A Need To Stick (Needles Into People)

I have been doing a week of anaesthetics now, and I'm just glad that I'm getting better at putting laryngeal masks down people, although intubation would be a nice next step. It is quite a gentle rotation, get to work at eight and then leave on time at five. There is nowhere else in medicine that offers those kind of hours.

(Did I just hear a dermatolgist clear his throat in the background? And is that an opthalmologist putting his hand up? And do I see a general practitioner frantically waving?)

2 minor complaints:
1) Hat hair. There is no way of looking glamorous having hidden your hair under the obligatory shower cap they make you wear in the operating theatres.
2) My feet are killing me. I am standing on the most worn out pair of shoes ever. I am getting involuntary foot reflexology from little Chinese aunties hiding in my shoes.

Otherwise, it has been a really fun rotation and quite beautiful at times:

"We need to shift the other cases," the nurse-in-charge barks. "We've got an emergency Caesarean coming in". "Okay," says the anaesthetist. "What needs to be done, needs to be done."

She is soon wheeled in, looking heavy and tired from her arduous labour. It is her first baby. She is on her side, eyes closed, tired from the lack of sleep and the painful contractions.

"Hi, Mrs. N, you're going to have a baby soon," the anaesthetist smiles. "We need to put a needle into your back so that you won't feel what's going on."

She nods her consent and exhales "I trust you." She sits up and leans forward as he paints her back with disinfectant. He struggles awhile with the anaesthetic, trying to find his way into her spinal column to give her the injection. The obstetricians peer in through the glass into the anaesthetic room. He has to wait while she has her contractions. She is on the verge of tears, but too exhausted to cry.

He finally succeeds, and she is on her back again. The anaesthetic soon kicks in and she is soon comfortable. She is wheeled in to the operating theatre, and prepped. "You will feel some tugging and pulling," explains the anaesthetist, "but you shouldn't feel any sharp pains, alright?" She smiles.

Once she is ready, we call her husband in. He sits with her behind the drape curtains we have strung across her chest. They cannot see what is happening, but only put their trust in the obstetricians labouring on the other side. The paediatrician is at standby, ready to receive the baby, and to resuscitate it if needed.

They hear a cry from the other side of the drapes, and the cord is cut. "That's a healthy cry!" the midwife smiles brightly. The baby is brought to the paediatrician, protesting loudly against being taken from her sanctuary for the past nine months. The paediatrician smiles - there is nothing to worry about.

The baby is cleaned and wrapped up in swaddling cloths, and brought to the side of the exhausted mother and the bewildered father. They both have tears in their eyes. The midwife leans in with the baby. "Have a look at your beautiful little girl!"

There are congratulations all around from everyone.

The father comes closer to his daughter, his lips trembling, and pulls the cloth aside from her left ear. He whispers a prayer into her ears, for a good life, and for good health and for all the blessings in the world a father can ask for his child. He takes some honey he has brought with him and with his little finger, dabs a little honey and gently draws along his newborn's lips, with hope for a lifetime of sweetness only to ever cross her precious lips.

The mother looks at her little baby, smiling, and the tears travel along the ridges of her face. The baby is taken from her to the nursery and she lays on the operating table as the obstreticians finish sewing her up. She is happy but almost unsure what to do now. "Don't worry, we will look after her. Why don't you just have a little sleep now."

Nine months of morning sickness and cravings and back pain and sleepless nights finally catch up with her and she drifts off into a deep sleep. The father kisses her forehead and walks away on air, looking as if he'd won a marathon which his wife had run for him.

Happy birthday, Mum! I can't wait to get back in a week's time!