Code Blue

There's actually more to us than just being the casual gas man at work. Over here in these parts, your friendly neighbourhood anaesthetists also wear another hat, the far more austere cap of an intensive care physician.

Not only do we knock patients under, we sometimes also keep them under for a much longer while in the intensive care department - apart from a myriad of other more onerous tasks ranging from life support to specialized medical therapies regulated to the patient at hand. Working in the shadows as it may be since most of our patients, hopefully if we do our job correctly by keeping them well and truly under, don't even recall our faces.
 
And that's the way we like it.

Which brings me to the topic at hand which is Code Blue, something we all dislike vehemently since not only does it involve some unfortunate life on the absolute precipice of free falling into oblivion, it also necessitates dropping everything we are doing at that moment to make a literal run for it. Seriously, I've been paged halfway through making out - exactly like what happens on those scandalous medical dramas.

Damn, is that your pager or mine?

But every little moment counts.

So it makes us even more agitated when we are confronted with the most ludicrous situations, like the one I had yesterday.

Doctor : Yes, you called? 
Nurse : There's a Code Blue. 
Doctor : Alright, what is it about? 
Nurse : It's a Code Blue. 
Doctor : Yes. What is it about? Tell me more. 
Nurse : It's a Code Blue. 

I could have sworn I was talking to a dictaphone. Or at least one of those mechanical voice messages that are put on a loop.

Rather than a junior nurse whose faculties seemed to have flown out of the premises the moment a Code Blue was called. Realizing that her greenness required some proper handling and patience, I refrained from reaching across magically through the telephone lines to strangle her properly.

And that was after asking repeatedly for the incidence that brought about the Code Blue. Yes, it was even more times than what I wrote above. Code Blue just means an emergency situation where a patient has suffered a cardiopulmonary arrest. What brought it about could be an infinite number of possibilities that would probably require all number of different medical procedures.

So you can imagine my consternation. Fortunately after the umpteenth time of trying to draw out the reason for the Code Blue, a far more senior nurse grabbed the phone away from her to explain.

Headphones

Even with the recent uncalled for changes in our medical career that does naught but complicate our daily lives, there are days that I am still glad I heeded my parents' repeated warnings and headed down the path towards medicine rather than turning towards the other default careers of nerdy Chinese boys in our country such as engineering and accountancy. From what I hear of what goes down in those chilly air-conditioned cubicles filled with automated drones, I wouldn't fare very well there.

Think unprecedented mass murder.

Since let's face it, being perfectly courteous and sweetly politically correct would only edge me inexorably towards madness. Not to mention the endless well-meaning but sadly futile proposals by Human Resource to build a better work environment - I mean come on, haven't we already debunked the moronic idea of hot desking?

In medicine, we do have a saying for such harebrained schemes - If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Though even I would begrudgingly admit our abrasive work culture needs to be toned down a tad since most days, our ghastly consultants resemble more closely the devilish Miranda Priestley than the politically correct namby pambies championed these days.

So you're the feeble little weenie who thinks I don't look approachable? 

For instance, we had this interesting anecdote just the other day when a friend of mine found herself mildly censured for wearing over-ear headphones at work. Such seemingly innocuous conduct and yet some of her meddling colleagues had apparently deemed it unacceptable.

Carenina : Usually I wear them so that I can focus on the work. 
Paul : As usual. 
Carenina : Apparently though, wearing headphones makes me seem unapproachable. 
Paul : Why should you be approachable? Are you a hooker on the streets looking for a john? 
Carenina : No!
Paul : Tell your subordinates to find some balls if they want to ask you something. Gosh. 

Seriously. Much ado about nothing?

Of course in the wishy-washy land of the cubicles, such strident rejoinders would probably earn a horrified gasp, several fainting swoons and possibly an urgent letter requesting an explanation of the unintended work aggression. No doubt Kitty Kat could recall the heady days of working with the overly politically correct Kumbayas.

So let me rephrase my previous plans about regulating the tension in the medical workplace. I would much rather have our pithy honesty rather than the overly correct communiques preferred by most multinational corporations where treachery is concealed by sweetness.

13 Reasons

Or maybe not all that many.

Although the oddly ironic paean to self immolation post relentless bullying that is 13 Reasons Why certainly brings back some bittersweet memories of high school. Not that I ever seriously contemplated suicide way back then but I could certainly empathize with the tremendous rush of emotions experienced by the overly hormonal teenagers in the series.

With that heady cocktail of adolescent hormones, is it any wonder that they behave fucking irrationally at times?

Me, I would probably stand out as the least emo kid in the series. Even with that bothersome gay cloud looming thunderously over me as a teenager, I still remained relatively upbeat about most things. Basically threw myself wholeheartedly into extracurricular activities and random tutorial sessions; even managed to meet a few girl friends that I, apparently still in denial, foolishly asked out later. Not that difficult to brave the infrequent rejections when there's not much riding on it. I was hardly the angsty, guilt-ridden gay kid stereotype portrayed by most CW teen dramas.

But then thankfully, I was rarely the target of ceaseless schoolyard bullying.

Bashful school wallflower I may have been but I wouldn't have taken a beating lying down. Literally or figuratively. Never could imagine the role of the cloyingly sweet K-drama heroine being repeatedly set upon by her malicious oppressors. Like why would I? Turns out it was the right move to make since in retrospect, playing the amenable victim ever ready to take a kicking only seems to rile the boneheaded bullies more.

Clearly that's like painting a Kick Me Sign permanently on your back.

Umm why are you taking this lying down? 

Even in 13 Reasons, the hopeful schoolkids seem to think that all that sophomoric name-calling and talking trash would have been left behind in high school but I can certainly assure them that it doesn't magically disappear. It just ups its game. Just picture this; a gang of tense, highstrung personalities tossed together into a stressful work environment - now that's a true breeding ground for the nastiest of monsters.

Though in the more sophisticated workplace, the bullying tends to be a tad more insidious.

Something Curvy Carenina apparently agrees with since she's been on the receiving end of some workplace malice, artfully couched in syrupy political correctness but no less venomous in its painful sting. What puzzles me is the unexpected lack of combative belligerence on her part. Burn me once and I might dismissively shrug it off, but try it again and there'll certainly be hell to pay.

Why play the nobly suffering victim? Doubt they would be handing out prizes for the most deserving underdog.

Bapa Borek Anak Rintik

No doubt that particular Malay proverb would make little sense to some - but the saying translates closely to Like Father Like Son.

Though generally not applicable to my workplace, today it turned out to be surprisingly relevant when it came to my own nurses. Honestly it still surprises me but I've been working in this hospital with the same staff under me for more than five years. Talk about the blink of an eye.

Really small, tight team here in the hospital; so in all those years working together day in, day out ( sometimes even night out ), we have mostly gotten used to each other's little foibles, freaks and frenzies. Basically all the seemingly insignificant idiosyncrasies that make up a person.

And yes, we have learned from each other as well.

Though as it turns out, my own trusty nurses didn't only learn about medical physiology from me. Not content with taking to heart the pharmacological gems I occasionally mutter, their keen observational eye has picked up even more than I could possibly imagine.

Since the expeditious marriage and subsequent exile of Pretty Panacea to the northern wastes, her role in our hospital has only been replaced by someone far inferior that we've taken to calling Reasonable Remedy. Everything about the new girl is just... less.

And that includes her execrable style of dressing.

Nurse : Can you imagine what she wore to our soiree?
Paul : The less said, the better. Maybe she's here as the help. 

For a while though, I imagined I was the only one who noticed - since it's hard to believe anyone else in my workplace could be quite so judgemental. After all, only a handful here would even question the dubious sartorial instincts that would lead our fashion-forward Remedy to don a ratty tee and peasant pants to work, paired with a pair of worn beach sandals.

Perhaps Remedy made a reasonable effort when it came to more formal dinner, I thought to myself trying my best to be wholly magnanimous. Much to my consternation though, she proved me wrong yet again. Although this time, I wasn't the only one laying judgement on her deplorable fashion sense.

There we all were, my nurses and I, in the elevator waiting to head up to the dining room when she came along. Almost on tandem, my nurses turned to stare her down as Remedy waltzed down the hallway in her flip flops. Imagine eight judgemental, supercilious stares suddenly aimed your way. While my nurses were all dressed to the nines with heels, hair and make-up done impeccably, our oh-so-sloppy Reasonable Remedy had just thrown on whatever was closest in her ever-convenient laundry basket, sadly wrinkled and tattered though it may have been.

Then just like any Mean Girls movie, one of my nurses - they vehemently denied doing it after - pressed the elevator button to shut the door on a dumbfounded Remedy.

Nurse : Oh no. She is not sitting with us. 
Nurse #2 : Does she think she's headed to the wet market in that outfit? 
Nurse : Let's not take a selfie with her. 

Couldn't have said it better. I think I had a proud tear in my eye.

Bapa Borek Anak Rintik indeed. 

The Kumbayas

I guess it's time to talk about the Kumbayas.

Though Kitty Kat's time at her workplace has come to a close, it has certainly influenced many of our late night discussions over coffee and cake. For she actually chose to enter the hitherto unexplored realm of kumbaya hipster start-up that miraculously achieves decisions based on a conciliatory group consensus with mandatory shared hugs, frequent backpats and regular group singing over an office campfire.

With the ubiquitous ukulele in hand of course.

No doubt you've seen many of her impassioned colleagues - these affluent millennials huddled around artisanal coffeehouses sipping their hastily deconstructed caffeine concoctions in pseudoscientific glass beakers. For someone relatively seasoned in the intensely aggressive working culture of medicine, these modern day urban hipsters seem almost implacably alien to me.

Obviously such a hip upstart of a company comes with only a mere handful on their board above the impossibly decrepit age of thirty; with the majority only having a couple of years under their belt before being voluntarily propelled into lofty positions they are utterly unprepared for. Curious executive decisions that nonetheless give rise to some unusual work conundrums.

Imagine a human resource manager barely out of university finding himself incapable of writing up a feasible exit strategy for the underperforming employees. In fact the little milksop balked at the very idea of firing an incompetent point blank; resorting to such sadly wishy-washy methods as offering cordial suggestions instead. Apparently tough love would cause these fragile hothouse blooms to shrivel, wither and die.

Seemingly not content with filling the ranks of the company with incapables impossible to dismiss, the ineffectual manager then next decided to come up with intriguing proposals at work.

Kat : Now we have to deal with key performance indicators like Integrity and -
Paul : Stop. How the hell do you score Integrity? Does it rise year by year? Could it remain the same? 
Kat : We have no idea. There's also a Sense of Possibility.
Paul : I can't even possibly see sense of that. 
Kat : Yes.
Paul : Honestly the more sense of possibility you have the less sense of reality you have. Half the asylum patients would score really high on sense of possibility - in fact they would flap their wings to fly out of a towering skyscraper. Is that what they prefer? 
Kat : Obviously.

Really. Bringing up such tedious bureaucratic paperwork for a fledgling startup with members fewer than the principal characters of War and Peace. Offering other constructive feedback to subtly alter his proposals is only seen as a monstrous act of aggression, apparently creating an unhealthy work environment.

Manager : I sense some hostility in the room. Perhaps we need to talk about this before we proceed.
Paul : It's already past working hours and we haven't made a single decision even after a three hour meeting.
Manager : Could I offer you some feedback on what you just said-
Paul : There's going to be a knife feedback in your chest if you keep telling me that. 

Thankfully I have little of such nonsense at work to bother me since I would have gladly disemboweled him! Clearly Dilbert drew inspiration from just such passive aggressive millennial managers. Or perhaps I could be impugning the reputations of the millennials and it's just this particular group of hipsters.

You can see why we spend several evenings laughing over such ludicrous work shenanigans. Although it has me starting to wonder if the human resource manager has nefarious plans to sink the entire kumbaya hipster startup.

The Surgeon's Daughter

Although I wouldn't say medicine is my first calling, I certainly found the wonderful mysteries of it all endlessly fascinating. Being frankly interested in the dust-filled tomes of arcane medical text definitely helped somewhat in my studies back in school; otherwise I swear it would have been utterly tedious. After all, we learn all about the inner workings of the human body and that should be assuredly interesting to all who possess them, I assume?

Apparently I was wrong in making that assumption.

Back in medical school, we had quite a number of legacies, meaning children of surgeons and physicians who we all erroneously figured had a significant leg up when it came to studying medicine. Turns out they weren't all that different from the rest of us wandering lost in the winding shelves of medical journals and textbooks.

In fact I think they might have had a tougher time than the rest of us with all the weighty expectations heaped upon their scrawny shoulders.

Something I definitely confirmed when the surgeon I worked with brought his daughter to work. With the overabundance of medical grads coupled with the serious lack of available posts for them, things aren't looking that bright for new doctors here so it didn't surprise me to see his recently graduated daughter coming by for a tour of duty.

Though I am starting to doubt very much her sincerity.

Perhaps I might be a tad biased but never have I seen so little enthusiasm in a newly minted physician. Ever. So much so that I've dubbed her Apathetic Anna.

At the beginning of our careers - something I presume we all had a hand in choosing, I would have expected at least a reasonable level of zealousness. If you can't even muster up that teensy bit of excitement now, what about twenty miserable years down the line when inevitable apathy sets in? Even I was far more keen - and I was hardly the intense, overachieving Gungho John types way back then.

Paul : Perhaps you would like to close up the surgery? Maybe a few stitches? 
Surgeon : An excellent idea!
Nurse : Yes, try. Here's the needle. 
Anna : Umm. If I must...

Really. We practically had to cattleprod her to do so.

Talk about disinterest. Back in the days, we had house officers lining up just to complete stitches on a freaking dried banana. Not even on a patient. To earn that particular honour, you'd probably have to seriously dismember several of your own kiasu, obsessed colleagues just to get close enough to holding that needle. Everyone was just so psyched to be a doctor their first time out.

Houseman : We get to cut? Really? Really?
Houseman 2 : I wanna do it! Can I?
Medical officer : It's a corpse. Get a grip. 

And we're not even talking about the scalpel yet.

Which I doubt very much Anna would be interested in. Really, you can easily imagine Anna's disturbingly blasé expression as she dully observes the surgeon sketching detailed diagrams of the surgical procedure post-operatively. Short of several jaded socialistas that I know, I doubt anyone could look that dolefully bored.

Maybe she was watching paint dry. 

A Spot of Bother

My grandmother has a tumour.

Don't freak out. Relax though. Not only is it a slow-growing tumour barely in its nascency, there's very little chance my nonagenarian, edging to centenarian, grandmother could outlive said malignancy. Since that near inconsequential nugget of growth has done little to bother her, I've just sighed and shrugged over the diagnosis.

Which is the opposite of the extended family's reaction.

Think horror, heartbreak and hysteria - in a rapid succession of dispirited gushes at first, and then all three packed into one great big emotional eruption not seen since Krakatoa threw a ruckus back in 1883. News of my grandmother's spot of bother turned viral almost immediately with the entire family whatsapp group chat practically flooded in less than an hour with overwrought feeds from up and down the length of the Pacific coast.

With invariably more medical information within than the BMJ.

Too many doctors in the family indeed. Which is how my poor grandmother was immediately hurried through an entirely counterproductive battery of tests, scans and examinations, undoubtedly without her abject consent. Turns out I was the only one who questioned the sheer futility of undergoing such irksome procedures if my grandmother wouldn't give consent for further treatment.

Paul : More tests, really?
Cousin : But we have to get the correct diagnosis.
Paul : So what if you find the diagnosis but the patient refuses further treatment? 

To add further insult to injury, the overly solicitous, well-meaning aunts then decided to mislead my grandma by telling her it's all perfectly routine. All on the erroneous assumption that my grandmother's an addlepated, dimwitted fool - which, if you've been following my blog, she has proven repeatedly that she is decidedly not despite her growing decrepitude.

Hell, I would be pleased to be even half as lucid at her age.

And she would also say hell no, she won't go if they even suggested more surgery.

It shouldn't surprise me so much though since I've had similar experiences with other overanxious families hoping to hide the diagnosis from their loved ones in a peculiar bid to protect them. Seldom ends well though since I find such sentiments absolutely foolish and find myself utterly uncooperative with these provoking requests for a nondisclosure.

Relatives : Could you not inform my mother that she has cancer? 
Paul : She lived through some of the most turbulent times in China, went through two world wars, braved the rough seas to come here with two toddlers, then brought up the entire lot of you. You know what, I think she will survive knowing this. 
Relatives : It would make her depressed.
Paul : It would make her depressed to think that her children don't trust her with such information. 

Perhaps the ethical dilemma changes from patient to patient - with some preferring not to know - but really, how can we withhold such vital information from the patient themselves, especially if they are of sound mind. In my grandmother's case, it's certainly not her first brush with the big C - which the other relatives also tried to keep hush-hush - so I doubt receiving such information would be all that big a blow.

Morning Shower

I love morning showers.

Basically any kinda shower. In fact I make it a point to shower religiously at least three times a day, especially with the rapidly rising temperatures in the tropics these days. Apart from the all-important mainstay of personal hygiene, these would be the few times in the day where I can relax and reflect in relative solitude with little interruption. Some of my best ideas come from just laying my head against the tiles as the water rains over me!

Not to mention there's a gentle, almost innocent sensuality in just touching and enjoying the feel of your skin underneath the lather. Of course it's even better when there's someone else to share with - one of the reasons I keep barging into the shower with Charming Calvin despite his unspoken dissatisfaction with another hulking body cramming up the small space. Nothing sexual unless that's what we're going for but it's just tenderly intimate soaping each other up in the shower.

A highly positive change from my childhood days when I emphatically disliked morning showers! Not only did I have difficulty getting up early in the morning, I didn't actually function as any sort of rational human being till at least the third period in school. So you can imagine how I got dragged into the bathroom in the wee hours of the morning. Still my mother would have expected no less than at least two showers in a day, with the morning one a firm absolute.

Maybe having him around would have kept me sufficiently awake for a shower. 

Which is why my mind boggles when it comes to the patients.

Paul : Do you smell something? 
Nurse : Not really. Why?
Paul : Something stinks. 
Nurse : Oh yes.
Paul : What the hell is it? 
Nurse : It's the patient actually. 
Paul : Really? *sniffs* Oh God, you're right. 
Nurse : She obviously neglected her morning shower before coming. 
Paul : Since the beginning of time? Her stench reminds me of the fish market.  
Nurse : Many of them don't believe in morning showers. They believe themselves clean. 
Paul : They would beg to differ if they could smell themselves. 
Nurse : And they are afraid of catching a chill if they shower in the morning. 
Paul : It's the freaking tropics not winter in China. 

Seriously. Get yourself to a shower.

And before you strenuously defend the recalcitrant patient, the lady was definitely fit enough to cleanse herself meticulously before presenting herself to the hospital. Rather than do so, she apparently wanted to fool us into believing her to be the local homeless hobo. Yes there will one day be a rant about hospital visitors who dress like bedraggled tramps.

Obviously not everyone had my mother who dropkicked us into the bathroom as kids every morning for a thorough clean. After smelling the fetid after-effects of a sweaty equatorial night without the benefits of a morning shower, I can certainly understand why.

Immediately after work, I rang up the matron to order an intense scrub for that patient.

Calling for a Consult

Perhaps it's time for a Botox.

If anything, the following events that happened just this morning certainly impressed on me how very dodderingly ancient I am! Immediately brought back uneasy recollections of a scenario that happened when I was a terribly green junior registrar way back when. For ease of reference, our strictly followed medical hierarchy at work - regardless of specialty - goes a little something like this.

Houseman --> Medical Officer --> Registrar --> Specialist --> Consultant

So after a particularly exhausting round at some ungodly hour in the intensive care unit, the senior doctor turns to me to draft out her plans. Let's just call her Jane.

Jane : That should be the plan for the patient. Just write it down and I'll confirm the changes with the consultant on-call. 
Paul : You're the consultant on-call. 
Jane : What? You must have read the roster wrong. That's years away. I'm only the specialist. 
Paul : No, you're the consultant on-call. Take a look at the roster. 
Jane : OMG. 

Yeah, it suddenly just hits you. Like a bleeding sledgehammer right to the face. I could have sworn there was downright panic in Jane's face when it finally sank in.

Damn, you mean we're the consultants now? 

Didn't find it quite as funny when it happened to me though. Exactly this morning when I paid a cordial visit to the colleagues in my previous hospital. Certainly a welcoming bunch with coffee and nasi lemak but I simply couldn't shake these fellow specialists from the infernal habit of calling me boss. Medical peers after all with no need to pull rank in the break room.

Paul : We're all doctors here, you can call me by name. 
June : Actually, no. You remember Ebullient Eve and Nervous Nancy? 
Paul : Sure, they were my medical officers way back when. 
June : They are my badgemates. We all finished our specialty training last year. 
Paul : OMG. 

For us, it would be the equivalent of finding out that the toddlers you used to babysit have graduated college! Didn't I just sign their papers to apply for the training just yesterday?

You mean we're supposed to be the consultants now? I think I need to sit down.

Retro Feminists

With career options here - from timber plantations to oil & gas operations - decidedly favouring the men, suburban life in Miri remains very much the blissful ideal of the 1950s with the earnest husband out earning the bacon from 9-to-5 while the cheery stay-at-home wife supervises the mundane chores at home, organizes the groceries and ferries the squabbling rugrats around. Sounds almost quaintly archaic these days but it's all true. In fact all my coworkers have pretty much the same sweet deal.

Not to mention the ongoing affaires. 

Rather than honing whatever intellectual skills or hobbies that they have, the increasingly desperate housewives here prefer whiling their hours away shaping their razor-sharp nails at the exclusive salons - or canoodling with their dance teachers. Otherwise extremely promising activities but over here it seems to be slowly sapping them of their brainpower. 

What little there was of it originally. 

Before the raging feminists take up arms to defend their erstwhile sisters, let me present a usual everyday conversation with one of these marvellously manicured moms. 

Paul : Are you here for the surgery today? 

Lady : I think so. 

Paul : What will they be doing? 

Lady : I don't know. Ask my husband. 

Paul : You don't know what surgery will be done? 

Lady : Not sure. Ask my husband. 

Paul : Do you want to know what surgery you'll be doing?

Lady : No. My husband says it's alright. 

Paul : Do you have any medical problems prior to surgery? Any admissions to the hospital before? 

Lady : Not sure. Ask my husband. 

Paul : Any surgeries done before? 

Lady : Not sure. Ask my husband.

Paul : Any allergies? 

Lady : Not sure. Ask -

Paul : Your husband. Yes, I figured that. 

Imagine my growing exasperation as I tried my best to restrain myself from shaking what remained of her rapidly diminishing brain loose. Fortunately my nurses know me well enough to hold me back when I'm close to throttling tiresome simpletons. 

Obviously she didn't come in for an urgent lobotomy since that antiquated procedure was probably carried out on her wedding night when she voluntarily signed over her freedom. How else to explain the severe lack of intellectual capability? I don't know how anyone with a rational, competent mind could allow someone else - even someone so dear - to have so much power and authority over themselves. What happened to their own autonomy? Leaves these subservient women barely more than negligible chattel forever shackled to the whims of their husbands. 

Let a mere man hold that much authority over myself? It's already the 20th century. 

Does she ever, ever form an opinion of her own outside of the home? 

Wouldn't surprise me if some day not very in the future, her ever-loving husband schedules a made-up surgery with consent conveniently signed just to get rid of his dimwitted spouse for a newer model. 

Yes, that was intentionally mean. 

The Engineers

Although quite a lot of my friends - and yes my boyfriend - commute to work in the engineering world, to me it might as well be an utterly foreign planet several light years away. Thoroughly cocooned in the incestuous medical world with coldly clinical wards, dank morgues and frenetic emergency centres almost 24/7, it is almost impossible for us to envision life in an entirely different sphere of work.

Till today when I had an eye-opening view into their lives.

Supposedly the engineering drones are left solely to themselves for the entirety of the day in the seeming solitude of their bland, uniform cubicles to handle their technical work, only partly alleviated by the occasional march to the conference rooms for a meeting of hive minds. Since achieving their key performance index doesn't include strict dress codes, apparently most of the drones come in whatever casual wear they deem fitting to their workstyle.

Engineer : Everyone dresses like this, really!
Paul : Of their own volition?
Engineer : Yes.
Paul : Were they recently robbed? 

Really. Espadrilles and capris aren't that uncommon. Even the occasional cropped top and khaki shorts can be found on site.

As I took an agonizingly slow, increasingly horrified look around the engineering world, suddenly an epiphany came to me and I realized why Mad Madison stubbornly persists on thinking that graphic baby tees and frayed shorts are the to-go wear for every social occasion. After that glimpse into her native world of the Engineergirls, could you blame her?

Madison : But I am dressed up!
Paul : Believe me, now I totally understand why you would think so!
Madison : What do you mean? 
Paul : Well you're the best dressed one here! You will hereafter get much less disapprobation for underdressing. 

With everyone else rocking collared tees and denim at work as the utmost in professional dressing, I can easily believe so! If that's their prescribed formal work wear, think of what these sartorial slobs would aspire to wear informally!

Seems like it's Casual Fridays all the week long at the engineering firms.

Apparently the medical world ( the legal beagles too? ) is probably the last bastion of proper dressing in the working world, apart from a couple of negligible nonconformists like Nervous Nancy and her hideous crocs. Trying to imagine the medical officers coming in off-the-shoulder tees, pink capris and slippers.... *shudder*

Tough Love

The only constant in life is change.

However that doesn't make significant life changes any easier to accept; from the exceptional events such as marriage and pregnancy to the more mundane monotonies such as transferring to a new place or finding a new job. Me, I've always hated change.

Seems I'm the only one since it invigorates some of my friends! For Kitty Kat, finding and getting the paid job was simple enough. Easy enough to pick up the reins of her working life after only a couple of years devoted to dutiful housewifery but it's not long before Kitty Kat realizes that the difficulty comes when she finds herself inevitably hedged by her terrifyingly idealistic young colleagues at work.

Or at least that's my take on the situation - but then I'm watching the entire tense work drama with the tired cynicism of someone running the miserable rat race for the past ten years. Even the way they painstakingly deal with each and every problematic work situation inevitably draws a wicked sneer to my lips. So much kinder than I would be of course.

Gosh have they never heard of the whip? 

Then again perhaps teachers have a more tolerant, sympathetic nature - when I would have flown into a towering rage. Many a time, they tend to have a more... passive response with tea and sympathy rather than my more caustic rejoinder. Otherwise why else would they all bother to molly-coddle a fellow colleague who finds himself unsuited to the job after a mere five days on the job?

Sophia : He doesn't feel suited to the job and wants to leave. So we have been offering counselling for the past few days. 
Paul : No doubt with a pot of calming tea? 
Sophia : Well yes. 
Paul : You shouldn't do that anymore. It's not helping, is it? 
Sophia : Not really. 
Paul : Try my way then. Scold him. Smack him. Wallop him. Make him cry. 
Sophia : Oh but what about his self esteem?
Paul : What do I care about his self esteem? I'm not his father or brother. And he's a grown man, for God's sakes.  
Sophia : But -
Paul : This is work. It's not play. And this whiny creature is threatening to quit after only a measly five days because he is not feeling it? If he were my intern, I would dropkick him off the fifth floor window. 

Not exactly the answer these wide-eyed idealists needed. In fact Sober Sophia looked pale enough that you'd think I'd just viciously strangled a helpless puppy in front of her! From the horrified look on their faces, I gathered tough love wouldn't be the answer for most of these hippie kumbaya Gen-Y folks. Even less the revolutionary idea of bringing back the cane.

Since I would love to have whipped the fellow.

And not in any kinky sadomasochistic manner. No Shades of Grey here.

But seriously. Five days. If that's all the time it takes to have them raise their weakling hands in apparent surrender, then I'm not surprised my fellow peers find it nigh impossible to hire anyone during interviews these days. I would have given them the boot right in their faces.

No Surgeon is An Island

Even if they might secretly think so.

Always dubbed as the proverbial forced marriage in the field of medicine, surgeons and anaesthesiologists have always had a thorny relationship with all the prerequisite ups and downs that come with an involuntary alliance. Most times however the conversation remains somewhat cordial across the green barrier.

Surgeon : I'm always surprised how close you all are. 
Paul : Who?
Surgeon : Well the anaesthesiologists. 
Paul : Why not? We need to work together, no?

No doubt it was a sly comment on how I'm always lending a hand to my junior colleague in a different hospital. It was at the tip of my tongue to make a barbed reply but I decided to focus on my recorded notations instead. As the case may be, I've actually made a similar observation myself and have come up with several debatable conclusions based on my few years of experience.

Yeah, we're always watching. 

Let's face it, surgeons like to be number one. Easy enough to see such apparently kiasu behaviour displayed even on the television screens with medical dramas such as Grey's Anatomy. Wanting to be the best helps them strive desperately for surgical perfection which is invaluable to the hapless patient but it also makes them just a tad egotistical much to the detriment of their own peers.

And yes, to the much-abused scrub nurses.

How often have we heard a boastful surgeon denigrate the skills of his own associate! As a matter of fact, it happened barely moments before the previous conversation as the exasperated surgeon whined about how awful the previous surgery was and what a bloody mess had been left behind.

Surgeon : Don't know what the hell he was thinking of to attempt that procedure - and what a botched up job it was too. Take a look. 
Paul : Yeah? 
Surgeon : Bad, no? 
Paul : You know I'm not going to say anything about it, right? 

Which is why it's rare to have several surgeons of similar field with comparable years of practice scrub up together for a procedure - certainly sounds like the perfect prescription for medical mayhem as they would all attempt to run the show.

For anaesthesiology I think I've worked cooperatively with my peers... well, countless times. In anaesthesiology, we usually work as a team; in fact we work better together sometimes. Very little room for ego when there's always the need for an extra pair of hands. Tensions might rise as it inevitably does but we have learned well to keep our mouths shut ( always helpful in a panic-driven work environment ) and just get the work done.

Think my nurses can all attest to the fact that I never ever talk ill of my colleagues in anaesthesiology when it comes to their professional work. Perhaps it's a code of brotherhood that prevents me from speaking up - or maybe I just don't feel the need to make myself superior to any of my brethren. The work speaks for itself and I certainly don't have to add anything to it.

Bah Humbug

Cooler December days are here again with cloudy climes bringing some soothing respite from the usual tropical burn. Advent calendars are already counting the days till that wonderful time of the year. Even people on the streets seem quite a bit more cheery as they hurry home from work, sometimes with hidden packages in their bags.

Ah, more Christmas gifts to send!

And like all traditions before Christmas, I've already found my first Grinch so far. 

Or should that be a Scrooge? 

Several weeks back, one of my work colleagues suggested having a Secret Santa for this year. To those who are wondering, Secret Santa is a Christmas tradition where members of a group are all randomly assigned a person to anonymously hand a gift on that special day. Think of it as a way to save cost as a group since each person only purchases one individual gift rather than a whole lot of smaller gifts for everyone. 

Receiving nary a protest, we had already set out happily to write down a list of participants when a little miserly whine came from the corner. 

Scrooge : I don't think I want to join. 

Paul : That's entirely your choice. We're not making you do this. 

Scrooge : What if I don't know that person very well? 

Paul : Well, then you'll have to get to know them better.

Scrooge : What if I don't like them?

Paul : Then the gift would be twice the charity, no? 

Scrooge : Meh. And what am I getting? Something equal in return?

Paul : No one can promise you that. But we did set a maximum price tag. 

Scrooge : Bah-Humbug. I'd rather buy my own gift.

Paul : Suit yourself. If you think I'm going to spend my time persuading you to join, you're quite mistaken.

There are times when I think I'm quite the stingy, self-absorbed lil shit. Then not soon after a far more egregious creature creeps out of the shadows - like our odious Scrooge here - just to remind me that I'm not that atrocious at all! 

No one expects to find a Tiffany bracelet for a Secret Santa exchange here. A gift for a tuppence or two is all we're looking for, just a simple gift to cheer someone's day. Yes, even a total stranger. Surely that's not too much to ask for?  

Christmastime has always been doubly special for me since it gives me that extra excuse to max out my cards shopping for presents for all my loved ones. In fact, quite a few get gifts in multiples since I keep finding things that would be just simply perfect for them. And no, I don't ask for something equal in return. Have we all forgotten the wonderful gift of giving?

The Scrooge obviously has. Guess who's getting coal in their stocking this year.

The Second Slap

Even amongst my uninitiated friends, the Slap of Shame has become quite the legend. Timed to coincide with any overly emotional boo hoo crap, it usually shocks the unfortunately near-senseless victims into painful reality. Honing the skills at work with my patented soft tap of wakefulness does seem to toughen up my shocking soberslaps so it works like a sobering charm.

With most of my friends currently happily involved and few sobmelodramas, there hasn't been much use for the Slap of Shame. Well at least till recently.

You see, one of my friends spends way, way too much time at work. For someone in my line, working too hard is quite usual - but you'd rarely find us doing it more than we should. Saving lives are one thing. Staying over just because is definitely not done.

But overworking seems to be par for the course for our Zealous Zoe. Doesn't surprise anyone to find this lean, mean working machine toiling away at the office without any overtime allowance on Sunday mornings. Staying late past dinnertime finishing up paperwork on weekdays is a usual thing for our dedicated salarywoman Zealous Zoe. Even having the entire building gradually shut down around her, leaving her tiny cubicle the only one spookily lit on the entire darkened empty floor, doesn't give Zoe enough incentive to leave her place at work.

Wouldn't surprise me if she has a battery-charged lamp ( along with several candles and energy bars ) at the ready just to work past midnight.

Zoe : This has to stop. 
Paul : What? Our thoughts on how to prank you when you work till midnight all alone in the empty office building? 
Zoe : Yes, that has to stop. But I'm talking about my pace at work. 
Paul : Oh?
Zoe : I might be overworked. 
Paul : Might? 
Zoe : Okay, I am overworked. 
Paul : From your own volition. 
Zoe : Yes. 
Paul : Finally. You haven't seen sunlight in weeks. Well at least not from outside. 
Zoe : Promise me you'll make me leave work on Fridays at least. 
Paul : Oh?
Zoe : Promise!
Paul : Oh, why stop there? Let's make it really interesting.

Gives me a good enough reason to bring back the Slap. All in the interest of loyal friendship, I swear. Obviously worked till near mental exhaustion, poor Zoe capitulated far too easily to my demands without giving it too much thought. No doubt our little workaholic has forgotten that my legen... wait for it... dary slaps have the sheer power to almost bring back the dead.

Zoe : Maybe I should just type out one last e-mail.
Paul : Well if you really have to.
Zoe : You're being awfully nice.
Paul : It's almost 745.
Zoe : You just want to lay the smackdown, dontcha.
Paul : Got that right, sista. 

So come 1945 H on Fridays, I will spend my time stalking her office with my heated palm all ready.

Malevolent Medical Monsters

Think it's common knowledge these days that ingenuous house officers practically outnumber the ailing patients in our hospitals. In fact, some of my senior colleagues have taken to shutting the windows tight lest the overflowing number of house officers threaten to tip out of them.

As they are wont to do - whether due to suicides or other reasons unknown.

After all medicine is a course infamous for having an improbably high attrition rate, quite a few possibly due to the startlingly high rate of suicides for physicians. Though I am pretty sure that the working environment has mellowed some due to my more tolerant peers - no longer do we have the dark days of demonic surgeons tearing up the scribbled notes of a lowly intern in front of everyone followed by a vicious profanity-spiced diatribe - but still we have some of the more gentle souls who are trampled along the way.

Patient : Hey, where's my regular doc?
Doctor : Oh, he's long gone.
Patient : He left this hospital?
Doctor : I would say he did. He stepped off the tenth floor of this hospital.
Patient : OMG.
Doctor : Eh, it happens. 

One of whom I met just the other day. It didn't take me long to suss out why Meek Martin was suddenly voluntarily taking up an entirely different course. After all no one does repeated postings during their housemanship in different hospitals unless there are extenuating circumstances.

Paul : So you quit? 
Martin : Yes. 
Paul : Horrible times during your housemanship? 
Martin : Yes. 
Paul : Had someone tear your notes and make you rewrite them? Berate and call you names in front of everyone? Force you to take more oncalls?  
Martin : No. They just weren't nice to me. 
Paul : That's all!?

Ooh were they mean ole doctors?

Unsurprisingly our locally graduated house officers, used to our far more taxing environs, tend to last longer with the rigorous taskmasters here. 'Cruel to be kind' seems to be their motto here - definitely not what those abroad would be used to. Acclimatized to the more genteel, benign lecturers abroad, the house officers who return here find themselves exposed to the sweltering jeremiads of the heated tropics - certainly enough to have even the strongest wilt.

Anything you see dished out by the fierce Miranda Bailey in Grey's Anatomy is almost negligible compared to some of our malevolent dragons here. Unfortunately weakness is something they tolerate only in their patients. Amongst their colleagues in the medical fraternity, it's almost an anathema.

What monsters they be, you'll say! Back then as a houseman seeing that horrible surgeon tear up the notes of my colleague, I thought pretty much the same.

But along the way I met up with one of those monsters we had and realized that he had done it truly out of kindness. Yes, I was almost apoplectic in shock myself. Though I don't agree with his abhorrent Machiavellian methods, I think his ideas are relatively sound.

The Monster : It's a stressful job. If I hadn't done so, they would have continued for the next few years and burned out eventually. Better they leave sooner than later. 

Which is exactly what Martin did.

The Enabler Parent

With helicopter-parenting being ever in vogue, is it any surprise that modern hospitals have scrambled to accomodate the ever-growing crowds of parents wishing to accompany their children into the operating theatre? Supposedly it reduces psychological trauma for the child and eases the induction process. Honestly there's so much pressure to keep up with the perfect parenting Joneses that it seems almost taboo for any supposedly caring parents to admit that they would rather remain patiently in the waiting room.

Of course that all depends on the discretion of the anaesthesiologist. 

For me, it all depends on the parent. There are certain tough yet tender disciplinarians who actually manage to successfully allay their child's increasing stress just by being present in the room. With a touch, a glance,  a word, that's all it takes for them to get their anxious child in order. I've even seen one military father who just stood at attention at the door while keeping a stern eye on his son who literally frogmarching to the operating table. Seems almost like parenting magic. 

Keep steady, boy. 

And then there are the enabler parents. 

What can I say? I assume they would be the ones desperately trying - but woefully failing - to corral their screaming brats in shopping malls. Since not only do these enabler parents fail miserably in pacifying the paediatric patient, they actually amplify their child's distress by adding their own. 

Nurse : Could you come look at the patient? 

Paul : That small boy? Isn't his mother with him? 

Nurse : Yes. And that's the problem.

Paul : He was perfectly alright a moment ago. Said he wasn't in pain at all.

Nurse : That's not the problem at all. 

Paul : Oh, what is it? 

Nurse : I think the mother's a pain instead. 

Paul : Oh. 

And rather than help with the child's anxiety, the mother just gets increasingly more agitated. Which serves to excite the child, which... yeah it enters a hysterical cycle. So much so that we usually feel like sedating the parent instead. 

So yes, if you feel yourself unable to handle the stress, don't feel obligated. Please remain outside instead. 

The Day I Starred in Porn

Let's not deny that the various drugs used regularly in general anaesthesia could also be used for other more ... thoroughly recreational purpose - which is why most of the seemingly harmless ampoules in my hand are labeled dangerous drugs where daily usage is closely watched and strictly monitored. Though the infamous accidental death of the Prince of Pop might have given the poor sedative hypnotic agent Propofol quite a bad name, that doesn't change the fact that it does have some surprisingly risque effects.

Namely for the patient.

While under sedation with the drug, medical reports have documented cases of sexually charged euphoria with shockingly vivid erotic dreams unlike those caused by other more modest sedative agents. Though I myself have not undergone such a procedure, I have encountered innumerable patients who awaken with pleasurable moans and sighs so I would have to agree with that particular hypothesis.

Something to that effect I'm sure.

Confirmed without a doubt today when I found myself the target of such a susceptible patient. Turns out the pretty college co-ed remembers me from my regular gadabouts around town though I can't recall her at all. Sure, she might be uncommonly beautiful but still, she's just a girl. Could have been any Toni, Dora or Harriet to me. Perhaps if it had been her strapping brother, I might have been a tad more flattered.

Perhaps it was her vague recollection that ignited some of her more charged feminine emotions - for her subsequent awakening turned out to be quite the event.

Paul : OMG. 
Nurse : I think she's moaning. 
Paul : I can hear that too. 
Nurse : And she's sighing too. 
Paul : Asking her to keep it down won't help, would it? 
Nurse : I think she just cried your name. 
Paul : No!
Nurse : There. Again. That's clearly your name. 
Paul : I'll pretend not to have heard that. 
Nurse : You must have been pretty good.
Paul : Obviously I do try. 

Such sweet irony that I took the starring role in someone's licentious fantasies - only to find myself literally unmoved apart from a faint flush of my cheeks. If it had been a virile twenty year-old of the male sex, who knows what might have happened.

Seriously. Now that I have you tied up, I don't know what else to do with you. Do I braid your hair? Apply some make-up for you? Is that what you like? 

Fortunately my name only left her breathless lips that one time with no clear recollection after she came out of her dreamy reverie - though that was more than enough for my irreverent nurses who spent the entire morning trying to take the piss out of me by repeatedly sighing my name within earshot.

So moral of the story : kids, don't do drugs. At least not without a licensed anaesthetist around.

Fall of Grandma II : Hospital Hubbub

The hour is getting late. 

All the regular evening visitors have long departed the rooms leaving the long, echoing hallways empty and bare - with naught but the sound of tense murmurs from the nurses' bay. 

There behind the gleaming counters topped by towering case files hide a frightened huddle of night-shift nurses who all whisper nervously in a soft hush, all in the fast diminishing hopes that the fearsome hellion will not pay a visit that night. Distressing rumours from the afternoon shift spread tales of an intimidating monster who devours the unwary nurse - or unwitting physician - who dares walk by that particular room in response to a call. Dread of waking up that particular monster has kept the crew near silent the entire evening.

The button is pressed. The red light on the switchboard blinks repeatedly. There is an audible gasp of dismay as the trio of nurses start hedging their bets to see who would be the unfortunate victim that night.  

  

Yes, we might all laugh at the B-grade medical horror flick scenario but believe me, this happens more often than you might think. Only the fearsome monster in question wouldn't be something out of a surreal Lovecraftian nightmare - but the even more terrifying relative from hell. Oh yes, the demanding, oversolicitous, fussy relation of the patient who no doubt enjoys having servants at their beck and call. 

Or at least the touch of a distress button. 

Nurse : Hello, do you need anything? Is everything alright?

Relative : Everything's terrible!

Nurse : Oh dear, is the patient alright? 

Relative : She is fine but the room is... just so unfashionable! Could we change the drapes? 

Nurse : Oh. 

Relative : And the pillows are so hard!

Nurse : That we can change -

Relative : Why are the traction weights so old-fashioned? Couldn't we have something more modern? Is the doctor coming by? I haven't seen him in one hour! I need to take a picture of the X-rays for a second opinion. Maybe he's wrong - or at least that's what my neighbour's second cousin told me.  

Nurse : Umm... 

So you can imagine how hospital denizens look upon such intolerable monsters. 

Colleague : You lost the bet dammit! You have to review room 307.
Paul : Oh God, must I?
Colleague : I did it this morning already. Don't make me face them again.
Paul : Could I just drop a volatile anaesthetic and knock the lot out?
Colleague : Don't think I haven't thought of that. 

Almost always, finicky patients are easily forgiven by virtue of their lamentably untoward malady - generally enough to make any reasonably genial person extremely disobliging. But their visiting relatives and their idiosyncrasies - along with their increasingly outrageous demands - can be a little harder to take. 

So much to my dismay, I am starting to believe that my loud, boisterous passel of relations - oh-so-lovable in my eyes - might be turning into the very monsters that everyone else avoids at work. Ten of them chattering in the room at all hours, eating and drinking with their own portable picnic basket while intermittently bugging the staff with oddly impertinent questions. My sympathies to the undoubtedly stressed-out nurses and doctors tending to my crazed troublesome relatives. 

Oh yeah, and my debilitated grandmother too. 

Stop Calling Stop Calling

Stop callin, stop callin, I don't wanna think anymore.

Bet that's what certain harried girls in the human resource department are chanting right now. Surely it must feel like Grand Central Station over there.

Not that I care. Since I'm the one constantly placing their number on the ever-irritating redial just to get a rise from them. Surprisingly enough the annoying shrill ring doesn't seem to bother them, at least not enough for them to get off their tushies to pick up.

Even if the number doesn't belong to them.

Boy, the way you blowing up my phone 

Won't make me leave no faster

According to Charming Calvin, that seems to be accepted corporate cubicle culture. Absorbed into their generic box-like niche in the office floor, each mindless worker drone falls into a world of their own devoid of stimulus from the chaotic outside. Far be it for them to even deign to listen to the annoying ringtone from the cubicle next door.

Paul : Man, I've tried ringing a dozen times. Maybe she's dead. 
Calvin : So have I. That's why you're helping me try.
Paul : Why aren't her colleagues helping her pick up the phone? 
Calvin : No one ever does that.
Paul : Seriously?
Calvin : Never. 
Paul : So your job offer came from a girl in human resource who hasn't picked up her phone in three days. 
Calvin : Yes. 
Paul : Someone must have shot her to stop you from taking the lucrative job offer. 
Calvin : Possibly. 

Speaking for myself, I simply hate phones ringing nonstop so I feel absolutely compelled to pick it up - no matter where I am regardless of who the bloody aggravating phone belongs to.

Bloody hell, did I get your farking answering machine again!?

Absolutely undeterred - and far too used to the procrastinating, lackadaisical bunch in the government offices, I tried again five minutes after. And still no answer. Utterly incomprehensible. Surely someone must have been driven mad by the perpetually ringing telephone.

Perhaps it's fortuitous that she doesn't seem to be around. After multiple frustrating attempts at trying to reach her, I just might make her cry the moment she picks up.