Full of hot air

I really should comment on my birthday past (despite it’s being a week and a half gone). It’s one of those celebrations that as you get older, they really have less significance. A recent discussion with friends collaborated on a general conclusion about birthdays. They’re a big deal until you’re 30, then you go by decades until you’re 60, then you revert back to celebrating each 5 years until you’re 80, then every year you just celebrate being alive. So, I have inevitably fallen into the decade category and hence don’t really feel the need to celebrate. Ironically enough, all my friends felt differently, and I received more international packages then ever before, along with several extremely funny e-cards. Of course, I can not discuss this event without mentioning the extreme preparation taken by Jason for this day. Highly suspicious for the week leading to this event, discussing “stuff he had to do for stuff”, I became increasing suspicious until I found a small piece of burst balloon on the floor. Inquiring Jason as to the origin, he smugly replied he knew nothing about it. However, I realize this was only an impetus for further preparation. For when I woke on Saturday, and summoned downstairs, I was greeted by 150 self-inflated balloons strewn on the floor. He figured that even if my friends couldn’t make it for the celebration, I still desired a party. I have now learned that I should never question a kiwi boy about blowing up a dozen balloons, because it will quickly escalate to 150.

As has been my tradition now for the past two years, I decided to celebrate by putting my body through three months of training for two hours of running glory at the Taupo half marathon. Again, one of those flickering thoughts that seem good at the start, but quickly looses its appeal as the training runs become longer. Still, I was determined to beat my previous time and make my two hour goal. Unfortunately, the wind had different thoughts and presented itself full force into my body for the entire second half, causing the miss of my goal achievement by a mere ten minutes. Oh well. At least I still had 150 balloons at home to celebrate my accomplishment.

We need a doctor, STAT!

Last week I started my new job in Hamilton. Taking over the patient panel of a GP who had been with the practice for seventeen years, electing not to tell her patients she was retiring, I had some very interesting initial encounters with surprised, and occasionally irate, patients. Fortunately I was one female taking over for another, making the transition somewhat easier for the patients. There’s been an adjustment period for myself and the clinic staff, all of us having become used to the working styles of those we’d worked with for years. Overall, it hasn’t been too bad. That’s until last night when I got a rather disturbing call from the New Zealand Medical Council. Ultimately, the council controls if and for how long I can work, issuing me a Council practicing number and a little piece of paper called an Annual Practicing Certificate. The APC allows me to practice as a registered GP in New Zealand. Thus far I’ve had one issued for Ruanui Health Centre. However, when I moved to a new practice, it required a new APC. Thinking I could simple change the details of my place of employment and new supervisor on the renewal form, I sent off the renewal. I was wrong. That’s when things got interesting. The phone call was to inform me that I had not filled out the correct forms to notify of the change of supervisor and hence did not have a current APC and was not registered to work as a GP in New Zealand. Apparently an email including the necessary forms was sent to my old Ruanui email address after I had left. Knowing that my day was already nearly booked full with patients the next day (apparently female GPs are like gold in Hamilton), I urgently called the clinic to tell them of the predicament. With much trepidation, I went into clinic this morning to sort out the situation. Fortunately all responsible parties were present and the forms where quickly filled out and faxed to the Medical Council. After several tentative hours of waiting, a few anxious phone calls to the Council, and one faxing mishap, the call came through that I was all good to go. Just in time, as my first patient walked through the door.