Valentine's Day is just around the corner. A lot of people I work with, those who are openly "in a relationship", are busily planning for their Valentine's Day dates. I've never had a Valentine date before. Well, I've never really had a real date in my entire life, if date is being discussed in the context of romance and if we're really going to be strict about it. After all, what does "date" really mean? When does a simple hanging out of two people who enjoy each others' company become a romantic date? Does dinner of grilled fish and rice capped with a couple of beers already qualify as a date? How about steaks and wine in a famous restaurant, such as, let's say, Highlands' Steakhouse? Or a ridiculously expensive dinner of lamb chops and sea bass in an old house converted into a dimly-lit culinary attraction with customers dining in cocktail dresses while sipping wine? Nah. The definition still eludes me. It puzzles me sometimes, that I refuse to think about it. I prefer to call everything "dinner" rather than "date", on account of the potentially dangerous and outright icky connotations the latter evokes.
Before I completely digress, however, I'd rather leave the above discussion hanging. I'm open to comments from my readers, and would appreciate your valuable opinions on the matter brought up.
To proceed with the real meat of this post, I am currently imagining my ideal Valentine date. What would really sweep me off my feet will be a dinner of fried galunggong, warm rice, toyo and kalamansi, and fresh tomatoes soaked in sukang pinakurat, all eaten with no forks and spoons required. I want those galunggong young - small and crunchy - deep-fried enough so the head, tail, and all bones can be eaten without me having to worry about choking or a perforated viscus. The setting could be anywhere - by the beach on a moonlit night, or under the trees and the stars, or in the candle-lit warmth of anybody's kitchen. The Beatles would be softly playing on the background, of course.
The right man plus galunggong - I am that easy to please. I really don't need fancy dinners, or wine, or culinary masterpieces I could not even pronounce arranged so grandly that I wouldn't even want to touch them. All I really want is that lowly poor-man's fish, my all-time favorite food, something I wouldn't mind having every day for the rest of my life - and the right man to enjoy it with me.
Too bad, even galunggong is so hard to come by.
Showing posts with label quirks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quirks. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Just another one of those
"Please order in chart of 718: IVF to consume then shift to heplock." - my batchmate Diva texted me this afternoon, on a quiet Sunday while I was on duty.
For some weird reason, I could not bring myself to 718. Not yet. The memories are just so fresh, the images so vivid, that I could not even walk across that wing without a tinge of sadness tugging at my stupid, overly emotional heart.
I could still remember her - that frail, jaundiced woman, who can barely open her eyes. Her lips were sore and swollen from her chemotherapy, her arms edematous and punctured all over by my unsuccessful attempts at cannulating her veins. She couldn't even drink water without using a straw. She hasn't eaten anything in days. Her BP was 40 palpatory when I first received her. She was dying and I knew it. And there was nothing I could do.
But she smiled each time, during those last mornings of her life, when I visited her. I made it a point to spend a few minutes with her as soon as daylight came, when I was sure there was no one else in the room except for the quiet and unassuming Maria. More familiar eyes would have seen through me and would dread my utter lack of professional detachment. More familiar eyes would have shed tears, and I wouldn't have wanted that.
On the morning of the day she left, she still smiled. Though her forehead was locked in a perpetual frown of pain, and her eyes were too heavy to be opened, she still nodded when she recognized my voice, and gave me a fleeting smile. I hummed her Sinatra's As Time Goes By and Andy Williams' Moon River - a scene that must have been reserved only for her children, something that I boldly and shamelessly claimed, and she hummed along, until she fell asleep.
She died later that night. And I was there, standing beside her children, in my spotless white coat, making sure she had no pain. But I wished I could take off that coat and hug her. The rest of the family cried. I could not. I had no right to.
After long hours of procrastinating, I trudged along to Room 718, but didn't make it past the nurses' station. I looked at the chart. The room was already occupied by a different patient, of course. And his attending, who made rounds a few hours prior, already wrote down the latest orders. Heaving a sigh of relief, I went back to the callroom to brood.
Room 718 is just one room in this big hospital. The patient who stayed in that room almost three weeks ago is just one out of the thousands I've handled. But in my silly, contraband way, I have loved her. And I still do. A contraband affection, where contraband is the operative word. I guess it's just another one of those illegal secret stuff doctors like me try to cover up with their white coats. And in my absurd case, this type of contraband is getting to be a family affair.
Later in the morning, as my duty was about to end, the duty phone beeped. "Referring Mr. X for SVT on cardiac monitor. Room 509." Aaaarghh! Room 509! Of all the patients in the hospital who could have an SVT, why does it have to be Room 509!?! I hastily grabbed my white coat and my dilapidated stethoscope and dragged my feet to that room. Room 509 - I can almost smell her there. She had her last birthday there, and her last new year's eve, when the blue moon was brightest. And the scent of the wine that we smuggled into the room during one of those nights still tickles my nostrils that I could barely breathe. Room 509 is just another one of those rooms filled with memories of contraband affection. Oh well, I just had to do my job. Indeed, the new patient, a grouchy old man I do not even know, was having an SVT. Sigh, being in that room was giving me a contraband SVT too.
For some weird reason, I could not bring myself to 718. Not yet. The memories are just so fresh, the images so vivid, that I could not even walk across that wing without a tinge of sadness tugging at my stupid, overly emotional heart.
I could still remember her - that frail, jaundiced woman, who can barely open her eyes. Her lips were sore and swollen from her chemotherapy, her arms edematous and punctured all over by my unsuccessful attempts at cannulating her veins. She couldn't even drink water without using a straw. She hasn't eaten anything in days. Her BP was 40 palpatory when I first received her. She was dying and I knew it. And there was nothing I could do.
But she smiled each time, during those last mornings of her life, when I visited her. I made it a point to spend a few minutes with her as soon as daylight came, when I was sure there was no one else in the room except for the quiet and unassuming Maria. More familiar eyes would have seen through me and would dread my utter lack of professional detachment. More familiar eyes would have shed tears, and I wouldn't have wanted that.
On the morning of the day she left, she still smiled. Though her forehead was locked in a perpetual frown of pain, and her eyes were too heavy to be opened, she still nodded when she recognized my voice, and gave me a fleeting smile. I hummed her Sinatra's As Time Goes By and Andy Williams' Moon River - a scene that must have been reserved only for her children, something that I boldly and shamelessly claimed, and she hummed along, until she fell asleep.
She died later that night. And I was there, standing beside her children, in my spotless white coat, making sure she had no pain. But I wished I could take off that coat and hug her. The rest of the family cried. I could not. I had no right to.
After long hours of procrastinating, I trudged along to Room 718, but didn't make it past the nurses' station. I looked at the chart. The room was already occupied by a different patient, of course. And his attending, who made rounds a few hours prior, already wrote down the latest orders. Heaving a sigh of relief, I went back to the callroom to brood.
Room 718 is just one room in this big hospital. The patient who stayed in that room almost three weeks ago is just one out of the thousands I've handled. But in my silly, contraband way, I have loved her. And I still do. A contraband affection, where contraband is the operative word. I guess it's just another one of those illegal secret stuff doctors like me try to cover up with their white coats. And in my absurd case, this type of contraband is getting to be a family affair.
Later in the morning, as my duty was about to end, the duty phone beeped. "Referring Mr. X for SVT on cardiac monitor. Room 509." Aaaarghh! Room 509! Of all the patients in the hospital who could have an SVT, why does it have to be Room 509!?! I hastily grabbed my white coat and my dilapidated stethoscope and dragged my feet to that room. Room 509 - I can almost smell her there. She had her last birthday there, and her last new year's eve, when the blue moon was brightest. And the scent of the wine that we smuggled into the room during one of those nights still tickles my nostrils that I could barely breathe. Room 509 is just another one of those rooms filled with memories of contraband affection. Oh well, I just had to do my job. Indeed, the new patient, a grouchy old man I do not even know, was having an SVT. Sigh, being in that room was giving me a contraband SVT too.
Monday, February 1, 2010
My Inner Caulfield and Kubler-Ross
I'm not going to write about my usual mushy, sentimental stuff about the favorite topic - not just my favorite topic, but the be-all and end-all of this blog. If my readers have noticed, there's a certain theme in these writings, a frequent and pervading issue. And I'm not referring to my angst over my job as a doctor, for chrissakes! I'm referring to the reason why this proverbial walk on water started, the shell that was empty but I just couldn't throw away, that strange cosmic dust that I misconstrued to be the same as my own just because I happened to breathe it in, by some absurd twist of fate. Ahhh, 5 years of ultimate insanity.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Kubler-Ross once said that we don't necessarily go through the stages of mourning in this order. She's right. I've gone through all the other four, and anger just happened to sneak in today. I'm there alright. This thing - no this Phenomenon - can come in and out of my life, and yeah, it's really alright. This Phenomenon can happen again and again and it's not going to change - it's still going to be a phenomenon - extraordinary, enchanting, and strange. Twenty years from now, This Royal Madness will probably drop by my life again and I'm going to be as enthralled as Day 1, taking it up all over again as if nothing happened in between.
My Christian faith tells me to be patient. Common sense tells me to invoke the comforts of amnesia and just totally forget everything. Kubler-Ross tells me to just go through the stages of death and dying and let healing happen. She doesn't know I have nothing to mourn about.
For now, I'm just so goddamn angry!
(This post was influenced by my recent rediscovery of Holden Caulfield. Giving a damn about JD Salinger's death when I hated Catcher In the Rye when I first read it is such a phony thing to do. But then I'm rereading it now, and I realized there's a Holden Caulfield brewing in everyone, waiting to show up in a red hunting hat, screaming at the world in pure unadulterated anger. There's a phony in everyone and in everything too. But, ahhh, love is the phoniest sonnofabitch of all!)
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Kubler-Ross once said that we don't necessarily go through the stages of mourning in this order. She's right. I've gone through all the other four, and anger just happened to sneak in today. I'm there alright. This thing - no this Phenomenon - can come in and out of my life, and yeah, it's really alright. This Phenomenon can happen again and again and it's not going to change - it's still going to be a phenomenon - extraordinary, enchanting, and strange. Twenty years from now, This Royal Madness will probably drop by my life again and I'm going to be as enthralled as Day 1, taking it up all over again as if nothing happened in between.
My Christian faith tells me to be patient. Common sense tells me to invoke the comforts of amnesia and just totally forget everything. Kubler-Ross tells me to just go through the stages of death and dying and let healing happen. She doesn't know I have nothing to mourn about.
For now, I'm just so goddamn angry!
(This post was influenced by my recent rediscovery of Holden Caulfield. Giving a damn about JD Salinger's death when I hated Catcher In the Rye when I first read it is such a phony thing to do. But then I'm rereading it now, and I realized there's a Holden Caulfield brewing in everyone, waiting to show up in a red hunting hat, screaming at the world in pure unadulterated anger. There's a phony in everyone and in everything too. But, ahhh, love is the phoniest sonnofabitch of all!)
Sunday, January 3, 2010
It's Complicated
Why is it that when people ask the usual questions and you tell them the usual answers, they continue to probe further and ask more questions? And so you try to come up with the simplest answers using the shortest statements and try to approximate the facts as much as possible.
Take this bizarre scenario for example (I'm sorry but it IS bizarre for me!). You do something magnanimous for a very good friend and people start asking you "Why?". And so you say, "Uhhmmm, because we're friends!" And people start asking you more questions such as, "But why are you doing this?" or "Isn't your sacrifice too much?" or "What kind of friends?" or "Is he your boyfriend?" or "Are you sure you're just friends?" And so you start avoiding the very typical and absurdly inaccurate showbiz "we're-just-friends" answer and use a different strategy.
"We're cousins." I'd say. And then more questions come. "Which side of the family?" or "So your mom and his mom are sisters?" or "How come you don't resemble each other?" or "So you have the cancer gene too?" Nooooo! Stop these! Alright! Do I have to outline my entire family tree so people will finally get it? No, we're not cousins, satisfied? Not even a single microliter of blood can make us blood relatives! But does it require some sort of a genetic connection for anyone to love anyone as family?
And so we're back to, "We're friends." And then the same old questions come.
Please, enough!!!
How much can anybody ever give to anyone in need and still be considered socially or morally appropriate? Some give to complete strangers (usually via a limited and a short-time deal) and the world will suddenly praise them as saints. You give to someone who's dearly loved by someone you also love and then suddenly, you end up the proverbial time-bomb that might explode and screw everything up anytime. And you remain a potential villain unless you can provide logical answers and definitions to the usual questions the rest of the world asks.
I don't need definitions. And I don't even consider myself as having given anything. Sometimes the things you suddenly do just come out naturally, like you would have done the same things anytime, in any situation. And you're just absolutely sure you're right, and you will do everything over and over again, without keeping account.
For the past several days, I have finally come up with the best answer to the usual questions. I just say, "It's complicated." And suddenly, like a magical charm, people suddenly have a glimmer in their eyes, and a knowing smile on their lips, and an obviously hardly suppressed laughter. And then they keep quiet. They nod their heads if they understand. And surprisingly, it seems that they do understand.
Ahhh, it's complicated. Love is. Life is. And perhaps everything in this world, no matter how simple, has a bit of complexity in them. It's complicated. And somehow, I just realized, I like it this way.
Monday, December 28, 2009
First of all, human.
As a sequel to my previous post which immediately evoked comments from two of my fellow-doctor-bloggers, I would like to elaborate further on how my being a doctor occasionally usurps the rest of who I am, at least in the eyes of other people.
Occasionally, my friends call me up for medical problems - their own or their family's. Sometimes, after years of absolute loss of contact, some friends just resurface, come to me for some bodily complaint or medical requirement, and then disappear like some evanescent rash afterwards. I never hesitate to help, whenever I can. I do this for them because I have previously sworn the Hippocratic Oath, that "I will treat without exception all who seek my ministrations, so long as the treatment of others is not compromised thereby..." But above all, I do this in the spirit of friendship, of mutual understanding and affection, and of old times shared and better times coming.
I can only wish they understand that.
Sometimes I wonder if my friends will still need me if I'm not a doctor. If not for my capabilities as a physician, will I ever be called on? Will I have something to give? While I know I will never stop taking care of people in my capacity as a physician, I do wish I'd be given a chance to love, and to take care of someone, not only as a doctor, but as a human being as well.
Occasionally, my friends call me up for medical problems - their own or their family's. Sometimes, after years of absolute loss of contact, some friends just resurface, come to me for some bodily complaint or medical requirement, and then disappear like some evanescent rash afterwards. I never hesitate to help, whenever I can. I do this for them because I have previously sworn the Hippocratic Oath, that "I will treat without exception all who seek my ministrations, so long as the treatment of others is not compromised thereby..." But above all, I do this in the spirit of friendship, of mutual understanding and affection, and of old times shared and better times coming.
I can only wish they understand that.
Sometimes I wonder if my friends will still need me if I'm not a doctor. If not for my capabilities as a physician, will I ever be called on? Will I have something to give? While I know I will never stop taking care of people in my capacity as a physician, I do wish I'd be given a chance to love, and to take care of someone, not only as a doctor, but as a human being as well.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
What's in a Name?
I love my profession. Despite all my incessant whinings and complaints about my lack of social life and leisure time, I know I wouldn't want to be doing anything else but be a doctor. During the past weeks, I had the chance to truly experience why I love this profession. I have regained that sense of purpose and that degree of enthusiasm I once possessed (or that possessed me)when I first received my medical license. Five years after I took that Hippocratic oath, I am again that young, idealistic, hopeful physician, a full-pledged graduated of the UP College of Medicine, with 101% faith in its vision-mission:
VISION:
A Community of scholars
Highly competent in the field of medicine with a heightened social consciousness; Imbued with moral, ethical and spiritual vigor;
Dedicated to a life of learning; Committed to the development of Philippine society;
Inspired by love, compassion and respect for the dignity of human life; and
Anchored on the principles of Truth, Freedom, Justice, Love of Country and the Democratic way of Life.
MISSION:
Guided by moral, ethical and spiritual values, we commit ourselves to excellence and leadership in community-oriented medical education, research and service, using the primary health care approach, intended especially for the underserved.
Tonight, however, as I am typing this entry in the solitude of my quiet Cardiology conference room, I realize why this profession that I love - my source of immense joy and fulfillment, is also my source of agony and almost unbearable pain. It's not the long working hours or the lack of monetary compensation. The most hateful thing about being a doctor is being a doctor itself.
Hmmm, I know I'm not making sense. But let me put it this way. Sometimes, being a doctor just prevents you from being seen for who you are as a person, with your entire identity being overshadowed by the glamor and esteem of the white coat. After you get your license, people, even close friends and family members, seem to have forgotten your name and start calling you "Doc". I'm sure they never meant to be offensive. "Doc" is meant to be some sort of a pet name, an affectionate or even playful label that society expects you to wear with pride. But sorry to disappoint you people, doctors would rather be called by their names.
I am not generalizing my kind, but I'd rather leave the title "Doctor" where it belongs - in the hospital, with patients, with acquaintances, during formal or business gatherings, or patient encounters. It's alright to be identified as "Doctor" during casual encounters with strangers,during academic activities, or civic-political necessities society requires. But please, leave my old friends and my family out of it. "Jean" sounds so much sweeter than "Doctor". For these people, I need to be more than my white coat or my stethoscope, or my title - I am me - failures, ugliness, imperfections and all.
VISION:
A Community of scholars
Highly competent in the field of medicine with a heightened social consciousness; Imbued with moral, ethical and spiritual vigor;
Dedicated to a life of learning; Committed to the development of Philippine society;
Inspired by love, compassion and respect for the dignity of human life; and
Anchored on the principles of Truth, Freedom, Justice, Love of Country and the Democratic way of Life.
MISSION:
Guided by moral, ethical and spiritual values, we commit ourselves to excellence and leadership in community-oriented medical education, research and service, using the primary health care approach, intended especially for the underserved.
Tonight, however, as I am typing this entry in the solitude of my quiet Cardiology conference room, I realize why this profession that I love - my source of immense joy and fulfillment, is also my source of agony and almost unbearable pain. It's not the long working hours or the lack of monetary compensation. The most hateful thing about being a doctor is being a doctor itself.
Hmmm, I know I'm not making sense. But let me put it this way. Sometimes, being a doctor just prevents you from being seen for who you are as a person, with your entire identity being overshadowed by the glamor and esteem of the white coat. After you get your license, people, even close friends and family members, seem to have forgotten your name and start calling you "Doc". I'm sure they never meant to be offensive. "Doc" is meant to be some sort of a pet name, an affectionate or even playful label that society expects you to wear with pride. But sorry to disappoint you people, doctors would rather be called by their names.
I am not generalizing my kind, but I'd rather leave the title "Doctor" where it belongs - in the hospital, with patients, with acquaintances, during formal or business gatherings, or patient encounters. It's alright to be identified as "Doctor" during casual encounters with strangers,during academic activities, or civic-political necessities society requires. But please, leave my old friends and my family out of it. "Jean" sounds so much sweeter than "Doctor". For these people, I need to be more than my white coat or my stethoscope, or my title - I am me - failures, ugliness, imperfections and all.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Consistency
This weekend, I've been hearing the stern voice of my beloved boss, Dr. ADM, in my head again and again. "Jean, be consistent!" Irritated by my incessant lack of regularity and cohesiveness in my decision making, she has repeatedly reprimanded me and has given me constant reminders on my need for a stronger, more predictable and definite set of principles, and a less stormy reaction to circumstances.
While I have long discarded my control-freak-obsessive-compulsive-stickler-for-schedules-and-itineraries attitude, I occasionally get bouts of this disease. Each time I get this, I hear Dr. ADM again, "Jean, be consistent." Hence, I have decided to be patient, to move away from rigid routine and schedules and be more flexible. I have decided to be lenient, to tolerate the imperfections others, to never get mad, and to be gentle at all times. I have to stick to this decision. And I have to stick to this decision consistently.
This weekend, I had a terrible bout of this dreaded disease of mine. A good friend became the unfortunate witness to the appalling inconsistencies of my personality that I almost lost him completely (something tells me I already did). The characteristic temper that made me smash guitars, break mirrors, or even shout curses at shocked, unsuspecting patients overpowered me again. Yes sir, this "shy" lady did not get a formal complaint filed at the Commission on Human Rights for nothing.
While I have long discarded my control-freak-obsessive-compulsive-stickler-for-schedules-and-itineraries attitude, I occasionally get bouts of this disease. Each time I get this, I hear Dr. ADM again, "Jean, be consistent." Hence, I have decided to be patient, to move away from rigid routine and schedules and be more flexible. I have decided to be lenient, to tolerate the imperfections others, to never get mad, and to be gentle at all times. I have to stick to this decision. And I have to stick to this decision consistently.
This weekend, I had a terrible bout of this dreaded disease of mine. A good friend became the unfortunate witness to the appalling inconsistencies of my personality that I almost lost him completely (something tells me I already did). The characteristic temper that made me smash guitars, break mirrors, or even shout curses at shocked, unsuspecting patients overpowered me again. Yes sir, this "shy" lady did not get a formal complaint filed at the Commission on Human Rights for nothing.
Anyway, my poor friend, one of the greatest I've ever had in years, and perhaps the gentlest and most patient person I've ever met in my 30 years of existence, became the unfortunate witness (or victim) to my verbal tirades and futile seething rage. There were no bottles broken or bleeding noses, but there were prides smashed and hearts bruised. Indeed, sticks and stones may break our bones, but words can break our hearts. The inevitable result was a relationship that's permanently scarred, or perhaps even fatally severed, a good friendship that is perhaps now irrevocably gone.
No apology can ever be enough. No explanation or justification can soothe the hurt I caused. I have inflicted wounds I don't have the capacity to heal. Will forgiveness come? Sigh, I can only wish for it, and wait, and wait... Que sera, sera...
On second thought, I realized there's that one pervasive, recurring distinction in my life, thank goodness! That L sign on my forehead - I guess that's my enduring, constant, unrelenting feature. Haha! Loser! In that aspect, I AM unbelievably consistent. So perhaps, well at least, I'm not that unpredictable after all.
No apology can ever be enough. No explanation or justification can soothe the hurt I caused. I have inflicted wounds I don't have the capacity to heal. Will forgiveness come? Sigh, I can only wish for it, and wait, and wait... Que sera, sera...
On second thought, I realized there's that one pervasive, recurring distinction in my life, thank goodness! That L sign on my forehead - I guess that's my enduring, constant, unrelenting feature. Haha! Loser! In that aspect, I AM unbelievably consistent. So perhaps, well at least, I'm not that unpredictable after all.
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