Changes

One of the peculiarities of the singaporean healthcare system is the "black tag". Scaling the rungs of the responsibilitity-ladder earns you a nondescript black name badge that looks suspiciously similar to the low-cost primary school "monitor" tags we used to get as kids. People invariably wear them, it's a sort-of status-symbol cum insignia of "rank" - donning the tag confers on the wearer some form of intangible power which most patients and relatives probably don't know - much less care - about, but which identifies you to another doctor as a "senior" doctor.

The irony is that the nametags for junior doctors are actually kind of nice - sure, the hospital logo tends to rub off over time, but it's actually aesthetically quite appealing.

I've been watching one of my colleagues making the switch to his black tag with a little amusement; shortly after passing his surgical exam he - in typical fashion for him - took to wearing his new badge (almost with... wild abandon...) after his previous badge ostensibly "went missing" in his bosses car. Nevermind that he's wearing the trappings without having to don the associated mantle of responsibility of registrarship... the tag makes him happy, and well, we all share his happiness at taking that step towards the rest of his life. We all know how proud he is of, well, himself. :)

I've been slowly suffocating over the past fortnight after abruptly turning into the registrar-in-lieu for my team, our previous registrar having taken the opportunity to scamper for freedom once I swapped into her team. I don't begrudge her her holiday - I've been doing this a mere fortnight and I'm nearly running on empty... I can't begin to imagine how tired she must be after six months on the job... and I knew what I was in for when I decided to commit my life to my subspecialty. Still... the body is tired, the joints actually hurt (gee) and my back is aching... it's all somatisation I know, all in my head. But staying back till eleven in the evening post-call to chop off bits of my patients because there's nobody else who can do it, and because if I wait too long they're going to die... dozing off multiple times on the drive home... it's sobering.

I'm loth to put on my black tag. I'm not "official" yet, I'm still me. And I'm still weak; I want what little time I have left to zone-out before all this becomes all too real (as it is... right now...) and I can't wait for my reg to come back from her holiday... It's exciting to be handed that instrument that till-now only the consultant would wield intra-op and be told to go ahead and throw that stitch, and it's rewarding to see that anastomosis hold-up. It's.... a little frightening to be told to carry-on without senior support in ops which I've only ever watched or been brought-through once or twice before, but never actually flown solo in... and really rewarding to throw that final stitch and know that my patient ought to be just-fine. And it's humbling to be confronted with a retroperitoneal, retrocaecal appendix and be caught in a dilemma -- to play the registrar you're not-quite-yet and open the retroperitoneum -- or to call for senior support because if anything goes wrong you're still technically a junior - and realise that you're really not all that brave after all.

I guess I'm different from The Gentleman. I'll wear my blocky black tag when I have to - when I'm taking my team on the round when maybe, just maybe it makes that much of a difference when I'm doing battle with that nice old irish man's ex-SPG battleaxe of a wife who's inconsiderately called me out of operating theater just so she can try to browbeat me into keeping him in hospital - against medical advice and against his own wishes - because she needs time to formulate a concerted campaign in her quest to lodge a complaint about the ward nurses. But in between, well, I really like my old tag, and I still like cutting out little tiny skin lumps and creating cosmetically pleasing scars in the quiet sanctitude of the day-surgery OT making small talk with my nurses and patients.

Freedom

Words of wisdom to the inexperienced : never argue with your examiners.

Life after the final furlong, aka the membership examination... goes on. Going out for drinks and meals without a textbook in hand comes like a refreshing breeze after a stagnant summer's night; and then the "arrows" come flying thick and fast, and suddenly there's just too much to do all at the same time, amidst preparing to host the local examinations, applying for advanced training, and returning to on-calls.

Speaking of which, after a month's reprieve from calls, the First Call was absolutely exhausting. The body forgets these things, the way a night without any sleep on your feet feels (which is completely different to a night on the floor or in bed reading a textbook in an adrenaline-charged last-minute frenzy). At one point my back, feet and calves hurt so much I began to wonder if perhaps I was experiencing sciatica...

In older news, I remember a colleague and newfound friend de-stressing with me after work and chatting about life in general; for some (mm. some time back, but perhaps it was after we met the chest-drain bottle product rep) he volunteered that pharma reps are generally manipulative people, because in his opinion people self-select into their jobs. Once upon a time I might have argued that maybe it's the other way around; jobs change people. Looking around at my other medical colleagues, at him, and at myself, I realised he was right. People self-select into jobs; not just doctors, lawyers, drug reps... but pretty much every and any one. There's a reason orthopods all drive flashy cars, and why general surgeons don't...

Maybe it's the ones who selected wrong the first time who cross-careers... maybe... just maybe I'd be happy sending people to jail instead. Hmmmm...

O_o

After arguing with the nice white haired old lady who was in for an investigation the next day about why I needed to take her blood...

Old Lady : "Ni jie hun le mah?" (are you married)

Re-Me : "... err hai mei you..." (no)

Old Lady : "Ni hen piao liang wor..." (you're very beautiful)

Re-Me : "... um. xie xie." (err. thanks.)

Whips out needle, and is taking blood in silence.

Old Lady : "Lang zai... lang zai..." (pretty boy.)

Re-Me : "..." (...)

Yep, that's me. Old lady killer.

Who's That Girl (in progress)

I can't help comparing this to this .

What strikes me most isn't that the two sites share a suspicious similarity but how completely differently they come across to the reader.

Check out the first link. Patrick Moberg saw the "girl of his dreams" on the subway in 2007. He was attracted to her but didn't get to speak with her, so he sought her out by writing on his blog about her, and asking strangers to help him find her.

The thing about his site - NYGirlOfMyDreams.com isn't how eloquent or effusive he is... it's simply how sweetly and sincerely the whole thing was done. It's rather light on text, and pretty in-your-face. There's so much to like there, from the unstated happy-puppy "I met you and I'm bowled over by you" sentiment, to the cutesy line drawings of the girl which betray just how much he noticed about her that he liked (fancy braided hair, flower in hair... etc), what she looked like (rosy cheeks) and just what she was doing (writing in a notepad... awwww) at the time.

This is a man who's either madly in love, or a nutjob stalker with the whole set of Ginsu knives.

But then there's more, he draws himself in too. No self-praise, but a simple self description to try to jog her memory a bit, skinny, tall, and he drew what he was wearing. And then there's that almost self-deprecating, slightly rueful little arrow pointing to his head that says "not insane".

It's just sooo cute; the guy knows he's lost it, and he knows everyone else will know it when they see his site, but he doesn't care... he just wants her.

He leaves his name and his phone number (and email address) for her, laying bare his whole life to all sorts of unpleasant repercussions. He takes a flying leap...

If I'd seen the girl, I'd have called him. Hell, if I'd been the girl (which, cough, since I'm male I couldn't have been) I'd have called him... without any reservations.

And there's more... she really did. There's that next little ecstatic post of mr happy-faced rectangle holding up a sign in joy. You know that something good happened... if only for a while, or perhaps longer.

The whole thing is almost saccharinely infused with hope and then happiness. It's really hard not to smile at.

And then there's our home-grown version, girl on bus.

(now at http://blog.girlonbus.com/)

I can't help but notice how often the word "I" appears in there.

I was labeled stalker. I was described as 'creepy'. How do I become a stalker when I've already lost her?

and

I was labeled 'despo'. Yes I'm definitely 'despo' or desperate. This is how I feel when I've lost something worthy. I have the attention from endless amounts of attractive people whom I think its worthless. If you've been wondering, yes, I'm gorgeous.

...and then

There were people who tried to find out who I am. I wouldn't mind letting you know, if you are a decent person, really. But this thing is set up by a friend who has a credit card to help me pay on behalf

... right. How much does it cost to host a domain again? $7 a month?

His next post, "lightheartedness" goes something like this :

I am taking this lightheartedly. Its like, who knows after knowing her she might disgust me or freak me out in certain ways?

Thanks again to so many of the kind people out there for the inspiring and flattering words. Thanks to those who helped in any way.

To the girl (if you have decided not to respond): I'm fine with it, but at least just tell me why. And you may also ask me to stop looking for you.

Next post on :

I've communicated with some local reporters. Some of them questioned about my identity. And they also advised that people would be more receptive if I were more open.

I tend to be a low-profile person therefore I'm not comfortable revealing personal info, especially on the internet. There are people who think that I'm not 'real'. Some even think that this could be some kind of a viral marketing. However, I need to protect my privacy. It's just simply being careful, although some people might think I must be up to no good.

Some of you might have already seen the article on me in (联合晚报) (31th Jan 2009). But just to give you a picture: I'm in my twenties, chinese and currently an undergrad.

And suddenly he's writing for an audience. About himself, being low-profile, but not, being private, but being in the paper, etc.

And then :

Like what I said in the previous post, I insist in protecting my identity (although some people still think that I'm not sincere/afraid of criticism), simply because but I'm not desperate/crazy enough to the extent of going public. Understand that some people dislike unwanted attention.

However, I did meet up with some of the reporters and had some photos taken. You might want to check out The Newpaper on Saturday the 14th, and The Straits Times on Sunday the 15th.

(Edit: For certain reasons The Straits Times did not run the story. 'D' from The Straits Times [if you are reading this] : I'm sorry to hear about it. But you're a great reporter who made me feel at ease. )

Some of you guys are right about the website being too direct and plain(not fanciful). Perhaps its because I have no hidden agenda and therefore the tendency to get my point across in a straightforward manner.

By the way, Happy Valentine's Day to all of you. Enjoy :)

The thing is, he's not writing to the girl anymore. He's not even writing for her.
He's writing for himself.
About himself.

He even went as far as to say the girl might gross him out, and that he's good looking, etcetc.

Over a month and still no girl; some of his "supporters" (and that's what it's turned into, a popularity contest) blame it on singaporean girls being this, and that, and uppity, and blah blah.

Some of the detractors think the girls will think he's a stalker, that he's creepy etc.

The truth is he's just lost the plot. The girl won't, because he's really more interested in himself now, than he is in her. This is his five minutes in the limelight, and she's just a badly drawn stick figure.

Sweet? I think not.

*****

Perhaps it just goes to show how sometimes there's a "right" way to say something, and .... a very, very wrong, in a "don't-even-go-there"-way to go about the same.

*****

ps : ... there are singaporeans that find the whole thing romantic.
sigh. I guess it's the concept that counts, not the packaging. roll eyes.

Re-minisce and The Assassin (In Progress)

My way

"I'd like... an iced tea, please."

She raised an eyebrow. "I think you should have the ice tea with lemonade, would you like one, it's very nice..."

"Err. Okay, I'll have an ice tea with lemonade."

"Would you like it done my way?" (two thumbs up)

"What's your way?"

"Grande, my way... its good!"

"Rigghht. Okay, I'll have it your way."

(Several seconds later)

"Yeah, it's good."

"You won't get it done this way anywhere else!"

"What, not even at another S*******?"

"Not like this, this is my way!"

"Um. okay thanks."

"Will you be sitting down here?"

"... yes?"

... bemused.

*****
Sitting here pretending to study the RAAS, and missing the assassin.

Ironside

Her eyes on his, as they lie eye to eye, tracing the line of his face with her fingertips.

"...scary"

"... that's just the way it goes..."

Trust

I'll be seeing my ex for dinner...

*****
Trust is earned, not owed, never deserved.
Trust is always given freely.

Trust is eroded one lie at a time, and reinforced, one truth at a time.

*****
You don't know me, I have flaws...

I hurt people

*****
Of course it's okay with me, he said, and smiled.

Anatomy 101

Sometimes as they're clowning around the Assassin does her Bolt impression, complete with huge puppy dog eyes, head tilt, and imaginary ear flop, and that little smile of hers, and although he knows full well it's not anatomical, and that emotion takes root from the cerebellum and not the heart, something in his left chest feels a little give...

Contrasts (completed)

... don't think about it anymore; focus on the good times. There were good times... right?

*****
Some time later I come awake with my arm tucked under the crook of her neck and watch the dawn light diffusing in softly through the glass panes, caressing her edge of her face and creating a ghostly pale glow around the contours of her cheek, her temple and her nose, the rest of her fair, fair skin encased in grey shadow. And then those eyes - dark, dark, eyes, almost doll-like and so very alive - flutter open, and her lips twitch into a smile as I say Good Morning, then lean forwards to kiss them, and I feel... an almost wondrous joy.

*****
I remember I used to think when people asked each other "what do you really, really want in life?" that the answer "to be happy" was too simple, too trite for me. That I was different and needed something... more substantial. I used to think I just needed the truth, and that happiness was irrelevant to me.

Catch me now : ten years down the line, a little battered, edges worn down, paintwork a little scuffed and how I've changed. I just want to be happy now, too.

*****
Every hello? on the line a... leap... an unexpected but welcome surprise.
Every parting... reluctant, an almost sense of... loss.
Every meeting, a wonder.

Not a distant memory from over a decade ago of the mafia don and mafiassimo... but a moment in the here and now, between Doctor Whiskers and the Assassin.

Contrasts

I remember watching in the mornings as the sunlight would creep in through the window and cut a strip of blazing white across the tanned skin of her forehead and right cheek, and glow red in her brown-streaked hair. I remember how very at peace - at last - she used to look, her chest barely rising as she breathed. And sometimes I'd reach down and brush a stray wisp of hair from her cheek.

I remember how very, very sad I used to feel, watching her as she slept.

And just before I left for work I'd lean over and kiss her lightly on the forehead, and most times she wouldn't stir, but sometimes she'd move a little and let out the faintest of squeaks.

And that filled my heart with sadness too.

She pulled me in closer and said, hey... don't think about it anymore; focus on the good times. There were good times... right?

Glass smilies

... that's because smilies was 2 days ago.

... I dunno, I have a funny feeling that memory is pretty much burnt in...

*****
I remember looking through the looking glass as she traced smilies on the surface; i remember the little smile on her face, and the way her hair was pulled back, and that look in her eyes, which words will never, ever be able to capture. I remember the way she glowed.

I remember catching myself smiling that same smile as I reached out and drew in a blob of a nose.

Yeah, that memory is pretty much burnt in.

A play with words

... we shall play tomorrow

*****
And then it strikes me what makes the assassin so lethal to myself.

She plays - we play - with words, with thoughts, with language, with situations as they crop up... and it's so easy to just laugh, or to smile...

... and then we lean in, and the play stops...

*****
... after all, a play without words is a mime.

... == Learn the Words ==

In good company

I remember disagreeing with a friend once upon a very long time ago, seated in a very small chair in her South Kensington apartment that activities were less important than the company you kept.

She, the pint-sized energizer/stress bunny, hard drinking, party-animal with the minuiture furniture and tatami mat (presumably because she was already so near the ground when standing up that lying on a mat made sense) asserted that it was all about doing exciting stuff; nevermind who tagged along. (We travelled in packs in those days, it just wasn't the done thing to go on dive trips or ski trips alone.)

I remembered a then not-so-distant time when lunch / dinner conversation, or just talking on the telephone could be... just about magical, and maintained that in the right company it didn't really matter what you did, at all, and only that you did it together. To my mind it extended beyond romantic love between partners, even to agape love between friends. Company outweighed activity.

Time passed and the years came and went, and with each new relationship / parting it seems a part of me weathered away; with the last ex it became apparent that activities were extremely, extremely important; up to the moment of... near / indiscretion - confessed from her own mouth to have stemmed from boredom.

Through the looking glass, and out the other side - suddenly activities were far more important than company alone; it only seemed natural that the only way two people could endure the mundanity of everyday was an expensive getaway somewhere exotic once in a while, or an out-of-this-world special activity of some form... some form of spice to liven up life; otherwise everything becomes mundane, no? As comfortable as it is to rush home and die in someone's arms, or to go out to all those shops every so often and buy girly stuff, or to watch the odd movie, or the odd meal... it isn't enough. I lamented what all us foreign returnees constantly harp on about : there's nothing to do or see here, in Singapore, except eat, shop and... eat.

And then this past week, just lying with her head on your chest listening to her speak, or sitting across from her watching her eyes sparkling as we eat, that random argument from another lifetime comes back to mind, and something strange seems to have happened to time.

Fallen

You look pensive, she says.

He looks into her eyes, and silently traces the arch of her brow, the curve of her face, that small half-smile of hers with his gaze; then smiles and says but that's just the way my face falls...

*****
When he was young, he used to dream of falling; just falling through space, with the wind in his hair, and all around him, plucking at his arms and legs, caressing his face.

Dry Christmas

So here I am, stuck in my jail cell on Christmas Eve, thinking :

Get me out. Get me out. Get me... out.

Lust, caution

L, in her usual fashion advocated caution. Remember the past; beware the crazies.

I'll admit I'm not usually terribly cautious about things; thinking back I realise it's because (ironically) I wanted to be happy; I wanted for those... strange, yet precious moments to revisit me. I chose to be precipitous in the past - everything is a gamble anyway, and with nothing left to lose, what harm can it do?

There is something amiss this time though; the colours are inverted, the polarities reversed. I bite back the words but once in a while they slip out...

words and thoughts that intimate that I miss her presence when we are apart - even when the parting is but for a ludicrously short while. That indicate a certain... distraction, and memories that burn to remember.

Changed

Until recently, I thought life was about making memories.

The memories I wish to carry with me are the good ones; I suppose this is termed having a selective memory.

I remember us at Chatuchak market; wandering through the puppies and the kittens, and being disturbed by the frightened squirrels; I remember eating in the little shop; but strangely the most vivid memory in my mind was of you sharing a green mango with me by the roadside; I suppose it embodied the best moments of you, and of us, in our relationship. You, sharing things with me, showing me things I didn't know, and taking joy from watching me, wide eyed in my sua-ku ness, enjoying things that gave you pleasure too.

I remember us in korea too, slipping on the ice as we walked late at night through the "snow", sharing moments of wonder with each other. And Coimbra, too, holding hands and walking slightly unsteadily uphill in the heat of the mid day sun after a refreshing roadside beer, and chancing upon a cat curled up on the wheel of an automobile, and laughing.

If I think back, I remember the others before as well; that's just the way it goes. We all have pasts, each and every one of us, and I want to take the best moments with me; I want for things to have meant something, because if I fixate on the worst moments all I'll feel is a lingering pain and sadness. I don't want to want to forget my memories, or to have to hide from other people.

I remember holding G close at the niagra falls, almost enveloping her with my jacket as the fine spray hit us from all around, as we shared the wonder of the lady in the mist, and the power of the niagra falls. I remember wandering along the top of it with her, and marvelling at the rainbow that hangs there, permanently, like some strange three D hologram.

And if I want to, I'll remember more -

- but something is different now; watching the assassin's eyes watching mine as we cup each others eyes with our hands, without need for words; sharing a moment of... almost childlike silliness...

life isn't about making memories anymore.

It's just about living the moment. And feeling happy when someone you care about smiles; even feeling happy, and just smiling of my own accord.

Life

I remember now why we didn't put labels to anything, why it was all very unspoken, why I called it the roller coaster.

I remember common, base feelings in the aftermath... regret. Confusion. Loss. Wondering what we had been, if anything at all - that eclipsed the memories of the moment, which were exhilirating... precious and special at the time, which should not have been corrupted in the aftermath, but were by my own dark nature.

This is the moment, now :

No desire to create boundaries with words; no need to. An almost-fear to... or a burning desire to... once mouthing the words silently against her neck, or blurting them out in the intensity of the moment, or hearing her, just the once, speaking my mind...

... there's no need : no need to think. No need to say. No need to understand, just to live.

No wish to spoil it all, by saying something stupid.

Too fast too furious

From xena :

So i was just at the supermk. The guy in front has problems w his pin. The cashier tells him : "Harder. Enter Harder."