My feet ached. My energy ached more. Gatvol is that not-so-pleasant (eek) Afrikaans word that describes me. We are just pushing along this 24hours.
I do a zombie walk to the gynae ward at 3am, and scrutinize the files through the light of the passage. The patients' groans don't strike me as anything strange - most woman in this rotation are groaning anyway. As I scan the drs notes, the pt whispers "bietjie water asseblief" (some water please).
The gatvolness in me flares up - in retrospect unnecessarily so - my thoughts race... this is not my job, does anyone know how tired I am... I'm not a Sister, speaking of which where are them Sisters? Uff, sleeping as usual. If I have to walk around handing pts water I will never learn what I'm supposed... there's not even any cups in sight...
Wait a min.
A parable of primary Madrasah comes back to me through my zombieness - 'that sinner-lady of long ago was granted Jannah (heaven) when she gave the thirsty dog water, using her shoe as a cup.'
I shook my sleepy head, severely rebuking myself for allowing my frustration get the better of my humanity. Of me, being Muslim.
Everything around me suddenly took the shape of a possible water-holding utensil.
I thanked Allah, glad that thoughts were not counted as deeds. It still bothers me as to why I was thinking of myself as not worthy of handing out water. As a Dr once told me - its time for a career change if patient care is no longer the most important.
May all my evil thoughts be highlighted so I can stop them in time.