In exactly 15 days, I'll finally stop being the "fungus that feeds on pond scum" in the PGH medical hierarchy. Oh well, perhaps, not exactly fungus, since there are IM residents and nurses and residents from all other departments to bully and spread shit around. But you're getting my drift, do you? In two weeks, I'll stop being a first year Cardiology fellow - fodder for the Cardio gods and goddesses during Hemody, brunt of all pent-up frustrations of seniors, consultants and disgruntled staff, front-liner for whatever storm and trouble is brewing out there, a doormat, a flower pot, a soul-for-sale, a worthless individual walking around the hospital like a zombie with a dazed look on her ugly face, while flaunting evidence of one-year worth of fat and flab she gained from too much free meals in exchange for her prescribing soul. Ahh, I'm exaggerating, of course. It wasn't really all that bad.
Hmmm, yeah, I'm not being phony here. It wasn't really so bad after all!
How does one prepare for Independence Day? If you're a caged bird stuck in a rut for so long, how do you look forward to a transfer to a bigger prison? If you're an inmate in Manila City Jail, how do you prepare for Alcatraz? Because all kidding aside, this is how I look at March 1 - a move to a bigger prison - a place with more air and free time, but still a prison just the same. It's my silly existential angst attacking once again. But here's how I imagine the next few months, anyway.
I'll be running daily along Roxas Boulevard. 2010 will be the year I'll join my first marathon. I will lose 10 kgs, at least. I will look so pretty, fit and fabulous you would all wonder why I even work in PGH and not in ABS-CBN or some modeling agency. I will get a DSLR and start a new blog - a fabulous photo blog at that. I will travel to Palawan, Baler, Cagayan and the Babuyan Islands, Marinduque, Mindoro, Cebu, and Bohol, and I will have a mysterious, smart and handsome man traveling with me. I will not set foot in the PGH-ER ever! And never will I have the hem of my white coat touch anything in the OBAS again! Wahahaha! I will be fabulous, cool, hot, you'd all look at me and wish you were me.
Obviously, all this crap is written on a duty weekend - which makes it all irrelevant and downright revolting. All the same anyway, let me do a Holden Caulfield, put on my red hunting cap and scream at the top of my lungs, "Goodbye, all you silly motherfuckers, all you phony sonofabitches!" Then I'll get the hell out and run out of PGH as fast as I can. Of course, some stupid patient will have his blood all over the floor and I'll slip like I always do and I'll damn near break my disgusting neck. That's how stories should end, right?
Everything above's bull, of course. I'm still here, on duty for the next 18 hours or so. Still very much the fungus that feeds on pond scum. Or the bacteria that lives in the gut of the fungus that feeds on pond scum. Oh please, Jean, write another word and you're dead!
Showing posts with label medicine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label medicine. Show all posts
Saturday, February 13, 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.
Friday, February 5, 2010
My Early Valentine Present
This morning, an 82-year old lolo consulted at my OPD for his regular check-up. He was a hypertensive, post-stroke patient, who had to travel all the way from Caloocan by himself, assisted only by a make-shift cane. He was gaunt, with half of his body paralyzed by the stroke, and with one eye blinded by an untreated cataract. He was a retired teacher, left to fend for himself by now grown-up children. His travel to PGH must have been very hard for him, his standing in line since 4AM probably took an entire day's strength. He refused to give up. He refused to complain. He was just a silent presence, among the hundreds of other patients waiting outside the 1BO4 complex.
Lolo was still relatively in a good state - both brain and brawn. His mind was still sharp. He can still recite his medications and their dosing schedules. He claims he has religiously taken them, as long as they are available. And so despite his old age and illness, Lolo's love for life pushed him to endure the ordeals of a PGH consult so he can get prescriptions for drugs he will eventually beg from PCSO and from the offices of our country's politicians.
So this morning, I handed him his newly filled up prescriptions and his clinical abstract. I again reminded him to find someone who can travel with him during his consults since his other eye is starting to fail too. But he said no, he will be alright.
Before he left, Lolo fished out something from his worn-out canvass bag. It was a small package wrapped in bond paper, held together by a rubber band. Meekly, he said with a huge smile, "Advanced happy Valentine's Day, duktora." I gratefully accepted the gift and led him towards the door.
Low EQ as I was, I hastily opened my first Valentine gift for the year. Wrapped in the bond paper were 3 bars of Choco Mucho chocolates. Despite the busy clinic, I couldn't help the tears.
The gift - P20. The experience - priceless.
Lolo was still relatively in a good state - both brain and brawn. His mind was still sharp. He can still recite his medications and their dosing schedules. He claims he has religiously taken them, as long as they are available. And so despite his old age and illness, Lolo's love for life pushed him to endure the ordeals of a PGH consult so he can get prescriptions for drugs he will eventually beg from PCSO and from the offices of our country's politicians.
So this morning, I handed him his newly filled up prescriptions and his clinical abstract. I again reminded him to find someone who can travel with him during his consults since his other eye is starting to fail too. But he said no, he will be alright.
Before he left, Lolo fished out something from his worn-out canvass bag. It was a small package wrapped in bond paper, held together by a rubber band. Meekly, he said with a huge smile, "Advanced happy Valentine's Day, duktora." I gratefully accepted the gift and led him towards the door.
Low EQ as I was, I hastily opened my first Valentine gift for the year. Wrapped in the bond paper were 3 bars of Choco Mucho chocolates. Despite the busy clinic, I couldn't help the tears.
The gift - P20. The experience - priceless.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
An Elegy for a Mother
A few days ago, a dear patient passed away quietly, in the arms of her beloved son. The passing was poignant, like a strange, sweet draft of air you would have wanted to inhale deeply for a long long time. Every movement of the chest, that empty distant look of her dark eyes, that feeble grip of the cold hand, everything is playing back again and again in my memory. For more than a month, I have watched a miracle unfold, borne out of the pain and anguish of suffering and threat of death. I have witnessed how hope can endure, how love can be conveyed without words, how family can withstand even sickness and death, how laughter can go on despite suffering.
To Mrs. L, for the strength you showed, for everything you allowed me to do, and for everything you left behind, thank you.
To Mrs. L, for the strength you showed, for everything you allowed me to do, and for everything you left behind, thank you.
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.
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