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

The Doctor’s Handwriting

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Once upon a time, I used to have very neat writing, but medical school, surgical training, and the endless beauraucratic paperwork has beaten it out of me by the time I have become a fully qualified specialist.

My writing got so bad – that this week, when I left my husband a shopping list of things I needed urgently, I got a surprise in return. The list was:

  1. face wash
  2. moisturiser
  3. coffee beans
  4. shampoo
  5. conditioner

When I got home, I asked him whether he got the stuff I needed, and he said it was in the kitchen. I found the shopping bag sitting on the bench, I looked inside. And I found, face wash, moisturiser, coffee beans, shampoo and not one but two boxes of condoms. He must have thought all his birthdays and Christmases have come at the same time when he saw that on my list.

It is a good thing that most medical records are converted into electronic files, and doctors are no longer required to write, other than scribbling their signatures on printed reports, scripts and request forms. I was told once that the secret in writing doctor’s handwriting is to look at the first letter, and then the last letter. Look at the length of the line in between these two, and the brain should fill in the rest. To me, it’s a bit like deciphering an ECG (and for a surgeon, that is no small feat, as it is often the physicians who actually has the ability to read the subliminal messages in the wavy lines of an ECG). I would have a look at the squiggles, and see if at least one of the lines is recognisable. One can often decipher the overall meaning of an ECG (and a letter for that matter) once a something in the middle makes sense.

Even though now it is considered to be negligent if the writing in medical charts or communications is not decipherable, this has not stopped some hilarious misunderstandings due to bad hand-writing.

I was reviewing an inpatient with facial burns, whilst covering for a colleague. The patient asked me if he had to keep using the ointment my colleague prescribed him. I asked if he was getting a rash or reaction from the ointment. He said no, but he was getting bad diarrhoea and going to the toilet at least 4 times a day, usually after he has used the ointment. I looked at the notes to see what my colleague has written, and he wrote “Paraffin, top, prn” which basically means, vaseline topically to the burn wound, pro re nata (as required). I then looked at the medication chart, it was transcribed by the pharmacist into his medication chart as “Paraffin, 10g, PR” which means, 10g paraffin per rectum. Poor man was probably wondering why the nurses kept shovelling vaseline up his bottom when his burn is on the face.

Once, during a consultation, my patient handed me his referral letter from his doctor. He told me that he came to see me about his skin cancer. I nodded and read the short brief scribbled note.

“Dear Dr T, thank you for seeing this 46 year old man with a biopsy proven basal cell carcinoma over his right scrotal area.”

I stilled for a moment. Silently, I cursed my colleague, and wished he had sent this patient to a male surgeon. But I gave a mental shrug and got over it very quickly. I tried to make the patient feel comfortable by having a chat with him about his medical history, medications etc. Then I told him that if the cancer was small, I should be able to excise it under local anaeasthetic only, a bit like a vasectomy. I ignored his strange look. Finally, when I ran out of things to say, I asked if it was ok for me to call a chaperone so that I can examine him properly. He gave me another look, but shrugged ‘whatever you want, doc.’ I asked him to step behind the curtain, get undressed and lie on the bed.  He looked distressed, then said, ‘but doc, I just need to roll up my sleeve, it’s here.’ He stuck his right wrist under my nose. Over his scaphoid area, was a small skin cancer. (For the non medics – scaphoid refers to the area at the back of the hand, near the base of the thumb.) Yep. I was walking a close line to being reported to the medical board for inappropriate sexual harrassment behaviour.

Once I received a letter from a doctor working in the country, who has been dressing my patient’s wound at home. Mrs M was a 50 year old lady who had very bad ulcers on her legs, and her doctor felt that they have deterioated, so sent her back to my office. I got her onto the bed, and opened the handwritten letter while my nurse was undressing her wound.

“…..I would be grateful for your input in her wound management, as I feel it is worse. The woman is pregnant, so I have tried to use some topical antibacterial dressings. If you feel that she requires oral antibiotics……..”

I looked up at Mrs M and frowned. ‘Is there something you would like to tell me?’ I asked her. She smiled sheepishly and admitted that she’s put on too much weight since she last saw me. I thought, well there are women who are having babies in their fifties, so I said ‘Congratulations, so how many weeks are you?’ Mrs M looked up with a start, then started laughing so hard she couldn’t get her words out, but I eventually worked out she was denying her pregnancy. I told her that’s what her doctor wrote. She insisted on reading the letter, after which, she started on another fit of laughter, with tears running down her face. My nurse snatched the letter out of Mrs M’s hands, and squinted her eyes as she read it several times. Then she pointed to the sentence ‘The woman is pregnant’ and said, ‘I think this says, the wound is pungent?’ Yep. The wound did stink out my office when the bandages came off. Mrs M needed to be readmitted to hospital, for antibiotics and dressing on the surgical ward. Not the maternity ward.

When I was working in general surgery, I once received a patient  with questionable bowel obstruction transferred from another hospital. They were particularly concerned about him because he has not been able to tolerate any fluids orally. I was not convinced he had a true obstruction, but reluctantly accepted him despite the fact I was up for my second night on call in a row. He arrived through emergency with a hand written letter.

“….Mr XX has had ongoing retching for 24 hours, he last opened his bowels 3 days ago, and has farted since 6am this morning……”

I was livid. If Mr XX has passed wind, it meant he wasn’t really obstructed. He probably just needed to have a good enema. I couldn’t believe that I got woken up at 2am in the morning to see someone with constipation. I rang up the referring doctor and ripped through him (fuelled by lack of sleep) about unable to diagnose and treat constipation. When the poor man on the other end of the line got his chance to say something (because I stopped to take a breath), he said that Mr XX hasn’t passed wind for 3 days. I put on my self-righteous tone and referred to his letter. ‘No, no, no!’ the young doctor cried, ‘I wrote he has fasted since 6am’. Let’s just say, humble pie was not easy to eat at 2am after 48 hours of no sleep.

The best one arrived via fax. It was another handwritten referral letter I received from a local family doctor. Luckily, I was reading this before the patient came to her appointment. (Warning: I apologise in advance for the foul language you are about to encounter).

“Thank you for seeing Mrs Z, her cunt has been worrying her. she has tried many self-remedies to treat it  she has applied several different herbal salves, soaked it in methylated spirits, pricked it with a needle, and tried to level it with sandpaper. She’s so fed up with it, she would like to see you about having it cut out…..

Ouch. Ouch. OUCH?!?!

Nah, I thought. I must have misread something. So I re-read the letter again and again. I scruitinised the offending word. But it was as if I was hypnotised, once the word ‘cunt’ was in my head, I couldn’t possibly see another word within that particular scribble. The harder I tried, the more blinded I was to any other possibilty. There was a curve like a ‘c’, and an end that is definitely a ‘t’. I took the letter to my secretary and asked her to read it. She started, ‘Dear Dr T, thank you for seeing Mrs Z, her…’ she stopped suddenly. Go on, I urged her. She looked at me with pleading eyes and told me she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. I gave it to my nurse, she raised her eyebrows at me. I thought about ringing the doctor and get him to send her to a gynaecologist. But my curiosity got the better of me. When she came into my room, I asked her to show me her problem. She smiled, bent over in her seat, and took her shoe off.

Under her big toe, was a plantar wart.

I have to admit, I have always struggled with hand-written letters from my colleagus, and I hang my head in shame on behalf of my profession. But personally, I have a valid excuse. After all, English is my second language and I failed spelling when I was in primary school, so I am pretty much illiterate when it comes to reading letters anyway.

Guest Blog: Take it Like a Man

My very first guest blogger article – thanks to the awesome Women in Surgery blog site.

Women in Surgery

Oooh, exciting! This week we have a guest blog! The awesome Tiffany from Surgery at Tiffany’s (a blog which I can highly recommend) has kindly agreed to share her response to out post about whether or not women in surgery are less confident than their male counterparts.

If you are interested in guest blogging on this site some time, please get in touch. It would be great to make guest blogs a somewhat regular thing! But now, without further ado, here is what Tiffany has to say:

When I was accepted into plastic surgery training back in my mid-20’s, I was the only female plastic surgery trainee in the state. There was only one female plastic surgeon working in town, but she was trained overseas and imported into our hospital. She was my mentor and ally. She told me stories of her training and gave me valuable insight into…

View original post 1,877 more words

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.

Image

With my very own Brad Pitt.

 

 

 

Smoked Salmon

It was after a very long day at work.  A complex operation that took me ten hours, standing on my feet, without a break.

I was so tired I was almost asleep by the time my car rolled to a stop in the garage.

Dinner was served to me at the table, lamb racks, fresh boccoccini, tomato and basil salad. My husband and I ate silently. I was too tired to evening lift the fork to my mouth, let alone make any intellectual conversation.

‘Is dinner ok?’ He looked at me in concern.

‘Yeah.’ was my half-hearted reply, pushing a piece of cheese around.

‘Don’t you like the salad?’ he asked, almost defensively. ‘I thought you like it, that’s why I made it.’

‘No, no, I like it.’ I said, too tired to argue. Which obviously came out pretty unconvincingly.  In actual fact, I did, and I do. It is one of the salads he makes which I love. I was just too tired.

He looked at me suspiciously.  ‘Are you just saying that or do you actual like it?

A pause, then he asked in a slow, deliberate tone, ‘Is it a smoked salmon?’

Ever since the ‘smoked salmon incident’, I have lost my husband’s trust in my ability to tell him the truth of what I like and what I don’t like.

It happened two years ago. At the time, he was working in the UK, and I was visiting him. He was working night shifts, and because he needed to take the car to work and was living quite far out of town, he made sure there was plenty of food in the fridge for me before he left for work each evening. A week down the track, he was cleaning out the fridge and noticed there were packets of smoked salmon sitting on the top shelf in the fridge.

‘Why aren’t you eating the smoked salmon? They are nearly out of date.’ he asked me. ‘I bought them for you.’

I walked over to the fridge door and looked at him in confusion, ‘but I don’t like smoked salmon.’

He looked me incredulously in return. ‘Are you telling me,’ he said in a dangerously quiet tone, ‘that after 18 years, I am just finding out that you don’t actually like smoked salmon?’ A deep breath. I could almost see the pressure increasing behind those grey eyes. ‘Why haven’t you told me before? Whenever we are at the supermarket, you just let me buy packets of salmon!’

‘Because I thought you liked it.’ And I did.

‘So what did you do with all the packets of smoked salmon we used to buy?’

‘I had to keep throwing them out because they were out of date. I was wondering why you kept buying them and not eating them.’

‘Because I was buying them for you. I thought you liked them.’ By now, I was sure the neighbours in the next apartment has their heads under their pillows.

And so there it is. Smoked Salmon. I had to tell him, after 18 years of being soul-mates, that….. I. Don’t. Like. Smoked Salmon.

The truth is. I don’t hate smoked salmon. I will eat it if Í have to, or if there’s nothing else to eat. But I don’t deliberately go look for it, or seek it out. If there was a choice on the menu, it will not be my choice.

It took me a while to realise why I have never bothered to tell him I don’t like it. It was simply because I thought he liked it. And similar to most couples (who, like us, have obviously been together for too long), I sometimes end up doing things or making decisions to please him, because what makes him happy, makes me happy, and most of the time, it wasn’t worth the effort to debate about it.

Unless it’s something I really hate. Like Golf. I drew the line at Golf. He was on his own for that one.

So when he refers to a ‘smoked salmon’, he is basically referring to his lack of trust in me to tell him the truth about my preferences. He is now constantly suspicius that I do things or make decisions to placate him. I am working on regaining that trust – which I did have for the last 18 years until that sudden moment of enlightment at the fridge door.

But most importantly, for me, a ‘smoked salmon’ is a reminder that I need to be truthful to myself, and trust that even if I don’t like what he likes, he still loves me.

The Frustrations of Caring

Sometimes I wish I didn’t care.

I remember when I was an intern, the professor of surgery once said to me, ‘the trick of lasting in this gig, kiddo, is to stop caring so much.’

I thought at the time that he was referring to caring about what other people think.Then I realised he meant caring about patients. I was outraged; absoluately convinced that he was just a cynic.

Now, I think he is actually just a realist. A very experienced one at that.

Caring about patients need to have limits. I have learnt the hard way, that if not, the patient will start pushing boundaries with their expectations, my whole existence becomes one big worry-farm, and then my personal life deterioates.

When I meet my patients for the frst time in a consultation, I take the time and effort to explain everything to them. I care about how much they understood and whether they feel reassured. During surgery, I do my best to be efficient, methodical and meticulous, because I care about the success of their surgery. While my patients are recuperating, I make sure they have all the information and instructions to follow and a contact number to call if they are concerned, because I care about decreasing their distress and anxieties while they are recovering. And at their final followup, I care, in particular, whether they are happy with the result.

This translates to worry. I worry if they have had enough time to digest the information and ask me questons. I worry if I have done my best with their procedure. I worry if they are going to develop a complication after surgery. I worry if they are having problems at home after surgery. I worry if they are dissatisfied with their result and if there is anything further I could do for them.

I worry. And it’s tiresome. But after many years, this constant caring and worrying becomes part of normal living – a bit like the constant background hum one hears in an airconditioned room. Some days the humming is louder, like when I am working over 100 hours a week and I have lost count of the number of patients I have seen. Other days, it’s like a sledgehammer, when I am dealing with problematic patients and complex surgery. Rarely does it becomes silent, even when I am asleep (yes, I do dream of operations and patients), or when I am on holidays (I still receive emails of lab results, letters etc).

Sometimes I resent it. Like when I receive a text message from a patient at 1am with a selfie of their wound or surgical site. I feel like yelling in frustration. But I constantly have to remind myself that it’s not the patient’s fault my life is like this. They are only doing the right thing – contacting me when they feel something is not right. It’s my fault. My fault because I care. I care enough to ring them back and listen to why they can’t sleep, talk about their concerns, and address their anxieties. Then I lie awake worrying. By the time my caring has finished, it is time for me to get up to start my 12-hour day again.

Sometimes my husband resents it. ‘Why do you have to go in to work on Sunday?’ Because I worry that my inpatients may have deterioated overnight, or need an increase in their painkiller prescription. I worry that they are sitting in hospital on a Sunday, feeling abandoned by their doctor (who feels too guilty to have a day off). ‘Why can’t you switch your phone off for dinner?’ Because I worry that my patients may need me and I won’t be there for them. ‘You are thinking about work again and not listening to me.’ I was worrying about what I could have done better in surgery, instead of giving the one most important person in my life the attention he deserves. I worry because I care.

Believe me. I tried. I tried to stop worrying, and erect a wall against caring. I tried to emulate some of my colleagues who has Not-Caring down to an art. But my conscience kept me awake, and my attempt lasted for all of 10 seconds. I know I don’t have to care, I just have to provide a service to my patients. I have seen very capable and successful surgeons who don’t seem to care and still have excellent results. They shrug off complications, they don’t take their patient’s problems home, and they brush off complaints at the office door. They live by the ‘Shit-Happens’ Rule. They don’t ever look worried. Either it is because they aren’t, or they have lived with it for so long, it is unrecognisable.

The problems with caring, is it’s closely associated with feelings and emotions. More and more, I have had to find the strength to put it aside. I have seen that too much caring can cloud one’s judgement, especially if I worry too much about how they might feel. Sometimes, cold clinical judgement to do the right thing, which may not be what the patient want, is the only way to make sure they have the best outcome. The hardest part is stepping away from their expectations, so that the bigger picture can be see in perspective. Thus lies the basis for not
treating our own relatives.

And now I understand that the advice was given to me to prevent ‘Burn-out’. I have learnt that sometimes I am unable to solve all my patient’s problems, and that I am not responsible for all their woes. I have also realised that just because I can’t help them, it doesn’t mean I don’t care. It is often enough for people to know that someone cares.

I have discovered that I need to reserve some ‘caring’- for myself and people who love me. I need to care about my health, that I shouldn’t live on chocolates and coffee. I need to care about my husband, what problems he’s having at work and why he’s wearing a shirt with missing buttons. I need to care about my mother, who still refuses to have her home security installed. I need to care about my 90-year-old neighbour, who still push my bin out every week for the rubbish truck but can barely manage to climb up the stairs of his porch. I need to care about my ever-loyal staff, who stays behind in the office and keeps their family waiting in the evening because I have two extra patients to see.

But how does one measure ‘caring’? And how do you dish it out in equal portions? What is enough and what is too much?

Caring is frustrating. It brings with it tiresome worries, sleepless nights and at times, total helplessness.

If I could talk to Prof now, I would ask him, ‘But, how do you NOT care?’