It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Barbie Doll will be celebrating her fiftieth birthday in March. I too am turning 50 in March. We even share the same star. The similarity ends there. Barbie remains svelte and sexy. I cannot say the same for myself. She does not have a streak of grey on her full, blonde head. Age has not been kind to my hair or waist. Like me, Barbie has lived through the fashions of our times. For her it included conservative robes, tantalizingly short mini skirts, dress suits, hippie wear and even a pentagon approved military outfit. I have gone from drain pipe pants to bell bottoms to pleated baggies to whatever is available at our neighborhood ready made show room. Her dresses were designed by Christian Dior and Vera Wang. Mine were stitched by Singaram tailors who recently closed shop due to the chain of ready made outlets that have sprung up all over town. It must be said that her wardrobe is certainly more fashionable, eclectic and expensive than mine. I really cannot afford the underclothing she wears.
When I turned forty I assured myself that I was entering a new phase in life. I looked forward to the next decade as a defining one that would magically mix and blend the adventurism of youth with the experience of age. One wag even suggested that ‘Forty makes people naughty’. I am waiting for the magic and fifty is just a month away. I look forward to the next decade with the same anticipation I experienced when turning forty. 10 years down the road, Barbie doll is going to look the same. No such luck for me. Being a fashionable doll has its privileges.
George
Feb 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Art of Healing!
Recently, a junior colleague, Prakash complained bitterly about the step motherly attitude meted out to him in a surgical oncology unit where he went to train. As a maxillofacial surgeon he was interested in oral oncology and considered himself competent to be trained in cancer surgery in the maxillofacial region. Prakash was politely reminded by the surgical oncologist that as a dentist he was not equipped to handle the complexities of cancer surgery. The sleight and put down, not withstanding, Prakash proved himself and earned the respect of his trainers. Many medical specialists look down upon other specialties as being less glamourous. Most clinicians tend to look down on colleagues involved in the less sought after para-clinical persuasions of medicine.
Unfortunately I too have ridden the high horse of being a surgeon. Somewhere during training and practice we come to believe that there is superiority in our calling. It perhaps comes from the adrenaline of working directly with blood and danger. The general public too may carry these impressions created by perceptions borne out of dramatization in books and movies. The truth is often understood by an actual patient seeking treatment for his disease. A patient with Psoriasis needs a dermatologist not a neurosurgeon.
My father, a dentist, had practiced his profession for nearly 50 years. He was particularly adept at prosthetics. He made excellent dentures. I never realized how much he was appreciated for this until a month after his recent death. I had operated on a patient with a tumour in her upper jaw a couple of years ago. It required a fairly major surgical procedure involving the removal of part of her upper jaw. After the tumour was successfully removed, I never thought much of it. She was asked to see my father for some kind of prosthesis. In fact I saw her only when she returned for her reviews which included routine inspections of the large defect. She removed her dentures to show me the defect and put it on again. I did not even pay much attention to the prosthesis. She came to visit following my father’s death. She broke down and cried inconsolably. She confessed that she was so desperate after the ablative surgery that she did not even want to live. The anguish of an young woman with a hole in her mouth. My father had apparently comforted her and painstakingly built her an obturator and denture that improved not only her appearance but also her ability to speak and eat. I understood that she felt a greater obligation to my father who restored her function with some good dentistry rather than to the snooty surgeon who removed her tumour. It was a humbling experience which reminded me that every person has a place in the healing profession.
Unfortunately I too have ridden the high horse of being a surgeon. Somewhere during training and practice we come to believe that there is superiority in our calling. It perhaps comes from the adrenaline of working directly with blood and danger. The general public too may carry these impressions created by perceptions borne out of dramatization in books and movies. The truth is often understood by an actual patient seeking treatment for his disease. A patient with Psoriasis needs a dermatologist not a neurosurgeon.
My father, a dentist, had practiced his profession for nearly 50 years. He was particularly adept at prosthetics. He made excellent dentures. I never realized how much he was appreciated for this until a month after his recent death. I had operated on a patient with a tumour in her upper jaw a couple of years ago. It required a fairly major surgical procedure involving the removal of part of her upper jaw. After the tumour was successfully removed, I never thought much of it. She was asked to see my father for some kind of prosthesis. In fact I saw her only when she returned for her reviews which included routine inspections of the large defect. She removed her dentures to show me the defect and put it on again. I did not even pay much attention to the prosthesis. She came to visit following my father’s death. She broke down and cried inconsolably. She confessed that she was so desperate after the ablative surgery that she did not even want to live. The anguish of an young woman with a hole in her mouth. My father had apparently comforted her and painstakingly built her an obturator and denture that improved not only her appearance but also her ability to speak and eat. I understood that she felt a greater obligation to my father who restored her function with some good dentistry rather than to the snooty surgeon who removed her tumour. It was a humbling experience which reminded me that every person has a place in the healing profession.
Where were we!??
Every adult who was alive in the US when John F Kennedy was assassinated will tell you what he/she was doing when they heard the news. I was not alive when the Mahatma was assassinated, but I certainly remember what I was doing when I heard about the assassination of Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi. I don’t however remember my disposition at the time of Pokhran 1 or 2 but I certainly remember where I was when the twin towers came down and the Babri Masjid was destroyed. I guess we benchmark these occurrences based on how much they mean to us or how deeply we have been affected by them. Today with the TV channels ‘Breaking news’ every 10 minutes, it is perhaps a difficult exercise.
I will never forget the 26/11 terrorist attack. I was in Delhi with a senior journalist friend. In fact I was staying with him. It is always a pleasure talking to journalists because they have such a bird’s eye view on the happenings in the country. This particular journo is one of the best defense reporters in the country. All you have to do is ask a stupid question and you can get some terrific insights into the complexities of their specialty. As a peacenik, I asked him if he ever foresaw the possibility of India being in a situation where there would be no need for a standing army and a significant part of the defense budget being used for development- education and health in particular. He was amazingly prescient when he said that he did not foresee such an eventuality. He predicted that conventional inter-national war will be replaced by intra-national conflict!! The arms dealers will never be out of business, he promised. Terrorism and internal strife will keep our army busy. I retired early to bed. My friend arranged for me to sleep in his extensive library- filled from floor to ceiling with books-mostly about war, terrorism and other conflicts. I was tired yet mellow from a couple of drinks and went to bed in the company of voluminous tomes about war and terror.
When my friend woke me up at midnight I was not sure if it was a dream. Terrorist Attack! Terrorist Attack! He said. I was confused because reality morphed into a dream like trance of battles, guns and grenades. It was surreal. The whiskey did not help matters! I was ready to run out or jump out of the building (8th floor I think). My friend quickly pointed to the TV screens showing repeated images of the TAJ, CST and the other sites. Still groggy I went back to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, surrounded by books of war and the faint memory of some visual action, I was still not sure if it was a dream or reality. Another benchmark etched into my memory reminding me where I was when it happened!
I will never forget the 26/11 terrorist attack. I was in Delhi with a senior journalist friend. In fact I was staying with him. It is always a pleasure talking to journalists because they have such a bird’s eye view on the happenings in the country. This particular journo is one of the best defense reporters in the country. All you have to do is ask a stupid question and you can get some terrific insights into the complexities of their specialty. As a peacenik, I asked him if he ever foresaw the possibility of India being in a situation where there would be no need for a standing army and a significant part of the defense budget being used for development- education and health in particular. He was amazingly prescient when he said that he did not foresee such an eventuality. He predicted that conventional inter-national war will be replaced by intra-national conflict!! The arms dealers will never be out of business, he promised. Terrorism and internal strife will keep our army busy. I retired early to bed. My friend arranged for me to sleep in his extensive library- filled from floor to ceiling with books-mostly about war, terrorism and other conflicts. I was tired yet mellow from a couple of drinks and went to bed in the company of voluminous tomes about war and terror.
When my friend woke me up at midnight I was not sure if it was a dream. Terrorist Attack! Terrorist Attack! He said. I was confused because reality morphed into a dream like trance of battles, guns and grenades. It was surreal. The whiskey did not help matters! I was ready to run out or jump out of the building (8th floor I think). My friend quickly pointed to the TV screens showing repeated images of the TAJ, CST and the other sites. Still groggy I went back to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, surrounded by books of war and the faint memory of some visual action, I was still not sure if it was a dream or reality. Another benchmark etched into my memory reminding me where I was when it happened!
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