Stuff and nonsense

Racing up the freeway with the pedal pressed to the floor during a well-established night where most others are getting ready for bed, the following lyrics come to me like some sort of funny sadistic mantra. (taken out of context obviously)

Emergency
I think I’m falling apart
Emergency
I think I am losing the fight
And I don’t know if I can do it
I don’t know if I can try

To get the full effect, one must sing it Rock God style: e-MERRRRRRR-gen-cee!

Other than the fact that I detest, in principle, the Eskimo album from which it originates – who the hell puts nearly the entire album in D minor? – I toy with the idea of bursting out into song in front of patients, particularly when they come in with the following true and individual complaints that I’d like to share with you all, if only to remind us of the absurdity of the human race:

• “I took an ecstasy tablet 7 hours ago, and now I’m anxious”
• “My arm felt heavy”
• “I’ve never seen my 19yo daughter like this, is this normal? …btw, she’s had 15 vodka shooters tonight”
• “I’ve got urinary retention…er yes, I did go to the toilet half an hour ago”
• “My nephew’s knee needs to be drained! You can’t refuse us treatment!” (knee obviously does not need emergency treatment)
• “I couldn’t sleep because my heart races…which I’ve had for 3 months” (How is this an emergency?)
• “I called the ambulance because…well, I have bunions”
• “I have pins and needles, then they take over my head and I can’t think!”
• “I want to see the psych nurse. NOW.” Patient has breath alcohol at least 3 times legal limit
• “Please, doctor, will you help me”…what a superfluous comment, do they think that asking me will miraculously change my mind? Did they think I was going to do shit-all in the first place?

…and mentions to all the ungrateful, intoxicated, self-righteous idiots +/- their relatives who make it all worthwhile that I owe a >$36000 debt to the government.

Due to a nasty twist of fate, probably contrived against me (c’mon I-Chucked-A-Sickie-For-Four-Nights-Intern, call me up and prove me wrong, I still have hope that maybe you are truly on your deathbed and not just holidaying overseas?) I had to do more than my share of nights and am feeling a tad-ish bitter.

I suppose I should mention that Emergency was actually a well-supported term, I had great teachers, I got a lot of baking done, I finally overcame my inability to take blood, blah blah blah, fuck it, I’m dead tired and am certainly looking forward to a weekend filled with bike rides, gardening, reading, eating and generally making the Pain Go the Fuck Away.

Well, it could’ve been worse. I could’ve been at Charlie’s, haha.

I started to write a post but it unintentionally turned out too bitter and angry, even for me. I’ll leave it for another time when I’m filled with red wine and tears, howling at the moon and getting ready to go to work, haha.

Thong’s fellow postings gave me cause to re-visit the days long gone, where afternoons would last forever and everyone one had a Best Friend, perhaps even up to 3 at any given time. My childhood BF, the one I was most in cahoots with at primary school, is a girl I haven’t heard of or seen for, what, 10 or more years. I have no desire whatsoever to change that.

She joined our class mid-way through primary school; I have no idea where she came from but everyone, including me, thought she was a bit on the strange side, as kids introduced to something new tend to think. Over time I began to see her as cool. She was one of the best dressed 10-12 year olds I ever knew. I was envious of her self-assured ways, her hipness, and of her family that seemed to actually like each other. She had an endless supply of cute and cuddly mammalian/avian creatures in her house to play with, including little puppies not yet old enough to open their eyes, and a budgie that would nibble at ears. (I had a Krazy Krab – let me tell you, there is nothing “krazy” about them) She even lived next door to the guy I had a crush on. For a long time I felt I didn’t deserve her as a BF, and I even fancied she was…near perfect.

We went to PEAC together, that class for overachievers, and took extra long getting McDonald’s thickshakes and returning back to school to avoid as much class as possible. We both dreamt of being exotic and mysterious secret agents, writing elaborately coded messages in class to each other. One day we made a Ouija board and I even gave her the benefit of the doubt when she was obviously pushing the glass around. We played Monkey Island together. We baked, mostly out of packets, and with differing and usually disastrous results. She introduced me to hours of watching Agents Mulder and Scully saving the world from alien beings and shape-shifting monsters. Our afternoons were spent making bookmarks, eating instant noodles, distilling our own perfume which incidentally, turned out to be dirty water and backyard roses. She managed to take me aside and tell me with a straight face what a condom was when boys in my class started referring to them. On our graduation night, she wore a dark blue satin halter dress and looked incredible.

When we left primary school, she went to the local public high school as I found myself dressed in the least flattering garb imaginable for my new private girls’ school. She wrote me long letters decorated with Texta about nothing in particular, and I reciprocated until both of us found new friends and moved on. I’m not sure I ever knew her, and I certainly have no idea who she is now. She could be anything, could be anywhere – a scientist in Holland, a volunteer worker in Egypt, maybe she even lives 2 streets away from me and catches my bus. When do friendships mean something? Am I likely to look back on most of my friendships and wonder how true a connection existed?