I have surprised myself to write along the lines of this post. From the outset, this blog was meant to be about me and things apart from my job. Simply put: the non-doctor me. However a recall of the events of this afternoon, stirred in me an urge, strong enough that I have made this post. I might even make a series of this title if the urge is sustained.
To start with, I woke up today with the temptation not to go to work. I had a strong alibi and I had told those I spent the weekend with that I did not feel like working on Monday. Well, I made it to work eventually and the morning went without much ado. As I made to park my car upon returning from lunch, my work place colleague called. His words were along the following lines: the out-patient was crowded; there is pregnant female being taken to theatre whose CTG reading indicated foetal distress; could I just go to straight to the theatre and commence anaesthesia; he will make an attempt to reduce the queue of unseen out-patients and then join me as soon as soon as the pregnant woman has been “doped”.
On getting to the operating theatre, I went to the waiting area, introduced myself to the pregnant woman - one of those un-booked ones, confirmed her consent to the procedure including to blood transfusion if it was necessary and then got her into a conversation on the size of her family; the latter a ploy of mine to calm an obviously apprehensive patient. She was also HIV positive and I did well to let my colleague know before he started the Caesarean Section.
Indeed it all went well until the infant was delivered. With an estimated weight of about 1.5kg, my colleague went on to “scout” if there was a twin. The woman had repeatedly said she was about 8-month pregnant and her baby-bump was quite a size. Before the futile search for a second infant was given up, the one already delivered was handed over to the nurse to take to the Radiant Warmer by the operating table. Within a minute, I was called to see. I left my position by the anaesthetic machine to inspect the infant. He was limp, blue and showed no obvious respiratory movements. I proceeded with the resuscitation process. In between this, I shouted out instructions to the make-do anaesthetic assistant. Within the seven minutes or so that resuscitation lasted, I really thought we had lost him. But then, he came around and started that whining, much to the jeer of the theatre workers.
As I made to return to the “head” of the table to continue with the monitoring of the anaesthesia, my colleague who all this while kept on with surgery said to me with relief: “you have brought him back!” I replied, “The theatre nurse and yourself did not want him to go to heaven yet”. We all laughed. It was routine stuff and as it were nothing extra-ordinary had happened.
As I recounted part of the event to someone later this evening, I thought to myself that the life of that limp, blue and non-breathing child was saved. I cannot take the credit for it. Maybe indeed the child was meant to live but we did our part to ensure that. It gives me a sense of privilege.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
I AM FROM WEST AFRICA
Last year, following the death of Michael Jackson, I watched on TV as hundreds of people from across the globe turned out at the Hollywood Walk of Fame, to catch a glimpse and trod the path where MJ’s position is etched. I recollect the TV reporter covering the event took time to interview a cross section of the crowd just to emphasize the international presence it was. Amongst those he interviewed was a lady whose attire and accent was very familiar. When asked where she is from, she said “I am from West Africa”. To this, my friend and I watching together that night chorused: “Nigerian”.
In my young life’s sojourn, much to my amusement I have found more and more people (mostly Nigerians) refer to their selves as being West Africans. Yes, I find it funny because I know people from West African countries do not refer to themselves by such christening in their home countries. One was a Nigerian, Ghanaian, Senegalese, etc. It’s like a Canadian saying he is North American when asked about his origins. It is ambiguous and an almost unconventional way to describing oneself.
This unorthodox nomenclature is another way Nigerians have tried to avoid the travails of being called one. Yours sincerely has had his own fair share of such experiences (CF blog post “My Passport is Green”, Heymeyville (c) November 2009) and I dare say that people who have had the inconveniences of being Nigerian loathe her identity. I do not blame those who have taken this path of anonymity because much that is known by the world is the guile and desperate measures employed by my country men in order not to beg for a living. While this in itself shows a people who are industrious and who have a value for their self worth, every Nigerian who is on the path to building a responsible life does not want to be identified with their country of birth. Of course when their reputation has been established, they proudly refer to themselves as being from “9ja”.
Incidentally, as much as we Nigerians try to conceal our identity, it is never hidden. Many times I have gone to the mall and at payment point; the cashier has asked if I am an “Igwe”. The latter is a commonly used word in the now ubiquitous Nigerian movies. Now and again, I am told of Nigerians in strategic places all over the world. I remember going to proudly “google” the name Remi Adefarasin after I watched “Elizabeth” (he was the director of cinematography). My work place colleague referred to Things Fall Apart earlier this week. ASA’s song was being played on the local FM and I sang so loud in my car the other day. Interestingly too, I have started watching games involving West Ham United and West Bromwich Albion because they now have Nigerian players!
I am sure it is not only nollywood that non-Nigerians admire about my country. Indeed the heterogeneity of Nigeria is broad and almost all-encompassing: the good- very good, bad and urgly. This ambiguity is what a non-Nigerian can never comprehend. He is hence filled with awe, fascination, disdain and distrust, all of these wrapped into one. Perception and attitude towards Nigerians then depends on which of these is dominant in an individual.
As my country celebrates her 50th independence anniversary today, I have found an unusual feeling about being proudly Nigerian. It is home after all. I am ever drawn to its generosity, perspective of life, fun, energy, resourcefulness and overall human warmth.
To all of this and more, I say Happy Anniversary Nigeria.
In my young life’s sojourn, much to my amusement I have found more and more people (mostly Nigerians) refer to their selves as being West Africans. Yes, I find it funny because I know people from West African countries do not refer to themselves by such christening in their home countries. One was a Nigerian, Ghanaian, Senegalese, etc. It’s like a Canadian saying he is North American when asked about his origins. It is ambiguous and an almost unconventional way to describing oneself.
This unorthodox nomenclature is another way Nigerians have tried to avoid the travails of being called one. Yours sincerely has had his own fair share of such experiences (CF blog post “My Passport is Green”, Heymeyville (c) November 2009) and I dare say that people who have had the inconveniences of being Nigerian loathe her identity. I do not blame those who have taken this path of anonymity because much that is known by the world is the guile and desperate measures employed by my country men in order not to beg for a living. While this in itself shows a people who are industrious and who have a value for their self worth, every Nigerian who is on the path to building a responsible life does not want to be identified with their country of birth. Of course when their reputation has been established, they proudly refer to themselves as being from “9ja”.
Incidentally, as much as we Nigerians try to conceal our identity, it is never hidden. Many times I have gone to the mall and at payment point; the cashier has asked if I am an “Igwe”. The latter is a commonly used word in the now ubiquitous Nigerian movies. Now and again, I am told of Nigerians in strategic places all over the world. I remember going to proudly “google” the name Remi Adefarasin after I watched “Elizabeth” (he was the director of cinematography). My work place colleague referred to Things Fall Apart earlier this week. ASA’s song was being played on the local FM and I sang so loud in my car the other day. Interestingly too, I have started watching games involving West Ham United and West Bromwich Albion because they now have Nigerian players!
I am sure it is not only nollywood that non-Nigerians admire about my country. Indeed the heterogeneity of Nigeria is broad and almost all-encompassing: the good- very good, bad and urgly. This ambiguity is what a non-Nigerian can never comprehend. He is hence filled with awe, fascination, disdain and distrust, all of these wrapped into one. Perception and attitude towards Nigerians then depends on which of these is dominant in an individual.
As my country celebrates her 50th independence anniversary today, I have found an unusual feeling about being proudly Nigerian. It is home after all. I am ever drawn to its generosity, perspective of life, fun, energy, resourcefulness and overall human warmth.
To all of this and more, I say Happy Anniversary Nigeria.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
"AFRICAN TIME"
Sometimes it really gets to me when people can not keep their word. I am told it’s an Africa thing; when one says I am coming to see you in 2 hours, it means he only has the intentions but which does not infer a commitment. There is even what they call “African Time”. An event is scheduled for 16.00 hrs but participants start converging at 16.30 hrs, the latter being the African Time.
Today’s world is fast-paced and 24-hour days are cramped up with schedules unending. We ride fast cars, eat fast foods and write in abbreviations. Unlike the Stone Age when the approach to satisfy the need for food, water and security were simplistic, satiety in the post-modern era is multidimensional. Is it at the massage parlour, the stocks section of the dailies or work-place performance appraisal? The list is varied, ever-increasing and added to the Early Man’s primitive priorities. Hence the drag for what to do is no longer exists. Time has become our most precious treasure.
While it is impossible to keep a timely pace with every thing, it is the deliberateness of being non-prompt as well as the (nonchalant) cheer it is greeted with that I find unnerving. Promptness ought to be natural. It speaks of character, respect for others and a sense of responsibility. Employment may not an appropriate word for the Early Man but the world has evolved since his existence. In the same way, “African Timing” (well, it is not only an African thing) ought to have gone through its own evolution.
As people make efforts not to laze with appointments and schedules, people will increasingly drift towards orderliness and the beauty it paints for our species. We must make the efforts.
Today’s world is fast-paced and 24-hour days are cramped up with schedules unending. We ride fast cars, eat fast foods and write in abbreviations. Unlike the Stone Age when the approach to satisfy the need for food, water and security were simplistic, satiety in the post-modern era is multidimensional. Is it at the massage parlour, the stocks section of the dailies or work-place performance appraisal? The list is varied, ever-increasing and added to the Early Man’s primitive priorities. Hence the drag for what to do is no longer exists. Time has become our most precious treasure.
While it is impossible to keep a timely pace with every thing, it is the deliberateness of being non-prompt as well as the (nonchalant) cheer it is greeted with that I find unnerving. Promptness ought to be natural. It speaks of character, respect for others and a sense of responsibility. Employment may not an appropriate word for the Early Man but the world has evolved since his existence. In the same way, “African Timing” (well, it is not only an African thing) ought to have gone through its own evolution.
As people make efforts not to laze with appointments and schedules, people will increasingly drift towards orderliness and the beauty it paints for our species. We must make the efforts.
Monday, August 16, 2010
YESTERDAY'S FLIGHT (DIARY NOTES)
(The diary notes of a lonely guy aboard a flight to a workshop).
Today I fly to a city in which I am planning to have my honeymoon vacation in a few weeks. As I was not sure if I would meet anyone I knew who would be attending the same workshop as me, I took along one of those unread EBONY magazines (yes, I read only Ebony, Charisma, Time, Newsweek and Reader’s Digest) to keep my mind busy during the flight. As I perused, my interest was drawn into an American-authored article recounting a holiday trip to Japan. Hence I have just picked up my diary from my hand luggage to write my own fleeting thoughts down:
First, I write about my envy for those sitting around me. They seem like a group of workplace colleagues going for a workshop of their own. With a lot of teases across the aisle and palm-slapping going on, there is evident excitement and familiarity in their converse. For whatever reason, I have never flown in the company of my colleagues, friends or family. I have always had to chat with the passenger sitting by me and those acquaintances have never gone beyond the Airport. This included a Flight Marshall once (when I sat on the front seat). When he found out I am a Nigerian Doctor, he was so excited in telling me how he has been desirous of exporting some chemical products to Nigeria. I never sit on the front row ever since.
What is the medical term for those popping sounds from one’s ears when a flight is in high altitude? Once again I have just had one of those and it has drifted my thoughts to which part of flying people find scary. I usually say a quiet prayer before take-off and then focus my thoughts on the things I would be doing at the other end of the flight. So far, it has been so good. I pray it remains so.
Since I checked in early, I asked for a window seat (those e-tickets do not come with seat numbers). I have always enjoyed the view of the city below. If it is in the day, it looks like a golf course; at night it feels like one is indeed in an orbit within the Milkway, lost in a sea of stars. It is sunny today and that means I don’t get to swirl in cumulus clouds. I am travelling from one coastal city to another and from my window; I see the coastal line all the way. How does the pilot keep the coastal line in view like it is a perfect straight line and we were travelling parallel to it?
My thoughts are interrupted by an almost elderly male steward thrusting a snack box and drink towards me. I caution myself from whatever slighting thoughts I may have towards him. Of course, flight attendants come more as pretty, slim, accented, cat-walking females. I take a sip of water and let my face contort into a grimace at the thought that I am actually writing this down, no thanks to my immediate elder sister. Yes, because I picked up this writing thing from her during High School. Speaking of which today is the birthday of another of my sisters and as much as I wanted to call her earlier, I could not because I was obsessed with making sure all my electrical sockets were switched off, all taps closed and all doors locked before I left for the Airport.
Postscript: Strange enough, after the flight, I got to the waiting lounge of the Airport and the driver of the shuttle taking me to the hotel had a list of names on his raised card board; the first being the name of one of my sisters. What a world!
Today I fly to a city in which I am planning to have my honeymoon vacation in a few weeks. As I was not sure if I would meet anyone I knew who would be attending the same workshop as me, I took along one of those unread EBONY magazines (yes, I read only Ebony, Charisma, Time, Newsweek and Reader’s Digest) to keep my mind busy during the flight. As I perused, my interest was drawn into an American-authored article recounting a holiday trip to Japan. Hence I have just picked up my diary from my hand luggage to write my own fleeting thoughts down:
First, I write about my envy for those sitting around me. They seem like a group of workplace colleagues going for a workshop of their own. With a lot of teases across the aisle and palm-slapping going on, there is evident excitement and familiarity in their converse. For whatever reason, I have never flown in the company of my colleagues, friends or family. I have always had to chat with the passenger sitting by me and those acquaintances have never gone beyond the Airport. This included a Flight Marshall once (when I sat on the front seat). When he found out I am a Nigerian Doctor, he was so excited in telling me how he has been desirous of exporting some chemical products to Nigeria. I never sit on the front row ever since.
What is the medical term for those popping sounds from one’s ears when a flight is in high altitude? Once again I have just had one of those and it has drifted my thoughts to which part of flying people find scary. I usually say a quiet prayer before take-off and then focus my thoughts on the things I would be doing at the other end of the flight. So far, it has been so good. I pray it remains so.
Since I checked in early, I asked for a window seat (those e-tickets do not come with seat numbers). I have always enjoyed the view of the city below. If it is in the day, it looks like a golf course; at night it feels like one is indeed in an orbit within the Milkway, lost in a sea of stars. It is sunny today and that means I don’t get to swirl in cumulus clouds. I am travelling from one coastal city to another and from my window; I see the coastal line all the way. How does the pilot keep the coastal line in view like it is a perfect straight line and we were travelling parallel to it?
My thoughts are interrupted by an almost elderly male steward thrusting a snack box and drink towards me. I caution myself from whatever slighting thoughts I may have towards him. Of course, flight attendants come more as pretty, slim, accented, cat-walking females. I take a sip of water and let my face contort into a grimace at the thought that I am actually writing this down, no thanks to my immediate elder sister. Yes, because I picked up this writing thing from her during High School. Speaking of which today is the birthday of another of my sisters and as much as I wanted to call her earlier, I could not because I was obsessed with making sure all my electrical sockets were switched off, all taps closed and all doors locked before I left for the Airport.
Postscript: Strange enough, after the flight, I got to the waiting lounge of the Airport and the driver of the shuttle taking me to the hotel had a list of names on his raised card board; the first being the name of one of my sisters. What a world!
Saturday, August 14, 2010
AND TIME PASSED BY
One of the fall outs of my recent birthday is a renewed consciousness to make my life count. It is as if I am finally feeling not as young as I used to and that the years of innocence are behind me. Much to my startle, the consequences of my priorities seem to have the coldness akin to a teen saying “whatever”! And instead of frightening me, this whole disposition amuses me.
I remember some time ago there was a fellow who was released from jail after a decade or so for a crime he did not commit. In his interview, he expressed his fascination in the ordinary things of today’s life that was not present in his “pre-jail” years. With reference to laptops, he was amazed computers were now so small in size. Then he was thrilled that he could get into the web and interact with folks from his childhood through a certain Facebook! With this new disposition of mine, I am beginning to think that one does not have to be in jail to lose touch with our ever evolving world.
They say there are seasons in life and with age comes responsibility. It’s not so much what one discovers now but what one does with every discovery. Indeed for me, motivational books have long given way to biographies. I know that I still have a penchant for new things. However the tease of the novel is not all there is. I am more consummated with what I call the “compactness of life” now and I just seem to care less with the outcome of whatever else.
It is the damn for whatever else juicy that I miss out on that I find intriguing. Well, maybe because I feel there are only few things that matter in life. I think I have come some way already and the path that I have led is reassuring (talk of the basic principles of life). I am amused at my own confidence.
I remember some time ago there was a fellow who was released from jail after a decade or so for a crime he did not commit. In his interview, he expressed his fascination in the ordinary things of today’s life that was not present in his “pre-jail” years. With reference to laptops, he was amazed computers were now so small in size. Then he was thrilled that he could get into the web and interact with folks from his childhood through a certain Facebook! With this new disposition of mine, I am beginning to think that one does not have to be in jail to lose touch with our ever evolving world.
They say there are seasons in life and with age comes responsibility. It’s not so much what one discovers now but what one does with every discovery. Indeed for me, motivational books have long given way to biographies. I know that I still have a penchant for new things. However the tease of the novel is not all there is. I am more consummated with what I call the “compactness of life” now and I just seem to care less with the outcome of whatever else.
It is the damn for whatever else juicy that I miss out on that I find intriguing. Well, maybe because I feel there are only few things that matter in life. I think I have come some way already and the path that I have led is reassuring (talk of the basic principles of life). I am amused at my own confidence.
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