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

 

Music in the Theatre

Another One Bites the Dust

Most days when I am operating, I choose a playlist on my iPhone and plug it into the speaker. I don’t have it on particularly loud, but I do have it playing, as to create background noise. Silence can often convey tension, and I find people work better together when everyone is relaxed. Often, patients will comment on the background music as they are being wheeled into the operating theatre, and some appreciates it as it takes their minds off on what’s to come. Sometimes I use it as a topic for conversation, to distract the patient as he or she is going to sleep.

My playlists consist of a wide range of music. I remember trying to load up my husband’s iPhone with music a few years ago, so he too can play music in the operating theatre. I asked him what he wanted on it. He told me whatever I want. The next question that came out of my mouth was, ‘Do you want something you like, or something that’s cool?’ It took me a while afterwards to realise why he was sulking.

I have lots of playlists. One for early in the day, all calm smooth jazzy stuff, then one full of pop and lively tunes for the afternoon. I even have a playlist called ‘closing music’, just something to put on when I am finishing up a long case – the first song being ‘We gotta get out of this place’ by The Animals.

Lately, the shuffling on my playlists seems to have a life of its own, with very bad timing. Just a week ago, I noticed my patient’s eyes look at me in horror as he was going to sleep. I couldn’t work out what was causing his distress until I realised that the sound system was softly playing Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’. It was not the first time in the last month that my playlists have shown impeccable timing and bad taste. Because the week before, Queen was blaring ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ as my patient was being wheeled into the operating room.

So here I have compiled a list of songs that should not be played when patients are about to have surgery. I have erased them from my work playlists.

Knockin On Heavens Door – Guns N Roses and Bob Dylan

Tears in Heaven – Eric Clapton

Dancing with Mr D – The Rolling Stones

Kill you – Eminem

Ready to Die – The Notorious B.I.G.

Great Gig in The Sky – Pink Floyd

If Tomorrow Never Comes – Ronan Keating

Killing Me Softly – The Fugees

Now if anyone else can think of any other inappropriate songs that they may not want to hear as they are being put to sleep, please feel free to add to the list.

 

 

 

 

10 Things I Hate About You – Part II

10things5

Well, when I wrote the original ’10 Things I Hate About You’, I actually had no intentions in writing a Part II. However, as hubby pointed out, it was totally unfair that I got to vent all his less-than-appealing traits to the public without any input on his part. He felt that since he didn’t get to defend himself, everyone should know about the things he hated about me; our’s being an equal relationship and all.

Hang on a minute. As far as I was concerned, he loves everything about me. Absolutely everything. I am flawless, perfection itself, and can do no wrong.

Well, wasn’t it a reality check when he unceremoniously handed me this list.

1. You are permanently attached to your phone.

Ok, I need to be contactable at all times for my patients. You should understand that, you are a surgeon yourself. So what if I occasionally use it to check my Facebook, Instagram, WordPress, email and maybe crush some candies. I can’t NOT have it on me! What if a patient desperately needed my advice after surgery? And what if I missed out on my best friend posting her latest hot date on Instagram? I may need to give a life urgently on Candy Crush. It’s life-saving stuff, this little phone and all that it conveys.

2. You don’t know how to say ‘No’ except to me.

That’s a bit harsh. I can’t always say yes to you, otherwise we would permanently be stuck in bed. You know you might actually have an issue, the number of times you ask for it, maybe you should seek counselling or something like Mr X-files in Californication. Oh, what? Oh, you didn’t mean that? *Blush* Oh, ok. Yeah, you are right, I just can’t say no to people. It’s just one more patient to add to the list, one more favour to do for a colleague, one more committee to join or one more meeting to organise. I know it takes up too much of my ‘spare-time’ *insert sarcastic laughter here*, but I am just trying to help out. I don’t always say ‘no’ to you. I mean, you don’t really need me to cook dinner for you, do you? There’s Lite’n Lazy in the freezer that you can pop in the microwave if you are hungry. You do know how to operate the microwave on your own, right? How about some take-away? Just look it up on google and dial it on your iPhone. I am sure you will be able to find a present for your mother’s birthday – you don’t really need me, it’s not as if she’s liked anything I’ve given her in the past. It’s just that other people really need me, and you are so capable, darling.

3. You are always rushing me

Well, if you don’t always drag your feet whenever we are heading out, or take so damn long getting ready, I wouldn’t be rushing you at all, would I? If you would just spend one minute less admiring yourself in the mirror, and stop practising your Blue Steel, I wouldn’t have to scream at you to hurry up.

4. You don’t like my friends

You don’t like my friends. So we are even. You think my friends are opinionated, loud, and coo-coo. Well, let me tell you, your friends are narcissistic, chauvinistic and appreciate the wrong things about women. Yes, I know all about the tits and bum scoring system that you and the boys whip out on your nights out. And I don’t even want to know where they take you during those escapades.

5. You don’t find my jokes funny

I know, I am sorry I may have misled you. I used to laugh at your jokes when we were dating. I was being polite, and I wanted you to like me. Then, when we were past the dating stage, I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Now, I really just don’t find male stupidity funny. And you have to admit, the quality of your jokes have deteriorated from our dating days. You weren’t exactly telling me the types of jokes you are relaying to me now. No, I definitely don’t remember the words ‘boob’ or any references to the male genitalia in any of the jokes you told me all those years ago.

6. You don’t listen to me when I am talking to you

Sweetheart, let me know tell you something about women. We multi-task. Yes, it may seem as if I am not listening to you when I am texting on my phone, reading a post on Facebook, watching TV or ‘working’ on my computer, but in actual fact, I have been listening to you. I may not respond – usually because I don’t really like what you are telling me, but trust me, I heard you. I may make sympathetic noises, which I know annoys the crap out of you, but that just means you are ranting and raving about something totally inconsequential again. You do realise that you talk at me and not to me sometimes, especially when you start a tirade about some political issues in the paper. You would raise your voice, get all hot and bothered, and then you look at me as if I was the culprit causing all the trouble. What do you want me to say? I am sorry for everything that the Australian Labour Party has done?! Trust me, Hon, I am listening. I heard you the first time, as well as the second, third, fourth and fifth time.

7. You can’t sleep in and that means I am not allowed to sleep in either

You always complain that we don’t spend enough quality time together. Well, having breakfast together is quality time, right? I mean, if you want to spend as much of my waking moments with me, then you need to get up when I do. There is no point me eating on my own at 5am on a Sunday morning, if you ate with me, you could talk and I promise to listen.

8. You fall asleep at the dinner table

Trust me, this takes talent. It’s not easy to snatch speed naps in between courses. You should know better than to book an 8-course degustation menu at the 8.30pm sitting. By the time the dessert arrived, it was midnight. I am getting old, if you haven’t noticed; I am usually passed out with my glasses around my nostrils by 9pm. So if you want me to stay awake for dinner, you better feed me at nanna time by 6pm. Or clear my schedule for a nanna nap in the afternoon so that I can be prepared for a big night out.

9. You count my drinks

Ok, this is easy. There are a multitude of reasons I don’t like you drinking. You have a strong family history of alcoholism. You use it as an excuse to get out of driving (and you know I hate driving in the dark). You have very posh taste in alcohol – you would have nothing but Moet, Grange and 18 year plus single malt whiskey. You can tolerate such a huge amount of alcohol (thanks to your Eastern European genes), it gets rather expensive when we go out. You are a terrible drunk. You go straight from sober to the funny drunk with no warning. And you know exactly how I feel about your jokes when you are trying to be ‘funny’. The funny drunk stage only lasts for 10 minutes before you become the sleepy drunk, or rather, the unconscious loud-snoring drunk who obviously has issues with his own airway, because the snores are regularly punctuated by convulsive thunderous snorting when your addled brain reminds you to breathe. And you wonder why you find yourself sleeping on the couch the morning after.

10. You break the Fart Trust

Just give me a minute to explain the Fart Trust. The Fart Trust is the ultimate form of trust in a marriage. The problem lies in the fact that you and I have very different definition of the Fart Trust. To me, it means that you own up to your fart. To you, it means that you warn your spouse before you fart. Now, I understand you have issues with my ‘silent killers’, but I am a lady after all, and I don’t go around letting it rip loud and clear like you blokes do. If you asked me, I would gladly own up to my own farts but I don’t see why I have to verbally announce them.

 

So there, I do hope you feel better now that you have exposed my unappealing side to the public. Maybe it’s not fair that I get to defend myself with your list, but Hon, this is my blog. Get your own if you think your views have been poorly represented.

Oh, and of course,I love you too.

The Expert Opinion of Medical Students

med student

Ok. I am an old and cranky surgeon. And this post is going to make me sound positively ancient. It starts off with

When I was a medical student……

Is it just me, or are the medical students these days getting more brazen, opinionated and full of self-importance?

I used to love clinical teaching. Our students used to turn up early on consultant ward rounds, some with prepared case studies of patients on the ward, and helped out our residents and interns with preparations of the round. In the operating room, they used to stand quietly at the head of the patient, peering over the anaesthetic drape and asked intelligent questions. Questions that showed they had checked what was on the list and read about it the night before. They stayed until the case was finished, whether it would be 6pm or 1am. They were eager to scrub in if they were offered the chance and absorbed information like sponges.

Nowadays, they turn up on the ward round at the same time as me, with no idea of the patients on the ward, nor their names and procedures, let alone their histories. The interns and residents struggle with charts, dressings and memorising lab results for each patient, whilst the students look on with vacant smiles, hands firmly tucked into their pockets.

When I was a medical student, I used to arrive an hour before my consultant, print out a patient list, and write out all lab results next to their names for the intern. I would then put all the charts onto a trolley, opened to the latest page, and stamp in the date, ready for the round. While the round is happening, I would carry a box of gloves so that the senior doctors can open the dressings, and be the official scribe in the notes while decisions are made and patient discussed. I would hand the latest lab results to my intern and make sure he/she was aware of any abnormalities. I never spoke unless spoken to. My role was to be helpful to the junior staff and be a thirsty sponge to absorb all the information bantered around my head.

Over the last few years, something changed in our medical students. I don’t know why these young minds are being poisoned, but I sure would like to correct whatever delusions some idealistic non-clinical academic lecturer are feeding them. Whatever fibs they are being told – may work great in theory and on campus, but disastrous if they really want to gain the most out of their clinical attachments. The attitude these beliefs breed in our medical students, alienates them from the real doctors in the ‘real’ world.

1. You are an important member of the clinical team.

Then they get fed this bullshit story about how once there was a patient nobody knew why he was dying and some medical student came alone, discovered the diagnosis and saved the patient. It is an Urban Legend, people. Don’t come onto my team thinking you are going to discover some astonishing fact, talk to us as if everything you have to say is of utmost importance, and please don’t look at us expectantly for a thank-you for your effort. Oh, I don’t dispute that sometimes the medical student finds something that no one else on the team knew, but it is often either of small significance, or most commonly something that would not have changed the big picture.

Nope. You kids are not important. You earn your importance. If you put in the work and help out with the team, then maybe, just maybe, you are useful. Students are actually economic burdens. Teaching takes time, time cuts into efficiency, and decreased efficiency means less thorough-put. Less thorough-put means I don’t meet my KPI (key performance indicators), and failure to meet my KPI means I don’t get my bonus. Oh, and did I mention that I don’t get any extra pay for being a teacher or having students on my team? So to cut a long story short – teaching you kids cost me my bonus. For those who put in the work, I consider it worthwhile, I’d be happy to give you my bonus just so you can stay on the team longer and learn more, because sometimes listening to my students talk intelligently makes me puff up with pride.

You are also not so important that you can call me ‘Tiff’. My intern, residents and registrars call me Dr Tiffany, and that’s forgivable because I have a unpronouncable surname (thanks to my Eastern European husband). So, at the very least, you could do me the same courtesy. Yelling down the corridor, ‘Hey, wait up Tiff’ is just not acceptable behaviour for a student on my team. Why the hell would I wait for you when you are late to the ward round anyway?!?!

2. As a medical student, you have ‘rights’

Hahahahahahaha. Sorry, I had to laugh at the absurdity of this concept. What ‘rights’ would you be referring to?

Last month, we were doing a six-hour operation which started at three pm. The student was scrubbed in to help with some retraction. As a ‘reward’ for his efforts, the senior registrar showed great patience and took her time teaching him how to stitch. When it turned six o’clock, the student wanted to be excused. The registrar made a comment that if he stayed, he could practice more suturing and close one of the wounds. His reply was, ‘I am not paid to be here. I am only here to learn. As a student, I have the right to leave when I have done my allocated hours.’

The registrar looked at me and said, ‘Great. Dr Tiffany, why don’t we all just leave the patient on the table and go home? I think I am  on the 40th hour over my allocated hours for this month. The anaesthetist here is on his 37th hour, How about you?’

Another example of the so-called ‘rights’ was demonstrated to me by a student who stood at the head of the table observing an operation last week. It was a difficult case – I was digging through scar tissue to access some very fine blood vessels without clobbering any of them and causing a blood bath. There was concentrated silence in the theatre for 2 hours. During which time, I was trying not to get too annoyed with his continuous fidgeting, coughing and sighing. When we finally negotiated through the difficult part of the operation, and I was able to relax (i.e. multi-task), I asked the student if he saw what we were trying to do. He shrugged and said that he didn’t really understand because I didn’t talk to him. I held onto my patience and pointed out all the blood vessels I have dissected out and asked him if he recognised them.

‘No, I have never seen them before. I wouldn’t know what they are. You are supposed to teach me today, but i haven’t learnt anything. I have just stood here for two hours. I don’t think we learn very much watching operations, when are you giving us a tutorial? We have a right to proper teaching.’

Time paused. I could see myself pointing to the door, and yelling ‘Get the F%$#& out of my theatre and don’t ever let me see your #$@% face ever again!’

Instead, I said, ‘If you go home and read about the anatomy of this area, you can give me a tutorial tomorrow on it, and I will tell you whether I could have done that dissection better.’

3. Your opinions are important

Trust me when I say, No, Your opinions are best kept to yourself. In regards to opinions, I have two rules I live by: One, your opinions are only worth mentioning if you are either as old as the person you are giving the opinion to, or you have at least half the experience of the subject as the person you are talking to. Two, some opinions are best left unsaid even if it is a good one.

So if you have had no experience in surgery, you need to shut up, watch and learn. I asked a medical student on her first day once, about what she think Plastic Surgery was about. She said that she knew it was all about reconstruction after removal of cancer and injuries, but ‘in my opinion, it is not really essential, so I think they should cut it out of the public health budget.’

Hmm. Let’s imagine the scenario of Miss Smartass getting run over by a car, then carted into my theatre with crushed legs. There I was, standing over her, waving my amputation saw, as she is drifting off to sleep under anaesthetic,  ‘so who think plastic surgery is not essential now?! Mwahahahaha.’

My pet hate is the student who watches me do an operation and tries to tell me how they would do it and why. Ah huh, and sorry if I sound rude, but how many of these have you done? I had to laugh once when a student actually replied, ‘Oh, I haven’t done any, but I have seen quite a few.’ My dear boy, this is not a football game, everyone is an expert because they have watched the game for years. Trust me, if you put any one of those loud, opinionated, beer-drinking, fat bastards who are always yelling obscenities from the couch, onto the football field to play, do you think they can score?! You think they’d win the game? Why don’t you just finish off this operation while I go for my tea break.

4. Medicine can be mastered with ‘Problem Based Learning’ (PBL)

I don’t think I have ever hated a mnemonic more than PBL. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the basis behind PBL, but I think PBL should be taught at the level of training registrars and residents. Teaching PBL to medical students, is like teaching a 17-year-old how to drive without him/her having passed the traffic rule-book written test. You cannot solve the problem, without rote-learning the basics. Yep. Rote-learning, reading, studying and memorising. No shortcuts or ‘I will be able to work it out.’ If you don’t have the knowledge, you won’t be able to ‘wing-it’. And trust me, when someone is bleeding to death on the operating table, they wouldn’t want you to ‘wing-it’ either. Medical school is all about garnering the basic knowledge required to make decisions, and clinical experience during internship and residency is about using that knowledge to perfect the art of clinical judgement. I am still doing problem based learning every single day I am at work. It is something I believe I will continue to do until the day I retire.

Back in the days when I was a medical student (here she goes again *eye-rolls*), we had structured learning of all sciences. It was boring, it was tough, and the amount we had to know seemed irrelevant and insurmountable. But man, was it all so useful when I started surgical training. I am a firm believer that my role as a clinical teacher is to demonstrate to my students the importance and relevance of the basic sciences. I am not trying to teach them how to do an operation, diagnose a disease or to predict prognosis. That is something I teach my surgical trainees. For the medical students, all I am trying to do, is to show them that if they know their sciences well, there will be a whole new world for them to explore with the knowledge they have.

5. There is no such thing as a Stupid Question

WRONG. There is such a thing as a stupid question. Like, ‘What sort of surgery do you do?’ Ok, let me get this right. You have been assigned to my team for 6 weeks and you have no idea what specialty we are in?

If you are thinking of asking a stupid questions, it is better that you say nothing at all. There is nothing more annoying than silly questions from medical students which reflect their complete lack of preparation. Not to mention the polite but pathetic inane questions that accentuate their complete disinterest, absence of comprehension and desire to be somewhere else. Just give me the goddamn attendance form, I will sign it so that you can get your irritating bored ass out of my theatre.

I do like questions when I operate. I like intelligent questions from my students. When a student asks me a question which showed that they have actually done some background reading, I am in seventh heaven. I would take them on a tour of every detail, every aspect and every possible outcome of the surgery we are doing. It is almost orgasmic when my diatribe generates more intelligent questions, showing that they understood what I have been trying to show them, and their interest in what I do. To me, that is like the ultimate ego-stroke.

Sometimes the students are very quiet in my theatre. I suspect it is because they don’t want me to know that they have NFI (No F%$#&ing Idea).

6. Participate in ‘Active Learning’ – speak up and question your clinical teacher

This is like a fast train wreck combining both number 3 and 5.  This is an example of ‘active learning’ from a 3rd year medical student I had last year.

Expert Medical Student: Why are you removing the rib like that?

Me: Because it is a safe way of doing it and it is how I normally do it.

EMS: I don’t think you are doing it right.

Me: Why do you say that?

EMS: I have seen Dr X and Dr Y do this operation last week and that’s not how they did it.

Me: There is usually more than one way of doing an operation, we all have our own preferences.

EMS: But I think their way is better.

Me: Because?

EMS: They are older and much more experienced, so I think you should do it like them.

I wondered if I would get reported if I picked up my sharps dish and bitch-slapped his face with it.

Me: Why don’t you just watch the way I do it and see if it achieves the same result.

EMS: I wasn’t trying to be rude or anything, it’s just that we are told to question everything so that we can learn why you do what you do.

Me: Ask me why then.

EMS: Why what?

Deep breath.

Me: Forget it.

I love my students. Really. I do. I am just very selective whom I show my love to. I love them by teaching them, and I only teach the ones that put in the effort, show respect for their teachers, don’t take our time for granted and don’t make unnecessary noises. I am too old to waste my time and effort on the others.

I sound like an old, arrogant and cranky surgeon. In actual fact, I am afraid to say that my rant reminds me of the Professor of Surgery I had when I was a medical student. Oh God, I really am ancient. I will know I am archaic when I find my portrait next to his in the hallway of the department of surgery.

 

10 Things I Hate About You

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To my dearest pig-headed husband,

There are some days you drive me insane with frustration. There are times when you make me want to smash something over your stubborn big head. There are instances where I could scream at you at the top of my lungs. And there are moments when I have to exercise extreme control not to slap you silly.

Today is one of those days.

It is a good thing that you don’t read my blogs, (as you think it’s a frivolous waste of time – which I am sure you think would be better spent on you). It is a good thing, sweetie-pie, because I am about to tell you how much I hate you. Right at this moment. Right now.

1. You have a pathological obsession with sports

So Today, after spending a long day at work, with an overbooked clinic and long, frustrating operations, I arrived home, to find you sitting on the couch, screaming and yelling at the television. I watched you from the doorway. You alternated between slouching across the couch, to jumping excitedly on the couch. You were unshaven, hair mussed, and still wearing your pyjamas – the very same ones from this morning when I left the house. Empty beer bottles littered the coffee table, empty dirty plates scattered on the ground. On the screen was the Stanely Cup Finals.

I texted you before I left the hospital – to ask you if you had dinner ready, or I should get takeaway. There was no reply. I was starving on my drive home. Now I am just simply HANGRY.

I don’t understand your obsession with sports, why you can’t switch it off when I am home (since you have plenty of time to watch it when I am at work). I can’t fathom your need to turn it up so loud that the whole neighbourhood can hear our very expensive surround-sound system. And why do you keep yelling at the television or mumbling to your imaginery fellow spectators? You are not at the Staples Center, in a crowd of 18,000LA King fans. They can’t hear you, and it’s a good thing – I cringe at some of the obscenities you were screaming.

Then, when the game was over, and the house was back to its usual peace and quiet, you subjected me to a blow-by-blow account of each pass. Every exciting moment that you relived with relish, I have to feign interest with a smile that felt like a grimace.  If I didn’t respond appropriately, you accused me of ‘You never listen to me when I am talking to you.’

This may be hard for you to swallow, sweetheart, BUT I DON’T GIVE A RAT’S ARSE how that puck got into the net.

And why can’t you just be interested in one sport? Now that the Stanley Cup is over, I have to deal with this all over again with the World Cup. I have already had to listen to a lecture about how soccer was ‘just a bunch of pussies chasing after a rubber ball’. Kill me now.

2. You cannot drive and talk at the same time

And so, once the television was unplugged, much to your vehement protest – yes, those obscenities were now directed at me. You finally grasped the concept that a hangry wife can be dangerous to your very existence. You decided to feed the beast quickly, which meant eating out rather than risking your life in making her wait while you cooked. So we left home in our car and headed to my favourite restaurant. The drive was excruciating.

Did you know that you slow down to 40km/hr when you talk and drive at the same time? Did you know that when you were throwing you arms about demonstrating some stupid finer points of how the puck flew past the net, your foot lifted from the accelerator? Did you notice the Toyota Patrol behind us – the one whose bumper bar was almost up our ass?

Could you – for God’s sake – just SHUT THE F%@# UP AND DRIVE?!?!

3. You do not have the word ‘Romance’ in your vocabulary

You know, I have always been a little annoyed with the fact that you would never open my car door for me. Or any doors for that matter. You have always told me that you would never insult my intelligence by presuming I was not capable of opening a door for myself. That ‘excuse’ is wearing a little thin.

And chairs. You never pulled out chairs for me either. In fact, when the waiter took us to our table, and pulled out a chair, you stepped in front of me and sat down. It may have been amusing for you to see the appalled look on the poor waiter’s face, but it was just plain embarrassing that you showed no consideration for me in public.

If you belittled or denounced Romance, I would have tried hammering some sense into you, but you simply just, don’t get it. You looked at me in confusion when I mentioned the ‘R’ word, you asked me frustrating questions after watching a romantic comedy at the movies, and you laughed at some lucky woman’s husband when he attempted a romantic gesture. I guess I should have known things were dire when you took me on our first date to watch Arnold Schwarzenegger’s ‘Eraser’, followed by Sylvester Stallone’s ‘Daylight’ for our second date the week after.

Oh, and I know about that Vacuum cleaner you bought for my birthday when we first moved into a house together. If it wasn’t for my friends talking some sense into you, you would have not lived to see our wedding day. I saw the exercise bike and the iron in the garage too. What about the bread machine – the one with the card that said, ‘I love the smell of fresh bread in the morning, I hope you will like this present.’? I don’t suppose the machine came with a bread fairy that loved getting up at dawn?

I know it’s not from lack of trying, but honestly, your efforts have simply just been…. pitiful. Your attempt at a compliment when I was wearing my favourite heart-shaped earrings was, ‘You are wearing hearts on your ears, but I see hearts in your eyes.’ Ok, everyone, please groan in unison. That wasn’t just corny, it was downright miserably cheesy. What about your romantic ‘moves’. You reached out for my hand when we were walking back from the shops last weekend, I was so touched that you initiated this romantic gesture. But, why was I not surprised when you started making fart noises with our hands? Oh, and your timing had always been impeccable; like at night while we were both lying in bed, and I rolled away when you turned to me with that hopeful glint in your eyes. Oh, don’t worry, I heard your heartfelt declaration, ‘But I love you, baby.’ How often have I told you that horizontal-I-love-you’s DO NOT COUNT?

4. You have a severe case of domestic blindness

Another thing. I am SICK of looking for your missing things. I hate it whenever you yelled at me asking where things were. It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure out that the coffee beans sit in the cupboard, or that the milk resides somehwere in the fridge. And I don’t know where your other sock is, as far as I am concerned, there is a sock eating monster in our washing machine – or maybe our housekeeper has a fetish with your socks and she hoards them. Maybe if you go to her house, you will find one sock from each pair is hung up on her dresser in her bedroom, around a photo of yourself – as a shrine to your importance.

5. You reuse your dental floss

I don’t think I need to expand on this one. Simply. Gross.

6. You have a personal trainer called Nirvana

You must think I am gullible. You disappear for a few hours three times a week, telling me that you have a training session with your PT. And I asked you what your trainer’s name was. Nirvana. Right, and what was that she trains? Art of love, pole dancing, or just generally a good time? Ok, maybe I did go a little overboard with the stalking, and followed you into the gym (and caused a scene at the reception because I didn’t have membership access). It didn’t help that I coped an eyeful of the blonde, toned, long-legged Nirvana. Of all personal trainers at that gym, you couldn’t have chosen some old hag with a name like Gertrude? Or better still, how about a beef cake called Sven?

Don’t worry, I may not like it, but I have forgiven you. Oh, did you know I suffer from a really bad neck from doing surgery down a microscope at work? Well, I am on the prowl for a good physiotherapist with masseuse qualifications. Yes, I am afraid nothing less than a blonde Swedish Hercules will do.

7. You give my friends offensive nicknames

I know you don’t like some of my friends, and I do appreciate that you are never rude to them. But do you really have to give them nicknames like ‘Hooter Lady’ or ‘Junk-in-the-Trunk’? I am not sure whether I should hate you more for looking or for making me notice those things about my friends. What frustrates me more is that everytime I talk to you about my friends, I actually have to repeat those nicknames so you know who I am talking about. Which means, in my head, I am calling them ‘Stripper Legs’ and ‘Big Hot Mama’. One day, I know I am going to slip up when I talk to ‘Big Puppies’ and you will be to blame for either the end of our friendship or me being mistaken for a closet lesbian.

8. You never rush

I really really hate the fact that you never rush, especially when we are running late. For someone who plans her life down to the second, it boils my blood when we only have fifteen minutes to get somewhere, and you are still in your beloved Nike sweat shirt and pants, sipping your mug of coffee on the sofa.

Last Friday, I rushed home from work to pick you up so that we could get to dinner with our friends, and instead of waiting for me at the front door, you were lying in bed, in nothing more than just your socks and jocks, typing away on your ipad, laughing at some stupid sexist video your friend had posted on facebook. I was not fooled by your innocent looks. I knew for a fact that you deliberate dragged your feet and pretended to be indecisive about  what to wear because you were secretly laughing at me. You thought my obsession with punctuality was a joke, you knew exactly how to toy with me to stress me out when we were in a hurry.

When we did eventually get in the car, you drove like a grandma. When the light was amber, you rolled to a stop. When there was a traffic jam, you allowed other cars into the queue. You derived immense pleasure in increasing my tension by taking the scenic route to our destination. I was so mad I could have kicked you out of the car an taken over the wheel in a fit of rage.

I hate you even more for the fact that no matter how late we seem to be and how long it takes for us to get there, we are never late. Without fail, you always turn to me with that look. You know the look I am talking about – the ‘What-is-your-rush’ look, accompanied by that smug ‘I-told-you-we-will-get-here-on-time’ smirk.

9. You won’t stop wearing those old, ugly boardies

For those readers who aren’t Australian, boardies are loose-fitting swimming shorts that reach just above the knees (as opposed to the European ‘budgie-smugglers’, tight underpant-like swimming trunks that superman wears). They have a tie waist, and a velcro fly. The thing with boardies, is that the synthetic material is quick to dry, but often they can be passed off as just regular shorts.  They are, however, made for the beach.

I think 12 years, is long enough for a pair of boardies. Or for any piece of clothing for that matter. I know how much you love them, how you wear them throughout, summer, autumn, winter, spring, over and over. I can’t stand the fact that you sometimes wear them to work to see patients, and do your weekend ward rounds in them. I can’t believe that sometimes it takes me weeks to realise that they have not been in the wash. Considering the fact that you don’t wear anything under your boardies (as most boys would do when they are heading into the surf for a swim), wearing them for consecutive weeks is just….. Eeeeeewwwww.

They are grey and checkered. They may have been in vogue ten years ago, trust me, sweetie, they look like grandpa’s shorts today. You need to lose them. God knows I tried to lose them for you, and I tried to replace them. But somehow, the housekeeper managed to find them. She placed them into your wardrobe, above the new stylish Ralph Lauren shorts I bought for you last Christmas. This was despite oodles of bribery. When I questioned her about their miraculous reappearance, she mumbled something about death threats from the boss?!

10. You tell me things I don’t really need to know

I am not naive. I know what you and the boys do on your nights out. I know what you and your bestie do when you go on a ‘golfing’ trip to Las Vegas. I can imagine the conversations you have with the boys in the locker room at the gym, and the ‘fun’ you experienced when you were travelling Europe and North America with your hockey team years ago.

So stop sending me selfies of you and your best man drinking whiskey and smoking cigars, with couple of Vegas dancing girls in your lap. There was also no need for you to be so honest when I asked you why you had a wad of ten dollar bills. Pleasure money? What’s that? Oh, right. So that you can sit on the front row of the strip club and….Really? they have a place in their corset for you to put money there? Uh huh, must be terrible to have them rubbing their sweat-drenched brassiere in your face.

There are certain things in life that I would prefer to have my head stuck in the sand for. This include all the fart, boob, masturbation, and cock jokes from the locker room. The details of an ice-hockey groupie orgy, and I definitely have no stomach for the positions that stripper girls can achieve on your lap. There are just some details in your life which are on a need-to-know basis.

Oh, and honey, When your friends tell you something that starts with ‘don’t tell you wife’, they mean exactly that. DON’T TELL ME. It is your fault that I could not look at your colleague in the eye because I knew he wore his wife’s high heels at home. It didn’t help me when your friend’s girlfriend asked me whether he was having an affair, and it definitely made me cringe when your gym partner asked me if I can order KY-jelly in bulk for his wife (when you have just told me he’s a closet gay). Please respect that there are things in this universe which are meant to stay as secrets between two man-buddies.

 

So you see, I really hate you. I have exercised restraint by limiting this list to only ten things.

Here, I find myself quoting P!NK :

Sometimes I hate every single stupid word you say
Sometimes I wanna slap you in your whole face
There’s no one quite like you
You push all my buttons down
I know life would suck without you

At the same time, I wanna hug you
I wanna wrap my hands around your neck
You’re an asshole but I love you
And you make me so mad I ask myself
Why I’m still here, or where could I go
You’re the only love I’ve ever known
But I hate you, I really hate you,
So much, I think it must be

True love, true love
It must be true love
Nothing else can break my heart like

By the way, if you buy that Perazzi shotgun I have been admiring – the one with the ‘For Sale’ sign in the glass cabinet at my Trap-Shooting Club, I might just find it in me to list 10 things I love about you.

No? Oh Babe, don’t be like that. Of course not, I have never thought of you as an idiot. Annoying, arrogant, stubborn bastard maybe. But never an idiot.

Because it takes an idiot to love one, and I may love you very much, but I am definitely no idiot.

 

From your pissed-off wife,

T  xo

Pranks in a Hospital

Pranks at work take on a whole different level when one works in the health industry. I think I could have made some substantial claims from worker’s compensation as a result of the permanent psychological consequences of all the pranks that I have had to endure during my epic climb from a medical student to a specialist. Some were particularly memorable….

When I was a final year medical student, I was known as the ‘yes’ girl. I was one of those bushy-tailed, bright-eyed eager beaver who would do anything that I was asked to do by the medical team I was attached to. One evening, the senior resident on the team told me to go and check on a patient in Room 14 as the patient has had fainting episodes during the day. I was so chuffed thinking that my team trusted my judgement enough to give me such a responsible task, that I almost skipped down the corridor. I knocked on the door of Room 14, and there was no answer. I pushed the door open quietly and peeked. The room was dark and the patient was asleep. I headed back to the main desk and told the resident that the patient was asleep. He frowned at me and asked if I actually touched or saw the patient, I said no. He then asked me how I could tell the patient was actually alive under the blanket. ‘Go and wake her up so you can examine her.’

I felt so stupid that I hung my head in shame as I walked back down the corridor. I pushed the door open and approached the bed. I didn’t want to wake the patient up rudely by turning on the light, so I gently reached for her shoulder to shake her awake. Her pyjamas felt cool as I touched it and there was no response. So I grabbed the blanket and folded it back to wake her up properly. The minute the blankets were drawn back, the whole person flew/bunced/jumped out of bed and smacked me in the head. Apparently my scream was so loud on the ward, the nurses raced down the corridor with the resuscitation trolley. Not to mention some of the patient also wandered out of their room and followed in curiosity.

When the lights of Room 14 was switched on, there I was, on the ground, frantically batting away at the blow-up doll on top of me. My senior resident was laughing uncontrollably in the corner, and the head nurse stood over the side of the bed, shaking her head. Sniggers and giggles broke out in the crowd that gatherd in the doorway by the time I realised that I was not being attacked by a patient. All I could do, was to put the doll aside, give my senior resident a deathly stare and walk out of the room with whatever dignity I could gather. It was the first and final time I cried from a prank, because after that experience, I learnt that non-malicious pranks were actually a form of endearment bestowed upon favourite junior staff members by some of the senior staff.

However, that particular senior resident was apparently also very popular, because he was found ‘accidentally’ locked in the laundry cabinet three weeks later; it took 2 hours for hospital security to come and break the lock because someone had ‘lost’ the key.

My first job as an intern was on the gastroenterology and renal medicine ward, as part of the kidney/liver transplant team. On my first day, I was super excited because there was a kidney transplant to be done, and I was asked by the professor to help out in the operating theatre as they were short of surgeons.  The morning started with an introduction to all the nursing and allied health staff on the ward, then a ward round was done with the professor so I could get to know the patients. He and the other doctors headed down to start their big case, and I was told to follow once I have finished the paperwork from the round. The head nurse made me a coffee as I sat in the office, and told me that it was a welcome gesture from her and the other nurses. I thought that it was an awesome start to my career – everyone on the ward was friendly, and I was going to assist in a kidney transplant on my first day!

I was wrong. It was the most miserable day of my life. Little did I know that the ‘welcome’ gesture contained more than just Nescafe granules. The nurses added some PicoPrep (the stuff patients have to drink before their colonoscopy so that their bowels can be cleared out). Needless to say, during the kidney transplant two hours later, I had to excuse myself and unscrub 5 time within two hours. I tried so hard to hold it in that I had to change my pants three times because I didn’t make it to the bathoom.

By the end of the day, I was dehydrated, shaking with cold sweats running down my face while painstakingly suturing my first surgical wound. Commando.

Yep, no underwear, just in my scrub gear.

diarrhoea

My second job as an intern was in the Emergency Department. This particular ED I worked in was attached to the State Mortuary. So, one of our jobs a ED doctors, was to check, examine and certify the bodies brought in by the police so that appropriate paperworks can be completed to issue a death certificate before the they take it down to the morgue.  Majority of the time, all that was required was a brief look at the history handed to us by the police, a quick zip open of the bag in the boot of the police van, check of the carotid pulse over pasty-white neck skin and couple of signatures on a clipboard.

One day, there was a lull in the usual steady stream of patients.  Two police officers walked in. The senior doctor waved at them and offered to do the certification. The officers grinned and stopped him from heading out the door. ‘Is it a freshie?’ The doctor asked. They shared a smile. The senior doctor turned to the doctor’s area, ‘Who’s the most junior here?’ I put my hand up. He motioned me over. ‘Can you do me a big favour?’ He lowered his voice to a serious tone, It’s very important.’ I nodded eagerly. He pointed to the officers standing at the door. ‘Follow these two officers, there’s a body in their van that need a certificate.’

I puffed up with self-importance and swaggered outside with the two officers behind me. I should have known even before they opened up the door, but I thought the smell was just the usual bad sewage issues we have always had in the driveway drains. I was even more of an idiot not to stop when a swarm of flies escaped as soon as the van doors were open. Instead of doing what any sensible doctor would do – which is just to open a little bit of the bag, see some evidence of rotting flesh and close the zip quickly – I unzipped the whole bag, and tried to put my hand on the maggot infested neck to check for a pulse. It totally escaped my mind that since the guts were all hanging out in pieces, (obviously exploded from the build up of gas – courtesy of a week’s worth of fermentation), and the eyes were large nests of crawling maggots, not the mention the stench that permeated my whole being which made me want to run as far as I could in the opposite direction, were evidence that the patient is definitely DEAD. Yet I needed to feel his pulse to confirm that he was dead?! The officers were covering their noses with their hands and rolling their eyes at me. Really?? They seemed to say to me, Did you really have to open the whole bag and stick your finger into his neck?  Who found this silly little intern? She ain’t no Sherlock Holmes when it came to dead bodies.

When I grew up to become a surgical trainee, the antics continued in the operating theatres. I never realised how vulnerable a surgeon was when they were scrubbed, until the pranks started. Because the wound and equipment has to be kept sterile, once we are scrubbed, we cannot touch anything that is not sterile. For example, if someone punched me in the face when I  am scrubbed, it’s not like I can just punch them back, since they are not sterile. If I did, I would contaminate my surgical field and will have to take everything off and scrub all over again.

One of the worse things about being scrubbed is not being able to answer the phone. It is very often that our mobile phones go unanswered during surgery. Once in a while, if the nurse or anaesthetist is free and feel kind (as they hate being lowered to the status of the phone-answerer), they will take a message for the surgeon.

Once my senior surgeon was sitting in the operating theatre watching me operate when my phone went off next to him on the bench. He glanced down and said, ‘it’s your husband.’ I shrugged and turned around to say that it’s ok to just leave it unanswered.

But I was too late, my senior surgeon had already answered the call, ‘Hello.’

I called out, ‘just tell him I am scrubbed. I will call him later.’

He ignored me and spoke into the phone. ‘Sorry, she can’t come to the phone at the moment.’  A pause. ‘No, she’s not scrubbed. She’s busy doing a lap dance.’ A dramatic sigh. ‘In my lap, of course. And she’s very good at it too.’ He cleared his throat and held the phone away from his ear when a barrage of words came through the earpiece. ‘Look, why don’t you ring back later when she’s not busy. I can’t concentrate enough to take a message at the moment.’ He promptly hung up.

At my appalled look, he flashed me an evil smile and said, ‘Well, that will keep his mind busy for a while.’  For the rest of my term with him, whenever I saw his phone sitting on the bench next to mine, I considered ringing his wife. Luckily I refrained, because a few months after I moved onto the next team, I found out that he had left his wife for a young physiotherapist whom he was having an affair with.

When I was a surgical trainee, I was an easy target for the anaesthetists, especially the senior ones. They often told me that I was too serious and needed to lighten up. They wanted me to be different to the arrogant surgeons who couldn’t take a joke, or snap at anyone who tried to make fun of them. I worked hard during my training and spent more hours in the operating theatres than any other trainee in my service, so it was no surprise that I became fair game to all my anaesthetic and nursing colleagues.

Once I was performing a traumatic laparotomy, repairing bowel in a penetrating abdominal injury. There were lots of blood and my junior resident and I had our hands full trying to stop intrabdominal bleeding. It was unpleasant as his abdomen was also full of faeces as the bowel was lacerate in several locations. At one stage, some of the wash fluid, blood and poo were spilling over the sides of the operating table and I remember thinking that my surgical boots will definitely need a wash after work. Half way through the operation. I realised that my feet felt rather…. damp. I shuddered as I realised that most likely some of the crap has gotten in from the top of the boots (as I stupidly tucked my pants into them), and that I was probably standing and squelching in blood and poo. I wiggled my toes and felt my soggy socks slosh freely in fluid.

It was then I noticed giggling coming from behind the drapes at the head of the table (where the anaesthetic staff usually hide). I looked up at them suspicious, then I looked down. There in my boots were two intravenous lines, connected to two bags of saline, and there was water spilling over the top edge of my boots.  My feet were drenched in bucket-full boots. Honestly, you guys have the mentality of 5 year-olds, I said in exasperation. They kept laughing, like children laughing at fart jokes.

One night, we were putting some fingers back on. This can take up to 12-18 hours depending on the number of fingers we needed to reattach. Unfortunately I had to reattach four, which meant it was going to be a very long night. The anaeasthetic consultant came up to me and asked me how long it was going to take. I shrugged and said as long as I needed.  He then waited until I was scrubbed and sat myself down at the operating table. He then crouched under the hand table, and attached small neurostimulator pads on my calf. These are often used on patients while they are asleep, a shock is delivered through these pads into the patient, and cause a small electric shock, siginifcant enough to generate muscle contracture directly under the pads. This tests the muscular tension of unconscious patients to determine how relaxed and deep in sleep they are under anaesthesia. Well, In this particular instance, they were not on the patient – I found them on both of my calves instead.

He then retreated back to his position next to the anaesthetic machine and held up the remote control for the neurostimulator. With a slightly evil look on his face, he announced to everyone. ‘I will turn this on once every hour, just so you know how long you are taking.’

Trust me, if anyone was asleep in my operating theatre while I was pulling this all-nighter surgery, they were promptly woken up every hour with loud obscenities. I tend to get lost in time when I operate and the hourly reminder were coming faster than I expected, and each time, I would be caught unaware by the sudden jolt and contraction of my calf muscles.  These episodes were loudly accompanied by a physical jolt, yell of shock and swearing, repeatedly, in that order. It was only 12 hours later, when I finished the surgery that he told me he was actually giving me a shock at random, basically when he got bored.

To top it off, I didn’t realised that he and the nurses were in cahoots with each other. During the surgery, he apparently rang my mobile phone. I forgot to take it out of my pockets in my scrub pants before I scrubbed, so it was ringing away under my gown whilst I was trying to concentrate. The nurse offered to take it out of my pocket to answer it. I turned around in my chair and she fumbled under my sterile gown and shirt to grab my phone. Obviously, it was too late to answer the phone and she told me that it was a silent number, so I left it at that.

What I didn’t realise, was that the whole exercise was so that she could untied my scrub pants. So, as I stood up for the first time after sitting at the table for 12 hours, my pants fell down to my ankles. Lucky I was wearing my undies that day.

Of course, now that I am all grown up as a fully-qualified specialist, I am proof that good students emulate their teachers – and trust me, I learnt from the best. Although in today’s climate of political correctness, some pranks can be taken the wrong way and one must be very careful with the selection of target victim. But I am a true disciple of my forebearers and my pranks are legendary. After all, a sense of humour can be the life-saver in times of desolating fatigue, despair and desperation. I firmly believe that learning to laugh at ourselves is the key for humiliy and perspective. I have learnt, however, that you have to expect to get as good as you give.

Watch out girls, Dr McDreamy is in Town

A few nights ago, I attended a dinner gala event held for a surgical conference. I sat at a table with a group of surgeons I knew very well, many of whom I have either gone to med school with, or gone through training with. We are a miscellaneous group, with each of us in different surgical specialities. When I went through surgical training, there were very few females, so my table was filled with men, except for two other women who were the wives. Two of my closest friends, Daniel* and Rohan*, sat on each side of me. My husband also sat at the same table, and he knew that back in the days before I met him, Rohan and I had a very brief relationship. Dan was Rohan’s best friend, so he treated me like his baby sister – that was, until he and I started dating when Rohan left me to chase someone else in skirts (yes, yes, it was all a bit complicated). Fortunately, for our friendship, Dan and I realised it was a mistake before it got untidy. My relationships with them made me the envy of other girls in med school. If Grey’s Anatomy was around at the time, these two would have been the epitome of Dr McDreamy and Dr McSteamy.

mcdreamymcsteamy4

Now, most people would have considered our current dinner seating to be an awkward situation, but this is the funny thing about the medical fraternity. A lot of doctors have relationships with each other, some turned out well, some not so well. At some point in our careers, all of us will end up having to work or deal with each other in our profession. And that is the price you pay for having a relationship with another colleague – apart from the wagging tongues of nurses, other doctors and whoever else thinks it’s their business. You learn very quickly, if you are dating colleagues, to separate personal life from working life. Majority of break-ups between doctors end amicably, and being fairly intelligent people, we get over it pretty quickly, because the only way to be professional at work is to clear the air and get on with what’s important.

I have been lucky. Rohan and Daniel patched up their friendship after Dan and I went our separate ways. Although there were some awkwardness moments for couple of months, we all became very close friends, especially after I entered surgical training. When my husband entered the scene as my boyfriend, they also became good friends, so it was not unusual for the boys to hang around our place to watch a football together or for all three of them to go out for a drink after work. Daniel got married four years ago, and his wife is expecting a second baby.

Rohan, on the other hand, is another story altogether.

Rohan was a new cardiothoracic surgical trainee at the time when I was an easily impressionable naïve 2nd year med student. Tall, dark and handsome with startling turquoise eyes, he was pretty much irresistible to women. And he knew it. I was flattered that he paid me any attention, but I was forewarned by the nurses on the ward of his predatory ways. They said he targeted young medical students and interns, and there was not a single young female surgical intern who had been able to resist his charm. He left a trail of broken hearts in every department.

I was determined that I wasn’t to be his next victim. I kept my distance and laughed his invitations off. I pretended not to be affected by his flattery, and concentrated on being diligent with my studies. I tried to impress the seniors on the team with my hard work and knowledge. I stayed in the operating room later than others to watch procedures. One night after a long case, he invited me to share a burger with him downstairs at MacDonald’s. Thinking it was just a casual ‘lets-grab-a-bite’, I agreed. I don’t know whether it was the fatigue or just plain stupidity, the rest was history after that.

The relationship lasted 3 months. Two weeks after I changed from a surgical rotation to a medical one, and left Rohan’s team, he announced that he wanted to date other people. It was a statement, not an invitation for a discussion. Even though I had always known it was coming. I was hurt. I cried on Dan’s shoulder. They were nice broad shoulders and Dan, a neurosurgical trainee, was also tall dark and handsome. And so the story went.

Anyway, back to the dinner. While we were walking towards our table earlier in the evening, my husband commented on the increasing number of female doctors in surgery and how young they looked. He got a jab in the rib from me for his efforts. He teased Rohan that there’ll be plenty of girls for him to chose from during the conference. Dan commented on how short and tight the mini dresses were these days, and I joked that he was not supposed to notice these things now that he was married with 2nd baby on the way. Rohan then mourned the fact that the majority of the girls in short tight sheaths are not of the correct BMI to wear those outfits. My husband chuckled and shook his head as another one in tight short dress wobbled by in her platform heels or ‘stripper heels’ as he fondly called them.

Once we sat down for dinner, we did our usual catch up of what each of us has been up to. Rohan couldn’t resist firing a few digs about Dan’s marital status, as he had always viewed Dan’s marriage as the ultimate betrayal of his loyal wingman. In the meantime, Dan made a few comments about Rohan’s womanising ways, which he now viewed as a one-way dead end to self-destruction. Then both them started launching an avalanche of abuse at my husband across the table for taking the best woman off the ‘meat-market’. (Yes, that would be me preening at the compliment and attention). He returned fire with a friendly retort, ‘hey, you guys had your chance and screwed it up.’

It wasn’t long after we had our entrees before various young female doctors started to approach our table. They stopped by ‘just to say hi’ to Rohan. He, of course, lapped it up like a cat with a bowl of fresh cream. Daniel was getting his share, but he knew better than to misbehave since his wife (who was back at hotel with the baby) is an anaesthetist. For those who are unfamiliar with the socialisation of the surgical fraternity, anaesthetists have nothing to do during the operation except talk, or surf the net (apart from keeping the patients alive, of course), so they are like the accelerators on the gossip grapevine. The best source of juicy updates on any surgeon’s personal life came from the anaesthetists; they often work with several surgeons, so the sources are usually reliable.  Dan knew if he was up to no good, she would be the first to know. Meanwhile, I was busy watching these young nubile things walk around the table to stop by my husband’s seat and his oh-so-friendly smile at their sweet-talking.

‘Stop snarling, Tiff.’ Dan chuckled next me. He only laughed harder when I denied it. ‘If looks can burn, those girls would be needing skin grafts by now.’ I reluctant looked away and tried to stop grinding my teeth. To distract myself, I started watching Rohan’s interactions with his swarm of admirers. Dan and I started a commentary on each.

‘Nah, too short,’ I said. ‘Look at how high those heels are.’ I really was just jealous at the fact that she could actually walk in them.

‘He doesn’t mind the short ones.’ Dan said, ‘Not one of his rules.’

Oh Yes. Rohan’s rules. We knew them well.

Rule Number One: Don’t sleep with nurses. According to Rohan, sleeping with nurses is like sleeping with the enemy. Once you do it, you will fall under their influence and rule. It was not to be done.

Rule Number Two: Don’t sleep with anyone in your own department. This is pretty self-explanatory, according to Rohan, it’s like shitting in your own backyard. Break-ups can make your life hell and one should never mix business with pleasure.

Rule Number Three: The size of her butt must fit the bum scale. So, he is discriminating against large girls. The bum scale is basically the width of two hand-spans (his hands of course). Sometimes I catch him holding up his hands – spreaded to check the width of some random girl’s butt size. Luckily, he has very big hands that wear size 8 gloves, so there was a good deal of girls who fit the bill.

Rule Number Four: No older women and anyone within 5 years of his age. Mature women want relationships, marriages and babies. It wasn’t for him, and he hated expectations. He wasn’t into mature women (which I pointed out meant he wasn’t mature enough to handle them.) He blithely agreed and continued on.

Rule Number Five: The younger the better. I asked him once if there was a limit (apart from the legal one of course). He said that the youngest ethically acceptable age would be his age divided by 2 plus 7. So basically (he’s 40), the youngest for him would be 27. I have no idea where he got that from, but I shudder to think that when he is 60, he’ll be chatting up 37 year olds! His response to my skepticism was ‘You are only as old as the woman you feel.’

I know he sounds despicable and is obviously an incorrigible womaniser, but Rohan is not a bad person. He has a good heart and goes out of his way for others. He is always clear to the girls he dated that he was not into relationships of any sort. He never lies, and doesn’t mistreat women. He always lavishes affection and attention on the girl of the moment. He is loving and generous, and never holds a grudge. He is kind and loyal to his friends. He makes people laugh, and is surprisingly dependable in times of need. I have watched him stand up for a bullied upset junior doctor against another surgeon once. The junior doctor was one of his many past conquests.

I once asked him why he asked me out when I was a med student, since I didn’t fit all the rules. I had always suspected it was because I turned him down so many times. He said that truthfully, he didn’t know, but he was in awe of my work ethic and intrigued by the fact that he enjoyed having long conversations with me. I guess he had never dated girls for their conversation skills before me. He told me: ‘You were my one exception.’ Awwww.

‘Oh Shit,’ Dan tapped me on the shoulder. ‘He is going in for the kill.’

I realised suddenly that Rohan had his head bent down way too close to a young lady crouched beside his chair. His hand had moved up to her shoulder. He complimented her on her outfit, a tight sheath which enhanced her perfectly athletic BMI. I sighed in resignation. Dan leaned over me, trying to catch their conversation.

‘If you are not doing anything after the dinner, can I take you out for a drink?’

Dan and I burst into laughter. At the confused look on the young girl’s face and Rohan’s warning growl, we both put on our most innocent butter-won’t-melt-in-our-mouth smiles on, and directed our attention back to the baked red grouper in lemon sauce and mango salsa.

Watch out girls, Dr McDreamy is in town.

Just a bit more eye candy for my readers.

Just a bit more eye candy for my readers.

* names have been changed to protect privacy of individuals