the centenial post

here i am on the eve of christmas eve, nursing a huge jug of (steadily warming) cold water and trying to fool myself into thinking it's cabernet sauvignon from the rothschilds, and talking crap on the 100th post on my blog. absolutely thrilling.

rainy, rainy, rainy the past few days. feeling blanched like a spinach and humidified like a... ummm. whatever it is that gets humidified. anyway. doesn't anyone else get horrible headaches and toothaches from all the raining? yes i did say before, and i'll say again, that rain is my inspiration for many wonderful pieces of poetry. BUT nearly an entire week full of days fitted ass-to-head with torrential rain is simply asking for a well-placed boot in the butt. even my spinal column hurts... but that doesn't say anything. could be the 6hours i put in for trolling purposefully and predatorily up and down town, haha. in fact i'd wager my 2 front teeth on it.

speaking of teeth. had my wisdom tooth taken out last last saturday. interestingly, i really didn't feel the pain (again, friends who knew of how i shook off any notion of pain in the previous wisdom tooth extraction will now shake their heads in gloomy i-know-what's-coming) and being the perpetual pig that i am, i promptly went to sleep after hitting home. woke up about 2 hrs later with a feeling that could be described approximately as being near equivalent to having a red-hot electric drill going right at the gum bed and a team of sadistic, miniature pakistani diggers heaving enthusiastically at every single nerve fibre distributed around the left side of my bloody face. and bloody is also descriptively right besides doubling up as a profane word: i'd managed to dribble about half a cup full of reddish drool while asleep onto the bloody pillowcase. (in this case the pillowcase is bloody indeed, but an effect rather an a cause) oh God it was such horrendous pain it took every inch of my self-control not to break into drama-queen-sized weeping and/or croak intelligible, bloody-cotton-gauze-ish curses. in fact i was so stunned (like the proverbial deer in front of the stupid car headlights) by the magnitude of pain induced by the removal of a TOOTH (how deceivingly innocuous) that i curled up (withered is more like it) on the sofa, drooled copiously, and stared evilly with squinty eyes at anything that moved around my periphery. not that i was actually capable of SEEING anything anyway, cos it seemed that the pain was sufficient to blow out my optic nerve as well. basically i had the image of what my eyes saw but they totally didn't register. seriously. my dad wavered in and out of my vision field for about 3 times before i acknowledged his presence with a spurt of reddish saliva that was meant to signify "what???" and trying to take 6 pills with that amount of pain... warrants a check up at IMH. if you asked me i'd seriously vote for another hemicolectomy again in lieu of this freakishly masochistic procedure. how do people survive it? my reasoning is, at least they're polite enough to gas the HECK out of you for the period of time post-op when the pain peaks if you're smart enough to opt for the colon resectioning. i'm guessing that local prostaglandins, histamines and all that vasoconstrictory factors act to trigger the simultaneous release of neurotransmitters involved in pain (my fave leu and met enkephalins, endorphin inhibitors or antagonists) or ARE in fact neurotransmitters involved in a further symph cascade. ah whatever. adds to the pain of suffering, thinking about all these crap.

ah, enough hypochondriac-ish waffling. dreaming of the absolutely delicious dinner i'll prepare tomorrow for my family, after i dutifully discharge my responsibilities as a tutor *HUGE growl of frustration at being delayed by 2.5hrs from getting to cook Christmas dinner* anybody wants to hear the menu? :D

appetizer: garden salad served with sauted mushrooms and garlic croutons, hand-mashed potatoes american-style (meaning flavorfully herbed and buttered, with tangible chewy bits that you can entertain your teeth in instead of those sickly, watery, starch-granules-floating-in-water nonsense they call instant mash noawadays)

entree: choice of pasta with chicken alfredo, seafood cream or beef bolognese sauce, and macaroni with 4 cheeses for the kids, served with a bubbly crust of cheese, creamed broccoli and a stuffed baked potato on the side, drowned in sour cream, bacon and chives.

grill: hickory smoked lamb leg, and pork chops served with a choice of mushroom or sambal sauce. roast chicken and baked crumbed cod fillets. Imperial scroll - a medley of sukiyaki pork slices ensconcing dainty enoki mushrooms, in teriyaki sauce.

dessert: mini egg tartlets with custard sauce, or japanese style pancakes with red bean paste and hot chocolate sauce.

ahhhhhhhhhhhh. NOW THAT's MY idea of a Christmas dinner. *great big grin*

perfect 19~ age of immortality

wanted a break from editing an article stiffly starched to 6 pages of recalcitrantly evil, unremitting headachey text. closing my eyes doesn't help, eating chocolate doesn't help, trashing the com doesn't help, and listening to the vague strains of an overtly, vulgarly ecstatic Barney rendition of "I Love You" in the living room certainly doesn't help.

suddenly brought back in a nauseating deja vu to the day I reported at CAP, and learning of the entirely cause-for-enthusiasm requirement that we are to cough up, or regurgitate, or physically sick up a poem entitled "The recalcitrant recidivist" by the end of the day.

the first thought through my incredibly diminutive (i still can't get the spelling of this word down pat) brain then was: what's recidivist? i turned to the innocuous young lady next to me (fellow camper, replete with 2 large duffel bags for a 3 day camp) and was about to open my mouth to ask when she abruptly bent down, took out pen and paper, and scribbled furiously. i loitered in her vicinity for the next 5 minutes pretending to be entirely taken with fascination by a remnant of spiderweb on the noticeboard, when she finished her spasmodic penmanship. i peeked. the paper (A4) was 3/4 filled, and the heading? You guessed it - The recalcitrant WHATEVERTHEHECKIT IS. instantaneous poetry - just add hot water and stir.

i had the option of fainting on the spot in awe of such blinding talent, or run screaming. i opted to escape into the nearest toilet and asked myself what i was doing in an abattoir where they specialised in slaughtering talentless pigs like me. the mirror didn't reply (how surprising), so i rejoined my group of brainy GEPpers, whereupon i introduced myself as the sole non-GEPper who got in by virtue of my dischordant poetry. and everyone nodded. in the end, it wasn't too bad, but trust me, the shock of entering the AGM of MENSA by accident must feel like that. or somewhat less shocking. haha.

i'm somewhat immortal nowadays. got back 2 results out of 3... i haven't died from the shock. no vagovagal reflex. no neurogenic syncope. no psychosomatic reverse peristalsis. scrapped a 58 pass in anat where the average was 65. physio was slightly, but not much, better off. the average was about 82.5, which is coincidentally what i got. rether expected, if you consider what i was doing in 15minutes prior to both exams.

ANAT: *me, frantically* hey, what's the perineal nerve? *bermuda triangle* comes from the pudendal nerve. supplies perineum blahblah. *me, more frantically* but where does it come from? the internal iliac nerve? *grace* there's NO INTERNAL ILIAC NERVE!!!!!!!! *me, perplexed* but i saw it just now... oh no don't tell me it's the artery... *mutters incoherently to myself hereafter in despair*

for information's sake, the pudendal nerve (roots S2, 3, 4) gives a perineal branch. And this elusive pudendal nerve doesn't come from any internal iliac nerve. it comes from the inferior hypogastric plexuses. sigh. so now we all know why NANA gets 17 wrong out of 40 punitive questions.

PHYSIO: *grace* why does the female have less RBCs than guys? *Me, in a tone of superior knowledge and confidence* NO, the GIRL has MORE than the GUY! we have to cos we menstruate! *grace, in great doubt* but that's the point... if we menstruate we have less right? *Me, still in cocky tones* no, feedback mechanism... *someone else quips* no, grace's right. girls have less. *me, shocked* huh? really??? but R&T says it's the other way around!!! *whips out notes to prove my point* there, see??? *jabs at the sign for female* see, males have less. *grace pouts* that's the FEMALE sign... (you brainless toot) *me, in a white-faced look reminiscent of a man about to be executed by firing squad* oh my....

and how i managed to get 82.5 will remain an everlasting mystery, not only to myself, but also to the professors. haha. well at least i can specialise in being The Anomaly. med people love anomalies cos it gives them the opportunity to publish. haha :D

was thinking of making a top 10 list. about what? don't know. haha. i'll improvise...

top 10 reasons why people want to be doctors (cos i've gotten YET another student who desires to be a doctor LIKE ME *shudders*):

1) the pay is, imaginably, perceptively, allegedly, DELUDEDLY, good. (people forget we begin our honourable career with a 100K debt stapled to our sorry butts)
2) the prestige is lucre to the superficials' ears. (i don't need to remind you all of the recent spate of homosexual and drug-addicted physicians, as well as the rise in inappropriate prescriptions that made patients turn black and expire in agony in the ICUs, leading to the need for topless relatives to protest vehemently in the lobby of SMA)
3) we can heal ourselves and give ourselves MCs. (then why are so many physicians dying early, and why are we so exhausted??? MCs my foot, unless u're referring to our ability to feed ourselves Big Mac's. which the less-exhausted-and-more-physically-and-mentally-able physicians are still able to do, but this optimistic sign deteriorates with age)
4) we bark orders to the nurses who scuttle away in fear and awe to carry out our every order. plus give us massages when we're tired from giving so many orders. (over my dead body. it's NURSES who give us the orders and WE who give massages. ha.)
5) we get to save lives like those top-rated korean, japanese, hong kong and, if we're desperate, mediacorp drama serials. (can someone please inform these deluded people that patients either wait for long enough in the A&E to heal themselves, or they expire. we just keep dashing around pretending we know what we're doing, while praying really fervently that the old uncle in bed 14 doesn't croak cos his distant relative's some bigshot partner in the hospital admin.)
6) we enjoy the best in life, with luxury houses, cars, 14 maids etc. (read: heads of department. married into socialite circles or came as a debutante/heir into medical school. struck lottery. if you're not in these 3 categories, you're a sorry, no-life, damned broke old maid/loser who can't afford enough 3-in-1 coffee mixes to last through the month)
7) the mention of doctor gives you priority treatment and unending reverential awe from people. (nowadays, people look at you like you're potentially gay, an addict, a malpracticing idiot, or an underaged liar when you mention that you're a doctor. and you're given priority treatment once in a while - at accident sites where they need a first aider.)
8) your parents stop nagging you to study harder so you can be like Ah-Seng next door, who went off to study law in Cambridge. (if anything, they nag harder when they see your deplorable grades, and YOU begin to WISH that you had the intelligence to go to cambridge like ah seng while you had the chance.)
9) you get more ang pow money. (token appreciation, read: S$2.00, for free 30min consultations for every relative during what i call the Chinese New Year rounds. bring your steth and sphyg to add to everyone's festive cheer but your own. if any consolation: you can freely dispense the recommendation that everyone cut down on bakkwa intake, which leaves you free to invade the entire plate)
10) we can wear white coats and look cool walking purposefully along hospital corridors. (white coats end up more vomit/crap/urine/blood stained than anything after a shift, and we don't look cool, we're just shuddering in fear of what the next patient would present us with. though the element of surprise wears off after a while after you get sprayed with vomit/blood/urine/feces YET AGAIN for the 90th time on any given shift.)