Its the hands, I tell you.

He placed his hand over mine on the pulsating artery and looked at me and said, "Feel that?".

It was the melancholy notes that disturbed me from my reading. Alone at the nursing station (the nurses had disappeared giving me the peace I much desired), I was engrossed in reading the surgical report for my eight patient for the day.

In a corner on the seventh floor, sits a grand piano. And that evening, someone had decided to give it life.

I looked up from my notes, closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. Such beauty in such a sad place (it was the palliative unit, a unit for the terminally ill and dying) and I had not known my burning desire to be blessed with such heavenly music till I heard the music play.

It was For Elise. A common enough piece to be elevator music, but on that day the player had revived its true beauty.

It was so deathly quiet and I knew the patients were listening. The merciless pianist then went on to play more sad tunes. It became more morbid and perhaps, it was purposefully so. I knew if I let myself, I could cry. Not because I was particularly sad that day, but sad music makes me cry.

A nurse came by, and I asked who was playing that beautiful music. Was it a patient?

She smiled and answered, "No. Actually that's a doctor."

A doctor? Which doctor had enough time to sit and play the piano in the hospital?

I don't know why I thought so, but I was certain the pianist was male. I put down my notes, my interest peaked. I walked slowly to the area where the piano was, and with each step, my mind was already forming the perfect picture I would find.

He would be a surgeon. His tailored coat would be carelessly thrown on a chair, his pager tossed on a table and a half-empty latte would sit on the piano. As I approach the grand piano, the first thing I would see would be his head bent low, immersed in the music as he reached a crescendo of notes, his long fingers graceful yet masculine masterfully playing the keys, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing his strong forearms. His veins would be visible as per most men, and his hands would be large. Like a surgeon's.

He would then look up and give that piercing stare that chills you to the bone. Aye, he would be surgeon.

And like all fantasies, they remain fantasies. It turned out to be a young doctor, who unfortunately did not interest me at all.

But hey a girl can dream.

I am in the grieving process right now. I loved my surgery rotation so much, even the mean encounters I had. If anything, they made my rotation more meaningful. As much as I hated having to go through a whole hour of intensive questioning every week in front of the whole surgical team; for every question I could not answer, was one more question I would know the answer to in the future.

My residents rocked and it's sad that they too would be changing rotations to other hospitals. But my best memory would still be all the PSS surgeons, who though were very senior, were genuinely interested in making sure we learnt. It was hell from Mondays to Thursdays but heaven thereafer. I would go through it again if I could.

Nothing could beat the moment when the vascular surgeon took my hand and literally placed it over a 10cm long abdominal aortic aneursym during a laparotomy. He placed his hand over mine on the pulsating (HAHA) artery and looked at me and said, " Feel that?" (don't even think it). I was smiling behind my mask throughout the whole four hour surgery.

Yeah, I know most of them are middle aged, male and arrogant. But get to know them better, and you'll find out most of them are really essentially nerds at heart. I am sure most of them at some stage in their life, felt out of place. But looking at them now, in their expensive tailored suits or in scrubs, one could hardly tell.

Well at least until they start laughing that geeky laugh over fluid management or when they reveal to you their top secrets; that they use to carry little cards around with them listing the key points how to manage complications in the post-op patient.

But who cares right? They are so adorable.

Even the mean ones.

Abdominal aortic aneursym: A tear in the aorta that causes the artery to dilate and bulge. The abdominal aorta is a major artery that directs blood from the heart to your lower body and when there is a tear, it can rupture. 50 % of them die before reaching hospital, 50% who make it to hospital die, and of those who survive the surgery, I think a further 20-30% die. But don't quote me on the stats. Basically I had my hand on a ticking bomb.

Laparotomy: its when the surgeon cuts open the abdomen.