Sacrificial Ceremony
Whilst my patient was being prepped on the operating table, Dan (the Upper GI surgical registrar) and I had an honest chat. It started with a simple “Oh, why did you decide on surgery as a speciality?”, but soon developed into a complexed discussional affair that interestingly touched on topics such as kids, art history and plain idiocy. Small, little, minutely-built-for-a-Caucasian Dan, wrapped up in sterile drapes, masked, gloved, fingers on the ready, told me what I wouldn’t dream to hear anyone who has walked down that path say - “Your life, Diyana, is already shit and you know it.”
Even after scrubbing-in, Dan’s mind was not cleansed of the filthy guilt that stealthily plagued him all his life. The soapy antibacterial suds that dripped from his fingers, forming a trail that marked the path from sink to prep table to operating table, carving the circumference of the little area that we both were standing in - if only it were not reality; that it was just a small, sterile corner where the truth can’t puncture into. “My wife did the right thing.” Dan added. “I wasn’t smart enough; I got myself into Med. I can only live life once my career has reached its end. I can only silently watch as she lives hers.”
And just. Like. That. The 30-second digression ended; the conversation’s heels turned. We talked about food and why Singapore was blessed with an earth-shattering array of it. He talked about falling into the touristy Sentosa trap (”Only on the first time!”), while I did what any reasonable Singaporean would do: laud Kuala Lumpur’s scene instead. Blessed Dan then reverted to his bubbly self, for the talk of hot spicy cheap food is an antidote to his ills.
Derek, the senior registrar, called on Dan as he made a long slit on my patient’s abdomen. It was an incisional hernia; the patient insisted that it be acted on for cosmetic reason. As the diathermy blitzed its way through layers of skin, fat, subcutaneous tissue, vessels, peritoneum and then the inflammatory mess a previous mesh had left behind (for this was not the patient’s first attempt), I thought to myself as my guilt prodded deeper still - what have I given up and what for?
My patient lying motionless, unaware of his surroundings; his legs and hands spread out like a sacrificial offering. He must have known that it will not be the last time that his bowels will lay splayed out in the open, gasping for breath. It will become progressively rebellious and the operation will be more risky. No amount of vanity can hide it all in; no synthetic covering can blind you from what you’ve already seen.
For 30 seconds, as I stood there in my scrubs - covered mostly from head to toe, I never felt more emotionally naked. Life is not long enough unfortunately, or perhaps no human being can steer too far away from immense greed. You have to sacrifice a bit of yourself to be who you want to be.
bestnye belah potong orang.
i like reading your posts moose. macam tengok drama series tau. except that im having a hard time understanding ur medical jargons. haha.
Comment by hazz — May 9, 2007 @ 12:51 pm
Beautiful post~
Comment by Ted — May 10, 2007 @ 1:37 am
Hazzy-Wazzy: You sick, sick person! How can you find joy in dismembering others?! (Although I must admit, there’s nothing more fun than jabbing a gloved finger on a squishy wriggling intestine). My life - a drama?! It doesn’t really involve anak derhaka and batu belah, batu bertangkup (Malay) or coincidental love triangles traversing social boundaries (Hindi).
Ted: Thanks!
Comment by pinkmutton — May 10, 2007 @ 2:25 pm
HAHAHAHAHHAHA!
Comment by hazz — May 11, 2007 @ 4:46 pm