Tuesday, November 18, 2008

H. Miri

Where do I start?
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Do I talk about how my working life's been? Or do I talk about private stuff that's been on my mind?
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Hmm.
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I'm in my 3rd week of OPD, (that's outpatient pharmacy catering for patients from various specialist clinics) and I'm getting better at it. On my first day I was absolutely floored by the stress of OPD; when dad came to see for lunch time, I found myself tearing at the sight of a comforting figure. It's odd how I'm homesick when home is only 2 hours away. I've been further, but I've never felt this acute longing for home. I finally moved in to my new place last weekend. It's so near the hospital; I suppose I could walk to work, but then again I'd get all sweaty. I went to see Aunty Jenny & Co. after work today for dinner. Previously stayed with them for about 2 weeks before I found a place. I miss the family environment, I had fun staying with them, so was definitely glad to see them this evening. I lepak-ed at their place for awhile after dinner for ovaltine, tv and cake while waiting for my cousin Nico to figure out this USB modem thingy (kepala i fening trying to make sense of how it works). So now I have internet. Yay, me!
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I have to admit, doing this job is hard, at least at this stage when I'm not that competent yet. Sometimes it will get so busy in there, with patients coming in in hundreds, that I'd feel completely overwhelmed. But little things keep me going. When I see the gratitude on the weather-beaten faces of those old Iban men and women, everytime I hear a "terima kasih, endu" I know I did some good today, and it makes me happy. It makes pharmacy more worthwhile. Everytime I see puzzled frowns breaking into nods of comprehension, I know I did good. When they start to tell me things about themselves, I'd keep listening as much as I can, even if it means longer dispensing time, because I want to show them that I do care. I'm not just there to hand over a multitude of drugs blindly according to the dr's list, I'm there because I care. Or at least I'm trying. To be compassionate.
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I've seen this particular mother twice this week; dragging along her son who has a psychiatric problem. You know they're coming before you actually see them because he laughs uncontrollably. Literally, repetitive bursts of laughter. Secretly, that boy makes me happy. He's just happy, I'd think to myself, what's wrong with that? Ah, well. That's just me.

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