America's "Special Relationship" With Us - part eight

Once aboard the sparsely populated aircraft we scouted out the most spacious seats. Traditionally these seats are located at exit rows, with all the implicit responsibility that this carries. My parents, both mature, responsible doctors, headed for two empty right-hand exit row seats, next to a heavily moustached man. As they approached, the moustache man muttered that the seats were already taken. So instead they chose the left-hand exit row, only to find themselves instantly besieged by an overly made-up bottle-blond Barbie posing as a stewardess.

“Oh er you guys able to pahform ayxit row doodies?” drawled Flight Attendant Barbie.
She was one of those women, you know the type, all teeth and hair and too much make-up. It’s revolting, but you can’t take your eyes off the thick layer of frosted pink glop smeared across her lips. All you can focus on is her exaggerated mouth movements; the actual words would’ve escaped you even if they were comprehensible to start with. In this situation there is really only one appropriate response.
“Pardon?” My dad asks.

Barbie perfects her condescending stare, and slowly, deliberately, and loudly drawls, “DA.. YOU.. SPEYK.. AYNG-LESH? DES.. THE LADY..” – referring to my mother - “SPEYK AYNG-LESH?”
Obscured from sight and silently fuming, I shake my head, roll my eyes, and bite my tongue.
My dad just smiles back and says “English; we can manage. It’s American that might pose a problem.” And laughs.
My dad always laughs at his own jokes.

non-autonomy and the "best interests" defence

Whilst the Bush administration continues to manoeuvre against a woman's right to abortion, we are reminded again of America's stance on the unborn, as a mother in Utah is charged with first degree criminal homicide for failing to undergo a Caesarean section on medical advice, resulting in the stillbirth of one of her twins. This situation will undoubtedly leave its imprint on history, alongside a residue of complex ethical questions.

It seems indisputable that the Caesarean section was medically indicated, and that she should have undergone the procedure. But she didn't. And now she faces a 5 year custodial sentence? For homicide of someone who hasn't yet been born?

Do the unborn have any status? When? At what stage of development? With the medical ability to keep alive foetuses at increasingly earlier stages of development, despite a hugely deficient quality of life and no semblance of normality, who decides what is ethically acceptable? We are talking about non-autonomous patients' rights. Who defends the rights of these patients? As a doctor you have to do what you believe is in the best interests of your patient, if they are unable to make that choice themselves. But what happens when there are 2 patients- mother and foetus- and conflicting views?
But I digress slightly.

The woman herself has a psychiatric history. Was she mentally evaluated after refusing to undergo a Caesarean despite having been informed of the risks to her pregnancy? Was she neglected? Why wasn't a court order sought to protect the interests of the unborn?

In the same publication, I also read about how a court found that hospital staff breached another non-autonomous patient's human rights by giving diamorphine to ease his distress, but because it was against the mother's wishes, this act had violated the patient's rights.

Seems to me, you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't.

ASRWU - part seven

After a few days, we had to get the hell out of there. We took a flight from Columbus to Manchester (New Hampshire, not old Lancashire). All 4 of us had been “selected by the computer for secondary search”. Interesting, that. Even their computers are against us.

This was a very thorough security check conducted by the now-obligatory stony-face of a misanthrope, who spent 5 minutes just trying to open my lip balm. Obviously not wanting to display his near-defeat at the hands of my make-up, he then proceeded to open everything else in my bag. I think he wanted to be acknowledged as some kind of Opening Things expert.
So in his honour, here’s a list of things he successfully opened:

• Mascara – black Clinique Naturally Glossy


• Lip Balm (eventually) – Fresh! Raspberry flavour mmm


• Book – Scar, The - by China Mieville (not sure what he was looking for in here - inspiration perhaps?)


• Compact powder – Clinique Honey


• Liquid Eyeliner – black Estee Lauder


• Lipstick – Ruby and Millie (but SO not his colour)


• Wallet (doesn’t really count as it was falling apart anyway) - Paul Frank; containing x amount of dollars/ a Scottish twenty pound note/ duty free receipt/ 2 pound coins/ various debit and credit cards/ Boots Advantage card with 1090 points/ Medical Defence Union card/ 2 first class stamps/ photo of hubbie on our wedding day


• Camera case – containing… yep a camera, and not a single incendiary device in sight


• Drawstring Pouch – containing wide-angle lens

His downfall however, ha ha ha - came with my cute, stubborn, little mobile phone. If only it had been a drawstring – he could do those quite well. In any case it was not exactly the Krypton Factor. So now it was my turn; I put on my best patronising smile and sweetly said “it just slides open, see” – Woohoo, me and my Siemens – together we’re unbeatable.

America's "Special Relationship" With Us - part six

Cats, on the other hand, I can handle. They lower blood pressure, are really cute, and kill far fewer people. I’ll even go so far as to say they’re good for you (if you can forgive the whole toxoplasmosis issue). My brother dwells alongside 2 cats too. I think he’s building an ark on the sly. It was great to see my brother and his wife, but with 6 people (parents were here too), 2 dogs, 2 cats and a fish all residing in just 2 rooms, it became a tad cramped and claustrophobic.

So we spent the days outside, touring the various sights and eateries in Ohio. It was here that I fell in love with the cheesecake factory. Why, oh why, for the love of god (who apparently has favourable odds on existing) do they not have this back home? It’s a cholesterol-loaded, heart-stopping version of paradise.

Ohio; interesting state. By “interesting”, I of course mean “boring as a drill bit”. In winter there’s not a whole lot to see. Just bleak expanses of nothing in every direction. Browsing through the malls, it felt like a ghost town; we didn’t pass any other bargain-hunters at all. Still, it beats struggling through the fighting throng on Oxford Street at Xmas.

what g'wan

I spotted an interesting article the other day about how young people face being overlooked for jobs because of their inability to speak English properly. For a bit of a giggle there's also a teenspeak quiz to see if you're really in touch with kids...

wacky races

So did you hear about the million dollar robot race across the Mojave desert?

ASRWU - part five

It’s not an exaggeration to say that I used to have a dog phobia. Whenever I encountered canis familiaris I used to get the works – sweaty palms, palpitations, intense fear, chest tightness. I couldn’t go near a dog, let alone touch one. I used to cross streets or change direction to avoid coming into close proximity with a dog. To me, they were ugly, vicious furballs with big sharp teeth and a craving for human flesh. And yet here I was in the same car with not one, but two – yes TWO! – of them.

But then I’m better around dogs than I used to be. These days I can bear to pass them on the street, without having to run squealing to hide behind some handy bystander. I even took the huge leap of stroking my friend’s dog 2 years ago. True, I was intoxicated at the time, but still, what an accomplishment! These days when on housecalls, I don’t even shout through the letterbox to warn patients that I won’t enter their domicile unless the dog is locked away. That’s progress.

People often ask me if I had a bad experience with dogs as a child – I can’t recollect such an incident. But that’s the thing with phobias isn’t it? They’re totally irrational by definition. Mind you, is it so unreasonable to be scared of creatures that are responsible for 5 hospital admissions per day?

In Australia 1,671 A+E admissions occurred in one year for dog-bite related injuries.
From 1979 to 1994, attacks by dogs resulted in 279 human deaths in the United States.
In January 1995, a 2-year-old boy in South Dakota wandered onto his neighbour's property, where he was attacked and killed by two wolf-German shepherd hybrids.
In September 1995, a 3-week-old baby in Pennsylvania was killed in her crib by the family Chow Chow while her parents slept in the next room.
In March 1996, an 86-year-old woman in Tennessee went outside her house to check the weather and was fatally mauled by her neighbour’s two rottweilers; the dogs had attacked and injured the woman 1 month before the fatal attack.

This isn’t slipping away peacefully in your sleep. These are all painful, flesh-ripping, terrifying deaths.

Most large dogs are capable of bone-snapping jaw pressures of 200 to 450 pounds per square inch. Pit bull jaws can exert nearly 1,500 pounds/sq inch of pressure.
NOW tell me I’m crazy for being scared.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

No Smoking Day

Just wanted to acknowledge today. Well done to those of you who stopped, but can't help feeling that it only serves to deprecate those who tried and failed...

ASRWU - part four

I guess what comes of living on an island is that you never find yourself on a flight that doesn’t have life vests. So it was a little unnerving when we were told that in the event of landing on water, we could use the seat cushion as a flotation aid. No life vests on this jet. My anxieties usually dissipate as soon as we are airborne – I love flying – up in the air I’m untouchable; face glued to the window gazing at the gorgeous clouds, a sense of peace and joy surges through my flesh colonizing every cell. It’s different at night, though no less engaging. Cities’ skeletons traced in neon; one dynamic display pointing to the next with its twinkling finger of lights. The sight illuminates your soul.

Our cabin crew was Carol. The flight attendant was like your friend’s mum – very maternal, a little overweight, with big rosy cheeks. She sat at the front; took drinks orders from there. An abundance of pretzels followed; most of which we hid in the front pocket whilst Carol wasn’t looking.

We arrived in Cleveland shortly after 10pm (local time) to be met by the familiar smiling faces of my brother and sister-in-law, and then had to endure the 2 and a half hr cramped car journey to Marysville alongside 2 very smelly dogs. There are 2 types of people in this world: dog lovers, and the other kind. I belong to the latter group.

Hope is a Thing with Feathers

My little brother, after reading my old blog entries, asked me if I ever wrote anything happy. So the moon thing was for him really. But I also have this Benrik diary, which is a bit of a giggle, and remembered that on Friday it instructed me to learn a poem by heart - something I haven't done since school. It was really lovely - I mean the act of learning the poem, rather than the poem itself. So anyway- here it is - written by Emily Dickinson, and memorised by me:

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without words
And never stops at all.

And sweetest, in the gale, is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That keeps so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land,
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity
It ask a crumb of me.

Fly Me to the Moon

There was a beautiful full moon last night. It was one of those huge stunningly bright moons - you know when the moon is kind of low in the sky and looks like you could reach it if you only kept driving for a while. You could make out grey shaded areas where a hundred craters were probably resting, just peering back at us. The sky was clear and a velvety black in contrast. It was so serene, and for a moment as I stared at the moon, nothing else existed. And for a moment, everything in the world was right.

ASRWU - part three

Eventually we made it to the gate and were first to board – due to our newfound upgraded status. I’m telling you, business class is definitely THE way to travel (particularly when you don’t have to pay for it). I tried not to feel like an imposter as we sipped on complementary champagne, whilst other passengers boarded the flight. We each had a small free bag of goodies containing the following:

1 pair socks
1 mini toothbrush
1 mini toothpaste
1 padded eyecover thingies for sleeping
1 mini bottle moisturizer
1 packet of 2 tissues
1 toothpick
Length of dental floss
1 mini bottle mouthwash

Hmmm. It occurred to me that there was a prominent dental theme running through this freebie. Ah, it suddenly all makes sense. Now I know why rich people have nice teeth. The airlines care about the teeth of rich people. They get free in-flight dental care. Not like us plebs, who might remember 7 hours into the long-haul that our toiletries bag is packed safely in our checked-in baggage. And so we must bear the burden of bad breath and dental decay. See, that is what separates them from us. Except this time. This time we had the free dental stuff too.
This time, we were them.

I won’t say much about the actual flight except that we were an hour late setting off because 2 boarded passengers collapsed, started vomiting, and had to be removed from the flight. My highlight was stretching my legs out in front of me and still not being able to touch the seat in front. The film I watched was The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, which was just as entertaining the second time round.

We arrived in Washington’s Dulles(t) airport 1hr late. The flight crew, though unable to relay any info regarding missed connections, had nevertheless assured us that ground staff would be waiting to direct us accordingly. We disembarked with no information about connecting flights, and discovered there was no sign of any ground staff. In fact, there weren’t even any noticeable signs at all.

This really was the most disorganized airport I have ever known. It was completely chaotic. We eventually stumbled upon the phenomenally long queue for immigration where we were duly interrogated for 2 minutes. It was like one of those quiz-show quickfire rounds. The poe-faced host tried to ask as many questions as possible within the allotted time. Naturally, we came through with a record-breaking 25. And the crowd went wild.
It was kind of crazy that so many people had to have their photos and fingerprints taken, just to enter the country (we Brits were spared this indignity due to the “special relationship”). It really made no sense.

So by the time the immigration conveyor belt had spewed us out the other end, we had missed our connecting flight. This wouldn’t usually be a problem in a normal airport. But this wasn’t a normal airport. Once again there were no ground staff or signs to help us out. After traipsing through from one terminal to another, in a vain attempt to locate ANYONE who knew what was going on, we had to exit the secured area and find the airline desks. Here too there was no kind of queue and people were just pushing in front wherever they liked. Society gone mad!

Finally we got tickets for the last flight out to Cleveland. This entailed going back through security again – we knew the drill by now – remove your shoes / coats / belts etc. You’re allowed to smile at them but make no funny remarks, no matter how amusing they sound in your head, and don’t expect or ask them to smile back. They don’t find that funny.

America's "Special Relationship" With Us - part two

So where was I? Oh yeah. I was in a queue at LHR. Having selectively passed through the 2nd metal detector, I was standing waiting at a table, opposite a female official who had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, with personality to match. Bulldog rifled through my belongings, and finally, checked my name against the ticket stub.
“Is this you?” she demanded, looking with incredulity at my ticket.
I was momentarily tempted – but this really wasn’t the time or place for sarcasm, and I’m no Samantha Marson. Besides, we had been upgraded to business class, and I wasn’t going to risk that.
Smiling sweetly, I settled for a simple “Yes.”
She looked quizzically, from the ticket to my face, and back again.
“Doctor? You’re a doctor?”
“Yes.”
Then it happened. Bulldog smiled back. Her face didn’t even crack. I couldn’t believe the transformation from snarling bitch to sweetie pie in an instant.
“Just qualified?” she softly asked as if to appease her aching brain.
“No... about 7 years ago” I offered. This one really threw her. She hurriedly flicked through my passport to check my date of birth. I was filling up with inner glee. Partly enjoying her obvious confusion, and partly because every woman loves to feel that she looks younger than her years**. Bulldog proceeded to tell all her colleagues that I’m a doctor, while I stood and smiled; a reluctant exhibit.

**The exception here is when you’re in a professional capacity – and a patient states “you look too young to be a doctor” for the hundredth time that day.