Arbor Vitae

This reminded me that when you live your life so earnestly, so dutifully, so procedurally, you can come close to forgetting who you once were.

I had almost forgotten that I, too, had once walked in the rain. If only that once.

Eleven years ago, on that drizzly dusk-blighted evening, I walked from the bus stop to the front gates of my home in the rain. Immutably miserable, in despair.

The rain was cleansing and I prayed for it to strip the memory of you from me.

That was the day you returned after spending three weeks away in foreign climes.

That was the day you came back, and in front of everyone, handed her the gift you’d picked and packed and brought back for her from so very far away.

That was the day I thought this obsession would finally be over; the fever broken, as was my heart.

It didn’t.

The obsession lasted.

The fever only burned longer, banked by futile secrecy into higher and hotter flames.

But I didn’t know that then.

Back then, I was only fifteen. I was only a schoolgirl walking in the rain, my pinafore sodden, my shoes soaked.

I walked in the rain, because I had to, to come home.

1. There are no hot doctors in the building. I repeat, there are NO hot doctors in the building.

All truth be told, the residents/ registrars on these wards barely look any more alluring than the patients. At that, I reckon the patients would look a tad more well-rested.

Blame my caseload if you must, but I maintain that I have espied no attractive doctors around.

If you’re a true Grey’s fan, I’m sure you’ll be shrieking ‘Transfer to Neurosurgery! Or Plastics! Like STAT!’, thinking there’d be rich pickings there.

No, thank you. I’ve seen enough gore in my three years of Anatomy to suffice for the remainder of my rotation here, without taking on a Plastics caseload into the bargain.

As for Neurosurgery, I’m not up to having the bejeezers choked out of me by a pre-operative Traumatic Brain Injury patient with nil impulsivity control. (True story, honest!).   

By the way, when I said I have espied no attractive doctors, I should have clarified that I meant attractive male doctors  =D

Because there’s a new resident I’ve seen floating around the ward, who looks rather pretty in a wide-eyed, soft-spoken, dewy-skinned, I’m-oh-so-innocent, girl-next-door, Eurasian kind of way.

But that’s not what the masses want.

Oh no.

They’re clamouring for mobile phone shots of the dark, handsome. dashing doctors (with a Porsche a piece) they’re sure I’ve been hiding up my sleeve all this while.

This is no Seattle Grace folks.

And I have no sleeves to speak of. Infection control dictates that we wear short-sleeved tops only. WTF.

2. No one is hooking up with anyone but their beds.

I can hear you all going ‘But, but, surely you’ll hear who’s hooked up with whom. And who’s dating whom. And who’s sleeping with whom’.

Sigh.

I only have this to say: I am sorry to disappoint. Yet again.

The residents and registrars are so exhausted that I’m pret-ty sure come end of the day, they’ll be sleeping with no one but their beds.

Plus, you know how they say familiarity breeds contempt?

Well, I reckon if you’ve seen the same resident rush past you for the nth time, arms akimbo, hair awry, remnants of a lunch-time tuna sandwich adhering to her lips - you wouldn’t find her very attractive now, would you?

Hence the lack of fraternising between doctors.

Heh - at least with your bed, there’s no chance of rejection.

3. (For some) If you want to treat the hospital like a dating agency, that works too.

A snippet of conversation between two nurses, overheard in the staff cafeteria: The job’s shit, but at least the pay-off’s good.

I’m sure the pay-off they mean isn’t referring to annual leave loading or generous superannuation rates.

Having said that, half of the therapists in my department are married to doctors, none of whom they met in the hospital.

So there goes my theory  =P

http://entertainment.msn.com/news/article.aspx?news=263615

I’ll have them if no one else will  =(

Things you never want to hear about your fashion judgement (or lack thereof):

‘I can hear the bagpipes skirling, can’t you?’

Me upon seeing The Sister emerge from the fitting room, clad in an unfortunate combination of grey, pleated tweed skirt and thick stockings that terminated mid-calf - ala Scottish gillie.

‘If you wore that, people would definitely give up their seats on the bus for you. Because it makes you look like you’re pregnant and ready to give birth any minute’

The Sister passing judgement on a tunic top I tried on.

(Just because I have a ring of immoveable pudge around my mid-section does not mean I have a bun in the oven OK? OK?

Au contraire, I prefer to think of it as extra insulation - which will be handy come winter. WTF)

‘Are you having a Michael Jackson moment?’

Me, querying the wisdom of The Sister being seen in public wearing black gym pants hitched up past her ankles……and white socks.

‘That looks like something made out of curtain….no, tablecloth material’

The Sister’s succint and devastating summary of a floral slip dress.

What would it feel like to enter a room and know, without looking, that he knows you’re there.

Knowing, just knowing, that if you wanted to, you could walk to his side and take his hand in yours.

Then lean into him, and take a moment just to breathe.

You know that later, if you wanted to, you could bury your face in the front of his shirt.

In that press of warm flesh and warmed cloth that is beginning to smell like him, you can momentarily eclipse the big, bad world out of sight.

This other, better world shrinks to: his one breath in to your one breath out. The feel of his shirt under your fingertips. The way the top of your head nestles into the curve of his neck.

Things are good in this world, you think.

Here, things are restful.

You know you could. But if only he would.

It’s as though I know you, but I don’t know you.

Never underestimate the comfort to be derived from the company of strangers.

我 们 很  久 没 见 面  了 。

最 近的 你 ，  好 吗 ？

其 实 该 问 的 第 一 句话  是：  ‘你 吃 饱 了 吗 ？ ’

因 为 ， 我 们 通信的 那 一 年， 你 每 一 封 的 开 头 无 变 的 就是 这 一 句 。

当 时 的 我 唯 一 的 感  触 是 ： 好 温 心 。 

现 在 ， 在 异 地的另 一 个 我 ，  不 知道 为 什 么 ，  在 这 雨 茫茫 的 深 夜 里 ，  突 然 对 温 心 感 到 莫 名 的 想 念 。 

Don’t be afraid to write in ink.

It is not permanence that I fear.

It is the fact that with every mistake I make, I cannot make it disappear without a trace.

I might not believe in love at first sight.

But I believe in propinquity.

I never meant for you to worry.

I’m alright.

I know that is exactly what a fool in denial would say, but I am truly alright.

Believe me.

I actually feel much better after saying what had to be left unsaid for so long.

Hence, perhaps, the misperceived magnitude of the problem.

But it was sweet of you to be so concerned about me  =)