Thursday, February 25, 2010

This is where I fail

Obstetrics and gynecology- it’s the subject they chose to fail me. They think I can’t understand it, or handle a female patient as if it’s hard to understand… but definitely it’s hard to handle it. It’s just a subject, a branch of health sciences, and it is supposed to be like other branches, but it’s not… at least here.
Its books, tiny booklets… written by diploma holders are really hard to comprehend… what they imprint on mind is that females are machines of sex, they do not have other body organs connected to the sex organs, not even the brain. When I couldn’t understand a thing from the books, my friend told me that they are not meant for understanding they are there to remember and write in the exams as it is…
The diseases are troublesome, no doubt, but more troublesome are the diagnostic methods, and still more troublesome are the treatments… the last resort- hysterectomy with removal of adnexa… kill the female. Thankfully, this is mostly bookish… but reality is harder than the books.
The labor ward here reminds me of the mortuary with steel table ‘beds’ with arrangement of open gutters for the flow of blood or show… or the discharge, curtains are absent, the relatives are not allowed to come in but others are free to wander there wearing their dirty footwear, and sympathy is lacking, “remove your clothes you fool, and wear this gown, hurry up, do you want me to throw you out of the hospital,” these are the welcoming words for a patient in labor pains… sometimes the doctors start the labor deliberately in thirty eighth or ninth week by manually rupturing the membranes in the OPD… in order to decrease load on the housemen… … that’s what the reason they told me while clinical postings.
The female lies there, frightened to see the sight of other females, semi naked, screaming, sweating, and bleeding, with ‘liberal’ episiotomies done without anesthesia. Sometimes the nurse climbs up a stool and compresses the abdomen with horrible pressure… and the doctor shouts at the patient, “You careless lady, you’re killing your baby, it’s going to die in the abdomen, because of you. Push or you’re to lose your child…”
Then something happens, the doctor remembers about the towels… and starts quarreling with the staff… the staff shouts back at the doctor… they co- ordinate only on shouting at the patients. Caesarian sections are special ones with a step of inverting the uterus and like a bag and wash cleaning it, “don’t utter this in exams… this can kill the female with vagal shock,” the residents remind us while we are seeing. Why the hell you do it- no one answers.
They’re not sadistic, I’m sure… but they’re careless, machines programmed to earn. This might be better than the deliveries done at home by the dais, but it’s unbearable. There is nothing like delivery with dignity or something… it’s just like a bunch of female cattle delivering in cattle shed. I really wonder about those poor mothers who dare to deliver here, and their strength to survive this, both physically and mentally… but it’s really not for me. I can’t tolerate to see this… leave apart practicing.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

The art of Healing

I was in distress, feeling disappointed, and suffering from a major setback. No one values a failed student, not even the student herself. My friends who had the same accident or fight with mere bad luck are still depressed, one died of heart attack, one did suicide, one had convulsions… others are taking anti- depressants, some others flowing in streams of alcohol… and I, nothing!

I wanted to be a scientist… a path of tough competition, cut throat competition… but my throat was cut before the start of the competition… even before I could think to apply somewhere for a PhD in neuroscience… I was declared a failure. But still I’m alive, alone in my hostel, and without any doctor’s treatment… and I still want to be a neuroscientist, strange! I’m not careless… not even so strong, but I have found a way to heal myself… and for me it’s arts. And in contrary to alcohol and anti depressants it has no side effects.

I never felt science different from that of arts… science is an art and there is science in any art. Science tries to explain the effects of art on the brain, and art affects the brain. I’m not at all a big artist… but I’m sufficient to heal myself. I write poems, draw pictures, complete my novel… just without thinking… I just let my hands to do the job, whatever they want. And my hands calm my inner sense, pacify my feelings… and I tend to become normal. My every picture, every poem, every word shouts for my pains… and because of them I get the pain relief.
I want to heal others. That is a thing to be achieved in future… a hard thing, I think. Currently I’m happy that I can at least heal myself.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The shock continues… After The results

This- the life- I really doubt whether it’s live, or is it a part of a novel--- of a scary novel written by a sadistic person, an author, who’s yet to know what are the capabilities of its characters, and who’s impotent to decide the future of those characters… the characters are futureless. Am I really a character, in that novel… in some movie… or is life like this only, unreliable, untrue, shocking but always… nearly always frustrating, like that of the results?

Or… is the result just an injustice… a game of favor which isn’t in my favor? Or… was is mere a stroke of fate… or something to test my capacities to strike the bad luck?

Thursday, February 11, 2010

A thought about myself

Autobiography of a mad person

Dwell in palaces, empty the malls
They have servants, to attend their calls
They get what they demand… still not satisfied;
And those people say that I’m a mad

Nights in five stars, and mood altering drugs
They sleep enveloped in most sexy arms
… Still not quenched, in that heavenly bed
They see nightmares; they have many unknown fears.
They cry though they have shoulders to cry
And they shake though they have supporting hands;
They live life like that of a dream…
But with a mind that has no songs but a silent scream.
They cheat, they fraud; to pull others down
They try hard… still not satisfied
And those people say that I’m a mad

I may be a poor, I may look like a beggar
Instead of setting down, I may prefer to wander.
And sleep by the roads, I may not have proper clothes…
I flow rivers of sweat, to make both ends meet
And I see dreams those are very sweet.
I lack supporters, so I talk with my heartbeats
With lives of others, I never make comparisons.
Tell me, is this so bad
That those people call me a mad?

I sing away tragedies, and smile to the pains
I help others though I get no gains…
It’s not like that I don’t understand,
…That those help seekers also call me a mad.
But with this life I’m much satisfied
… And have a happy, unadulterated mind
Yes! I feel glad that I’m a mad
And throughout my life, I want to remain a mad!!!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

A blow to mind

This post is more about wounding than healing. I’m wounded, right here in my soul. And the hell, the healer for soul isn’t available. Actually it’s a minute thing, and it shouldn’t even touch my soul, leave apart hurting. But in fact it did hurt.
My results for my final examinations wee out, and I learned I was failed. They declared that I wasn’t able to treat people, they declared it on the internet that I don’t possess the skills and knowledge required to be doctor… or at least to clear the exams. Exams… are they really capable to examine my capability? Do they really deserve to declare that I don’t deserve it? What my creativity, my knowledge, my feelings, and my dedication have to do with it? What is the thought, the purpose behind that exam? What do they examine?
They think I’ve to think in their way; I’ve to be like them… a robot, machine. They think humans don’t deserve passing. But I’ve passed in three subjects out of four… humanity does worth something. They might want me to change the way I think… or the way I live. I don’t live for the exams… and I never want to. I’ve many great purposes to live… not just repeating the parrot fission, and copying, and begging to the examiner… memorizing what the books describe, the tiny answer books, that’s what the examiner reads.
No. I’m not going to change… I just can’t; no matter what happens to me and to my exam results. I know what I want and I need it desperately.
At most I’ve to take that exam once again. And I’m strong enough to bear it. Writing one paper and appearing for the viva once again won’t kill me. And it can’t waste my time… because I’m free to do what I want to do. And oh exam, now I don’t fear you… if you can’t give any value to me, then I shouldn’t give it to you.
And yes, I don’t look at this as a battle with the situation… rather it’s a chance to examine what the exam does if I don’t fear it. And I’m not going leave my dreams. My life… it’s still dedicated to healing.