Monday, March 21, 2005
You, talking to me? 
If I had a magic wand, the first thing I’d do today is to selectively erase some of the things registered against my will in my hippocampus.
Some harsh, some rude, some unbearably inhumane, some just utter arrogance. Words eh?
How powerful is it to be able to vocalise words, to put your feelings forward, and to be able to feel the ambience you create after you’ve finished a string of mere words.
To make a girl cry when you raise your voice and give it a snag at the end of the sentence, to mock, to ridicule, to shame, to threat, even if the word itself was LOVE. Or to see a warm smile beaming after a pause and a longing stare, or to hear an unstoppable giggle after you let some sweet nothings tentalize her tympanic membrane? Magic.
Sometimes it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.
I listened on, and it’s what I do best really. I just pray that I don’t crack, especially not now. I’m good though, which I thought was slightly unexpected.
I suppose even if you are solid, hard rock under a waterfall, with constant repeated pounding battering, you’ll soon get used to it, you’ll grow immune to it, and above all, you’ll change your shape, contour and creases.
So, I too, I’ve changed a little, I learnt a little. I have given a little. I put my foot in the water, and I don’t think I am ready to wade in headlong, let alone swim across.
What makes me stand tall still like a coconut tree after Tsunami? I blame it on my job. In this job, you take shit everyday. Your patient is anxious, threatening to change her mind about general anaesthetics, you have to put your anxiety off, brave a smile and put her anxiety and apprehensions first. Address every single thing as if she is the only patient you have that day.
You’re putting a child to sleep, she wriggled with the mask on, crying, tugging, pushing screaming, mum crying helpless, you have to put your bravest suit and calm her down. Never mind your own helplessness.
Your patient thinks it’s crazy to be awake yet paralysed and not feel any pain to have his leg amputated. You calm him down, explain risks and benefit. Make it crystal clear to the best you can to win his trust. Your smile weakened after your mouth froth from too much talking.
Everything I do is in everybody else’s best interest.
I do this day in day out.
Is it wrong to come home to somebody where the table is turned around? You be strong, I be weak, needy, helpless, lost and loved up.
If I had a magic wand, the first thing I’d do today is to selectively erase some of the things registered against my will in my hippocampus.
Some harsh, some rude, some unbearably inhumane, some just utter arrogance. Words eh?
How powerful is it to be able to vocalise words, to put your feelings forward, and to be able to feel the ambience you create after you’ve finished a string of mere words.
To make a girl cry when you raise your voice and give it a snag at the end of the sentence, to mock, to ridicule, to shame, to threat, even if the word itself was LOVE. Or to see a warm smile beaming after a pause and a longing stare, or to hear an unstoppable giggle after you let some sweet nothings tentalize her tympanic membrane? Magic.
Sometimes it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.
I listened on, and it’s what I do best really. I just pray that I don’t crack, especially not now. I’m good though, which I thought was slightly unexpected.
I suppose even if you are solid, hard rock under a waterfall, with constant repeated pounding battering, you’ll soon get used to it, you’ll grow immune to it, and above all, you’ll change your shape, contour and creases.
So, I too, I’ve changed a little, I learnt a little. I have given a little. I put my foot in the water, and I don’t think I am ready to wade in headlong, let alone swim across.
What makes me stand tall still like a coconut tree after Tsunami? I blame it on my job. In this job, you take shit everyday. Your patient is anxious, threatening to change her mind about general anaesthetics, you have to put your anxiety off, brave a smile and put her anxiety and apprehensions first. Address every single thing as if she is the only patient you have that day.
You’re putting a child to sleep, she wriggled with the mask on, crying, tugging, pushing screaming, mum crying helpless, you have to put your bravest suit and calm her down. Never mind your own helplessness.
Your patient thinks it’s crazy to be awake yet paralysed and not feel any pain to have his leg amputated. You calm him down, explain risks and benefit. Make it crystal clear to the best you can to win his trust. Your smile weakened after your mouth froth from too much talking.
Everything I do is in everybody else’s best interest.
I do this day in day out.
Is it wrong to come home to somebody where the table is turned around? You be strong, I be weak, needy, helpless, lost and loved up.
