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I was sitting on my chair in front of the computer assigned for me at the Office two days ago, doing nothing but looking over some Pathoma lectures. Surprisingly, not many people were eager to donate blood, not that I complain or anything. And those who did come to donate were kindly rejected either for a reason that they admitted in their patient histories which contradicted to the requirements for being a donor, or because they looked simply unhealthy. "It's probably about the weather changes" I said, and kept listening to my lovely Pathoma.
My initial intention was to write about my last nightshift, but since I have no material for it, I want to talk about a lesson that I learned from the former one: "Don't judge a patient by the outfit. At least try to avoid prejudice".
They were seven new graduate police officers, probably the oldest one being in his early 20s. I was talking to my fiancé who came to visit me during my nightshift, and suddenly I saw the shadows of six rifles held by huge male figures on the floor. I lifted my face to see who the shadows belonged to, and then I cried the F word (in Turkish). My fiancé joined me swiftly.
One of them came close to me and called out a name: "F.K".
"Sorry? Who is that?" I asked with a vibrating noise.
"We want to donate blood for the guy".
A few seconds, maybe minutes passed by, and I could only then find enough courage to answer him:
"Aw, ok. Please fill in the forms first. You'll find them right behind you".
He nodded to me peacefully, and did what I said, just like the rest of them.
We started accepting them into the chairs we use for the donation process. One of them threw up even at the check up phase in which we look through their hemogram values to figure whether they're fit for being a donor or not. Another managed to make it to the donation chair, only to pass out while the needle was being placed onto his cubital fossa.
After they were all done, they wished for a good nightshift for all of us, put on their uniforms back (with their huge guns of course) and took the exit door, again peacefully.
"A 55 year old man with a huge belly lied on this chair and actually did complete the whole process..." said one of the nurses ironically.
"I guess blood donation and holding a rifle don't go hand in hand" I said without making any gestures. One of the police officers agreed with a smiling face.
My fiancé, who witnessed the whole scene while sitting on the chair next to my computer, stared at me, fallen into a trance, and said the real shocking sentence: "I guess I'll sign up for the army". (background information: signing up for the army for a designated time period is a national service that must be done by all the Turkish citizens who happen to be male. Not so feminist, I know...)
"WHAT?"
...and he did.
Now he's trying to get as many information as possible about being in the army, the not-so-fancy food they're given, the crowded dormitories that were designed for 50 people but are being used by hundreds of many other soldiers, the disciplined exercise regime they're put into etc.; of course he's questioning what he's done with every new information.
Another lesson learned from my fiancé: "Don't get carried away so quickly."
I am a 25 year-old Turkish graduate from medical school.
My special interests follow as: reading medical articles, writing (currently indulged in 3 other personal blogs, one being a foodie-blog, the other ones serving as open diaries), playing violin and spending time with my little budgie.
