Weekend in Murrurundi

J and I both felt like we needed to have a break from our lives, so we set out for a long weekend in the sleepy depths of August. We wanted to go to Barrington tops, but some twist of fate led us to Murrurundi..

Setting out one sunny morning, we stopped in Newcastle for lunch at the excellent One Penny Black. This place was so hipster that there wasn't even a sign outside!

Top: Beetroot, roast pumpkin and quinoa salad.
Bottom: Roasted field mushrooms, leek & chive hash brown, a couple of perfectly poached eggs and goat cheese on sourdough.

After such a virtuous healthy lunch, I thought we could have chips for dinner! Before that we had to pop into Doughheads for a chocolate smores doughnut.

Driving up north, we planned to stop in Morpeth for some sourdough. Alas the store had just closed, and we ended up wandering into the teapot festival instead. What an incredible selection of teapots! We happened to be there on one of the three annual days set aside for tea drinking, and J acquired a beautiful Japanese sakura-patterned teapot.

When we got back into the car, we had a real fright when we put Murrurundi into the GPS and saw that it would be another 2 hours. The sun dipped low, burnt brilliant orange, and eventually went to sleep behind the horizon.

It was dark after Muswellbrook, and when finally managed to find our accommodation, we were completely floored by the incredible starry sky.

We went out to the White Hart Hotel, apparently the place to have dinner in town. A wedding was on, and plenty of guests were jolly drunk. A live music band came to play, and they weren't half bad. I asked if any of the handful of carnivorous menu could be made vegetarian, and the lady replied she could take the chicken out of the pasta.

Hence I was served pasta with bacon and mushrooms... Evidently bacon is not real meat!

The next day we woke to heavy clouds in the valley, which soon turned into rain. We visited the geriatric horse Rumba in her paddock before retreating inside to a rustic breakfast of homemade bread and a selection of preserves. I particularly adored the ginger jam, and the cute Turkish saucers.

Rumba

We drank tea and played the antique piano, which was a fascinating experience. The piano was in reasonable tune, but everything was shifted one tone down. Playing something in E major shifted it to D.. C became B flat etc. If I closed my eyes and relied on muscle memory, or if I looked at my hands very closely, I could play just as usual and experience the music in a completely different light. However, the auditory dissonance became unbearable if I tried to match my fingers to the music.. Tchaikovsky's October in C minor? June in F minor? Chopin's A minor waltz in G minor? It was like eating all my favourite dishes in a different flavour. Incredible.

So many horsies!

We got distracted by this baby cow which was on a paddock with a herd of horses. The thunder and lightning were causing the horses to behave somewhat erratically, but they stood around the calf and seemed to be protecting it. The dairy cows on the other side of the fence didn't seem to pay any attention to a baby of its own kind at all, so we wondered if that farm had bought just a cow.. or whether its mother had come to ill health.

By the time we got to town, it was pouring. In fact, the rain timing itself with any time we went walking became a recurrent theme. We poked around the pink house shop with all sorts of interesting knickknacks, including over 3000 salt & pepper shaker sets. The man who owns the shop travelled all over Oz with his wife before settling down in Murrurundi - they had a map of Australia covered in black squiggles detailing their route, a true sight of envy!

Then we sat down to have a lazy long lunch at Telegraph Cafe, and were surprised by how tasty the food was.

Top: Baked camembert with walnuts, figs and honey. Perfectly gooey, the sweetness balanced the richness of the cheese.
Left: Eggplant ragu on a bed of polenta. More goats cheese!
Right: Chocolate cherry pot, with a sprig of wildflowers from the garden.

Inside Cafe Telegraph 

These buildings were incredibly old - the telegraph office was over 100 years old, and the white hart has been there for 150 years. Everywhere we went in Murrurundi, we met interesting people - lots of seachangers, grey nomads, people with stories to tell.

Random images of town

Michael Reid gallery

The Michael Reid gallery had a lush garden full of flowers and vine leaves. Inside was an exhibition of pencil print animals with strangely disturbing black dots signifying their blood(?) and slaughter. Outside a cuddly brown lab wandered the puddles and we marvelled at how such a place can be.. well, in the middle of nowhere.

Sunday dinner at the White Hart was even more quiet. The barman explained that pasta & pizza night on Sundays comes from the busy trade of the weekend leaving the pub with relatively few ingredients before the next week's delivery. Now that's the stuff us city folk never even think of. On our way to dinner, we managed to get bogged down in the grass as it had rained so much. Never felt like such city girls before!

Rain is different in the country. One can hear it approaching even before you feel the raindrops, like the sound of a wave. Raindrops on the tin roof of the shed were almost musical. After the rain came a brilliant patch of sunshine, which saw us squelching outside in the mud to take some glorious photos of the shed.

We stopped in Scone on our way home for lunch at the super popular Kerv Cafe.

Though the corn fritters were too doughy, the frittata was perfectly light and wobbly. Then it was a long rainy drive home, and our weekend getaway seemed so quick all of a sudden.

Finally, a few more photos from Gilly's amazing shed.

She has lovingly restored Runnymeade as a residence, and completely renovated the shed into a B&B style accommodation. The shed is decorated with a quirky collection of eclectic finds, and it feels like one has walked straight into a treasure trove (or an antique shop!)

Of course my favourite piece was the 115yo Berlin piano, complete with candlestick holders.. just imagine how that piano started life..

Aaboll cafe, Merrylands

I was delighted to read about Aaboll cafe, an Ethiopian eatery that opened in Merrylands just over a year ago. Sadly Sydney hasn't had a real Ethiopian place until now (there is a place run by a Somali-Ethiopian guy with a Swahili name.. one can make up one's own mind about that!), and I'm so excited to find that the flavours are authentic.

The shopfront is unpretentious, with a black easily overlookable sign . From the outside, it looks like every other bog-standard cafe with a coffee machine and a selection of cookies & muffins. When we got there mid-afternoon on a Saturday, there were lots of Ethiopian people lounging around drinking coffee and chatting - a good sign!

Entry through a little doorway leads to the backroom decked out in a huge mural. All around are Ethiopian knick-knacks like traditional servingware, scarves and paintings. It felt like my living room when I first got back from Ethiopia with all my souvenirs scattered around!

The owner comes from Addis and tells us that they had been thinking about opening up an Ethiopian place for some time, to serve the original flavours. His wife is a good cook, and they found this affordable prime-time spot in Merrylands. As they say, the rest is history! He was delighted when we told him about our Ethiopian trip and even more so when we showed him some of our photos.

The regular fasting days in the Ethiopian orthodox calendar mean that the cuisine is well accustomed to vegetarians. The beyanetu (selection) is probably the best way to try out all the different flavours. I would challenge any carnivore to appreciate the differences in the way the legumes are cooked in Ethiopian cuisine - the variety of flavours is just incredible. From left there is cabbage, collard greens, yellow lentils, green lentils, red lentils, vegetable curry, and down the bottom shiro (chickpea puree). How I missed shiro.. the buttery gloop that I ate with so much injera all over Ethiopia. I demolished it all.

My friend had the doro wat (chicken curry) which was served with a little dish of cheese and a hard boiled egg. The mildly spicy sauce with berbere was perfection, just like in Ethiopia. The injera here is made from millet & rice flour (teff apparently is very expensive to import), still fermented to give the characteristic flavour and aroma. It is a bit more filling than the usual injera, a very good substitution indeed.

I'm busy telling all my friends to visit because I would love for this place to stay open for a long time. I also can't wait to return for breakfast where they have traditional goodies like chechebsa and injera firfir!

Dream: no water in Venice

In this dream I am flying into an European city, and I have my violin with me. I know instinctively that I am there to play as part of an orchestra. Momentarily I wonder what my position is and what pieces we will play, but soon I am distracted by getting off the plane.

Emerging from the plane, the landscape reveals no clues and I still have no idea where I am. I am travelling with a man who has a cello, and we get into a taxi with our instruments. The taxi driver doesn't speak English, but drives through many narrow streets before we finally emerge at a canal. We are in Venice! I think to myself, what a beautiful place to play music.

We get out of the taxi and into a gondola. The gondolier is extravagantly dressed, as if he is part of some show, but the gondola itself is old with peeling paint. I am sceptical about taking our instruments onto the gondola, but seems like we have no choice. The gondolier pushes away from the side of the canal, and we are smoothly gliding down it.

I soon realise that we are all alone and there are no other gondolas around. We emerge from the small canal into a much larger one, but still there are no signs of people on gondolas. On the ground though, people walk about just like in any other place.

I turn to the man I am with and ask him if he has been here before. Sure, he says, but it was much busier last time. As we turn a corner, I see that the water is sloping in the canal, such that only half of the canal is covered with water. We travel further and I start seeing people walking in the canals, and I wonder where all the water in Venice has gone. Here I was worrying about our instruments getting ruined, there's hardly any water to row our gondola in!

The gondolier points out a structure in the distance, a grand majestic hotel. A few hundred metres from it, we hit a sandbank and the gondola abruptly stops in the middle of the canal. The gondolier jumps out and kicks the gondola violently, sending our instruments half into the air. Watch it!! The man calls out loudly. The gondolier throws up his hands and gestures for us to get out of the gondola.

We start walking down the canal, lugging our instruments. The violin is remarkably easy to carry, I thought to myself, whereas the man seemed to really struggle with his bag and his cello. We arrive at the lobby of the hotel, a beautiful place with a huge chandelier over the entrance. We join the line to the reception desk, and recognise some other people with instruments.

As we reach the front, I see a tall middle aged woman wearing a heavy winter coat, her hair carefully set in curls. She is holding some sort of woodwind instrument (?a clarinet), and is gesturing wildly at the check-in clerk, speaking some unrecognisable language. Next to her is a teenage boy with a sullen expression, his clothes untidy and his fingernails grimy, holding a large brass case (?a tuba). The boy looks away as the woman raises her voice even more, and the clerk looks at me for help. I approach the woman and ask her what the trouble is.

They don't have any more rooms! She shouts. They put me in the same room as this little stinky boy! The boy looks embarrassed and stares intently at his feet.

I am a lady! How am I supposed to sleep in the same room as a little boy? She snarls at the clerk, who murmurs apologetic words.

Why don't we swap so my friend here can stay with the boy, and I can share a room with you? I offer to her, gesturing to the man I am with. After all, we are part of the same orchestra.

She smiles at me widely and says, that would be wonderful, thank you so much.

The man looks quite cross now. He leans over and says something in my ear, which I can't quite catch. He says it again, and I still don't understand him.

Then I wake up. 

Broken

Can a human being be irretrievably broken?

From a physical perspective, doctors often talk about the point of no return. Regardless of the original pathology or the timeline of disease progression, there is usually some intangible point at which one stands before the very reality of death. This is the very last point where medical intervention may save life. Going beyond it is like being on an escalator to heaven with no stop points to get off.

What about psychological brokenness? I have often wondered how patients came to be so terribly broken. Stories of abuse, maltreatment and horrible relationships are incredibly heartbreaking, and it never fails to amaze me how human beings can hurt each other so much. Some people get into a rut, an endless cycle of self hatred and harm, followed by some completely unrelated intervention (an ICU stay, anyone?), some other random "treatments" and then back to it. Some people spend their entire lives on psychotropic medications, trying to "control" their mental illness which is a manifestation of all the problems they have had in their lives. A few manage to escape the cycle and lead a seemingly normal life, but how normal are they really? How can one heal from being battered and bruised? Is there a threshold beyond which it is not possible to heal again?

It's like a vase that has been broken into a thousand pieces. With some sort of roadmap, one can try to put the pieces together. External help like counselling, loved ones, and (maybe) drugs can behave like glue that allows you to stick the pieces together. It takes a numbingly long time. The end result is infinitely more fragile than the original thing, and it is never ever the same. Can it still function? maybe, in the rare occasions that people manage the impossible feat of putting it back into a normal shape. Otherwise you live with a pile of broken pieces for the rest of your life... 

Dream: the end of Ramadan

I had this dream on the night of Eid.

I am married to an older man who has quite an angry disposition. He never speaks during the whole dream, but his dark mood is evident from his body language and deeply knitted eyebrows. The angry man and I live in a large house, which has a front door not dissimilar to the house where I grew up. Inside there are lots of empty rooms with scattered bits of furniture, like they have been forgotten there long ago. The whole house feels dusty and repressive, as if it needs a really good airing-out.

In the morning the angry man leaves to go to work and I stay at home alone. Before he leaves, he hangs a black flag with a split down the middle on the front door, which looks like those curtains hanging in front of onsens in Japan. After he gets home, the first thing he does is paint a white stripe along the split, carefully making sure the white paint is even on both sides. The next morning he takes the old flag down and a new all-black one is placed on the door. I don't understand the significance of the flag, but it seems like some sort of ominous warning against venturing outside.

One day, the angry man comes home with a young girl. She looks 14, maybe 15, with an air of shy innocence. Her head is covered in a beautifully embroidered blue headscarf, and intricate henna graces both her hands. She wears a long black abaya which looks exactly like what I am wearing, but I have no way to see my own headscarf because there are no mirrors in the house.

The angry man doesn't talk to her or to me. We all sleep in separate rooms and the next day he leaves for work as usual, hanging the black curtain in front of the house. The young girl lies on an ottoman in the living room and weeps incessantly. She says she was forcibly taken from her parents' house and arranged to become this angry man's second wife. She cries about being abandoned by all her loved ones, and protests that she would rather die than marry this man. Somehow she knows that the date of the impending consummation of the marriage is the end of Ramadan, and she pleads with me to help her.

We talk about how much time we have, and neither of us know where we are up to in the month of Ramadan. We are completely helpless as we have no one to reach out to. Days go past in the musty house, the angry man going to work and coming home to paint the white stripe on the black flag. Until one morning, he does not remove the old flag but instead leaves it there and goes to work.

We stand at the front door, seeing the sun stream through the part in the black flag with the white stripe. The paint is rough and speckles are shining in the sun. It must be today, I say to the young girl, today must be the end of Ramadan. She suddenly mentions how she had a lover prior to coming to the musty house. A lover? I stare at her and wonder. She is but a child, how could she have a lover?

We huddle around the phone and call him. An older man picks up the phone, and I have palpitations so bad I thought my heart was going to stop. We speak in some code that I can no longer remember, something like, have you forgotten your baklava? it must be picked up at this address today. Then we wait by the front door, with the flag billowing in the wind.

The sun has crossed the middle of the sky, and we know it is after midday. Time is running out, and the girl resumes crying on the ottoman. I sit, squinting into the horizon, hoping that someone will come to rescue this little girl from her fate.

Then a man shows up in a big dark car with tinted windows, and the girl runs towards him. He is incredibly old, maybe in his late 70s, and the contrast is stark when she falls into his arms. I feel violently ill as I look at the man - he has an evil glint in his eyes that is far worse than the sheer whiteness of the anger in the angry man's eyes. She gets into his car, urging him to leave quickly. They pull out of the driveway but she jumps out of the car and runs back towards me.

You must come with us, she clutches my hands and pleads. When he finds out I am gone, he will kill you.

I realise that what she is saying is utterly true, and I am frozen with fear. My mind is totally blank as I look around to see if there is some solution to this. I see some car keys and wonder how it can be possible that the angry man went to work without his car keys. I take them and run to the garage, and his car is parked right there. It seems impossible, but I jump in the car immediately and drive away, not even bothering to close the garage door. The girl had told me that we will meet in Brisbane, so I switch on the GPS system and enter Brisbane into the destination.

Some moments later, I realise that this whole thing must be a trap. He must have left his car there so that he could find me, exactly where I go. I am driving along some road with mindless radio music blaring when I realise this, and a cold sweat runs down my back.

Then I wake up. 

Dream: a skiing disaster

This dream starts in a non descript carpark where I am trying to park the car. It's quite dark and I'm parking in between two poles. As I inch forward I hear a sickening screech and realise that I've scratched the left side of the car. I reverse the car slightly and inch forward again. Another horrible noise comes from the right side of the car and I realise with a horrible feeling in my stomach that I have scratched both sides.

I feel irritated and resolve not to look at the damage when I get out of the car. what's the point of looking anyway? I tell myself. What's done is done.

I get out and walk quickly to the lift. I can't remember what level I choose but I emerge into a bright airy space full of windows. Outside is a busy ski field and I seem to be standing in the ski house.

I look down and see myself wearing summer clothes. Unable to go outside, I go towards a tunnel towards the side which is also lined with large windows.

I look out at the people skiing, chatting and laughing. There are lots of families there with little kids everywhere. I look up and see planes in the distance - it's eerily quiet in the tunnel and I can't hear anything of the outside world.

I watch the planes as they come closer as if to land nearby. They descend closer and it seems as if they are going to plow into the ski field. There are several planes of different sizes and the smallest of them, a 6 seater, seems closest to the ground. 

Everyone seems oblivious to this. I move to another window to see if I can get a clearer view of the planes' descent. Then I see a large mahogany desk in the middle of the tunnel. Nothing is on the desk aside from a bronze plaque labeled "Jason Chapman, Daily Mail". 

I realise with a start that very soon there will be a disaster and Jason is going to cover the story. How do I stop the plane from crashing into the people?

I panic and wake up.

Ramadan diaries

The idea for Ramadan

I was at a dinner party with some interesting people who had done aid work in developing countries. A few of them remarked upon how difficult the month of Ramadan is, with everyone being tired and hungry, and worst of all, people getting ill from fasting. Imagine working in the Middle East when Ramadan is during the height of summer – people working outdoors would rapidly become dehydrated and some would pass out.

So, my friend and I thought we would do Ramadan this year to experience what Ramadan is like for the millions of Muslim who partake in it all around the world. She pulled out though as she was writing her thesis, but I thought I would give it a go.

Day 1 – June 18

Breakfast:        Sticky rice, 7-11 coffee

Iftar:                Hospital omelette, peas & corn; cheesecake

Dinner:            A large chunk of sourdough

                       Dark chocolate gelato from Gelato Massi

                       Leftovers with rice

In the intervening weeks, I had forgotten about Ramadan entirely. I got up on this day as on any other day, had a quick bite of some leftover sticky rice and got on the bus to go to St V’s. Along the way I read my messages and my friend asked if this was the beginning of fasting. Had to postpone my Hugonettes crepes plans and quickly grabbed a coffee before I got on the bus. The sun was rising and Central station was painted a hazy purple that morning as I sculled my coffee and got ready for a day of fasting.

It wasn’t too hard given I was distracted with grandma related activities for most of the day. The hardest time was when she was eating and I couldn’t eat with her. The hunger was the greatest from 11am (when I usually have elevensies) to 1pm. After that the hunger faded and I just felt an intense thirst.

I broke the day’s fast with some tap water from the ward kitchen. Water never tasted so sweet before – so refreshing! I wolfed down some of my grandma’s unwanted hospital food, even the bland omelette and overboiled peas & corn tasted amazing.

Once home, I felt like I was binging as I walked around the kitchen and saw so many things I wanted to eat. I ate some bread and gelato before dinner, and realized I’d consumed in 2 hours at least double what I would normally have for dinner. I told myself that I would get used to the fasting, and that tomorrow it would be easier.

  

Day 2 – June 19

Breakfast:                    Leftovers with rice

Iftar:                            PB & banana on toast, half a papaya

Dinner:                        Palsaik Korean BBQ – Kimchi jigae, pajeon

       Late night Chat Thai dessert – dough sticks with pandan, salty coconut soup with random balls    

This was the first day of my week of work and I felt pretty good in the morning. It was a sodden day and I stood in the rain waiting for the bus, feeling like it would maybe be a good day.

I was busy enough not to feel too distracted. Again I was hungry from 11 to 1, but afterwards just felt thirsty. Around 3pm I felt pretty hypoglycaemic and lethargic, people asking me questions was difficult and my mental performance was definitely not optimal. It wasn’t too bad though as it wasn’t a busy day at work.

Breaking the fast felt surreal. Every food related sensation was heightened – the bread was extra crunchy, the papaya silky soft. Afterwards I felt manic and like I was bouncing off the walls. I think the sugar rush must have signaled to my brain “do this again! I like this!” I had a great evening out with my uni friends and barely felt tired even though it was way past my bedtime. It felt like a strange reversal of the usual diurnal variation, as if I’d spent the day hibernating and woke up for the night time.

Day 3 – June 20

Breakfast:                    Spaghetti, Shelley’s cheesecake on toast

Iftar:                            PB & banana on toast, half a papaya

Dinner:                        PappaRich Chatswood – roti canai, veg biryani with veg “mutton”

                                   Lid & Jar for chai

Without realizing it, I carb loaded myself for the day by consuming so much carbs for breakfast. I always loved cheesecake, and having it on toast was an extra treat. Though I’d only slept for a few hours as I had a big night out, I felt great in the morning.

I really struggled in the afternoon though. In the late afternoon I saw an unwell patient and as I was thinking through the clinical problems, it felt like my brain had just left the building. Then I started talking to the patient’s wife, and engrossed in the conversation, didn’t realize it was sundown. At 5:30pm I sat down to break the fast with the same food as the day before, but I didn’t feel so elated because of a terrible headache. Vincent said I shouldn’t take aspirin because it could be a subarach, but I took some anyway and the headache eventually faded.

I had dinner with Chats at Papparich and I was a bit delirious when I arrived. There was a sign outside Papparich celebrating Ramadan and somehow I thought they had a separate Ramadan menu. Never mind, the curries that came with my roti canai were tasty and I enjoyed the veg biryani. We talked about everything and anything, but I distinctly recall discussing how people present themselves to the outside world – do we set ourselves unrealistic expectations because we are comparing one side (the worst) of ourselves to a different side (the best) of others?

Day 4 – June 21

Breakfast:                    Spaghetti, Shelley’s cheesecake on toast

Iftar:                            Avocado on toast, an apple

Dinner:                         E’s birthday cake

Dinner at home with dad

I had a pretty groggy start to the morning, having being on call and woken up several times. At an hour I would usually be sitting down to coffee, I was in ED seeing a really sick patient, and the day gradually unraveled from there.

I felt less powerful than I usually am. Physically I didn’t feel as strong and I just didn’t feel like doing anything. It’s not like I thought about food much, and people eating certainly didn’t bother me. But perhaps usually in our workdays, our time to eat and drink is also our downtime, so I didn’t have as much downtime as I usually would have.

I went to visit grandma after work, and felt really tired by then. As usual I had laid out the music I planned to play that night, but I only managed a couple of mazurkas and the last three Chopin nocturnes before I felt buggered and went to bed early.

Day 5 – June 22

Breakfast:                    Oats

Iftar:                            Avocado on toast, an apple

Dinner:                         Lunchbox by dad, miso soup

I left early to get to work, but obviously not early enough. I sat in traffic wondering why I live in Sydney, and also wondering what the future holds. I thought about where I would be in ten years time, but I just could not picture myself there.

It was Monday so the registrar and consultant changed over. The mood notably changed, but I was not my usual self. Maybe with all the ups and downs of the weeks following my grandma’s broken hip, I was even more melancholic than usual. My mouth felt dry and parched by mid morning, and I wondered how I would get through the day. John barely eats but that somehow exaggerated my lack of eating. Around lunchtime I sat with the others in the tearoom but when someone came in to ask for something, I volunteered to go back to the unit. Maybe I missed eating as much as I missed having a proper break? I resolved to sit in the office for a while, but I never got there.

There aren’t really any windows in the ICU, so it’s hard to know when the light is fading. At ten to five I went to fetch my bag of snacks so I could get ready to break the fast, and I felt really lightheaded by then. I thought about how hard it must be for patients to fast for surgery (and then have it cancelled and have to do it all over again!)

Day 6 – June 23

Breakfast:                    Noodles

Iftar:                            Sandwiches and sushi from grand rounds

Dinner:                        Cabbage poriyal and a boiled egg with rice

The on call was again quite taxing, and after one of the early morning calls I decided to get up to eat. I looked in the bathroom mirror and felt like my face was all red and dry. Was this somehow related to fasting? I resolved to take some lip balm to work (which I was later accused of eating during fasting).

I decided to have noodles for breakfast, and as I was cooking them the phone rang again and as I was talking to him I was faced with a most odd decision – do I go to work and intubate the patient (and fast till sundown) or do I eat my noodles? I ate them as quickly as I could, and suffered from chilli reflux for the rest of the morning.

Post on call days are always hard as you struggle with sleep deprivation and the need to keep everything spinning. At least my team was good this week in distracting me from fasting, though they teased me endlessly about it. At grand rounds I saved some sandwiches for breaking the fast, and they tasted extra good at sundown. I felt mildly euphoric afterwards and even felt like cooking when I got home.

Day 7 – June 24

Breakfast:                    Noodles

Iftar:                            Avocado on toast, kiwi fruit and mandarin

Dinner:                         Lunchbox by dad

I had noodles again for breakfast but added less chilli this time and had more time to eat it, so no more reflux. In the afternoon I had to put a central line in and I felt extra lightheaded whilst scrubbed up. I struggled to keep my hand steady and couldn’t feed the wire onto the line. My physical performance was clearly subpar. I wondered how doctors who are fasting in Muslim countries do complex things like place central lines or perform surgery – are they exempt because they actually have to concentrate for patient safety?

Afterwards I couldn’t get the plastic drape off the patient, and I became extra annoyed by the drape. Upon reflection, my degree of annoyance was way over what it usually would have been. I had a major rant and then went around asking everyone what they thought about the drapes – the degree to which I took it was just plain silly. I got into a heated discussion about it with my boss whom I love, and afterwards felt so stupid about the whole thing. Did it really spiral out of control because of my hypoglycaemic crankiness? I felt ashamed of my own lack of self control and stupidity. As others have pointed out before, my frontal lobe doesn’t work on the best of days, but it was extra bad with fasting.

Day 8 – June 25

Breakfast:                    Lunchbox by dad

Iftar:                            Avocado on toast, banana and mandarin

Dinner:                         Four Frogs: Spinach, feta, mushroom and avocado galette; nutella strawberry crepes and lemon curd crepes

Another bad night on call. After a few calls I decided to get up and go to the hospital just before 5am. It was a dream run, hardly any cars on the road at the time. As the patient got wheeled off to theatre, I sat down to eat my breakfast, but didn’t drink enough water so was extra extra thirsty for the rest of the day.

Hungry, thirsty, tired – not a good combination.

A sick patient arrived in the afternoon and I felt like I was floating off somewhere. As the “senior” person I was asked to place the central line quickly, but I really struggled, and had to have a second stick. I knew I was under-performing as it’s been a very long time since I had to do a second stick in such a straight forward case. I felt like I was sick, maybe even worse than if I was sick. I woke up a little bit in the cold of the cath lab, and then the rest of the day just blurred by. We went out for team dinner and the food took ages to come, but I felt more or less re-energised by then as I had eaten and drunk at iftar. I was so tired by the time I left the hospital that I was scanning my apartment keys and wondering why the hospital carpark gate wouldn’t open. By the time I got home it was after 11pm and I collapsed into bed.

 Mmmmmm... crepes

Day 9 – June 26

Breaking of the fast:               Cabbage curry and eggplant pickle with roti

When I opened my eyes, I knew from the light that it was day time and I missed the time to eat. I thought I could maybe spend the whole day sleeping, but alas, my brain was already awake. After talking on the phone for an hour, the thirst felt unbearable. This is what people on fluid restrictions have to experience every day? There was a glass of water next to my bed and it was calling to me.

I sat up and looked at the glass. It looked back at me, full of precious clear hydrating fluid. I took a sip and it tasted sweet like nectar. I gulped the rest down and felt my cells de-wrinkle a little bit. I got out of bed and drank another glass. 

Then I made breakfast and enjoyed every bite. Then I had a cup of coffee and thought, this might be a good end to my Ramadan.

Final thoughts

Ramadan was challenging. Without having the cultural and religious context, fasting from sunrise to sunset was pretty hard and I got sick of explaining to everyone why I was doing it. Most people thought I was crazy, but a fair few were interested in my quest and some shared stories of being in Muslim countries during Ramadan. As a non-Muslim, it has given me some empathy to those who are fasting – it is physically and mentally tough for them to get through the day, especially when all their friends and colleagues are carrying on all the usual activities. It must also be awful to be a hungry patient, surrounded by others eating but unable to take anything by mouth.

Finally, virtual thanks to all the people that saw me though the days of fasting. I apologise for the crankiness.