My Everyday unsung hero-under the African sky

 

'Pssh! pssh! Hey, move over a little, you've taken up too much space and the blanket.' This was not an unusual call in the early morning hours when the heaven chilled winds would blow in through the unpaned windows -more like breathers for the the cabin. The dew would be the wind's faithful stead. It would caress our bodies till we were brought back to conscious state. As it were, breath of life was breathed into our nostrils, with an additional touch on our bare bodies. 

Like logs lined up for the roll, we lay each evening, not on the soft comfy porch but on the natural evened out floor, lined with a mat and with the passage of good tides, our own wooden bed replete with cushionings. We didn't complain, for we hadn't known anything better. Yet our bony prominences would oft grown, the occiput and hip-perhaps they deserved better. At times, much of the warmth came not from the covering but from the closeness with which we arrayed ourselves. However, the lads at the ends of the row would often act as shield in times of shear coldness.

We had no alarms to wake us up, nature and mom had concocted a way to rouse us from slumber even before the sun could rise in its glistening morning grandeur. The gripping morning coldness and mom's early morning chores. The searing noise of pots and pans while she cleaned the kitchen dishes, music to her ears it seemed. Dust filled the air, but it soon settled revealing  a glowing sheen. Not much to see really, save a few relics. Old couches and tables at times befitting the meseum yet found welcome place, and old pictures on the walls ,a telling of our roots.

She would oft put water to the boil, and line us up, a triad of boys, and one after another, she performed the ritual of body cleansing.  A dread of the morning. But we appreciated the result, nothing to attract the beauties (girls ), just the mere state of fine looking, modest young lads. Our breakfast was sure, but we didn't fret when we had to settle for kisses on our foreheads and mama's goodwill as she sent us off to school. We dared not feel destitute, for we had much more than a full stomach could warrant. We had a few tricks up our sleeves too. We had come to know, all too soon perhaps, that a empty pocket and stomach were potent in making one a scoundrel, a rogue and all that lies in the train of atrocity, yet the opposite too was true, it would awaken ingenuity, perhaps a breaking of wisdom's pot of gold. We would trade our hard earned knowledge for a note or more, (monetary term). We would pile up our fellow graders' assignment and answer it in their stead. This worked well for us, as this prompted much study. At a time or more we landed ourselves in betting, but more often than not, we had to pay heavy losses for it. Perhaps we were not the best guessers.

While our life strolled by with Interludes of ups and downs. Mom was out and about. She sold at the market place. She always motioned-'my little one's, if I  have to sweep the streets for you, I'ld sweep a hundred of them, and I'ld do it with a smile on my face for my delight is not in money or fare dine, or laudeable apparel, though that would be mighty fine, my joy is found in yours' . This often brought tears to my owled eyes-late night watcher  I was.  I didn't make it known to her that tears filled my eyes most of the nights, especially because her joy lay in ours- I must admit, many of the 'runny noses' I attributed to common cold and treated as such, where a mere breakdown in her presence and a perfect cover up. Did she know I was covering it up? Perchance. If she did, she sure had her own share of cover up. 

Mom's trade in perishables -tomatoes ,among others, was not always an easy one. She would awaken at dawn and after her preps, would hasten to get a good purchase at fair price from the good old farmers . Trucks tolled into the market docking area, and dozens of tomotoe boxes were unloaded.  She selected a few good ones

with the number depending on the weight of her 'pocket' as it were.  On good day, she would sell the entire purchase, but some days she would barely sell a single tomotoe. But she was rarely disconsolate . She always held her chin high. She refused to be reduced to mendicancy or dire paupery. 

After school, we would avail ourselves at the market place, so we could help her with the sales once in a while, though she didn't demand it of us. She said we needed to get married to books, everything else was to follow later on. 

There was a golden glow that marked her face even in the face of hardship.  The sweat streaked brow ,the calloused hands all testified to the effort placed in the work. I dared not compare her to the manicured hands I saw from others, their lot was different. She had little time for the beauty Palour, later on afford it, but she was our model, even though we were not spared a great deal of beatings for our unwonted misgivings.  

Before dusk, we each had to give account of our school work. We had to make sure all was done in good time. She required us to be studying extensively. The catch however, was, we barely had any books to read. The only books we had at our disposal were a few books we had to share at our basic school. She would make us read newspaper she would often come with home, and in a stroke of chance, she would acquire what  I might wittily term 5th-hand books (but of course the information Therein was still first hand-so worth it). She would get tbem from her 'well-faired ' friends, and a few she could gather from the street sellers.  We read just about anything that was contained in a book. 'If you are ever going to find success, it will be in the books' she would often snort if we dared lazy around on the little 21inch bellied screen television. Of course a little indulgence was permissible , especially if educational matters were aired.

The common ritual before retiring to bed was family round table prayer, with no table really. If anyone could pray, mom was one.   She would read out a few verses from scripture -which as may have been expected, she conjured us to read through, followed by an explanation. Then we would bow our heads low, and she would offer up a prayer. Often left her as the only one awake by the time the amen was uttered. 

We would be awoken to head to our little place of sleep. Sleep it seemed was our common escape from the toils of the day. But morning was always looming, ready to get us started in another's day round. 

An unexpected turn 2

"Abdominal pack out"
"Nylon 3 suture please",
"Nylon 3 suture coming right up"
"Finishing time!"
"22:00 hundred hours-finishing time"
Another suscesful appendicentomy! A prayer of thanks is offered . All are unscrubbed-and we called it a day.
I was getting ready to go home after a long day. I walked through the sombering corridors of the theretre, all coloured either in pearly green or turquoise blue. I could hear every nudge of my step on the floor. The monotony of colour was not one appealing to sight, but over the years, it had become almost an emblem of the OT. I watched as patients where wheeled in as emergency or elective cases for operation. The anxious look on their faces differed very little from my own, especially in my early years of apprenticeship. Sometimes I feared my hands and eyes would fail to coordinate, sending the patient into a precocious rest from which they would awaken no more. I would often query whether the air cons were functional or had become decrepit over time-for streaks of perspiration would mark my brow as it were a man working in the blast furnace .
I reached out into my back pack to pick out my mobile that created a discord in the serene silence that prevailed. I turned to switch it off, but in no time it rang again. I supposed it to be a call. But as I took a clear look at the screen, the time read thus '9 AM'. I turned to my wrist watch to thwart the inconsistency in time, and it read '09:00hrs'. I wondered as to what could have caused that strange tell of time. Had I over stayed in theretre or were my 'time keepers' unwary of the hand of time?
While in the jargon of thought, and paucity of action, a familiar sound was heard. A doorbell. But why would a doorbell be heard in theretre? In the maze I heard a distinctive voice calling out ,"Andy, Andy, Andy!" For a moment I felt a little entranced, then it hit me, I had just awoken from sleep. And I was late for work. It was really 9 in the morning. I pulled the curtains, and a flood of light swept through the room with piercing brightness. I jumped out of bed as one who escaped the clutters of death.
I hurriedly rushed to the door to check who had come to disturb me early morning. As I turned the door knob I realized I was not ready to meet the world in my state, the night's drool had clowned my face. "A minute " I shouted . "Alright pal" a reply came.
After putting on a gentleman's facade, I opened the door and who should I find standing in front of me with a jolly big banana smile, Natalie! She had a striking semblance of little red riding hood. The scene however lacked a old granny and a rogue of a wolf. And instead of a red hoody, she had on royal blue. "Hey Andy, good morning, hope you had a lovely night. I just came by to let you know that I have made plans for you to meet up with mom. I told her that you are a therapist, and that you could be of great help to her. Though she wanted to know what kind of therapist you where, she said there's a whole bunch of your type and she needed to know which one. Actually she wanted to know if you do psychotherapy or something like that. So which one are you Andy?"
"Aaaaaum. Aaah, well Natalie, can we talk about that a little later, I kinda overslept and I need to rush for work right now. My boss will be wroth with me if don't make up for lost time."
"Oh okay, sure. No problem. Then I'll see you tomorrow, is that okay?"
"Tomorrow is fine, you need to get going now, wooosh"
"Okay Andy , 'Mr Andy'."
"Wow, that went fine, no resistance."
I turned to fix myself up for the day's work. But just when a stone's throw away, my little neighborhood 'miss bouquet' turned and shouted, "OH, Andy, I have kept my word, I made delivery of flowers to Chandler. She's an angel, she loved them flowers. In fact she said if I keep up the good work, she'll pay me a 'note' for every delivery."
"She liked them?" ,
"Aanha!"
"But wait minute, did you tell her they were from me?"
"Well aaah, no. Was I supposed to?"
At this point I had totally forgotten time was ticking.
"What? But that was part of our deal- you were supposed to take the flowers and tell her they were a gift from me, you know, like a weekly dose of friendship "
"But technically they were my flowers you know" she interrupted .
"Natalie!" I motioned with a seemingly stern face.
"Alright  alright, alrighty then. I'm sorry, I should have told her- in fact I'll let her know on my next dispatch . Oh and do I also get a little allowance  since I'm doing this outside my compassion week itinerary? "
"I thought a visit to your mom was your pay?"
"Okay, okay-deal renewed on old terms"
I soon managed to wade off my little whisker.  I ran into a frenzy to ready myself for work and in no time I was out of the house.
As usual, by the time I perched into the hospital area, the parking lot was filled up. I had to maneuver around for a porch for my little cart. I knew a fine or clamp was coming my way for that.
I rushed into the clinic and was I in luck, my absence was bearly noticed. I took my place in one of the rooms and I was handed a pile of patients's files. Patient after another walked in and walked out till non was left. A wheeew moment . Some patients were satisfied, others dispondent. A clinch in diagnosis was always something to look forward to as a doctor yet a dread,at times, to the patient for it either added to the fears or added to the already existing exasperation. One of the hardest things I had come to learn is to admit ones gap in knowledge of certain spheres of medicine, though one dreaded instilling a lack of confidence in the Healthcare system. 'I don't know, followed by appropriate reference if avaialble' would save many an alchemist of health unnecessary trouble, and the patient -mismanagement. At the end of the day, it was worthwhile . I had come to enjoy the ritual of inspection, palpation percussion and auscultation. It made me appreciate the little details of life.  Things as subtle as splinter hemorrhages, or nicotine stains could be harbingers of grave conditions-hence their presence worth notice.
Perhaps Natalie was that little nuance of life that reminded me that the simple things of life do really matter too. Perhaps I needed a bouquet of beauties by my clinical window.

An unexpected turn.

The doorbell rung, I stayed. I wasn't used to such automations. I was used to the classic unmistakable knock, guess I could proud myself an old timer. Anyway, I crouched over to open the door. I was home alone, and I was trying to satisfy a certain craving, binging on some toast. I reached  for the door knob ,and just as I was about to turn it open, It dawned on me, I was unkempt-not a bad feeling when alone of course. I made haste to a quick squirting of this and that, and a little unorthodox pampering. All done. The door open, a little hooded lady-a little girl to be more precise, was walking away along the porch, in a little sombering mood. I called out . She turned and with a jolly yell, she responded, 'Goodmorning Sir, You are in luck, I have just brought you my last bunch of flowers for the day." "But I did not order any flowers ,and if I did, I must have been mistaken" I said. "No,silly!" She said with chuckles " they are for free from me to you-its compassion week so I've been randomly giving out flowers to folks in my neighborhood-you just happened to be in luck Sir."  So I had found myself in a interesting situation.  So last I checked, there was nothing really for free, a catch was always looming in the minute at every nook.

I got the flowers from her-and I could see the shimmerng glow in her eyes-golden. Perhaps she had hit jackpot or something like it, but of course before the feelings could become mutual and any more fuzzier than already was-I performed the ritual of appreciation and 'wisked' her off  "Off you go now little one, off you go- thy good works await thee, and non but thee can satisfy " For a moment I thought that morning's interlude had come to a tranquil end.
I turned to return to my lonetime, took a second ,a third then probably a forth look at the 'bouquet', It was actually a beautiful augmentation of colour and scent. I pulled out a petal one after the other and took a long breathe in before letting a petal to the ground. I turned around and who should I see standing still like a statue-the little girl. 'They can stay much longer if you didn't pull out the petals-and if you asked I could help put them in a water container ,that way they will keep their natural glow much longer." She said. "Okay, Madam ,come over and finish thy work -tarry not for I have not all day for the mundane."
"And my name is Natalie, if you may wish to know" she retorted.
 My 'me-time' had just suffered an encroachment. I was now enrolled in the school of interior design or home decor, and neither was my delight. In no time, not only the flowers took a manicure pedicure-treat,the whole place somehow looked brighter and inviting, a strange turn of events indeed, so perhaps I loved my new intruder after all.
"Natalie" I called out ,"Why do you like flowers?" "Oh, flowers-they are beautiful -I love beautiful things, don't you?"
"Oh I do too, but flowers don't last"
"True, unfortunately most beautiful things don't last, but we can enjoy them while they do-says mom"
" Your mom is very right-and I sense a superhero mom coming up" I added.
"Yeah, she is, though she's not so keen on me cutting flowers -she prefers they remain on the stalk to preserve their life. She's a doctor so perhaps you may understand ,saving and preserving life is pretty much at heart for her. I was a little hurt when I saw you pulling out the petals and throwing them to the ground- a waste of my effort ,I thought, hence my offer to help you put them up in some water so they stay up fresh a little longer."
I felt some emotional chills go up my spine, I recoiled with an apology. To atone for my iniquity I surprised my 'lady' with a 'sweet-tooth' chocolate energy bar treat. The surprise was, however, on me-Natalie was a health conscious little rookie. "Those ain't good for your teeth" I showed her my sleekey-silky white teeth as an exhibit, "You won't have them for long if you continue-nature has been generous with you, don't push her -when she reacts, she over reacts " she spoke in her untamed voice. "Wow,you are a smart one!"
"You have no option when your mom and dad are both doctors-a surgeon and a physician." I did not want to demean the profession, I held my peace- how could I now reveal that I too was a medical doctor? I took back my treats, they survived to be eaten another day. I replaced them with some nuts instead-
And the question I dreaded was posed,"So sir!" ,"Andy, Andy is my name" I interupted. "Okay, so Andy, what do you do for a living, are you employed, an employer or a loafer or perhaps a student? " ,
"Wheeew, that's a mouthful of options. I'm a ,aaaaah, I'm a health assistant -yeah, a health assistant. I help out people feel better." I said that with a surge of ingenuity. "Oh, so you are a therapist? That's awesome! I need to introduce you to my mom-she gets a little grumpy at times, perhaps you can help out -you will ,won't you?"  So perhaps not so great wits on me at that moment. I made her a deal, If she could deliver a flower bouquet every week to a miss Chandler, a few blocks down the street, then I would fulfill my end of the burgain. She agreed with a dimply smile."Me and you gat a deal"
Our little rendezvous soon ended. She took leave. As she left I dared ask, "So how many bouquets have you delivered today?" , "Oh, just two, I gave the first to my mom, then mom said I give the other to some homeless one, but I couldn't find any so I turned to your house- today was your lucky day Andy-make that, helper-Andy"
Well, what do you know,  I was the next thing to a homeless one-anyway I had just won myself a free bouquet delivery lady.

The fire call-a close shave

Darkness was ensuing, the stillness of the night was stealing in on us, all things visible in daylight were putting on a darkened veil, becoming an ambiguity to sight, save those illumined by the man's machination, while things inconspicuous became candid. That which was to our way clear would at varied times dim our perception-the dazzling lights that keep watch of the city. The very luminance that proffered a sense of safety in the dark alleys somehow instilled in us a sense of defenselessness -an easy sighting by night quacks- nightly marauders.

We took each stride with brevity, each step longer and brisker than the former. We fell short of levitating as we maneuvered the ever winding paths. Our lips ware paced, heart racing, yet we gathered courage from our number-a trio of night walkers. We dared not walk in silence too long,for then our untamed imagination would run wild, a perfect recipe for self bred consternation. A continued round of discourse kept all unwarranted thoughts at bay. 

In stroke of luck, or perhaps unnatural intervention, we spotted a minivan/minibus. We waved in concordance. The door of the little 'courier' was slid open way before the 'nightly express' could come to a an auspicious halt for our climb-nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps an old trick of the trade. In sighs of relief, we went aboard. There was not much room in the 'inn' but there was plenty of warmth and safety. We slithered our way to the back cottage as it were (back seat), the least desired in this kind of a 'cell'. 

We started off in the far distance. At ease, we spoke of the day's errands. We were oblivious, perhaps insensate to all the proceedings around us, save to make payment for our ride-hitch. 

As per custom, the the mighty fortress was brought down-the door was slid open as the bus took another steady halt, per adventure to rescue others from nightly fetters of the pedestrian's lot. This time however, the door stayed open far much longer. But we dared not question the competence of the man behind the operation. We waited for the engine's morn. In a moments breathe, or a epiphany as it were, a strange consternation filled all aboard, we were an exception.  All secured themselves towards the door, as if running for dear life's sake. Others feigned for an exit via the windows, but that escape route could not grant passage to anyone within. Men and women disembarked in pairs or trios, a case of  diapedesis indeed, where ordinarily one would be permitted passage. 

We concluded it must be a fire-"The vehicle is on fire!". We soon followed suit, out of the cabin, we dared not brave the flames' incinerating prowess. To our amazement, there was no fire at all, no fumes or flame. We wondered then what had transpired.

We took a second look into the little carrier. The man behind the wheel was still in his seat, as if bolted to it. His head, swung over the neck rest, eyes rolled up, froth emanating from his oral cavity (mouth), with jerky movements, as if suffering a electrocution in a slow paced fashion- a terrifying site to many, yet not unfamiliar to us. We quickly rushed to open the door to the driver's seat, turned off the mini and pulled the man out, lest he stepped on the gas peddle, an outcome we cowered to fathom. He was more than the average man in height and weight-the attempt to free him from his seat took a little more than a few minutes wind before we finally dislodged him. We put him in a left lateral position (recovery position) behind the driver's seat- I took charge of his stability while my two buddies took over the mini. As the engine was started, the little crowd was poised in a dilemma.  Should they remain on the side walk in the dark or get back in the bus that had just been high-jacked on medical grounds? But of course they had little reason to stay out, as they rushed back in. We raved off speedily towards the hospital.
On our way, in a rude escapade, another mini decided to overtake us when no opportunity was provided -making us veer off  the road, but in a Divine interposition, I may add, my colleague regained control off the little machine. The crowd within, now fearing for their lives once again, perhaps in a close call of fate, they hurled curses at the driver of the offending party. Whether that brought relief to their fear-struck hearts was anyone's guess, perhaps a little confessing would follow soon after the dust, or drama settled, as the conscious was granted its rightful seat once more.

We reached the hospital, but just as we were about to rush the convulsing driver to the emergency department, he fully regained consciousness, was no longer frothing  and was able to stand on his two feet. A little cool nightly breeze soon saw him well oriented to time, place and person. Another mini came over. It was the rudely interposing mini. Yet we dared not engage in any squabbling, we simply left the scene. Our part was played, not in perfect picturesque scenes but in perfect timing.  We had a false fire-call, but a close shave it was. We had come to our abode- 'in three pieces'. 

The road between

Life has it that we meet people in our path. Some headed our way-in or out of pace, some the  contrary direction, and some just cross our path, like a wind that raises a bout of dust, whirling it high soon vanishes to be as though it had not been. But whatever the case, we are woven into bonds fickle or not, lasting or momentary. We leave an impress on others as much as they leave their prints in our track. And when life does not grant us the chance we desire to meet with folk of a particular type, we wade our way through it's maze to get into their tracks. Per chance we may find one who makes our jagged life a little more mollified . We may have little luck on determining who walks our lane, yet we are not decrepit of the right to choose who sticks around.

Like a planetary body knocked out of its circuit, I wandered off my busy rut. I paved my way to a coccus of lads by the apartment balcony. I was soon lost in the canvas as I unconsciously weaved my way to take lead of the conversations that prevailed. The sun was setting, and in its departure, it seemed to have set in motion a cascade of beauty augmentation. I paused as I watched and directed everyone's attention to the 'mirage of beauty' that trailed the streaming rays of light with their golden shy. In a distance, a lady was seen walking along the side walk,on the other side of the road. In a moment, I seemed to have contracted a fixed gaze deformity as my eyes glared in awe. Was her form augmented in beauty by the setting sun too, was it a mirage? I did not dare keep in mind that which would becloud my mind, so I cast a blind eye ,looked away. Like it is said , 'out of sight ,out of mind'.
I had always held the thought that men ought to be emotionless, ice cold, rock hard-immovable perhaps . Like machines, men were to have a purpose fixed, with nothing to destruct. I had repented of my flow that had left me spelled bound at the sight of a supposed beauty laced damsel. I had committed a felony against my hard wired morals. That was not to have a repeat in action or thought. Of course this did not imply any lack of the human feelings of empathy, sympathy, the ethos of living.  Perhaps, something of a shell with a hard casing with a soft center. I was still human.

With heavy perspiration on my brow, I had completed my days work in my unconventional office. One that required not less than several hours standing on end trying to probe into many a man's malady and somehow determine the course of a curative. I worked as one whose life was of little worth in comparison to those whose lives were at the brink, ready to turn ashen gray-to ebb away into peaceful, yet loathed silence. I had to be composed in the face of death and all the mourns and groans that would oddly be absent, and the 'over the roof' ululations that beckoned at every new arrival to life. The day's work was done, I had put many a piece together, sometimes torn to pieces myself, but I had learnt the art of a flat face when I could barely hold myself together. I checked out. I walked back to my apartment, not with a bright hue or ruddy face of the morn, but a worn out visage.
As I reached the staircase of the apartment, I beheld a lady in bright apparel walk gracefully unaccompanied, she walked past me with a courtesy 'Hi'. I retorted with 'Hey'. Perhaps I was not previewed to the meaning of such a plane, seamless greeting. Yet out of disinterested care, I asked, "Where are you headed to?" She smiled and replied,"I'm going to get a little something to chew on at the grocery store"As we parted ways, I exclaimed "and by the way, my name is Nkule, Nkule Kwesu!" She once again smiled, "I know you Nkule". I was getting a little uneasy, I wondered how she knew me and I did not. Sue was her name, and it happened that she was the lady I had seen while on the balcony, a number of days earlier.
In a betrayal of my good old code, my mouth spoke out of sync with my will, but before I could correct my erring attitude, Sue gladly accepted my request to escort her, ''Awww, that's so nice of you, I'd be glad if you did".  I walked her to the store as though forced to swallow a bitter pill. Yet Sue was unmindful of my begrudged demeanor,  in fact, by the time reached the store, she had me chuckling to jokes that did not even sense. The bitter pill had a sweet savoury center, it turned out.
That day my repose was different.  I no longer rolled or tossed in bed screeming,' Vitals, pulses, check the RBS...or We are loosing him, or perhaps, secure the IV line!'  I felt a different hue in the milieu.
One may be right to say I was entranced. In thought I begun to to concoct what may be termed the un-penned chapter of the classical book of song of songs, as it were, in my unwonted imagination: Poem to the beloved.
What are words my love, if they amount to naught. Would you have me move mountains to prove them, or perhaps cross the deep, sail the coasts , amass the greatest amount of wealth? Would you have me sing in sweetest note, sweeter than angels? If I had wings to fly, I would fly to you always. I would take you on a voyage of the unknown, wonders from the creator's hand. We would together seek the ends of the earth, to find where the sun lodges as it sets, or its bed as it awakens. We would seek out the storehouse of the wind, the clouds and the rain. And perhaps the rainbow too.
Where are you my love. My heart pants for you no less than a doe pants while in escape from a wolf. I own no mansion to pamper you. I own no army to protect you. I own nothing save a delicate garden with almonds, roses fare and rare. The vine and the pomegranate too. Come and share in the beauty of simplicity.  Should you feel the need to cry, I have more than a shoulder to cry on, should you feel lonely, I have more than a heart to keep you company, should you feel cold, my arms a long enough to extend round you for warmth. Should you desire to laugh, It's good medicine, I practice it. If eternity be our lot , I would wish to spend it with you.
Oh that I would not be entranced by anything else. Oh that you would bless me with your love.
For the first time in ages I blushed. I had contracted a new friendship. I would now have reason to knock off in good time to check up on a new friend. But I dared not put myself on the spotlight, for I had fallen from the strength of a man as it were. I had associated myself with the caste of a different kind.
We laughed, we grieved and sometimes cut communication. We sometimes rubbed against each other so much that we felt it better that we each went our own way. Unlike machines that have a reduction in friction the more they rubbed against each other, humans, it seems have a direct increase in friction the more they rub against each other. Sometimes an index of incompatibility.  However, more often than not, we swallowed the bitter pill offered us by pride ,and reconciled.
With time however, it was becoming apparent that Sue and I had walked off kilter in the same lane. She was well poised for success in life with pretty much all the amenities to get her to her goal in life. I on the other hand was a downtown lad, that had escaped or at least was trying to evade the 'plague' as it were. I was indebted to many to reach this far. Like many a lad that had to bare with the scruples of life, I was bent on making others happy and possibly proud, more than myself. Perhaps this too kept me aloof from creating any extra bonds with anyone, for how should I face them that patiently await my success at the end of the road? Sue had little to prove, all she needed was to graduate and get herself a job. Though we got along quite well, one could not help but notice the uneasiness that came with the reality that I was in the doldrums of life.
Soon the heaving earth was becoming apparent as the road between was widening. Perhaps a telling of a gruesome reality. Nature had wired our opposite caste to associate with a lad with propensity or ability to provide. And rightly so. However , I was never taught to belittle my capabilities. 'Aim high son' was not just a byword, it was the match word. Soon Sue left, headed to a land far out of reach. I sobbed. Not for distance in topography, but for distance in hearts.
I recounted the moments we spent together. My mind brought to memory the first meeting, a perfect rendezvous . And now like an arithmetical tangential line that comes to meet at a point, we met and now part. Perhaps we sometimes meet to part .
Happiness is momentary, enjoy it while it lasts. Joy is a principle, grow it, when all around is stale, it shall be the sunlight through the window.
Now i stand once more on the balcony of my apartment, not to gaze upon any form or being, but to breathe deep, to appreciate the barriers that separate us, and the road between that brings us close, knitting us into a fabric.

The OT.

Walking down the corridor, I stopped to check the time on my analogue wrist watch,it was not quite clear, so I gave it a little mouth steaming and hand rub. Still I could not make much of anything, the hands of time all seemed to be at equal length. I decided to turn aside for a face wash, and then took another look, it was 4 in the morning. I did not realize I had spent the whole night awake. Perhaps I was unconsciously awake. It had been a long night,for the length of the corridor seemed longer than usual, my feet heavy and the chills of the early morn were starting to be noticed on my goose bumped skin. The silence in the corridor was searingly cold- i could almost hear every breath i took and every squeak on the ground was augmented.

I had just come out of the operating room. All scrubbed up, I had been the assistant during a cesarean section delivery. My first I must add. I was ecstatic. Like a shuttle ready to launch into outer space, we set out with a mission called 'Cesar'. From scalpel to needle driver, screens to lighting-all was set. At T-zero, all was hushed, I could hear no other sound save the voice of my attending obstetrician and the monitors that tentacled from the operating table. I had read thus,"in medicine,failure is fatal" ,I could not afford  to fail, the price was too high-life. I felt a little entitled to a successful operation, my wits told me it was not an unwonted thought, not a bigoted entitlement.  After all, the glory,if any, I would receive would not amount to the joy the new bundle would bring to the family, I presumed. However, medical pedagogy has it that the best doctors or surgeons, as we operated in that case, were not bereft or free from the clutters of failure, perhaps had encountered it more than the quack or the good old MD.

Seconds passed, and in the same train, minutes. We delved in, first the blade then the re-tractor. Incisions were meticulously made across the lower part of the belly, for our presence at site was not to be apparent once all was done. Unlike an artist desirous of a perfect finish we desired no trace of our being.  Every disturbance in the natural frame was to be made with great caution. The first cut was not to be the deepest. It was to be the finest! For a moment, the road was as smooth as it could get, till we encountered the menacing vasculature. The path was no longer as clear as before. Blood oozed from every corner. It was as if we had hit a landmine, or were hit by a blizzard . "Suction,suction!" the call rang out, and I was quick to the task,'' Suctioning, suctioning!''. The way was once again maneuverable. A few spurts of blood remained but nothing a good wash would not do. Soon we had reached the womb. A semblance of great workmanship-a bulwark to keep all marauders out, and inhabitants hemmed in. Yet our arsenals were built for the task, the walls came down as the dissecting tool was laid on, and as if in applause or a stand innovation, a gush of clear fluid pored forth. The little lad was brought out and with a loud cry. A paradoxical cry of freedom. Freedom from a home that was starting to feel a little estranged.  Yet the new world was too different, unknown. It was covered in liquor and clung to its mother with a cord of life till it was severed, withstanding that, the cry had rendered its connection void, needless for further sustenance of life. From that time on, the breath of life was in ts nostrils. The new earthling had made a successful transition. For some, the plot was a different one. The womb was to be  their home and grave too. Nature had tried to relegate it to the same fate as others who failed to make it out in good time, but in a perfect bid, against the odds, it survived. Nature's natural train had been evaded, mother and baby could live to smile another day.

We soon sutured up the evacuation site. And in no time, all was over. A sigh of relief and appreciation of life. All done, we left the OT as was termed. Performed the scribe's ritual of record keeping, for once again in medicine, 'If it was not written, it was not done!'.
We walked out as men of valour. No applause or wreaths awaited us, we had more than enough to make up for it with the joy of seeing the mother and baby off the operating table full of vigor, and perhaps the half a mark or two for the successful procedure in my student's logbook.

7year -endGame

Wheew, what a day! Or perhaps,good riddens! Or maybe a little more like,we saved the patient,we lost the child, the twins are now out of danger, that CPR was a close shave for that case. The later more than the former depict the possible sentiments aired out after a routine round in the hospital ward,clinic or theatre. But in commonality, they all express a milieue of laborious work. Yet every bit of perspiration that comes along with it is worth every ounce.
I am no magician, and neither are any in the fraternity, yet many a man expects from us the same alacrity. At the sight of a white coated, stern, mollified or flat faced being, the common man feels naked as pertaining to his ills, and oft wonders why a simple narration of his complaint doesn't set in motion a epiphany. One that should be a natural elucidater as to both malady and curative. Further questions often are seen as an I'll fated escarpade, a waste of time, a little toying perhaps.
Like a gixel puzzle, most, if not all, the pieces of a story are needed to come up with a diagnosis of disease or possibly a mere lack of it, or hypochondriasis (a medical condition in which physical symptoms are manifest, with no notable disease process, that stems from one's belief of possessing ill health). I must add, nontheless, that even with all the pieces readily available, it is far from child's play working one's way to get to the bottom of the case, and paint the perfect or near perfect montage of the condition. Sometimes, the task is aided by a mere stroke of luck, yet many a time, brain matter, and time has to be expended to come up with a succinct construct.  At saundry times, a simple glance does it all, at others, a concord of speech and touch and other machinations necessary  have to be employed. Then there are times when nature seems to conspire against all that is called scientific erudition- a case of idiopathy-
In medical practice, dexterity of both mind and hand are a requisite. For what the mind can not appreciate, comprehend or fanthom, the hand by touch must elucidate. Perhaps it's a compliment to the thinking process, and acts to show care and concern.

Seven years. Not eight, not five or six, simply seven. This is the time course for medical rite of passage. It's not cast in stone or written in the skies, but in my part of the world, it bears sway.  The first four (premed) prepare one for the clinical years. Books are read religiously, terms and conditions are put to memory at all cost, even with the use  of mnemonics,which often have to be remmebered at great pains too. Perhaps it's an inculcation of the idealogy that error may be fatal in medical practice. Though this be true, yet I believe that fear of failure decapitates any sprout of creativity . It assails the zeal to try. One is left with no option but to live by the book in the strictest sense possible. Any deviation is apostasy . For some, this worked to instill a fear of the trade, and so they opted out of the ship or stayed aboard for time already lost.

like a turn of new season, winter to spring or summer to autumn . First the bud, the flower, the fruit (if any) then the fall of the leaves ,and the cycle restarts. Time too was takin an ever winding turn. Relentless in its course. Peers that opted for slightly shorter courses like four and five years soon left the stage. Soon they took on a more mature form, as they walked a new lane as lawyers, merchant men, bankers and the like. One in my course would wonder weather the length of time we had to run was really worth it. We felt, perhaps, like babes that could not be weaned off from a mother's milk. But we walked it with patience  nontheless. It was our lot.
I do not consider my self or any in the profession as standing in the gap of death and life, but if by any chance we do stand anywhere near it, it is only to observe and lend a hand to nature to take its course. Nature breads life, and allows it to ebb away into utter silence. It puts up a fight to sustain life, and gives up only when beyond its capabilities, perhaps our work is partly to prevent it from waning too quickly. Sometimes physiology goes heywire and has to be rewired.
The hardest thing I have come to learn in my apprenticeship is to be able to accept my gaps of knowledge,wether evident or not. I would rather conjecture a story, evading reality, perhaps explaining away things that seem off kilter, out my my grasp. 'A doctor not knowing? That's absurd! Or so I thought. But the sooner one realized his/her limitations, the better at practice and patient care one would become, as it would necessitate consultation. Of course knowing nothing or too little, like a clean slate, sterile brain , adatic, or hypodatic as was wittingly refered  to, was unacceptable. So like any good student I had to have a balance between the 'know it all' and 'no data' . The former, unlike the later was obviously the easier option.
In seventh year atlast. The happy estaste. Nothing much changes however. It seems all still too abstract. Much like a surfer who finally gets to surf the highest wave, a surfers dream, yet at the end still thirst for something more. One wonders at what point 'they' really get to feel all-ready for the task. At what point does one feel ,'I can do this' and really 'do this'? At what point does one get to have pretty much all the common diagnoses, drugs and respective doses ,with their indications and contraindications at the finger tips? Does it all creep in as a stealthy slithered creature unawares ? At one moment, one begins to wonder Wether all classes were attended. But courage is gathered by precedence. "We are not at all the first, and neither are we the last." Seventh year is like a tip of a crescendo or the highest note in an appergio. One is placed in a unit comprising of a small number of fellow seventh year and fifth year clincal students, stands as the last line of defense in a 'wiring session' (a term loosly used to mean a question and answer session which may occur anywhere within the confines of the hospital). A case or a row of cases would be presented at the bedside or any place of convenience. Senior doctors, as per custom, would tease out information from the presentation and throw a barrage of questions like a bombshell , a times, to test the comprehension of the case by the students.  These session wavered between a warm friendly milieue to a 'hot sit' kind of experience. Sometimes it was fun and laughter, but more often, it felt like a an eternity of stress on the student.
By the time one makes a touch down at the foothills of the seventh plot, much of the zest is gone, years of a rigorous rut have sapped out the strength from within. The only incentive to moving on is the fact that it's the last leg of the race, a fore tell of the end. The end of the race or game as it were. A new dawn is brought to view. One may look back at moments of failure , disappointment and all the possible embarrassing moments faced in clinical practice and count every bit as worth more than a dime.  Of course not up for a relieve.