Monday, February 07, 2005
Poke You, Poke Me, Poke Who?
It’ll be unfair to say that my weekend on call was completely mundane. I had the pleasure of working with a new SpR in Obs and Gobs (that is obstetrics and gynaecology).
After the initial 90% of my actual workload putting the woman to sleep, I was sat at the head end of this obese woman lying there with both her legs up in the air, in a pair of stir-ups. The SpR, bless him, clad in scrubs, hat and mask, started to suck out through the vagina- with a machine driven suction. The description unfortunately stops here because it’s unfair to go into meticulous details of how it was all done.
GGRRRRRRRRrrrrUNGgggggUngggGGRRRRRR
Flup! A humanoid lizard size clot whizzed out and dunked into the container. Not a beautiful sight. Made me feel fuzzy for a nano second.
I was doing my usual squiggle squiggle on the anaesthetic record, when I came to the SURGEON: _______ bit of the empty cells. I know his name is Stephen and he’s originally from Zimbabwe. What’s his surname?
So, you can imagine me trying to catch his eyes in order to ask him, which were the only thing visible just above the woman’s bush. It looked like a tumbleweed from here.
Imagine looking down the woman’s front horizontally. There was a stark contrast between the woman’s thighs and his face and the white of his eyes which made me thought of United Colours of Benetton. His brows arched, frowned, skewed, parted, converged, it was like watching a Chinese acrobatics. Look up..look up.
He was too immersed in the act of douching, rendered all my efforts to attract his attention futile.
I couldn’t shout across because my voice would just get dissolved in the gruesome sounds of the sucker machine. Sharon, my little helper approached the Aestiva3000 with a sticker “SCARY” where I was glued to. There’s 5 of these machines in the complex. Some sad (previously thought as clever) soul, named them after the Spice Girls and we’re all obliged to call them by their baptised names.
Sharon saw my pen stuck at the column and telepathically disappeared to get the name from the register. She came back in no time with her head squeezed through the double door and shouted; (she must have carried an object illegal to be seen with in theatre).
"Poke You"! Which was just about audible.
"Whaaa"? I didn’t shout back, this is the beauty of the word what. You can open your mouth wide and people know they have to repeat themselves.
“Poke You!!!”
“Poke Me”? I said in stop-messing-about-Sharon tone.
Paul, who is another theatre assistant, now got excited.
“Poke Who”? He looked serious, as if taking it as an order from a higher authority.
“No, Poke You”, Sharon smirked.
Paul’s face lit up. “You want to poke me”? A clamour building up.
The above was orchestrated and amplified 10X due to the vigorous shouting, it’s just impossible for the surgeon himself not to hear any of it.
Mr. Stephen Poku, distracted by the pandemonium, floored the on off pedal and looked up above the bush. The theatre level of noise pollution zeroed.
“It’s pronounced as PowKu ..pee-oh-kay-yu, and my dad didn’t know I was going to be a Gynaecologist”.
Nonchalantly , he floored the pedal again and continued, as if it’s a phrase he’s recited many a time before , when caught and asked for his name while fumbling in between a woman’s legs.
Sharon nudged me and we all broke into a frantic laugh. By the end, I was half crouched, tonic-clonic semi toppling, restraining my half squawking half pertussic cough. Sharon poked me so hard I nearly toppled. I had to squat and continue to fit in giggles because my stomach was hurting so badly.
After the initial 90% of my actual workload putting the woman to sleep, I was sat at the head end of this obese woman lying there with both her legs up in the air, in a pair of stir-ups. The SpR, bless him, clad in scrubs, hat and mask, started to suck out through the vagina- with a machine driven suction. The description unfortunately stops here because it’s unfair to go into meticulous details of how it was all done.
GGRRRRRRRRrrrrUNGgggggUngggGGRRRRRR
Flup! A humanoid lizard size clot whizzed out and dunked into the container. Not a beautiful sight. Made me feel fuzzy for a nano second.
I was doing my usual squiggle squiggle on the anaesthetic record, when I came to the SURGEON: _______ bit of the empty cells. I know his name is Stephen and he’s originally from Zimbabwe. What’s his surname?
So, you can imagine me trying to catch his eyes in order to ask him, which were the only thing visible just above the woman’s bush. It looked like a tumbleweed from here.
Imagine looking down the woman’s front horizontally. There was a stark contrast between the woman’s thighs and his face and the white of his eyes which made me thought of United Colours of Benetton. His brows arched, frowned, skewed, parted, converged, it was like watching a Chinese acrobatics. Look up..look up.
He was too immersed in the act of douching, rendered all my efforts to attract his attention futile.
I couldn’t shout across because my voice would just get dissolved in the gruesome sounds of the sucker machine. Sharon, my little helper approached the Aestiva3000 with a sticker “SCARY” where I was glued to. There’s 5 of these machines in the complex. Some sad (previously thought as clever) soul, named them after the Spice Girls and we’re all obliged to call them by their baptised names.
Sharon saw my pen stuck at the column and telepathically disappeared to get the name from the register. She came back in no time with her head squeezed through the double door and shouted; (she must have carried an object illegal to be seen with in theatre).
"Poke You"! Which was just about audible.
"Whaaa"? I didn’t shout back, this is the beauty of the word what. You can open your mouth wide and people know they have to repeat themselves.
“Poke You!!!”
“Poke Me”? I said in stop-messing-about-Sharon tone.
Paul, who is another theatre assistant, now got excited.
“Poke Who”? He looked serious, as if taking it as an order from a higher authority.
“No, Poke You”, Sharon smirked.
Paul’s face lit up. “You want to poke me”? A clamour building up.
The above was orchestrated and amplified 10X due to the vigorous shouting, it’s just impossible for the surgeon himself not to hear any of it.
Mr. Stephen Poku, distracted by the pandemonium, floored the on off pedal and looked up above the bush. The theatre level of noise pollution zeroed.
“It’s pronounced as PowKu ..pee-oh-kay-yu, and my dad didn’t know I was going to be a Gynaecologist”.
Nonchalantly , he floored the pedal again and continued, as if it’s a phrase he’s recited many a time before , when caught and asked for his name while fumbling in between a woman’s legs.
Sharon nudged me and we all broke into a frantic laugh. By the end, I was half crouched, tonic-clonic semi toppling, restraining my half squawking half pertussic cough. Sharon poked me so hard I nearly toppled. I had to squat and continue to fit in giggles because my stomach was hurting so badly.
