The Wonderland Called Gynaecology Emergency OT

Disclaimer: The following semi-coherent notes are based on my very short term experience in Gynae Emergency OT. I do not wish to offend anyone. Basically what I want to say is “Iss post ke sabhi Doctor aur Paramedics kaalpanik hain. Iska kisi bhi sachchi ghatna se mel hona sirf ek sanyog and/or exaggeration hai“.*

*For humor purpose only. Not for medico-legal purposes.

Harrison Ford discovered the assembly line system to streamline and divide work systematically so that everyone has a specific role and hence minimum confusion will ensure best output. You take such a system, hang it upside down, beat it to a pulp, and then laugh at it just to hurt its feelings. Whatever is left of that system is basically how a Gynae Emergency OT works. To make you realise the sorry state of affairs, let me tell you that amidst all that confusion, the actual sufferer is a lady and her husband who, more often than not, are expecting their 5th or 6th child, mostly because the husband has a progressive mentality, and wants his wife to have a great career as a human-vending machine. 

The usual way that any emergency OT works is that a patient is wheeled in, assessed pre-operatively, operated upon, and finally the red zero-watt bulb will be switched off and the surgeon gets to say “dawa ke sath dua ki bhi bohot zarurat hai“, while the anaesthetist burns with jealousy. I’m just kidding about that. Anaesthetist is never jealous, because he is too busy playing subway surfer. Anyways, Gynae is not any usual emergency OT. Hence, the modus operandi is a little different here:

1. Written shifting orders will be obtained for patient A. Suddenly, a patient B with more serious condition will be reported, and verbally agreed upon to be shifted asap. 45 minutes and 8 calls later, patient C will be shifted to pre-op, because patient A had delivered normally, and no one has any idea about patient B now. 
2. Patient C will be asked to be shifted to the operating table, and ‘Sherlock Holmes and the curious case of missing Nursing-Orderly‘ will be enacted out. Half hour later, the N.O. will come back with tea and biscuits for everyone, and hence all his sins are forgiven. 

3. Patient C is shifted on the table. And preparation for spinal anaesthesia is begun. The technician is working his ass off and running around at inhumane speed of 3.5 km/hr, and the anaesthetist is very close to bursting a vein inside his own head.

4. Then you prick the patient and with every prick she withdraws herself away from you, and 5-6 consecutive pricks later, the patient is almost finished doing the Madhuri Dixit step from the song “Dhak Dhak karne laga“, and you are finally done injecting the drug.
5. Patient B is back from exile. The Gynae team is playing Lok Sabha- Lok Sabha over that patient. Patient C is hoping the child about to come out better be worth going through all this.
The noise level in the said OT can get quite high, and contrary to expectations, Gynae vs Anaesthesia is the least entertaining argument because only a few lucky ones get to see the real showdown, the Pearl Harbour, the Panipat-Kurukshetra: Nurses vs Gynaecologists. Now that is a high-decibel, entertaining fight which is settled in a very grown-up, mature way using the words “Shut up”, and “YOU shut up”. Then both the sides cool their heads by a novel technique of meditation known as ‘Scream at the Intern doctor’.
I have been taught and/or learnt through experience a few tricks that have made life easier here. 

1. Never shout back. Not only are there high chances of her pitch being drilling-through-brain-level shrill, she has more labour room experience, hence you’ll be dead before you can even construct the sentence in your mind that you want to shout. 

2. Is that uterus contracted or flabby, who am I to say? I am a mere mortal, and I shall help her, as long as I have breath in my lungs, and oxytocin in my syringe. 

3. No matter how laid-back you are, they will always like you more than the paediatrician who arrives at the scene like the police in Bollywood movie. Be proud of yourself.

Also, hang in there. 9AM the next day, you’ll be able to hear your thoughts, look at the birds, appreciate the blue of the sky once again. 

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Swachcha Kamra Abhiyaan

Last I checked, I was still a guy with XY chromosomes, the ability to keep standing while I use the men’s room and the ability to live in my flat till the room starts to look like an MCD garbage van. I’m not proud of that last quality, but the inherent laziness (comparable to Saurav Ganguly while fielding in a match) and the comparison with the state my hostel room used to be in, made me postpone the cleaning process by some time, actually 13 months and 5 days to be precise. 
Well, it’s not that I didn’t try at all. I bought a broom, then a mop, then another broom because I accidentally broke the first one while pretending to be a jedi warrior (a broom is a perfect lower middle class economic strata light-saber). Then I cleaned my hall in approximately 4 hours, then cried for another 4 hours when I saw dirty footwear trails of my own left behind while I was giving last few wipes to the floor. So, my bachelor pad/ bdsm dungeon/ caśa de loneliness is still analogous to AAP’s political policies: total mess.
It’s also not that I didn’t try to hire a maid to uplift my place’s hygiene level. I talked to a lot of maids, which in this part of Delhi means that a lot of maids took my interview, but I am yet to find a female between 18 to 30 years of age. No, it’s not that my hormones are not under control. It’s just that I live on the fourth floor of a housing complex without a lift, and I don’t want to imagine “Oh she’s an old woman, might have fainted to death around the second floor” as answer to “Why didn’t the maid show up today?”. Why only a female, you ask? C’mon! A floor wiper in a man’s hand is similar to a zip in female denims. Almost purposeless.
I finally decided to take matters in my own hands, and though it took me two long hours, I eventually found my broom and floor viper. I took a short nap of four and a half hours to rejuvenate from that tiredness, and spent the next 6 hours cleaning my house. I did lose motivation at many points through the project, but a few things kept me going:

☆I rediscovered that the tiles in my floor are spotless off-white in color, not dark brown with irregular black spots.

☆I accepted the fact I can’t get rid of the patch of fungus outside my balcony door. I have accepted it as my pet now. I think it takes offense when someone says “ewww”.

☆I kept finding things I had lost through the year at the most unthinkable places (mostly under the bed). The list includes water bottles, nail-clipper, another nail-clipper, a pen, ex-girlfriend, MBBS degree, geyser,a twin brother, another mattress, and my sanity (or whatever remains of it).
Eventually, I got fed up of all the mess around me, and did what any sensible man would do: Packed my bag and went back home in search for a cleaner environment. After two days and approximately twelve thousand questions from parents regarding my food habits, bank balance and sedentary lifestyle, I rushed back to my dustbin-in-disguise-of-1BHK and looked at my pet fungus. I think it missed me.
And… Happily Ever After.

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I went to Mumbai. What happened next drowned my body. Literally.

Having lived in Delhi for the first 25 years of my life (I am excluding the last one year because I spent that in East Delhi, which is as much Delhi as Rupa undergarments is La Senza lingerie), there are very few cities that I will find comfortable to live in. I found Chandigarh way too clean and well-planned (two strictly anti-punjabi qualities), and Jaipur to be too quiet for my comfort. In a way I realised that I needed a city with a young, spirited crowd and active night life to make it easy for me to ogle at girls enjoy whatever time and energy I have left after sniffing litres of anaesthetic gases in the OT. Then, I went to Mumbai.

I went to Mumbai with quite a few preconceived notions about the city. I thought it will be a city full of traffic congestion and I would spend 2.75 days of my 3-day trip using words like ‘halkat‘ and ‘kootreya‘ to vent out my frustration in a cab. I thought the police was divided into two kinds of officers: Sub-Inspector Bataawdekars and Constable Waghmares. I thought the women would be too arrogant for any man’s comfort. I thought people had vadaa-pav as breakfast, lunch, dinner, evening snacks, midnight munchies and as chakhna with alcohol. I thought it would be raining so much that Sun won’t be visible for the entire duration of my trip. Though I was correct about the last one, I was proven wrong about most of my misconceptions.
The only thing Delhi is better than mumbai in terms of roadways, is that it has bushes and trees along the sides, which is the partly the result of our ultra-civilised roadside toilet habits. Mumbai is better in terms of public transport:

Me: Bhau Lower Parel Chalega?

Taxi Driver: Haan Baitho.

Me: Kitne loge?

Driver: Meter se baitho.

Me: (reflexly) arey itna zyada thode na banegWHAATTT?

*Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham theme tune plays in the background as tears roll down the eyes*

I was wrong about the policemen names too. There are also Constable Gaitondes and Salunkhes in the force. 25% each. Yes, most of them have a thick moustache and a paunch made up entirely of doughnuts of western culture (aka Vadaa Pavs). 
Mumbai is expensive. I can say that because I can compare it to Delhi in terms of alcohol prices, street food prices, and even for prices of fake products at Palika bazaar vs Colaba causeway. You would see much better crowd at Causeway, and hence the increased rates can be justified as ‘entertainment’ or ‘greenery’ tax. Causeway is a normal open market, hence shopping there during rains can be a real pain. Delhi rains are a proper phenomenon. 2 hours worth of winds, dust-storms, trees getting uprooted, signboards hitting people’s heads, basically full mahaul banega, till the point every Delhiite starts looking up at the sky with the look of hope that is usually seen at the face of a boyfriend after his girlfriend has had her fourth LIIT. More often than not, the result is also similar: KLPD. However, in Mumbai, one second it is not raining, the next it is raining so heavily that you’ll drown in a flood before you can say ‘Tacha Mayla Sharad Pawar‘.
Now coming to the main reason this post saw the light of the day: Mumbai girls. The most attractive thing about them is the fact that they use negligible amount of make-up, hence look almost the same before and after washing their face at night. Wearing dresses and crop-tops is easy for them, as they do not have Haryaanvi jats giving them invitation in the formal language called threat by using words like, “Oye Saxy babe, outside very cold come inside warm Safari no!” Mumbai people are far too busy surviving the expensive city that they do not have time to stop and stare at women and make them uncomfortable, and my entire duration of stay there, I found just one stupid, creepy piece of shit doing so. Ok I’ll be honest. It was me.
Sorry for that Mumbai. Until we meet again, stay wet, stay wild. 
Wait. That came out wrong. 

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