Murky Clarity

Pride: be the noun, not the verb

 

I wrote to The Star sometime ago, but since they haven't responded, I'll go ahead and post what I wrote here. Oh, well.

--@--

 

Pride. One beautiful word that has two polar opposite connotations; both have deep significance in the medical world.

Eight years haven’t been that long since I started my career, but that first day at work feels like a lifetime away. We had Facebook then, but our interactions were limited to our circle of friends. We didn’t have Twitter, and our personal blogs did not generate much traffic. Not like today, where everything is out in the open. I still can’t tell which is better, though.

I consider myself luckier than most because my first days as a house officer were gentle. I had supportive medical officers and senior house officers to ease me into the real world. Their first advice, which I still pass on to junior doctors: do not hesitate to call for help if a patient collapses. That was my biggest fear. How should I, how would I, react should a patient collapse.

My first few days were decent, if somewhat scary. However, within the same week, a specialist humiliated me without reserve in front of patients and medical students. I wanted to shrink within myself. I wanted to hide. I didn’t feel angry or spiteful. What I did feel was a sense of inadequacy. Even in that numbed condition, I knew the specialist was right, that a patient’s well-being should not be in incompetent hands.

That was my first lesson in humility.

My second week as a house officer, my fear came to pass. A patient collapsed and had stopped breathing, her heart had stopped beating. I did not hesitate to proceed with CPR, but I did not know what else to do. I called for help. The nurses, cool and collected, helped me with the CPR and instructed me on further acute management steps. They knew I knew what to do. They also knew my nerves needed calming down. They were much more experienced in dealing with dying patients, and I followed their advice. By the time the medical officer arrived, the patient was stabilized. After that day, the nurses were warmer toward me, friendlier.

That was my second lesson in humility.

No, I did not have a breezy experience as a house officer. Lessons in humility kept coming in various forms: a mother of three toddlers asking me why, of all people, she had to be the one with breast cancer; medical officers and specialists reprimanding me (quite loudly) for not being fast enough, knowledgeable enough; nurses teaching me the best ways to get intravenous access without hurting patients much; other house officers teaching me how to get things done smoothly. My colleagues and I worked extra hours, and we had to do 24-hour calls between three to four times a week because we didn’t have enough house officers. We weren’t saints. We did complain with one another, with our family members, with university friends we still kept in touch with. We kept going, knowing that each hit we received was meant to make us stronger, better, safer.

I am neither the brightest nor the best, but I’ve learned a lot along the way.

I’m still learning.

Reading all the letters of complaint to newspapers, rants on Facebook, Twitter and personal blogs, and watching videos posted on YouTube, I think I know what is causing these new house officers much grief. To be a doctor, you ought to have a brilliant mind. Let’s be honest. Almost all of us doctors were overachievers back at school. We were among the top in our classes. When we were in medical school, we competed with people as bright as us--if not brighter than us. Naturally, when working life jolts us into reality, when we are reminded again and again--by doctors, nurses, even attendants--that we are worse than scum, that we are merely bottom feeders, the one thing that gets hit the most is our pride. To be publicly humiliated for not being good enough, that’s something new.

This brings us back to my opening paragraph. Pride, as a noun, is an ugly thing. If you leave medical school naively thinking that you are the best, that everybody else is beneath you, the first hit will knock you down into the muck. It doesn’t matter if you’re made of titanium. You’ll keep getting hits until resentment builds and all you can think of is the hours you spend at the hospital instead of elsewhere, all you can see is the nurses at the counter passing over cases between shifts instead of helping you doing a procedure, and all you can concentrate on is getting the job done.

Take a few steps back and observe your surroundings. Maybe you’ll notice your specialists and medical officers worrying about patients who aren’t doing as well as they should. Maybe you’ll notice heavily pregnant nurses leaning toward an unconscious patient, feeding that patient on time. Maybe you’ll notice an attendant running late when summoned because he has to walk a great distance to retrieve lab results.

Most of all, I hope you’ll notice the fear, the anxiety in the eyes of patients and their relatives. For us, coming to the hospital is a routine; for them, it is a big event that may lead to either celebration or devastation. Patients trust us with their life. We have to respect that trust.

Please remember that respect is not freely given. It is earned. If you want your colleagues to respect you, to treat you better, earn it. Once you earn that respect, everything will fall into place, insyaAllah.

Take pride in what you do, and you’ll derive joy from it. Let pride consume you, and you’ll end up bitter and resentful. When that happens, no amount of pay, no amount of lenient working hours will ever be enough.

Live. Work. Learn. Have fun while you’re at it.

What Nurses Do Best

 

 

The internet is a beautiful thing, and, like all things, it is neither good nor bad. We make the internet good. We make the internet bad.

We, the people.

There is a post circulating in Facebook about a nurse in Hospital Kota Bharu who allegedly abused a newborn child. A picture is attached, showing a baby lying sideways toward one side of a cot, with blood splatters in an arch across the lower half of the cot. I shall not post the picture here, so you either have to search for the post yourself--shouldn't be hard, as the post is ALMOST viral--or you just have to visualize based on my scanty description. The description that comes with the picture alone is bad enough (toward the nurse). The comments, however, get worse with each share button. Not just nurses, but all public hospital staff are bad and dangerous.

There is a good reason why we forbid people from snapping pictures in the wards, you see. Not to hide what we do, but to prevent misunderstandings.

Of course I'd say this, you say. I'm a public hospital staff myself. Of course I want to defend myself and my work.

Not this time. If you're convinced I'm a jerk, there's no dissuading you. I can't be bothered, anyway. I do, however, want to protect the nurses. They are my colleagues, my friends, my family. And I'd do anything to protect my family.

First off, about the picture: I don't know the whole story myself, but judging from the baby's position and the pattern of the blood splatter, an intravenous line (branula) must have been dislodged due to movements and blood seeped out from the open wound. Happens to little children, happens to adults. Because, you see, this usually happens when the patients have no control over themselves. Precautions are taken, and sometimes they need restraining, but branulas get dislodged because we don't tie them onto the skin. We slide the branula in and then secure it with plasters that are gentle to the skin. Any alleged exchanges between the nurse and the person who took the picture...well, that's between them. That is their truth.

Let me tell you a different story (not fiction). This is my truth. Some years ago, some random visitor accidentally started a fire in our old elevator shaft. We didn't see any actual fire, but the smoke filled our half of the building. It was a weekend. I was oncall. I only realized there was a fire when smoke filled up my on-call room. I ran out to see the commotion, and my consultant, Dr Ramesh, was leading the nurses to evacuate the patients. Come to think of it, I don't recall any fire alarm. Huh.

Anyway. We couldn't find the source of the fire, but we opened up all the emergency exits and evacuated the patients. But you have to understand that we are the Neurosurgery department. Half of our patients were in no condition to even get out of the bed.

In the excitement, I belatedly realized that there were no screams. No one was panicking. The nurses carried the pediatric patients, supported the adult patients who could walk, and returned to their wards up to the second floor to repeat the process. No one was panicking.

But we also had a major problem: the patients in our ICU, HDW and the acute cubicle in the male ward were all ventilated. Some of them were in critical condition. They could not be moved. So the nurses taking care of them continued what they did best.

They took care of their patients.

Not one of them left their patients. Not a single person.

The nurses I work with often have to work double shifts because there aren't enough people. Some of them are well into their pregnancy, and they have to waddle. Not walk. Waddle. They expose their unborn child, they expose their loved ones at home, to airborne hospital superbugs, but still they take care of their patients. They bathe patients who cannot bathe themselves. They feed patients who cannot feed themselves. They comfort patients when their families are not around. They comfort families of patients who are dying and who have passed on.

They go home tired and trodden, yet still they make time for their family.

We sometimes forget this. In our anxiety having a family member in the hospital, we forget that nurses are also people, people who are overworked, overwhelmed, underpaid, and under-appreciated.

Despite everything, in spite of everything, they do what they do best: take care of patients.

I know I don't show my appreciation enough. I know that saying 'thank you' and 'great job' may not be anything more than a temporary high, but I will say it anyway.

Thank you.

Great job.

Keep up the excellent work.

 

Love always,
Fadz.

 

Neurosurgery Intensive Care Unit

 

N6B - Pediatric Ward

 

N6A - Female Ward

 

Neurosurgery High Dependency Ward

 

N4A - Male Ward

 

Neurosurgery Clinic

 

Neurosurgery Operating Theater

The Rise of the Army of Darkness

Darkness.

We have always been afraid of it. It holds too many secrets, too many monsters. Our ancestors learned to harness fire and huddled close to it, partly for warmth, but above all, for its light that kept darkness at bay. In time, we learned to banish the dark. It no longer held secrets, and monsters no longer lurked in the folds of shadows. There is, however, a kind of darkness that we defend jealously, a kind of darkness that we refuse to let come to light.

The darkness within ourselves.

I had started writing this with a different tone, a different approach. I almost published it, but when I had to stop for surgery, I realized that I do no good with it. In fact, I suspect that I would have been perceived as whiny and self-indulgent. Now I'm writing this anew. I'm writing this with the hope that I can spread light, even if just a sliver.

Call it providence, but the brilliant Nathan Bransford (ex-literary agent, published novelist) posted an article about Twitter warriors the day after my very own Twitter debacle. It all started when I responded to a tweet by a Filipino writer, who was disgusted at how Westerners fetishize Asians. I said, "In that case, we should stop ogling over Pan-Asian people, even though they are undeniably hot." It is true. MTV Asia and Channel V VJs are of mixed Western-Asian heritages. They are also sought after for dramas and movies in countries like Indonesia and Thailand. I also said, "Westerners find us exotic just as we find Westerners exotic." Our cultures, our communication skills, even our jokes are different. It's natural to be fascinated by the unknown.

Now, while the writer disagreed & disengaged, another Twitterer barged in and started calling me a White-lover. With a tweethandle @requireshate, and with an abrasive book-review blog that especially targets Caucasian writers, I was asking for trouble for even responding. You know me. I gravitate toward trouble.

To me, racism against Caucasians is still racism. To her, there is no such thing as racism against them as the Caucasians are a privileged race of the highest order. Also, there is no such thing as misandry and heterophobia because men are of the privileged gender, and straight people are of the privileged sexuality. Persecution against anyone is persecution, no exceptions.

That was when she started calling me names such as idiot, scum, White-ass-kisser, and other vitriol. This, coming from someone I never had any contact with. I wasn't even being offensive, but apparently my point of view was offensive enough. She started rallying other White-haters. That was when I retaliated. I did it the way I know best: psychological warfare.

I wanted to know why she was spiteful and offensive, with all her claws and fangs bared. Unprovoked, I might add. I asked her if she was not loved as a child, and if kids her age did not pick her because of her skin color. That much hatred must have come from somewhere.

Yes. I admit that I was being spiteful. I delivered a low blow. But I also admitted that my childhood wasn't all that peachy, and kids my age avoided me unless they wanted something from me. She didn't respond. She didn't need to.

All she needed was to click 'retweet'.

Then, hell was unleashed. Oh, how it was unleashed. People started defending her. They berated me for picking on her because she was an abuse victim. They berated me for being a serial abuser. They berated me for demeaning women. They accused me of being a horrible doctor, a horrible person. All these scathing remarks came from people I had no idea existed.

You see, @requireshate never even admitted or denied being an abuse survivor. I doubt anyone on the internet even knows the real person behind the online persona. And while I was doing my best defending myself--politely, I might add--she was having a blast collecting tweets to compose a storify piece, Fadzlishah Johanabas thinks abuse is hilarious. It's quite interesting, actually, how she arranged the tweets & omitted several so that she could paint me as an all-out jerk.

Before she published the storify, I was heeding my friends' advice to stop feeding the trolls. I was also getting sleepy after seven straight hours of tweet-exchange. I apologized to @requireshate for being abrasive, and I wished her well. Lo and behold, she even used that tweet to accuse me of being pressured by lots of Twitter warriors (I counted. Only 3 people persistently bugged me).

I won't create a storify, but if you read my Twitter timeline, you'll notice that these uninvited guests were more interested in bashing me than actually defending @requireshate. They refused to introduce themselves, claiming that they wanted to protect their identity against abusers like me. They called me names even though I maintained my politeness. They claimed that it was okay for @requireshate to be spiteful, but I was in the wrong for picking on abuse victims. At that point I was as equally amused as I was irritated. All of the sudden I was this privileged straight man who was also a serial abuser.

These people were out for blood, fighting a battle they never believed in. Such is the power of anonymity within cyberspace. To them, I was just a jerk that needed to be called out, that needed to be put into place. I was just a netizen who didnt exist. If a person doesn't exist, then there is no real problem, is there.

What they failed to realize was that they themselves had effectively become bullies. Courageous by the virtue of invincibility the internet provided. They were the army of Darkness, though they had no idea what they were fighting for. Pawns.

I woke up to a few more spiteful tweets. Someone hoped that I fell down and broke my neck. I also disovered that @requireshate blocked me, so I could no longer read her tweets. She--or one of her lackeys--must have linked the blog post I wrote about my disappointment with Maxis. My blog had 92 pageviews that day. The next day I had 60, then 35, and now traffic is back to normal--less than 10. Not one of them read enough to leave a comment.

Some people defend the darkness within so that others will never know of it. Some jump into the darkness headfirst, wanting to disappear in it. Some, however, revel in the darkness. They celebrate it. They use it to spread chaos and hatred.

I still believe @requireshate's spitefulness comes from somewhere deep. I don't want to use it against her; I don't even know her to care that much. But she is also a bully. She not only dismisses people who have opinions opposite hers, she slams her heels on their faces. I'm guessing that she had expected me to fall apart, to block her first so that she could tell everyone how she showed me my place.

She picked the wrong person to mess with.

You see, I embrace my darkness. I know it intimately. It is my friend. Sometimes it is my only company. It doesn't overwhelm me because we respect each other.

There was one writer who was not so fortunate. Someone wrote a horrible review about her book, and naturally, she defended it. The more she defended herself, the more vicious the people of Internet became. To them, she didn't really exist. Her pleas and cries for help were not real. In the end, she fell apart. Netizens then left her ashes scattered, eager to pick on someone else.

Whenever I think of this, I am reminded of the opening scene of Ken Follett's "Pillars of the Earth". In the prologue, village boys came to witness a hanging. It was a horrible thing, witnessing someone losing her life. It was terrifying, but at the same time, it was fascinating. They started throwing rocks and refuse. They believed they had power over the accused witch.

People are afraid of darkness. By bullying others, that darkness seems less terrifying. If you have power over others, you perceive yourself as strong, courageous. In this world of Internet, where everyone and no one exists at the same time, banishing one's demons this way becomes much easier.

Let me tell you this. People exist. Words hurt. Words break.

Let me tell you this. People exist. Words can also heal. Words can also mend.

Maybe it's time we reach out and make this world a better place.

Maybe it's time we embrace the darkness and come out lighter.

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#KLNoir

noir     noun   /ˈnwär/
1. crime fiction featuring hard-boiled cynical characters and bleak sleazy settings.

 

--@--

Asian Angel was the name they gave him.

They didn't know his age. They didn't know his story. They only knew he looked like a teenager.

He didn't know his age. He didn't know his own story. He only knew he didn't feel like a teenager.

He was as Asian as any other Chinaman roaming the streets of KL, but he was also different. His skin was white with a brush of pink at all the right places. His face was much too beautiful to be a boy's, but when they stripped him naked, there was no denying he was a man.

They found him wandering the dank alleys of Chow Kit. They scrubbed the grime off his skin and threw away his tattered, blood-stained clothes. They gave him angel wings and shoved him into dimly-lit rooms that reeked of sin and sex.

The men were much older. And most of them had cocks buried in layers of fat. Gwailos, hajis (Arabs, Egyptians, he couldn't tell the difference), and the occasional Mamak with serious money. They were rough, they were gentle, they wanted to be on top, they wanted him to be on top. The people who found him gave him blue pills that kept him up for hours. Sometimes it still stood up when he was flat on his back, asleep.

Every night when he was done, he returned to his room with broken wings.

Every night before he started, they gave him new wings.

He couldn't remember his past no matter how he tried.

He couldn't forget his present no matter how he tried.

He was sixteen. That much he knew.

He was an angel with broken wings.

--@--

No. That wasn't an excerpt of the story I have in the anthology, but an entry I submitted for the KL Noir flash fiction competition. That didn't get selected. Bummer.

Anyway.

The flash fic above, it's one of my grittier, dirtier pieces, and I don't do gritty and dirty. Did I hope to win? Sure. I don't win anything much, and I need a break. More than winning, however, I was immensely grateful that I was able to write some fiction, even if the piece was less than 300 words. I've hit a dry spell, these last few months. Ultimately, this feels like a story worth exploring and expanding.

The story that I have in KL Noir: Red is titled "Kiss from a Rose". It originally existed as a flash fiction of about 800 words, tentatively accepted for publication at Esquire Malaysia. Until they decided it was too risque. You should see the illustration meant to accompany the story.

Amir Muhammad wanted me to write something dirty, which would suit the magazine's readership. As I said, I don't do gritty and dirty, and in writing the story, I explored uncharted territory. The exploration left me feeling tainted. When they decided not to publish it, I was partly relieved, to be honest. I was prepared to shelf it, let it hide in the depths of my storage, collecting cyber-dust.

Until Amir Muhammad SMSed me, inquiring whether I'd sold the story elsewhere. When I said I had not, he asked whether I could expand the story for an anthology he was planning to publish. I guess he must have loved "Kiss from a Rose", and did not want for it to be left forgotten. He wanted the story within one week, but he caught me at a wrong time. Calls were bad, and work was hectic. I only managed to actually sit down and write the story slightly past the deadline (sorry, Amir).

The original story made me feel dirty because the protagonist was a jerk. I knew that. So I took what was inherently wrong and made it right, even though the final product is far from "right". I studied the protagonist deeper, let him ramble in my head. My characters tend to do that, and I encourage them. Then I discovered what was wrong with him.

He's a sociopath. Not simply neurotic, like most of my characters, like me, but actually psychotic, without a shread of insight. The story unravelled from there, and within one night the current incarnation of the story was written. It was a good thing that America was half a world away, because I got to bug Breanna to beta read the story at 4 in the morning (my time) without feeling guilty. And without having to wait long. Breanna agreed that the she hated the protagonist in the first version, but in the second version, he became compelling. I emailed the edited version and promptly fell asleep, tired but satisfied.

Fast forward a few months. Amir gave me the edited version. I hated it. All the bits that brought out the protagonist's voice were cut off. No. Butchered. All the bits that made him...well...him. Gone. I kept on typing "Suggest to keep the original", my fingers jabbing at the keyboard with increasing ferocity.

Alhamdulillah, Amir Muhammad proves he's the kind of editor who respects his writers. The proof he sent me had the protagonist's voice intact. He was again a sociopath, and not just another jerk.

I don't know if you'll love the story, or even tolerate it, but I can safely say that I am proud of "Kiss from a Rose". However, I won't be surprised if my Facebook and email will be spammed by two groups: one imploring that I repent and to be a respectful and dutiful little Muslim, and the other gnawing my head off for not being a respectful and dutiful little Muslim.

Oh well.

I can't wait to read all the stories in the anthology. The lineup is amazing. I am honored to be in the presence of wonderful writers such as Dina Zaman, Kow Shih-Li, Lee Eeleen, Dayang Noor, Megat Ishak and others.

The book launch will be later today at Kinokuniya KLCC.

DRAT I CANNOT ATTEND AS I AM AT KOTA BHARU BEING A DUTIFUL MASTER STUDENT!

Ehem. The book launch, reading session by the writers, as well as autographing and photographing will take place between 20:00 and 21:15 (which can extend further if you offer to buy them dinner. Maybe). I won't be there, but you should.

I don't know if you'll love my story or hate it. I don't know if you'll find it blah.

I just hope you'll read it.

And the rest of the book, of course.

Sonnet: Impossible Wishes

 

I wish to experience summer here
so that I’d feel the kiss of winter’s cold
I wish for negligible senescence
so that this love I have will not grow old

I wish I was able to discover
the cure for every illness there ever is
I wish to know before life is over
what true happiness actually means

I wish that someday I’d tell my own child
my love for him is unconditional
I wish to always make my daughter smile
Even when I can’t save her from the world

I wish for impossible things, I know
But without these wishes, where would dreams go?

Movie Review: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

I watched "The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey" during its opening weekend. By some unavoidable drama, I missed the first ten minutes or so. And I hate missing the first part of any movie. Like "Lord of the Rings", I've read the book long before the movies came to existence. Loved the story, but found the storytelling a bore.

Anyway. Even before watching the movie, I've been exposed to viewers' reactions on Twitter. They either loved it, or they hated it. Nothing in between. When I watched the movie, I absolutely loved it. However, at a certain level, it doesn't work. I left the theater feeling unsatisfied. Not cheated, but hollow inside. As I said, unsatisfied.

It took me over a month and a second viewing to really digest my reactions. Since I'm a writer as well, I can't help but analyze the movie through a writer's eyes. So here's what I think:

The things that made the movie work:

1. "The Hobbit" is a high-quality epic Fantasy. I may have strayed to other genres, but Fantasy will always be my home. There aren't many Grade A Fantasy movies out there, therefore I cherish each and every one of them.
   
   
2. The short book has been stretched into three movies. As such, Peter Jackson takes his time to tell the story. Sure, people complain that it takes over one hour before Bilbo finally leaves Bag End, which would have likely taken no more than fifteen minutes had the movie been compressed into one or two episodes. What's important here is that I get to appreciate the beautiful settings and the superb cinematography even more. Nothing is rushed, but nothing is bogged down. Beautifully done, I say.
   
   
3. The score. Oh, the score. Howard Shore is a genius.
   
   
4. Did I mention that the settings are beautiful? Well, they are. The CGIs are seamless.
5. The scene with Gollum. AMAZING!

 

The things that did not make the movie work:

1. The ending. I was wondering what made the story so unsatisfying. The character arc is complete. This is a story about Bilbo Baggins, and he starts off a complacent hobbit who doesn't want any adventure. At the end of the movie, he has found a reason to stay with the dwarves. He has found his purpose. Then I thought about the lack of big moments--the climax. After the second viewing, I find this untrue. There are plenty of climatic moments. For one, Bilbo spares Gollum's life and this is a major moment, which would have been significant had this movie been shown before LotR. As such, everyone (who hasn't read the book) already knows that Gollum survives to play a significant role in LotR. There's also the completion of Bilbo's character arc as I mentioned. There's the death of the Goblin King, and the encounter with Azog the Defiler. Plenty of big moments.
   
   Then I realized it. The party was rescued by an external element: the eagle lords. They were cornered into a corner (or, quite literally, at the edge), with no way to defend themselves, and out of nowhere come these great eagles to rescue them to safety. Sure, Gandalf seemingly summoned them using the ONLY MOTH THAT SO HAPPENS TO BE ON THE SAME PINE TREE, but this is a classic example of a deus ex machina ending. Totally unsatisfactory; cheating, almost. This article agrees with me view.
   
   
2. Similar to point (1), this movie falls victim to the dreaded unfinished episode. Maybe because it's not meant to be a trilogy in the first place. Some Fantasy series I've read have the same problem--some games, too. In every story there is a major antagonist, an arch enemy. In LotR, it's Sauron. In "The Hobbit", it's Smaug the fire dragon. Smaug is introduced at the beginning, and he awakens at the end. Check. In a series, there are lesser antagonists or bosses, obstacles the heroes need to overcome at the end of each book/episode, leading up to the ultimate boss at the end. Azog is the lesser boss, but there isn't a conclusion with him at the end of the first movie. The Goblin King is introduced at the 2/3 mark, which, in itself, is a sin as new elements cannot be introduced at and after the 2/3 mark, and his airtime is so little, with his death so easily obtained, that he's not really considered an obstacle.
3. The 48fps 3D theater. I'm used to 3D, and it's becoming more and more subtle, enriching the movie instead of being used as a special effect, but the 48fps just doesn't work. The images are HD-sharp (too sharp for a cinema), but what jarred me was the extremely fast-moving fast movements like crackling fire and scampering characters. It's like the movie is put on fast-forward, which ruins an otherwise excellent show.

 

Sure, the negative findings are more detailed, but that doesn't mean I won't be watching the movie over and over and over and. Over. Again. It's a beautiful movie, and it's a compelling story. Maybe I'll love it even more when I get to watch the whole story as a marathon.

Book review: "Son Complex", by Kris Williamson

 

I always look forward to reading locally-published English fiction. Granted, a lot of them out there are bad, but there are also gems, brilliant in their own right. When Buku Fixi announced the launch of its English imprint, Fixi Novo, I was excited, ecstatic even.

Fixi publishes pulp fiction, whose origin started in America in the late 1890s. Back then, short stories and serialized novels were published in magazines using paper made of pulp, making the magazines cheaper & more accessible. The quality of writing was secondary. Fixi & its English imprint Novo aim to continue the legacy of pulp fiction--not by using cheap paper, but by honoring the spirit of accessible fiction. Language purists scorn every single Fixi novel, but the younger generations devour these books with a passion.

 Back to the book in question. I don't often write book reviews because there's not much to say, usually. Either I love it, I don't, or I find it blah. Kris Williamson's "Son Complex" has moved me to share words on it.

 Not in a good way, however.

In essence, this novel is about a young man from Florida whose Caucasian mother passed away (for reasons not stated). After her death, his aunt gave him a set of letters, correspondences during the year his mother spent in Sabak Bernam, Malaysia. He never knew his father, and his late mother never spoke of the topic; the one clear thing is that he has mixed parentages. He discovers that his mother had a love affair with a Malay man who, after almost 25 years out of the picture, turns out to be a prominent politician with a wife and son. With nothing to lose, the young man, Aaron, travels to Malaysia to learn about his mother's past & possibly about his father as well. He appears at the politician's doorstep, assuming he's the father, and latches on to the family.

Since part of Novo's manifesto is manufacturing pulp fiction, I can forgive the paper cut characters, the stilted dialogs, the racial and class stereotyping, as well as the almost non-existent storyline. The book is 1/3 personalized tour of Kuala Lumpur, 1/3 dissertation on Malaysian social and political issues, and 1/3 story. I can almost forgive the author for trying to cram every imaginable social and political dysfunction that makes Malaysia...well, Malaysia. What I cannot forgive, and the reason for the 2/5 review on Goodreads, is how the author breached his contract.

Spoiler alert.

There are many rules to writing fiction--more than half of them broken in this novel--but one of the rules that cannot be broken is honoring the author-reader contract. In exchange for the reader's time and suspension of belief, the author promises to lead the reader to a satisfying conclusion. It doesn't have to be a happy ending, but the story has to end in a manner that the reader doesn't feel cheated.

 I was cheated.

Throughout the novel, the author doesn't describe much about the protagonist, Aaron. We only get to know that he has a wiry frame, and that he has brown eyes (his mother had green eyes). Maybe it's a plot device for the climatic revelation. However, no one in his right mind cannot identify a person with a mixed heritage of Caucasian/Chinese, Caucasian/Malay or Caucasian/Indian. There are distinct features to differentiate these parentages. The author, in a typical Mat Salleh manner, has the audacity to assume that all Caucasian/Asian mixes are the same in order to pounce a trick ending on his readers.

Ending spoiler alert: don't read further if you intend to read the book.

Aaron, Nasri (the alleged father) and the reader assume that Nasri's the father. There's even a scene where Aaron compares his build to that of Iskandar's, his (alleged) half-brother. There is no foreshadowing to indicate otherwise. At the (alleged) climax, the author reveals that Nasri may not be the father after all, but an Indian man from Sabak Bernam who raped Aaron's mother, Nora (also no foreshadowing on the rape other than that Nora left Malaysia abruptly and cut all contacts with Malaysian folks). Not only that, but get this: the frigid Datin, Nasri's wife, also reveals that she was a rape victim by her own father, an Imam.

 Talk about deus ex machina. An author absolutely cannot introduce a new element in the climatic scene. That's cheating. Major cheating. Total breach of contract. I bought the book, all excited and ready to fall in love, got turned off by the agendas this novel tries to cram in one sitting, but I finished the book at half-past one in the morning pissed off.

"Son Complex" should be shelved under creative non-fiction or social studies. I stand by my view that it's more a dissertation on the social and political scenes of Malaysia than a novel. It doesn't have a stake. Aaron has nothing to lose, and as a character, he is not changed at the end of the journey. Sure, Iskandar is involved in a road traffic accident after he is told that Aaron is (allegedly) his half-brother, but their relationship & the horror of losing Iskandar should have been developed more. The characters are inconsistent. For someone who thinks himself as superior to third-worlder Malaysians, Aaron at times acts like a villager thrust into a big city. He tries to exit the house by scaling the gates. Like, what? For a prominent, silver-tongued politician, Nasri accepts Aaron's allegation that he's the father, and invites Aaron to stay at his house. Come on. A politician will do whatever it takes to protect his reputation. He should have demanded a paternity test right away. But no. Then he spews this crap about only acknowledging Aaron as his son if Aaron becomes a Muslim. Because everyone knows that Muslim is Malay and Malay is Muslim. The hell. For a pious Imam's daughter, Datin doesn't don a hijab (because Datins don't wear hijabs, I suppose), and is quick to judge others. I guess the only significance of being an Imam's daughter is the revelation of incestuous rape. Because seemingly pious Malay men rape their daughters. Iskandar, who leads a double life, is the only one that seems real. Oh, and also Mina, the silent maid.

 This novel is all about the agendas. If you have issues against certain political parties and the class and racial dissension of Malaysia, this book will surely tickle you at the right places. If you don't really care for story and characterization, sure, this book is an accessible, cheap read.

 At RM18.90, this book is certainly a steal, considering that the average price of an English novel is RM30. However, the story itself should not be cheap. After all, among pulp writers were the venerated and highly celebrated Ray Bradbury, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Issac Asimov and Agatha Christie.

Would I buy another Kris Williamson's novel? If he promises to respect his readers and follow the absolute rules of fiction, sure. I don't have anything against the author; I just have everything against this book. "Son Complex" is a major disappointment. I sincerely hope the author will do better next time.

 

Posted with Blogsy

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So You Want to be a Doctor: on stress and suicides

We doctors are the best when it comes to suicide; we are among the most creative at it, too. We also have the highest suicide rate compared to other professions.¹ It's no surprise, really. In learning how to heal, we indirectly learn how to kill. Armed with the knowledge, we only need the proper motivation. And stress can be a powerful motivation indeed.

Every so often, an almost brave house officer--Americans call them interns, I think--writes to local newspapers about the amount of stress they face at work.^{2, 3} Almost brave because they don't reveal their identities in said letters/articles, which is wise because they'll only be targets for further bullying. I do not use the term 'bullying' lightly because this reflects badly on my colleagues--and perhaps, even myself.

But our general response to these open letters of complaint is laughing at the article and giving snide comments, because, let's face it, we've been through the same process. As house officers, we had experienced working seven days a week, over forty-eight hours at a stretch, and we had experienced being yelled at by senior medical officers and specialists in front of nurses, students and patients. It's a rite of passage, we say. It's something we all have to go through as doctors, so buck up and shut up.

We doctors dive head-first into a world of death and disease. Among the first things senior house officers teach fresh ones is how to react when a patient collapses. One of the most vital steps is to call for help. Unfortunately, speaking from personal experience, help doesn't necessarily come--not on time, at the very least. During such times, even the most arrogant house officers will be humbled at how professional and quick-thinking nurses and other support staff can be. However, no matter how quick we are, no matter how good we are, we cannot defeat Death. We can't even defeat diseases, sometimes. Several of my friends have contracted tuberculosis even though they have taken all necessary precautions when treating patients.

Shit happens.

Don't get me started on dealing with patients' difficult relatives.

I love working, and this is partly due to the excellent working environment. The whole department is like my extended family, and we share laughter and commiserations. I usually don't feel the long hours, and sometimes I still come during non-working weekends to check up on my patients. Still, no matter how good the environment is, sometimes it gets too much. Especially when patients you've come to care about passes away, or complications you cannot control happen during surgery.

Imagine how it feels when superiors treat you like scum, and your support staff treat you like a snot-nosed infant whose incompetence fills them with contempt.

This example may not be relevant, but I'm going ahead and use it anyway. When I started doing surgery some long years back, we used old and tired bone cutters (which are still in use today), and to do a craniotomy (sawing off part of the skull) alone would take me almost twenty minutes, making the total surgery time longer. I heard that before my time, they used a manual saw, and surgeries took way more hours than I would have been comfortable with. High-speed drills were for surgeons only. Now that the old craniotomes are dying off, we get to use the high-speed drills and an uncomplicated surgery only takes up slightly over an hour for me. Junior medical officers start their career in Neurosurgery using these high-speed drills, and the old craniotomes are an urban legend for them, just like the manual saws are an urban legend for me. We're moving toward a better future.

Still, I count myself lucky for working at the heart of the service. Other centers still use the old craniotomes and sometimes the manual saws.

What I'm getting at is that as the generations move along--one doctor-generation is around 5 years, so don't get any weird ideas on how ancient I am--we get better. We teach our junior better and more efficient ways to treat patients, and we are also armed with better tools for the job.

So why do we slam house officers who want a better work environment with reduced stress levels? Why do we keep on saying "we've been through that. These house officers are such babies."? We've been through it, and it was hell. We know how terrible it is to work for more than twenty-four hours straight, and we sure as hell know the mistakes we tend to make when sleep-deprived. When we hear about a doctor committing suicide, we wonder if we knew that doctor, we wonder how he or she did it, and that's about it. We've been so inundated with  extreme stress levels that we now believe that extreme stress is the norm, and is expected.

Maybe a better pay will help. Maybe shorter hours will help. Maybe a full day's rest after a twenty-four hours shift will help. Maybe even a mandatory one-week leave will help. That last one will definitely help, in my opinion.

All of the above are rendered useless if the work environment is toxic. No amount of compensation will matter if senior doctors believe that in order to build good junior doctors, you have to break them first.While it is true that fresh house officers start off their careers with a certain amount of arrogance--after all, we are among the brightest over-achievers--we don't have to make them hate their jobs. Humility and humiliation are two vastly different things, and to be honest, I think we have lost sight of that.

Being a doctor is stressful enough as it is. To ensure a better future for the younger generations, why not show our support instead of shooting them down? Why not show solidarity in securing a better life for all of us in and out of the workplace? And even if the authorities will do nothing other than write an empty response letter, why can't we create a healthy work environment?

Don't let a hard life make you just as hard. The next time we think about laughing at an article of complaint written by a house officer, why not think about the hell we've been through, and feel a little compassion toward these juniors. The people who voice out their concerns and complaints are courageous people who want a change for the better. These people should be lauded, lot laughed at.

Though I have to admit, with certain people, no amount of love and attention will make a difference.

 

 

_________________________________________________________

¹ Ilan Shira. The Occupation With the Highest Suicide Rate. The Narcissus in All of Us, Psychology Today; August 1, 2009.

² Houseman, Kuala Lumpur. Stressed From Still Working Long Hours. The Star Online; January 8, 2013.

³ Loh Foon Fong, Lim Wey Wen, P Aruna, Shaun Ho. Housemen still being overworked and bullied, sending some into depression. The Star Online, April 14, 2012.

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Tender Moments: The Alphabet I Propose

A is for the things I’m about to say
B is the book you pretend to read, but you’re listening anyway.

C is for the comfort I feel in your embrace
D is the dreams we share across time and space

E is for the emotions that I feel
F is for feeling those emotions for real

G is the gratitude I have inside
H is the honor of having you by my side

I is for inviting me into your heart
J is the joy you bring me, right from the start.

K is for all the kisses we will share
L is for later, in some room, somewhere.

M is the midnight drives for a cup of coffee
N is “No, I love you, but I will not drink coffee!”

O is for omitting all my flaws
when describing me to your Parents, my future in-laws.

Q is the Question I’m about to ask
R is a reminder that I’m saving it for last.

S is the secrets we hide from each other
T is the trust regardless, it feels me with wonder.

U is for understanding things will never be perfect
V is the vices you have learned to accept.

W is the wobbling of my knees when you are near
X is the XXX things we will indulge in, my dear.

Y is for you, always you, my love
Z is the zero that I am, but you carry me with the wings of a dove.

Now you know my ABC,
Please, dear heart, will you marry me?

Another year gone by

New Year's Eve used to mean something. I remember hanging out with Izaac watching fireworks. I remember running up the stairs shouting "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" to my parents and siblings. I also remember mass-messaging friends and relatives, wishing them a great year ahead.

I don't know when this happened, but January 1 is now just another date. If I'm lucky, I'm not on-call. If I have to work, then I'll be at the hospital. This time round, I spent December 31 hitting the gym and running errands, and in the evening baked a white chocolate mudcake for Kasha's birthday. Then I spent the night losing myself in a good ebook without realizing it was already half-past midnight. 2012 flew by and I didn't even notice it.

Not that it's a particularly bad year. That was 2011. I passed my Professional I exam, came back to HKL where I get to enjoy a good Starbucks breakfast almost every day, Faiz got married--finally--and little Ayden was born. Oh. I get to go on a mini-book tour around KL to promote the anthology I'm in. Good things. Excellent things.

Memorable things.

When it comes to celebrations, however, I believe that I am now jaded. Everything has lost its charm. According to my psychiatrist--yes, I have one--this is how I cope with the accident. I repress all forms of emotions. I deny the highs in order to avoid the lows. And you have no idea how deep my despair is. However, repressing my emotions has affected my writing because my writing is all about emotions. It's doing wonders for my day job, because I can be empathic without getting emotionally attached, but still. I miss writing stories.

Well, now that 2013 is here, I might as well forge my way ahead and pray that it'll be a much better year than 2012 already was. I hope I'll finally get my name on the spine of a book, and I hope I'll be doing my own tumor surgeries, InsyaAllah.

Family, friends, people I've come to love. May this new year bring you joy and laughter. May it bring you tears, all of them good. May you find happiness, wherever you are.

Whoever you are.

 

Love always,

Fadz.