Stuff and nonsense

One of the consultants is convinced that myself and paired student are slackers.

I mean, we are, but he’s being a bit prejudiced. It’s not like there’s anything to do on the ward. Deterred, I located the library but was yet again offended by Rainman and his poorly phrased rejection-type slights, which almost imply that I am more of a social outcast than he (please o god no). Nothing stings like rejection from someone you are friendly with more out of pity and obligation rather than any sincere appreciation. Serves me right.

In better news, on the way home from the bus stop a large intact packet of Arnott’s custard creams flew out of a turning car and tumbled in front of me as the driver sped off, not realising. You never know when luck (or food) will come flying at you from unexpected places.

Right now I can still recall the smell of burning human flesh, in all its vividity. Mmm, nothing like the smoke of barbequed subcutaneous fat in the morning to wake you up.

It’s been a while since I’ve scrubbed up and gone to theatre.

For the first 20 minutes I was fascinated by the magic of being able to open up a chest cavity and visualise a live, beating heart (albeit a slightly diseased one) surounded by live, inflating lungs. Enthralled by the genius of being able to stop the heartbeats whilst diverting blood supply to the bypass machine. A fantastic pumping system, but not revealing the slightest bit relation to anything emotionally we associate with the heart: love, desire, despair.

But the novelty quickly wore off and I found myself strapped in with nowhere to run for one of the longest operations I’ve been in. Combine that with an inexperienced nurse, my nervousness in an unfamiliar place, and my reg’s thick subcontinental accent, and it did not make for a good educational experience. An analogy worthy of medicine itself. Initially I thought it was going to be worthwhile, noble, interesting. No-one really mentions the long hours of nothing, the boredom, the fear (of making a mistake, of dealing with people, of everything!) and the drowning in an endless tsunami of impossible knowledge, not until you find out for yourself. And by then it’s too late of course.

So what’s the deal with birthdays?

As I have aged, the following has happened:

1. I need more sleep, and I have a shorter attention span (on Wed I lasted 5 minutes in front of a cardiothoracic book before collasping)
2. I get new aches and pains I never felt before after I exercise
3. Whereas I used to wake up bright and chirpy (well, for my standards) the morning after a night on the town, now I notice a hellava lot more headaches, nausea and furry teeth. Lost faith in my liver, I have.
4. My tolerance for bullshit has evaporated. There was a time when I tried to make excuses for shoddy behaviour. Now I abhor unnecessary social gatherings, particularly those with unnecesary people.

However, on the bright side:

1. I drive tired a lot lot less. No more falling asleep at traffic lights for me.
2. I am actually still exercising, however reluctantly
3. I can tell the difference between mediocre wine and totally crap bargain bin wine
4. Unless it’s necessary, I don’t go. It took me 6 years to finally understand that no-one gives a crap if I don’t show up to that obscure weekly departmental meeting.

Some people want extravagant, lavish events to celebrate their b’days, others want to ignore it. I think I’m middle-ground. I’ve grown out of the want for presents, but I appreciate any implicit effort that goes on behind the scenes. So that’s what birthdays are about I guess. The trivial excuse of surviving another of earth’s orbits to feel special, appreciated and loved by those you appreciate and love. A celebration.

she said to me, condescendingly… (John Mayer why don’t you come to Perth?)

I can’t believe I’m going to do this full-time next year.

Three things that struck me upon my arrival to the heart and lung ward: 1) the entire ward is undergoing renovations and vinyl floor removal 2) because of that theatre is shut this week and 3) if it were up to Mr. McGinty, the entire unit would be closed down by now. My confidence therefore in getting a worthwhile experience out of this term is gearing towards negative, but on the bright side, I do have a lot of free time to contemplate my inevitable demise that looms in 16 weeks.

Today an older gentleman, reasonably fit, all but straight out refused possible curative surgery for a pretty fat tumour and a heart past its use by date – a stenotic coronary artery AND an aortic valve. In his place I wouldn’t be keen on surgery, but I wouldn’t be too happy about dying from cerebral and liver mets either. Although the risks of surgery and the risks of NOT having the surgery were explained to him, I was a bit unsettled that he didn’t really seem to understand what he potentially had to gain – a chance of perhaps another 20 or so years in fair health. But hey, he’s got his reasons. I mean, I haven’t even made my appointment with my orthodontist to get my wisdoms out because I’m scared of pain and nausea and strangers hacking bits of my jaw off.

I’d better learn something tomorrow and try to impress the bosses. Quote of the day: “What?!? I thought you were sixth year?! Did you learn any anatomy?!?” after I mumbled some ridiculous answer in trying to remember the branches of the aortic arch.

Just spent a good 5 minutes of my life trying to fold up a bus timetable, and I’m sure I still haven’t gotten it right. There must be some joke I’m not getting. Evil bus timetable-folder-uppers.

Why I like Sundays:

1. Only day I’m guaranteed some kind of sleep in.
2. Sundays tend to be sunny. Whether this is due to some meteorological coincidence or my selective memory I’m not sure.
3. Lunch options usually range from Mum’s hokkien mee or Domino’s.
4. Morning endorphins from mad cycling dash to Body Combat, furthered by cathartic Body Combat uppercut combos aimed at imaginary opponent-of-the-week.
5. Free time to do whatever I want. Baking, watching X-men cartoons, going on a picnic, all of it.
6. Relishing the last hours of ignorant coupledom before the onslaught of Monday.

Gotta love weekends.

A rather crappy po-hem, most of which was composed in my head during theatre, which gives you an idea of just how boring this job could be. To celebrate the only week in 6 years that we get to learn some anaesthetics.

A week in the life of a working anaesthetist
O what surprises and secrets are in store?
One of the most unpronoucable of specialists,
A job of 1 percent panic, ninety nine percent bore.

Working with machines that light up and go beep
Suctioning up obstructing vomit, mucous or gore
Meeting the patients and then putting them asleep
Good if you can’t be bothered with patient rapport.

Spends time in theatre, gets lost on the ward,
Rams countless large bore tubes down nose and mouth
Quiet most of the time, but can never be ignored,
Be awake, o my anaesthetist, when I get my wisdom teeth out!

First day of anaesthetics, which I have difficulty pronouncing. For one week I will be trying to learn about anaesthetics, the art of anaesthesia, taught by anaesthetists, sometimes known as anaesthesiologists. Shit. Why can’t I call them “the dudes that put people to sleep and stuff”?

Before I even got to the hospital, the day started out horribly. Many factors conspired to ensure certain failure: Dad taking 15 min in the toilet, an expired multirider, a busted ticket machine, and zero credit left on my mobile. Of course, none of this would have mattered if I woke up on time, as I would’ve walked calmly to the station instead of missing the train and walking miserably home to beg for a lift.

I did make it there before the lecture started. I hate hate HATE being disorganised, unmotivated and tardy all the time, and I’ve got no-one to point the finger at except me. Four fifths of the time I rock up late it’s me being lazy. The one fifth left is social ineptness. It’s bloody hard to show up on time to an engagement you fear will result in acute awkwardness for an entire night/morning/afternoon.

Anyway, the day was alright, even if I was introduced to yet another arena of medicine I will invariably suck at.

And now for something completely different:

An attempt at remembering where and what I did in my spare time, and so I can use ‘food critic’ as my fallback career when my luck runs out.

Marrakech in Subi

Style: Morrocan and European

Price: Mains ~ $25 (unless you have cheap ass discounts like me!)

Nice decor, but the other tables were so close I thought I was having dinner for four instead of for two. We both had tagine meals, which meant our meals came steaming hot in cute tagine pots. Meal was average. Service was crap. An odd experience when the belly-dancing lady starts oscillating right in front of your face as you are shovelling food into your mouth. She must be good though; the old guy dining with his 70 yo wife was so entranced he almost left his scarf behind.

Lowdown: Take an Entertainment card and go on Friday nights to watch the belly dancing. Go to Lucio’s or Il Gelato for dessert instead otherwise you’ll wait ages. I’ll probably go somewhere else for Morrocan next time.

The Turban somewhere far away…possibly Canningvale

Style: Indian

Price: Buffet $25

Very atmospheric, if you like framed turbans and swords, which I do. For some reason we were seated about a metre apart from each other. Maybe when the booking was made they thought we sounded fat over the phone. Because of my cold I couldn’t smell or taste much and my throat was too sensitive to tolerate the hot stuff, which meant I have only a limited idea of what was on offer. But it was delicious – nothing warms your soul on a cold night like oodles of butter chicken and crispy pompadums. And buttery, garlicky, airy naan. Mmmmm. Indian dessert however, is not really something I’m comfortable with, and I was steered away from a suspicious looking dessert of grated carrot.

Lowdown: Apparently this is one of the best places in Perth for Indian. Thanks to tightass Entertainment discounts, it came up to ~$22pp. Go as a group of 3 or less and it’ll cost you $18.75, muhaha! Best eaten on a winter night and without an URTI. Go on an empty stomach. Yum.

It doesn’t matter how hard they try, going to the dentist is traumatic and painful. They attempt to distract you with lovely artwork, comfy dental chairs and witty chit-chat, but it’s all in vain. Nothing hides the fact that you have your mouth open for a good 20 mins at the mercy of a relative stranger who goes to work on your teeth armed with a sharp, pointy hook.

So I lay silent in my comfy chair as my teeth were scrapped with all manners of horrible metallic probes. Picture someone scratching their fingernails on blackboard but on the inside of your head. At the end he “polishes” my dental work with some strong mint concoction (and don’t I just love the taste of mint?) and a buzzing, whirring thing that makes my skull vibrate at dangerous frequencies. When he’s finished my entire mouth is filled with a whole bunch of weird, crunchy mint particles. I have to concentrate to stop myself from gagging. Out of sight in the carpark, I hurriedly gargle my bottle of water and spit the contents out on the brick pavement. Such a display of charm and poise.

Periodic oral examination and removal of calculus = $113.00

Not having to see the dentist for another 6 months = priceless!

I love old people. Really, I do.

Every week at work I make the rounds on such folk to maintain my self-delusion that I actually may be useful to someone. In doing so, I get wired with my double or more dose of caffeine and loaded with refined sugars as the folks offer me endless streams of coffees and biscuits/cakes/confectionary. It’s great, although one could argue that the perks are offset by less than palatable duties (emptying commodes, wiping bottoms, other grosser stuff I’m now desensitised to).

Generally though, I find the balance adds up in my favour. Why else would I continue this for 6 years? I mean, besides the fact that I’m poor and would rather offer myself up as guinea pig to dodgy uni psychology experiments than ask my parents for money (btw that was not hypothetical). I can’t bear to think of some of the residents passing away or…haha, I was about to write getting old – they ARE old – but you know, I don’t want to think about them losing their functionality and just…fizzling out.

Sometimes I’m not sure if maybe some of them are simply dotty, or are truly showing early signs of dementing. Hmm that’s a condition they didn’t coach us about in geriatrics, the Ds to differentiate between – Delirium, Depression, Dementia and the lesser-mentioned but widely witnessed Dottiness. Today one of them, highly-educated and a little bit ye olde worlde grand, told me I had to dust the TV with a soaking wet cloth because (this is pretty much what she said) “something about the electro-something currents the TV emits…and all sorts of germs get trapped, that’s why you need a wet cloth to kill them…you’re a doctor, you should know!” Erm, wtf? The only thing I’m going to kill by dusting the TV with a wet cloth is me, via electrocution. But this doesn’t compare to the other one with Paranoid Personality Disorder. Every week it’s a cautionary tale of real estate agents, taxi drivers, and general public who are embroiled in some conspiracy or other. It is extremely odd sharing someone else’s reality, and while I suspect that a lot of what is said has an inkling of truth behind it, her vehement responses to past slights are hard to empathise with. Last week she left me speechless with the comment “have you seen pictures of those Aborigines? The really dark ones? Aren’t they awful! The whiter ones around now are ok…” – yeah, they’re whiter probably because their great-grandmothers were raped by colonists, isn’t that nice. It’s hard not to shake your head in amazement when someone asks you (you who is obviously of Asian background) “how do they let that filth get into Australia these days?” when the implication is that the ‘filth’ is anyone not white Anglo-Saxon.

Ah well. This is not the first nor last time I’ll encounter an otherwise harmless gomer-type with unjustifiable prejudices. I still actually like my aforementioned paranoid resident, and somewhat arrogantly decide that people like her are not really to blame, but just have little understanding, and little capacity to understand, in a complex world.