186: 29.3 Home?

The heavy weight of the humid air hits you as you exit the airport. The green tropical trees line the highway, providing temporary shade to people who pass by. The sun - hot and angry - penetrates the car windows with its intensity. But it is somewhat milder today than what I remember. It rained a couple of hours ago, my brother told me, so the heat is more bearable.

Newly paved roads guide us to the city centre from the airport. They are clean, yet to be marked by age. Street signs provide some familiarity. And the smell of the air - a mix of sweat, smog and salted water, reminds me that I am in well known territories.

We reach home - the house itself unchanged since my childhood. Certain things have evolved - the pond that once housed many fish has been cemented down and is now where plants grow. The garden which once housed a swing where I would spend many of my hours is no longer there. And the garden itself which once was a haven of exploration as a child - somewhere I would play hide and seek behind the many plants my granddad used to take care of - is now looking a little bit sparse, because of the intense heat, it doesn't seem like anyone spends their time there anymore.

Around my house, there are tall apartment and office buildings being developed. They stand tall (probably at 20 stories), proud and arrogant as they slowly encroach on our once beautiful and calm housing area. They have yet to trespass within our sacred boundaries, but it feels like they might as well have. Their long shadow overcasts over our homes and their tall structures block the evening wind. It is suffocating - metaphorically, as it feels like these ugly developments are slowly surrounding us, and literally, as where they stand now, there were once many trees that provided much needed pure air and serenity.

The streets around us has also evolved. Now the number of lanes have doubled and it is getting busier and busier. During peak times, the cars would line up across the block - not only congesting the area but also adding to the disturbance of quiet. The honking from the vehicles adds to the sounds of busily working cranes from development sites to produce a cacophony or this urban pandemonium.

"Can they eventually buy us out and force us out?" I asked my dad one night.
"Hmm, probably they won't do that right away. There is a lot of barren land around that remains empty. It will be at least 50 years more until that happens. But it is possible."
"It feels like they are trying to make this place unbearable to live in so much so that we would eventually give up and leave."
"It seems so. But the local people are still trying to resist."

Glancing up at the skeletons of the mammoth sized tower that is in plain view from my window, I feel a mixture of sadness and fear. Fear that one day I might be forced to leave the house that my grandparents built, the house that I grew up in, the house that my parents married in, and I married A in. A decision made not out of choice, but out of sheer necessity.

185: 28.3 Bahmak's birthday

Today my grandmother, Bahmak, turned 81 (or 18 depending on how you would like to see it - age is just a number afterall!) I have been fortunate to be present for some of her birthdays over the years despite living thousands of miles away. Yesterday, my mom treated her and a bunch of her close friends for lunch. We managed to transport 8 elderly aunties in one van safely to the venue. We ate delicious Chinese food and celebrated another year of Bahmak's life.

Talking to her that night, I wondered whether I would be so lucky? She has a great, supportive family who loves and takes care of her, she is active by going to Quran classes every weekday, she still teaches sometimes, her knees have aged but her health is good so much so she drives herself to and from classes, she has a close knit of friends whom she shares her stories over successive lunch dates and she is the glue that unites her sisters (they still celebrate each others birthdays!). Did I mention that she also exercises on the treadmill and is active on social media?

And despite losing my grandfather many years ago, she still lives on with a spark in her. There is no shortage of blessings that encapsulates her being through the past eight decades. And not to mention, she also looks two decades younger than she actually is! MashaAllah, Alhamdulillah, Subhanalllah.

May God bless her with the greatest of blessings, in this life and the next. Ameen.

184: 27.3 Upgrades

With his many trips back and forth from Malaysia to London and back, A has been blessed with enough Emirates Skywards points to enable him to acquire certain perks when flying. And he can also bring a guest along (aka his wife) to enjoy said perks. So when before I would dread long haul flights, this time, not so surprisingly, the perils of airport checkins, security checks, waiting lounges and the limited leg room in planes were erased.

"I feel like we are too young to be here," I said when we were eating dishes from the buffet in the Heathrow Emirates Lounge. Looking around us, the people there were older, looked more established and business-like. We had our backpacks in tow with sneakers on, I felt really out of place. Akin to an imposter - they would figure out that we don't belong anytime soon.

"It is like we haven't earned our chance to be here yet. But here we are. It is definitely God's gift and nothing else." A nodded at my comment.

As I gorged on servings of blue cheese, entrees with sweet beetroot and juicy, slowly braised lamb, it was like a dream. Minutes before the gate was to be closed, we hoisted our well-filled tummies to the plane and like I predicted, I went into a food coma a few moments after I put on my seatbelt - only to be awoken to another set meal halfway through the flight. 

After arriving in Dubai, we were lucky enough to have access to the Business Lounge there too. So from lounge to plane to lounge - this journey was really free from hassle. Again, there was another buffet waiting for us. And although I wasn't that hungry to begin with, I ended my time there having tried most of the dishes available. From briyani, to pasta to friend noodles and cheesecake - again it felt like a dream. After a few encounters with buffets in my life, I have come to a certain realisation.

"I don't know how to behave in buffets. Do I taste everything in small amounts? Or have alot of something I like? And when do I stop?"

Basically, I left the buffet feeling like a mini hippopotamus. Buffets are good, but dangerous.

As we walked towards the gate for our flight to Kuala Lumpur, the lady at the counter scanned our tickets. Mine scanned green whilst A's scanned red. "Sir, you have been upgraded onto Business Class." Mind you, this has happened before - we were both upgraded on our previous trip home. But as I shielded my heart from disappointment from not being upgraded, this came to us with a big surprise. "My wife will take the upgrade," said A. I love my husband.

Thus, with the many perks that came with this trip, travelling long distances did not feel too bad anymore. We felt well rested, well fed and overall, happy. But of course, as I have tasted the sweetness of travel through the lens of what could be, as I will be travelling back solo and perk-less to London in a few weeks time, the self will need to come back down to Earth and face the realities of routine everyday travel. It was nice to be treated, especially after long successive days at work. But the danger now is if I were to look around the lounge and business class cabin and say, "I can get used to this."

If it happens again in the future, hopefully it will remain to be a gift and not an expectation.

183: 26.2 Nomading

I am writing this whilst on a flight thousands of feet up in the air.

After a gruelling sequence of non-stop on-calls, I am finally heading home for a well earned break.
Plans include stuffing my face with delicious local food and spending time with loved ones who I haven’t seen for far too long.

Malaysia, here I come.
Jet lag, please be kind to me.

182: 25.2 Bleep PTSD

I was helping my colleague go through all the ward jobs and answer the incessant bleeps from nurses this weekend. From the scores of bleeps, there were only a handful that were actually urgent. Some were just a plain waste of time. It is expected that the person who bleeps should have enough information at hand for the bleepee to assess the situation appropriately. But alot of the time, it feels like some nurses bleep doctors just to document in the notes that they have escalated it without really addressing the problem at hand.

And if we decide not to assess the patient because there is no clinical need, we would somehow be at fault. It feels like passing on the problem to someone else to deal with it.
This is an example of such bleep:

“Hello doctor, sorry to bother you. But there is a patient who has a syringe driver for her symptoms. But she is agitated. Can you come and review her please?”
“Do you have her drug chart with you now?”
“No, doctor.”
“Do you know if she has PRN (give if required) medications prescribed?”
“No, I dont think so.”
“Well, can you go check?”
“Just a minute. Let me get her drug chart.”
After a minute waiting on the phone, the conversation continues.
“Doctor, I have her drug chart now.”
“Does she have midazolam prescribed in the PRN side?”
“Yes.”
“Have you given it to her?”
“No.”
“Well, please give it to her. I think that would help her symptoms, don’t you think?”
“Ok, thank you doctor.”

I don’t mean to sound abrupt. But sometimes it is, like the midazolam, needed PRN to get your point across.

But as bad as that bleep was, there was one which was even worse.

“Doctor, I have a patient on the ward whose saturations just dropped but she is on oxygen.”
“Did you increase the oxygen?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Is she still desaturating?”
“No. She is on 3L now.”
“Then, what do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing, I just wanted to let you know.”
Seriously?!?! You are working on a palliative ward, this is the basics of patient care!

Funnily enough, the two bleeps above came from the same ward. It even might have been the same nurse.

*PRN - medications prescribed if required by patient (for example: paracetamol can be given if the patient is in pain)
**drug chart - a list of medications prescribed for the patient

181: 24.3 Serendipity

I was at the newly opened Costa in our hospital - finally able to have lunch after a hectic Saturday morning. All the patients that were meant to be discharged were discharged, so I thought I would take a minute to refuel before joining the ward team. It was there where I met M, she was a doctor working in the Emergency Department. Not knowing one another before, we exchanged comments about Costa drinks which somehow led to deep conversations about marriage, life plans and friends. Probably we both needed the company on a sad work weekend. And it also helps that she is also a Muslim hijabi - somehow we automatically gravitate towards each other.

“Wait, you probably know some medical students from Barts in my year. Did you know my friend, D?” she asked.

Funnily enough, although there are so many Malaysians in London and we couldn’t all know each other, in this specific circumstance, I did know D. We’ve met in a couple of occasions, she was close with some of my friends so we bumped into each other during dinners or lunches. I admired her from afar but never got the opportunity to get to know her. She was a junior doctor working in the UK - a doctor who was also battling cancer. I followed her story through social media, now and again checking up on her and updates on her health. Unfortunately, as you can tell with my use of past tenses, she had since lost her life battling cancer. I remember hearing of the news and feeling numb. A was there and when I told him, I broke down in tears. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me - but I felt like I did. And I was and am still inspired by her strength, bravery and faith through her short but impactful life.

“I was close to her. She stayed with me and my mom for a month when she was sick. Her husband stayed with us too when he visited from Malaysia.”

It was then when I realised who I was actually meeting. I did know M before through stories of D. She was the friend who kindly opened her home to D when she was seeking treatment. She was who my friends were referring to when they spoke of D after she passed. I have seen pictures of her house in social media when my friends were visiting D before she left for home. It felt strange meeting her now, but also very serendipitous. Like it was orchestrated by Him - it honestly couldn’t have been just a chance encounter.

“You must be the M my friends were telling me about. It is very nice to meet you. This world is really so very small.”

180: 23.3 Stress and its Manifestations

Illness. Acne. Anger.

These are some of the many manifestations of stress. Some family members of mine are even more unlucky in that the skin on their hands adopt the characteristic of peeling like cling film when approaching exam time.

I have noticed that in myself, it manifests in the flare up of my eczema. Sensitivities are unfortunately an inheritable family trait. Both my parents suffer from moderate to severe forms of sinusitis that has been passed down to all their offspring. We have our fair share of intolerances too - my sister is sensitive to dairy and prawns and my brother absolutely cannot have cocoa without falling sick (and yes, that means a lifetime avoiding chocolate). On the other hand, I am really sensitive to certain soaps and processed ingredients. For instance, after a few minutes of using Dove shower gel, an unsightly, red rash would appear madman spread across my body. I will be itchy for a few minutes to hours before symptoms die down.

And then there is the eczema on my legs. For as long as I remember, I have had terribly irritable skin on both my legs. When I was in primary school, I would constantly scratch the burning itch on my legs - so much so that sometimes I would bleed. Black scabs from old wounds on the clean canvas of skin on my legs was a normality. It was only a few years ago when I went to a dermatologist for something completely unrelated was when he officially diagnosed me with eczema.

I did know that when stressed, the itch in my legs would flare up - but up until then, I had no name for it. So I t was a relief to finally have an explanation for my symptoms. I got appropriate treatment an it calmed down. But like clockwork, as the stress piled up yesterday, it came back with avengence. My legs were burning under the duvet sheets - it was like there was a army of tiny ants burrowing through my skin. I scratched so vigorously that it left several painful raw marks that sting in the shower. The only relief was in slumber.

179: 22.3 Tried and tested

Tribulations. Today has been a day of painful tribulations.
Ones that I am not ready to talk about just yet.
For now, I just need sleep.

178: 21.3 London by night

A and I went for one of our long walks today in central London. We thought it would be a good idea to squeeze one more dinner date before my slew of weekend on-calls. Our wanderings would not be complete without our customary visit to a bookstore. We go back and forth between a few of our favourites, but today we stopped by Waterstones in Piccadilly. We only had time to explore the ground floor of this mammoth sized bookstore that span five or six floors. We always get an itch to purchase another book on our visits despite having a stack of yet-to-be-read books in our little flat. Although I initially pushed away the voices that told me I had to buy this particular book, in the end, I gave in to my temptations and bought the book half price on Amazon. It will be delivered tomorrow (yay!). On the other hand, A was disciplined enough to walk out of the bookstore empty handed (seriously, what is this sorcery?).

We chose to walk to our favourite Indian place in Queensway. It is quite a trek to get there - but we haven't had a long walk through Hyde Park in a while and it wasn't too cold out - so we jumped at the chance. I deeply treasure these night walks together. It is where a lot of our intimate conversations take place. Especially when strolling in the park after sunset, our senses are dimmed - there is enough lamp posts to light our journey, but only just. We are sheltered from the angry taxi cabs and hurried busses weaving in and out of the city's tiny streets. It is quiet - the numbness of the evening only interrupted by the sound of cyclists rushing home and the sound of hastened feet from joggers who train best in the shadow of darkness. With this stillness that the night brings, there is more room for our thoughts - thus more room for deep and meaningful conversations.

Today, whilst walking hand in hand with A passing many magnificent tall trees in Hyde Park, I thought how peculiar it is that centuries ago, other people too walked this same path, but in totally different circumstances. Two hundred years ago, these same streets had seen no cars - they would have been filled with horse drawn carriages carrying the wealthy. Where I walked, there would have been elegant ladies in corsets and dresses, umbrellas in tow, and probably chaperoned by strapping men wearing waistcoats and top hats. Their nights would not have been lit unless by candles. But some structures would have remained - like the Buckingham Palace, Serpentine River and the townhouses surrounding Hyde Park - somehow impervious to the effect of time. 

The trees in the park - that stand majestically, their roots deeply embedded in the Earth - they have seen London through it all. They have observed London through the centuries - with the changing landscape, technology and people. So I wonder, if they could talk, what would they say about London as it stands now? Is the city better? Are people happier?

These are some of the weird thoughts that night walks allow into my mind. I wonder what it will be next time.

177: 20.3 Reminders of my Gender

My parents did well instilling in my siblings and I that our opportunities are limitless. The girls in the family are treated the same as the boys. My parents expected the same from us girls than they did the boys. We had the same curfew and as a family, we did not adhere to gender stereotypes. There wasn't an emphasis on us girls to be skilled in the kitchen, nor was it an expectation for my brothers to be gregarious and sporty. We were treated as equals.

So it came as a shock when outside of the safe haven of home, I was reminded of my "inferiority" amongst my male counterparts. Unfortunately, both instances happened in so-called "Islamic" settings. Thankfully I am aware of the difference of Islam and Muslims, with the latter always being fallible. But if I wasn't, these two incidents could have caused me to stray away from the purity of my beautiful religion, feeling suspicious and angry.

One of the two happened when a couple of friends and I attended a weekend course to study Islamic Finance. It was held at the fringes of East London and it involved us waking up very early in the morning to take the long commute there. I remember it ran when MH370 disappeared. We received the news during one of the lectures - we were surprised, distraught and confused. We were frantically browsing multiple media outlets simultaneously to understand what had happened. And because it involved our national airline, it felt even more close to home. But anyway, I digress.

The course was taught by a well known Sheikh. As expected, most of the attendees were women. We probably made up three quarters or more of the cohort. The men who were sitting in front just about filled up two rows - and even that is generous. In between sessions, the brothers would approach the Sheikh and ask him questions. Participants could also write down questions anonymously on paper and hand it to one of the volunteers for the Sheikh to address at the end of the day.

During the lunch break, my friend and I had a question. I don't really remember what it was - probably just a clarification of something he had said. We walked down the stairs together and approached the Sheikh. We had a short discussion about our queries, then we took our seats again. A few moments later, a sister volunteer approached us. She was clearly distressed, read in the face.

"Sister! How could you just walk there and ask the Sheikh questions?! It is so improper, we have the note system for sisters to ask. Of course, the Sheikh is too polite to refuse your questions, so he answered them. But sister, this is not right! You cant just walk up and talk to him like that!"

Her voice was loud, high pitched. She was waving her arms at us angrily and looking at her facial expression - she must have thought that we were stupid.

"We went as a group. And the men can ask questions, why can't we? And it is in front of everyone else as well!" we answered.

But she was not having it. Shaking her head continuously, she was not interested in hearing anything we had to say. So we eventually relented. After that, any desire to learn or pursue knowledge dissipated - we just wanted to get out of there fast. I for one felt betrayed by people of my own religion and gender. We were meant to be sisters. Even if we did do something wrong (which I am adamant that we didn't), she should have told us in a nicer way.

Clearly, there were double standards during this particular course - just because we were women, we weren't able to have access to the teacher as the brothers did, despite making up the majority of the class. It infuriated me even more that this came not from men, but a fellow woman. She should know how hard it is to be us - why make it even harder? And it wasn't like we were consulting the Sheikh behind closed doors, we were genuinely trying to clarify queries that we had at the front of the lecture theatre, in full view of everyone else there. It made zero sense.

I was also angry because this is a clear example of how people misuse the religion to enforce their own power - to further their own selfish needs. And I was angry because this incident made me lose focus on why I was there in the first place - to seek knowledge. But what most infuriated me was that women are propagating unjust rules on each other. Not only do we have to worry about men treating us inferiorly, our own sisters are also capable in doing the same or even worse.

Before that day, I had never seen my gender as barrier to seeking knowledge. Not in school, not at home - no where. But that day I was unfortunately faced with a warped reality that challenged the very foundations of all my parents teachings. Although it failed to change any of my beliefs or behaviours (if I have a question, I will go up and ask it no matter what anyone says), it was still a very bitter pill to swallow.

176: 19.3 Mortuary

Having worked in geriatrics, end of life care and intensive care medicine where mortality rates are high, I have grown familiar with the mortuary through my many visits. I am familiar with the staff members who work there, I know where the gloves are kept and I now remember to brace myself to the freezing cold temperatures before taking a step in. But it all started with that one awkward first visit. 

I had not prepared myself for the protocol of death in this country. When my granddad died back home, we brought his body to the mosque straight away and we buried him that same night. Naively I thought that that was what happens here. But between arranging funerals, completing death certificates and arranging cremations, there are unavoidable delays. My first visit was made after a confusing navigation through the many documents that I needed to complete to officialise my patient's demise. The mortuary is located at the end of a long, cold corridor in the basement floor of the main hospital. 

Upon entering through the locked iron doors, one would instantly be hit with the icy, sterile breeze. "How can you just wear scrubs in this room? It is freezing!" I would ask the technicians.

"I have gotten used to it, but believe me, I still sometimes find it unbearable!" 

I would tell him the name of the patient to be examined and he would scan the names on the freezer doors. Each freezer has four levels of patients, so sometimes they would need to get the special ladder  out to help them access specific bodies. I remember thinking on my first visit, how impersonal this felt. How if I were to die, I wouldn't want to be sharing a freezer with three other people potentially lying above me. He wheeled my patient's body out. I remember him looking serene, just like he was in deep slumber. With gloves on, I examined his chest to check if he had any pacemaker. Confirming that he didn't, the body is wheeled back in and after signing his form, I quickly exited the mortuary - faster than when I entered.

After a while, I developed a coping mechanism to combat the awkward and uncomfortable nature of these visits. Gradually, it (rightly or wrongly) just became a routine part of my job. Emotions are left at the door and I tell myself that my patients' soles are not in this room. They are floating around somewhere unseen and what is left are just shells of what they were. Somehow, that consoles me a bit. And probably those whose jobs involve taking care of these bodies everyday have similar coping mechanisms too. 

But just when I thought I had gotten used to my dealings with the mortuary, I was called to witness a post-mortem. These are held by pathologists when the cause of death is uncertain. Their expertise lie in carefully dissecting the body and examining each organ for macroscopic and microscopic clues. Needless to say, it was difficult to watch. It looked nothing like the ones I watch on crime dramas. It was not as neat and it was more raw. 

After that, I felt like I was back at the beginning - awkward, uncomfortable and a little bit queasy. But thankfully, I would not have to bear witness to many of these proceedings in my career, unless of course my calling suddenly switches from paediatrics to pathology. In the end, these experiences make up some of the necessary evils of the medical profession. One can be hindered or paralysed by it, or one can just persevere on in getting the job done. Here is me trying to do the latter!

175: 18.3 A little ripple

It is a rare occurrence that I would voluntarily use my off days for something remotely educational. But today was an exception. My body clock has been adjusted to waking up before 9am, so today I was bright and chirpy hours before noon (which never happened before starting work). A and I were contemplating on whether to venture out or not today. Should we stay in and watch BBC in the comforts of our warm house? Or should we brave icy winds and snow to get some exercise and fresh air? We were still weighing up our options when I received a text reminding me off an event at UCL today. It was from Q, a student that I have recently had the pleasure of knowing. She is the brains and muscle power behind the reincarnation of one of my long forgotten passion projects.

A and I started the [i]mpact movement 6 years ago where we got speakers from different creative fields to share their experiences on how they made a positive impact in their local communities. For instance, one speaker performed slam poetry, another organised flash mobs and another innovated Malaysia's stagnant animation industry. Amongst the many serious political and governmental events that the student body organised, this was different. It was definitely more relaxed and approachable. Many participants attended the talks and workshops we organised and overall, it was a project well done. It was one of the first times A and I worked side by side in a professional manner, and it really did feel like we had birthed our "baby". We were there every step of the way, until we had to eventually set it free. So when the time came to pass it along to the event's successor, we did do it with a heavy heart. The movement only lasted 2 years, but I did hope it made difference, however small it may have been.

But then a few months ago, Q called. She was going through old projects and found ours. She was interested in giving it life again. And I was more than happy to help. We talked on the phone and I told her what the whole movement was about - empowering youth to positively impact their local communities. And we discussed a lot of different aspects - from choice of speakers, to presentation styles to event atmosphere and marketing material. I did end the conversation feeling excited and hopeful, but not too hopeful. They might ultimately decide that it wasn't for them and choose to scrap the whole idea completely.

So it was a complete surprise when Q told me that they were organising an event in London as a prelude to the one that they are planning for in Malaysia this summer. As the 10k race that I was meant to run today was cancelled due to the snow, my Sunday was free to witness the reincarnation of my baby. And in complete honesty, it was a Sunday well spent. The speakers were really diverse and insightful. They talked about a multitude of topics from spreading messages through education programs, technology, comic art, student unions and volunteering. They were from different walks of life and they impacted the people around them in many different ways but the unified message was clear - a wave starts with a ripple.

Never underestimate the power of a small act of kindness. What may have begun as an idea in a college room could end up as a national policy. For instance, lower council tax rates for students started when a few students rallied together to fight for it. Or even serendipitously, one of the speakers today was instrumental in ensuring that the Majestic Hotel in Kuala Lumpur was not demolished through organising a mass petition when there were plans to do so many decades ago. The Majestic Hotel remains as our favourite hotel, and A and I go there yearly, if not more. And if it wasn't for her, we would have not had the chance to experience it. 

Similarly, [i]mpact started many years ago and began as a simple idea. We wanted to create a platform to educate and inspire young people to create positive change. We thought that as a movement, it has paid its dues and it has done enough work to retire. But clearly, God had other plans. And hopefully, through Q and her wonderful team, this movement will support many more youth to get out there and do good work. 

Today I have learnt that no good deed with the right intentions goes to waste. One may not see the rewards instantaneously, sometimes not even in one's lifetime, but little actions does ultimately create positive change. See that ripple turning into a wave? Not yet? Do the work anyway, and know that it will, someday. 

6 years ago

174: 17.3 Stuck (ii)

Across from the station was a local cab company. It prides itself from being dirt cheap, and it seems to be stuck in the past - one can only book cabs through calling in, and the cabs only accept cash payments. Who carries cash these days?! But as it was quickly approaching midnight, I was desperate to get home. Already in the office, there were a few others whose commute was rudely interrupted by the delays. I went up to the counter, stated my name and destination.

"Are you bringing your bike with you?" said the lady on the other side of the glass window.
"Don't worry, it folds."
"Ah, right. Won't be too long, pet."

I took a seat in the waiting area and noticed my tummy grumbling - a sign that I was now not only frustrated and sleepy, but now also hungry. A very bad combination of emotions. I managed to get a packet of pringles out of the vending machine to temporarily quiet my stomach down.

"Tottenham Hale! Your cab is outside waiting for you."

I lifted my now folded bike out into the cold and helped the driver to put it into the boot. After taking a seat at the back, the same silver haired woman from before knocked on the window. Two men with luggage were right behind her.

"Hi pet, these two men also want to get to Tottenham Hale. Do you mind sharing the trip with them?"
Yes! Less cab fare for me! I nodded by head, and took a seat at the front. Shortly after, another man running from the station also came up to the cab asking if he could join the convoy. He must have heard our destination and jumped at the chance to escape this public transport mess. So in the end, the cab headed to Tottenham carrying a total of four passengers instead of just me.

Throughout the journey, I was quiet - I had little energy to attempt small talk or be mentally present in anyway. But for entertainment, I overheard the conversations that the three men had in the back of the car.

One said, "Honestly, if that person died. There is little that anyone could have done. They should have just moved it and carry on."
"I think the delay was maybe because it was maybe crime-led? Police and inspectors involved doesn't sound like a simple suicide."

Then they carried on talking about their plans this Friday night. All three of them were heading to Angel in central London for drinks with friends. Two of them had Scottish accents whilst the other, I assume was from Italy.

"My friend is waiting for me at the pub. And I feel so bad because I am late. She is being nice about it but I do still feel awful. She is already drunk waiting for me!" said the Italian man. I remembered it was St Patricks Day a few days ago - probably that was the general occasion for boozy drinks. But in my ignorance, it may just be that this is just another typical Friday night activity for Europeans.

After long last, we finally arrived at Tottenham Hale. I spotted A waiting at the station. I paid the cab driver my share (15 pounds as opposed to 50 pounds if I was alone) and A helped push my bicycle back home. Needless to say, it was a very testing night and I was glad to finally be in my warm familiar home with a nice, hot cup of tea.

In the end, this ordeal made me think of where I was in the spectrum of people who patiently hope. When the train stopped, there were a handful of those who headed out immediately to find alternative ways to get to where they want to go. I would classify them as the skeptics or those who held little hope in the system and earliest to independently solve the problem at hand. In hindsight, probably they did the right thing in leaving as early as they did - they saved alot of time. On the other end of the spectrum, I was by far not the last person to jump ship, but I certainly wasn't amongst the first either. Even one hour in, I held tightly on to the hope that things would sort themselves out, and the train would start moving again. But I did get to a point (although not as quickly as others) where I thought enough was enough, I can't sit idle and do nothing but wait anymore. I took affirmative action.

So in the scheme of things, I am probably in the middle. I am not too patient, but neither am I inpatient. Unlike others who act quickly, it takes time for me to take action. But at the same time, I do not just wait and do nothing. I am neither a skeptic or too hopeful. I lie somewhere in between. And being on the equator of extremes is a good place to be, I think.

173: 16.3 Stuck

This is a cheat post because I am writing this the day after said date. But I have a legitimate reason! I arrived home at 11pm yesterday after a testing commute home. I was on-call till 8pm last night and I made good time to arrive at the platform in time for the train home. I got to the station to find that the train was delayed a few minutes. "No worries," I thought. "At least it is still on its way."

The train did eventually arrive and I got in to find it filled with the passengers from Stansted Airport. Not only was it full with human beings, the little free space that was left was occupied by luggages of many different sizes. Not being successful in finding a free seat, I opted to sit on the floor. We were on the platform for quite a while with the train remaining stationary. I thought it was a bit weird, but then the announcement came on.

"Dear passengers, we are being held by a red signal. Just got news that there was someone on the tracks at the station in front of us, and this is currently being dealt with. I will update you with any further news."

The sea of annoyance was palpable in the air. There were shaking of heads and disgruntlement all around. It was a Friday night, after all - I guess that everyone on the train was pretty much done with the week, and just want to get home. Cross-legged on the floor, I too expressed my exasperation with a big sigh. Truth be told, I wasn't feeling my best that day - my throat was acting up and I had just gobbled two paracetamols to mask my symptoms. "Patience, Ayne. Patience. You will be home soon," I said in my head whilst I tried breathing exercises. I called A to tell him what happened, he told me to take a cab straight away. "No way, that is so expensive! Its like I would have to use one day's wages to get home. I'll wait a bit longer."

Half an hour passes, and the announcement goes, "I have not received much update from the scene. Apparently, the police are involved. Again, many apologies for the delay and I will update you as soon as I hear anything."

People were beginning to get restless. An Italian couple in front of me were trying to persuade other passengers to split the cab with them to central London. They succeeded in recruiting groups of two taxis. And off they went, leaving the carriage, bags in tow. On their departure, I took a seat that was left unoccupied and (accidentally) took a short nap.

I was awoken by the buzzing of my phone. It was A calling.
Apparently one hour has now elapsed since I told him that the trains weren't moving. He sounded worried and concerned whist he was frantically trying to find affordable cabs to escort me home. Uber hiked up its price to over 100 pounds - clearly, not an option.
And the other cheaper taxi version was half an hour away - not an option.

"Don't worry, I'll just wait a while longer - hopefully it will resolve soon. Also, my battery is dying." I said. "I'll call you again to check up on you," A replied.

After I semi-recovered from the anaesthesia of my nap, I realised that the carriage was half empty. In my slumber, many people had jumped ship to seek alternative transport. "Just wait for the next announcement," I told myself. After a few minutes, the speaker was back on.

"Again, many apologies for the disruption. I have yet to receive any estimation on when we are to resume our journey. Inspectors are now at the scene to sort out the incident. Many apologies again and thank you for being patient with us."

That was when I stood up, grabbed my bicycle and finally exited the carriage. I have had enough.

(To be continued in part two!)

172: 15.3 Snow (ii)

We have had our fair shares of snow from the East this winter. Snow has been a true test of patience especially since I am dependent on public transport running to get to work. As we are currently optimistically approaching spring, we thought it would be the temporary end of our relationship with the icy whites. Unfortunately, this isn't the case. We have received another weather warning that the snow will greet us again this weekend. And as such, once again, the country has become panic stricken. 

Our 10k run on Sunday has been cancelled until further notice due to the weather warning. We received the email about this a few hours ago while eating dinner with friends. A was very much looking forward to this run, and so have I. Needless to say, we were both quite surprised and disappointed with the news. A has trained for it even whilst in Malaysia whilst I have been emotionally preparing for it without much physical preparation.  But I had moved an on-call day on Sunday to free up time to go for the run, whilst A had moved his trips back to London to make sure that he was in town to attend.

Really goes to show that one can plan meticulously for something to happen, but everything can go awry even at the last minute. Only God knows what will happen, and He is the best of Planners. 

Another thing I am nervous about is how I am to get to work on Saturday. Hopefully trains will still run but I am honestly expecting to be stranded at the train station, frustrated and at loss. But we will see! Snow, please be kind to me.

171: 14.3 Training wheels off

I put in my first arterial line without supervision today. It was an easy insertion - no fuss, no complications. I was pretty nervous at the thought of inserting the line solo at first despite having inserted two previously. But there was only one senior in the department today and he was occupied. "Why not have a go yourself? I know you can do it," he said, "You can get one of the nurses to help you - they are really helpful."

To be completely honest, I was already pretty confident on doing this procedure on my own - I just needed someone to push me out of my comfort zone because I was so used to the safety net that senior supervision provided. Flying solo today very much mirrored my first ever time taking blood from a patient as a medical student. It was my first week on the wards and I can remember distinctly going into the side room with a foundation doctor, equipment in hand. I was running through the steps in my head - exactly how we practised on dummy arms in clinical skills sessions. My palms were wet and I was slowly developing a cold sweat - I was that nervous. And although the patient had veins that were literally popping out of his skin, I felt like an imposter. I was far from being a real doctor, and I had zero confidence that this procedure was going to yield any positive results.

But despite the bleak picture I had built up in my mind, everything went on smoothly. The doctor was helpful enough to talk me through every step, and a few minutes later, we magically had the blood samples we needed - hooray! Although it was a relative small achievement in the larger scheme of things, I remember feeling like a rockstar. Like a hero - I could have done anything at that point. Similarly, that is how I felt like today.

I must learn to not have such catastrophic thinking when it comes to my abilities. And I have to learn to not psych myself out from making full use of the opportunities that has been made available to me. Ultimately, what I need is more courage. Courage to pursue things on my own - courage to, after sufficient training pedalling with training wheels, to finally take them off and cycle independently.  Familiarity can be a source of comfort, but it is only when pressured does one actually grow. Things may go awry, I might fall flat on my face, but if I don't try, how else would I know?

170: 13.3 Slowing down

So far, my life has been structured around Plan As, Plan Bs and plans of other alphabets. The route towards my professional career has been a straightforward, linear path. Finish high school with good grades, enrol into college to get stellar A Levels, then get a place into medical school. Survive medical school, then work. Other than my accidental and compulsory gap year, there was no time wasting in between transitions. I have always been on a path leading me to becoming a doctor - no detours, no U-turns.

But as I have been talking with other colleagues and seniors, my view on professional development has underwent a massive revision. Before, I was set focused on becoming a consultant in paediatrics in the shortest amount of time possible. I planned to take my professional papers early and complete the necessary training to come out the other end, a consultant paediatrician. The only leniency that I allowed myself was to take breaks to have children - but that was it. Much like before, I had a goal and I am focused on achieving it.

But then I met other doctors who opted for a more convoluted path towards the same destination. For instance, an emergency trainee was telling me how he took two years after foundation training to work as a staff grade and as a locum doctor just to gain experience in different fields of medicine. He used the money to travel the world more, and to figure out what exactly he wanted to do. Another colleague is taking a year out to complete a Masters. And after five years of training, another colleague is a locum medical registrar full time to save enough money to buy a house. Some take time out to purely pursue medical education and some detour into management or research. Another colleague also plans to take time out to start a health technology company. And some just chose to hold non-training posts for a few years to gain confidence and experience before taking the professional next step.

The options are limitless. And after learning of what is possible, I have become inclined to not rush, and take my time on this journey to becoming a consultant. I would like to take detours or to take more time at a certain spot. As a fickle minded person, I have been burdened or gifted with the curiosity of many different aspects of medicine and even areas outside medicine. Who knows? I have said before that I may be interested in studying law or public health for a while, or maybe work in health consultancy temporarily. Or just take a year out to learn to code, or join a fellowship program.

Probably as I have grown older, I have learnt to be patient and trust the process. There is less urgency to get somewhere fast, but rather slow down and enjoy the view from where I am. The tunnel vision I once had has now widened and its light has revealed many emergency exit routes within it on the way to its end. So this is really a reminder for me to slow down. Don't worry Ayne, slow down, you'll get there eventually so why not enjoy the journey?

169: 12.3 Babies

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to attend my first ever baby shower (which I also had the honour to help organise)! It was for two sets of going-to-be parents who are both expecting girls, only two weeks apart! It is without a doubt, an exciting time for our little running group. It marks a new chapter in our journey through adulthood. For the four of us, life will soon cease to be the same. It is a major step forward to growing their little families, and I couldn't be happier for them. Soon we will have little babies to play with!

As I was entrusted the task of decorations and activities, this noob of a party planner frantically searched what goes on in baby showers last week. Thank God for Amazon for providing themed decorations in affordable packs and for mummy bloggers who share baby shower game ideas online. Because of such resources, we spent the day with laughter, happiness and celebration as we blindfolded ourselves looking for the "baby" with only its cries as our guide. We ate baby food and birthed balloon babies hands free! We played baby themed charades, ate pink cake and exchanged presents. All in all, it was a memorable day. And hopefully the little girls who are safely cocooned in their moms' bellies could feel all the love from us that day. We can't wait to meet you!

And as for the question: when is your turn? 

A and I would like to confirm that any news that suggest that we are in the midst of multiplying is nothing but pure speculation. For now, I guess you have to just accept us as a pack of two!

168: 11.3 Perfume (ii)

This is another story about perfumes. Before we were officially married, A and I made a pact to gift each other perfumes. I had read somewhere that smell has the ability to powerfully evoke special memories - like it helps store moments better in our treasure chest of memories. I thought that it would be nice to reintroduce ourselves to one another as husband and wife with scents that we thought best represents the other.

I bought his after auditioning many typical musk-filled perfumes in many well known department stores. It was only at a last ditch effort in John Lewis where I found what I was looking for. It smelt fresh, calming and breezy. It lies between a salty ocean breeze and a Mediterranean night. It smells sharp and rich, Italian even, enough to warrant another look but not too much that it overwhelms - it was both an accent and a wallflower in equal measures. Basically, it was perfect - bottled in a cylindrical black bottle, it was just what I was looking for. And I was proud to present it to A, complete with ribbons on our wedding day.

In comparison, the perfume that A got me was packaged in a curved clear bottle with a flower on top. Its scent is strongly floral, sweet and contains depth. It is feminine yet exudes confidence. Reminds me of a perfect summers day, one where people could lie on the grass bathed by the sun's warm rays.

We have made it a habit to douse a little of our respective perfumes before bed. Just a little gesture to let the other know that we have made an effort. I have loved A's perfume so much that whenever he is away, I would spray some of his on myself and my pillow for comfort. Probably that explains why he is at his second bottle and I am still on my first bottle.

I don't really know what would happen once our perfumes are discontinued from production. When their brands have tired of their scents and opt for newer additions. Probably as we grow old together, we would evolve too, either by choice or necessity. And with the times, we too would have to find other scents to match our new personalities. Hopefully ones that reflect better versions of ourselves now.

167: 10.3 Perfume

One of the most prominent memories of my trip to London when I was 9 was entering department stores and running for my life. "I am allergic to perfume!" I would exclaim. I remember wrapping my scarf around my nose, clasping both hands on top for added protection and just bolting through the perfume section to somewhere with milder sensory input like maybe, the accessories section. I wasn't exactly allergic (that was definitely an exaggeration) but I did, and still do have a very sensitive sense of smell. In high school this was somewhat problematic as I could smell other peoples' pungent and hormonal body odour from many metres away. When they were babies, I could even detect that my siblings' nappies were full even before everyone else noticed.

But as a child, perfumes were my greatest enemy. Especially in department stores, the strong musky smells coupled with floral scents mixed together with the smell of alcohol was too much for my untrained nose. I have since grown accustomed to the strong smell of perfumes (except for Arabic oud, yuck), and I have made a small collection of them throughout the years. However, I remain very picky on the sorts of smells I would let into my home or onto my body.

It began in high school. Having lived in the girl's dormitory for five years, needless to say, one is bound to become influenced by the grooming etiquettes of the popular pretty girls. As a freshman, I would observe how the older girls would put on their uniform with great care, tie up their hair in a neat pony tail and douse themselves with expensive branded perfume. They would glide gracefully to the front of the dormitory, check their appearance in the mirror and walk out, bag of books in tow. In their absence, they leave a trail of scent. Sometimes musky, but more often, floral. From their signature scents, one didn't really have to see them to know that they were there - it was that strong. We could even tell whose who just by their perfume. She wore Britney, and she wore DKNY.

As a wide-eyed, very impressionable young teenager, I began to emulate this into my own routine. One of my first perfumes were from Body Shop. Packaged in small, clear glass bottles, I took great care to use them wisely - enough to make an impression, but not too much to be wasteful. All of that primarily just to fit in, to be like the other girls. This was particularly evident as I would only use perfume at school, and never when I was on holiday at home. Really goes to show how powerful peer influence is in teenagehood.

I have another story on perfumes, but I think I would like to leave it for another day. Tomorrow perhaps?

P.S. I am writing this on my newly repaired laptop! Thankfully, the only malfunctions found was on my keyboard and trackpad, and not my hard drive. All has been replaced, and it is working good as new, Alhamdulillah!

166: 9.3 Apologies

Dear blog,

I am sorry that I can’t pay you much attention.
Between my laptop being temporarily unavailable, and A finally being home, I am sorry to say that I have other priorities to attend to.
Hope you will understand.

All my love,
Ayne

165: 8.3 Bleeps

The funniest, most time wasting bleep I have ever received.

“Someone bleeped FY1 oncall?”
“Yeah doc, I can’t seem to print out blood request forms on this ward. The computers are different here. What are the right printer settings?”

Walking from resus after attending to a patient who had a cardiac arrest, I couldnt believe what I was hearing. Who do you think I am? Bloody IT!?

By far, the most mind boggling bleep I have ever received.

164: 7.3 Hello, goodbye

It was a busy on-call shift a few days ago. I was in ED trying to fight the fires. It was one of those days where patient were lined up in the corridor as were the fleets of ambulances outside. There were various sights and sounds as well as all types of smells. I had one patient to take care of before I had to go the ward. Poor guy, he seemed fine - but as part of the workup, I had to take blood from him in three separate occasions.

Thankfully, he was well hydrated and had prominent veins in his arm. Beside him, holding his hand was his wife. "We have been married 50 years!" they said when I asked. Every time I had to go to his cubicle with my venepuncture kit I feel remorse. "So sorry sir, but I have to take another blood test." He didn't mind it at all, and took all the sharp pokes like a champion, complete with a smile.

As I was finishing his last set of bloods, his wife turned to me and said, "You have been the best."
A little bit confused, I asked, "What do you mean?"

"He says he doesn't feel a thing when you poke needles into him. He usually feels it. You must be very good. Thank you so much."

"Thank you for the compliment but really it is thanks to his veins rather than my abilities."

I waved goodbye and set off to the ward. Enroute I thought, all those practice sessions with plastic arms in medical school did pay off afterall!

163: 6.3 Death by tea

If you haven't noticed, I treasure my tea. But my dedication to it has caused me to encounter very unfortunate circumstances. For instance, tea literally drowned my phone a few years ago. I had stupidly placed my serving of bubble tea into my handbag. I thought that because it had a semi sturdy plastic cover on top, my other belongings in the bag would be safe. But boy was I wrong. Without even noticing it on the journey home, there was an ocean of tea in my bag with little jelly bubbles floating in every dark corner.

It drowned my ID cards, my money, receipts and most unfortunately, my phone as well. It was still switched on when I found it, but upon its discovery, I quickly ran to A begging for help. We switched it off, wiped it down and placed it in a bag of uncooked rice for the next 48 hours. It was the longest 48 hours of my life. Not having a phone felt really isolating -  I had fewer ways to connect with the larger world. I probably went through a withdrawal phase - staring blankly at walls and not knowing what to do in my free time. Clearly, like many others, I had developed a dependency or addiction to it.

The next morning, A and I had to buy a temporary replacement phone, one that costed pennies. It was a basic Lenovo phone and it had whatsapp and some other applications, but it ran so slowly. Sending a text took 5 times more time than it had on my iPhone. The downgrade really did feel painful - like I was previously flying amongst the clouds but then I was suddenly dropped onto hard earth. It was a reality check - it goes to show that you never really know what you have until it is abruptly taken from you.

After the long, gruelling 48 hours, we freed my phone from its jail of rice. And after alot of prayers and wishful thinking, it miraculously switched on! I was overjoyed! It was like being reunited with a long lost friend. The screen was a bit fuzzy and it had a line down the middle, but overall it worked... for a while. It eventually gave up on life and retired from its loyal service, leaving me to fork out a huge amount from my student savings to purchase a replacement.

After all that drama, we lived happily ever after.

Or so I thought.

I tell this story today because it mirrors what has happened to me a few hours ago. I arrived home and put the kettle on to make my usual "winding down" cup of tea. With it perfectly brewed, I sat in front of my laptop to watch P.S. I Love You on Netflix. I was happily drinking the tea, dunking my last packets of cream crackers in it when it happened. Midway through the film, I accidentally knocked over my mug and tea spilled all over my keyboard. Sounds familiar yet?

I frantically looked for paper towels and wiped the tea off the keyboard. I turned it upside down to free any liquid that could have slid through the cracks in between keys. After typing "tea spilled on macbook" on Google, I took heed of the majority of the internet's advice to unplug it from power, switch it off and leave it to dry upside down overnight. Unfortunately, despite multiple attempts, I can't switch the laptop on.

It has died, and I too feel a little dead inside.

My sister has kindly agreed to bring it to an Apple service shop tomorrow enroute to university. But for now, I am pathetically borrowing her laptop to write this. What is the outcome of all this avoidable drama? Only time will tell. But for now, I have this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me that the news won't be good tomorrow.

162: 5.3 Seeing God

Amidst the hectic nature of balancing work, home and extra curricular activities, I find it difficult carving alone time talking to God. I sometimes try to squeeze an Islamic podcast on my commute or attempt to read an article on spirituality in between jobs on the ward. But to be honest, it takes more effort than it used to.

I can genuinely attest that I feel spiritually dehydrated at the moment despite having constant examples of the vast multitude of God's wonders everyday at work. I see it in my patient with cerebral palsy who in her early 20s, has a lung capacity that is less than half of ours, but who still soldiers on with smiles on her face, I see it when families gather around a loved one who is approaching the end of his or her life and I see it in the determination and dedication of the hospital staff, who tirelessly work to provide good care to patients. I see God in the miraculous machines that keep patients alive, and I saw God last week when He showered us with snow from the heavens.

But with the pressure of getting things done quickly and having to be pulled in a hundred different directions, it has been tough to take notice of those little glimpses of Him in those moments. We are not afforded much time to be present in the moment and truly reflect. Having said that, I do crave and miss His company. I know He is always there near me, watching over me and holding my hand through every journey. But it is I who is deficient - who forgets to let Him in and who forgets to thank Him for all the glorious blessings in my life.

It is I who comes back home from work, in most times exhausted, and instead of talking to Him about my day - its ups and downs, its challenges and wins - I instead choose to lazily watch mindless videos on the internet to pass the time. Needless to say, I have alot of work to do. But I take comfort in the fact that the realisation and acknowledgement of a problem are first steps towards positive change. The road ahead is filled with obstacles, but nothing worthwhile is ever easy.

Sahih Bukhari (97:34): "...if he comes to Me walking, I go to him running."

161: 4.3 How do you measure?

Time is counted in the number of weekends. It is sometimes four, sometimes five. A goes home about once a month for work. And although in every other facet of my life, I use days or hours to countdown to events, I don't when it comes to measuring the time we are apart. Days in double digits seem like such a devastating and unsurmountable figure. It makes the wait even more agonising than it already is.

Weekends are our unit of choice. It is short enough to be perceived as a bump rather than a hill (as maybe a week is perceived). And as A often flies home on a Friday, the illusion of a smaller number of weekends to the number of weeks does well for our overall morale.

In this particular time we are apart, today I woke up and realised that today was a Sunday and that marked another weekend crossed off from the list. There was meant to be another weekend ahead, being the last obstacle to overcome until our long anticipated reunion. But A was the bearer of great news this morning. One more weekend, became zero because he managed to pry himself from work a little bit early this time, Alhamdulillah.

Since hearing the good news, nothing really could have dulled my day. Although the on-call was challenging and long, I made it through somehow being able to maintain the smile on my face and the skip in my step. I have five more sleeps till his return, and I cannot wait!

160: 3.3 Colours in her Hair

The first time I dyed my hair was when I was 12 years old. It was after we found out that I had gotten straight As in the national examinations, and as a present, my mom let me go to my local salon and dye blonde streaks onto my jet black hair. In hindsight, I was very young to have this done - but I was determined, and probably my persistence weighed mama down.

It was a small, family run hair salon. One that probably set up roots decades before. It was a corner shop in a busy residential area. Next to it were local garages, mini markets and mamak stalls. My mom and I entered the salon to be greeted by a nice Chinese auntie. She allocated me a chair and a hairdresser, and shortly after the transformation process commenced. Mama was patiently waiting in the corner reading magazines. And I sat still for hours trying waiting patiently for the big reveal.

I remember feeling like a million bucks with my new hair. It was a very early millennial thing to have streaks in one's hair - like the popular pop stars at the time. Britney Spears had them, Christina Aguilera had them, so needless to say, I felt very special that day. I bounced around home parading my new look to family members, friends and whoever who was vaguely interested. I was very pleased.

However, the new school year was about to begin, and I was enrolled into a local girl's school who had a reputation for enforcing their strict standards of discipline onto their students. I knew that I wouldn't be able to get away with my funky hair. But cunningly on the first school day, I managed to tuck my hair streaks underneath my normal hair and tied it neatly and tightly in a pony tail. Surprisingly, no one noticed - not the prefects who would stand at the gate to check our socks, not the school teachers roaming around the halls - no one. I felt a little like a spy with a secret, and so far I was winning.

It was only a few days later when one prefect commented on my hair. You see, they were even tasked with checking that our hair bands were of the right colour - only black and dark blue were allowed. So I wasn't surprised that someone would have eventually noticed. The prefect - short, fair skinned - approached me whilst I was entering a classroom.

"Is that your natural hair?" she said whilst pointing at me.
Oh no, I thought, game over. I have been exposed.
"Well, yes it is. It is natural," I answered, non-chalantly.
This is not going to work, I thought. She is definitely going to report me.
"Oh, alright then, it looks really nice. Carry on."

Phew. I ran into the classroom, out of sight.

Fortunately, my existence in that school didn't last long - at most it was two weeks before I was transferred to a boarding school out of state. Not wanting to risk my place or squeaky clean reputation because of possible hair offences, I chopped off my locks before I moved. Therefore, it was alas, a short rendezvous with my stylish hair, but it remains my first glimmer of personal rebellion.

159: 2.3 Risk averse

After a long on-call shift today, I had two options on how I was to head home through the snow. Either by taking a train from the station near the hospital (which is the fastest option but unreliable and was at risk of last minute cancellations) or venture in Central London with my colleague and take a tube back home from there.

I was still undecided when I got into the car. Shall I take the safer option but double my commute time, or shall I take a risk and opt for the local station hoping that the trains will run. Weighing the two options in my head quickly as we drove off, I thought it would be the worst thing in the world right now would be me having to check into hospital accommodation because the trains were not running. So I said to my colleague, "I don't want to take the risk. Can you drop me off at the tube nearest your house?"

I am not a big risk taker. Timid with my options, I would always lean towards safer choices. Nothing that would jeopardise status quo too much. For example, my career is pretty stable - its trajectory is very predictable. It is very unlike the business world, where high stake decisions are made everyday. As doctors, we do make risky decisions, but more often than not, there are guidelines to follow - so risks are evened out. In financial investments, I am also cautious - not putting our money in risky high profit bundles. I sometimes take longer routes to destinations just to avoid potential loss. My tendencies even manifests in the littlest of things such as ordering food at a familiar restaurant. The dishes that appear in front of me on the table would likely be the same dish that I ordered in my last three visits. The potential disappointment from ordering something that I might not enjoy afterwards paralyses me into choosing options that are safe. They say, no risk no gain - which partly holds truth. But I am also content in my steady stream of small wins rather than riding the waves of big gains and equally big losses.

So today, we braved the icy roads, as we drove onto the motorway and into the narrow roads of winter wonderland London. I walked to the nearest tube station and ventured home safely. Stepping out of my local station, I saw my normal train passing by - the one that I could have got on much earlier if I wasn't too afraid to take the risk. I smiled, and walked home.

158: 1.3 Public transport and cars

My colleagues and I were having a conversation over tea about owning a car. I told them that I just passed my UK theory driving test, and knowing my commute into work through bicycle and trains, they were elated at the thought that I might be joining the car ownership club soon.

"Yay! One step to driving then, Ayne?"
"I would have to get a car first, but yes, maybe? But having a car is so expensive here with the insurance, petrol cost and tax, etc."
"Yes, but it is so convenient! Out your home and into work. You have a space that is your own - you don't have to share it with anyone like in trains."

That statement isn't wholly false - I have been in situations where I was forced to be back to back or thigh to thigh with complete strangers on my commute. Personal space was reduced to zero, thus it was no longer a luxury handed to anyone at the time. But as my commutes to work have been wholly against traffic (venturing out of London in the morning, and returning in the evening), I have been blessed with alot of space on trains.

But unfortunately, being wholly dependent on public transport does mean that I am a slave to their ineptness. The trains here are mostly reliable, arriving five minutes within scheduled times, sometimes early even. But akin to other public services throughout the country, England's public transport goes into a total meltdown in extremes of weather. I say extreme lightly, because this snow although unusual, is mediocre at best if compared to the angry snow storms of other countries. So when I turned up to my local station yesterday to discover that there were zero trains running, I wished I had a Plan B - a car perhaps.

However, with driving, it is not only the cost of maintaining the vehicle that gets to me. It is also the powerlessness I feel when I am stuck in traffic. Being confined in a car for long periods of time and not being able to do anything about traffic is not good for my emotional health - I become stressed, agitated and demoralised - it is soul sucking. And in this busy city, traffic congestions are more common than train cancellations. At least with my bicycle, I can bypass the traffic standstill - through parks, pavements and cycle lanes. Another sore point is the lack of parking in my hospital. My colleagues would have to often block other cars and leave their phone number in the window in case it had to be moved. In contrast, when I arrive, it takes me less than a minute to fold my bike and store it under the table in the doctors' room.

And what I like about taking trains is that I could get on one and not be worried about its journey. As a customer, I have paid the train driver to do that for me. But if I were to drive my own car, I would have to be alert throughout - be awake enough to dodge inexperienced drivers and rocks on the highway. I can't for instance take a nap, read a book or daydream - things I often do on train journeys. And as I am half asleep on most mornings, it isn't the safest idea to put me behind a wheel.

Despite all its downsides, I think ultimately, a car affords the owner independence and privacy. Albeit not wholly, because of its slavery to traffic jams. But having the ability to go wherever you want (even lonely corners of the country if desired) without catching specific train times or being jammed so close to strangers that you can smell whiffs of their body odour or being protected from nature's elements like rain, snow and extreme heat, are some of the advantages that justify its purchase and hefty maintenance.

If my future commutes to other hospitals are complicated, or my destination is far from train or bus stations, I would maybe be compelled to purchase a vehicle. But as of now, my journey into work is in the most part, pretty straight forward and uses less time than if I were to drive in. But in days of snow like today and yesterday, I am not going to lie, I wish I had a four wheeled contraption - for "just in case" uses.

I should just wait for an affordable Tesla - a driverless car would be the best of both worlds and the answer to my prayers. Till that day comes, I have my trustworthy two wheeler. And for everything else, there is Uber.