Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Material World
I finally feel like a real doctor.
It isn't wearing the stethoscope that does it. I'm beginning to feel tempted to stop bringing my Very Expensive Littman Godsknowswhat Cardiologywhositwhatsit (it's not a regular cardiology master III, but something even more select than that. Got it at a bargain off a med student in the UK...) in to work and misplacing it (as one does)... and just knicking one off one of the house officers whenever I need one.
It's not the name badge - we're not quite like cops, just a badge and a gun. There's more to being a Real doctor in my head than the stethoscope and the badge.
It wasn't even the swanky namecards that The Employers printed for us (what on earth for I have no idea) or even the nice Name Stamp with Identity Number (everything has identity numbers in Singapore...) that gave me that final sense of belonging.
You guessed it. I've been paid at last...
*****
I just don't get it. Why do we have to seek consent from patients' families when the patients - corpus mentus, albeit decrepit - are averse to having procedures done to them? Wouldn't that amount to assault?
*****
I really don't get why my parents lock up their half of the house even when I am still in it.
This means that when I get the Urge to do something like play the piano - usually the (only) time when I do something really unusual like make up a really nice piece of music in a key I am unfamiliar with (in other words not C major, A minor or B flat major) I can't. This is really frustrating. I mean, what is it with them? Are they afraid I'll rob them blind of the furniture and light fixtures or something??!
That does it. I'm leaving the house, and I'm taking the Grand Piano with me. GRrrr.
*****
God Bless you, Grace Chow. I didn't know you in life, but I wish I could have. Reading you in death is a poor substitute. You read - like you were a remarkable person. You wrote words that weren't simply slapped to media for the fleeting pleasure of garnering attention, but your words linger instead; you touched the minds and left an aftertaste in the hearts of those who savoured you. You lived life the way I wish I could.
Die well.
It isn't wearing the stethoscope that does it. I'm beginning to feel tempted to stop bringing my Very Expensive Littman Godsknowswhat Cardiologywhositwhatsit (it's not a regular cardiology master III, but something even more select than that. Got it at a bargain off a med student in the UK...) in to work and misplacing it (as one does)... and just knicking one off one of the house officers whenever I need one.
It's not the name badge - we're not quite like cops, just a badge and a gun. There's more to being a Real doctor in my head than the stethoscope and the badge.
It wasn't even the swanky namecards that The Employers printed for us (what on earth for I have no idea) or even the nice Name Stamp with Identity Number (everything has identity numbers in Singapore...) that gave me that final sense of belonging.
You guessed it. I've been paid at last...
*****
I just don't get it. Why do we have to seek consent from patients' families when the patients - corpus mentus, albeit decrepit - are averse to having procedures done to them? Wouldn't that amount to assault?
*****
I really don't get why my parents lock up their half of the house even when I am still in it.
This means that when I get the Urge to do something like play the piano - usually the (only) time when I do something really unusual like make up a really nice piece of music in a key I am unfamiliar with (in other words not C major, A minor or B flat major) I can't. This is really frustrating. I mean, what is it with them? Are they afraid I'll rob them blind of the furniture and light fixtures or something??!
That does it. I'm leaving the house, and I'm taking the Grand Piano with me. GRrrr.
*****
God Bless you, Grace Chow. I didn't know you in life, but I wish I could have. Reading you in death is a poor substitute. You read - like you were a remarkable person. You wrote words that weren't simply slapped to media for the fleeting pleasure of garnering attention, but your words linger instead; you touched the minds and left an aftertaste in the hearts of those who savoured you. You lived life the way I wish I could.
Die well.
