welcome

Call me Sueyi.
Call me Sue-Sue.
Call me Sue.
Just don't call me lil fry.

A 19 yr old :

Finding her niche in the passionate world of white coats and stethoscopes.

Missing Malaysian food so badly, that she drowns her sorrow by surfing food blogs.

Who watches scary movies only with friends who have high pain threshold (from all that pinching)

Who has very cold extremities, ask my stimulated patients, oops sorry, "simulated patients"

Who loves a good laugh with candid, thick-skinned friends

Who cannot stay surrounded by 4 walls for more than a few hours

Who loves her loved ones so so much


:)

shout outs



endless wishes

char siew bao.

blueberry muffins.

hot Milo and crackers.

a neverending supply of Daddy's socks.

Bear hugs. Warm kisses. Lots of Love.

My own beach chalet.

Bubble baths.

Shining sun and rainbows.

Sexy stilettos.

Dancing.

Me

I wear socks.Even with heels.

I play with my earlobes.

I have a Mongolian mole.

My family means the world to me. "Family means no one gets left behind"

I like cheekiness. You cheeky, me cheeky.

I heart my close friends, the ones who know me in and out, the ones who've grown with me.

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March 1, 2015



and when she speaks

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

I hope my patient made it to her home two hours away in another state to die in her own house; back in Negeri Sembilan.

She told me a few days ago; when she was still perfectly capable of sitting down in the chair beside her bed; that she wanted to go home.

She repeated this everyday I saw her last week. I told her 'We don't want to keep you in here for too long either.. But we want to make sure you're perfectly healthy before you can go home.'

She stubbornly persisted and didn't want to believe me.

Then, I used the 'children' talk... hoping it'd help her cooperate with us in trying to help her get back to her feet again and get better.

'I'm sure you want to go back and see your kids and grandchildren for a long, long time more, right? That's why we want you well and better.'

To that, she kept quiet. I'm sure she'd have agreed on the inside.

We were about to discharge her the past weekend. Until Sunday came.

This was the patient whom I had to poke 3 times to get blood the first time I met her. Hazlina told me you're lucky she likes you; this morning, she whacked me. I laughed. She was very very cooperative with me when I had to prick her for blood. In the end, I succeeded in taking blood from the dorsal part of her foot- a very painful area for needle pokes.

Sunday came and she was breathless according to the charts.

Monday morning rounds; we knew she was in trouble with her becoming more short of breath and having early signs of labored breathing... We transferred her to the high dependency unit-HDU where these patients who are in more critical state are observed more closely.

She whispered to me once she'd rather die at home than stay here for treatment. I couldn't say anything. She was headstrong and already made up her mind.

Deep inside me, I've agreed with her going home to pass away but as a doctor who wants her well and believes there is hope in treating her, I cannot say that.

I do think that's the best way of leaving this world; being in the comforts of your home. In familiar surroundings and with loved ones by your side.

I've always thought her beautiful and graceful, despite her old age and disease.

She told me again that she wanted to die at home. This, I remember very clearly.

Today, she was quickly deteriorating.

I have been her daughter's main liaison with the team as her daughter is most fluent in Hakka.

The team rounded and she was one of the very first few we rounded on this morning. The doctors all tried asking her questions but she responded to none.

And we moved on, thinking she's not conscious.

When the team was with the next patient, I gave it a shot and nudged her. 'Po po, po po'
And in my Hakka , I asked her if she could hear me.
Despite the labored heavy beathing, she nodded. Then I told her if she's in pain to let me know, we'd do everything we can to make her comfortable.

Her eyes were shut. Her chest was heaving up and down. She was struggling to get some breaths in... And you could tell, she was slowly slipping away. She suffered a massive heart attack from the pneumonia we thought we had fully treated. Instead, the pneumonia surprised us and got worse on Sunday and led onto septic shock and then, onto heart failure with the heart attack.

She answered all of my questions with a nod or a head shake... And I immediately went to tell my head doctor.

And, they rushed over. She was still cognizant. Pain relief would be our first and main priority. Patient comfort.

WE injected a venodilator for her heart for pain relief.

She only responded to me.

The other two doctors tried again. but to no avail.

I took on the responsibility of making sure she was as comfortable as she could be. That her last few dying moments would be as painless as possible. That her family was informed of the guarded outlook. That her daughter would have to know the truth that her mother may not survive past tonight, as painful and as hard as it is to swallow that fact. They have to prepare themselves for her passing.

LAst night itself, I told her daughter to gather all her other children to come and see her as she doesn't have that much time left. They need to know so that she gets a chance to see everyone before she leaves.

When her daughter asked me how long her mum would have if they took her home today; 2-3 days ? she asked.

I said 'It's very hard to say. But I think it's best if you gather everyone there because she doesn't have much time left... A few hours maybe once the inotropes and Oxygen come off with the ambulance. Or a day or two, at most'

After she finally realised how little time she has left with her mum, I saw her eyes brimming with tears and she was close to breaking down. That was so painful because I don't think she realised earlier how close to death her mum is. And I couldn't do anything but to pat her on her shoulder and hold her for awhile...

She followed me in to the ward. But what was worse was that the afternoon rounds was still going on for the other 3 patients; and she wasn't allowed in. I felt so so bad.

I went in to check on her, interrupting my following the team for rounds every once in awhile.

Making sure she's still there.

Right before I left for home, the arrangements were being made for a private ambulance to take her home.

I went to her; and spoke to her.

'Po Po, ngi hoi hoi sim sim on on lok lok zhon wu ka tong ngia zhai tong moi tong ngi yi che'

I repeated it a few times. "Po po, go back peacefully and happily, don't worry, your children will be with you"

To that, she didn't respond. No nods. No head shakes. No signs of cognition. And I was worried.

I nudged her and shook her a bit.

Popo, can you hear me? in my Hakka.

She finally nodded. And to that, I have said my goodbyes to her.

I touched her son on his shoulder as I walked past him, and saw his eyes filled with tears.

I didn't want him losing control and breaking down. So, I left right after that and gave him a supportive encouraging nod.

I'd miss the stubborness from the grandmother. The funny bent knee position her right leg took each and every time she was lying on her bed to the extent all the doctors would always mistake her for having an amputated leg; not realising one leg is bent and hidden under the blankets. And the Hakka conversations I had had with her for the past few days.

I enjoyed taking care of her. Wherever you are, right now:-

Po, ngi hao hao zhao gu chi ga lah.

Take good care of yourself, po.





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STORY,
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