Saturday was vet day. Jill was booked in to have her vaccinations and a check-up at the vet. So that was all fine, no probs there. Except, the vet looked a bit puzzled. I couldnt quite place my finger on it. Maybe we werent following proper etiquette when taking your cat to the vet. Was the cat carrier not the right kind? Was the vet looking at us and thinking, “These people dont even deserve to have a cat, look at the horrible way in which they have caged the cat in the carrier!”. Maybe we werent stroking Jill the right way. I was puzzled. So was the Moth.

Anyway, the cause of the vet’s puzzlement soon became clear. She enlightened us when she said, Jill is an odd name for a boy. Uh Oh. Turns out that Jill is a boy. His former owner had assured us that he was a girl, but apparently, according to the vet, it can be hard to tell on little kitties. Oh well. Thats not a problem, a boy cat is just as cheeky as a girl cat. Therefore, the Moth and I, highly original and imaginative people that we are, renamed him Jack. Yeah yeah, I know, might be a bit corny. But you got to cut us some slack, we were in shock.

Anyways, now we are back home with Jack. And now things are so much more clear. It makes much more sense that Jack is fairly aggressive and hyperactive for a cat his size. He responds to being called Jack a lot more readily than he ever did to being called Jill. Oh well. Mistake made and learnt from. Bring on the next hurdle!

Amidst the growing mood of making changes in my life, I decided to hand in my resignation today. So I wrote an email, with the mandatory 4 week notice period, and sent it off. Do I have another job lined up? Nope. Am I taking up a new profession? Nope. Have I lost my mind? Dont think so…

But I had decided that I have had enough of being dissatisfied, under-paid and over-taxed. Well, to be honest, I should have quit work a long time ago. But I guess starting this current job, where I am ACTUALLY only a typist, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I dont do any medical work, I dont enjoy being at work, and I felt like I am just wasting my time. So I quit

So now, my grand plan is to count down the days of my four remaining weeks. Then, I am a free agent. Then I am going to do real work, and be paid real money, of what the job is actually worth. I am going to be A LOCUM (gasp!). Unfortunately, I have descended into that deep, dark, immoral world of being a full time locum. And maybe somewhere between being a glorified typist and handing over half my paycheck to help people who dont deserve it, I lost my morals and high ideals somewhere. I am beyond caring. One year of working in the public health system has made me very cynical. Keeping someone in an inpatient psychiatric unit for two weeks just so you could sort out their benefit and government accomodation, just to see them go out and spend their entire benefit on their poison of choice….and then come back into hospital coz they have now fried their brain….Well, I am sorry, but I am over it. Completely over it. If the powers that be have to money to waste on such people, they can afford to pay me twice what I make right now. RMO shortage be damned! I dont care if I am being selfish.

…having a pet could be so much fun? The Man Of The House (MOTH) and I went and got ourselves a little 8 week old kitten over the weekend. To be honest, I dont know why we did it. We were at a garage sale, and were talking to this lady there, whose cat had just had kittens. She was saying how she was going to go to the pet shop after the garage sale and give away the kittens. Almost without a thought, I turned to the Moth and asked him how he would feel about having a kitten. And he, as always, kept his promise of never saying no to me. So I agreed to take one of the lady’s kittens the next day.

So the next day, the Moth and I went shopping for the new kitty before we went to pick her up. We bought her a basket, and food bowl, and a litter tray. Some toys to play with. Two different kinds of catfood. A collar with a nice tinkly bell. With all this safely loaded in the car, we went to pick her up. When we got there, the lady took one peek at the back seat of the car and exclaimed “Ooh! This is going to be one spoiled cat!”.

Nevertheless, we got her home, and set her up in her basket. We decided to call her Jill. She looks like a Jill. The Moth picked the name. Initially, the poor darling was so scared and skittish, she wouldnt even go near the food bowl if either the Moth or I were anywhere in sight. She would sit by the glass doors and mewl pitifully all day long. It almost broke my heart to hear her doing that.

But over the next few days, she got used to her new house and her new flatmates. Now, less than a week into her stay, she clearly owns the place. And she owns her so-called owners. When I came to work that first day, all I could think about was that Jill was ok, and not too lonely. The Moth and I rushed home from work to see her. We sat and played with her all evening. She is the cutest little fur-ball. And now that she has got over her initial apprehension, she is the cheekiest little fur-ball too. One cant help but love her. She has taken a new liking to climbing on the couches, and then hanging off them with her claws. So fearing for the wellbeing of our couches, I have started taking her off the couch and putting her on the floor everytime I see her do that. I figured, with perseverance, she will learn not to do that. But boy! she is one step smarter than me. The moment I put her down and turn my back to go back to whatever I was doing, she is back on the couch before you can say “Jill!”. One day, I caught her in the act of doing just that, on her way to the couch, and then she stopped and looked at me with such a cheeky look on her face, I didnt know whether I should be angry at her or laugh and stroke her!

I suppose in a way, having a pet is a lot like having a kid. The Moth has taken to referring to me as “Psycho Mum” everytime I talk about when to get Jill vaccinated, or what kind of cat-food she prefers, etc. But I saw the Moth doing the most amazing thing for her the other day. He was watching Animal Planet, and Jill was playing with her toys in front of the TV. However, the moment a lion came on the screen and roared, Jill went skittling under the bed, which is where she retreats to when she is scared. The Moth, realising that the lion had probably scared her, promptly changed the channel and then went to coax her out from under the bed. I was simply amazed. I am yet to earn the priviledge of having the Moth switch off Animal Planet for me even after two years. And here she is, less than a week into their aquaintance. and he is changing channels for her without her even asking!

Its fun having a third person in the house. She is a constant source of entertainment, both for herself and for the Moth and I. We spend hours watching her play with her toys, and dont get bored. She is loving, and affectionate beyond what I expected. Last night, as the Moth and I were laying on the couch and watching TV, Jill came and spread herself all over us, and promptly went to sleep. She refuses to sleep in her beautiful cat basket lined with sheepskin, but she will come and sleep on us, and refuse to budge. The implied love and affection made my heart swell with happiness. I cant believe I missed out for all these years.

Yes, finally, I have discovered the wonder that is Facebook. This thing is amazing!! I can spend hours on it, and not realise it. And I thought Orkut was cool….

Lately, I have found myself sneakily logging on to Facebook when I am supposed to be doing discharge summaries. Just for a quick peak. My favourite application? Scrabulous. My only problem is, people dont play fast enough….However, this is closely followed by Zombies. I love that application. I never really had an army before. But now, I have an army of 4 zombies. Makes me feel, Oh! So powerful. And get this, Facebook tells me that I make a hot zombie. Hot and powerful, thats one heady combination!

Needless to say, I am addicted to it….

I had decided a long time ago that I had no desire whatsoever to live to be of a ripe old age. Ever since I first did a rotation in a geriatric ward, my mind was made up. That whole ward was full of people, who once used to be persons, but not anymore. Now they were degraded, deprived, and diminished versions of their former self. These were people who had led such full and amazing lives, who were now reduced to something so terrible. They had no dignity left, they had to depend on someone else to feed them, bathe them, everything. They had no free will left. No thank you, I never want to be like them. I would rather shoot myself in the head than be like that.

But today, I met the exception to the rule. I guess there are a fair few people like the lady I met today. Call her Mrs O. 96 years old. Came in to hospital coz she couldnt walk anymore. Reason? The most horribly arthritic looking hip every seen on x-ray. A few other complicating factors thrown in like an abdominal aneurysm, couple of other previous operations with complications afterwards, previous polio affecting her right leg, bilateral severe carpal tunnel preventing her from using her hands too much. In other words a fairly typical, crumbly 96 year old.

That was Mrs O on paper. Mrs O in person was someone completely different. Abandoned by her parents when she was one year old, she somehow survived by begging from pillar to post, doing whatever she could to stay alive. One day, when she was 6, she chanced upon the doorstep of a great aunt, who had no children of her own, who took her in and treated her like her own daughter. Then came the end of the first world war, and with it the black plague. She almost died with that, but I guess it wasnt her time. Got married when she was 17, and went to live on this 2000 acre farm that was 20 km from the nearest town. There, as a young bride, she cooked daily for the 15 people who worked on the farm, and never saw another woman until two years later. Had three children, and has already buried two of them. Her son died 3 weeks shy of his 19th birthday, daughter died at age 56 with cancer. Mrs O got polio in 1973, and it damn near crippled her right leg.

That was Mrs O the person. Mrs O the personality was yet another surprise. Sitting in bed, putting make-up on with her carpal-tunnelled hands. She looked about 70, maybe. Then, wig in place, she proceeds to show me the letter the Queen of England wrote her. Turns out Mrs O is quite a poet, and wrote a poem for the Queen on her birthday. As articulate with words as she is dextrous with her make-up. Then she got up to walk, because I needed to assess her mobility. And I have to confess, I have never been so impressed with anyone else’s walk like I was impressed with hers. Having seen her hip, and knowing her crippling polio, its a wonder she could even stand up. But that wasnt the end of it. She walks as fast as her leg will allow her, with her little walking frame. Gets to the end of the corridor, turns around and walks back towards me, and says, Can I tell you a joke to entertain you while ur watching me walk? And then proceeds to tell me a joke about a man who is dying. Despite the morbid subject, I gotta admit it was funny.

96. With a body that has passed its “use by” date. But a mind that came with a lifelong warranty. And it has been a long life. A long feisty life. I still dont think I would ever want to live that long, but if by some misfortune, I had to, I wish I can be half of what she is.