-friend becoming victim to a wild, untamed rogue SBS bus.
For a coming-up-to-middle-aged nobody, I've done pretty good. I might not be remembered, sure, but I've had my dreams come true; some came undone, some didn't.
How many people can say that?
(aside from Lucian who is automatically disqualified on account of his being a lucky ******* who is insanely happy with his life and takes ridiculously beautiful photographs with his camera)
I think I'd probably try to call two people before I died. Three if you count mum and dad as two people. I see them as a single entity. How saccharine. Shudder :)
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
The Root of All Evil is Me
After working the shop floor yesterday, I tried to hand over my last patient to the coming-on SHO; it didn't seem that complicated to my mind : man with renal colic, needs bloods checked and IVU organised pre-decision to discharge.
I was surprised when she took it badly and snatched the paper from my hand groaning irately that this wasn't the kind of thing to hand over. In my usual slightly slow-fashion (She once put it - blur like a squid I think.) I just laughed nervously, trying feverishly to decide if she was kidding or just having a bad hair day.
A short while later, she buttonholes me and growls that he hasn't PUd for the dipstick, you have to MAKE your mind up, shall we go straight to IVU now? - we can't have him sitting around forever! ...forever? He'd only been in an hour. He was also a complete twat, and after I gave him a PR voltarol stat on arrival he went to the loo claiming bowel spasm (huh?) and heroically said, I can't hold it in anymore, doctor! (You don't hold a suppository in dickwad, it STAYS in all by itself!). This same chap came in vomiting a 10 on the richter scale although he was really dry retching, and from the sounds of it, voluntarily. He woke all 10 patients in Majors at 4 in the morning with his 200 decibel vomiting and shouting. No matter, I figured. Just grit your teeth, shove the voltarol up, ignore the indignant nurses (Just voltarol? What about morphine??) and true enough, 5 minutes later his pain was gone, vomiting seizures terminated. (Whaddaya know that urology house job was good for something after all!) And then he refuses to pass urine for the dipstix... Argh. (I haven't got any sensation, doctor!)
I had half a mind to stick a suprapubic catheter into him. Instead, 1 litre of stat gelo later (ha!) he opens up like a fountain despite his best efforts (I finally managed a tiny bit doctor, it may not be enough -- the friggin bottle was practically overflowing. I wonder what he calls a lot of urine?)
So I hunker down, stay 1.5 hours overtime, organise his IVU and leave after everything is done.
And I realise this : the root of all evil is me.
Not "me", but Me-centredness.
Egocentricity, seeing the world through ONLY your own eyes, an utter lack of empathy - is the cause of all society's ills. Xiaxue would do well to understand this, but she never will be able to. J, the doctor who caused me to stay 1.5 hours overtime only saw an added burden to her workload, some inconsiderate person handing her too much work at the start of her own shift.
She didn't see the tired bloke burning to go back to london after 10 nights of 10 hour shifts. And she probably remembers the whole incident with righteous indignation - she won't realise everything was sorted out in the end because I stayed.
And so it should be. The only answer to self absorption is the people around the Selfish gritting their teeth, and soaking it up - with their heads held high.
Society is filled with unsung heroes - of the type xiaxue detests - the gentle souls that she accuses of "faking it" - you silly girl, don't you realise it's much harder to hold your peace, and it takes much more courage to turn the other cheek, than it does to lash out? That fire and wit are fine - but ire and sh*t are not. Because ultimately, someone else will have to clean up your sh*t.
*********
Sitting in the lounge nursing a cup of coffee, I read about ER's new star, Kiera Knightly's sidekick from Bend it Like Beckham (whose name escapes me) learning how to Make it Big on ER as the new medical student.
And it strikes me that, bloody 'ell, I've been there, and done that.
I AM Carter, now.
Except, the Real Thing isn't quite what you see on ER. There are moments, when that multiple trauma wheels in when, yes, suddenly you're there, right in the middle of it, feeling that urgency (sans-music) ER tries to convey, that life-or-death need for speed, when you kneel down, slam the grey venflon home, grab the adrenaline, jump on the chest, whatever -- while the surgeons and the orthopods simultaneously insert bilateral chest drains and the anaesthetist is busy with his central line.
What ER doesn't show you is the mind-numbingly repetitive minor cases, the doctor making the trek out to the waiting room over, and over, and over again every twenty minutes, to call someone new with the same old sprained ankle / minor laceration / cough / cold, greeting him/her with that same smile, same spiel, and writing exatly the same management plan down as he did X patients ago. Ad nauseum.
And it doesn't show enough of the doctors outside hospital, eg sitting motionless in their room listening quietly to Life for Rent and just... breathing.
It doesn't show enough to make you realise that ultimately, at the end of the day, it's just a job. And we're just ordinary people. 99% of the time, we bleed, while we give comfort -- 1% of the time, patients bleed, and we try desperately to heal.
ER shows you only that 1% of the time.
*******
In other news, vaya is advising me to search You out and get in touch.
And as always, the unwritten "script" gets in the way. Empathy forbids, consideration denies. As much as self-bloody-centredness calls me to, I cannot - because You probably wouldn't want me to.
I can almost feel You out there somewhere in this city, no longer a world away. Under the same sky and the same moon.
Turn the other cheek.
******
I always thought that I would love to live by the sea
to travel alone and live more simply
I have no idea what happened to that dream
As there's really nothing left here to stop me
It's just a thought,
only a thought
If my life, is for rent
and I don't want to buy
Well I deserve nothing more than I get
'cause nothing I have is truly mine
After working the shop floor yesterday, I tried to hand over my last patient to the coming-on SHO; it didn't seem that complicated to my mind : man with renal colic, needs bloods checked and IVU organised pre-decision to discharge.
I was surprised when she took it badly and snatched the paper from my hand groaning irately that this wasn't the kind of thing to hand over. In my usual slightly slow-fashion (She once put it - blur like a squid I think.) I just laughed nervously, trying feverishly to decide if she was kidding or just having a bad hair day.
A short while later, she buttonholes me and growls that he hasn't PUd for the dipstick, you have to MAKE your mind up, shall we go straight to IVU now? - we can't have him sitting around forever! ...forever? He'd only been in an hour. He was also a complete twat, and after I gave him a PR voltarol stat on arrival he went to the loo claiming bowel spasm (huh?) and heroically said, I can't hold it in anymore, doctor! (You don't hold a suppository in dickwad, it STAYS in all by itself!). This same chap came in vomiting a 10 on the richter scale although he was really dry retching, and from the sounds of it, voluntarily. He woke all 10 patients in Majors at 4 in the morning with his 200 decibel vomiting and shouting. No matter, I figured. Just grit your teeth, shove the voltarol up, ignore the indignant nurses (Just voltarol? What about morphine??) and true enough, 5 minutes later his pain was gone, vomiting seizures terminated. (Whaddaya know that urology house job was good for something after all!) And then he refuses to pass urine for the dipstix... Argh. (I haven't got any sensation, doctor!)
I had half a mind to stick a suprapubic catheter into him. Instead, 1 litre of stat gelo later (ha!) he opens up like a fountain despite his best efforts (I finally managed a tiny bit doctor, it may not be enough -- the friggin bottle was practically overflowing. I wonder what he calls a lot of urine?)
So I hunker down, stay 1.5 hours overtime, organise his IVU and leave after everything is done.
And I realise this : the root of all evil is me.
Not "me", but Me-centredness.
Egocentricity, seeing the world through ONLY your own eyes, an utter lack of empathy - is the cause of all society's ills. Xiaxue would do well to understand this, but she never will be able to. J, the doctor who caused me to stay 1.5 hours overtime only saw an added burden to her workload, some inconsiderate person handing her too much work at the start of her own shift.
She didn't see the tired bloke burning to go back to london after 10 nights of 10 hour shifts. And she probably remembers the whole incident with righteous indignation - she won't realise everything was sorted out in the end because I stayed.
And so it should be. The only answer to self absorption is the people around the Selfish gritting their teeth, and soaking it up - with their heads held high.
Society is filled with unsung heroes - of the type xiaxue detests - the gentle souls that she accuses of "faking it" - you silly girl, don't you realise it's much harder to hold your peace, and it takes much more courage to turn the other cheek, than it does to lash out? That fire and wit are fine - but ire and sh*t are not. Because ultimately, someone else will have to clean up your sh*t.
*********
Sitting in the lounge nursing a cup of coffee, I read about ER's new star, Kiera Knightly's sidekick from Bend it Like Beckham (whose name escapes me) learning how to Make it Big on ER as the new medical student.
And it strikes me that, bloody 'ell, I've been there, and done that.
I AM Carter, now.
Except, the Real Thing isn't quite what you see on ER. There are moments, when that multiple trauma wheels in when, yes, suddenly you're there, right in the middle of it, feeling that urgency (sans-music) ER tries to convey, that life-or-death need for speed, when you kneel down, slam the grey venflon home, grab the adrenaline, jump on the chest, whatever -- while the surgeons and the orthopods simultaneously insert bilateral chest drains and the anaesthetist is busy with his central line.
What ER doesn't show you is the mind-numbingly repetitive minor cases, the doctor making the trek out to the waiting room over, and over, and over again every twenty minutes, to call someone new with the same old sprained ankle / minor laceration / cough / cold, greeting him/her with that same smile, same spiel, and writing exatly the same management plan down as he did X patients ago. Ad nauseum.
And it doesn't show enough of the doctors outside hospital, eg sitting motionless in their room listening quietly to Life for Rent and just... breathing.
It doesn't show enough to make you realise that ultimately, at the end of the day, it's just a job. And we're just ordinary people. 99% of the time, we bleed, while we give comfort -- 1% of the time, patients bleed, and we try desperately to heal.
ER shows you only that 1% of the time.
*******
In other news, vaya is advising me to search You out and get in touch.
And as always, the unwritten "script" gets in the way. Empathy forbids, consideration denies. As much as self-bloody-centredness calls me to, I cannot - because You probably wouldn't want me to.
I can almost feel You out there somewhere in this city, no longer a world away. Under the same sky and the same moon.
Turn the other cheek.
******
I always thought that I would love to live by the sea
to travel alone and live more simply
I have no idea what happened to that dream
As there's really nothing left here to stop me
It's just a thought,
only a thought
If my life, is for rent
and I don't want to buy
Well I deserve nothing more than I get
'cause nothing I have is truly mine
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Listless
How empty this world seems, as one sits, eyes unfocused. In the mess. In the resource room. In the coffee room. How strange it is to feel tired, until work starts, and then to come alive.
This humanity is a strange dichotomy of good intentions and cruel lies to self. Of feel good moments and moments of regret. Of stubborn conviction and weak willed turnarounds.
I need a timeout. I need to walk down the Thames, and be calm. I need a life, for rent. These twenty one days would have been tolerable. Could have been. But for a moment's folly at the GMC website.
Until then, you just shrug on your white coat and wheel out into the waiting room. What else can you do?
How empty this world seems, as one sits, eyes unfocused. In the mess. In the resource room. In the coffee room. How strange it is to feel tired, until work starts, and then to come alive.
This humanity is a strange dichotomy of good intentions and cruel lies to self. Of feel good moments and moments of regret. Of stubborn conviction and weak willed turnarounds.
I need a timeout. I need to walk down the Thames, and be calm. I need a life, for rent. These twenty one days would have been tolerable. Could have been. But for a moment's folly at the GMC website.
Until then, you just shrug on your white coat and wheel out into the waiting room. What else can you do?
Saturday, January 10, 2004
Irony.
Is spending the day sombrely auditing patient notes and trying not to think / fall asleep, and getting up for a cup of coffee an hour before the shift starts. Walking through resusc. en route, into pandemonium. Blood on the floor, CPR being applied. Trauma team, crash team, trauma nurses, outreach nurses milling about, amidst utter, utter chaos. You pause, and someone shouts for the atropine. A nurse waves the vial about hesitantly, nobody steps forward to give it. You grab the vial, and suddenly you're sucked in. Bicarb. Blood gas. Run the gas to ITU (trekking blood all over the floor). Back. Charging, 150, stand clear -- shocking. Adrenaline, please.
He eventually goes into asystole, and dies.
And the irony is this. Although we didn't ultimately make a difference, I am reminded that I do make a difference, in my own small way, in my daily life.
And that I should stop being so f*cking self-centred, and get on with life, and death.
Is spending the day sombrely auditing patient notes and trying not to think / fall asleep, and getting up for a cup of coffee an hour before the shift starts. Walking through resusc. en route, into pandemonium. Blood on the floor, CPR being applied. Trauma team, crash team, trauma nurses, outreach nurses milling about, amidst utter, utter chaos. You pause, and someone shouts for the atropine. A nurse waves the vial about hesitantly, nobody steps forward to give it. You grab the vial, and suddenly you're sucked in. Bicarb. Blood gas. Run the gas to ITU (trekking blood all over the floor). Back. Charging, 150, stand clear -- shocking. Adrenaline, please.
He eventually goes into asystole, and dies.
And the irony is this. Although we didn't ultimately make a difference, I am reminded that I do make a difference, in my own small way, in my daily life.
And that I should stop being so f*cking self-centred, and get on with life, and death.
Friday, January 09, 2004
From A, to B.
You were not supposed to come here.
If You are not yet here, turn back.
If You are here already, go away.
If You are on your way, turn around.
This land is a destroyer, of hopes, innocence and honesty.
Here is a people who bare their teeth hopelessly in caricatures of grins, in the face of adversity; who watch their ideals slip away in quiet resignation, and laugh. Who have lost their ways and mired themselves in meaningless, degrading self-indulgences for a brief moment's happiness. Who have fought for so long they have forgotten against whom, or for what they fight. Here is a land so cold and barren that humour is not a nicety, but a last bleak stand.
Here is a land that destroys significances and relationships; if You have come here with a loved one, leave for both your sakes.
Here is a land where people wait forlornly for the rain to stop and the clouds to part, if only for a while. You should have stayed where it was easy to remain happy, where clouds live in lonely isolation rather than in giant conglomerations. Where the sun shines on a people genuinely enjoying their lives.
If You read only this, see this :
Here be dragons.
You were not supposed to come here.
If You are not yet here, turn back.
If You are here already, go away.
If You are on your way, turn around.
This land is a destroyer, of hopes, innocence and honesty.
Here is a people who bare their teeth hopelessly in caricatures of grins, in the face of adversity; who watch their ideals slip away in quiet resignation, and laugh. Who have lost their ways and mired themselves in meaningless, degrading self-indulgences for a brief moment's happiness. Who have fought for so long they have forgotten against whom, or for what they fight. Here is a land so cold and barren that humour is not a nicety, but a last bleak stand.
Here is a land that destroys significances and relationships; if You have come here with a loved one, leave for both your sakes.
Here is a land where people wait forlornly for the rain to stop and the clouds to part, if only for a while. You should have stayed where it was easy to remain happy, where clouds live in lonely isolation rather than in giant conglomerations. Where the sun shines on a people genuinely enjoying their lives.
If You read only this, see this :
Here be dragons.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
And so, late as always re-minisce finally makes his new-year's resolutions :
I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
Sunday, January 04, 2004
There's something bugging me.
At some point in the afternoon while dozing off (ie auditing patient notes) I browsed perchance upon another blog listing drgoat as one of her links. I didn't know who she was (and to be honest, it's amazes me how many people have linked me that i don't know... more than one is amazing to me lol) but I liked her writing. I liked her sense of humour. I liked the poetry on it. And now I've forgotten the URL. A transient brush in passing in cyberspace... lost to the mists of time. I... can't help but feel regret. I recall the site, it had a picture of a girl taken from the back sitting on a beach. and a lot of words. I don't know what the picture of the girl was all about, but the words charmed.
At some point in the afternoon while dozing off (ie auditing patient notes) I browsed perchance upon another blog listing drgoat as one of her links. I didn't know who she was (and to be honest, it's amazes me how many people have linked me that i don't know... more than one is amazing to me lol) but I liked her writing. I liked her sense of humour. I liked the poetry on it. And now I've forgotten the URL. A transient brush in passing in cyberspace... lost to the mists of time. I... can't help but feel regret. I recall the site, it had a picture of a girl taken from the back sitting on a beach. and a lot of words. I don't know what the picture of the girl was all about, but the words charmed.
Saturday, January 03, 2004
I am making an official statement in my capacity as a practising physician :
audits are bad for health. They are now the bane of my life. They are irritating beyond measure. I cannot understand how the audit department can consider a foreign body in an eye a "head injury". nor can I understand how paraphymosis warrants a CT head. The more notes I audit the stronger my desire to wander upstairs and impale whoever it is that is responsible for this farce on the tip of my biro.
moving swiftly on,
the ice has returned! our little lake froze overnight again. much to my chagrin, no ducks were trapped in the flash freeze. no matter, I've taken to carrying a disposable camera in my overcoat pocket (yay me!) so I managed to catch it on film at last. unfortunately the seagulls would not deign to stand on the ice today (? too cold perhaps) and I rather suspect that a frozen lake, on camera, looks very much like an unfrozen lake, since the water freezes, well, water-colour. ah well.
there's a turkey-looking thing (a true waterfowl) that follows the geese around forlornly everywhere they go. geese, for the uninitiated, walk in a line. I don't know why that should be so, but they do. This lot waddles in a snow-white line followed by a large, dumpy, black and and red bird, everyone marching in step. It's rather comical to see and I hope to catch it on film during the day. I have a sneaking suspician that if I use the flash at night I may fall victim to a horde of large, angry birds. Unfortunately all they ever do during the day is sit down in the middle of the pedestrian path ogling passing human beings, which doesn't make for much of a photo.
audits are bad for health. They are now the bane of my life. They are irritating beyond measure. I cannot understand how the audit department can consider a foreign body in an eye a "head injury". nor can I understand how paraphymosis warrants a CT head. The more notes I audit the stronger my desire to wander upstairs and impale whoever it is that is responsible for this farce on the tip of my biro.
moving swiftly on,
the ice has returned! our little lake froze overnight again. much to my chagrin, no ducks were trapped in the flash freeze. no matter, I've taken to carrying a disposable camera in my overcoat pocket (yay me!) so I managed to catch it on film at last. unfortunately the seagulls would not deign to stand on the ice today (? too cold perhaps) and I rather suspect that a frozen lake, on camera, looks very much like an unfrozen lake, since the water freezes, well, water-colour. ah well.
there's a turkey-looking thing (a true waterfowl) that follows the geese around forlornly everywhere they go. geese, for the uninitiated, walk in a line. I don't know why that should be so, but they do. This lot waddles in a snow-white line followed by a large, dumpy, black and and red bird, everyone marching in step. It's rather comical to see and I hope to catch it on film during the day. I have a sneaking suspician that if I use the flash at night I may fall victim to a horde of large, angry birds. Unfortunately all they ever do during the day is sit down in the middle of the pedestrian path ogling passing human beings, which doesn't make for much of a photo.
Friday, January 02, 2004
I've pretty-much spent the last three days in bed recovering from Christmas and Boxing day, and fooling around with my computer. (Dungeon Siege, legend's of aranna, and other fan-created mods). It's been relatively restful.
In between, I spent new year's in company of an old friend eating dinner over too-sweet wine, too-sweet food, and much-too-sweet dessert. It's funny how spoilt I've become since my army daze. Me, a food - if not connosseur, then appreciator? how odd. Nonetheless, that was how we spent the turn of the year, chatting and bemusedly watching all the couples, well, couple when the clock struck none. Suddenly, I was the sole male who had failed to surreptitiously slide across the trenches, into the opposing camp's territory. As I said then, oh, I didn't realise it was that kind of establishment - but I did then, hungry eyes and burning hands couldn't have been more blatent than in that refined little eaterie, and why not? A new year breaketh.
New Years day I crawled reluctantly out of bed to 1) drink egg-nog latte at Starbucks, Borders, an experience best left forgotten and undescribed, and 2) watch Cold mountain.
I didn't like Cold mountain at all. Ranting at my friend (who did like it), I expostulated about wooden screenplay, soul-lessness, and lack of imagination. Plodding, predictable story - and here he treks, and here he bleeds, and here he almost-dies but comes back, and here they re-unite, and when does he... ah yes, here he dies. Titanic meets Lord of the Rings... sleek, polished and completely unmemorable.
But perhaps the real reason I didn't like it was because I don't have a Cold Mountain of my own.
Asking myself if I'd ever cross a continent for the attraction of someone I didn't know very well (and the cynic leaps up and shouts HA! rather obnoxiously) -- well, certainly I'd do it a little more carefully I told myself... mustn't talk to strangers or barge in on little widows desperate for companionship in these dangerous times, and certainly spare a moment to fry those delicious crabs rather than swallow them raw -- the answer was no. Too pragmatic, too practical for that. They barely exchanged words, helped in no small way by the heroes linguistic capabilities of a small, half-eaten shellfish. Oh sure, he whips out philosophical gems every three years, but in between he's as vocal as a george bush junior.
But then what about an attraction involving years of thoughts and words. no kiss, just a lot of idea-exchanging. A lot of chances for unwilling observation. What if that - I will never forget you - thing that was tearing up both leads (Nicole Kidman, pretty as always did that far more palatably than that whositwhatsit guy who ended up dying like a Chinese soap opera heroine) really exists? And then, even so, I suppose the answer would be maybe -- but only if she'd really, really wanted me to. And certainly not because she was so inept she couldn't work a complicated precision instrument with as many articulated moving parts as a garden rake.
And so, I suppose that is why I didn't like the movie.
Because I have no Cold Mountain to gravitate towards, anymore.
Because Cold Mountain is about hope, and watching it through hope-deserted eyes, it really wasn't very interesting. Except mebbe the bit when Nicole Kidman got jiggy, but even then it was kinda... dispassionate.
Anyhow, happy new year to everyone who is vaguely acquainted with me, and all the people I have wronged in this lifetime. Happy new year to the people who have forgiven me. And Happy New Year, You. And you too. And you and you, and you. :)
In between, I spent new year's in company of an old friend eating dinner over too-sweet wine, too-sweet food, and much-too-sweet dessert. It's funny how spoilt I've become since my army daze. Me, a food - if not connosseur, then appreciator? how odd. Nonetheless, that was how we spent the turn of the year, chatting and bemusedly watching all the couples, well, couple when the clock struck none. Suddenly, I was the sole male who had failed to surreptitiously slide across the trenches, into the opposing camp's territory. As I said then, oh, I didn't realise it was that kind of establishment - but I did then, hungry eyes and burning hands couldn't have been more blatent than in that refined little eaterie, and why not? A new year breaketh.
New Years day I crawled reluctantly out of bed to 1) drink egg-nog latte at Starbucks, Borders, an experience best left forgotten and undescribed, and 2) watch Cold mountain.
I didn't like Cold mountain at all. Ranting at my friend (who did like it), I expostulated about wooden screenplay, soul-lessness, and lack of imagination. Plodding, predictable story - and here he treks, and here he bleeds, and here he almost-dies but comes back, and here they re-unite, and when does he... ah yes, here he dies. Titanic meets Lord of the Rings... sleek, polished and completely unmemorable.
But perhaps the real reason I didn't like it was because I don't have a Cold Mountain of my own.
Asking myself if I'd ever cross a continent for the attraction of someone I didn't know very well (and the cynic leaps up and shouts HA! rather obnoxiously) -- well, certainly I'd do it a little more carefully I told myself... mustn't talk to strangers or barge in on little widows desperate for companionship in these dangerous times, and certainly spare a moment to fry those delicious crabs rather than swallow them raw -- the answer was no. Too pragmatic, too practical for that. They barely exchanged words, helped in no small way by the heroes linguistic capabilities of a small, half-eaten shellfish. Oh sure, he whips out philosophical gems every three years, but in between he's as vocal as a george bush junior.
But then what about an attraction involving years of thoughts and words. no kiss, just a lot of idea-exchanging. A lot of chances for unwilling observation. What if that - I will never forget you - thing that was tearing up both leads (Nicole Kidman, pretty as always did that far more palatably than that whositwhatsit guy who ended up dying like a Chinese soap opera heroine) really exists? And then, even so, I suppose the answer would be maybe -- but only if she'd really, really wanted me to. And certainly not because she was so inept she couldn't work a complicated precision instrument with as many articulated moving parts as a garden rake.
And so, I suppose that is why I didn't like the movie.
Because I have no Cold Mountain to gravitate towards, anymore.
Because Cold Mountain is about hope, and watching it through hope-deserted eyes, it really wasn't very interesting. Except mebbe the bit when Nicole Kidman got jiggy, but even then it was kinda... dispassionate.
Anyhow, happy new year to everyone who is vaguely acquainted with me, and all the people I have wronged in this lifetime. Happy new year to the people who have forgiven me. And Happy New Year, You. And you too. And you and you, and you. :)
