This post should be called "Wala Lang".
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Old Photographs
I was blessed with a quiet duty today. So instead of wallowing in self pity over my lack of anything to spice up my Valentine weekend, not even a piece of tikoy to bid me good luck for my Chinese new year, I spent some time scanning old photos I brought from home. Here are some of the old photographs of my parents, mostly my mom's.
This post should be called "Wala Lang".
This post should be called "Wala Lang".
Preparing for Independence Day
In exactly 15 days, I'll finally stop being the "fungus that feeds on pond scum" in the PGH medical hierarchy. Oh well, perhaps, not exactly fungus, since there are IM residents and nurses and residents from all other departments to bully and spread shit around. But you're getting my drift, do you? In two weeks, I'll stop being a first year Cardiology fellow - fodder for the Cardio gods and goddesses during Hemody, brunt of all pent-up frustrations of seniors, consultants and disgruntled staff, front-liner for whatever storm and trouble is brewing out there, a doormat, a flower pot, a soul-for-sale, a worthless individual walking around the hospital like a zombie with a dazed look on her ugly face, while flaunting evidence of one-year worth of fat and flab she gained from too much free meals in exchange for her prescribing soul. Ahh, I'm exaggerating, of course. It wasn't really all that bad.
Hmmm, yeah, I'm not being phony here. It wasn't really so bad after all!
How does one prepare for Independence Day? If you're a caged bird stuck in a rut for so long, how do you look forward to a transfer to a bigger prison? If you're an inmate in Manila City Jail, how do you prepare for Alcatraz? Because all kidding aside, this is how I look at March 1 - a move to a bigger prison - a place with more air and free time, but still a prison just the same. It's my silly existential angst attacking once again. But here's how I imagine the next few months, anyway.
I'll be running daily along Roxas Boulevard. 2010 will be the year I'll join my first marathon. I will lose 10 kgs, at least. I will look so pretty, fit and fabulous you would all wonder why I even work in PGH and not in ABS-CBN or some modeling agency. I will get a DSLR and start a new blog - a fabulous photo blog at that. I will travel to Palawan, Baler, Cagayan and the Babuyan Islands, Marinduque, Mindoro, Cebu, and Bohol, and I will have a mysterious, smart and handsome man traveling with me. I will not set foot in the PGH-ER ever! And never will I have the hem of my white coat touch anything in the OBAS again! Wahahaha! I will be fabulous, cool, hot, you'd all look at me and wish you were me.
Obviously, all this crap is written on a duty weekend - which makes it all irrelevant and downright revolting. All the same anyway, let me do a Holden Caulfield, put on my red hunting cap and scream at the top of my lungs, "Goodbye, all you silly motherfuckers, all you phony sonofabitches!" Then I'll get the hell out and run out of PGH as fast as I can. Of course, some stupid patient will have his blood all over the floor and I'll slip like I always do and I'll damn near break my disgusting neck. That's how stories should end, right?
Everything above's bull, of course. I'm still here, on duty for the next 18 hours or so. Still very much the fungus that feeds on pond scum. Or the bacteria that lives in the gut of the fungus that feeds on pond scum. Oh please, Jean, write another word and you're dead!
Hmmm, yeah, I'm not being phony here. It wasn't really so bad after all!
How does one prepare for Independence Day? If you're a caged bird stuck in a rut for so long, how do you look forward to a transfer to a bigger prison? If you're an inmate in Manila City Jail, how do you prepare for Alcatraz? Because all kidding aside, this is how I look at March 1 - a move to a bigger prison - a place with more air and free time, but still a prison just the same. It's my silly existential angst attacking once again. But here's how I imagine the next few months, anyway.
I'll be running daily along Roxas Boulevard. 2010 will be the year I'll join my first marathon. I will lose 10 kgs, at least. I will look so pretty, fit and fabulous you would all wonder why I even work in PGH and not in ABS-CBN or some modeling agency. I will get a DSLR and start a new blog - a fabulous photo blog at that. I will travel to Palawan, Baler, Cagayan and the Babuyan Islands, Marinduque, Mindoro, Cebu, and Bohol, and I will have a mysterious, smart and handsome man traveling with me. I will not set foot in the PGH-ER ever! And never will I have the hem of my white coat touch anything in the OBAS again! Wahahaha! I will be fabulous, cool, hot, you'd all look at me and wish you were me.
Obviously, all this crap is written on a duty weekend - which makes it all irrelevant and downright revolting. All the same anyway, let me do a Holden Caulfield, put on my red hunting cap and scream at the top of my lungs, "Goodbye, all you silly motherfuckers, all you phony sonofabitches!" Then I'll get the hell out and run out of PGH as fast as I can. Of course, some stupid patient will have his blood all over the floor and I'll slip like I always do and I'll damn near break my disgusting neck. That's how stories should end, right?
Everything above's bull, of course. I'm still here, on duty for the next 18 hours or so. Still very much the fungus that feeds on pond scum. Or the bacteria that lives in the gut of the fungus that feeds on pond scum. Oh please, Jean, write another word and you're dead!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Galunggong, Or Something Like It
Valentine's Day is just around the corner. A lot of people I work with, those who are openly "in a relationship", are busily planning for their Valentine's Day dates. I've never had a Valentine date before. Well, I've never really had a real date in my entire life, if date is being discussed in the context of romance and if we're really going to be strict about it. After all, what does "date" really mean? When does a simple hanging out of two people who enjoy each others' company become a romantic date? Does dinner of grilled fish and rice capped with a couple of beers already qualify as a date? How about steaks and wine in a famous restaurant, such as, let's say, Highlands' Steakhouse? Or a ridiculously expensive dinner of lamb chops and sea bass in an old house converted into a dimly-lit culinary attraction with customers dining in cocktail dresses while sipping wine? Nah. The definition still eludes me. It puzzles me sometimes, that I refuse to think about it. I prefer to call everything "dinner" rather than "date", on account of the potentially dangerous and outright icky connotations the latter evokes.
Before I completely digress, however, I'd rather leave the above discussion hanging. I'm open to comments from my readers, and would appreciate your valuable opinions on the matter brought up.
To proceed with the real meat of this post, I am currently imagining my ideal Valentine date. What would really sweep me off my feet will be a dinner of fried galunggong, warm rice, toyo and kalamansi, and fresh tomatoes soaked in sukang pinakurat, all eaten with no forks and spoons required. I want those galunggong young - small and crunchy - deep-fried enough so the head, tail, and all bones can be eaten without me having to worry about choking or a perforated viscus. The setting could be anywhere - by the beach on a moonlit night, or under the trees and the stars, or in the candle-lit warmth of anybody's kitchen. The Beatles would be softly playing on the background, of course.
The right man plus galunggong - I am that easy to please. I really don't need fancy dinners, or wine, or culinary masterpieces I could not even pronounce arranged so grandly that I wouldn't even want to touch them. All I really want is that lowly poor-man's fish, my all-time favorite food, something I wouldn't mind having every day for the rest of my life - and the right man to enjoy it with me.
Too bad, even galunggong is so hard to come by.
Before I completely digress, however, I'd rather leave the above discussion hanging. I'm open to comments from my readers, and would appreciate your valuable opinions on the matter brought up.
To proceed with the real meat of this post, I am currently imagining my ideal Valentine date. What would really sweep me off my feet will be a dinner of fried galunggong, warm rice, toyo and kalamansi, and fresh tomatoes soaked in sukang pinakurat, all eaten with no forks and spoons required. I want those galunggong young - small and crunchy - deep-fried enough so the head, tail, and all bones can be eaten without me having to worry about choking or a perforated viscus. The setting could be anywhere - by the beach on a moonlit night, or under the trees and the stars, or in the candle-lit warmth of anybody's kitchen. The Beatles would be softly playing on the background, of course.
The right man plus galunggong - I am that easy to please. I really don't need fancy dinners, or wine, or culinary masterpieces I could not even pronounce arranged so grandly that I wouldn't even want to touch them. All I really want is that lowly poor-man's fish, my all-time favorite food, something I wouldn't mind having every day for the rest of my life - and the right man to enjoy it with me.
Too bad, even galunggong is so hard to come by.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Just another one of those
"Please order in chart of 718: IVF to consume then shift to heplock." - my batchmate Diva texted me this afternoon, on a quiet Sunday while I was on duty.
For some weird reason, I could not bring myself to 718. Not yet. The memories are just so fresh, the images so vivid, that I could not even walk across that wing without a tinge of sadness tugging at my stupid, overly emotional heart.
I could still remember her - that frail, jaundiced woman, who can barely open her eyes. Her lips were sore and swollen from her chemotherapy, her arms edematous and punctured all over by my unsuccessful attempts at cannulating her veins. She couldn't even drink water without using a straw. She hasn't eaten anything in days. Her BP was 40 palpatory when I first received her. She was dying and I knew it. And there was nothing I could do.
But she smiled each time, during those last mornings of her life, when I visited her. I made it a point to spend a few minutes with her as soon as daylight came, when I was sure there was no one else in the room except for the quiet and unassuming Maria. More familiar eyes would have seen through me and would dread my utter lack of professional detachment. More familiar eyes would have shed tears, and I wouldn't have wanted that.
On the morning of the day she left, she still smiled. Though her forehead was locked in a perpetual frown of pain, and her eyes were too heavy to be opened, she still nodded when she recognized my voice, and gave me a fleeting smile. I hummed her Sinatra's As Time Goes By and Andy Williams' Moon River - a scene that must have been reserved only for her children, something that I boldly and shamelessly claimed, and she hummed along, until she fell asleep.
She died later that night. And I was there, standing beside her children, in my spotless white coat, making sure she had no pain. But I wished I could take off that coat and hug her. The rest of the family cried. I could not. I had no right to.
After long hours of procrastinating, I trudged along to Room 718, but didn't make it past the nurses' station. I looked at the chart. The room was already occupied by a different patient, of course. And his attending, who made rounds a few hours prior, already wrote down the latest orders. Heaving a sigh of relief, I went back to the callroom to brood.
Room 718 is just one room in this big hospital. The patient who stayed in that room almost three weeks ago is just one out of the thousands I've handled. But in my silly, contraband way, I have loved her. And I still do. A contraband affection, where contraband is the operative word. I guess it's just another one of those illegal secret stuff doctors like me try to cover up with their white coats. And in my absurd case, this type of contraband is getting to be a family affair.
Later in the morning, as my duty was about to end, the duty phone beeped. "Referring Mr. X for SVT on cardiac monitor. Room 509." Aaaarghh! Room 509! Of all the patients in the hospital who could have an SVT, why does it have to be Room 509!?! I hastily grabbed my white coat and my dilapidated stethoscope and dragged my feet to that room. Room 509 - I can almost smell her there. She had her last birthday there, and her last new year's eve, when the blue moon was brightest. And the scent of the wine that we smuggled into the room during one of those nights still tickles my nostrils that I could barely breathe. Room 509 is just another one of those rooms filled with memories of contraband affection. Oh well, I just had to do my job. Indeed, the new patient, a grouchy old man I do not even know, was having an SVT. Sigh, being in that room was giving me a contraband SVT too.
For some weird reason, I could not bring myself to 718. Not yet. The memories are just so fresh, the images so vivid, that I could not even walk across that wing without a tinge of sadness tugging at my stupid, overly emotional heart.
I could still remember her - that frail, jaundiced woman, who can barely open her eyes. Her lips were sore and swollen from her chemotherapy, her arms edematous and punctured all over by my unsuccessful attempts at cannulating her veins. She couldn't even drink water without using a straw. She hasn't eaten anything in days. Her BP was 40 palpatory when I first received her. She was dying and I knew it. And there was nothing I could do.
But she smiled each time, during those last mornings of her life, when I visited her. I made it a point to spend a few minutes with her as soon as daylight came, when I was sure there was no one else in the room except for the quiet and unassuming Maria. More familiar eyes would have seen through me and would dread my utter lack of professional detachment. More familiar eyes would have shed tears, and I wouldn't have wanted that.
On the morning of the day she left, she still smiled. Though her forehead was locked in a perpetual frown of pain, and her eyes were too heavy to be opened, she still nodded when she recognized my voice, and gave me a fleeting smile. I hummed her Sinatra's As Time Goes By and Andy Williams' Moon River - a scene that must have been reserved only for her children, something that I boldly and shamelessly claimed, and she hummed along, until she fell asleep.
She died later that night. And I was there, standing beside her children, in my spotless white coat, making sure she had no pain. But I wished I could take off that coat and hug her. The rest of the family cried. I could not. I had no right to.
After long hours of procrastinating, I trudged along to Room 718, but didn't make it past the nurses' station. I looked at the chart. The room was already occupied by a different patient, of course. And his attending, who made rounds a few hours prior, already wrote down the latest orders. Heaving a sigh of relief, I went back to the callroom to brood.
Room 718 is just one room in this big hospital. The patient who stayed in that room almost three weeks ago is just one out of the thousands I've handled. But in my silly, contraband way, I have loved her. And I still do. A contraband affection, where contraband is the operative word. I guess it's just another one of those illegal secret stuff doctors like me try to cover up with their white coats. And in my absurd case, this type of contraband is getting to be a family affair.
Later in the morning, as my duty was about to end, the duty phone beeped. "Referring Mr. X for SVT on cardiac monitor. Room 509." Aaaarghh! Room 509! Of all the patients in the hospital who could have an SVT, why does it have to be Room 509!?! I hastily grabbed my white coat and my dilapidated stethoscope and dragged my feet to that room. Room 509 - I can almost smell her there. She had her last birthday there, and her last new year's eve, when the blue moon was brightest. And the scent of the wine that we smuggled into the room during one of those nights still tickles my nostrils that I could barely breathe. Room 509 is just another one of those rooms filled with memories of contraband affection. Oh well, I just had to do my job. Indeed, the new patient, a grouchy old man I do not even know, was having an SVT. Sigh, being in that room was giving me a contraband SVT too.
Friday, February 5, 2010
My Early Valentine Present
This morning, an 82-year old lolo consulted at my OPD for his regular check-up. He was a hypertensive, post-stroke patient, who had to travel all the way from Caloocan by himself, assisted only by a make-shift cane. He was gaunt, with half of his body paralyzed by the stroke, and with one eye blinded by an untreated cataract. He was a retired teacher, left to fend for himself by now grown-up children. His travel to PGH must have been very hard for him, his standing in line since 4AM probably took an entire day's strength. He refused to give up. He refused to complain. He was just a silent presence, among the hundreds of other patients waiting outside the 1BO4 complex.
Lolo was still relatively in a good state - both brain and brawn. His mind was still sharp. He can still recite his medications and their dosing schedules. He claims he has religiously taken them, as long as they are available. And so despite his old age and illness, Lolo's love for life pushed him to endure the ordeals of a PGH consult so he can get prescriptions for drugs he will eventually beg from PCSO and from the offices of our country's politicians.
So this morning, I handed him his newly filled up prescriptions and his clinical abstract. I again reminded him to find someone who can travel with him during his consults since his other eye is starting to fail too. But he said no, he will be alright.
Before he left, Lolo fished out something from his worn-out canvass bag. It was a small package wrapped in bond paper, held together by a rubber band. Meekly, he said with a huge smile, "Advanced happy Valentine's Day, duktora." I gratefully accepted the gift and led him towards the door.
Low EQ as I was, I hastily opened my first Valentine gift for the year. Wrapped in the bond paper were 3 bars of Choco Mucho chocolates. Despite the busy clinic, I couldn't help the tears.
The gift - P20. The experience - priceless.
Lolo was still relatively in a good state - both brain and brawn. His mind was still sharp. He can still recite his medications and their dosing schedules. He claims he has religiously taken them, as long as they are available. And so despite his old age and illness, Lolo's love for life pushed him to endure the ordeals of a PGH consult so he can get prescriptions for drugs he will eventually beg from PCSO and from the offices of our country's politicians.
So this morning, I handed him his newly filled up prescriptions and his clinical abstract. I again reminded him to find someone who can travel with him during his consults since his other eye is starting to fail too. But he said no, he will be alright.
Before he left, Lolo fished out something from his worn-out canvass bag. It was a small package wrapped in bond paper, held together by a rubber band. Meekly, he said with a huge smile, "Advanced happy Valentine's Day, duktora." I gratefully accepted the gift and led him towards the door.
Low EQ as I was, I hastily opened my first Valentine gift for the year. Wrapped in the bond paper were 3 bars of Choco Mucho chocolates. Despite the busy clinic, I couldn't help the tears.
The gift - P20. The experience - priceless.
Definitions and Identities
This post will probably be evidence of how schizophrenic I am. I just can't seem to make up my mind on so many things. After a short-lived burst of anger a few days ago, I am now back to my old normal self - that self that adores His Royal Weirdness - the good, the bad, with the imperfections themselves making the entire Baffling Phenomenon wholly perfect. While Dr. Jekyll basks in the glory of this unadulterated though bewildering spiritual connection, the insatiable Ms. Hyde aspires for the banality of formula love stories - to sacrifice what is utterly mysterious and terrifying for a more predictable and less riveting ending.
Last night, as I and my Baffling Kindred were musing about Grace and the strange but exciting design of things, I just realized, "Oh my God, what have I wished for? Please save that adventure you have planned for me from it's greatest enemy - myself."
Aung San Suu Kyi once said, "How wonderful it is that we do not know what tomorrow will bring." Jesus himself reminds us that tomorrow will worry about itself. I have such little faith...
Now that I'm past anger stage, acceptance comes. But it has nothing to do with the acceptance of a state of loss, or the mourning over something that wouldn't come. It's the acceptance of the reality of mysteries, that some things that happen can just elude logic - the highest currency of the human mind.
Last night, I had another amazing conversation over dinner with To-Whom-This-Post-Concerns. And though the probability of him ever reading these posts is extremely low and even minute, I have a duty to put some things into writing: There's no anger at all, there never was, and there never will be.
To-Whom-This-Post-Concerns, His Royal Weirdness, Him That Bewilders, The Phenomenon That Baffles, Birthday Boy #3, My Good Friend J - I have called him a lot of names in this blog. I have never defined him, and perhaps, for a long time, I never will.
For to define is to limit.
********
"Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.”
Last night, as I and my Baffling Kindred were musing about Grace and the strange but exciting design of things, I just realized, "Oh my God, what have I wished for? Please save that adventure you have planned for me from it's greatest enemy - myself."
Aung San Suu Kyi once said, "How wonderful it is that we do not know what tomorrow will bring." Jesus himself reminds us that tomorrow will worry about itself. I have such little faith...
Now that I'm past anger stage, acceptance comes. But it has nothing to do with the acceptance of a state of loss, or the mourning over something that wouldn't come. It's the acceptance of the reality of mysteries, that some things that happen can just elude logic - the highest currency of the human mind.
Last night, I had another amazing conversation over dinner with To-Whom-This-Post-Concerns. And though the probability of him ever reading these posts is extremely low and even minute, I have a duty to put some things into writing: There's no anger at all, there never was, and there never will be.
To-Whom-This-Post-Concerns, His Royal Weirdness, Him That Bewilders, The Phenomenon That Baffles, Birthday Boy #3, My Good Friend J - I have called him a lot of names in this blog. I have never defined him, and perhaps, for a long time, I never will.
For to define is to limit.
********
"Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.”
“Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?” asked the Duchess, after a pause.
“Especially when one has been wounded by it,” answered Lord Henry.
- From The Picture of Dorian Gray
Monday, February 1, 2010
My Inner Caulfield and Kubler-Ross
I'm not going to write about my usual mushy, sentimental stuff about the favorite topic - not just my favorite topic, but the be-all and end-all of this blog. If my readers have noticed, there's a certain theme in these writings, a frequent and pervading issue. And I'm not referring to my angst over my job as a doctor, for chrissakes! I'm referring to the reason why this proverbial walk on water started, the shell that was empty but I just couldn't throw away, that strange cosmic dust that I misconstrued to be the same as my own just because I happened to breathe it in, by some absurd twist of fate. Ahhh, 5 years of ultimate insanity.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Kubler-Ross once said that we don't necessarily go through the stages of mourning in this order. She's right. I've gone through all the other four, and anger just happened to sneak in today. I'm there alright. This thing - no this Phenomenon - can come in and out of my life, and yeah, it's really alright. This Phenomenon can happen again and again and it's not going to change - it's still going to be a phenomenon - extraordinary, enchanting, and strange. Twenty years from now, This Royal Madness will probably drop by my life again and I'm going to be as enthralled as Day 1, taking it up all over again as if nothing happened in between.
My Christian faith tells me to be patient. Common sense tells me to invoke the comforts of amnesia and just totally forget everything. Kubler-Ross tells me to just go through the stages of death and dying and let healing happen. She doesn't know I have nothing to mourn about.
For now, I'm just so goddamn angry!
(This post was influenced by my recent rediscovery of Holden Caulfield. Giving a damn about JD Salinger's death when I hated Catcher In the Rye when I first read it is such a phony thing to do. But then I'm rereading it now, and I realized there's a Holden Caulfield brewing in everyone, waiting to show up in a red hunting hat, screaming at the world in pure unadulterated anger. There's a phony in everyone and in everything too. But, ahhh, love is the phoniest sonnofabitch of all!)
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Kubler-Ross once said that we don't necessarily go through the stages of mourning in this order. She's right. I've gone through all the other four, and anger just happened to sneak in today. I'm there alright. This thing - no this Phenomenon - can come in and out of my life, and yeah, it's really alright. This Phenomenon can happen again and again and it's not going to change - it's still going to be a phenomenon - extraordinary, enchanting, and strange. Twenty years from now, This Royal Madness will probably drop by my life again and I'm going to be as enthralled as Day 1, taking it up all over again as if nothing happened in between.
My Christian faith tells me to be patient. Common sense tells me to invoke the comforts of amnesia and just totally forget everything. Kubler-Ross tells me to just go through the stages of death and dying and let healing happen. She doesn't know I have nothing to mourn about.
For now, I'm just so goddamn angry!
(This post was influenced by my recent rediscovery of Holden Caulfield. Giving a damn about JD Salinger's death when I hated Catcher In the Rye when I first read it is such a phony thing to do. But then I'm rereading it now, and I realized there's a Holden Caulfield brewing in everyone, waiting to show up in a red hunting hat, screaming at the world in pure unadulterated anger. There's a phony in everyone and in everything too. But, ahhh, love is the phoniest sonnofabitch of all!)
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Random Notes From A Pissed Off Mind
I just turned 30 last Monday. I had expected fireworks or shafts of light or epiphanies to greet my 30th year. Instead, there was nothing - just the usual hospital routine on a post-duty Monday. After making rounds on my patients, I spent 3 hours dozing through the hemodynamics conference which has, in my lowly opinion, surprisingly become boring, halfhearted and full of intellectual gibberish. My consultants, in their attempt to give me a little bit of joy and semblance of a celebration for my birthday, made their rounds quick and short. Go home early, they said. Have dinner with family and friends. Have a great time. It's your birthday, celebrate. Celebrate, my ass.
Instead of going home early, I spent my free afternoon napping on the rickety bed of our callroom. There were several calls from old friends, which of course, in my silly, unemotional, anhedonic way, still warmed my heart. After the sun has set, I commenced my routine 15-minute walk to my apartment in Nakpil.
As I was walking home, I couldn't help but wonder, "So this is me at 30, huh? What's the fuss about being 30?" No wonder my parents never even bothered to call, and my oldest near-40 best bud only sent an unembellished 2-word "happy birthday" text message. They must have known. There's really no big deal about being 30 at all.
*****************
Unemotional as I was, I still wanted to do something different for my birthday. And I did! For the first time after a long long time, I studied my Cardiology textbook. Ahhh, my shiny, good-as-brand-new Braunwald was finally opened, and for the next 3 hours, colored with yellow, orange, and green Stabilo highlighters. I didn't have a party, I didn't even have a glass of wine or a bottle of beer, and no, I never blew candles on a birthday cake. But I highlighted 20 or more pages of my chic and flawless Braunwald. Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...
*****************
It's my end-of-the year exam tomorrow. And as always, I'm bound to fail it, grandly at that. It's not like it's going to make me sad. A grand, big-time, audacious failure is what I deserve. If I get 30%, i would be laughing already. I believe exams should accurately reflect what the trainees have learned during their training days. A 30%, for me, would be an overestimate. I do believe my testmanship skills are already on their full gear with that score. And I have great testmanship skills, I even give lectures on that!
Tomorrow, I intend to make a statement. My failure, which will probably irk a lot of my teachers' sense of pride for their beloved home institution, should be worth all my embarrassment, self-esteem attacks, and the realization that my brain is all dried up and good-for-nothing. My failure should display a clear assessment of what I learned and what I have become as a cardiologist during the past year: NOTHING.
I have learned nothing. I'm still that big, ugly girl, awkwardly dressed in a long white coat, pretending to be adept at all problems of the heart, but I know and I am nothing.
So go ahead, Jean, fail that exam. And if they will be alarmed, thou shalt not fail in vain.
*****************
This afternoon, I gathered enough strength to ask my good friend who recently lost his mom how he is. I'm not a bad friend, unemotional and extremely cerebral though I am. But when it comes to this particular friend, words just seem to be too much. For some strange cosmic reason, we somehow manage to convey important statements without saying a thing. That's how really good friends are supposed to be, I guess.
Anyway, I asked him when they're burying Nanay. Having cared for her for more than a month, I would have wanted to be there when the family says their final goodbyes. And yes, I have loved her, again, for some strange cosmic reason, or more appropriately, perhaps for no reason at all.
I had quite expected my friend's response. They have buried her already, last Tuesday. He didn't bother to inform me. He assumed I knew. He was even wondering why I wasn't there.
Assumptions. Perhaps this entire relationship was based on wrong assumptions. Perhaps there's really no such thing as strange, cosmic relationships after all.
I hope one day, my friend and I would really get to talk, bring out all the assumptions in the open, and discuss things out loud. When words come into play, reality is obscured - I know this and I subscribe to this notion fully and without doubt. But sometimes, words would have to be used.
On the other hand, my friend and I may have had assumed a multitude of wrong ideas about each other for the past years. There are just some things that need no talking about. This bond, however, isn't assumed. It's a strange, weird, spiritual connection. And though I assume he doesn't know, I do. Oh yeah, ever since Day 1, I do.
*****************
One of my newest and dearest friends, very sweetly and thoughtfully, celebrated my 30th birthday with me last weekend. The trip to the mountains, the flickering city lights, the cold January breeze, the warm company and amazing conversations - they were all better than any party or gift or milestone I could ask for. To whom this may concern, yeah, I know you're reading this, thank you for putting up with all the crap that is me. I can never thank you enough.
Instead of going home early, I spent my free afternoon napping on the rickety bed of our callroom. There were several calls from old friends, which of course, in my silly, unemotional, anhedonic way, still warmed my heart. After the sun has set, I commenced my routine 15-minute walk to my apartment in Nakpil.
As I was walking home, I couldn't help but wonder, "So this is me at 30, huh? What's the fuss about being 30?" No wonder my parents never even bothered to call, and my oldest near-40 best bud only sent an unembellished 2-word "happy birthday" text message. They must have known. There's really no big deal about being 30 at all.
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Unemotional as I was, I still wanted to do something different for my birthday. And I did! For the first time after a long long time, I studied my Cardiology textbook. Ahhh, my shiny, good-as-brand-new Braunwald was finally opened, and for the next 3 hours, colored with yellow, orange, and green Stabilo highlighters. I didn't have a party, I didn't even have a glass of wine or a bottle of beer, and no, I never blew candles on a birthday cake. But I highlighted 20 or more pages of my chic and flawless Braunwald. Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...
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It's my end-of-the year exam tomorrow. And as always, I'm bound to fail it, grandly at that. It's not like it's going to make me sad. A grand, big-time, audacious failure is what I deserve. If I get 30%, i would be laughing already. I believe exams should accurately reflect what the trainees have learned during their training days. A 30%, for me, would be an overestimate. I do believe my testmanship skills are already on their full gear with that score. And I have great testmanship skills, I even give lectures on that!
Tomorrow, I intend to make a statement. My failure, which will probably irk a lot of my teachers' sense of pride for their beloved home institution, should be worth all my embarrassment, self-esteem attacks, and the realization that my brain is all dried up and good-for-nothing. My failure should display a clear assessment of what I learned and what I have become as a cardiologist during the past year: NOTHING.
I have learned nothing. I'm still that big, ugly girl, awkwardly dressed in a long white coat, pretending to be adept at all problems of the heart, but I know and I am nothing.
So go ahead, Jean, fail that exam. And if they will be alarmed, thou shalt not fail in vain.
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This afternoon, I gathered enough strength to ask my good friend who recently lost his mom how he is. I'm not a bad friend, unemotional and extremely cerebral though I am. But when it comes to this particular friend, words just seem to be too much. For some strange cosmic reason, we somehow manage to convey important statements without saying a thing. That's how really good friends are supposed to be, I guess.
Anyway, I asked him when they're burying Nanay. Having cared for her for more than a month, I would have wanted to be there when the family says their final goodbyes. And yes, I have loved her, again, for some strange cosmic reason, or more appropriately, perhaps for no reason at all.
I had quite expected my friend's response. They have buried her already, last Tuesday. He didn't bother to inform me. He assumed I knew. He was even wondering why I wasn't there.
Assumptions. Perhaps this entire relationship was based on wrong assumptions. Perhaps there's really no such thing as strange, cosmic relationships after all.
I hope one day, my friend and I would really get to talk, bring out all the assumptions in the open, and discuss things out loud. When words come into play, reality is obscured - I know this and I subscribe to this notion fully and without doubt. But sometimes, words would have to be used.
On the other hand, my friend and I may have had assumed a multitude of wrong ideas about each other for the past years. There are just some things that need no talking about. This bond, however, isn't assumed. It's a strange, weird, spiritual connection. And though I assume he doesn't know, I do. Oh yeah, ever since Day 1, I do.
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One of my newest and dearest friends, very sweetly and thoughtfully, celebrated my 30th birthday with me last weekend. The trip to the mountains, the flickering city lights, the cold January breeze, the warm company and amazing conversations - they were all better than any party or gift or milestone I could ask for. To whom this may concern, yeah, I know you're reading this, thank you for putting up with all the crap that is me. I can never thank you enough.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
An Elegy for a Mother
A few days ago, a dear patient passed away quietly, in the arms of her beloved son. The passing was poignant, like a strange, sweet draft of air you would have wanted to inhale deeply for a long long time. Every movement of the chest, that empty distant look of her dark eyes, that feeble grip of the cold hand, everything is playing back again and again in my memory. For more than a month, I have watched a miracle unfold, borne out of the pain and anguish of suffering and threat of death. I have witnessed how hope can endure, how love can be conveyed without words, how family can withstand even sickness and death, how laughter can go on despite suffering.
To Mrs. L, for the strength you showed, for everything you allowed me to do, and for everything you left behind, thank you.
To Mrs. L, for the strength you showed, for everything you allowed me to do, and for everything you left behind, thank you.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
It's Complicated
Why is it that when people ask the usual questions and you tell them the usual answers, they continue to probe further and ask more questions? And so you try to come up with the simplest answers using the shortest statements and try to approximate the facts as much as possible.
Take this bizarre scenario for example (I'm sorry but it IS bizarre for me!). You do something magnanimous for a very good friend and people start asking you "Why?". And so you say, "Uhhmmm, because we're friends!" And people start asking you more questions such as, "But why are you doing this?" or "Isn't your sacrifice too much?" or "What kind of friends?" or "Is he your boyfriend?" or "Are you sure you're just friends?" And so you start avoiding the very typical and absurdly inaccurate showbiz "we're-just-friends" answer and use a different strategy.
"We're cousins." I'd say. And then more questions come. "Which side of the family?" or "So your mom and his mom are sisters?" or "How come you don't resemble each other?" or "So you have the cancer gene too?" Nooooo! Stop these! Alright! Do I have to outline my entire family tree so people will finally get it? No, we're not cousins, satisfied? Not even a single microliter of blood can make us blood relatives! But does it require some sort of a genetic connection for anyone to love anyone as family?
And so we're back to, "We're friends." And then the same old questions come.
Please, enough!!!
How much can anybody ever give to anyone in need and still be considered socially or morally appropriate? Some give to complete strangers (usually via a limited and a short-time deal) and the world will suddenly praise them as saints. You give to someone who's dearly loved by someone you also love and then suddenly, you end up the proverbial time-bomb that might explode and screw everything up anytime. And you remain a potential villain unless you can provide logical answers and definitions to the usual questions the rest of the world asks.
I don't need definitions. And I don't even consider myself as having given anything. Sometimes the things you suddenly do just come out naturally, like you would have done the same things anytime, in any situation. And you're just absolutely sure you're right, and you will do everything over and over again, without keeping account.
For the past several days, I have finally come up with the best answer to the usual questions. I just say, "It's complicated." And suddenly, like a magical charm, people suddenly have a glimmer in their eyes, and a knowing smile on their lips, and an obviously hardly suppressed laughter. And then they keep quiet. They nod their heads if they understand. And surprisingly, it seems that they do understand.
Ahhh, it's complicated. Love is. Life is. And perhaps everything in this world, no matter how simple, has a bit of complexity in them. It's complicated. And somehow, I just realized, I like it this way.
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