My white coat and me

The long-sleeved white coat has been a symbol of the medical profession for more than a century. The doctor’s white coat is a white lab coat is worn over the shirt. White coats confer a special status and sets doctors apart from other professions. It is also seen as a way of giving credibility to the profession.

I become self-conscious when I am walking around the hospital corridors in my white coat. Eyes become fixed on people in white coats, from the patients to the cleaners. Conduct is very important and I try not to laugh too loud at my friend’s hilarious jokes in case patients start to think I am kooky. Patients in this country still expect their doctors to act and dress in a certain manner. That is why doctors here still have to dress in shirts and tie in a hot, humid weather. Moreover, doctors have to be prim, proper (no spiky hair) and serious. Getting all these right (the dressing and serious disposition) will earn patient’s trust. There millions of patients in a crowded hospital and all eyes ready to pounce on a shabbily dressed and ‘too hip’ doctor while waiting impatiently for their turn to see the doctor inside the consultation room.

Months ago, I remember walking past a row of seated patients and they whispered to each other, “This doctor looked so young, he must be a student or trainee doctor.” That wasn’t a good comment, because their comment reflected that I was young, inexperienced and may not be good enough to treat them.

There are many stories about doctors, their white coat and the law. Some used it to escape a speeding ticket by the traffic policemen with the excuse that they were rushing for an emergency in the hospital. Some even carry a small bag or pint of expired blood inside their car. Some doctors come up with ingenious ways to avoid summons.

I see the white coat as a symbol of power that brings a lot of good is used correctly and responsibly, besides protecting my nice shirt from blood and body fluids in the wards. When a patient dies in the middle of the night, the hospital silent and eerie, wearing the white coat gives a sense of duty and security, removing the fear of having to deal with a dead body.

One fine morning, I was busy running between the orthopaedics ward and clinic juggling my duties. Orthopaedics (bone) is a major (important) department in Malaysia compared to other countries because we have a high rate of accidents here. I saw a middle-age, small built lady in her wheelchair. She was very independent and was maneuvering the wheelchair on her own. As the clinic ended around late noon, I noticed her leaving the clinic. I offered to help and asked her if she came with someone. She was alone but informed me that she was capable handling herself. I respected that and let her be. I always offer help but will step back depending on situation and offer help again when they really need it. Sometimes, it’s better to let patients do things that they are able to perform on their own. Their disability sets them back but letting them do certain things themselves gives them a sense of confidence.

I bumped into this feisty wheelchair-bound lady again at the entrance. This time, she looked a little distressed.

Little Dove: Waiting for your transportation home?

Feisty wheelchair lady: No. I am waiting for taxi. It’s not easy to get one.

There were a long line of taxis at the taxi stand front of the hospital.

Little dove: There are so many taxis here. You need help?

Feisty wheelchair lady: It’s okay. There are many taxis but they hardly want to ferry passengers like me. It’s not that they are unkind. Taxis have NGV tanks in the car boot and most of them are not able to fit my wheelchair. That’s why I get refused most of the time.

Little Dove: *understands the situation now* Where are you staying?

Feisty wheelchair lady: Kampung Baru.

Still in my white coat, I flagged a taxi, and with my sweetest smile, asked the taxi driver if he could send her back. He looked hesitant and I smiled some more. He agreed and I quickly pushed feisty wheelchair lady to the taxi before he changed his mind. She declined my help to carry her into the taxi. With the little amount of strength left in her legs and using her arm power, she pushed herself into the taxi’s backseat. Boy, she was strong. I folded her wheelchair and saw the taxi driver quickly running to help me. The taxi driver was helpful and respectful to me. We managed to fit the wheelchair into the NGV tank-ocuppied car boot of the Proton Iswara taxi. I wonder if having a white coat on me made things easier. Or was it my kiddy smile.

Feisty wheelchair lady: Thank you doc!

She smiled in gratitude and waved goodbye as the taxi sped off. I waved back and smiled, not because I did a good deed of the day, but for the lesson she taught me, in this classroom called life.