I've repeated it over and over, yet haven't gotten used to the idea yet, that I'm a changed person now. Stoic and practical, more devoid of sympathy than for which I'd initially aimed, I no longer give myself lenience to provide senseless excuses or false promises which used to satisfy me in the past.
I've turned neither more efficient, nor more happy. I am simply blank book with pages I've already filled with nothing that I have the patience to articulate anymore. The pages are full, but you can't see what's there; let's leave it at that.
There may never be enough time to mourn my lost flair for writing out my troubles.
One year of pregnant women grunting, groaning, gasping, writhing and even kicking. Everyone in the labour room screams-- the in-charge medical officers at the residents, the seniors at the juniors, the juniors at the nurses, the nurses at the servants, the servants at the patients and the patients just into the air out of sheer pain-- bloodcurdling screams that would make your heart sink, their terror put to silence with the steadiness of our tired, dull, bored eyes.
Sometimes it feels like it's all worth it, just to live out the ultimate satisfaction reserved only for ObGyns-- that which I get while tying a patient's tubes; the thrill of pulling a second time, tighter, the feel of the hollow sealing shut under my fingers, with a complacent little smile concealed behind my mask every time.
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