She looked at me in the eyes as I introduced myself. She made an attempt to smile, or at least that's what I thought.
"We'll need to do a blood test today," I mentioned casually, as I have done hundreds of times before.
"Just a small scratch." She looked away, just as her relatives drop by to visit her in hospital. Great. I never liked being watched inflicting pain.
I walked around the bed to her other arm, the one which did not have a bag of salt water attached to it. As I grabbed her arm to move it into position, she let out a whimper which took me by surprise. Half the day I have been on the ward, she has not made a sound.
You see, the contractures were so severe she is permanently in a curled up position. She is at the terminal stage of the disease, trapped in her own body. I try not to imagine how she must be feeling.
"I'm so sorry," I blurted repeatedly as I try not to cause any more distress. Then as the needle goes in, she let out another whimper with tears forming in her eyes.
I've not done many things worth me mulling over, but honestly, I've never felt so bad in this life.
He sits in his bed, sleeping most of the time. Other times when he's awake, he usually just stare blankly at the end of his bed. The numerous lines and tubes connected to his body made any movement cumbersome, or maybe it was the pain that's stopping him. The constant beeping of the monitor next to his bed must have been annoying, though I guess he must be used to it by now.
It's been more than a week since he was admitted to Surgical HDU, my current habitat as a slightly less useless FY2 for the next 4 months. I saw him when he came in, and as the days go by, as we put him through more and more investigations and took vials and vials of bloods off him, I noticed it.
The way he avoid looking at us when we come around to his bed. The way he shrugged his shoulders and reply "okay" every time we ask him how he is. The invisible wall he put up around him, as if the very environment of HDU is hostile to his wellbeing. The resignation in his eyes.
Over the last 10 days, I noticed the weight he's losing, the swollen limbs he's getting, the jaundice he is now developing. And yet 10 days on, we are nowhere near the answer to what is going on with him.
Specialists after specialists come and go, each scratching their head and unable to provide a reason for his illness. Tests after tests threw up more questions than answers.
There is often a hushed conversation when we talk about him. Deep inside all of us, we have acknowledged that this is rather likely to be terminal, whatever it is that is causing him all the distress. He is not well, that much we know for sure.
Yet when we speak to him, we try to make it sound positive, be optimistic. We tell him we don't have the answer yet, but we'll keep trying our best. Sometimes I feel as if we are all holding on to the smallest hope that this might be something treatable. That he will get well once we find out what this is.
Other times I feel that we are not letting him in on our suspicions, that he should be made aware of the gravity of his condition to the extent he might not make it out of the hospital. But I know that will only drive him over the edge. It would drive anyone over the edge, I myself struggle to even comprehend the very notion of it happening to me.
Because, nobody expects to not make it past their 30th birthday.
It's not fair.
It's just not fair.
I don't believe in God, but if there is one, please let our suspicions be wrong just this once.
The elderly gentleman glanced at his watch umpteen times while he's in the department.
"Are you in a rush to get home, sir?" I asked, wondering why he is so anxious.
"Well, yes, you see if my wife gets home and couldn't find me she'll panic. I need to get home before she does."
"Ah. You had a nasty bump on your head though, we'll need to look at that first."
"Oh I'll be fine. I don't need anything done. No stitches."
"We can always give your wife a call to let her know you're here?"
"No it's okay I'll be fine. I just need to get home."
Eventually managed to convince him to stay until the wound was stitched, and he ran back home right away, still slightly staggery. Unfortunately for him though, I don't think his wife won't notice all his blood-soaked and dirty clothes. Guessing he must be worried he'll get an earful back home for drinking too much and 'slipping'.
Tsk. Men.
In medicine, it's not good to grow attached to the patients you treat. But sometimes, there is one or two that would make you smile, brighten up your day when everything else is pulling you apart.
But more so, it's the ones that are slowly slipping away that make you want to hold onto them tight for as long as you could.
He stumbled into our busy ward having broken his hip, just like dozens of patients do every week. Broken hips usually mean a death sentence even if they get fixed. These patients are usually elderly, and once they start falling and breaking bones, they lose their confidence, lose their mobility, and eventually lose their independence, ending up bed-bound waiting for the grim reaper. Yes, I sound morbid, but that's the way life is.
Still, much as I am steeled to the cycle of life, it always come as a shock when a patient slips away.
Being cared for by another team, I don't normally see to him and don't know much about him. All I gather from the notes is that he has dementia, and lives with his older brother. The times I actually spoke to him, nothing he says make sense.
I was made aware of him during my week of night shifts as he developed sepsis soon after his hip replacement. We did all we could, which in medical terms meant intravenous antibiotics, supportive treatment, and praying hard.
Sadly, he did not make it through.
It was dead in the night when I had to certify his death. As such, it rests on me to break the news to his next of kin.
"I'm very sorry, but he has just passed away." I said matter-of-factly, betraying no emotion. It was not my first time.
"Thank you so much for taking care of him, doctor," his brother replied through the phone.
"Would there be someone coming to see him?" I enquired.
A pause.
"No, I am his only family and I am too far away to come to the hospital."
I pressed the phone firmer onto my ear reflexively, totally unexpecting the answer I heard.
"It's okay. He's had a good life," said the weary voice on the other side of the phone.
I had to gather myself for a minute after I put down the phone.
I don't know you well, but I hope you did live a good life. And you might not be aware of it, but though your brother could not stay by your side, we the doctors and nurses have been with you as you move on to a better place. I wanted you to know you were not alone.
Dawn broke and my shift came to an end. As the sun shone brightly on a cloudless sky that day on my way home, I heard myself thinking, as if hoping he will hear it;
It is a good day to die.
Some patients just don't want to disappoint..
Today I realised.
Being a medical student and a junior doctor can be worlds apart.
I'm not sure if I should be disgusted or bemused that I can stick my finger up any bum without the slightest hint of apprehension anymore.
And being able to tell a patient I'm going to do that with a totally straight face, like I stick my finger up bums everyday.
Wait, that's not right.
That said, I should probably be proud that my finely honed skill of finger-prodding correctly diagnosed an upper gastrointestinal bleed today.
Oh she was an absolutely lovely wee ol' lady as well!
I look down at the piece of paper in my hand. It's a form I needed a patient to fill before she go for a clinic.
Glancing through it, I did not even got past the first few lines when something caught my eye.
Bra size: ...... Cup size:.......What the ef.
Maybe the patient can read the form and fill it up herself, I thought optimistically.
No, the words are too small. Said she.
I sighed inside. Here we go then.
The nerve! >:(
It's time to put up some kind of update. I'm blogging less and less these days, yet the thoughts in my mind kept cycling past like slides on a movie reel. How I wish I could go back and capture those deep thinking, those rants at that particular time of my life to put on here.
But that's life. Once it has passed, it's gone, nothing but a fading memory.
Guess a note to my future self of where I am at this point in time is warranted. Just survived my first set of night shifts, 12 hours everyday the past week in the medical receiving unit. It also meant I 'celebrated' the turn of the new year in the hospital, running around poking needles into patients and filling forms after forms after forms. It was a total madhouse with so many of the staff on break and services suspended for the holidays.
Incidentally, I worked over Christmas and Boxing Day in medical receiving too, as a favour to my fellow ex-Ward 22 job monkey :P
I didn't mind working over the holidays really. Unlike most other people here, I don't celebrate Christmas nor do Boxing Day shopping (it's just commercialisation anyway). And unlike last year, there wasn't any new year 'family' trip this time unfortunately as most of us aren't free.
It IS an experience working with a skeletal staff though, how we cope with the workload (try to anyway). Admittedly my first few days/nights were an absolute nightmare. I looked lost half the time and blank the other half haha. Thank god for the loveliest and most helpful colleagues around, wouldn't dare to think how I'd survive without them.
Towards the end of my shift in acute medical receiving, it began to grow on me. Something stirred in me in between interrogating patients and poking them with needles. It's such a different world compared to my parent ward, Medicine for the Elderly (or Geriatric, but we're not supposed to mention the G-word! haha). The head-scratching uncertainty, the heart-racing urgency, the mind-numbing endless torrent of workload.
Amid the chaos, I realised, this has finally cemented my plans on my future career path.
Apply for the Acute Care Common Stem and continue on with training in Anaesthetics. Sometime during my training, I would try to apply to join the Territorial Army again, and hopefully gets some on-field experience somewhere.
Fingers crossed that's where I'll be in 5 years time. Saving lives?
But as agreed by anyone who ever worked in acute medical receiving before, once the patients are transferred to their respective ward that's where your care for them ends. Most of the time, we never do find out what ultimately happen to our patients. Was our diagnosis right? Did our initial plans work? Did they survive?
I suppose it is outwith our professional conduct to grow attached to our patients. There's only so much we are responsible for, and eventually we'd just have to pass the baton along with our trust to the other doctors and nurses.
Ah just the other day I bumped into Scott again, my previous registrar in Renal Ward.
"Hello Chye. Remember this?" *waves a central line kit*
I laughed. Oh how I remember those central lines (haven't get the chance to put one in yet though), the dialysis machines, the patients downstairs.
Yes, the patients. He gave me a little update on some of the patients I knew during my rotation there. Of course, there are still the 'permanent' residents. And yes, undeniably, there are also some of them who slipped away from us to a better place. One particular gentleman, we have all grew to be fond of. In 2 months, I literally watch him grew thinner and thinner till he's just a bag of bones. He who would smile and give me a wave when he sees me, he who showed me the rashes which appeared on his legs, he who complained to me of his unrelenting diarrhea and nausea which eventually stopped him from eating anything.
And that reminded me of the other guy, in his wheelchair racing around the ward. He was a funny guy, lovely sense of humour. Beneath that though, he must have hidden his suffering, the chronic pain, the frustation with his dependence on dialysis. He was re-admitted one day with opiate toxicity from all the painkillers, and when we brought him back he just wasn't the same person anymore. He gave up. Stopped the dialysis.
I almost cried when I came back to the ward after that weekend to see an uncompleted death certificate on top of his medical notes.
Rest in peace.
In some way, I wish we could do more for some of the patients. But no of course we can't, medicine with all its drugs and equipment is just no match for life's unpredictability.
That's life, once it has passed, it's gone, nothing but a fading memory.
Today, I looked into the eyes of an elderly lady.
I want to go home today, she said.
Can I go home? she asked tearfully.
Yes you can, I answered forcing a smile.
When did the hospital become a prison? I thought.
Is it possible that we care too much sometimes?
You know what's another awkward moment?
When a grown-up man cry in front of you.
Why did the Man cry?
He sat there, with his broad shoulders and chiseled jaw. Looking like he could rearrange someone's face with his fist without a moment of hesitation. No doubt bout that, as he used to be a sportsman. One of the 'Heavies', as they call it, those who participate in the Highland games.
He took his seat in the clinic, portraying a strong, confident image. One scowl from him and no doubt anyone would scramble out of his way. I'd looked like a small kid next to him, oh he's tall and big as well. He's so manly, I'm going to refer to him as the Man.
Yet here the Man was, in the Pain Clinic. Why would such a strong person, both physically and the way he portray himself, be here? He could easily take a punch and still manage to send the puncher flying. He looked like someone who will grit his teeth and bear the pain, not someone who come running to others for painkillers. In fact, he did not even attend the last few appointments at the clinic.
So why was he here now?
Well, the Man upped his painkillers by himself so much he almost killed his liver instead. The pain was so frustrating to him, he just wanted to get rid of it no matter what.
So the consultant had to go through his medications, trying to figure out what he had been taking and what could be changed to get on top of the pain.
And then the Man broke down. He sobbed.
The consultant gave a very good explanation of what chronic pain is all about. There are three components to it: pain, mood, and suffering. They are never mutually exclusive, one cannot separate one from each other. And everyone responds to chronic pain the same way. They get depressed, even if they do not seem like someone who would let it get to them at all.
If one only treats the pain, he'll be left with the anger, frustration, resentment at his own plight. Just stuff him with antidepressants and make him as happy as larry, he will still feel the pain. Either way, there will still be suffering.
Pain is never one-dimensional. Painkillers will not solve the problem.
This is the first time the Man ever cried in front of another guy.
"This isn't like me", the Man said. And you would believe him. "I'm not the kind that gets depressed. I just sail right through it. But underneath it I can feel it boiling, the anger, frustration."
It wasn't the pain that made the Man cry of course.
"I just wanted to do things I used to do."
"I truly understand. But put anyone in your position and he will feel the same. Tell a person in the street you will give him pain 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, and he will punch you in the face. And then he will feel angry and frustrated. He won't wake up feeling great, feeling able to face another day of pain." The consultant empathises.
"You are someone who will set your goals high and do it. You will do something and ask, 'Why can't I do that?' And that is why the pain will get to you. You will not be able to do things you were able to do in the past. You will feel less of your worth, needing to 'downsize' your job to get a less physical one you can do. It's not easy. I know you felt like you lost yourself."
"What we needed to do, is to bridge the gap between expectations and reality. The pain will never go away. I'm sorry to say that it's the harsh truth."
It was the prospect of living the rest of his life with the pain and the disability it brings.
"There is no point setting unattainable goals, because you will never reach it. But start slow and work your way up. You are not going to be hurling anvils anytime soon."
"I'm not even bothered to do that now," the Man laughed.
"Yes, that will just break you. So start with throwing matchsticks. I can do it, you can do it. I know it sounds pathetic but you have to start somewhere. Then move up, a matchbox, a twig. Get to know your limits. Expand what you can do. And I'm not saying you won't be able to do some things in the future. You can still achieve those goals. It's just not what you do."
"It's how you do it," the Man agreed, wiping his tears.
No one would deny that people with chronic diseases like cancer do suffer. But when it comes to pain, most people just brush it off. It's something you're expected to grit your teeth and pull through. It's easy to downplay the suffering of someone with chronic pain, not knowing how debilitating it can be. How much suffering it can actually cause.
Today, I learned that the pain specialist's most powerful repertoire is not his pills and injections. It's the words he spoke.
Hopefully, the consultant anaesthetist had managed to change this man's mindset in coping with chronic pain. To live with chronic pain, instead of resenting it.
And I was left with awe. He changed someone's life, before even doing anything to his pain. You know the moment when you look at someone, and you just want to be like him/her when you grow up?
I just had that moment (:
There's always that uneasy feeling among the bystanders when suicide happened. It's a rather awkward, morbid phenomenon to encounter and most people just don't know what to do. All they can think of are questions. Why? Why? Why?
During routine anaesthetic work in the theatre, a man was rushed into the A&E downstairs after being found unconscious. Very hypothermic, unresponsive, with empty boxes of medication nearby and sheets of information on drug overdose printed off the internet. Almost went into cardiorespiratory arrest, and CPR was done all the way from being found to being resuscitated in the A&E. I followed the anaesthetist consultant down to see the poorly guy, with dozens of people already buzzing around him.
Venflons, pulse oximetry, CVP, arterial line, ETT, NG tube, gastric lavage, peritoneal lavage, urinary catheter, temp probes. Nurses, doctors, students rush about compressing his chest, ventilating his lungs, putting up fluids, drawing up drugs, taking off bloods. All the hospital staff could do to salvage what they could from this man.
Even when he must have thought there's nothing to salvage from his life anymore.
It's baffling, isn't it, why some people chose to end their lives as the solution. Of course, the hospital staff's job is to save his life and not wonder why. Eventually he stabilised, although remained unresponsive to pain. Non-reactive dilated pupils.
It was thought he could have been brain dead already, with only the machines keeping him alive. He was then arranged for a transfer to the nearest ICU in another hospital, hours away. As the emergency passed, everyone eventually left the room to resume their daily routine in other parts of the hospital, entrusting the anaesthetic team to look after him.
Just as quickly as the room was filled with activity, it suddenly became calm and peaceful, with just the monitors beeping away the patient's vitals. I went in to check on the various tubes connected to the patient, and that was when I saw something that broke my heart.
On the back of his hand, he had written with a pen.
Love
you
Mum
I'm sorry
I stopped there for a minute and just stared at the writing on his hand. All I could think of is just one thing. One question.
Why?
I pulled back his eyelids and stared into the distant eyes. No response at all.
Why?
Ah, internet.
How I missed you.
I've almost devolved into a piece of fossil with no information being constantly shoved down my throat for the past week. Wait, it's just a week? I'm sure from the time I left civilisation till today, several summers have passed.
Ah, time sure passes slooowly without internet.
Well, here I am doing my 'rural' GP block. In the small town of Blairgowrie. Just half an hour's drive away from Dundee.
Was a little disappointed, yes I admit. I was expecting some kinda exotic jungle or remote island or even a town with a pop of 1000 when I chose "very remote town" in my selection. But no, I got placed here. In a town of 8000+, with not only a Tesco AND a Somerfield, but a Cottage Hospital to boot. Conversely that's where I'm bunking in, right above the patients. Joy.
Weather here hasn't been kind too. Not a single day without rain and heavy clouds overhanging the town. It's been more than a week since I last saw sunshine come to think of it, waking up everyday thinking it's still dark outside, when in fact I'm already late.
I even brought along a tripod thinking maybe I can get some amateurish photography done. Oh well, 7 more weeks to go I'm sure there'll be sun sometime in between.
And then 'Ardblair Medical Practice' happened. Yeah, it's like a big event in my life haha :P
Less than a week here, and I've been made to feel like I've been here all along. The ladies at the reception, the practice manager, the IT lady, the nurses, the health visitors, the GPs. And damn, the GPs. Only sat in with half of them so far, but each and every one of them just cracks me up. The stories told behind closed doors, the banter exchanged over coffee break.
I'm sure this is the most fun I've had in medicine in a while.
Oh, and just yesterday there was cake and wine too.
Joy (:
Onto a 'Food for thought'. From the GP tutor during the introduction briefings for our rural GP block:
.. once you study medicine, you will never be a lay person again..
How true, something I've been thinking about on and off over the years. At times I forget that I'm in a privileged position, knowing so much about medicine, about the inner workings of people's bodies, I forget what it felt like to be a lay person.
That sometimes when I talk to others, I subconsciously expect them to have a certain level of knowledge (of medicine), never thought that less than 50% of them know where their heart is.
Truth is, I am a very lucky person to have an education that I've had.
It's a privilege I'm reminded of every time I talk to patients these days.
ps - i'm now connected to the rest of the world because I have my own login to the computers here now. I felt like I just came back from the dead.
Haha yeah right. I was actually enjoying my internet-less days by myself, being a rural boy at heart (just hate big, unfriendly cities). Gone through so many movies in just a weekend, I'm looking forward to getting back to Dundee just so I can download even more movies to watch :D
And I'm pretty amazed how 'free' I am now, not knowing how much time I waste online before this. Ah here I am wasting time online now. Signing off from "very remote town", ta!
Okay, I lied.
I know I said I'll revive this blog and pull it out from the depths of where-blogs-go-to-lie, but the reasons not to blog grew longer and longer on my mind-written list. It was the lack of inspiration and motivation, really, more than time to blog. As days go by, I grew more and more apathetic about blogging. Once upon a time I can be found typing in front of a computer narrating away on everything, but now, everytime I opened up Blogger's dashboard, I felt a tugging sensation in my mind, telling me, "Why should I even bother?"
For one thing, I have to remind myself, this might be the only footprints left from my past.
So here I am, willing to try again. Let's try this again, shall we?
I was at the Blood Donor Centre today. Just a very impromptu decision I made, to do my bit for the 'Greater Good'. Oh I'm so noble haha. Not that it was something new, been donating blood rather irregularly over the past few years anyway. Remembered the first time I donated blood, way back in college, together with the PM1 gang. Not much else recalled though, ain't sure did I grit my teeth all throughout or did I thrashed about and screamed at the nurses with burning eyes who were ill-bent on drawing blood out of me. I'm pretty sure the second part was just a dream. I think.
Now that I'm in my final year studying medicine (and seen more than I ever thought I would in my life), it's a kinda strange feeling to know so much more about what was going on during the blood donating process, while donating blood.
I used to think the alcohol wipes they use to clean the skin before they stab me with the giant needle contained some kind of painkiller to numb my skin. I made that part up to reassure myself I guess, trying to psyche myself into believing that it'll be a painless process. Mind you, that needle is BIG okay. Like the size of the drinking straw you suck your milo ais out of the glass through. Alright maybe not that big, but it's still big, kay?
As I lie on the bed with my right arm extended and the nurse wiping ever so thoroughly with the alcohol swabs, I glanced at the soon-to-be-pricked site on my arm with a little hesitance. I know I have prominent veins and the nurses do this all the time, but that tiny delusion I used to held on tightly to convince myself "it's not painful, it's not painful, it's not- .. okay, it might sting a little" is all but dispelled by my 4 years of book-hugging.
"You doing fine there?" the nurse asked out of the blue. I came out of the thoughts in my head, as I noted she was looking up at my face. "Yup" I managed to reply as cheerfully as I could, just before she proceed to bring the needle closer .. and closer .. to my skin .. as my eyes widened.
It's one thing to prick others with a needle. It's another thing to let others prick you. I've lost count of how many unfortunate patients have been on the receiving end of the needle in my hand, yet that did not really harden me much to being pricked myself. There is still the hesitance as the nurse wipe at your skin, the fear as you glance at the needle, and the teeth-gritting as you hear the foreboding words, "Sharp coming".
The pain, of course, was insignificant. It wasn't the amount of pain anticipated that caused the gut shrinking as I see the needle, but more of the anticipation of pain itself. Each time during blood donation, I tried not to look away from the needle but ended up turning my head away anyway. Kinda like a reflex that I couldn't stop. Heh. Let's see if I manage to do that next time.
Just an interesting observation of my own self during the otherwise uneventful 30 minutes of getting blood out of me. Oh, besides the bloke next to me getting his needle accidentally tugged out and have his blood pouring all over the floor. Just kidding haha.
PS - Please donate blood as often as you can. It doesn't hurt much (even so, it's more than worth it), doesn't take much time, and everyone (mostly) can do it. I've personally seen lives being saved by donated blood right in front of my eyes. It's the least and the most one can ever do for another, giving them a chance to live :)
I look at the 6-months old baby on her mum's lap.
Those BIG blue eyes, one can easily lose himself in them.
Beautiful little girl, who'd smile when tickled (:
The only thing you'll notice is that she doesn't fix her gaze.
And she has a nasogastric tube up her nose because she couldn't feed yet.
Causing her to make gurgling sounds when she wants to cry.
I look at the parents of this little girl.
The mum was bouncing the little girl on her lap.
Showering her baby with kisses.
The pride in her smile.
The joy in her voice.
The determination in her eyes.
Little girl has been doing much better, says mum.
She has began to smile.
I felt like crying, yet I'm not sure if I was feeling sad for them.
Or that I'm so deeply touched by them.
From the distant.. the sweet sound of .. *boing* ..
Spring is coming! :D
Okay that was lame. What, you didn't get it? Spring = *boing*? Fine. Stop looking at me like that.
Must be because of living with Mus for a whole year. I didn't know Lameness is contagious.. :P
Back home in Malaysia, we NEVER talk about weather. Start a topic saying how rainy today is and i doubt there'll be anyone to talk to by the time you finish your sentence. Here? I get this topic so much I doubt there's any other conversation topic that's so 'universal'. We comment on the weather to passing strangers. We talk about it when we got nothing else to talk about. Heck, we even use it as a pickup line. Okay, maybe not.
Well, that is, if it's regarding the weather here, there's always something to talk about.
And one thing I get asked by my patients besides the jaded "So.. how many more years do you have to study?" is definitely "So.. how do you find the weather here?". I replied so many times, I'm almost giving a scripted response by now..
So. The patients I was saying was these lovely people I see in my clinic. Yup, my very own GP clinic. I sat on the GP chair, going through the GP computer, seeing patients as a GP, doing GP work, and printing prescriptions.. for the real GP tutor to sign.
T'was the best 2 weeks of my 4th year. Ever.
From month-old babies to elderly in their 80s, each person whom I brought through the door into my room never fail to make me feel a little better. Even with all their complaints and sickness, they can always manage a smile when I greet them. A little chatter, a little banter, and I could easily forget they're actually burdened with their illness and their problems behind those smiles.
And most of the time, even when I haven't really done anything much for them, they'll always thank me.
As one of my mates put it, "Here, the patients expect us to talk to them. Unlike in the wards, where we (and even the patients!) always feel like what we're doing is not helping the patient at all." Perhaps that's why each of us love our GP block. For once, we're not being these pesky students disturbing the patients' rest and being in the doctors/nurses' way.
I concur.
Back to the topic on weather, some of you must have read/heard about the weather we've been getting over here in UK. Last week or so, there had been a snowstorm all over UK (as you can see from all the Facebook pictures everyone's putting up). Didn't thought it'll hit Dundee as well, but just last week, we had the thickest snowfall for first time in years (so they say).
It was so bad, they couldn't clear the roads fast enough before it was resurfaced with snow again. Which caused me to be stuck in town for a couple of hours, because the bus service had to be stopped.
So bad, that I heard stories from the other clinic staff bout how one car stopped at a traffic lights, and began sliding down the slope. Sideways. Bout how they're planning to leave their cars at the parking lot and walk home.
That was just last week.
This week, the sun came back with all its shining might. Temperature rose past 10Celcius for the first time since November (and just last week it was subzero). I can even wear just one layer of tshirt out and not freeze to death.
Funny how quick the weather can change. Still, finally winter's over and spring's coming.
Hell, it's bout time we get some sun.
ps - I'll be posting some interesting cases I saw while 'playing' GP for the past 2 weeks on the batch blog, so be sure to check it out :)
pps - there you go so-p, something for you to read! haha