At the end of a year - at least according to the Chinese lunar calendar - we are supposed to toss away the used items. Time to clean up.
Before the advent of such smart gadgets as personal digital assistant, I used to copy my friends' address and phone number in my diary anew each year. I had never learned to love this painstaking ritual of renewing my friends yearly.
As for me, friends are never meant to be used items for cleaning up.
Why is there such a need to delete an old friend who passed away from our telephone directory? Actually, I could understand it, but I just couldn't stand it. Thanks to the handheld electronic gadget, I don't have to copy the friends' list every year, and simply enjoy adding new names to my directory.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Ugly
When a friend of mine recently heard the radio news story about the failure to rescue a dying heart attack patient on the doorstep of a public hospital, he almost drove off the road.
Over the last two days, much has been written about the moral of this tragedy in the newspaper editorials and by the bloggers. I believe, however, that this is one of those evergreen bits of wisdom that we can never quite get enough of it.
Still, I dare not tell my friend another story because he would be stupefied to learn that my story occurred exactly at the same hospital. The drama began when a patient, who had undergone an outpatient gynaecology procedure at a day surgery centre, developed bleeding after the minor operation. The doctor, with the help of another nurse, rushed the patient on a stretcher to the acute hospital ward, just within a stone's throw.
Picture the doctor and nurse, both relieved to get the bleeding under control after hospitalization, only to find themselves being bombarded with a barrage of questions from the head nurse.
"For heaven's sake, why? Why don't you dial 999 and call the ambulance?"
The doctor's face fell, and she groaned, "Oh, dear, it would have taken the ambulancemen nearly half an hour to get our patient to the ward."
"And that wasn't exactly the point. You guys knew it, transport of patient on your own is forbidden. And silly! Who is to bear the liability if our patient had problem on the way, say, inside the elevator?"
The doctor wasn't sure she'd heard her correctly and looked slightly flummoxed. "Um… I don't quite understand… well, let me put it this way." She hesitated for a moment, considering her choice of words carefully in front of a head nurse. "What if, I mean, the patient had problem inside the elevator, even in the presence of ambulancemen?"
"That would be the problem of the ambulancemen, then. Not mine!"
Are we letting our ugly side define us more and more as a bureaucratized hospital? Surely, there are many more examples, but I must stop here. To say more would either get me in trouble or falsify my argument.
Over the last two days, much has been written about the moral of this tragedy in the newspaper editorials and by the bloggers. I believe, however, that this is one of those evergreen bits of wisdom that we can never quite get enough of it.
Still, I dare not tell my friend another story because he would be stupefied to learn that my story occurred exactly at the same hospital. The drama began when a patient, who had undergone an outpatient gynaecology procedure at a day surgery centre, developed bleeding after the minor operation. The doctor, with the help of another nurse, rushed the patient on a stretcher to the acute hospital ward, just within a stone's throw.
Picture the doctor and nurse, both relieved to get the bleeding under control after hospitalization, only to find themselves being bombarded with a barrage of questions from the head nurse.
"For heaven's sake, why? Why don't you dial 999 and call the ambulance?"
The doctor's face fell, and she groaned, "Oh, dear, it would have taken the ambulancemen nearly half an hour to get our patient to the ward."
"And that wasn't exactly the point. You guys knew it, transport of patient on your own is forbidden. And silly! Who is to bear the liability if our patient had problem on the way, say, inside the elevator?"
The doctor wasn't sure she'd heard her correctly and looked slightly flummoxed. "Um… I don't quite understand… well, let me put it this way." She hesitated for a moment, considering her choice of words carefully in front of a head nurse. "What if, I mean, the patient had problem inside the elevator, even in the presence of ambulancemen?"
"That would be the problem of the ambulancemen, then. Not mine!"
Are we letting our ugly side define us more and more as a bureaucratized hospital? Surely, there are many more examples, but I must stop here. To say more would either get me in trouble or falsify my argument.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Hewlett
After reading a story of Hewlett-Packard recently, I learn that we may lose our trust without even noticing it. Trust is the easiest to lose and the hardest to survive without.
The story goes that its cofounder William Bill Hewlett stopped off one weekend at a company storeroom to pick up a tool, only to find that there was a lock on the tool bin. This was, as a matter of fact, contrary to the explicit practice the Hewlett-Packard company had established from the very beginning to keep all parts bins and storerooms open so that HP employees would have free access to any tools they might need.
Much to his chagrin, Hewlett broke the lock open and threw it away, and put up a sign where the lock had been. The sign read: HP TRUSTS IT'S EMPLOYEES.
At the same time, I had a real-life story nagging at me, one that I get frustrated for the umpteenth time.
Can you imagine the very first thing I need to do before starting my specialist outpatient clinic session in my own institution? To help you set the scene in your mind's eye, I should tell you that doctors can't enter the clinic through the front door because it is simply locked. Utter the word "lock" and the mind envisages a stoic and nitpicky boss who keeps everything locked up. Each morning we doctors need to fetch the key and unlock the drawer keeping all the ophthalmoscope, tuning fork and tendon hammer – all locked up! The more the things are being locked up, the madder I got. Normally, I hate using exclamation marks, but boy, am I mad!
Years ago, the name and title of the doctors were being displayed outside the clinic door. If you come to see us at the clinic, the name of the doctor whom you're going to see will be missing. Where is it?
Locked up. Again.
If you ask me who would be the one keen on hiding one's name and maintaining the highest standard of anonymity, that guy should be the least trustworthy. Whether our clinic nurse-in-charge knew it or not – and apparently she did not – her real job was to make the best lock.
While we laugh at the lock itself, we need to remember that the idea of such lock is not new. Our department policy of displaying the doctor's name next to the bed of our patients was banned just a month ago. You'll still find such matters difficult to understand. And – I will just say it – untrustworthy.
The story goes that its cofounder William Bill Hewlett stopped off one weekend at a company storeroom to pick up a tool, only to find that there was a lock on the tool bin. This was, as a matter of fact, contrary to the explicit practice the Hewlett-Packard company had established from the very beginning to keep all parts bins and storerooms open so that HP employees would have free access to any tools they might need.
Much to his chagrin, Hewlett broke the lock open and threw it away, and put up a sign where the lock had been. The sign read: HP TRUSTS IT'S EMPLOYEES.
At the same time, I had a real-life story nagging at me, one that I get frustrated for the umpteenth time.
Can you imagine the very first thing I need to do before starting my specialist outpatient clinic session in my own institution? To help you set the scene in your mind's eye, I should tell you that doctors can't enter the clinic through the front door because it is simply locked. Utter the word "lock" and the mind envisages a stoic and nitpicky boss who keeps everything locked up. Each morning we doctors need to fetch the key and unlock the drawer keeping all the ophthalmoscope, tuning fork and tendon hammer – all locked up! The more the things are being locked up, the madder I got. Normally, I hate using exclamation marks, but boy, am I mad!
Years ago, the name and title of the doctors were being displayed outside the clinic door. If you come to see us at the clinic, the name of the doctor whom you're going to see will be missing. Where is it?
Locked up. Again.
If you ask me who would be the one keen on hiding one's name and maintaining the highest standard of anonymity, that guy should be the least trustworthy. Whether our clinic nurse-in-charge knew it or not – and apparently she did not – her real job was to make the best lock.
While we laugh at the lock itself, we need to remember that the idea of such lock is not new. Our department policy of displaying the doctor's name next to the bed of our patients was banned just a month ago. You'll still find such matters difficult to understand. And – I will just say it – untrustworthy.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Doctoring
It took forever for medical doctors to reckon that we should avoid doctoring our loved ones or family members. It has taken even longer for me to learn to toe the line by not acting as the doctor of myself. I suppose that most of doctors want the privacy when they get sick. By treating my own illness, I am further tempted to expedite the care by pulling strings within the health care system.
Which means that, over the years, I have been confusing my professional and personal roles, for example, by acting as a medical student and fetching medication from the drug trolley to treat myself at the same time. There was the issue of bias, the fine details of which I will spare you, except to say that I had previously thrown away my blood-streaked sputum instead of sending the specimen to look for tuberculosis. Whoa. All these years, I've made – or, avoided making – numerous diagnoses and given treatments for myself. I simply feel like a gymnast who has got more and more self-confident after performing a few apparently fabulous and flawless somersaults (in an empty auditorium, I confess). For my part, I simply can't resist the idea that I am doing a reasonable job of treading the fine line between offering objective diagnoses and being a bit personal. Such claim is insightful, reassuring, and completely wrong. I know.
That is not to say that our medical student who committed suicide recently had been treating herself. It would have been wrong for me, I believe, to fabricate and surmise what might happen to someone else I don't even know. I can't. After all, I don't even get the license to diagnose myself.
Which means that, over the years, I have been confusing my professional and personal roles, for example, by acting as a medical student and fetching medication from the drug trolley to treat myself at the same time. There was the issue of bias, the fine details of which I will spare you, except to say that I had previously thrown away my blood-streaked sputum instead of sending the specimen to look for tuberculosis. Whoa. All these years, I've made – or, avoided making – numerous diagnoses and given treatments for myself. I simply feel like a gymnast who has got more and more self-confident after performing a few apparently fabulous and flawless somersaults (in an empty auditorium, I confess). For my part, I simply can't resist the idea that I am doing a reasonable job of treading the fine line between offering objective diagnoses and being a bit personal. Such claim is insightful, reassuring, and completely wrong. I know.
That is not to say that our medical student who committed suicide recently had been treating herself. It would have been wrong for me, I believe, to fabricate and surmise what might happen to someone else I don't even know. I can't. After all, I don't even get the license to diagnose myself.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Bump
I found out recently that, among all those characters in the Mr. Men series by Roger Hargreaves, my wife loves Mr. Bump the most, ever since her childhood.
It didn't take me long to realize the reason.
For those of you who haven't read the children's literature of Mr. Men, Mr. Bump fell out of his bedroom window and bumped his head, leaving him wrapped up in bandage and loss of his memory. He keeps his looks after the injury and just can't help having accidents, including being cleaned in a car wash.
People might rightly scratch their heads and wonder how on earth Mr. Bump can bump into so many silly blunders. But trust me, I am no better than Mr. Bump. Throughout these years, my habits of imprudence ensure that not a week goes by without having accidents like mixing up shampoo with bathing lotion, wearing my roommate's spectacles after getting up and nearly ending up like Humpty Dumpty.
Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who has survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life. Now, come to think of it, someone like me who have survived as a Mr. Bump should have enough to write in the next life.
Being a Mr. Bump is not so difficult, but quitting it is nearly impossible. This is not to say that my wife made a mistake in marrying me. Far from it. It's me who made the mistake during our wedding ceremony. No, don't get me wrong; I am not saying that I put the wedding ring on the wrong person's finger (Bump!). I simply put the wrong ring (mine instead of hers) on my wife's finger in front of all my guest friends.
It didn't take me long to realize the reason.
For those of you who haven't read the children's literature of Mr. Men, Mr. Bump fell out of his bedroom window and bumped his head, leaving him wrapped up in bandage and loss of his memory. He keeps his looks after the injury and just can't help having accidents, including being cleaned in a car wash.
People might rightly scratch their heads and wonder how on earth Mr. Bump can bump into so many silly blunders. But trust me, I am no better than Mr. Bump. Throughout these years, my habits of imprudence ensure that not a week goes by without having accidents like mixing up shampoo with bathing lotion, wearing my roommate's spectacles after getting up and nearly ending up like Humpty Dumpty.
Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who has survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life. Now, come to think of it, someone like me who have survived as a Mr. Bump should have enough to write in the next life.
Being a Mr. Bump is not so difficult, but quitting it is nearly impossible. This is not to say that my wife made a mistake in marrying me. Far from it. It's me who made the mistake during our wedding ceremony. No, don't get me wrong; I am not saying that I put the wedding ring on the wrong person's finger (Bump!). I simply put the wrong ring (mine instead of hers) on my wife's finger in front of all my guest friends.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Vampire Bats
During a sharing session with the medical interns this afternoon, our consultant taught us to be generous in offering a helping hand in hard times.
It brings to mind the fascinating story of vampire bats who, like our medical interns with their pockets full of syringes, feed on blood. Besides, the fact that both vampire bats and medical interns seldom have sleep at night suggests that these two species share more than simply a common ancestor. They look enough alike that I could see they are related.
Time and again, vampire bats have been observed to drink more blood than they would require. Those bats would take the surplus to other hungry bats staying behind. Just in case you didn't know, their generosity seems to extend beyond kinship; they do not share their meals with their offspring only. Whenever a vampire bat fails to find adequate nourishment, it may simply contact another vampire bat to solicit food donation by licking the lips of the potential donor. After observing them over a period of five years, a zoologist professor found (and published in Nature) that bats were far more likely to share gift with those that had fed them in the past, but not with new bats added to the group he was studying.
Some will argue that helping each other with a willful view for a return of the favour in the future can’t be righteous giving. Okay. Let's be honest. The truth is I can tell you that I am no better than those vampire bats.
It brings to mind the fascinating story of vampire bats who, like our medical interns with their pockets full of syringes, feed on blood. Besides, the fact that both vampire bats and medical interns seldom have sleep at night suggests that these two species share more than simply a common ancestor. They look enough alike that I could see they are related.
Time and again, vampire bats have been observed to drink more blood than they would require. Those bats would take the surplus to other hungry bats staying behind. Just in case you didn't know, their generosity seems to extend beyond kinship; they do not share their meals with their offspring only. Whenever a vampire bat fails to find adequate nourishment, it may simply contact another vampire bat to solicit food donation by licking the lips of the potential donor. After observing them over a period of five years, a zoologist professor found (and published in Nature) that bats were far more likely to share gift with those that had fed them in the past, but not with new bats added to the group he was studying.
Some will argue that helping each other with a willful view for a return of the favour in the future can’t be righteous giving. Okay. Let's be honest. The truth is I can tell you that I am no better than those vampire bats.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
