Geriatric population

Today I must write before I sleep. I am not writing for you to read, but for me to read. I fancy old aunties and uncles. When I am working in the wards, my heart leaps out when my patients happened to be wrinkled, saggy, toothless population. The geriatrics. I am just so enthralled that I get to be with people who are so matured, experienced yet helplessly childish. And they genuinely smile. This affection is most likely due to my early childhood upbringing when I was very attached to my late grandmother. Like children's complexion, the elderlies have their very own pimple-free, radiant complexion. When I try to set an IV, the skin would be so fragile that I would be so afraid of tearing those layers apart. Their veins glide over their bony surfaces making it so difficult for us to stabilise the veins. But they rarely cringe or frown. Even when they frown, I never felt like scolding them, because they are children too. It is okay for them to feel pain and show it to us. There was a patient in Orthopaedic ward, let us call her Miss Moi.She has multiple co-morbids and she has been staying in the ward for months. We have so much difficulty to bring her Sodium up, thanks to her SIADH. Yet she has to go for operation. So that we can get the infected implant out of her hip. So that she can stand up again. So that she can at least smile to us. So that she will not be depressed anymore. We had to check her electrolytes daily and that means phlebotomy and bruises daily. I would go to her and tell her that "I am going to withdraw some blood, is it ok?" She will not look at me. She will just clutch her water bottle tightly and will not make a noise even after the procedure is over. The thing is, we all like her so much. She has the darkest black hair with streaks of gray cut up to her ear level. She looks around with her large eyes. Really large eyes. She never speaks to anyone but her caring husband. So when I go near her or just stand next to her, I wonder what she is thinking about. I wonder whether she would remember me. I like her. Because she is old. And nice.

My hunger

There are times when we get extremely thirsty. The thirst starts from down there, near the umbilicus, but so very deep. It starts as a small, round mass. As tiny as a clear marble. Then it grows. It expands. In a fraction of a second, it grows so big till it occupies the whole abdominal cavity. The thirst then pushes onto the diaphragm and makes you hungry for air. That mass of thirst now is so overwhelmingly powerful that makes you want to let it out. It makes you wanting to grab a paper and write it all down. It makes your legs shake vigorously. It makes your fingers rattle. It makes you feeling out of place. It makes you feel so strong yet insufficient. It creates tiny pricks of pain near your lungs. It makes you wanting to prove. That this is what I have been missing. That this thirst is one thing I need to lunge forward. That this is something I want to do for the rest of my life. Not because of him. Not because of them. But just because, this is me. This thirst is me. The thirst to dance.

Please God, give me a chance to dance again. I am not sure whether I am doing it right, now. I want to stand on that stage and be blinded by those lights. I want to see myself in that mirror flexing my muscles and straining my bones. I want to spoil my skin with heavy foundations and glitters. I want to cry because I have to learn a difficult choreography. I want to fly in lines and arches. I want to dance. I want to dance. I want to just dance for the rest of my life. I need to dance.