FROLIC AND FIREWORKS FOR OPHTHALMOLOGY RESIDENTS

“Make sure you don’t miss the professor’s yearly Christmas party,†I was warned when I started my residency. “He really likes it when everyone is there. Bring your wife along too.†Prof van Meurs has invited all his ophthalmologists-in-training and their partners to his house for a cocktail party on the Friday before Christmas for as long as anyone can remember. It’s a formal gathering: men in shirts and ties, women in nice dresses. The youngest resident in attendance is responsible for buying a gift for the professor’s wife; the second-youngest writes the gift card and makes sure everyone signs it; the oldest resident prepares a speech and a toast. Nineteen of the 20 residents are always there; the only one left out is the youngest resident, who’s on call that evening so the rest of us can go.

The professor is by the wine table, maybe because he knows that everyone will pass by there at least a few times over the course of the evening. “Bordeaux or Burgundy?†he asks us, as though any of us residents can taste the difference. I had just spent a few weeks in South Africa, so shiraz and pinotage were the grapes on my mind, but I played along. “That depends on what years the vintages are.†He smiled. “Bordeaux is 2005 and the Burgundy, um, 2004,†he replied, looking at the bottles “I’d like some Bordeaux then, please. I think 2005 was a good year for the region, and I’m not so sure about the 2004 Burgundies.†I know almost nothing about wine, but what I do know is that bluffing about that knowledge is an acceptable alternative to actually knowing about it.

Fortunately, we residents know more about ophthalmology than about terroir. But despite our common profession, we haven’t been invited there to talk about eyes, but rather about ourselves. After pouring me a very generous glass, he asked, “How is your family doing? A second child on the way, I hear. Great! Congratulations! Has your wife adjusted to life in Rotterdam? I hear her dermatology practice is blossoming. What do you think of the newest group of residents? Nice people, right? How was your last vacation? South Africa, right?†I lingered at the table for as long as the next in line for wine could tolerate. It’s always interesting to speak with an attending outside the context of the clinic. And with our partners there, the momentary mixing of our private and professional lives makes for amusing conversations: “You too?†I hear one colleague’s wife say to another’s husband. “I hate it when the eye surgery books have surgical pictures on the cover. Those blood-shot eyes look horrible! I always flip them over. And don’t even get me started about the surgical videos on YouTube.â€

The holiday period in the Rotterdam Eye Hospital begins during the first week of December, when the staff organises a party for all the employees’ children. The centre of attention is Saint Nicolas, Northern Europe’s gift-bearing bishop and a direct predecessor of Santa Claus. Parents buy the gifts ahead of time and give them to the saint, who distributes them to the children at the party. Its fascinating to see the other residents, who I otherwise only know as young physicians dependent on attendings for guidance, function independently as fully fledged parents.

Despite the merriment, Christmas week can be tricky for residents. Those of us who are doing a surgical rotation hope that our time in the operating room won’t be cut short due to attendings’ absence. Others, interested in getting away to the Alps for a family ski vacation, hope that their vacation requests were honoured. A half-dozen residents have to continue working to staff the emergency room and the inpatient ward. Vacation requests start up to eight months in advance. Fortunately, the Dutch are both fair-minded and highly organised, so those who sacrifice now always benefit later.

Saint Nicolas and Christmas constitute a small and relaxed prelude to the very intense New Year’s Eve in the Netherlands. For one evening each year, the Dutch display an inexplicable obsession with self-ignited fireworks. Despite their legendary frugality, they spend hundreds of euros on powerful Roman candles and other explosives. These are detonated in driveways and back yards, with predictable consequences. The emergency room is double-staffed, and we spend the whole night examining blast-injuries. The inpatient nurses rinse gunpowder and charred paper from fornices, and senior surgeons try to close bulbs in the hope of salvaging form, if not function.

“You’ve got to do it at least once during your residency. It’s the closest you’ll get to wartime ophthalmology,†a senior resident told me during my second year. I signed myself up immediately. “You’re working on New Year’s Eve? Voluntarily?†asked my wife. I told her about the interesting pathology and oncein- a-lifetime chance to diagnose and treat it, and suggested that she spend the evening in Belgium, where champagne corks are the only things that might end up in someone’s eye.

The disaster of the Dutch New Year’s Eve is something that is being addressed by ophthalmologists at a national level, but neither the politicians nor the public is particularly interested in banning fireworks. This is a shame, since dozens of eyes are lost every year, and the victims are overwhelmingly young children and adolescents who happen to be standing around in the wrong place at the wrong time.