I'm Not Asleep, My Eyes Are Just Closed

More accurately, it was just incredible coincidence. I had just given a talk that Friday morning at our hospital's Continuing Medical Education programme, which is attended by any hospital staff available, including the hospital consultants and the hospital director. It went down well, I think. I put lots of pictures which I hoped would prevent anyone from falling asleep. So I banged on for half an hour about ectopic pregnancies, about how it is the leading cause of maternal mortality in the first trimester, the various ways you can treat it and other problems that could present similarly to a ruptured ectopic, i.e. a twisted ovarian cyst. I was having a well-earned breakfast later when A&E called, saying that they've got a possible ruptured ectopic pregnancy. Ah, dammit. I swallowed the rest of my Pepsi (yes, I know, a carbonated sugary drink for breakfast, bad girl, bad girl) and made my way to emergency. There was a lady writhing with pain, holding on to her left side. T

I've been having a disturbing number of flashbacks lately. I'd eat in a restaurant and think of the time I ate there with my Dad. I'd hold another woman's baby in my arms and think of the time when I held my own niece and she'd hug me back. I'd listen to Rufus Wainwright and my heart would clench with nervousness as I'm reminded of the long car drives to work in the Emergency Department. I'd drift off to sleep only to wake up with the remnants of a nightmare where I'm endlessly sewing a patient's uterus. I went into work one morning and heard about my colleagues bad on-call. Instead of feeling sorry for him, I was frightened and nervous the entire 24 hours that I was on-call. I had a horrible feeling that there would be more deaths and the dying seeping onto my day from yesterday. I barely slept that night, even though nothing more than a ruptured ectopic pregnancy happened. Some days you wake up and you have an awful feeling that something bad i

I hate my new stethoscope. It looks like a vagina. And I see enough of those on a daily basis without having a plastic replica of it hanging around my neck. Having lost the stethoscope which I've had since I was a first year medical student, I ordered one through a friend who bought it at the hospital medical shop. Get the new high tech, light weight one, she says. It comes in all sorts of fun colours. I think I'll buy the usual Litmann Classic, I say. I've always used that one and I quite like it. No, no get this new one, it's much better. Besides looking like a vagina, my new stethoscope comes in a range of cheap- looking plastic swathed in a strange disco glitter which somewhow manages to look drab as vomit. I hate whoever's taken my old stethoscope. It's got my name engraved on it but that hasn't stopped them from saying "Ooh, I'll have that then." Death to the stethoscope stealer!

The setting : Busy day in the Infertility clinic The characters : One clueless doctor, one nearly thirty nulliparous lady Doctor : So, Mrs. X.... (rustles some paperwork). The treatment we have been giving you has worked, your hormone levels are now normal. (beams proudly at patient). It's now up to you and your husband to get pregnant. Mrs X : Oh.... Doctor : Yes. Uh, how often do you and husband have sexual intercourse? Mrs. X : About 10 times a month. Doctor : That's about 2 - 3 times a week. Not too bad. Just keep on doing, what you are doing then. Mrs. X : But doctor, I have no desire anymore! What do I do? Doctor : (Although has always considered herself fairly open about sexual matters and can make sex jokes in front of her parents, suddenly finds herself flustered.) Well, uh, you do what you normally do... what you did when you first got married...uh, we don't have any female Viagra. At that moment of time, Doctor could not think of any decent ways to suggest to pat

I had forgotten The Winchesters for a bit (well, they left me first!), what with other obsessions taking root and then me moving town and starting a new job and clocking up to 100 working hours a week. Thankfully, the hours have eased a little and I haven't passed out in a coma everytime I come home so I get to spend a little more time with my favourite brotherly duo. The first epsisode of Season 3 was a disappointment to me, honestly, when I watched it a few months ago, and it made me run back to my new television hero, Dexter Morgan from the equally terific TV show Dexter (why is it terrific? Because the hero is a crime scene investigator for the Miami Police by day and a serial killer who chops people up at night. Woo!) But on this recent vacation I've had the chance to get reacquainted with the Supernatural guys and forgive me for losing the faith the first time around because aren't they just the most adorable couple of wise-cracking, world-saving hunks you ever set

I was on a plane home and was making small talk with the lady who sat in the same row as me. I'm not one for chit-chatting but you know it's one of those things when you are on a plane: it would be rude and perak not to say a few words to your immediate neighbour. Especially since I had just climbed over the her lap to get the window seat. Neighbour: So, where do you live in KL? Moi: I live in Subang actually. I'm on leave from work, so I'm going home to see my parents. Neighbour: Oh, so you work in a factory here? Moi: (trying to keep a straight face) Uh, no. At this point, some would say that I should have puffed out my chest, turn up my nose and say in my haughtiest voice, "Hey, saya doktor tau!" Truthfully, it would be more embarrassing for me than her if I did say that. Not that there's anything wrong in being a factory worker, and I'm not so full of myself that I'd get offended if people don't lick my arse and say, "Ya Tuan Doktor&qu

Being in the operating theatre is like being in an oasis of calm. It's a blessed escape from the bustle of the wards where people shout from one end of the ward to the other. There are no visiting hours in theatre. It's infathomable to me why many people think that going to the hispital to visit sick loved ones is a good oppurunity for a fun day out with the family. God, I hate screaming kids. I can hate them but I hate the parents more for neglecting to teach their kids how to behave. Rolling around in a tantrum on the ward floor and playing with your grandma's cathether bag is NOT acceptable behaviour! If Scotland has made laws banning parents from smacking their kids, can there be a law allowing us to smack the parents instead? The other good thing about being in theatre is that you can pretend to be doing IMPORTANT things when you are actually swinging your feet having a cup of coffee waiting for the next patient to roll in. Ah, yes, everything is clean and orderly in t