Thursday, February 24, 2005

He Knows # 1





There must be something about 11am. At least, it’s the time in the day when your body is telling yourself, the remnants of the toast and marmite at breakfast time are being mobilised from the liver to feed the quickly irritable, cranky neural network, and your reply to your body is, do it quickly then!!!

The first case took nearly 2 hours. A laparoscopic cholecystectomy for 2 hours!!! I paced up and down the OR. Stopped at the theatre audio system and put on Maroon 5.

Twiddling my pen, looking at Paul the ODA. Paul looked at the watch, shrugged his shoulders. Another 3 cases after this one.

Never worked with Paul before, he’s an agency ODA. Today, we gelled straight away. Anybody who does a Sellick manoeuvre like that, prepare iv drip like that must be a good one. I like him, I’d keep him.

I was working with Dr.B who turned up later for the second case. This is an anaesthetist with 4 Ps.
Prim,
Proper,
Prissy, and Pedantic.

Everything I do has to have a reason. Every single manoeuvre must come with some evidence that I know exactly what I am doing, everything has to be exaggerated, all movements dramatized, exam like. Is anybody else having a drama lesson like me at this moment?

"How do you know that your ODA is giving you the right cricoid pressure"?

Sorry?

Aaa…errmmm.

My mouth felt dry, my tongue has conveniently stuck itself at the roof of my mouth.

Looking at Paul, looking at the double door, hoping the answers would glide in with the draft from the ventilation inside the OR. Coughed a bit, and thank God it still sounded genuine, as only had the cold 2 weeks ago.

Was buying time, but a pathetic attempt at subtly forking sympathy from this tall 60 year old guy with a full head of white hair like Steve Martin in The Father of The Bride.

At one angle he does look like Richard Gere. On ICU there’s a rumour that I snogged him, apparently that’s why I had the cold 2 weeks ago, and that was about the time he had it too. All because every time his name is mentioned I’d cringe and turn red. I know exactly who started it.

According to her, I fluster whenever Dr. B asks me a question, making the rumour saucy. Those nurses show no mercy. I get teased, my legs pulled, my hair tugged and my scrubs poked at every time I am on call there.

It was and intense start and the freaking nasogastric tube wasn’t the one that’s been cooled overnight in the fridge so it’s a bit soft. We know what would happen if one try to shove a soft tube through a hole.


It curled, it bent, it displayed mind of it’s own. My mind was figuring out the answers to his questions while my left hand hoiking up the Macintosh blade, held firm and steady to begin with but later shook violently beyond control. My biceps and triceps drenched and possibly pickled in the lactate from the sustained contractions. It was close to excruciating.


Dr B stood there like a headmaster peering over his reading glasses, his back against the controlled drug cabinet. I looked up possibly hoping he’ll come and help.

"Errr…anytime today Dr Ahmad, anytime today".


He picked up the supplement from the journal and started reading. Was that a smile?

Pressure, pressure, pressure, can he not stand there? My pretend-he’s-not-there trick didn’t work so was the imagine-he’s-naked trick, and I owe him an answer still.

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