Exceprt 7: First Day As A Surgeon in Malaysia

Excerpt 7:  First Day As A Surgeon In Malaysia

Tan Sri Majid had earlier reminded me in very clear terms that as head of the new Third Surgical Unit at GHKL my duties were purely and exclusively clinical. Even though that was a university unit I would have no formal teaching responsibilities. I was under the ministry, not the university; a civil servant, not a professor. My job was to relieve those academics so they would now have, in the DG’s own words, “no more excuses of their clinical load interfering with their academic duties.”

            Like most young doctors trained at university centers I had always aspired to be an academic and had planned my training accordingly, as with taking a year off for formal research, as well as publishing papers. So I was more than happy to be associated with UKM, to be with medical students and young surgical trainees despite not having a formal academic appointment.

            That Monday morning as I drove to the hospital for the first time, the thing that struck me as I was driving over Cheras Hill was the thick grimy smog hovering over the city so early in the morning. I would be spending all day breathing that dirty air! The only saving grace was that it helped block the otherwise penetrating tropical sun.

            GHKL was a huge grey five-story cement building, with a striking exterior of honeycomb cement louvers and wide overhangs to shade against the blistering Malaysian sun and torrential downpours. The complex was H-shaped (for hospital?) with the bridge-bar connecting the two wings being functioning wards. Adjacent and just before you reach the hospital was the contrasting and equally new Maternity Hospital with a completely different and equally striking exterior of a net-appearing cement façade.

            Inside I later discovered that the louvers and the deep fenestrations did their work for the wards were cool with only the fans on, and breezy. The ingenious exterior design also spared the building from the blight of many tropical structures – discolorations from molds.

            I was told that right after independence, Prime Minister Tunku Abdul Rahman had an international competition to build both GHKL and the proposed University of Malaya Medical Center. GHKL’s design by Wells and Joyce, Architects, put a premium on form and function, as well as low maintenance, reflecting the Brutalist architectural movement of the era. I was also told that the corridors were wide so they could be converted into makeshift wards during times of mass casualties, as during the race riots of 1969.

            I went straight to the Department of Surgery to see its head, only to be told that he was in the ICU with an acute asthmatic attack. The earlier sight of the dirty cloud reminded me that the poor soul would have it tough. I did not feel right to bother him. His secretary did not know who was in charge now that he was incapacitated.

            I headed to the wards and on arriving saw the nurses and doctors busy on their rounds. The bareness of the ward, with its about fifty patients, reminded me of the Veterans Hospital in Edmonton where I had done some rotations. A senior nurse in her crisp white cotton uniform and wide flat headgear broke from the group to greet me. She introduced herself as Sister Fong, the title meaning, “Charge Nurse.” After I introduced myself as the Unit’s new head she replied, “Oh, good! Now we have somebody in charge!”

            She introduced me to the group. I told them to ignore me and pretend that it was the previous day. That was easier said than executed. My presence was distracting if not disruptive even though I remained silent in the back. They were forever looking to me for approval or reassurance, a pack of puppies unsure whether to be eager or wary of their new trainer. After a few minutes, I excused myself on the pretext of attending to some administrative details. The relief on both sides was palpable, and welcomed.

            A medical officer, Dr. Zulkiflee Laidin, showed me around. Zul knew his civil service protocol well. Before I knew it, I was in the ICU meeting Datuk Menon. He apologized for not being able to show me around and that yes, the DG had phoned him earlier about me. Seeing that he had difficulty breathing even through his oxygen mask let alone engage in a conversation, I soon excused myself and assured him that I would find my way around with Zul’s help. Poor Menon, he looked like a mudfish caught in a receding tide.

            Next stop was administration. The Director was away and his deputy was in charge. He was surprised to see me but quickly recovered, adding that my unit, being the university’s, was not under his jurisdiction. Amidst the pleasantries, more to hide his embarrassment at not knowing of my arrival, he asked where I was from. After I replied Sri Menanti, Negri Sembilan, he added more as a statement, “You, member of royal family?”

            He must have thought that I was a rebel prince (what with my disheveled hair and nondescript casual attire) who had dispensed with his fancy feudal royal part to his name. There was a famous Raja Musa from my neck of the woods in Sri Menanti.

            The morning went by fast, yet I had not achieved anything. Nearing lunch time, I asked Zul where to go. Most of the consultants went home, he told me. I was not about to make the long trek back to Cheras in my father’s un-air-conditioned Ford Escort. Instead I tagged along with him to the hospital cafeteria to join the junior house and medical officers.

            It was obvious that my presence was a damper on their gathering. I tried to start a conversation, but to every query came monosyllable answers.

            Then an old classmate from my Kuala Pilah and Kuala Kangsar days, Ramli Ujang, came over to join us. Even though we were classmates and thus graduated from medical school at about the same time, Ramli’s career took a detour for a few years in the army. Ramli was thus still a medical officer, in dermatology.

            His familiarity and informality with me broke the ice. Soon we were in animated discussions on Canadian medical education and specialty training, as well as life in Canada generally.

            Lunch time was (still is) a long affair in Malaysian officialdom, from 12 to 2 PM. Many went home for lunch or had it at the hospital cafeteria and then sneaked in a short siesta. Towards the end of our discussion the cafeteria was empty but for us.

            Ramli and I retreated to my new office, two old friends making up for lost time.

Next:  Excerpt #8:  A Much Needed Reorganization

From the author’s second memoir, The Son Has Not Returned.A Surgeon In His Native Malaysia(2018).