Paradox

There’s nothing dignified about surgery.

“Quite different from House, eh?” Chris remarked nonchalantly as we tried our damndest to stay out of the way of the surgeons.

It was a pretty straightforward operation. They were widening the femoral profundus artery, by grafting part of the saphenous vein onto it. Pretty straightforward stuff, as far as surgery goes.

It was our first day in the wards, and I couldn’t believe our luck at being able to get into the operating theatre the very first day. I didn’t even know how to scrub up, and there was no one else in the changing room for me to ask. I put on my scrubs and wandered down to the theatre, where the nurse kindly asked me if it was my first time.

I replied in the affirmative, and she smiled, and let me know that scrubs are not meant to be worn over clothes.

Embarassing but true.

Regardless of my little faux pas, I was more than ready to head back into the room. I walked in the same time they wheeled the patient in.

The lady could have been anyone. Elderly, a little bit sickly. She had the slightly worried look people wear in times of stress. I smiled at her reassuringly, as she squinted at me through her glasses. I doubt my optimism helped, and she continued to look suspicious, even as they anaesthetized her.

Once she was unconscious, the real process began, the process of preparing her for surgery, and I was struck at how undignified the whole process was. She was stripped of her white gown, and lay naked stomach down as the team carefully painted the leg to be operated on with iodine. The yellow was bright in the light, and the unhuman colour reminded me of the yellow man in Sin City.

It was surreal, looking at the exposed yellow leg and the fat stomach, with the rest of the body swathed in green sterilized cloth. As they started surgery, the Jackson 5 started blaring on the radio.

When they made the cut, the incision bled, and Chris and I watched the blood drip into the vacuum canisters with interest, blood so red it had to be arterial blood, but mixed with white, which we later assumed to be lipids.

The team had hooked up the television so we could watch, and we spent half the time with our eyes stuck to the screen and half the time craning our necks over the surgeons’ shoulders.

It was strange, but I saw the surgery almost like a story was being told.

Sometimes it seemed cruel and unrespectful, the way the surgeons handled the body. As if it was mere flesh and blood, nothing more than, rather than a human being. Being poked and prodded and cut. I hoped never to be in the position. It seemed painful, the way the flesh was being cut away from its natural state.

Then the flesh was finally parted, and the arteries were revealed, pulsing ever so clearly. The grafts were made, and the surgeons were more relaxed, more natural. It was clear that they loved what they were doing, and they took pride in teaching us to be part of their world. The patient was no longer a patient, but a patient with a medical complication that they could help.

Then, in the final moments of surgery, the surgeon stitched up the wound so carefully, so reverently, with such care, that I found it difficult to reconcile the image of the seeming callousness that happened. It was a transformation, from cold professional, to the tenderness that I saw. It was a paradox, but I dare say it was a paradox that needed to co-exist.

It was an important moment for me. It was only two hours of the day, but I believe I learnt more in that two hours than I did for the rest of the day.

I am feeling decidedly optimistic.

Today is the First Day of the Rest of My Life

According to my schedule next semester, I will not have a social life.

It’s looking like a sixty week semester, and that’s not even inclusive of the extra time I’d have to put in to study.

Damn.

It’s times like these when I really begin to understand about the sacrifices one has to make in order to live the dream. The hours, the time put in, and the next five semesters are but a preview of what’s to come.

I have renewed respect for doctors.

Love Lost

It was a love lost.

He’d always wondered about their past. She had loved him once, he knew, but it had been the first blushes of love, and the timing had not been right for either of them.

She had come to him, he remembered, to quell the rumours whispered of her feelings, and she had told him straight out about the way she felt. She had felt affronted that her feelings were fodder from the rumour mill. He had been amused, for despite his many encounters of the female kind, none had been as forthcoming as she was, and he admired her for it. It was even more amusing that she blatantly told him that she was not looking for a relationship, but at the same time, that she had feelings for him and those feelings were beyond her control.

Loved and rejected at the same time.

They had kept in touch and everytime they met she was as affectionate and friendly as ever. She always made him smile, and she always maintained he was far too serious for his own good and personally took it unto himself to make him smile a little more. He thought about her in passing, but she was always the one who would call and text and keep in touch.

They did not talk much or often and there were extended periods of silence, but for some unknown reason he was her confidante, despite all that. She had called him in tears after her first car accident. He was the first person she had told about her first boyfriend, and the first person she had called when they broke up. He always smiled when he saw her name flash up on his phone, followed by the customary, “Guess what?”

He noticed when she changed. Life had hardened her ever so slightly, but she was still the beautiful, wonderful girl he met before. She grew from a affectionate, awkward girl to an unconventionally beautiful woman, but she was more reserved, more guarded now. He wondered why and wondered if she had come to a phase of her life where she no longer needed him to confide in, to help through her problems.

She was happily married now, and they remained good friends.

That special bond of friendship where time did not seem to be a factor, and despite the long times of non contact, he would inevitably see her name flash on his phone once again and pick up to her customary “Guess what?” And they would chat like old friends and he would smile.

And every once in awhile she would cross his mind, and he wondered, what would have changed that fateful day in the corridor when that self-critical, laughing girl had stood in front of him had told him about her feelings, how it would all have been different if he too had the courage to say before, “Me too.”

Beauty Is As Beauty Does

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or perhaps, beauty in the eye of the mind. The imagination is a powerful thing, and extra detail always adds to the measure of attractiveness.

I have always found interesting how books describe people. Especially with the new trend of movies being made after some of my favourite books, and comics, and there’s always an opinion about what a certain character should look like. Half the time, there’s a certain disappointment, because reality cannot always measure up to the power of imagination, and a particular disillusionment follows.

I particularly didn’t agree with the portrayal of Rogue in the X-Men. Not feisty enough, and where was did the Southern slang go? Galadriel in the Lord of the Rings saga disappointed me a little bit. Beauty built up in the mind is never matched by the eye. Sirius Black in Harry Potter was not the same person I had built up in my mind.

It’s fascinating, because people tend to assume a lot from the littlest things. It’s human nature to form visual images of what things should be. There are always prejudices and preconceptions of the world, and we are all guilty of it.

I might describe myself as a weary looking woman, with pale skin, a serious face with the beginnings of fine lines forming around my eyes and a slightly hooked nose. I might go on to say that I am about average height, of average proportions, a little bit on the skinny side and with an awkwardness about me.

On the other hand, I might say I have a friendly face, with the beginnings of laugh lines forming around my eyes. I might describe full lips, long limbs and a self-deprecating attitude.

Described to others, they might sound very different individuals, and a person’s imagination fills in the rest of the blanks. And naturally, different people will see different things. Two different people may describe their friends differently, depending on the sides which have been presented to them.

I believe there’s no wrong or right when it comes to beauty. One man’s meat is another man’s poison, they say, and no one ever died from an unflattering opinion.