Hospital Fashion

 

*The latest fashion on the hospital corridor catwalk*

The latest fashion on the hospital corridor catwalk

Am I getting old? Am I becoming a prude? Am I behind in the fashion trends? Or am I just jealous? I am totally appalled at the attire of the female interns and medical students these days because I have had enough of skimpy dresses, mini-skirts and porn-star platform stilettos in my clinic and ward rounds. I think it is time for me to be a bitchy old female surgeon and write a fashion rule book for my young novices.

Rule # 1 Cover up

There are many reasons why short skirts and low cut tops are just not very practical when you are a doctor. Basically, there is a lot of bending over to do. In clinics, when you have to examine patients, you are constantly bending over. Now, there’s nothing more humiliating than having your undies on display or having your boobs pop out when you are crouched down to look into a patient’s throat. On the ward, when you are taking blood or putting IV cannulae in, again, you are flexing those hips and putting your bum into the air. Don’t forget, usually there’s somebody right behind you, either it be the person accompanying the patient, another doctor, a nurse or even one of your colleagues to enjoy the view of your derrière hanging out under the hems. As for those puppies in front, it is awfully distracting for everyone concerned not to stare at the deep canyons of your v-neck, or the shadows behind an unbuttoned blouse. Imagination of lies beyond those valleys has an uncanny ability to lure one’s attention. Similarly if you are sitting at the desk, short skirts ride up, and a crotch on view is particularly attention-seeking. If you cross your legs to avoid that scenario, the skirt will move up more, displaying the milky-white flesh of your naked thighs, which have a visually enticing power of their own. You want your patient to actually listen to what you are saying? It would be best if you redirect their captivated interest away from your exposed flesh.

So girls, button up, cover up and let those hems down. You don’t want to give your elderly patients a heart attack or the disinhibited psychiatric client a stiffy. Don’t be surprised if one of the 90-year-old’s in the Dementia ward sneaks his hand up your backside, or a 30-year-old in the trauma unit talk to your boobs. The only place where you are safe to prance around half-naked is in the intensive care unit, where the majority of your patients are unconscious.

Oh, and see-through clothing does not equate to covering up, especially when you wear hot pink lacy bras and thongs under a thin white dress. That’s called beach-wear.

Rule #2 Lycra is not attractive

What is the story these days with squeezing your body into clothes two sizes too small a-la-Kardashian style? Trust me, you can look amazing in fitted, tailored clothing that allows you room to move without having to suck it all in with a rigid sheath that makes you look like the Michelin man when you bend over (see? there’s the bending over again).

Tight clothing doesn’t let you move. You would be surprised at some of the positions you may have to be in when you are a doctor. Contortionists only have to hold a position, but doctors not only have to coil into positions that require expertise in a game of twister, but also perform medical feats at the same time. I had to dress a patient’s foot wound once, squatting on the floor with my head upside down. If you are ever involved in chest compressions on a patient who has collapsed on the floor, those tube skirts may not hold when you kneel over the patient with your legs apart, and the bum-hugging pants may split if you have to hunker down to secure an airway.

Also – trust me on this one – tight clothing does not constitute covering up. It can be rather revealing in faithfully outlining certain parts of your anatomy; visible thong lines, beaming headlights and camel toes are just a few things that come to mind; all of which are seriously distracting in life-and-death conversations.

And if you really think that tight clothing flatters your figure, the names whispered behind your back are usually not as complimentary. Health workers love to give each other nicknames, and I really don’t think you would want to be stuck with Dr Bootylicious in a place where you may want to advance your career in the future.

"You will not be going to clinic in that outfit, young lady!"

“You are NOT going to clinic in that outfit, young lady!”

Rule #3 Wear shoes that will save your feet and your patient’s lives

Tottering on 10 inch heels on a surgical ward round is not attractive, especially when you are trying to balance files, clipboards, gloves and your phone. Unlike physician rounds, surgeons don’t round with file-trolleys that you can lean on, and we also walk really fast, as most of us have to get to the operating theatre or clinic by 8am. So if you can’t keep up in those ridiculous shoes, no one will be slowing down for you.

A survey was done to show that 15-20km was the average distance an intern or resident has to walk during a working day. You will soon learn that one of your jobs is being able to be at 3 places at the same time. When they build hospitals, they usually try to put all the surgical clinics, preadmission clinics, surgical wards, and the operating theatres as far away from each other as possible. They also put in ultra-slow lifts that fits no more than 10 people, so you will find yourself racing up and down the stairs out of necessity. The moral of the story, wear shoes that will save your feet, because you still have a long long long way to walk for the rest of your medical career.

Wear something covered. I know some men have feet fetish and find pedicures irresistible, but having glamorous open sandals will not protect your pretty toes. Imagine walking around with vomit between your toes all day or even slipping on pee as you walk. As doctor, you will also be handling a lot of sharps, and having one of your tootsies stabbed with a fallen needle or nail ripped off by a drug trolley may just make it a rather bad day at work that you could do without.

Most of all, if there is a Code Blue (cardiac arrest), you need to run. Murphy’s Law dictates that the area where your patient has collapsed would be the furthermost place from where you are when it goes off and none of the lifts will be working. So, if you are teetering on your heels, you might as well start making your way straight to the morgue. Because by the time you have staggered down there in your stilettos, the patient would have been declared dead and bundled up into a trolley on his way for a coroner’s review.

*This is what happens when you run on stilettos*

This is what happens when you run on stilettos

Rule #4 Hospital lighting is not kind to heavy makeup

Unlike the romantic, flattering illumination of disco and restaurants, the hospital is brightly lit night and day. Hospital fluorescent bulbs do not give a warm soft glow; instead, they paint your skin in a starkly pale blue shade. It is exceptional for clear vision when one is perusing pages and pages of patient charts and examining every abnormality on a patient’s body. It is also particularly revealing for showing up every imperfection of your skin and each granule of make-up. The thicker you lay it on, the harsher it looks, until those dark eye-shadows and red lipsticks become a portrait of Alice Cooper.

alice cooper

The other thing you will learn is that lengthy days are detrimental to your facial palette. What may begin as seductive thick mascara on eyelashes and carefully layered blue shadows on eyelids will become the makings of a vacant racoon stare after 48 hours on-call. The blush would make its way down from the cheekbones to your nose, so you’ll look like you have a runny nose. While the lipstick will either be completely chewed off or will have migrated onto your teeth. Half of your powder and foundation would have rubbed off, so your forehead will be particularly shiny in the brilliant lighting. Overall, the picture becomes rather unappealing even in a horror movie.

Rule #5 There is a reason why we got rid of white coats

White is a colour reserved for dinners without Spaghetti Bolognese and Chilli Crab. White is suitable if you don’t plan to land on the ground while playing tennis, and it is definitely suitable for your wedding unless you have very clumsy relatives.

If you wear white to the hospital, be prepared for it to be used as a virginal canvas for body-fluid-art. Most colours of organic liquids go very well with white. Poo-brown is an earthy contrast to a pale background, although there can be unpredictability to the exact shade and texture depending on the source. While blood-red is always visually stunning when splashed generously, although the colour does turn coppery if left for long periods. Sputum-Green has just enough shade to make a warm pastel base whereas bile from projectile vomiting tends to veer towards turquoise; Pus-yellow can be used to enhance the warm tone of the overall canvas. The sanguine stain of Urine-gold can be a bit tricky to see on white, but sometimes when there is bleeding in the bladder, hues of Haematuria-rosé are a little bit more noticeable. These are often complimented by regular ink-blots made by the leaking pen that never leaves your hand. The beauty of this art-work is that it is eternal; no amount of scrubbing, baking soda, washing powder or dry cleaning will completely removed these physical mementos of how you acquired them.

"I told you not to wear white if you wanted to shoot people."

“I told you not to wear white if you wanted to go out and shoot people.”

Rule #6 More bling, more bugs

I do understand that these days, fashion is all about accessories. Style is almost entirely judged on how people decorate their outfits, rather than the actual garbs. Well, all I can say that you will just have to accept that doctors cannot be part of the current ‘trend’.

Some hospitals have banned ties for men – as it was found to be the main source of cross-contamination between patients. It was not uncommon to see these ties taking a swipe at patient’s groins, or a dip into a pus-filled wound. Nurses can’t wear bangles, bracelets, and rings, because no amount of hand washing will disinfect these as potential bacterial-carrying vehicles.

So, young female doctors and students, I would advise that you leave your blings, danglies, chains and scarves at home – unless you like being a free taxi for bacteria, or keen to bring your work home, literally.

Rule #7 You are not auditioning for a Shampoo commercial

Meredith Grey drives me nuts. I just don’t understand how anyone could see what they are doing with that mousy hair floating around her face constantly. You might think flicking those luxurious locks on ward rounds is eye-catching, until you accidentally smack it into your senior registrar’s face. Long hair has a lot of perils in hospitals. Like the tie, it can take a dunk into cavities where you may not want it to go. You could inadvertently tickle your patient when you are bending over the patient (there it is again!). It could get caught on bed rails, IV poles, monitoring lines and plaster saws (yep, seen that happen). When you are doing a procedure, hours of preparing a sterile field can be instantly swept away with your hair. Bangs and hair in the eyes can also be detrimental to your vision, which may not be so helpful when you are placing fine stitches or handling fragile body parts.

Tie those loose alluring locks away from your face, ladies – you may find it disadvantageous to your modelling career, but at least it will save your day job.

"Maybe if I cut my hair, people will think I am a real doctor."

“Maybe if I cut my hair, people will think I am a real doctor.”

Now I know these rules are harsh, and I am not aversed keeping up with what’s in vogue. I am as much into the latest trends as the next fashion-conscious female. I am not advocating dressing-down either, as crack-showing skater jeans and ripped off-shoulder T shirts are not exactly confidence-inducing attire for the sick and injured. There are ways to look beautiful without being inappropriate, it is about retaining your individuality in the role you have picked to play in society. You have chosen to become a doctor, not a model, not a tart, and definitely not a hooker.

Just remember, the hospital is not a night-club. You are not going on a date (and if you are, it is rather sad you are having it in a hospital, so get a life!), neither are you selling your ‘wares’, and advertising your ‘goods’. If you are dressing up to snare a rich doctor husband, you would be setting your trap for the wrong kind of men. There are plenty of playboys in the medical faculty, as there is definitely no shortage of male doctors who think they are God’s gift to women. These ‘hot’ charismatic egomaniacs are more interested in the junk in your trunk and the boobies in your bra than your personality. They are more concerned in accumulating notches on their belts, and having available booty-calls on speed-dial, than learning about your aspirations. You would be mistaken if you think by attracting their attention, they will be willing to marry you/help you get the job you want/get you out of trouble/recommend you for a promotion.

I am not suggesting that we should masculinise our appearance, but there are ways of being feminine without flaunting ‘sexuality’, and being gorgeous without over-embellishment. Dressing elegantly in appropriate attire will go a long way to instil confidence in your patients. Your seniors will take you seriously and be more than willing to share their knowledge with you. It will not upset the nurses (who are stuck in unflattering uniforms with colours that make them look like tampon packages), and draw attention away from those higher up the ladder than yourself. And believe it or not, professional dressing will actually make you sound smarter than you really are. You want the men to stop ogling at you; you want them to look at you in awe.

So, Ladies, save your reputation, your career, your feet and your patient’s lives. Next time you pick your apparel for work, channel classics such as Jackie Onassis, Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly.

JackieOnassisAudrey HepburnGraceKelly

 

Just a Matter of Pride & Vanity

So, on Friday night, I found myself in my wardrobe, amidst clothes flung on the floor, jewellery spreaded out on my dressing table, shoes strewn along the carpet, and a very frazzled looking, insecure woman staring back at me in the mirror. The dress I held in front of myself flew out of my hand onto the floor in an exasperated sign. Another one bites the dust. I tried chanelling Angelina Jolie…..

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I  looked up at the reflection. Messy, frizzled hair cascading around my bare face devoid of makeup, loose pyjama top stained with food remanents, tracksuit pants that are two sizes too big, and peeling red nail polish on my toes. I looked closer. Damn, is that my gray hair peeking through my last hair colour 8 weeks ago? Brown eyes are so boring, maybe I should get eyelash extensions to enhance my eyes. I made a pout – my lips are so thin, it’s hardly worth the effort of putting on lipstick. When did those lines started to become so prominent around my eyes and forehead. Hubby is right, I really frown too much, maybe I should start giving myself some Botox……

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It hit me then. Oh God. I have become one of them.

Them – being my cosmetic patients. The ones that sit in my office, telling me over 45 minutes about the extra fat bulges that shouldn’t be sitting on heir hips, the breasts that are too small for their designer dresses, the waistline that is not well-defined enough like a washboard, the fine wrinkles that give their age away, the flat cheekbones that makes their nose look big, the turkey neck that makes them look old, the receding chin that lacks character etc etc etc. Usually by the end of the consultation, my eyes have rolled to the back of my head, listening to their lists of imperfections. Sometimes I am tempted to whip out my ipad and show them pictures of women whom I have had to remove facial and body parts for cancer, just so that they can appreciate what God has given them.  Sometimes I work really hard at being patient and sympathetic. Because after all, I am a plastic surgeon. Making people as beautiful as they want to be is my job. Although I have to admit, the biggest frustration of my job is that sometimes my definition and their concept of being ‘beautiful’ can be two vastfuly different things.

So I digress.

What has put me in this state?

Earlier this month, I received a message via facebook from Georgina. She was coming for a conference. She was dying to catch up because she hadn’t seen me for years. She just got married last year to the hottest guy and would love me to meet him.

She hadn’t seen me for 12 years to be exact.

Georgina and I have known each other since first year of high school. We were family friends. Our mothers car-pooled. My mother took us to school and her mother (Mrs S) took us home. We went to the same private girls’ school, lived two streets away from each other, had the same piano teacher, attended the same ballet school, she was a swimmer and I was a rower, so we trained at the same time. When we grew up, we went through medical school together. She is now a specialist working in another state.

Georgina was from a very wealthy family, I was a scholarship girl in a private school. Her father was a medical specialist and Mrs S was a housewife who lunched at the local country club. My parents were migrants who owned and worked in a small mortgaged coffee shop. Our house was old and falling apart around us, my father was forever ‘self-renovating’ it. They lived in an elegant white mansion, with an automatic gate, french window seats, custom-made silk and brocad curtains, a dining room that fitted a long shiny mahogany table which sat 20 guests…. you get the picture. Mrs S used to pick us up from school in her shiny BMW, with fresh Happy Meal boxes from MacDonald’s for us to eat, then we’d go to her house until my parents were home from work. Georgina and I would play dress up in her room, muck around on the piano, swim in her big pool and hang around the cook in the massive kitchen for scraps from whatever feast she was cooking the family for dinner.

Georgina had the biggest wardrobe I had ever seen, and every few weeks, she would give me clothes that she didn’t want anymore. She was bigger than me, so most of the time, my mother had to take in the sides and lengh.  She taught me how to put on makeup and paint my nails. She coached me how to walk in high heels. She educated me in the difference between Chanel and Gucci. She showed me the colours of Louboutin Red and Tiffany Blue.  I was always in awe of her and her family. I thought I was so lucky to have her as my friend. She was a popular, confident girl who excelled in everything, and held different official positions throughout high school. She always changed into one of her beautiful designer outfits when we went out after school.  She was allowed to wear high heels when she was 15. Handsome looking senior guys from the private boys’ school next door used to hang around her. She got asked to the prom every year of high school. I was a typical nerd. I had braces for three and half years. I wore uniforms that were too big for me (because mum couldn’t afford to buy a new one each time I grew). Although I did well in my core-curriculum and music, I was bad at sports, clumsy and awkard. I was constantly in flannel shirts, jeans and scruffy sneakers when I wasn’t in my uniform (legacy of my older brother’s wardrobe). I was shy around boys, and never went to a prom, except mine. I took my older brother.

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Looking back, I can’t say we were really friends. I desperately believed that we were friends, even though we never spoke to each other at school. But when we were at her house, we spoke about everything, from our favourite movies, difficult equations in maths, places we’d like to travel to and our fairytale weddings. I guess we were friends by default. Two very different young girls thrown together by circumstance. We spent everyday together through our teenage years and early twenties. Her house was the only place I was allowed to go to without parental supervision on weekends. The parties I was permitted to attend were those she was invited to. We hung around the same crowd when we were older, our brothers were best friends, so it was unavoidable that we were always in each other’s presence.

Then little incidents started to fall in place for me. There were several, but a few stood out.

Once when I was bored of playing cricket with my younger brother, to escape his pestering, I walked over to her house on a Saturday afternoon. I pressed the bell at the gate. Mrs S answered. I told her it was me and if I could come over and and play with Georgina. She said of course and called for Georgina. I don’t think Mrs S realised that the intercom was still on, because the next thing I heard was Georgina’s whining voice. ‘Is she here again? Mum, she’s so annoying, do I have to play with her? Can’t you just tell her I am not home?’

‘Hush Georgie, be nice to Tiffany. She is a very good girl and you have a lot to learn from her.’

‘She’s such a dag. Mum.’

‘Go and let her in.’

I hesitated. I wanted to leave, but I managed to convince myself that she didn’t really mean it – because if she did, she wouldn’t have let me in. So since that day, I tried really hard not to be ‘annoying’.

When I went to my prom, I didn’t have a dress. Mrs S offered to my mother that I could borrow one of Georgina’s many prom dresses. I was at their house, trying on different dresses, most of which were too big as Georgina was a swimmer and had much wider torso than myself. Mrs S then brought out a dress from her wardrobe. She said it was her prom dress when she was a girl (and when she was a lot slimmer). It was a long beautiful tight shimmering number. It fitted me perfectly. Georgina said that I looked old in it. I thought she was just jealous that I could wear her mother’s dress. Days before the prom night, she told everyone at school that I was wearing one of her mother’s old dresses and that I looked like I had no boobs with a fat tummy in such a tight dress. I went home and cried, I told my mother that I didn’t want to wear Mrs S’s dress. She made me wear it on the night. I spent the whole night sitting in the corner, with my brother’s black Parka jacket over Mrs S’s dress.

When we were at uni, my boyfriend (now husband), M, was in her group. I remember thinking that she was my ‘closest friend’ (plus she was also one of M’s friends), so I should let her know that M and I had started dating. She shrugged with disinterest when I told her. She was more eager to tell me about how several male doctors at the university hospital had been asking her out. Two days later, M asked me if i ever had braces. I said yes and asked him why. He said that Georgina told him about my braces and how I used to look hilarious when food got stuck in it. I asked him what else did he and Georgina talk about, and he started telling me some pretty embarrasing things I used to do at school. I got angry and said that Georgina was trying to make me look bad. He just laughed and said that I was over-reacting. He thought the stories were adorable.

Finally, the last time I saw her, we were sitting exams to apply for specialist training. I was studying in the library, in a cubicle desk next to the meeting room. The meeting room is often booked out by study groups. I preferred to study alone. The walls were very thin, I could hear the conversation in the room. Georgina’s voice stood out. One of the girls was admiring her shirt. Georgina said that she got it from an exclusive boutique in the city. The girl mentioned that I worked there on weekends. Georgina laughed, ‘isn’t it ridiculous how long Tiffany has worked there?! You’d think her dress sense would improve for the better.’ When I bumped into her leaving the library later that day, I said goodbye. Then I quit my job at L’Amour Boudoir a week later.

Now I asked my reflection in the mirror. Why the hell did you say yes to this dinner.

Maybe I wanted to give Georgina the benefit of the doubt? Maybe she has changed and matured. She did probably consider me as a friend and has missed having me around to talk to. She sounded genuinely interested in finding out about my life. She really wasn’t such bad person, she had her own insecurities and fears. I’d like to think she was jealous of me, but that would have just been plain silly, because I envied her and she knew that I wanted to be just like her.

Or maybe because I wanted to show her how far I have come in life, that I now live in the same sphere of professional stature and wealth as her family. But why would I care what she thinks of me now? Why did I have the need to show her that I was the same or maybe even better than she is? I wanted to show her that I am now more worldly, and have developed my own sense of style. Looking at my reflection in the mirror – there was no evidence of any of the above. The little insecure teenager in me had been brought to the surface by Georgina’s visit.

Thus my indecisiveness in ‘what to wear’. This was so unlike me. I am used to making a split second decisions on a bleeding internal jugular vein, a prompt judgement on managing severed fingers, not to mention accurate assessment on resectability of complex cancers. And now, I found myself stuck in front of the mirror, dithering over one black dress over another (honestly, they all look the same), and worrying about a few lines on my face. I sighed and threw my hands up in the air.

Then a voice downstairs brought me back down to earth. ‘Hey, beautiful, have you finished dolling yourself up yet? We are going to be late.’ I can see him, sitting on the sofa, flickering through Star Trek episodes on the remote, in his blue-striped shirt to match his eyes, navy linen blazer fom Zegna, crossed legs covered in tailored Armani pants and suede loafers courtesy of Bally. Half an hour ago, I was sitting on that sofa, exactly as I was and he as he was, snuggled up in his lap while he was talking about his day. Then I saw in the mirror what he would have seen.

One thing I have learnt from working in the field of plastic surgery for over 10 years is, the clients that feel truly beautiful, are those that already did before surgery. All I do for them is to enhance the parts which they wanted improvement.

So I berated the bedraggled image in the mirror. You are a well-respected plastic surgeon. You are fit, toned and have a perfect Body Mass Index of 23. You look good for your age, and that’s without Botox. Your husband can’t keep his hands off you because you are gorgeous. He spoils you with classy jewellery. You can afford expensively tailored designer clothes and shoes. You have everything at your fingertips to make yourself one damn stunning hottie.

By the time I had my hair piled up over the gray roots, Chanel make -up applied over the fine lines, Helmut Lang black dress zipped up, Louboutin pumps hiding my neglected toes, Tiffany diamonds in place, and a shimmering Louis Vuitton clutch in my hand, I felt like the envy of all women.  And men. For all my self-righteous tirade on Vanity, I have had to admit to myself that a healthy dose of it does wonders for one’s self-esteem.

Because when I walked into the restaurant that night, it didn’t matter what Georgina and her hunky husband thought, I felt like a million dollars, like Angelie Jolie in The Tourist.

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With my very own Brad Pitt.