There are days I often lead myself to believe I'm a talentless lump of coal and I should stick to what I know- ask people about the consistency of their faeces. Then are there days like today where I believe that I can write funny anecdotes about my life and tell the world about it. Either way you can't win. It's either this or I can ask about your poo and no one really wants that.
As I've descended into the dreaded thirties, I'd like to think I've matured into a sophisticated, educated, young ( DO NOT SNIGGER) lady who would be able to hold reasonably intelligent conversations over a dinner table, should it be required. Little did I know that my life as a junior doctor in the NHS will ensure that I would not need any of these aforementioned skills.
Sophisticated went out of the window when I had to scream " Oye" at the patient who jumped out of a window and ran around the garden in crutches because he wanted to go home. The bubble of education burst when I realized my F1( intern) gave me a look of disgust, after he asked me about the inferior epigastric vessel distribution,I pointed my ascitic drain needle to an area in the flank of a patient and replied " If you poke here,it might not bleed". Now on to the last controversial area of age. In this part of the world, the big 3-O is apparently when you realize the world is your oyster, you have an established career, you find love and there is general consensus that it isn't as bad as it seems. My version however involved waking up tired everyday,wondering if my hair loss is permanent,buying shoes with heels that I will never wear or regret it instantly when I do wear them as well as feeling pure shock and horror at the amount of facial hair a person with two functioning (also debatable) ovaries can grow. You also quickly realize that dinner at this point is a packet of crisps you found by chance in your bag from an old on call day when you missed eating it because someone decided to smoke through their tracheostomy tube and trigger a crash call turning your life into what can only be classified as your very own Shakespearean tragedy, if he was inclined to writing about really stressed registrars at work in an execrable system.
I cannot lie though.While I sit here watching the sun rise from my apartment in what can only be described as a gelid temperature,I cannot help but feel a glimmer of hope that at some point of time, I will be able to enjoy life as it is. Accept that my license to help people may be taken away from me because I'm human and susceptible to mistakes. I should also be agreeable with the fact that despite of the many feathers I have in my cap as a woman, I will still be measured by the ones that I don't. I am however not plagued by this as much as a younger immature version of me would have been. Sometimes age comes with fair advantages that one tends to overlook. After all, that's why I believe the wiser ones tell me that age is indeed just a number and the true measurement of success is the ability to go to sleep with a sound mind at the end of the day.
Mental note:Must find alternative career option that involves less faeces and more puppies.
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