Before I hang my stethoscope

Before I hang my stethoscope

Results were in, fingers were crossed (not literally though), hearts  raced with a pace unmatched, the pound was wrenching,sounds were hushed ,visual fields were suddenly reduced to tunnel vision ,yet acuity was returned,perhaps to keep all distruction out of sight. The moment of truth had come. Like the last penalty kip to be taken at the world cup finals, all 'earth' seemed to stand still,in awful silence, as if to have a glimpse of the moment before rolling by. The long awaited last  preclinical year results were in. In a turn of a second , everything that had taken  on a grayscale took on a new sheen. 'Clear pass' ,this statement bore great significance to every student. Somehow,all the sleepless nights, the headaches of meeting deadlines,the gruesome task of digesting and regurgitating information was embodied in this rather plain inscription. Climacteric? Definitely!  It mattered little,nontheless, if it had a prelude of  ' silent'-a bare pass,credit,merit or the appraised distinction. In the excitement, the frenzy, no one cared about the grade of the pass, perhaps until all had returned to baseline normalcy,and the dust had settled.
The great divide,the ravine had been crossed with success. Wreaths of victory were ours for the taking. A few were maimed along the way,some were relegated,and our hearts would go out to them in tenderest pity. We dared not jest, deride or look with scorn at their estate, for all things,whatsoever they be, do happen in the stream of time for a reason. And who dares to insult reason! I have fed my eyes on a passage in holy writ that reads thus,' And we know that all things work together for the good to those who love God...'* We would hung as it were,our harps by the banks and cease to sing the songs of the homeland when met with one who would have enlisted in our joys,yet chance allowed him not the privilege. Our only consolation was the rolling of time. The remedy of time, non can comprehend. There is balm in the passage of time, we had come to learn. Scars it may return, but a balm nontheless.
The stethoscope, few understand it's significance. Many associate it with the practice of medicine and it's technicalities ,and rightly so. Yet one who has ventured through the rigorous training of medical school will understand that it goes beyond the practice, the diagnoses, or indeed the heart beat. It is a relic with ethos , a gourd of the experiences one has had, it is a symbol of the fraternity. All wrapped up in a 'leathery' black casing,or in silvery dull gray or indeed any other form,elegant or simple,decorated or plain, the stethoscope, a quintessential gift fit for a servant of the land, a servant of the common and nobbleman. It encapsulates the art and science to be found in medicine.
With the joys slowly abating,I begun to realize I ,like my corhorts, had just entered new enchanted territory. Things were about to take a new turn. That which we had to imagine to be real, we now had to imagine it was feinged. Patients were discussed,thought of,as cases to loose their individuality ,perhaps to save us the misery of attachement. Dummies did not cry or flinch in pain, blood was as good as your imagination would take you. Every aim at canulation was a straight hit, never to miss a vessel, no precious fluid wasted, no ounce of blood lost. A torniquet could be left tied with no risk of injury. There was no mistake too grave, no misshap fetal. But not so in the emergency unit, on the wards, in the treatment room or the theatre bed.
Like soldiers who with excitement  receive their armoury and with a sudden gust of bravery rush for the attack and soon realise the perils involved, we saw life in a different light. At first we walked the corridors with 'steths' hanging round our necks, or cartridged somewhere as a bodily appendage where one need not ask whether or not you were part of the 'nobility'. Seniors would often have theirs tucked away somewhere as if to conceal their identity. Once in a while , it would be exposed to perform the ritual of patient examination, afterwhich it was back in the marsupial pouch. I saw this to be strange. Who would want to hide the very thing that sets one apart from all others?
somehow, the steth,togetehr with the white court seemed to have a force of attraction that I just didn't understand. Walking in the isles, in between bays, patients would glare at me, as if to whisper in tones heard only by my heart. "Doctor!doctor! the calls would ring out. I would often rush to look for one, for it took me quite some time to realise  I was the 'doctor' . Yet my fears prevented me from engaging to close. I witnessed my consultants and other senior stuff perform resuscitaions, but I dared not be the last person the patient saw before his/her demise. Soon It dawned on me that others trusted me more than my mind could comprehend, more than my self confidence could allow.
Soon I realise  my fear to fail would probably see more people helpless than my failure after an attempt. I took my apprenticeship seriously. At least to my best of ability.  Like my colleagues ,I was an ardent student. A disciple of the forerunners , as it were. We followed through the daily rut. With our hairs on end at every turn, we were on the receiving end of another's  labile mood.
At first, we were all engrossed in trying to find the book fitting case. One who found a classical case of meningitis, syphilis, down syndrome, Steven Johnson syndrome, or typhoid or the endless list of syndromes somehow felt the tinge of cloud 9.  We would often grunt in discontentment when a patient was discharged before the case was presented to the class or consultant. Our desire to learn seemed to overshadow our sympathies. We could barely recall the names of the patients, yet seldom would we forget their ailment. Had we suddenly lost sight of our high calling? Had we become seered?
When faced with death, we interlectualised it,we explained the cause so as find reason to accept it's occurence. Nothing was to be left to the grip of chance. When helping a mother bring forth new life, we wore straight faces,and only smiled to show the mother all was well. If the first breathes turned to paleness, we did the ritual of lifesaving. If death ensued, we closed the case, and in learnt acts of simpathy, we counseled the patient. The irony ,so disconnected from the patient yet so intricately close.
The beauty of the ward, seeing one who was at the edge, ready to ebb away in utter nothingness,  to remain no more in the land of the living, leave the bay with a dance of victory. Death evaded, perhaps to meet with it another day. Everytime one gets his/her hands and, upon consent of the patient, places them on the patients body, something happens that only the doctor and patient may understand.  The patient feels the hands as messengers of hope, an assurance of life without ills. The doctor gently awaits communication through the palms perhaps what his eyes fail to see, the hands will feel, providing a little more information about the one who holds him in high esteem. What the hands fail to appreciate, the aided ear is implored. The stethoscope is placed upon the expectant patient. The body seems to writhe in malady, yet a rythym audible enough to help put the pieces together.
There was always a temptation to think  I knew everything. I always had an answer to a patient's qerry. But I learnt that I always needed the hand of another, the ear of a colleague, the thought of a senior or peer. But one needed to know his tool and use it wisely, before it is hung . Hung around the neck.

A perfect silhoette

Work is the duty no man should shun.

Another day had just ended. A long day it was. With oil stained calloused palms, and drenching sweat from his perspiring body.  His Visage almost telling a tale of toil. He was a little too late for the last bus home after working on his last batch of consignment  in the garage. He had to find his way home in the dread of the night. The street lights gave him courage for every other step. Soon, however the street lights halted ,as if to say, " Fare thee well lone stranger, this far we have come,beyond this ,we dare not give any man an escort, this escapade you must trade alone ". With steady steps, Sam trod the gruesome road home. It was a chilly night, yet one might mistake his appearance for one who fired the coal engines. His fear of getting lost in the maze had long dissipated, for he had mastered the art of navigating the streets without map or campus. His only fear or perhaps the greatest was his wild imagination. It brought terrors unfathomable, every shade bore the semblance of a foe poised for an attack, lurking danger. His racing heart was almost audible within earshot. The darkness was as piercing as ever, almost palpable too. Often, he had to take detours and long cuts in a bid to avoid the thugs that roamed the night quarters. With a sigh of relief, home was in sight. Much of the neighborhood had retired to bed, lights were out, with the exception of one house, his. No sooner had he touched the handle of the door than it swung open. To his amazement ,his littlest sister had kept vigil for his return. She had spent much of the time close to the door way, periodically peeping through the window, hoping to spot the 'prodigal son' in the hazy distance. Her hopes were consummated upon his appearance. She gave him a long warm cuddly hug despite his oily mess and uncouthed apparel. A perfect silhouette of love. Perhaps it was the thought of her and a few other siblings and a single parent that kept him on his toes. He dared not see any of them relegated to mendicancy.
Sam was a graduate from the state university. He was not the top of his class but he sure had some brains to get him through in life. He was not a mechanical engineer or any type of engineer as one may presume.  He was a graduate from medical school. His lot was that of saving lives-he welcomed those that ventured to enter the land of the living and  passionately tried to detain those who were ready to leave the confines of life. Blood and bodily fluids were his stains.
While awaiting postage to his hospital of residence (internship ) he sought to engage in a trade he had garnered some skill in. He had somehow risen to position of 'man' of the house in a family of what some may term a 'meager' family. But this didn't get him down, for he had learnt what really mattered in life. Contentment was his drive, yet it never thwarted his great ambitions in life.
Every day brought new challenges for Sam, but he seldom let this get in his way. His face was as radiant as usual, a warm calmly face, and and inviting smile were his adornment. A resonance from a well knit home, not much to call their own, save each other.
Sam* name changed

Makin' memories

Life's fondest moments seldom come all wrapped up in golden foils.
They come in form of a loving mama or papa, a brother or sister, a friend or spouse. Simply put, those closest to us. Others  come in form of 'anonymous ' persons, that without intention or premonition to become part of our lives ,somehow manage to get close enough to make a day or two or perhaps more, worth a million dimes. Simply put, our unintentional acquaintances.
Planned or unplanned, times spent with those that matter to us, makes all the difference. Conversations seem like an eternity of bliss, of course an audit of this may reveal a lack or meticulous flow. There is often interludes of flight of ideas,tangentiality, sometimes grandiosity. But all this makes it rather interesting.
All buckled up and ready for a road trip, a pal and I set out into the western horizon off into the setting of the sun.The plan was to go fishing really, and game viewing ,but I guess it was partially a road trip too.
With the gas peddle on a steady cruise, windows lowered open for a catch of the cool breeze, we veered smoothly on a road leading anywhere but the city. A whirling southeastern wind suddenly gathered momentum, passed over a heap of sand and hurled it into the cubby. In a twinkling of an eye, we had a sand bath. We managed to escape it's fury, but we still had more than tale tale signs all over. The mood was far from damped, perhaps brought in an elation-with a bit of teasing and laughter.
The scene along the highway was awesome. Large green carpeted farms, complete with aerial irrigation paved the horizon as far as the eye could see.  One could in fancy touch the ends of the earth with a stretch of a hand. Picture perfect.
In our high spirits, we bypassed our destination. But I guess it was all part of the plan.
We finally arrived. After a little dusting of the sand we gathered along our way, we made our way into a lovely outskated game park. Away from the hustle and bustle of city life, it almost gave one a 'mental massage'.
Fishing time came. We got ourselves some fishing lines and some dug up worms and we were all ready for a great catch. Without spoiling the fun, I must admit, I caught zero, while my pal caught one. I have ,in previous occasions ,tried fishing, but every time the best I got at it was catching some weeds or simply having my bait snuggled away. But since this time I had put the bait, I do declare participation in the catch of the single fish. We kept it on the banks of the dam to pass through the phases of algor, rigor and livor mortis (medical terms used as signs in stages of death ) . Had we known this would be our only catch, we would have gone no further in our quest, so I guess ignorance is bliss.
In a surprising turn of events, an old fella ,grandpa-aged Indian origin man drew close to our self proclaimed fishing spot. But before he could have a chat with us, he begun taking pictures of us, and before we knew it, he was asking us to change poses . We didn't mind, in fact we felt a little important, complete with paparazzi.  Too bad we never got to see him again for our lovely shots-moments captured in time, framed in space.
As it begun to dawn on us that we had no further luck for a catch, we decided to head out for a game view-lions in particular. Just before we left, however, my colleague decided to do something ,fishy, fish CPR. I objected as the fish had been out of water for more than half an hour. But she would not hear a single word I said. She then screamed as if to prove me wrong,'it's alive!' I blushed . "No, its not possible, it's dead. It's got algor and rigor mortis ". She insisted, so I dared her put it back in the water . She did, and it floated. Just like dead fish do, my point exactly. But my stance was soon swept from the ground as the fish begun to gasp-it was alive. Soon, like waves of electricity running through its cold blooded body, it begun to fan it's fins. An escape from death! Soon it gathered enough strength to wade away. We nicknamed it 'Lazarus'.
There wasn't much highlight from the lion view as I had previously seen them on a number of occasions in different locations. But since this was a first for my pal, whatever was exciting to my pal somehow  got me excited too. It's not rocket science, no arithmetic equation could figure that out too. The frenzy was infectious. Well, all emotions were mutual except the fear. And then came the highlight of the tour, my pal got a 'pee-laden, fire in the hole' situation. One of the male lions apparently fired a jet of urine ,a perfectly normal ritual for these guys, meant for marking out their territory. Simply put 'I'm the boss, and this right here is my turf' . A way to wade off marauders, I guess we happened to fit the description. Thankfully, the pee missed my friend by an inch, so she survived the raid, of course with a lightning speed dash.  But it was hilarious-at least we both laughed about it. I guess not out of kilter!
Well, time was soon winding faster than anticipated. We had to take leave. This time prepared for any capricious whirling of the wind. The curtains closed. Another day was added to history's unpenned annals. To be told and retold only orally.
Of course, pleasurable moments need not amount to a road trip, whether that be a misnomer or not. It can be while singing a hymn at a church service in a pew, while washing dishes with someone, while hiking, backpacking, outdoor camping, group studying, or at a meal, tabled or not. Savour such moments, lest they get severed.

A place called home...

The view of earth from outer space is breathtaking,reminiscent of its genesis,a time when it was woven together,birthed into existence. A perfect Montage  for life.
It spun on its axis in an endless dance, perhaps a dance of life.  Like the heart that beats for an eternity else it dies,so our little place called home wabbles around. It ,too ,winds an imaginary track. It runs a course never ending. No one is pursuing,yet it must go on circling,at least for dear life's sake. Any cessation in its motion would be deleterious.
The scene soon takes on a new hue. The contrast is immense. Take one look and you are greeted with beautiful scenes. The sky is blue and clear,seas too,with waves thrusting gentle ripples across . Rains come to water the thirsty land,and as if in response to a resurrection call,an army enumerable in number rises from beneath. Creatures ,minute in size yet ginormous in number are waken from their temporary burial in the dust of the earth. They take to flight,and in their array,they seem to obliterate the rays of the sun. Colour soon beqearths the once singletoned miliue. Vegetation carpets the ground.
Little children noise abroad their happy estate.  Families are in one accord, complete with heydays. Neighborhoods are a safe and friendly haven for play and rest,and work too. Just what the doctor ordered.
Take another turn and the air teams with a choking odour . The once friendly army of creatures turns on the valuable crop. Man's sunstainace is at the mercy of their saw toothed jaws.  They creep and hop,and fly too. Before them is a garden of eden,while their reer reels in agony,as if a deathly scourge had swept through.  The rippling seas rise as if in defiance of nature's law, and hurl a flood doom onto the land,wreaking havoc in a moment's breath.
The rains ,the usual heralds of life,suddenly seem to fall in unwonted vengence. All this leaves man in a derg.
The caprice of man's insatiable desires leads him to wage war for nothing but pride, a wreath of  glory. Time and effort are expended to devise or create arsenals of mass destruction. Family ties are sawn asunder,the cords by which society is  bound are dashed to the ground. I recall hearing a little child in a motion picture giving a rather thought provoking answer to a qerry from her mom. Her mom asked,"Hey,what do you wanna become when you're all grown up?" The reply came in sweatest melody, "I wanna be a patient" in amazement,her mom curled up and asked,"Why?"  She replied,"That way,dad (who happened to be a medical doctor and  seldom had time to be at home) can spend more time with me,since he spends more time with patients" . This almost brought a tear to her now heart broken mom. It seems tears are the order of the day ,as if a way to Mollify oneself from the the pains of life.
Behind every dark corner,a gang of delinquents lie in wait to ambush an unsuspecting wayfairer. A homeless or perhaps a runaway child sobs in want for warmth and comfort of family,not in word but in deed. A young beautiful lady,or two gathers courage ,a misnomer indeed, to brave the inauspicious nightly cold,and the terrors that lurk ,in a bid to trade her body at the stock market of her own making. She sales cheap,perhaps with good reason-to bring home a loaf of bread  to her starved little 'angel' , to be the mother she had never once had herself. And this at great cost,for so little a wage.
In constant apprehension of what may befall,man wreathes in anguish ,sometimes,too great a cross to bear it seems.  Sometimes,our greatest fear is not death itself,but a life of pain and misery. One would call for death to his aid for relief . For in death,there is sweet repose,for both friend and foe,pauper and affluent. For there is no awareness of anything that ensues under the sun.
I guess we live in a world of stack contrast,a beautiful terrible situation.
What happened to the dream of a better day,can we still hope for one?I guess we can still hope, it's our lot to have this hope amid the wiles.

Freedom vs responsibility.
One or two or maybe more may possibly resonate with the thought that childhood was a time of carefree days. Perhaps the noon of fun and games. A little tempting to think that one's role in the day was simply all play,and a demand for more of it. From the cradle as a neonate,through infancy ,toddler years and on, everything revolved around 'you'. All you needed if you had to take a pee was to scream and aid would not delay. Food was just a wine away. It seemed your labile emotions always got someone's attention. At first it came natural, but with a wind in time,you realized your whims where your superpower ,your weakness and fragility were your strength, perhaps weapons of mass 'attention capturing'.
Physical strength begun to grow in your muscle and bone,the wabbly steps were taking on a firmer stance,and strides became more forthright and meaningful. Speech too was loosening it's hold on vaguery,ambiguity. A change was brewing. New terms and conditions to life were being imposed on you. Soon you were required to reason appropriately, and some nuances were often met with repraoch. Before you knew it,little chores were getting added to your to do list.
Yet with all this add-on, you were still at liberty to run wild errands of play.  You had leverage to mess up, even nature seemed to be in your favour for when you sustained a sprain ,fracture or laceration,your balm was available,  your healing came quicker than those advanced in years.  Scars, you bore only temporarily.
Every gift unwrapped was suggestive of play time. Being clean or dirty was a vague term to you, they all seemed pretty much the same, but not so with mama and papa,or any other imposed guardian. Every bath was a forced undertaking, or a burgainbfor reward,especially for the male conterpart.
Your desire to know more about your world made you very inquisitive about everything. A good recipe for gaining an inventive mind I must add. Well ,this was initially a welcome change for those on the answering end. Everybody was quite pleased to play the role of 'Mr or miss know it all' . But this was short lived, as everybody soon realized your questions were taking on a new face,an irritating one too. So you soon had to find new people to probe.
As you observed everything around you,you noticed a great divide between the older folk and those your age. It was evident they owned their lives. It seemed you were settled in a turf too small. You needed to call your own shots. The desire to grow older begun to emmanate. The privileges of adulthood were luring . If only you could skip many years between the great gulf, you perhaps thought. But there was a catch. The older you grew, the less people tolerated your flaws. Any behaviour that bore the resemblance of a rogue or rascal was uncalled for and often was met with retribution.  You were  soon to leave Center stage, for the world could no longer hail you as its 'adorable'. You sooner or later had to realize you were only a steward in this life. You were indebted to duty,nothing heinous about it,especially if duty was your delight. Your desire for the freedom of adulthood called for great responsibility.  You wondered whether the curtail of preschool years were a better burgain.
Perhaps one may be right to think responsibility is a necessity for true freedom, for who knows what freedom untamed may brood? One who desires freedom bareft of responsibility runs the risk of a life shipwreck . Yes,the days past may have given one room to mess up, to run a little wild, yet time has come for one to bear the lot of existence. Irresponsibility is a cog in the life wheel,a clog in its wind.

Scars of life. Beautiful scars.

Scars of life,who hasn't had to live with them? Some leave an ugly imprint, others  simply give one a new hue on the skin tone, and still others find a way of fading away. Some scars are of our own making,our own carelessness yet still others come,not by self will or our indifference to care,but by the unprecedented woes of life.
They are a smoking remnant of a fire quenched. Like a smoldering wick that leaves a trail of ashen gray soot when a kerosene lantern is put out,they acho out the moments ebbed.
Scars resonate with life disrupted, moments effaced from the tune of normalcy. They are as spokes decrepit in a wheel, causing a denture and possible cessation in motion.
In the innocence and playfulness of childhood, one gets hold of water put to the boil. Now all grown up,he sees daily the scars marking his face,somewhat disfiguring. They cause a tear to droop by the side of his cheek. He allows it to fall to the ground and he waits for its apparent disappearance before he wipes the train that follows suit. Its a reminder of the past he can't change.
A young lady, glowing with the beauty of youthhood. She stands tall amidst her peers. She is a model in her own rite. Yet nobody ever hears her talk about her family. She owes her undimed luster to a loving mother who saved her from the flames. All scarthed ,she barely has any reason to camphor her body in cream. It's seems a waste on her skin. The young lady loves her mother,yet she seldom finds it easy to look her in the eyes without bursting into tears, a lamentation,for thr scars she bore for her.
A credulous young lad trying to figure out what life has to offer ,led by insatiable desire to enjoy life. To live life at the stake,with 'feelings' as the captain of ship. He sails wild. He has a myriad of tattoos on his body,bearing the form of a vesture. Now after the piercing thorns of life jab the depths of his soul,he cries in  despair. In solitude he seeks refuge in a God he was trained by his folks to revere. He walks into a chapel, a church . The aisle to the only free seat seems many miles from the entrance as he takes his ready steady steps. A few years down the stream of time, a new man seems to have emerged from the shell. A new birth perhaps. All manly and gentle in form, his brow is held high and his visage glows. Yet beneath the garment, lies scars .Scars so deep, bearing imagery from a life past. He wished they would be washed away,but in vain are all his efforts, so he has a constant reminder of his travails, he is now tired of being misunderstood, but he still puts up a smile. For he knows it matters little.
Some scars may not be seen. Some cause no scarthing with a visible imprint,yet they run so deep, the very grooves that line them are almost perceptible.  They can be seen in the fear to form new bonds,for past bonds of friendship ended in catastrophic besiegement of trust.
A scar may warrant one to grieve,to have a constant ooze of pain as it were or great disdain for anything that comes along. One may decide to begrudge life,leave in constant fear or hatred,yet that need not be the case , for scars may be the only reminder of battles fought,and victories won. A scar may be a telling that you lived to face another day. It's foretelling of the strength within or the firmness of the anchor you held on and possibly still holding on to.
A scar,though ugly,disfiguring, may stand as a beautiful reminder that you may be battered and bruised, perhaps even buried in the ground,yet you still stand tall,like a mighty oak that takes new root and new foliage after been felled.
A beautiful scar.

Imagination, the first plane without wings,the first vehicle without wheels,the first boat without oars. Everyone has  imaginations,some wild ,others noble and some,well some ar simply imaginations. Imaginations know no gravity or drag,they soar high though they lack aerodynamic accreditation to be airborne ,but they don't  know that,  so they fly anyway,and many a lad is given a glimplse of the world beyond his grasp,the horizon seems solid enough to be given even just a touch.
When the cup of satisfaction or perharps realisation fills to the brim or an overflow, the voyage halts. May I add a little wits to what may here bear the similitude of profundity; Non shall be any less erudite or wise at the overflow of knowledge or experience garnered. Let it flow ,be not too meticulous, or any bit miserly with it. Let it run down, let it trickle ,peradvedture  it shall stream the way of the simpleton, making him wise. Perhaps he too shall not fall short of imagination.

Imaginations ride along the tarless roads and tracks,but that's alright,for who needs a tarred road when wheels are absent. The trails may be of a winding or never-ending nature,yet the path home to reality may never be forgotten or mistaken and needs no sign posts.
Imaginations need no oars to treak the high and low seas, for then they would be too slothful to be adventurous. No one drowns ,for imagination provides the privilege of a re-live, and perhaps a breath under the water,or deluge. Storms and waves are a tap in the back..
Imagine life without imagination. I guess thats the only instance your imagination fails to take off ,unimaginable?
Where it not for imagination, man would not have set foot on the moon, with one step for man and a giant leap . We would still be in dread of sailing the high seas,in fear of the deep,and all mythical tyranny. Flight would still have been the prerogative of our feathered counterparts, the eagle,the Swan ,the falcon and crane and all their host. Horsemen would still still reign supreme masters of speed,our most trusted couriers. And perhaps the earth would still be flat,with an edge or we would still be riding on the shoulders of Atlas.
Dare not take imagination for daydreaming or make it an excuse for much slumber or indolence. It is not in idleness that the mind ponders on worthwhile matters, rather in labour, otherwise in detours of rest. Flee from the bewitching grip of indolence, the poisonous fangs of listlessness. Great and audacious imagination comes with encounters challenging to the mind,for necessity breeds ingenuity.
Never allow imagination to steer you away from reality . Let it instead give you impetus and reason to live life positively. To face life wth a gratitude attitude,it earns you moral altitude.
Imagine, it's your lot.