Tag Archives: career

Listen to Granddad

My grandad by everyone’s standards is a legend. He has seen and done so much in his lifetime and he continues to do so today at the age of 85. Look him up. Ahmed Joda is his name. I won’t bother to write about his many achievements because so many have done so over his many years of service. I want to write about the man beneath it all. My grandad who I call Baba. We all do, his children and grandchildren alike. Because before I realised what other people thought of him, through my young eyes, all I saw was an ‘old’ man who was my mama’s dear father. My only grandfather. The patriarch of the family who was also the main father figure in my life.

The first thing we all know about Baba is that he is a stickler for punctuality. Now this might not sound significant to you but coming from Nigeria, it so is. Have you ever heard of the concept ‘African time’? Did you know ‘Nigerian time’ constitutes even worse ‘lateness’? So a Nigerian who is always on time is as rare as hen’s teeth. His most precious possession is his watch. He looks at it every few minutes even when he has absolutely nothing to do. It’s like a nervous tick. And God forbid he forgets his watch at home, he will drive us all mad asking for the time every 5 minutes.

When Baba asks you to meet at 5pm, at 5:01pm he will be on the phone asking where you are if you are not there. If you make plans to go somewhere with him, be sure to get there on time because I kid you not, if you are more than a couple of minutes late, he will go without you. Whoever you are and wherever you were meant to go with him. I think I wrote a blog about how he invited his friend from Abuja to come to Yola (9 hour road trip) to join us all on a trip to Gembu (6 hour road trip). We waited for 20 minutes and despite the fact that it was 6am and we would get there by lunchtime, he declined to wait and left without them. Lord knows what they went through to find Gembu because Nigerian roads outside of Abuja and Lagos are poorly signposted especially places like Gembu and they didn’t turn up until the next morning! We in the immediate family are no strangers to his bark of ‘come on!’ which when I was little used to make me cry because it sounded so scary. Over time, I have learnt not to react so emotionally to it but still, when that bark comes because we are more than a minute late to leave for some engagement, my heart skips a beat.

I once asked Baba why being punctual was so important even when no one else (Nigerian) cared and why we had to be the first ones at every event. He explained and although I cannot remember exactly how he phrased it, the message is reflected in the following quote:

‘Know the true value of time; snatch, seize, and enjoy every moment of it. No idleness, no delay, no procrastination; never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.’

Lord Chesterfield

He certainly lives by that rule and as I have said before, he has achieved more than most people would in 3 or 4 lifetimes. Perhaps he is still going so strong at 85 because he is mindful of seizing every moment he has been blessed with. I certainly want to emulate that when I grow up.

So many things I love about Baba but one of them is easily how much he has empowered us all to speak our minds. He has never been of the school that children should be seen and not heard. From a very early age, he would ask our opinions on topics most adults would never broach with children and he would give your answer his undivided attention and take it on board. Many years later, he would repeat your words to you especially if you had learnt from experience that things were not black and white and he would invite you to explain why the change in opinion. This means that in the Joda household, we are all prolific debaters and will put across our arguments without fair of censure as long as we were being honest. Active debate is encourage actively and even the youngest gets heard as long as they want to contribute. I think what keeps Baba so young at heart and full of zest is that he surrounds himself with the young and he sees life through our eyes. That way, his ideas are always in date and he can converse about whatever you choose to discuss.

Somehow, Baba never asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up until I was 13 years old. I brought the topic up because when I was choosing my optional subjects for SS1, my mother expressed surprise that I didn’t want to do Economics. My response was one of surprise too because although I was good with figures and mathematics, I was always more into my science than finance. Turns out Baba thought I would make a great economist. Next time we sat around the dining table, I asked him why he thought I would make a great economist. I can’t remember his reasons but I promptly told him I was going to be a doctor and that there was no way economics would even feature in any options I would take for a career path. He expressed his disappointment that that was the path I had chosen but of course it was up to me. I was going to be the first doctor in the Joda lineage and thought he would appreciate my individuality.

It wasn’t until I was qualified and he sought my opinion on some of his medications that I felt he was proud of the career path I have chosen. So was I right not to listen to Baba? I thought so until the recent NHS upheaval which might mean me changing career tracks this late in the game. He is almost always right my grandad after all. Maybe what he foresaw was that being an economist would be a better quality of life for the grand-daughter who was feisty and named after his beloved wife. Perhaps he knew that my hard work and talents would not shine the brightest as a doctor. Perhaps he even predicted that I would end up working in the NHS whose main shortcoming is its poor economics. Who knows? As of now, I think I chose the right profession. I knew I wanted to be a doctor before I even know what a doctor really does. I love the job itself now, more than I ever thought I would. However, the politics of the NHS now means I am questioning whether my love for the job justifies my continuing on in the career when it means me risking my health, my social wellbeing and happiness and giving up so many of my dreams. Watch this space!

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Being a Paediatrician

I knew I wanted to be a doctor when I was about 4 years old. I can’t explain now how I came to that conclusion or why I was so sure. I just knew and now I am a doctor. In my 2nd or 3rd year of medical school, as part of career guidance we were given a link to a website where we could input our data and get a psychometric analysis done on us. I had to answer a series of questions about how I felt about certain things, my beliefs, my principles, how I solved problems. Eventually, I answered the numerous questions and it took a minute or 2 to load. Then it gave me the list of medical specialities ranked according to the ones I am most suited. Pathology and neurophysiology came last as I would have expected but I was taken aback by the top 3 choices. It said: Paediatrics, Palliative Care and Neonatology. I poo-pooed the test and dismissed it. When I went into medical school, one thing I was certain of was that I loved children and I never wanted to see them sick and suffering. Therefore I sort of ruled out paediatrics very early on. Back then I thought I might end up being in Obs & Gynae (obstetrics and gynaecology) because it was a good mix of medicine and surgery and I thought the variety and acuteness would suit me. I also thought I could be a GP because it retained the versatility of all of medicine without having to make a choice.

During my Obs & Gynae posting as a medical student, I found that although it was interesting the speciality did not set my pulse a-racing. There was no eureka moment. The specialists were nice but I didn’t feel any kinship with them. My paediatrics was my last medical school posting and the moment I stepped into the Children’s Hospital (BCH), I felt an excitement. Even though most of it went over my head and there seemed to be a lot of calculations and there was the issue of small people who were not well, I felt right at home. Over the 6 week placement, I grew to love BCH. I loved the patients, the child-friendly wards with their play areas, the kindness of the nurses and most especially, here were doctors I wanted to be like. Who I enjoyed spending my time with. Who seemed to derive pleasure from their work even as they were rushed off their feet with the number of patients. By the end of that placement, the career puzzle for me was solved. I was going to be a paediatrician. And to my surprise, the patients I loved spending time the most with were the little premature babies born with complex problems needing surgery to survive.

As an FY1 (first year after graduation from medical school), I met a patient in her 30s who had inoperable incurable ovarian cancer. We bonded as I tried hard to get some blood out of her for some tests her consultant had ordered. When the ordeal was over, I thanked her for being patient and she called me back to say she thought I had a way about me that would be perfect for palliative care. She said she didn’t know if I already had my career mapped out but that I should think about going down the Palliative care route. I thanked her for her kind words and left in a reflective mood. Despite my psychometric prediction, I had never given it much thought. I considered it over the next few days and concluded that although I was a listener and when it came to my patients very patient (unlike in my personal life then), I wasn’t sure I could handle all the emotions that are linked with patients who are dying. So I filed the idea away under ‘unlikely’ and didn’t give it any more thought until just recently.

Earlier this year, I stumbled across an online course on paediatric palliative care and signed up to it. As I worked through the course modules, I realised that I was into all the issues that were being raised and although a lot of it was challenging, it was exactly the kind of challenge I relished. A lot of it was to do with talking about options and choices. About spirituality and counselling. About co-ordinating care. About letting the dying patient and their relatives dictate the terms about how these last days/weeks/months should be handled. I realised that palliative care is not just about the advanced care pathway which outlines what to do when death is imminent but also about actively keeping the patient well enough to reach certain goals. It is about enabling the patient to die in a way that is most acceptable to them. It is about being there for the patient and their family so that when things become scary or unexpected, there is a comforting presence to guide them through the darkest hours/days. So I have come full circle and now I know that I would like to sub-specialise in paediatric palliative care. I wish I knew where my Obs & Gynae patient was so I could share the news. I wonder if she is still alive today.

I love being a paediatrician by the way. If I don’t end up sub-specialising, I would happily be a general paediatrician. There is a different vibe on a paediatric ward or in a paediatric hospital like BCH. There is a friendliness that is missing in adult medicine. People seem to go out of their way more to be helpful in the paediatric world. Nurses do not seem to be as difficult or as disconnected as they can be in adult medicine. The paint on the walls is brighter happier colours. There are toys, music and games everywhere you go. The best bit about my job is the children. It is such a privilege to work with kids. They are amazing little packages, mostly untainted by the negativities that come with growing up. They come out with the best statements and questions that make you stop and think or laugh until your belly hurts. Their bravery is comparable to none and watching them as they struggle with illness and develop ways of coping is inspiring.

Of course paediatrics is a complex speciality by its very nature. Our patients are often too young to tell us how they feel and exactly what their symptoms are so we have to be more observant than our adult counterparts and we have to go on what other’s (parents/carers) impressions are more than the patient’s own words. Many do not understand why they feel poorly. They just know that they are not happy and they want it to be fixed. Parents are often not at their best when they meet us because they are anxious and stressed about their sick child and are frustrated because they have no solution to put them out of their misery. So yes, it is often the most difficult part of the job having to face irate upset parents who want to find someone to blame for their helplessness. Who want to take out their frustrations on someone else and make demands because it makes them feel they are doing something…anything. Sometimes, these parents do cross the line of anxious and stressed parents to parents who are abusive (mostly verbally but occasionally physically). Unfortunately, it comes with the job but we deal with it in our own way. Usually by being patient and reasoning with but where necessary we call on services to support and protect us. Luckily, these horrible encounters are not an everyday occurrence.

I have so many examples of the beautiful little people I have come across in my job but I will tell you about a recent one. I was on-call over a weekend and covering the haematology ward (haematology deals with diseases involving the blood cells). A 2½ year old boy with severe haemophilia B came in with bruising which meant he needed an injection of factor IX (the bit of blood he doesn’t make enough of which is essential to prevent you bleeding without much force). It was my job to treat him so with his parents and a fellow doctor assisting, we held him still and I injected the medicine into his vein. He cried as I did it and when it was done (it only took a minute), his parents prompted him to say thank you. Through his tears, he turned to me and said ‘thank you’. Then as I tidied up, they got their things together to leave and he waved and said to me ‘bye lady’. With no resentment. Despite the fact that I had just poked him with a needle for reasons he was too young to understand. I thought wow! Only a child would be as forgiving as that. The momentary feeling of guilt for making the gorgeous little boy cry passed with that exchange and off I went, to do more things to other children which might make them cry in the short term but looking at the bigger picture, everything I do is in their best interests so when I go home and I go to sleep, I feel happy and satisfied. And thankful for another day where I have done all I could to make another child’s life that bit better.

Judge Me Not

Yo teach, I’m fed up with this shit!

Judge me not by the color of my skin,

This olive complexion given by genes.

Hate me not for my accent,

Trying to hide it for your pleasure.

 

My grades reflect MY knowledge!

Don’t give me that

“Cause you were taught in a white school” shit.

What you know?

Ma stayed up with me studying,

You gave up,

Saying I’ll never make it.

 

Now I’m laughing. 

Six years later and I’m graduating,

Heading off to college,

While your rich and privileged dropped out. 

Y’all could’ve believed in me,

But you refused.

So later fool, I’m out.

Off to better places and higher goals.

 

The poem above is entitled JUDGE ME NOT BY THE COLOR OF MY SKIN by NANASEVEN432 (accessed on http://www.powerpoetry.org/poems/judge-me-not-color-my-skin). It says so much about what it is to have skin that is not white in a majority white country. Britain is much more inclusive than America judging by what is said in the media. Yet, the first thing I am judged by generally is the colour of my skin.

I moved to London aged 14 and I can tell you far from rejoicing when my mama told me we were moving to England, I was very sad for many months. I did not want to be the new girl at my new school and I certainly did not want to leave my friends. I was afraid of what it would be like to be the foreigner. I was not excited about the prospect of cold winters or being away from the extended family. Little did I realise that as soon as I stepped off the plane, I would lose my identity and join the nameless mass of ‘black people’. That I would be held responsible for every bad thing any black person has ever done or will do in the future. That I would be judged even before I open my mouth and speak.

When I went for career’s advice in secondary school, I told the lady that I was going to be a doctor. I believe I was the first person from my school in Tottenham to become a doctor (I might be wrong but my teachers say so) so you can imagine this careers advisor’s expression. She took a minute to compose herself and said you need to consider other options like physiotherapy or nursing (these are probably more attainable for the black population). I was like I am pretty sure that is what I want to be. Another white tutor at College met with me to give me advice on UCAS applications and cautioned me against applying for just medicine (UCAS allows you to apply for 4 medical schools only which usually means prospective medical students apply for physiotherapy or medical science or pharmacy in the last 2 UCAS slots as backup). Well, I told him, I will take my chances. I don’t want to be a physio or anything else. I saw the lack of belief in his face but I smiled anyway, thanked him for his advice and left.

I went to Dubai with my sister 7 years ago and during that trip, we went on a dune surfing excursion. We were placed in a 4×4 with a couple of Russians who were rather un-exposed. When we got out to stand on top of the highest dune and admire the breath-taking sight, one of the young Russians stood beside us and said ‘You are exotic’. My sister was bemused by it and I was just a bit ‘ehn?’ Exotic meaning what? Strange like an exotic bird or fish that is rarely seen? Non-European like exotic fruits from Africa, Asia and South America? Non-white? Personally I was put off. It didn’t end there. There was a whole group of Chinese tourists in the other 4x4s in our convoy. When we got to the campsite and were sitting around, eating and watching the belly dancer do her thing, a Chinese young woman timidly came up to my sister whilst I was off fetching a drink and asked if she could take a photo of her. My sister said yes. I watched with surprise from where I was and as I walked back, a group of Chinese people descended to my sister’s side and posed for pictures with her. Like some sort of statue. I stood sternly to the side, daring any of them to want to include me in their craziness. I think the expression on my face spoke volumes because no one bothered me.

This was repeated a couple of years ago in India whilst I was travelling with a bunch of people. We were in Delhi at one of the largest grand old mosques up on a hill where you could see much of the city. I was hanging out with an 18 year old Aussie as pretty as a flower, let’s call her Audrey. She looked like the much talked about English rose and the Indians visiting the site thought she looked like Princess Diana. As we sat in the shade, tired from the walking and the heat, a father approached us with his daughter. He motioned to Audrey and mimed taking a photo. She shrugged in acquiescence and the girl sat next to Audrey whilst her father took a photo. This emboldened another father nearby who without a word, strode over to Audrey and dumped his baby in her lap then walked away to take a photo. A queue quickly formed and poor Audrey was trapped in a photo-taking frenzy. I watched from the side lines as she went from not minding being used to being embarrassed and feeling harassed. She went redder and redder and eventually extricated herself from her fans. Later I asked how she felt and she said ‘trapped’.

Over the years, I have got bored by the question of ‘where are you from?’ From fellow black people, I realise that the question is normally a way of finding common ground but in general, I feel it is a way of reminding me that I am a foreigner here. Unfortunately for those who don’t like us foreigners, I was born a British citizen (by virtue of my mum being a Londoner by birth) so this is my home too. I am entitled to be here. I have paid my way and will continue to do so. My work is essential to the population. Some people go on to say ‘you speak good English’. My reply now is always ‘of course I do. It is my first language’. In a way that is true. I learnt to speak Hausa, Fulani and English simultaneously as a little tot and actually my English vocabulary is the strongest of all 3 because I was educated in English. Indeed I would like to point out that if you were to test the British population on their grammar and comprehension, you would find that across the ethnic groups, indigenous Brits tend to score the lowest. Sad but true. So don’t patronise a black person with ‘you speak good English’. Many of us have lived here most of our lives if we were not born here. Many of us are as British as British comes.

I would call myself a Nigerian Brit. Nigeria first always because my blood is Nigerian. I was born in Nigeria, my parents are both Nigerian, my first steps were taken in Nigeria, my foundation was in Nigeria. Nigeria made me who I was so that when I came to Britain I could contribute to my school and my community. But I am British too. I learnt my profession in Britain. I have worked all my working life in Britain. My closest friends now are mostly here in Britain. I love Birmingham. I met my husband here. I married him here. I have bought my first home here in Britain and I hope to have my children here. I have aspirations for Britain. I want it to be better. I want it to grow. I want Britain to embrace all its children, regardless of the colour of their skin because I honestly believe that the colour of my skin tells you nothing about who I am. What my dreams are. What my beliefs are. What makes me special. Above all, I believe that what makes Britain great is the diversity of its population. This is what makes our country part of the UNITED Kingdom.