Musings From The OT: The Surgeon. (Housejob Diaries)

 

Sleight of hand, sharpness of wits. Blood stained, sweaty browed, stiff necked, he stands. Yet he stands upright. Stance firm, piloting up to four instruments at a time.

The surgeon, almost arrogantly confident, always a little too loud, always sure of himself. So much so, that you can’t help but wonder whether it is in fact blind certainty, or a facade to mask any lingering doubts. His decision is absolute.

Hands plunged deep inside an cavity, searching, rearranging. The vibrations of the operating table jolt me back to my senses. A reminder that that’s in fact a human being, under the drapery and bloodstains. A realisation, that what he’s doing is no less than assisting the work of God himself.

 

“As a surgeon you have to have a controlled arrogance. If it’s uncontrolled, you kill people, but you have to be pretty arrogant to saw through a person’s chest, take out their heart and believe you can fix it. Then, when you succeed and the patient survives, you pray, because it’s only by the grace of God that you get there.”
– Mehmet

Reflections from the ER 1: Housejob Diaries

Short and somewhat fragmented, much like my thought processes these days. 

 

Twice a week we are banished to the purgatory of the ER. A place where it is neither night nor day, summer nor winter; yet everything all at once. Bright lights rob us of any true orientation, disconcerting after a certain number of waking hours. The ER doesn’t play by the rules of other places. Things never come to a stop, but merely slow down, then speed up. An irregularly irregular pulse of activity. Time follows a similar pattern. It would be foolish to associate night with rest, or any other time for that matter. Rest, for the fortunate, is always stolen from within duties.

Here in the accident and emergency department, we juggle the accidental emergencies and tackle the emerging accidents. We main sharp-witted, shrewd, and often sure of ourselves, even when we are not.
The walls absorb as many prayers and curses as the floor does blood, sweat and tears. Wails and yells pierce the air intermittently, an argument dotted here and there. But that’s all routine.

 

 

Birth and Rebirth

 

I found myself in the later hours of my maternity night duty, around 3 am. A lull in the workload served no purpose except to make me acutely aware, how in the timeless disorientation of the well lit emergency, my exhaustion was paradoxical. No matter how I tried, I could not rest.

I lay my head down on the table outside the labour room, closing my eyes slowly. Some half an hour later, I let the fatigue wash over me, begin to pull me under. But then. A piercing cry rang through the air. A heart wrenching wail. How could I have thought to sleep, when new life was coming into our world, merely a few feet away?

We enter the world, bare and crying, alone but sometimes not; vulnerable and small. Posed to protext ourselves against the elements. Shivering, guarded, unsure and dependent. If we are lucky, already loved.

I could barely keep my eyes open, as I mulled over the wonder in this seemingly ordinary fact. But then, I thought, isn’t that the case with every new stage of life? Our first day of school, or work, married life, a new neighborhood. Are we not eternally verging out from a self created womb and diving headfirst into strange and new surroundings? Are we not vulnerable, our lack of experience seemingly a lack of survival skills?

But we learn. We grow. Our bodies ease, our guarded stance uncurling, as we stretch, extend and finally learn to stand tall. Alone, but sometimes not. If we’re lucky, not just loved, but respected. Birth is a cycle that repeats itself, with less vigour, less trauma; but with infinitely more meaning.

Another post about Death.

Death is the ultimate natural disaster.

Mourners, wracked by the tremors of devastation, are momentarily devoid of reason. Some numb, some inconsolabe; all having lost something valuable beyond words. Friends and family stand at the edge of a chasm where a person once was; a gaping fissure in the landscape of their lives.

We grab our loved ones by the shoulders, or we hold their faces in our hands, and look into their eyes imploringly. Are you okay? Are you okay? We scan their bodies for scratches and other signs of harm. Seeing them intact brings us relief.

What’s done is done, so why do we do this? To look for that spark, for evidence that life is still there? Or with hope, that in reflection, we see that we still exist?
Next, some are moved to action, while others suffer a delayed reaction. Food, comfort and various arrangements; all are given priority. In the meanwhile, and a bit too late, word spreads. The damage is done; not even a blip in the radar of the globe. A momentary distraction, maybe. An uttered tsking or muttered prayer.

Then. Lives are rebuilt. Routines are reconstructed to the best of our resources. Life, not even the slightest bit ruffled by Death’s insult, goes on. The crevasse gives way to undergrowth, becoming less of an eye sore and more of a precaution, a wayward reminder. The void, while obscured, is always there.

 

Procrastination, Purgatory and the Pee-Yew

Exam season always feels like a sort of purgatory, between what we’ve been working for and what we’re hoping to achieve. The days leading up to the exams themselves turn into a listless monotony, that I’m forced to push myself through. While the overall aim is to be productive, something I wouldn’t say I’m failing at, my mind feels like sludge. I can’t help but find myself to be unthinking, almost robotic in my daily machinations.

It’s not that I haven’t allowed myself much introspection lately, but such is the curse of the med student, that when we do finally decide to get studying, it leaves little room for much else (thoughts and social engagement likewise). Rather, I have these little moments of self awareness. It’s like realisation in a dream that this is not, in fact, reality. The opposite would be more accurate, I suppose.

At 12.45 pm, lifting my third cup of tea of the day to my lips, I shuffle the pages before me and suppress another yawn. Half submerged in a blanket (I study in bed, yes, a terrible habit), I pause. Since the recent earthquakes in Afghanistan, I’ve been feeling (hallucinating, rather) the ground shaking at odd moments, a paranoia my loved ones have chalked up to anxiety, which I grudgingly agree to (it feels so real!). How can it not be strange and alarming to me that anxiety can manifest in such a way, when I’m not actually anxious (yet)?

In the evening, watching the sky change colour, I refresh my Facebook feed yet again, hopefully. It’s 17.15 pm as I listen to the azaans, some in tandem, other echoing each other. I happen to be in search of a date sheet; an as of yet unfulfilled promise by the University of the Punjab (or PU). This annual proverbial tug of war, between our queries and their vague responses, is something we’ve become used to. It makes us tense, and lull us into a false sense of security in alternations. The exams that we’re so fervently preparing for are apparently fast approaching, though without a deadline, we’re left working on estimations and guesses. Frustrated, I bat closed the window I’d left open, despite the cold. What is is about the chill that keeps you in your toes, yet turns you into a lethargic fool?

It’s 3.30 am and I’m scraping the bottom of a jar of peanut butter with pieces of biscuit that may or may not be stale, though at the speed I’m shovelling them into my mouth, this doesn’t seem to matter anyway. I love this time of night.

Despite how much I have or haven’t studied, at this hour I can close up shop; that is to say, chuck my books aside and just give up. I’m aware that doesn’t sound very motivational, but hear me out. There is solace in the fact that to stop before I reach my breaking point is a choice that is solely mine. And to start again, requires no motivation except my own.

Till then, I get to escape in sleep; that elusive mistress, adored by many yet obtained by fewer. The impertinent voice in the back of my head attempts to reel off all I have yet to do, but I swat it away as I bury myself under the covers.

Tomorrow’s a new day, after all. I’ll worry about it when it comes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I just realised I wrote  a blog post about two years ago, which is quite similar to this one! I suppose exam season feels the same every year.

My blog turned three!

I haven’t been posting nearly as frequently as I had hoped to when I started. However, I’m glad I have this outlet, and the lovely people I’ve crossed paths with because of it!

I’ve always expressed myself better in the written word rather than speaking, and I am grateful to the wonderful readers, my followers and friends alike, whose appreciation lets me keep sharing what I have to say.

Thank you!

Hadia xx

The Doctor Paradox (or Ramadan Diaries: Day 5)

soooo. I wrote this for my college magazine, which is also why there is a excess of quotes (in a bid to make it more interesting) and language that I might not necessarily use otherwise. :p I know I’m somewhat deviating from the spiritual today, but that’s allowed a little bit, no?

THE DOCTOR PARADOX

And to, The Hospital, grey, quiet, old, where Life and Death, like friendly chauffeurs meet.
-William Ernest Healey

Isaw a person die the other day.

Whats more, I was left shocked; not at the event itself, but at my own indifference to it. Having seen cardiac arrest sensationalized on television, in cinema and in books so often, I seemed to have been desensitized to the actual thing. Indeed, everything did seem to slow down as the flurry of action began to build up. The doctors and house officers, running to the patients side and the nurses ushering out the family members so they would not have to see the ordeal; these are two of the most common images. The beads of sweat accumulating on the medical staffs foreheads, as their efforts became increasingly futile. Finally, as the beep, beep, beep of the cardiac monitor gave way to the monotonous beep when it flat-lined, as uniform as the crestfallen yet hardened expressions on the medics faces.

Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it; a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can.
-Yann Martel

Having chosen medicine as my professional, occasionally I cant help but think that Ive signed up to fight a (eventually) losing battle. Dont get me wrong, I mean it in the least morbid sense possible. Its common knowledge that, in this world, only two things are certain; firstly, that everything must change, and secondly, that ultimately, everything must come to an end. As a vast majority believe inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rajiun and indeed it is our beliefs on death that greatly effect how we live.

Its undeniable though, that professionals of the medical field fight vigorously to improve the quality of life of their fellow human beings. The Declaration of Geneva states I solemnly pledge to consecrate my life to the service of humanity and I will maintain utmost respect for human life; and the Hippocratic Oath, to which medical practitioners are bound, uses similar wording. All life is sacred, on a religious as well as a humane level. Scientifically speaking, it is primal instinct of survival, to push death and deterioration as far away from us as possible.

The physician should look upon the patient as a besieged city and try to rescue him with every means that art and science place at his command
-Alexander of Trailes

Coming back to the inevitability of death, it fascinates me how nobly doctors struggle to win those battles against disease, when they know the war was never in our hands. Its an interesting point that:

Medicine is the only profession that labours incessantly to destroy the reason for its own existence
-James Bryce

The efforts of these dedicated individuals, allow them the reward of satisfaction that though life will eventually end, the patient can live it to the fullest while possible. I guess, we have the innate desire to be fully spent by the time we come to the end of our time on this earth. So that we may be truly ready to go.

And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, as equals, they departed this life.
-The Deathly Hallows

I remain in awe at the sheer devotion and the painstakingly compassionate attitude of those in the medical profession, and sincerely hope to be like them one day.

Ramadan Diaries: Day 3 & 4

 

Greetings, folks. Our regular transmission was interrupted due to unforseen circumstances. Haha I wasn’t feeling very well last night, so I opted to sleep till sehri and hence was unable to do a post for Day 3.

I’ve reinstated my night owl habits now though, and am sitting with textbooks open before me, still in anticipation of productive study. There also happens to be a plate of pakoray in front of me, from this evening. I’m resisting the urge to wolf them down as I type.

Oddly enough my motivation for eating them is less hunger and more….stress? I’m not sure how many of you are familiar with the phenomenon, but ‘comfort eating’ with certainly be the death (or at least obesity) of me. Gah!

 

Which brings me to my thought of today. Anxiety.

 

For this I’m also going to (not so) sneakily share the link for one of my older posts, on a similar topic. *cough* HERE *cough*

For me, studies and exams are one of the biggest causes of anxiety, along with thoughts of the future, and the condition of our world on general. Look around you though, amd the causes are endless. Everyone has their own way of dealing with their stress and anxiety, be it taking time out to breathe, physical exertion, art, or one of the most important, in my opinion; prayer.

I realised the anxiety I feel in exam season, especially since being in med school, is a pretty common thing. Hey, nobody said the med life was going to be easy. Also, nobody said you had to go through it alone.

 

I came across this dua on tumblr that I used to have on my old phone (before it got stolen. Long story.) and that I have written on a piece of paper on my wall in exam season.

I found it helpful, maybe some of you do too. Salam. 🙂

Ramadan Diaries: Day Two.

 

Day One was rather alright, despite the heat and loadshedding! And not totally unproductive, thankfully. Here’s to hoping the rest of the days are like that (Insha’Allah). How did everyone else’s day go?

Today I was pondering on something that happened before Ramadan. Keeping with the theme of Rehmat or Mercy, my mind has been full of thoughts of hurt feelings, and hurt pride. Partially from personal experience and partially in general, I wanted to have some spiritual perspective on the matter.

 

When someone hurts your feelings or wounds your pride, you are angry. That anger, however expressed (or suppressed,  for that matter), is merely the icing on the cake of the underlying hurt, something which goes a lot deeper.

 

The question remains, how to get rid of the anger and hurt? The answer; Forgive.

 

Easier said than done.

 

One has to think, that if Allah can forgive us for some of the most heinous acts, is it not our duty to pardon our fellow man? Normally I’d agree and say, of course. Through the hurt veiled with anger, though, I can’t help but thinking why should I forgive someone for hurting me, when they’re far from remorse themselves? And so I forgive anyway.

 

You forgive to let go of the anger, because it will only be damaging to you. You forgive because you’re tired of feeling hurt, but no doubt it takes great strength to do so. Not only forgive the person, but pray for them too; for their guidance.

 

You absolutely have to forgive, in order to move on. Besides, when I look at the bigger picture, I think of all the forgiveness I myself have to ask for. In the grand scheme of things, giving a person forgiveness in this world would only be of benefit to us in the hereafter.

 
 

 

Again, I know I’m not saying anything new here, and all this is more of a reminder to myself than anyone else. It’s always helpful to get the things that are on my mind, out there in front of me. Salam. ❤

Ramadan Diaries: Day One.

First of all, yes, I’m using ‘Ramadan’ as opposed to the subcontinental ‘Ramzan’, because it’s more widely used. 

Soooo. So. Salam! Um. Usually my posts are fiction or on a specific topic, or vaguely personal but not directly. I decided that I’d try the more personal, diary format, so forgive me if I tend to ramble; brevity has never been my forte.

For the past few years, by the time Ramadan rolls around, it’s the middle of the academic year, I’m exhausted, homesick and in desperate need of a break. So for me, Ramadan holds with it the promise of home, family and a fresh start with a change in the routine.

For some reason though, this year didn’t hold the same anticipation. Maybe because I was burnt out earlier than usual, or I was so busy, I had little time to be mentally prepared. Nonetheless I’m hoping that writing will get me back in the zone. Being the only one awake at this time in this household (or even the neighborhood. Hey, it’s a small town), my mind contains a myriad of thoughts, so I thought I’d share a few.

It’s the first day of the month and the first part or Ashra; These are Rehmat ke din or Days of Mercy. The prayer we try to keep in mind is:

Ya Hayyu Ya Qayyumu Birahmateeka Astagheeth

Translation: “O the Living, O the Eternal, I seek help in Your mercy.”

I’m reminding myself more than anyone, and I can’t help but think what a perfect way to begin the month, than to ask for mercy for our discrepancies. I’d like to think of it as a way to somewhat clear the slate. Though while I try to be a good person and a good Muslim throughout the year, I’m acutely aware that I’m less than perfect. Everyone has to start somewhere, I guess, and with these thoughts I’d like to start the month as an attempt to smooth over the cracks.

In asking for mercy from Allah, I hope to ask forgiveness for the bad deeds I may have knowingly or unknowingly committed. Not only those, but for the hurt I’ve caused any other person; be it through something as big as my actions, or as small as the insensitivity of my words.

Okay, folks. I’ve got to get some work done, before I wake the family for sehri/suhoor. :p Peace out.