Just some closure, after so long.

I quit. It wasn't an easy decision, but it had to be done.

What did I quit? Not just KKM, but medicine in its entirety.

I think it was a long time coming.

I pray for the welfare of our healthcare system in the future.

A system more compassionate towards its family. An affordable system that is also self-sustaining. 

Because no system is perfect, but there are many decent human beings in this one who are trying their best to help others with their blood, sweat and tears.

I pray for a system that does not make its biggest decisions based on politics.

There are many other things worth praying for as well in current times, but this is my specific prayer as I close this chapter in my life, and with it this blog.

God bless.

No Time to Die

It has been a long while.

Well, things are starting to look up. Many things happened between my last post and now, which is funny considering it's only been like 4 to 5 months, but it seems like a lifetime has passed.

I haven't posted here because even a reminder of work was bothering me. I decided to focus on myself, and it has not been an easy journey but overall it has made my life a whole lot easier - or so I'd like to think.

I considered quitting medicine, I really did. I was so close to doing it, too. But I surrounded myself with the right people and slowly pulled myself away from things that were perhaps a little too 'toxic' for me, and I managed to hold out on the actual action of quitting and settle for something that may perhaps be better for me in the long run.

I didn't see myself being here in particular when I started working. I did foresee it, apparently, as a medical student and I admit I am proud of how astute I can be sometimes. Then again, we are all egoistic and think we are above certain things in life until life slaps you in the arse and you fall into the muck and realize you are, after all, not below those things but rather under them, until you get back up and brush yourself, or rather hose yourself down, and are above it all again.

So that's what I'm doing. I am getting up, hosing the muck off of myself, and stepping away from the mucky area for a bit until I absolutely have to go through it again.

My parents are a bit hesitant, naturally, but my husband supports me wholeheartedly and so do my siblings. My in-laws may also be hesitant about it but they are polite enough to refrain from saying it outright to my face so far.

Anywho~

I guess I'll see you when I see you.
And all the best to your future endeavours too.

Always seek help when you need it. Nothing is too trivial. :)

Ain't Nobody Bringing Us Down

Recently there was a letter to a rather famous online news site on which an MO (around my age in service years) lamented on her fate- she was posted to Sabah in a district setting, has a husband and parents waiting for her on mainland and is wondering why the huge amount of new MOs stay in tertiary and not get posted to places like hers throughout all these months.

Story of my life.

It was shared on a prominent facebook group of Malaysian doctors.
And most of these individuals in a group of professionals decided to focus on how whiny the letter writer is. Was.

Speaks volumes about the profession here, to be honest.
Or, do the kinder ones in the profession tend to shun the limelight and keep quiet?
I may never know.

Anyway, although it wasn't me, I feel for the person. I don't think the letter was whiny, but apparently that is not the general consensus.

I don't necessarily blame MOH for my situation, though...
Just my brain.

A Strangely Common Occurrence

You feel like you have assessed and managed a patient properly, treated them well enough to see remarkable improvement. You feel the patient is safe to be admitted into your wards without referral to a tertiary hospital.

So you happily send the patient on his merry way to the ward.

Barely an hour later, the patient has apparently deteriorated and needs to be sent to the tertiary hospital- intubated.

So...

Is your assessment really good?

Did you miss out obvious signs of deterioration?

Did you even manage the patient properly?

The vital signs chart, does it lie? 

Was the entire department complicit in pretending the patient has improved clinically just so the doctor in charge doesn't have to pick up the phone, discuss the case with her superior and refer the poor, unfortunate patient to the nearest specialist hospital?

Did some supernatural process weave its way through to plant its horrendous, cursed lips on the patient while he was in transfer, leading to a rapid decline in his well-being?

Weird stuff happens.

You could be the first doctor, or the second one.

Your level of knowledge or competency tend not to matter much in these strange aberrations.

The second doctor, kudos for catching a deteriorating patient and doing the needful before proverbial feces hits the proverbial fan.

The first doctor... Well, let's hope your documentation is sound and you have a good track record.

Let's be real, I've been in both situations. 

And only recently was I in the situation of the first doctor.

I kept rewinding through my memories, thinking where did everything go wrong... 

I was by the patient's side for most of his time in the emergency room.

I assessed the patient myself instead of relying on the nurses for vital signs.

I managed the patient as thoroughly as I could.

I gave the final word that the patient was stable enough to be sent to the ward without requiring specialist input.

And much, much later, when my colleagues told me the patient's condition in ward on arrival, I was utterly shocked, because from what I hear the patient was in a worse condition than upon his arrival to the emergency department.

The irate second doctor who had to manage the patient was understandably cross with me, assuming I was dumping proverbial feces into her ward so she could clean it up.

Honestly... 

I think we are all in this field not to dump feces, but clean it up.

Plus the specialist in question that day was actually quite pleasant, so what would really deter me from speaking to her?

So what happened to the patient??

Sigh.

I keep beating myself up for things that are out of my control.

Vital signs that do not tally.

Magical changes in condition.

Troublesome people.

Miscommunication.

Feeling like James Blunt on a moody day...

I think I am considering taking a long unpaid leave to be with my husband.

If things continue this way...

I read through this blog and realize my posts have been negative as of late.

Where were the inspiring posts, filled with positivity and tips for others?

Where did the optimistic HO go?

Quitting entirely would be a waste. I will still have my APC as long as I practice somehow until whenever, but I would like to contribute to my family too, and let's face it, that's the only reason why most of us stick in government jobs- for the safety of the future. For our families. 

Not to change the system to be better, it seems.

See? See where I'm going again with the negativity?

Maybe a small break for now. It's hard to think when your emotions are so clouded, and a nice break may put things into a different, better perspective.

In the Haze

In a life filled with record-breaking moments, there is bound to be one that resonates with you more than most.

I rarely post about my patient encounters. I fear they may be unprofessional, a way of pandering to the masses; an accidental show of farcical empathy and intelligence; you name it. However, this is something I had to get off my chest. And let's face it, there is no real way I can be posturing with this particular story.

Be aware that this story might not be... savoury... to a lot of people. I am a Muslim, and that comes with certain obvious expectations. Malaysia has its own set of rules, too, regarding what I'm about to document here. So if you are not one of the above, you may be unable to fathom why I reacted how I did... 

But you can try.

In the wee hours of the night of a public holiday, a middle-aged lady was supporting her daughter as they walked into the emergency department, the daughter clearly in pain. The daughter had put on a green batik nightgown over which a kain batik was tied to her neck, massively covering most of her front. Mother, in a long-sleeved blue shirt and pyjama pants, called out, 'Help! My daughter is having severe back pain all of a sudden!'

I was in the midst of filling out a prescription form for another gentleman who came in with an unexpected allergic reaction. I eyed the duo as they swerved over to my assistant medical officer at the registration counter and were directed to the closest beds. The mother was told to lay her daughter down and register. They were non-locals and had to pay RM 100 instead of the rate we enjoy, a hundred times less.

Feeling the gentleman eye the duo with more curiosity than necessary, I hastily finished my explanations to him, discharged him and got up to see the lady.

Introductions. Then a quick look-over.

I am not blind. She was obviously having an abdominal distension suggestive of a gravid uterus.

I pulled down the kain batik, and pulled up her long nightgown. Sure enough, the linea nigra appeared into view along with a uterus of about 24 weeks' size.

'How old are you again?'

'18.'

'When did you turn 18, exactly?'

'Earlier this month, on the nth...'

'Are you married?' - typical Malaysian doctor questions. Don't ask if you ain't here.

'... Yes.'

'Doctor, the mother told us she's not married,' interrupted one of my nurses. 

It's not uncommon for a teenage girl to be married around these parts, especially for non-locals. But deep inside, I knew this was not the case.

'Do you know you're pregnant?'

A pause. 'Yes...'

'Does your mother know?'

Another pause, this time more pregnant.

'No.'

We'll see about that, I thought, as I reached over to the ultrasound machine. First things first, let's see how premature the baby is.

Probe on suprapubic area. No head.

I moved it upwards. A tangle of bodies.

No.

Two skulls.

NO.

Yet sure enough, as I moved the probe around, two fetuses were actively moving around, separated by a thin layer of membrane, head to head. They were around 20 to 22 weeks gestational age.

For many people, being pregnant with twins is a delight. But for healthcare practitioners, we know how complicated these pregnancies can be to the mother and both babies. And for a young doctor like me who isn't within the O&G department, even the seemingly simple act of scanning the patient becomes a massive chore. The case will need to be discussed with the specialist.

In the background, the patient is moaning in pain.

I have cussed internally and perhaps externally, but I have asked my nurses to bring the speculum and vaginal examination set over.

'Do you have any water or blood discharge from your vagina?'

'No, doctor, help me, it hurts so much!'

'Labour pains will get worse, girl,' my nurse told her, 'so be strong for your babies.'

For it was clear she was having contraction pains. 

These do not happen for no reason, so far into the pregnancy.

Examining her, I found her to be one centimeter dilated. I took the necessary investigations.

'Have you ever checked your pregnancy with any doctor before?' I inquired.

'No, this is the first time. Ow, it hurts!'

'Please be honest, miss, I'm trying to help you. Did you take any medication before this?'

'Yes.'

'What for?'

Silence.

'Did you... take medication to abort the pregnancy?'

'Yes...'

An external curse word escaped me, in a record-breaking moment.

'Where? Where did you get it from?'

'From a friend in town...'

'Where did she get it?'

'I don't know, she used it before too.'

'Did you bring it?'

'No...'

'Are you aware that you're not just murdering one, but two babies?'

'... What?'

'You are pregnant with twins!'

And I have never heard such words being uttered with such venom from a healthcare professional, as she stared back at me, flabbergasted.

The next few moments were more of a blur.

I rushed to the mother.

'Do you know that your daughter is pregnant?'

'Oh, oh what, really?' An unconvincing show of surprise, eyes widening too late, too long, barely any tension in her muscles- just not how most mothers react to an unexpected teenage daughter pregnancy announcement. The mother knows. Call it a hunch, but she knows.

'Why did you go to town today?'

'Just going out, you know...'

'Are you aware that she is trying to terminate her pregnancy?'

'Well, no, but she is in so much pain, please help her! Surely you can help her ease things a little...'

'She is pregnant with twins, you know.'

The mother stared at me, almost deadpan.

'And you are more worried about her pain than the fact that she tried to kill her own babies?'

'I, uh-'

'You are a MOTHER! How can you be so evil? How can you allow her to take the lives of her own babies? You're also a muslim! You know that it's murder!'

The mother's expressions were hazy behind my watery eyes. I realized I was screaming. Gesticulating. Frustrated.

'Doctor, it's okay, you have the full right to scold me. Just scold me, I don't mind, please... It's my fault,' she told me. And in my whirl of emotions I can't even tell if she was being genuine or simply trying to expedite the process.

I was losing my cool.

In fact I lost it, for I have never had violent anger outbursts in front of my own patients.

I stormed off.

And in the treatment room, I cried for the innocent little souls I saw on the screen- the two skulls next to each other, moving around. Hearts beating, limbs active, strong, surviving.

For how long?

I was not equipped for this. Being alone on-call, my staff unable to console me or advise me.

I wept.

I wept for the babies, and the naive young mother, and her mother.

I wept for my inadequacy and loss of professionalism.

I wept for the people who tried and failed to conceive for long years.

I wept for long minutes, an ugly mess of tears and mucus and loud sobs.

I dried my tears momentarily and called up my specialist for advice.

And wept some more over the phone despite all attempts to the contrary, much to my chagrin (and the specialist's).

She told me there is nothing she can do, and it is not really an urgent case.

I remember her telling me that there is no need to cry, because it does not help things.

I apologized profusely.

But since when has crying ever helped? It's out of our control and I hated myself for it.

'Did the specialist scold you badly?' One of my nurses asked quietly.

'No, it's not that, it's...' I couldn't begin to explain.

'The mother knows, you know.' The nurse told me, and said more of the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy. The guy refuses to be responsible. It was of little import to me.

I did what was necessary and what was ordered by the specialist- the police report, the plans to have her admitted overnight- and refused to see the patient.

What was I supposed to do, hold her hands and tell her everything is going to be fine?

I was a mess and so was she; neither of us needed to see each other.

The rest of the night was a tumultuous blur of emotions, for as I mourned the possible loss of lives, I mourned my reaction to it, too. I wondered if it would ever be possible for me to process such a case with less emotional outburst. I mourned my lack of knowledge.

I prayed to God for all of us.

I hurt myself.

And to stop from going further I began writing into my phone, writing all those feelings, pouring them out from my heart in an event lost to so many years.

I was glad of the reprieve I got after the case; no one sought the hospital in the hours that passed afterwards, probably sound asleep in their homes. Quitting was an idea that appeared in my mind often, painting violent streaks into my thoughts.

I walked around the hospital grounds in the haze, omitting my N95 mask entirely. The thoughts within were enough to suffocate me.

There is news that came with the dawn- the patient has stopped having contractions altogether in the ward. There is a huge chance that the abortion attempt failed.

I wonder what the coming days will bring to the mother, her mother, and the two unborn babies.

But most of all, I wonder what they will bring to me.

EDIT: The ward staff told me over electronic media, on my off day, that the babies were delivered the day after. Of course they came out alive, and it was quite some time before they passed.
I want to say that I wish the mother and grandmother are happy with what they've done.
But that would be lying.
They didn't just kill the babies, but a part of me, too. And that would never change.

Over a Year as a Full-Fledged MO

Okay.

So, they are right.
It gets better.


There are days when it feels like absolute S*&# and you fear the slippery slide to insanity, and best believe those days sometimes come more often than not...

But overall,

it

     gets
         
          BETTER.


Believe in your dreams.
TRY to be patient and not morph into the malignant boss of your nightmares.
No matter how stressed you are.
Pray hard to Him and ask for His blessings in all that you do.

InshaaAllah, it will get better. It may take months, maybe even a year, but it will improve.

So, hang in there.


And when it does get better, remember your dreams (ahem, specialisation?) and GO FOR THEM.

As my favourite medical specialist has told us, do not settle- have an ambition and chase after it. Always strive to improve yourself and move forward; never be too comfortable with where you are.


Thanks, Boss. You will always be our superhero.


And hey, ignore the meanies who tell you you're stupid and make you feel worthless.
Take their advice when given, but ignore the insults.

ACCEPT that you may be so stupid sometimes, it's absurd. Do not have too much ego, okay?
Just accept that your lack of knowledge at that time was inexcusable. You are not super intelligent, even if this title required you to score the highest in all your school years- it means jacks@#& because you are in a field filled with so-called overachievers so again please just accept that.

LEARN. Consolidate. And most importantly, MOVE ON.


Yes it's particularly hard when it concerns certain... beings... but try, for your sake.



Belated Title: Advice to Past Me.
Proper Title: Advice to All Ailing New MOs.

P.S.: I am STILL a new MO. One year does not a senior MO make.