I wrote an anti-disablism, anti-cuts, intersectional, feminist blogpost for Hampshire Feminist Collective for Disability Awareness Day.
It can be read here:
http://hampshirefeministcollective.co.uk/2013/07/14/disability-awareness-day-why-it-matters-this-year-and-why-it-matters-for-feminists/
I used to blog at www.tryingtobeamedicalstudent.blogspot.com - then I stopped being a medical student and became a very junior doctor and blogged here. Then, being a junior doctor and having little time, I sort of lost motivation for blogging and now I'm mostly found on Twitter - @TryingtobeaDr. Follow me there!
Sunday 14 July 2013
Thursday 7 March 2013
Here’s a toast… to abortion rights, on International Women's Day
I wrote this some time ago (this will become obvious given that it mentions a few news items that are now not so topical), and not got around to publish it. Today, International Women's Day, seems like an appropriate time to share it.
Here’s a toast… to abortion rights
OR
This is what a feminist doctor looks like
Here’s a toast… to abortion rights
OR
This is what a feminist doctor looks like
Ani diFranco’s song Self-Evident, which is mostly about the September 11th
attacks but also about so much more, includes the line:
“Here’s a toast to all those nurses and doctors who daily
provide women with a choice”
Today I provided a woman with a choice – her choice for an
abortion. A termination of pregnancy. I administered and inserted the medication to end her early pregnancy. In practical terms, it was the same as what I often do for miscarriage, there was no
difference in the procedure; the difference was that in this case, the
embryo/foetus was alive. We were ending her pregnancy because she wanted us to.
I am really proud of this. I am pro-choice and proud of
the fact that I can help make abortion accessible to women who want it
(following appropriate counselling) and that we live in a country where this is
available. I believe women* have the right to choose.
That’s not to say I think abortion is great; it’s a shame to
lose potential lives especially when there are so many people in the world who
would do anything to have a baby, but the right of the woman to have control
over her body and her future trumps any right of some cells and tissue that are
only a potential person rather than an actual person.
In a month where the news has been full of debate about Savita Halappanavar, the woman who died in Ireland, from septicaemia due to
infected products of conception (infected pregnancy/miscarriage), after she was denied an abortion for a
pregnancy that was failing anyway and making her very unwell. Although the
Irish law is extremely restrictive on abortion, it appears that they could have
ended her pregnancy, and increased her chance of survival, whilst still acting
within the law, given that there was “real and substantive” threat to her life.
So this is how I express myself as a feminist doctor – I do
the same job as other doctors would, I just get a bit more enthusiastic about
it and about the opportunities that this job provides, opportunities for making
the world a better and pro-choicier place.
I’d stiill do this even if we had vile campaigners, (such as Abort67,
who have recently been targeting university campuses [graphic picture in link]) protesting outside
the hospital, although I am very glad that there aren’t any. They’re probably
not aware that we do social terminations in the NHS hospital, since it’s not an
abortion clinic. The protest groups are deeply unpleasant, wildly inaccurate in the “facts” that they quote, and wave horrific
pictures, which must be so traumatic for anyone who has ever miscarried a
wanted pregnancy, to see – some of those pictures could bring back very painful
memories.
In conclusion, I am glad I can do important things in my
job, and please would Jeremy Hunt and vile Nadine Dorries (the jungle could keep her)
back right off and leave me to do my job to the best of my ability with
the best medical evidence available. Kindly stop spouting rubbish about
abortions and throwing your political weight around, when we could be having
sensible discussions about how to ensure reproduction rights for women, whilst
also considering also the appropriateness of interventions concerning the
foetus. Note sensible discussions.
Right, I’m off to a Reclaim the Night march and rally
(gender inclusive).This is what a feminist doctor looks like!
(yes, it's not Reclaim the Night time of year, but it was when I wrote this!)
(yes, it's not Reclaim the Night time of year, but it was when I wrote this!)
This is a picture I took of the badge display at the Women's Library in London, which I visited recently. It is a wonderful treasure trove of feminist history, I'd thoroughly recommend it! (Visit before 22nd March, when it closes and moves to a new venue in June)
As an aside, I recall a conversation amongst medical
students when I was in my 3rd year of medical school (5 years ago –
took the scenic route through medical school) about FY1 junior doctor jobs. We
discussed that gynae might be good, and someone pointed out that you’d have to
do abortions if you worked in gynae, and that really put me off. I remember
thinking that I agree with women having a right to an abortion, but I didn’t
want to actually do the abortion myself. I had a different, and rather
inaccurate, understanding of what the actual process involved, but I’m very
glad my opinions have changed since then. I’m glad the women I look after can
have someone performing their abortion who’s not uncomfortable about doing it.
*women and any other pregnant people – people with various trans
identities can have anatomy permitting them to become pregnant without defining
themselves as women. It wouldn’t be the first time (e.g. the American Thomas
Beattie, and the wonderful Jason Elvis Barker). I have frequently referred to
“pregnant people” in a range of contexts, rather than “pregnant women” and
almost every time, it gets me a funny look, but I maintain it’s more accurate
and inclusive.
Personally I’m a lot more comfortable with the term “woman”
to describe myself than I was a few years ago (one can be both trans/of queer
gender and identify as a woman
without being a transwoman, they are not mutually exclusive) but even so, if I
were to become pregnant, I might rather be thought of a pregnant person than
everything being “woman” somehow. And my own identity and preference doesn’t
make me any less of a feminist.
One day, I intend to follow up this post with another post looking into what happens when women are denied the right to abortion, and also what happens when they do have an abortion - there is some interesting research I'd like to collate. Watch this space.
One day, I intend to follow up this post with another post looking into what happens when women are denied the right to abortion, and also what happens when they do have an abortion - there is some interesting research I'd like to collate. Watch this space.
Labels:
abortion,
Ani diFranco,
feminism,
feminist doctor,
gender,
International Women's Day,
Jeremy Hunt,
junior doctor,
medicine,
politics,
pregnancy,
pro-choice,
Reclaim the Night,
Savita Halappanavar,
termination,
trans
Sunday 30 December 2012
Christmas #2 - the depressing side of the season
Although I wasn’t working on actual Christmas day, I was
working on Christmas Eve, and as mentioned previously, a 12 day stretch in the
run-up to Christmas. Christmas around the hospital can be a pretty depressing
affair, not because people have to stay in over Christmas and "isn’t that sad?" –
it is, but family visiting can make up for it, and when patients are properly
ill they seem content to be in the right place and receiving intensive medical
intervention, even if the timing is a bit rubbish. It’s depressing because of
the patients who want to be there, because hospital at Christmas is the best
they’ve got.
I’ve come across a number of patients recently (it’s more of
an issue in general surgery than it was in gynae) who are in hospital more
because they want to be than because they need to be. I can imagine the
outcries of “how is this possible, the NHS is stretched enough as it is!” but
the difficulty is that it is very difficult to boot patients out, kick them out
and onto the street. Discharge is a collaborative process, and requires the
patient’s input, or if the patient has no capacity for this input, then the
family or nursing home etc are involved.
There are the patients who were content at home, but came
into hospital for surgery, and rather enjoy the multi-bed ward and socialising
with other patients, the being cooked for, the lovely nurses and the nursing
care, and suddenly realise that home is desperately lonely and they don’t like
it anymore. This manifests itself as them realising, or proclaiming, that they
need care at home, and it then falls to the hospital to try to organise this,
which is a very lengthy process.
The time taken for this is why many patients, particularly
in an elderly care ward, will have days of “MFFD” recorded in the notes –
medically fit for discharge, i.e. awaiting the social situation to be sorted
out. Obviously sometimes this is absolutely essential, such as for elderly
people with a very high care requirement and complex medical needs, which
cannot be catered for in many care homes so it takes time to find the right
one. But there are others for whom the care given is less essential, they coped
without it previously and they are hardly less able to cope now, but it’s
become understood that it is required.
A specialist nurse I work with believes the cuts to day
centres have led to an increase in the number of patients who decide to stay in
hospital because home is lonely. If they could go to a regular day centre, home
wouldn’t be as lonely, and therefore hospital wouldn’t be as appealing. Yet
another example of how cuts can lead to increased costs elsewhere…
There are the patients who can’t possibly go home because
the problem they came into hospital with has not been fixed; they are still
suffering with pain or sickness or whatever brought them in. As much as I love
the idea that we can fix everyone who comes in the door, solve every problem,
and make everyone feel better, that is sadly not how it works in reality, but
sometimes is how it works in a patient’s head. It’s a sad thing, an unpleasant
situation, to send a patient home still suffering, and with an end to that
suffering not necessarily in sight – but sadly we are not magic.
Explaining to the patient that our thorough and extensive
investigations have shown no cause for their pain, there is no acute or
life-threatening problem, there is no cancer, there is no obvious disease,
there is essentially, nothing that can be fixed by a hospital stay, and nothing
that can’t be improved by some pain relief, regular review with the GP, and
community-based input such as physiotherapy, is not always a fruitful exercise,
and some patients end up staying longer in hospital because they think they
should be there.
Those patients are slightly less likely to stay in hospital
over Christmas, because they may eventually have somewhere better to be, once
they have realised that there really is nothing more that the hospital can do
to “fix” them, and being in hospital over Christmas is not the best thing that
life has to offer them, and the benefits of going home start to outweigh the
(perceived) benefits of staying in hospital.
The most depressing thing is the patients for whom staying
in hospital, or even worse, being readmitted to hospital following discharge,
is the best thing life has to offer them at Christmas. Their family either
don’t want them, or don’t make it clear to the patient that they are wanted, so
the patient has the sense of being a burden on the family, even if they aren’t
(this seems to be a depressingly common occurrence amongst the elderly). So
having a hospital bed over Christmas is the nearest they can get to seasonal
happiness.
That doesn’t reflect well on us as a society. Look after
your old people – if only for the sake of keeping the hospital beds free for
the people who really need them.
(I realise this may come across as hypocritical following my
complaints about my grandmother in my previous post, but she has never spent
Christmas alone. The responsibility is shared between my relatives, not because
she is a burden, but because we have a sense of duty to ensure she feels
welcomed and as happy as possible each Christmas, and regularly throughout the
year.)
Wednesday 26 December 2012
Bah, humbugs. Minty!
(NB This was written around the 22nd, but not finished and edited til Boxing Day)
I am not really feeling Christmas this year. I am never a massive Christmas fan, since it often involves my granny, who is acceptable in small doses but beyond that her sickly sweet manipulativeness and inability and unwillingness to cope with my sister's complexities (mostly her autism/Asperger's) get too much. Or it involves balancing my family and my other half's family so that we see both families and still see each other (one of the rare times I'm glad our families live near each other). Or it involves going mad getting stressed out on the high streets trying to buy EVERYTHING.
On the day, I do enjoy it, that I get to spend time with my family (parents and sister) and the other half, and there seems to be a Christmas tradition that a load of my home-friends, from the various schools I attended, go out on Christmas eve so there's a general catch-up which is great. So there are good bits. And I enjoy the proper time off - always at least two weeks, as a student, even though last year that was spent stressing about finals, and most years it involved a couple of days working in my wonderful job in my wonderful museum, which even though it was work, was still a break.
This year I have two days off, Christmas day and Boxing day, and since I've just worked a very difficult and draining 12 days in a row (someone insert a joke about the 12 days of Christmas here please) I'm not going to be the life and soul of the party. That takes more energy than I have! I'm just hoping that I get to the party/Christmas eve gathering in the pub at all, and that I don't finish work so late that I've missed everyone by the time I get there.
Today, 22nd, is the first time I've done any proper Christmas shopping - I've picked up the odd thing here and there, the first was in June (be impressed) but I haven't had any time until now to actually shop for anything. It's rubbish that not having time for Christmas shopping is such a big deal - Christmas shouldn't be about the shopping. Or the presents. Or the commercialism which is massive and horrific and all-pervasive.
This year, having seen something on facebook a while ago denouncing the commercial nature of Christmas and encouraging shoppers to support small businesses in their Christmas shopping. It was only a facebook thing but I took it to heart. I have bought three things from a chain shop, the rest from festivals or Christmas market stalls or Amnesty International online shop, and it feels wonderful. My money has gone to small and independent business, who actually pay their taxes (Amazon, you aren't getting any money from me, tax-avoiding scumbags, even if it is legal!). I'm really happy about this, and I like the idea of continuing this in future years.
Work, being a very junior doctor on a new rotation where I know nothing yet do everything, means that my energy for doing and enjoying Christmas is at an all-time low. The first time I actually have money and might therefore be expected to buy decent presents, I have no time or energy to do so. On the plus side, it means my expectations for Christmas are non-existent. All I want is a break, and the chance to spend some proper time with my family, time when I'm not meant to be busy doing something else. I am so, so looking forward to that. I don't care about the turkey, it's too much effort and takes time away from just spending time together.
I feel I've neglected my family - the last time I spoke to them was on day 1 of 12, and day 12 was yesterday. So two days where it's just me and my folks, and some of the time the other half, and maybe some friends on Boxing day, sounds amazing.
So on the one hand, I'm not in the Christmas spirit in any way. On the other hand, I am massively looking forward to it. And to getting some proper sleep for a night or two. Father Christmas better not wake me up.
A post-script: I did get out of work in time to travel home and get to the pub on Christmas eve, although the older we get the more people have moved away and the fewer friends are there, but it was fun nonetheless. I then fell asleep on the sofa after the pub, and my mum had to wake me up and make me go to bed. I woke up late on Christmas day. My sister and I made a dedicated and concerted effort to spend all of Christmas day in our pyjamas, because we could, so we did. I was knackered and had a head-cold (still! stupid virus) but that was no big deal. Working 12 days in the run-up to Christmas, with the weekend off being busy and full of Christmas preparations, clearly took its toll.
But Christmas was pretty much everything I had hoped for. Lovely.
I am not really feeling Christmas this year. I am never a massive Christmas fan, since it often involves my granny, who is acceptable in small doses but beyond that her sickly sweet manipulativeness and inability and unwillingness to cope with my sister's complexities (mostly her autism/Asperger's) get too much. Or it involves balancing my family and my other half's family so that we see both families and still see each other (one of the rare times I'm glad our families live near each other). Or it involves going mad getting stressed out on the high streets trying to buy EVERYTHING.
On the day, I do enjoy it, that I get to spend time with my family (parents and sister) and the other half, and there seems to be a Christmas tradition that a load of my home-friends, from the various schools I attended, go out on Christmas eve so there's a general catch-up which is great. So there are good bits. And I enjoy the proper time off - always at least two weeks, as a student, even though last year that was spent stressing about finals, and most years it involved a couple of days working in my wonderful job in my wonderful museum, which even though it was work, was still a break.
This year I have two days off, Christmas day and Boxing day, and since I've just worked a very difficult and draining 12 days in a row (someone insert a joke about the 12 days of Christmas here please) I'm not going to be the life and soul of the party. That takes more energy than I have! I'm just hoping that I get to the party/Christmas eve gathering in the pub at all, and that I don't finish work so late that I've missed everyone by the time I get there.
Today, 22nd, is the first time I've done any proper Christmas shopping - I've picked up the odd thing here and there, the first was in June (be impressed) but I haven't had any time until now to actually shop for anything. It's rubbish that not having time for Christmas shopping is such a big deal - Christmas shouldn't be about the shopping. Or the presents. Or the commercialism which is massive and horrific and all-pervasive.
This year, having seen something on facebook a while ago denouncing the commercial nature of Christmas and encouraging shoppers to support small businesses in their Christmas shopping. It was only a facebook thing but I took it to heart. I have bought three things from a chain shop, the rest from festivals or Christmas market stalls or Amnesty International online shop, and it feels wonderful. My money has gone to small and independent business, who actually pay their taxes (Amazon, you aren't getting any money from me, tax-avoiding scumbags, even if it is legal!). I'm really happy about this, and I like the idea of continuing this in future years.
Work, being a very junior doctor on a new rotation where I know nothing yet do everything, means that my energy for doing and enjoying Christmas is at an all-time low. The first time I actually have money and might therefore be expected to buy decent presents, I have no time or energy to do so. On the plus side, it means my expectations for Christmas are non-existent. All I want is a break, and the chance to spend some proper time with my family, time when I'm not meant to be busy doing something else. I am so, so looking forward to that. I don't care about the turkey, it's too much effort and takes time away from just spending time together.
I feel I've neglected my family - the last time I spoke to them was on day 1 of 12, and day 12 was yesterday. So two days where it's just me and my folks, and some of the time the other half, and maybe some friends on Boxing day, sounds amazing.
So on the one hand, I'm not in the Christmas spirit in any way. On the other hand, I am massively looking forward to it. And to getting some proper sleep for a night or two. Father Christmas better not wake me up.
A post-script: I did get out of work in time to travel home and get to the pub on Christmas eve, although the older we get the more people have moved away and the fewer friends are there, but it was fun nonetheless. I then fell asleep on the sofa after the pub, and my mum had to wake me up and make me go to bed. I woke up late on Christmas day. My sister and I made a dedicated and concerted effort to spend all of Christmas day in our pyjamas, because we could, so we did. I was knackered and had a head-cold (still! stupid virus) but that was no big deal. Working 12 days in the run-up to Christmas, with the weekend off being busy and full of Christmas preparations, clearly took its toll.
But Christmas was pretty much everything I had hoped for. Lovely.
Tuesday 20 November 2012
Remembering our Dead
Today is Transgender Day of Remembrance, and we remembered our dead. We remembered and celebrated the lives of 265 people
who have been killed due to having a gender identity or gender presentation
perceived to not be “normal”. 265 in the last year.
Many of them will not have been remembered or celebrated on
any other day, or by anyone else, except for the day of remembrance. Some didn’t
even have recorded names, only recorded brutal manner of death.
We remembered, and acknowledged that those transgender people
who are more likely to be killed are women, people of colour, those who don’t
live in Western Europe, and particularly those who live in Latin America, and
those who were sex workers – usually due to the above factors combining to make
it very difficult for them to be accepted in any other line of work. Whatever
the factors, none of them deserved to be brutally murdered.
Today I remembered with about 200 other people (a rough
estimate – generally LOTS, the chairs ran out) in London. The last time I went
to the service in London was four years ago, and we fitted into a much smaller
venue then. To have a bigger service with more people paying their respects is
significant. Sadly although the numbers of participants and audience in the
service has changed, I think there has been little change in the number of
names read out. Just to give an idea of the scale, reading out the name, age,
and location of each person murdered in the last year, takes about an hour in
total – no breaks.
It also required readers who were adept at Spanish and
Portuguese pronunciation – a vast majority of those murdered had lived in Latin
America, specifically Brazil and Mexico, and some in Venezuela. Countries
further south in America, such as Chile and Argentina, were not represented in
the names in any number.
I can’t help but wonder what on earth they must be doing to Brazilian
boys and young men to instil a culture in which gender conformity is everything
and anyone who disobeys society’s gender rules deserves to die, and it is their
right to ensure this happens. What goes on in a society to cause that to be commonplace?
And what can be done to counteract this?
I don’t imagine this blog has any Brazilian or Mexican
readers, why would it, but just in case it does: look after your country’s
trans people, and do all you can to create a culture in which gender diversity
is not only not stifled with death, but actually accepted. Love each other – if
only love could stop murder.
It sounds strange, but I found it almost difficult to be
moved by the service. So many, many names, they start losing their meaning and
stop being people, if you don’t engage your brain and emotions and register
what’s actually been happening to them and what’s being said. Today’s service
didn’t include mode of death – it did a few years ago and some of the youngest
participants at the service were understandably very upset. But on the other
hand, it forces people to acknowledge the horrors that have happened and not
just allow the hundreds of names to wash over them. I forced myself to really
think about it, and even then it’s impossible to fully comprehend the scale of
systematic transphobic murder that’s taken place – I’m lucky and privileged
enough to not be able to get my head around it.
I try every year to attend a trans day of remembrance
service – I didn’t two years ago, I went on holiday, and it felt a bit wrong. That
was one of the first blogposts I almost wrote (but didn’t quite) about how
important it was to me, even though I hadn’t attended. The other half and I even
attended the service in Berlin, six weeks after arriving there, and we added
some words to our German vocabulary, that we had never wanted to add (e.g.
geschossen = shot). Attending today’s service was one of the deciding factors
in me taking today as leave and being in London. Even though I find some of the
more upbeat parts of the service slightly difficult to swallow given the
juxtaposition with the sombre nature of the service (some feel it’s also a
celebration of life/want to ensure people don’t go straight from the service and
into the Thames because it’s so harrowing), I’m glad I went.
Here’s to a shorter list next year. And every year
thereafter.
Footnote:
Just to dispel some misconceptions, which I picked up on in
the comments of this Guardian article from last year: TDoR does not commemorate trans
people who have died by suicide. There are many – being trans is a significant
risk factor for experiencing mental health problems, self-harm and suicide, but
TDoR is specifically for trans people who have died at the hands of others, not
their own.
It has nothing to do with Remembrance Day or poppy day or
Remembrance Sunday at all, except that both are to do with remembering dead
people. The trans people who we remember at TDoR did not fight for us or die
for us, they simply lived their lives, tried to be themselves, and were
murdered for it. Nothing whatsoever to do with soldiers and war and Remembrance
Day.
Also, although I refer to “service” there is nothing
religious about it. Some people may choose to bring a spiritual element to
their remembering, but it is not a church service and is not religious.
To finish, because sometimes art speaks better than prose, and because it was such a poignant and appropriate piece to have in the service, I am sharing the poem Elaine read out, with her permission. It makes the reality hit home further.
It’s not about us.
It’s not about those of us sitting here, standing here, living here.
It is about those who cannot be here.
Those who should be here with us, somewhere in the world.
Those who are gone.
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
Yes, we have many things to say, and many things that need saying, and maybe our voices are often ignored but we can still speak.
It is not for us to put words in the mouths of those who have had their breath stolen from them.
Those who should still be able to tell the world who they are.
Those who were taken from this world for who they are.
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
I stand here white, middle class, here in London with a warm bed to return to.
It's not about us.
Because this world finds so many ways to hate, to silence, to erase those it deems less worthy.
Their race is not incidental. Their work is not incidental. Their nationality is not incidental. These things are not incidental but integral as this is intersectional.
And did we pay them any attention before they were gone?
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
We are still fighting battles, personal and cultural and political. And these are battles to be fought but
These people are not martyrs, these people did not die for a grand cause.
Their deaths are pointless, senseless, symptoms of violence and racism and misogyny and the ways we casually turn people into nothings.
Their deaths should not be our politics.
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
We are not here for us.
We are here to remember and to mourn and to mark those who society finds so easy to overlook.
We are here for them.
These people are so much more than names, a photograph, if we even have those to remember them by.
These people deserve to be remembered but far more they deserve to still living their lives, telling their truths, laughing and crying and dancing and smiling but they are dead.
It’s about them.
And not just the people on the list, all 265 of them when even 1 would be too many.
It’s about those people who are not on the list because nobody noticed, nobody knew, or nobody even cared.
Those who were further erased in death, identities taken and torn apart from those no longer able to defend themselves.
Those who never even made a footnote in the paper.
Let us think of them.
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
We can always have tomorrow.
It’s about them.
They don’t even have a today.
It’s about them.
And next year, may the list be shorter.
To finish, because sometimes art speaks better than prose, and because it was such a poignant and appropriate piece to have in the service, I am sharing the poem Elaine read out, with her permission. It makes the reality hit home further.
It’s not about us.
It’s not about those of us sitting here, standing here, living here.
It is about those who cannot be here.
Those who should be here with us, somewhere in the world.
Those who are gone.
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
Yes, we have many things to say, and many things that need saying, and maybe our voices are often ignored but we can still speak.
It is not for us to put words in the mouths of those who have had their breath stolen from them.
Those who should still be able to tell the world who they are.
Those who were taken from this world for who they are.
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
I stand here white, middle class, here in London with a warm bed to return to.
It's not about us.
Because this world finds so many ways to hate, to silence, to erase those it deems less worthy.
Their race is not incidental. Their work is not incidental. Their nationality is not incidental. These things are not incidental but integral as this is intersectional.
And did we pay them any attention before they were gone?
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
We are still fighting battles, personal and cultural and political. And these are battles to be fought but
These people are not martyrs, these people did not die for a grand cause.
Their deaths are pointless, senseless, symptoms of violence and racism and misogyny and the ways we casually turn people into nothings.
Their deaths should not be our politics.
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
We are not here for us.
We are here to remember and to mourn and to mark those who society finds so easy to overlook.
We are here for them.
These people are so much more than names, a photograph, if we even have those to remember them by.
These people deserve to be remembered but far more they deserve to still living their lives, telling their truths, laughing and crying and dancing and smiling but they are dead.
It’s about them.
And not just the people on the list, all 265 of them when even 1 would be too many.
It’s about those people who are not on the list because nobody noticed, nobody knew, or nobody even cared.
Those who were further erased in death, identities taken and torn apart from those no longer able to defend themselves.
Those who never even made a footnote in the paper.
Let us think of them.
It’s about them.
It’s not about us.
We can always have tomorrow.
It’s about them.
They don’t even have a today.
It’s about them.
And next year, may the list be shorter.
Monday 22 October 2012
Once a faily student, always a bit faily (or ex-faily)
Was thinking yesterday* how my final exam fail (and other
final exam near-fail) probably contributes to why I dont have as much clinical
confidence as I'd like, and explains why I'm not as methodical as I should be.
Or rather, my lack of logic and method explains why I failed.
Meeting with educational supervisor:
Supervisor: foundation years are a steep learning curve,
especially when you've probably always done really well and never failed
anything...
me: actually, I failed a final exam...
ES: really? Why on earth did we give you an academic job
then?!?!
me: you gave me the job before I failed
ES: oh well, it's not the end of the world
me: it certainly seemed like it at the time!
I guess it's something that I'll never forget about, but the
significance will hopefully fade over time. It should stick with me long enough
to prevent me getting much too big for my boots anytime in the next few years- I
know I could still be capable of screwing up.
However, some days after this conversation, I had a
potentially good idea: I know, and documented extensively on the previous blog
(here and here) how horrible it is to fail a final
exam and to have confidence shattered and to get totally burnt out and have to
find some way of picking yourself up and carrying on (or relying on others to
pick me up and carry me on – I am still so, so thankful to the wonderful people
who helped me prepare for my re-take).
Maybe I can help other faily students to pick themselves up and carry on, help motivate, help practice, help them realise that help might be there for the asking (if their fellow students are as wonderful as mine were). A little investigative work tells me the number of students currently retaking final year at the place where I’m working (I’ve got an academic foundation job – it should come as no surprise that I’m working at a hospital involved with a medical school) reaches double figures, so perhaps there’s a market for this concept, for want of a better word. I just need to work out who to contact about it, and see if the other openly faily F1 doctor (who has of course, now passed, that’s why they’re an F1) wants in on this.
Maybe I can help other faily students to pick themselves up and carry on, help motivate, help practice, help them realise that help might be there for the asking (if their fellow students are as wonderful as mine were). A little investigative work tells me the number of students currently retaking final year at the place where I’m working (I’ve got an academic foundation job – it should come as no surprise that I’m working at a hospital involved with a medical school) reaches double figures, so perhaps there’s a market for this concept, for want of a better word. I just need to work out who to contact about it, and see if the other openly faily F1 doctor (who has of course, now passed, that’s why they’re an F1) wants in on this.
I don’t have training in motivating people, but I think
personal experience that would be relevant here. Watch this space…
* Not yesterday, actually ages ago, but that’s how long it
takes me to write a blog these days.
I'm not dead, just being a doctor
Sorry it's been forever (well, 6+ weeks) since I last posted. Or not sorry (I did once blog about how I shouldn't feel obligated to blog... but then I also planned to blog three times a week).
I'm not dead, just been busy working. Which is very busy. Though apparently will get worse when I'm working in surgery and moved on from generally-reasonably-well-supervised gynae.
A three day weekend seems to have got my creative blogging juices flowing again, slightly.
Also, I STILL have lack of internet to blame, partially, for my lack of blogging - thanks Tesco totally rubbish Home Pho-one and Broadband (yes I still find it odd and mildly entertaining that the woman on their phone message pronounces phone with two syllables... I have spent FAR too much time listening to her!).
Here's to the blog. Or not.
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