Dream: a cheating husband and the Epping rail tunnel

In this dream I come home to a house I don't recognise and walk through a living room that I've never seen before. There's a man in the room that I implicitly understand is my husband, and he is standing in front of a window looking out, next to the couch which is scattered with colourful cushions and throws. The house gives a cosy vibrant feel.

He turns and greets me, but there is a somewhat complex expression on his face. I go up the stairs and the second level of the house is a large loft. There's a huge bed in the middle of the loft and the bedspread is dark grey. I can see a sleeping woman under the sheets so I pull the whole bedspread off and she is sprawled on her side completely naked, her golden hair fanned out like a halo on the pillows.

Without any intrinsic thought in the dream, I walk away from the woman, still sleeping. I go back down the stairs, slap my husband, and walk out the door. We appear to be living inside a terrace with some steps leading down to the street.

The next scene is at a wedding, full of people and noisy happiness. I am standing with a flute of champagne in hand, chatting with Anne. She is counselling me about the merits of leaving cheating husbands earlier rather than later, but I'm not really listening. There are so many people around that my brain is distracted by all the sounds.

I want to go home, but my dad has already left in a car with our neighbours. Anne and I run into Hsiang, who says he will give us a lift. We walk with him to the carpark and he has bought a brand new dark burgundy Land Rover, which looks like a spaceship amongst all the other little cars. All Hsiang's Ruse friends appear to be there, crammed into the car. There appears to be nowhere for us to sit, so he drives off with his friends and we still have no way to get home.

Then Anne decides to get a lift from her dad and I start walking home. Shortly after I leave the church I realise my phone has lost its sim card and is showing a DOS like screen. Unable to call anyone to come get me, I keep walking in the general direction of home, wherever that might be.

Soon I come to a tunnel and it looks like the railway tunnel just before one approaches Epping station from the north. Not being able to see any way to get around the tunnel, I plunge into the darkness, feeling my way along the wall which is damp and slightly slimy. Several trains roar past, almost clipping me, but I don't care because I feel so angry in the dream like it would not make any difference if I died (what have I to live for? a cheating husband? friends who have deserted me?)

At the other end of the tunnel I can see light, but before I get to the light I enter a large room full of discarded old chairs and toilet seats. The chairs look like they've been used in nursing homes and the toilets are scattered amongst the chairs as if the original occupants of the room had to get to the toilet very quickly.

A middle aged woman enters the room and says, you won't be able to get out that way, let me show you.

How old is this place? I ask the woman.
Never mind, my dear. She says. No matter what happens, in a hundred years time everyone will see you the same way as you see this place.

With that cryptic comment she disappears into the darkness and I am standing in front of a wall. Even with my eyes adjusted to the dark and the dim light that is afforded by the end of the tunnel maybe just 100m away, I can barely make out any features of the wall. Feeling with my hands, I can feel several notches in the wall close enough together to be footholds.

I start climbing up the footholds, and after a few they come to an abrupt end. So I'm standing with my feet wedged into this wall when I realise the wall is so slippery because it's covered in urine.

And then I wake up.

A glimpse of Wuhan

This time I was in China, I decided to go to Wuhan to visit my friend Liz who I'd met many years ago when she was living in Lhasa. We hadn't seen each other for 5 years since the last time we had travelled to Nepal together. So much has changed in our lives, yet at the same time so little, I guess we never really change as people even if our circumstances change.

What else to do in Wuhan but to eat? The weather was totally miserable - it had been fiendishly hot before I got there and I was "blessed" with a couple of overcast days dotted by rain. The sky was dishwater grey and the air thick like the inside of a dirty filter - if it wasn't for my friend I don't think I would have ever visited Wuhan.

Wuhan style shao mai, made using what tasted like wonton wrappers and filled with a spicy peppery mince which oozed out the sides as we ate, covering our fingers in sticky hot oil.

Strangely this is called dou pi or bean skin - my brain had imagined this to be some sort of tofu dish where it was maybe sliced up and mixed with something. Nothing like my imagination, it's actually cooked sticky rice mixed with a concotion of dried bamboo, preserved sausages and mince, the whole thing covered with a thin layer of fried egg. The man on full time dou pi duty fries the egg first, then spreads the rice and the savoury mix on top, then flips the whole thing over. Quite impressive how he keeps it all very neat.

As we walked around the city, I felt like I had to take a few obligatory tourist snaps, but I'm really bad at that. This is the first bridge over the Yangtze river, built by the Russians during the time when China was friendly with them. One can see how bad the air pollution is - the bridge appears to disappear into the mist and despite the fact the river is only a few hundred metres across, the other side is barely visible.

The city centre pedestrian street had a few random bronze statues, I thought this little kid was pretty cute.

At night we went to the most popular local chain, famous for its mini "lobsters". It was so popular that it had bought out several surrounding restaurants and despite all the original signs still being there advertising other random food, it all belonged to the same shop. 

 Sichuan-style rice vermicelli with a mouth numbing chilli paste and delicious roasted peanuts. 

Cold noodles, a local specialty mixed with sesame paste, vinegar and soy sauce. This was so tasty we ate another bowl after we finished the lobsters. And then got a maxi serving in a bucket for a midnight snack.

Mini lobsters - I don't actually know what these are, maybe crayfish? They must be really smart creatures because their brains were absolutely humongous and the bodies contained just a morsel of sweet flesh. We had ours pan fried with mouth numbing chilli paste, and I swear the sauce was sympathomimetic - I felt so high afterwards and was tachycardic for hours. 

Gloves - what a great idea! We went through several pairs. 

Rice noodles with fish broth. Small fish which are unsuitable for other types of cooking are cooked down to make a rich pungent fish stock, which is then served over fresh rice noodles. Tasted like you were slurping the inside of a fish.

My absolute highlight of Wuhan - re gan mian or hot dry noodles. Really simple wheat noodles (nothing fancy, nothing added), cooked and mixed with sesame paste, sesame oil, chilli and preserved vegetables. This is the most well known breakfast in Wuhan, and I can see why - in winter it's the perfect warmer, and in summer it's so hot it makes you sweat enough to cool down. The noodles are firmer than most other noodles I've eaten in China, and the strands are perfectly coated with the sticky sauce which really works despite a somewhat odd combination. Wuhan people love this dish so much that they make instant noodles of this particular dish, which I took home (and ate copiously in Cairns).

I can't remember the last time I saw soymilk in glass bottles! Reminiscent of my childhood.

Then it started pouring and we were stuck indoors with not much to do.. so we took out Liz's expensive violin and took turns playing it for a while. The Tchaikovsky concerto is a dream for us both, and it's such a beautiful piece no matter which little phrases one manages to squeeze out. Her dad also has an erhu which he plays well - it's a deceptively difficult instrument given it only has two strings and they are bloody close together.

Before I knew it my two days in Wuhan were over and I was back at the airport heading to Shanghai. I remember when we were younger, we both aspired to go to Africa to work. I wonder what's happened to our dreams now that we are older and more "established" in life. They are still there but somewhat buried under all the practicalities of life - can I dig mine out soon? I'm really, really ready for an adventure.

Recent dreams: war, Jamaican rastas, and a difficult intubation

War and famine

In this dream my family are living in a big Tudor style house, sitting atop a hill on a street corner. Standing outside the house, one is aware of both the grandeur of the house with its impeccably manicured gardens, and the openness of the surrounds with the breeze passing through.

Several people drop in to bring us food, and it seems that they are keen to share whatever they have with us. Most of the deliveries are small, a can of ham, half a kilo of rice.. grandma is the face of the family, graciously accepting these gifts and quietly encouraging everyone to keep going through the famine. I am acutely aware of the fact that we have very little to eat, and that we are very fortunate to have these people thinking about us.

Then, Namiko and her family come to visit and announce that they are leaving. Namiko's dad clutches my dad's hands tightly in his hands, and say farewell with such a solemn tone that we all wonder where they could be going. There is some mention of ethnic differences, and exclusion of Japanese families from the rations given out during the famine. They say they will hide with relatives until the war is over. We go outside to see them off and as they walk down the street (Namiko's little brothers appearing like they are primary school age!) my dad says that we should move too.

Soon a car comes to take us to our new home, but we must pretend that we are not moving because of someone who might be watching. We take small day bags with a few changes of clothes. When we get out of the car we are at a rundown hotel, with peeling walls and frayed carpets. We are shown to a tiny room where there is just one bed, and we go about organising the furniture so that we could have some extra space to sleep.

Suddenly someone knocks on the door. A man in a priest's robe, holding a clipboard is there along with several soldiers. Who is living here? He asks.

Just me. My dad says. The rest of my family are only visiting and will be returning to our home. 

The priest like man writes down my dad's name on the clipboard and says you do understand why you have come?

Yes. My dad says. Please let my family go, I am the only that will be NFR in this new world. 

Very well. The priest takes out a large bible from the folds of his robes and starts praying. The soldiers take out their guns but don't point them anywhere. I wonder what the purpose of CPR is in penetrating trauma. The priest continues to say his prayer and I am overwhelmed with a sense of foreboding, like when he finishes praying someone will be shot.

Please, my dad comes up to the priest and tugs at his robe, you may need to disable my pacemaker, or I won't die straight away...

Then I wake up.

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Jamaican with muddy boots

In this dream I am visiting my old friend Vivien's family, who I haven't seen for well over 10 years now, since I left high school. Her parents look much the same, and we are sitting in their living room which is a place I don't recognise.

The room is dark and there's a big window next to the front door which barely lets in any light. The carpets are dark grey, and the lounges are a tired shade of dark cream. Everything looks old and scruffy, almost as if it was a nursing home. Her parents look worn out, and though we are making polite conversation, I'm thinking about how I could take my leave without offence.

Suddenly her mum gets up and says, you should go and hide in the other room.

Why should I hide? I ask and instinctively look out the window. A sky blue VW Golf is approaching the house, but I can't quite see who is inside.

Vivien opens the door and comes into the house with half a dozen other people.

Oh it's too late now, I told you to hide. Vivien's mum says to me, sighs and sits back down on the couch.

Her friends appear to be Jamaican, and the one that is her boyfriend is like a Rasta with dreads and the characteristic beanie. They carry in a boombox and set it on the ground. Reggae blasts out and they start dancing.

Vivien's parents look away and pretend they are not there. I look at the Rasta's feet and see that he is wearing exceptionally muddy boots. As the music throbs, he dances around the living room leaving fresh mud prints everywhere.

With that striking image, I wake up.

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A difficult intubation
(I've had a terrible difficult airway week.. and hence lots of difficult intubation dreams.)

Umesh is trying to intubate someone, and Rehan and I are helping him. The dream starts in the middle of the intubation while he is undertaking laryngoscopy. Rehan holds in his hands a variety of gadgets and he doesn't seem to have anywhere to put them down.

Umesh finishes intubating the patient with a bougie and Rehan asks me to listen for air entry. I hear none and listen over the stomach, where there is a disturbing gurgle as he bags the patient. I tell him that he has intubated the oesophagus and he swears before taking out the tube.

We bag the patient and time passes extraordinarily slowly, just as it does in real life. With his second attempt, the exact same thing happens: scope - bougie - tube - oesophagus.

Rehan gets frustrated and tells Umesh he should take over, or else they should get someone else to come and do the intubation. Umesh is angry at Rehan and starts shouting at him to be quiet. Much like in real life, being such non-confrontational people as we are, we allow Umesh to have a third attempt. By this time I feel highly wired and like I'm about to explode.

He intubates the man for the third time, and as I look at the chest it appears to be moving somewhat better than the previous two attempts. I pick up the stethoscope and listen to the man's chest. Instead of hearing noises, I suddenly get a visual image as if I'm looking down a microscope - and the stethoscope appears to have turned into a microscope. I see red cells with trophoblastic ring forms, characteristic of falciparum malaria.

Then I wake up

Meetfresh turns into a banh mi shop, and the bone collector

Meetfresh turns into a banh mi shop

In this dream I am working in meetfresh, except it has turned into a banh mi shop. A handful of people stand along a long bench, resembling a conveyor belt churning out banh mi. One slices the bread, the next spreads pate and mayo, the next layers pork, the next vegetables, and then it's me with a big ladle of special brown sauce. The person to my right wraps it all up and puts it inside paper bags.

The shop is packed and the speed is furiously fast, I have maybe 20 seconds to ladle the sauce on and pass it on, or risk the next banh mi squashing into my work field prematurely.

Cat shows up and says, I thought we were supposed to meet here? Why are you working behind the counter?

I tell her to take a seat and I'll be ready soon. She seems really distressed though and I ask her why.

"Dan has been in the women's toilets since 5:50pm, I don't know what he's doing in there!" She cries.

"Well, what time is it now?" I ask her. She says it's 7pm and I wonder too, what Dan might be doing in the women's toilets for so long.

"Why don't you just go in and find him?" I ask.

"Because the door is locked! What could he be doing in there?" She is nearly hysterical.

At this point Justine shows up with a ridiculously large bottle of champagne.

"Here, have some champagne, it'll make you feel better." She says to Cat.

"Where did you get this champagne from?" I ask, whilst feeling a little stressed that I can't concentrate very well on my sauce pouring job.

"It's a 220 year old bottle, it's got to be really good." She says whilst wrestling with the cork. Despite her best efforts, the cork remains firmly in the bottle.

"Can you ask the lady at the head of the line for her knife? I think that should do the trick." She says to me.

I call down the line and the lady at the head stops everyone to give me the knife. The whole banh mi line is watching me as I stab the cork and get it out without a sound.

I wonder why there is no pop at all, and when I pour it out there are no bubbles. When it settles in cups it looks like milk tea.

I take a sip and it tastes like off milk tea. Gross!! I spit it out and wake up



A storm, and the bone collector

In this dream I am standing on a path with a large building in front of me. At the front it has about 10 storeys and the back has an annexe with about 5 storeys. The path is made of concrete, quite narrow at about a metre wide, and surrounded by barbed wire.

I realise that I'm walking with Ted. He says, "Are you sure this is the way to Building 1?"

I look around and there is only one building in sight. "That must be it, the back must just be an extension."

In any case there is only one path, and there are plenty of people scurrying along it. We hurry along too as we seem to be in a hurry.

Suddenly the sky darkens and a large cloud casts its shadow over us. It is so ominous that I instantly feel cold. I look up and the building is barely visible, and there are long dark shadows all around us.

"Hurry, we have to get in before it gets too dark." I say to Ted and we pick up the pace.

We overtake a few groups of people and then we come to a group of about five people. As we walk past them I am looking down at the ground and I see their legs and feet.

Suddenly I know I must stop, and I call out to Ted to stop, but it's too late and he has already gone up far ahead.

Only one pair of shoes is now in focus. It's a totally non descript pair of black leather loafers. I am overtaken by a sense of fear and don't want to look up. But eventually I do because I have to look up. And I look straight into M's eyes.

They look remarkably the same as they do in real life, but the rest of his face looks completely distorted. He is staring at me intently and I feel afraid.

I quickly push past him and catch up to Ted.

"What were you doing?" He asks me. "Don't you know that that's the bone collector?"

Then I wake up.

Food: April

Where did April go? It seems to have passed faster than any of the preceding months.

My favourite meal in April was not actually captured on photo - it was when Elaine brought over a huge slab of sashimi salmon and we sliced it up and ate it with some random vegetables for dinner. So simple but totally perfect, and the leftovers made a very nice midnight - lunch on night shift.

Another pre-night shift dinner. Pork shoulder slow cooked for 10 hours in stock / paprika / brown sugar / mustard / thyme / shallots. Don't ask me where Henry got the recipe, it was so ridiculously delicious I could have eaten 3 of these.

After nights, Grace and I tried to stay awake by going to Mad Spuds cafe in Surry Hills and ordering this stack. I can't even remember what was in it, but it was quite tasty, though I think one's taste buds are ruined after a week of being awake at night and eating toast.

Then we had a second breakfast at Lumiere cafe. I think these were ricotta hotcakes with mascarpone and berries.

Baked eggs with eggplant kasundi and housemade beans at Element 6 in West Ryde. It's pretty cool how this suburban suburb got its own dose of the inner west.

Vanilla slice, prettily presented on a board at some cafe in Top Ryde.

Ippudo has been all the hype in the food blogosphere, and I've been wanting to check it out for a while. However I already have several ramen dedications (particularly Ryo's and Gumshara) and wasn't really sure if I liked the idea of paying $20 for a bowl of ramen. This was the akamaru, a tonkotsu soup with a dollop of spicy miso which lights up the soup like magic when it's stirred in. It was good, but not super-duper good - the noodles are not as fresh tasting as Ryo's and the soup is not nearly as rich as Gumshara's.

The legendary pork roll was indeed legendary, melt in the mouth grilled pork sitting inside a cute little fluffy fold with a smear of mayo and a little lettuce. A couple of mouthfuls and one wonders why there isn't a bigger one! 

A weekday dinner with Barbz at Thyme Square, our local haunt. The rest of the dinner (salt & pepper squid, steak with chips) was highly edible but nothing special. The vanilla bean pannacotta was divine though, perfect wobble and nicely offset by passionfruit.

A coconut apple slice from Sideways in Dulwich Hill.

I've said it before, but pork rolls (this one from the Ashfield pork roll shop) will definitely feature on my last supper.

Soft shell crab salad from Thairiffic  in Newtown. This place dishes out Thai which is just a notch above the average Thai joint on King St, of which there appears to be dozens. This was just the right amount of sticky with a strong sweet chilli flavour.

Apple custard brioche and sultana milk bun from Bakerie in Gordon. This newly opened artisan sourdough is a welcome addition to the dull Gordon food scene. These pastries were delightful, and I took home a loaf of green olive sourdough which I could have eaten all in one go with some cheese!

Happy birthday Eve! For such a luridly coloured cake (well, it is a first birthday..), the inside was a lusciously moist marble swirl cake.

Bar Italia = pure nostalgia. I love their "no soy, no decaf, no skim, only milk" sign.

Well well, how could a month pass by without Korean Fried Chicken? The answer is, it never does. On our last visit to Naru One I found my favourite variant of KFC - shallot flavoured! It is so mind shatteringly crispy, and the inside so tender and juicy - I could happily eat this everyday until I die of a heart attack.

Cheeseburger from Cafe Giulia. I reckon they make the bestest burgers, which is why they are always packed.
 

Finally, I have finished the last of my Ethiopian coffee. I really enjoyed the last bag of Tomoca coffee I opened, for it was much darker and earthier than the other bags. Aside from the pre-requisite punch (after all, I drink it to be alert enough to go to work), I love how aromatic the coffee is and the way it makes me want to sniffle the air long after I've finished drinking. Till the next time I get to Tomoca!

Dream: lunch at a Korean monastery

I have forgotten the beginning of this dream, which involves Grace, Sim and a baby. Well those are the trigger words I'd written down but I can't remember what actually happened so I'll skip over that part.

The first part I remember is walking down a set of very steep wooden steps. The steps were so far apart and at such an acute angle that I had to hold on tightly to the railing. Despite being very careful I kept slipping and almost fell quite a few times. Looking down made me really vertiginous, it looked as if the steps were plunging into a great big hole.

I was aware of quite a few people around me, but I didn't pay much attention to them as I was so focused on getting down these steps. Suddenly the steps stopped and there was a small platform to the side. I was relieved to get off the steps and have a rest.

The people around me were pushing me forward though, and I walked to the other side of the platform, where I saw the beginning of a trail. I followed the trail which sloped gently up the side of a hill, and folding back upon itself, I could see the horror wooden steps which I had just climbed down. At one point I could see that the steps turned into stone steps cut into the side of the hill, and I wondered whether I should have kept going.

Suddenly I was distracted by an amazing vista which presented itself out of seemingly nowhere. There was a crystal blue lagoon with incredibly clear water filled with all sorts of tropical fish. I was a fair way above the lagoon but could still see all the schools of fish swimming around the lagoon. I knew immediately in my heart that I had to go down to this lagoon and see it up close.

But I couldn't because everyone around me was still pushing me forward. A little further up, I caught a glimpse of the horizon in the distance. It looked to be across the sea, and the skyline looked like that of Auckland's, with Auckland tower the recognisable feature.

Soon I came to a wooden monastery, and I knew I was in South Korea. As I entered the temple, I came across a woman in traditional Korean dress who was walking around the grounds sounding two chimes on an old brass bell.

I went into one of the large halls, where the walls and the floors seemed to be made of solid dark teak, giving a sombre atmosphere. There were lots of tables laden with food, so much food that I wondered how many people were coming to this meal. I walked to the other end of the hall where there was a queue for the next hall across.

"This is the toilet hall." Namiko appears out of nowhere. I am glad to see her and we discuss plans to go back to our house so we can change our bags to something more comfortable. I realise that I am carrying on one shoulder a white drawstring swimming bag, which has straps so long that the bag is almost dangling at my knees.

I wander around wondering if I should eat first or join the toilet queue first. I decide to go to the toilet hall but when I get there, everyone seems to have gone. When I turn around, there are now hundreds of people in the eating hall, cramming their mouths full of food. The toilet hall is covered in thousands of muddy footprints, and I suddenly realise that there are no shoes on my feet.

Feeling somewhat disgusted at having to go into the toilet without shoes, I start to pick my way amongst the little gross puddles everywhere. All the time my eyes stray back to the eating hall where everyone seems to be having such a great time, laughing and chatting. I feel bitter that I'm stuck inside the toilet hall.

Then the lady with the brass bell comes around and sounds three chimes. The lunch hour is over and I wake up.

On a good death

So much of what we learn in medical school is about diagnosis and treatment - we learn about all these conditions so that we can recognise and fix them. When we become junior doctors we put into practice what we learn, and our ability to execute the essential "core" of medicine - diagnosis and treatment - improves.

But what about death? We learnt almost nothing about it at medical school. There was never any teaching about what happens when people die, and it was barely talked about outside the context of statistics "one in three people will die within 5 years..."  As junior doctors we are often called to certify people dead, or at times take part in people's deaths, whether they be emergency deaths or planned deaths. I don't know what it's like for other people, but those experiences for me were rather surreal. I didn't feel like I was an active participant, rather just watching the evolution of what happens to these patients.

Sometimes it felt like someone would turn a magic switch when the direction of treatment changed from active to palliative. It was go go go with all the tests and treatments, until someone said enough, let's stop. Then everyone would hold their breath while they waited for the patient to die, and it was sort of horrible. Death is horrible by nature, worsened by the pain suffered by the dying person and the anguish of those surviving. It was an uncomfortable experience.

At some point in my career, and I'm not sure exactly when that was, I realised that there was actually quite a lot we could do about death. One does not have to hold still, do nothing and wait for "nature to take its course", though of course it is difficult to change nature's course. Talking about death, early and copiously with people involved, demystifies the process and helps people to cope because they have some idea of what is to come. Death is bad enough without having to deal with the shock of the raw physical challenges of it. Being aware of all the common problems associated with death makes one better equipped to deal with them as a doctor, and being pro-active about the management of these problems actually makes a difference to the patient and their family. Even when hope is lost for the preservation of life, one can facilitate some closure for the family when the circumstances of the death are peaceful.

Finally, when there is nothing "doctorly" to do, spending time with the patient and family may be what makes more of a difference than any treatments. We may not always "care" in the traditional sense of caring for a loved one, but I believe we have a fundamental sense of "care" as human beings.

I am triggered to think about this as I've had a couple of memorable deaths this week. One was a middle aged man who had a terrible complication of the stroke treatment he had, leading to a massive bleed in the brain which made him unconscious. The other was a young woman who was dying of cancer on her birthday. In both cases I felt that time spent with the patient and family were cathartic for me and for them. I think innately we act in some way towards people because we want to be treated the same way when we are in the same situation. The humanistic qualities of a doctor are so very under-emphasised because they cannot be taught, but they are so essential. Not only do we need to provide good diagnosis and treatment, a fundamental part of our job is to provide a good death.