anecdote

More proof that I will never be admitted to the exclusive boys club that is surgery:

We wear masks in theatre. These masks are made of special filtration paper, and often slide around one's face during an operation. This can obscure one's vision.

Bossman, being an experienced surgeon, uses a strip of medical tape to attach the mask under his eyes, thus ensuring a good fit (and preventing his visor from steaming up). After weeks of a steamy visor and working semi blind, I copied him.

The operation went well. I had the best view I've ever had while stitching. After I scrubbed out, I went to peel my mask off. It hurt. A lot. Tears sprang to my eyes, but it all came off in one piece and I thought, "Great! I'll be able to use this in the future."

Then I went to the mirror. The skin under my eyes was still stinging, and when I looked up close I saw tiny pin-pricks of blood across my face. The damn tape had peeled off a layer of my skin. For the last two days, I've walked around with two scabby raccoony bruises under my eyes. And my face hurts every time I put the mask on, even without tape.

My skin is too soft for surgery.

Bossman bursts out laughing every time he sees me.

triumph!

I GOT TO CLOSE THE CHEST!!!!

On my first day in theatre, Bossman said "Sam, patients judge a surgeon by how good the chest wound looks. They don't care about anything else. So you will never get to close the chest, because your stitches look like shit."

Tonight, around 8:45 pm, I finished my row of deep (non-skin) sutures and stepped away from the body to allow Bossman room to work. He gave me a look and I quickly stepped back, thinking I had made a mistake. He slammed the needle-holder into my hand and walked away without saying anything. So I closed.

The endorphins got me home, elated and singing out loud (JEW Praise Chorus, FYI), despite lack of sleep/food/personal life. Now i know why the surgeons do it. It feels so good when you get it right...

Uh oh. Have I drunk the kool aid?

hot

There is something magical about walking home on a hot late night. The streets reek of garbage and bats skitter overhead, but my veins are still fizzing with the last MET call and it feels good to be moving. The greasy yellow moon lights my way past the Smith Street bums and Monday night alcoholics and I nod at them. I just put a drip into one of their friends.

This city has its moments.

I'm pretty sure 98% of my current goodwill is being generated by my air conditioning.

2% love, 98% air-con.

Life Skills

While I rant, rave and moan about it, my surgical rotation is giving me useful life skills that I have employed this weekend. Before this rotation, I was soft. Weak even; I ate regular meals, got regular sleep, rarely experienced physical pain and spent so much time doing things I enjoyed that I became spoiled; I didn't appreciate what I had.

No longer. My time out of the hospital feels like a release from prison. Everything I do is tinged with a sensation of rose-tinted wonder; "O my god. I'm not unhappy right now!" And while I'm sure it gives me an air of thinly veiled desperation (Must.Have.Fun.) it is also paying off in pleasure.

Examples:

1. Hot Date Friday met me at a rooftop bar in Melbourne, which was packed. We stood and talked, sipping beer in the sun. Later, as we sat at a tiny table in a filthy Chinatown dumpling house, he exhaled; "It's good to sit down; we were standing for 2 hours!" I hadn't noticed.

Surgical skill: standing motionless for hours, ignoring physical pain.

2. Harry Potter movie, Saturday. We'd been out for lunch at Glen Waverly's premiere Japanese restaurant where I had consumed litres of diuretic liquids to accompany perfectly seared beef tataki & thinly sliced tuna. Harry Potter is a long (amazing!) movie; almost 3 hours with the previews. I didn't leave the movie once.

Surgical skill: See above. You can't leave theatre to pee, so ignore the pain.

3. Back from HP; due to meet friends at Spanish Fest in 20 minutes. The weather is hot, we're going to be dancing. I change from comfy summer dress to sultry Latin swishiness in ten minutes, out the door and arrive on time.

Surgical skill: Quick change. "Sam, we need you in theatre to close the chest! Stat!"

Other things come up daily; not taking criticism personally, learning to compartmentalise (she died, we need to focus on him), diplomacy, selective hearing (Sam, you're eating again? Aren't you worried about getting fat?) and physical and mental endurance.

Mostly, I feel this INTENSE appreciation for everything I do that is not surgery (And I seem to pack a lot more into every weekend). It makes life seem just a little bit sweeter, so maybe this job is good for something.

kidnapped!

I think I have Stockholm Syndrome.

I'm starting to stay later than is required of me. I actually came back to work this evening, after leaving, to make sure that all my jobs were done perfectly. And I voluntarily stayed until 8pm yesterday to cover for another intern who was sick.

Why? I want my Registrar(s) to like me.

Yep, the same guys who delight in tormenting me.

There's also a little voice in my head that says, "Screw them. I'm tough. I can totally keep up with them and work just as hard and laugh off the deaths and handle the blood and..."

In a way, it means work is going well. When you push yourself to do more, and realise that more is getting done, you've achieved success. Right? Right.

Now off to sleep, I'm going in early to prepare for 6:45am rounds.

Seriously, Stockholm Syndrome.

Addendum

I just skimmed the blog and realised that I've mentioned crying in my last four posts. There are good things happening in my life, I swear.

Like Nurse Bear bringing over home-made spinach cannelloni in meal-sized portions so I can have something real for dinner this week.

And having brunch with my favourite girls at my favourite spot where the Saturday special was "Canadian breakfast - pancakes with maple syrup & bacon".

And having my friends tell me again and again that they hope I don't get a job in Canada.

So, yes, work is hard. But life, overall, is good.

lengthy, emotional rant ahoy!

The roller coaster continues.

I handed in my fortnightly timesheet yesterday. I worked 168 hours. I will be paid for roughly 100 of these. The other hours are apparently my donation to the hospital; the gift of my sanity, health and life.

My bosses laugh about it. "Cardiac surgeons work the worst hours," they say with a note of pride. They equate their work hours with masculinity and identity as surgeons. These are men who don't see their kids and don't mind.

The women (nurses, of course) of cardiac surgery are not much better.

The snapshot is a woman in her mid-thirties, wearing excessive mascara (when you wear a scrub-mask, you've only got your eyes to work with) and tanned within an inch of her life. She talks loudly about her gym sessions, flatters the surgeons and ruthlessly undermines any new female on her turf. Say, the new intern.

I get a continual barrage of snide remarks ("God, you look tired", "Your sniffing sounds disgusting", "We got you the extra large gown", "Don't think you can do what the guys do in here") and daily subtle gestures to let me know that I'm not wanted.

The worst was Tuesday night. An emergency case; a woman with a dissecting aortic aneurysm. I scrubbed at 2:30 and was still standing at 8:45pm. We were all exhausted and hadn't eaten since breakfast. One of the nurses brought some lollies in and, being careful to keep sterile, tucked a snake or jelly-baby behind each surgeon's mask. First the boss, then the registrar. Then the anaesthetists. Then the other nurses. She looked at me pointedly, smiled and took the rest outside.

Alas, I can't just hate women. My boss, Matt, is equally kind. "Sam, your stitches yesterday looked like shit", "Sam, you're embarrassing me with those hand-ties", "Sam, don't be so weak". And maybe I am weak.

But yesterday, our patient arrested on the table and blood fountained across my head and mask as we re-opened the chest. Matt turned to me and said, "It's the intern's fault" and laughed like a drain. I had been scrubbed for 8 hours at that point, had not spoken a word, eaten, drunk or peed for those 8 hours and now there was blood all over me.

I stood there and took it. And I didn't cry till I got home.

So I'm not as weak as they think.

Fuck this job. 9 weeks to go.