She’s been unwell for a few weeks now, and she’s getting thinner. But today I found her lying on her side on the carpet, unmoving. Her breaths were shallow, and when I stroked her back, her meows were half-hearted. She didn’t even open her eyes. I cleaned her nose; it was caked with mucus and blood. She breathed fairly easily after that. And I cradled her, stroking her chin, her shoulder blades, her tummy. She didn’t put up a fight. She felt so light. So light. And I knew she was dying. And then I cried. I didn’t care that my tears fell on her mottled fur. I didn’t care that the mosque in front of my house had shifted from Quranic recitals to the call for Maghrib prayer.
When I finally put her down, she staggered to the tiled floor where it was cooler, and lay down. I went upstairs and told Kasha, “Keeno is dying.” I eventually told the rest of my family via our WhatsApp group.
Keeno came into our lives eighteen (human) years ago. My dad brought this ball of white fur with black spots on her eyes, ears and stunted tail. She was smaller than his palm, and she was bloated. He said he saw her all alone at Syed Bistro, and he tried to feed her some of his food, but this not-so-newborn kitten couldn’t even chew the food. So instead of leaving her to fate, he brought her home. Kasha immediately took it upon herself to feed the tiny bloated ball. She couldn’t digest regular milk, so we bought a special kitten formula. We didn’t think she would last the week. We didn’t even want to give her a name in case the worst happened. We had lost a cat just before the kitten came, so Faiz was wary and kept his distance. He didn’t want to risk giving his heart to another cat who’d just go away.
And yet she persisted. She was able to digest the kitten formula, and she finally pooped. And she thrived. And since Kasha had been taking care of her from the day she came home, Kasha named her. Keeno. Don’t ask me what it means. Keeno was her name-o.
And my God. The intellect on her. Keeno has never needed a litter box, or to be potty-trained. She uses the sink as her toilet bowl. We used to have to cover the kitchen sink because she’d take every opportunity to try out ALL sinks in the house. Once, she tried using the actual toilet bowl, and ended up submerging her bottom half. She always knows when we’re distressed or in pain; she comes and nibbles our toes, meowing non-stop. She’s patient with children. She hates it when people touch her stumpy tail and her tummy, but she tolerates it when small children do that. She doesn’t bite and scratch them.
Keeno doesn’t scratch. She has a mean bite, and a short temper, but she’d always play hide-and-seek, and bite-the-offending-cobra-hand even at the ripe human age of 17. But she doesn’t scratch. Her adopted sister Chika did. Speaking of Chika, Keeno disapproved of her adopted sister. Always kept her distance. Always kept aloof. But whenever Chika yowled over the indignity of getting bathed or getting fed medicines, Keeno would always run to check if she was okay. Which made bathing Chika first a whole lot of sense.
When we first had Keeno, we held on to this absurd belief that if you capture a photo of your cat, said cat will die soon after. I know. Absurd. But hey. One day I hesitantly (and secretly) took a photo of Keeno sleeping. She was so. Effing. Cute. And she didn’t die. So I revealed to Kasha and Faiz the photo I took. And got a scolding. But we started taking photos of our cats. And they didn’t immediately die after those photo sessions. Indignant and annoyed, yes. But they survived.
While Chika was the elusive Snuffleupagus (people thought we made her up, until they saw photos of her), Keeno doesn't hesitate to be friendly. Postmen, delivery boys, neighbors and friends who stop by for a chat, even angry mobs seeking their money back, Keeno would weave between their legs, and would lie down belly-up, and we'd go, "KEENO!" And then she'd saunter toward us and lie belly-up, expecting to be attended to.
Before my eczema became an issue, Keeno would always scratch at my door at night so that I would let her in. She'd jump on my bed and snuggle with me under the blanket. She’s a chronic sneezer, even from the day she came home to us, but she loved the air-conditioning. I’d check under the blanket if she was comfortable, and she would sneeze at my face, and then she would reach over and lick the snot away. Sometimes she’d let out this nasty fart that got trapped under the blanket, and she’d look at me all innocently when I gagged. When I ripped out a nasty fart of my own in retaliation, she’d jump out, snuggle between my legs OVER the blanket, and later on when it got too cold for her, she’d nose her way back under the blanket.
When the kids came, Keeno was no longer allowed upstairs because she sheds her fur like a tree sheds its leaves in late autumn. And she adhered to the new rule. Grudgingly, but she knew the last step on the staircase was her limit. It doesn’t matter now, because she can no longer jump up a chair, much less to the sink to do her business. But still she looks for the floor grate in the toilet, because she’s cultured that way.
Keeno is family. I love her with all my heart. And that very same heart is breaking because I know she’s going soon. But instead of being there for her, I’m at Starbucks writing this. Because I don’t know if I can take it. Because even though Kasha took care of her first, Keeno has always been there for me, unconditionally. Even when friend after friend abandoned me, Keeno would always be waiting at the door whenever I came home. Real soon I won’t have even that small kindness.
Shit, I think I’m gonna cry here at Starbucks, in front of strangers. But it's important that I do this, that I remember Keeno as she has always been all these years, because soon these memories will be all I have left.
Name by Fadzlishah Johanabas First published in Love in Penang; Fixi Novo, 2013
I pluck the guitar strings together with my eyes closed. Picking up the discrepancy in sound, I turn the peghead and try again. I smile a fraction when the two strings sing as one.
“What are you so smug about, Khir?”
“Eh?” I crane my neck to the right and look at Hui Ling looking at me. In her face I register honest curiosity. “Not smug. Why?”
“You were smiling to yourself just now.”
“I wasn’t even looking at you. How could you tell?”
“Your dimple showed.”
“I thought you’re reading?”
With a sigh, followed by a shrug, she lifts her book off the grass and continues reading. Brother Odd by Dean Koontz. Not my genre, but then again, we disagree on so many things that I still can’t believe she is sitting here beside me under the shade of this old tree, partially leaning against my back.
The chancellery hill is quiet today. Then again, it’s Saturday. The old white building whose long shadow shades us against the glare of the evening sun is deserted. The pak guard who patrols this area is a friend of mine—we share cigarettes at the bottom of the emergency stairwell at least three times a week—so I don’t worry about him causing me and Hui Ling grief for hanging out here alone, just the two of us. I love this place not just because it’s far removed from other loud and obnoxious students, but the view is spectacular. From this slope, we can see the Straits of Malacca glittering, and the Penang Bridge connecting the island with the mainland. We can even see the dark shadow of the mainland from here. Of course, the vista is marred by the ugly condominium jutting out at the base of the hill, but still. The view takes my breath away every time I come here.
I continue looking at Hui Ling in silence, but I could’ve been a stump for all the attention she is giving me. Her eyes, half closed, dart about as she reads. Her lips are partially opened, and once in a while they form soundless words.
Careful not to move too much, I give a shrug of my own. I love the feel of her weight on my back. Not too much pressure to make me exert a counterweight, but enough to assure me that she’s really here. I turn my attention back to my guitar. Its once polished surface is now faded, and the original lighter color of wood grain shows where my callused fingers have been strumming all these years. I’ve changed the strings countless times, but the guitar still plays beautiful songs for me. I pluck the strings again, two at a time. This time the tuning is just about right.
I start plucking the opening chords of my favorite song. After playing the same chords twice, I start singing the opening lines of Name by The Goo Goo Dolls, just under my breath.
I must have drifted into my own world again, ‘cause I don’t feel Hui Ling’s weight lifting off me. When I look up, she is already kneeling in front of me, her right hand resting on mine, effectively stopping me from plucking the strings. Her head is slightly cocked to the right, her expression a curious mixture that I can’t quite figure out. That’s one of the things I adore about her: I can never figure her out. Her book is on the grass beside her, closed.
“Wha?” I raise my eyebrows in a show of calm inquiry. Inside my heart is thumping madly against my chest. I give a quick prayer that she can’t feel the slight trembling of my hands.
“Stop.”
This is the first time I sing in front of her, for her. And she hates it. Goddamit! I knew this was a bad idea. I feel like shoving my guitar into its canvas bag before I do anything rash and stupid with it.
“I told you I can’t sing that well. Hell, this is one of the only songs I can play.”
“Liar.”
“Which part?” I give her the most innocent look I can muster. “I can’t sing well or I only know a few songs?”
“I know you can sing a lot of songs, Khir.”
“Ouch.”
“Well, you’re not Johnny Rzeznik, obviously.” It’s a wonder Hui Ling’s expression remains unreadable. My own must be changing like a tropical storm.
I look for the condemnation in her eyes. I find none. I watch her in nervous silence, my fingers frozen awkwardly on the fretboard. Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches into her jeans pocket and takes out her handphone. She then looks at her phone and fiddles with it.
“Start again. I’m recording this.”
My fingers refuse to budge. “Why?”
“Simply. Sing. Now.”
“Why?”
She blows her wispy fringe off her long lashes with a loud huff. Sunlight dances in her dark brown eyes. A slow smile plays on her lips. “Because it’s you, singing this song. Because I love your voice more than I’ll ever love Johnny Rzeznik’s. Because I want to hear this every day.”
A sudden wave warms my cheeks. “You’ll get bored.”
“So sing me a new song when that happens. Sheesh. Now shut up and sing.”
I face down toward my guitar to hide my smile. I’m still smiling when I start singing Name.
#
One thing I don’t get is why Ibu always gets me to stop by Chowrasta Market to buy her pickled fruits whenever I plan to come back home to KL. Jeruk salak and betik for her, buah pala for Opah, and three bags of assorted jeruk, one for each of her siblings. Sometimes she orders more, but never less. It’s an annoyingly long enough ride on my motorbike from Penang to KL. A backpack full of these packages crammed together with toiletries and clean underwear can break my back, almost.
The cool breeze brings with it a tinge of salty scent as it accompanies us along the seaside Tun Dr Lim Chong Eu Expressway. Hui Ling circles her arms around me firmly as we ride the motorbike using the scenic route into the city. She rests her head against my shoulder, but with her helmet clanging against mine, it’s a little awkward.
“Are you all right?” I shout over my shoulder.
“What?” Hui Ling shouts back.
“You OK back there?”
As an answer, Hui Ling tightens her grip around my chest just under my armpits. Her body presses against mine. It takes my entire willpower to concentrate on the road. I can feel her heart beating against me, and I have a sinking suspicion that she can also feel mine, thudding fast.
“Not too tight,” I shout, my voice catching between words. “Can’t breathe!”
She loosens her hold, but only slightly.
It’s a long ten-kilometer ride to Chowrasta. It also ends too soon. Much too soon.
The entire row of shop lots on the ground floor of the market facing the main road is occupied by pickled fruits stalls. Most of them extend their display onto the walkway, and the hawkers, mostly elderly Chinese uncles and aunties with Indonesian helpers, yell at passers-by to stop and sample their jeruk. You’d think yelling at potential customers will drive away sales, but this is Malaysia.
I have a particular stall I always go to, but only because Ibu bought jeruk there when my entire family came to Penang for my university registration two years ago. I do my best to ignore the uncles and aunties yelling at us, and head straight for the stall near the end of the row. The aunty who owns the stall is sitting under a small wall fan fixed onto the ceiling, fanning herself with an A4-sized cardboard. She grins when she sees us, displaying gaps between her yellowed teeth.
“Ean tau!” she hollers. She loves calling me ‘handsome’, even though I know that’s not true. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. Going back to KL hor?”
“Yup,” I say. “Aunty, like usual.”
She hobbles closer. She has her right hip replaced some five years ago after falling down the staircase at her flat. I found this out from Ibu, who apparently interviewed the aunty while haggling. “Who’s this chio bu? Your du peng yu?”
I look at Hui Ling and shrug. “My what?”
“She said I’m pretty,” Hui Ling says. Then her ears turn red. “And that I’m your girlfriend.”
I almost choke on my saliva. “Hmm. Yes. She’s my girlfriend.”
That’s it, then. It’s official. Hui Ling’s ears turn redder, if that’s even possible. She doesn’t deny it, however.
I control myself and remain nonchalant, but inside, I do a little jig.
The aunty packs my six packets of jeruk and pumps air out of the plastic bags before sealing them, airtight. At least this way, the packets won’t take up too much space in my backpack. I take out my money from my wallet, but Hui Ling stops me.
“Never send a man to do a woman’s work,” she says, her narrowed eyes twinkling with amusement. Or maybe irritation. I can’t tell. She then turns to face the aunty and starts haggling in Hokkien.
Their exchange is loud and somewhat heated. The aunty shakes her head, Hui Ling crosses her arms, and then the aunty crosses her arms and Hui Ling shakes her head. Both of them try to outloud each other.
I know better than to be in the middle of a haggling war, so I back away toward my motorbike and light a cigarette. The traffic is light, but it’s only half-past-three. It’s only after five that the traffic gets terrible. Times like this, I’m thankful for my motorbike. Driving in Penang during rush-hour traffic is worse than doing it in KL.
When Hui Ling comes back with a large plastic bag laden with packets of jeruk, she’s grinning. Her entire face lights up. “See? I saved you eight ringgit, and I even got a small pack of assorted jeruk.”
I take the bag from her. “So where’s the balance?”
“It’s my fee for haggling for you, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, grinning back at her.
Hui Ling straps on her helmet as I extinguish the cigarette butt against the trashcan before flicking it onto the overflowing bin. I secure my helmet and rev the engine. The bike bounces when she gets on behind me. This time, she can’t place her arms around my chest as she has to hold the plastic bag of jeruk between us. I should have thought to bring my backpack. Dammit.
“Ready to go, du peng yu?” I say.
Hui Ling slaps my back. “Your Hokkien is terrible!”
She’s giggling as we make our way around the bend. The traffic light ahead turns yellow, so I slow down.
The car behind us should have done the same.
#
Whenever people ask me, I tell them I don’t remember much about the accident.
In truth, I remember every single detail.
I remember the car—a black Satria Neo—ramming us from behind. I found out from the police when he was taking my statement that the driver was reading her Twitter timeline when the accident happened. I remember the motorbike flipping forward in an inverse wheelie because my fingers had tightly clamped the brake. Maybe, if my fingers weren’t on the brake, the entire motorbike would have just been nudged forward. Maybe, if my fingers weren’t on the brake, Hui Ling would have remained on the motorbike instead of being thrown forward onto the middle of the intersection.
The police told us we were lucky vehicles from other directions hadn’t started moving, or else the situation could have been far worse. But all I can remember is Hui Ling lying limp in the middle of the road like a dead fish on dry land. All I can remember, with the motorbike lying on my left leg, between screams of pain from my broken thigh bone due to the impact and seared calf due to contact with the exhaust pipe, are my howls for Hui Ling to wake up.
But she didn’t wake up.
We were sent to Penang General Hospital in separate ambulances. They took Hui Ling first. The pain got the better of me, and I drifted in and out of consciousness. I remember being wheeled into the operating theater, but not much of anything else.
Ibu hasn’t left my side since I was warded after the surgery. I don’t even know who contacted my family. The male orthopedic ward is like a warzone. Some patients have limbs—or stumps—suspended on frames. Some have traction devices. Almost everyone has a cast or a bandage on at least one limb. Mine? My entire left lower limb is wrapped in layers of bandages. My doctor told me during his round the day after my surgery that he inserted a large nail in my thigh bone to keep the fractured parts in place, and that I sustained a third-degree burn on my calf.
“It’s going to scar,” I remember him saying, “and the scar won’t be pretty. Good thing your face is still good-looking.”
I wondered about his age. He can’t be much older than my eldest brother. Ibu did one better. She asked him outright. He’s thirty-four, a newly-graduated specialist. He looks twenty-eight. He has a kind smile. I like his smile.
“How’s Hui Ling?” I ask Ibu.
She stops reading her thick Malay novel and adjusts her spectacles to look at me. “Same as the last time you asked thirty minutes ago.”
“I want to go see her.”
“You know the doctor told you not to get up yet. The skin graft is still healing.”
“It’s not healing. It’s itching like hell.”
“Language.”
“How is she?”
Ibu sighs and caresses my face. She hasn’t done it in a long time. “Her brain injury is quite extensive, but it was a good thing she got to the hospital early. The neurosurgeon has done his best. Now we pray for her recovery. We pray for her to wake up.”
I ball my fists and slam them against my bed.
Ibu doesn’t let go of my face. She’s crying.
She hasn’t done it in a long time, too.
#
Once I’m off the morphine-on-a-button, I’m more alert most of the time. The downside is that the itch is getting worse and I can’t sleep it off. And I think about the accident all the time. I think about Hui Ling all the time.
Two weeks in the hospital (they transferred me to the finally-vacant first class room after a week), Hui Ling’s parents visit me for the first time. I’ve never met them, but I can easily tell that Hui Ling has her mother’s eyes and her father’s snowy complexion. They hover at the door, as if undecided whether they should come in or not. Ibu adjusts her tudung and beckons them in.
“Mr Chia,” I say, pushing my body to sit up straighter. “Mrs Chia. I’m sorry about Hui Ling. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
Trust me. I’ve planned a speech for when I meet them the first time, and this wasn’t it.
Mr Chia clears his throat. “It’s not your fault. We’ve spoken with your mother and the police.”
Not exactly the warm welcome I hoped. Then again, it’s not easy for a Buddhist-Chinese parent to accept his only daughter’s Muslim-Malay boyfriend.
Mrs Chia, on the other hand, leaves her husband’s side and sits on the chair beside my bed that Ibu has just vacated. She takes my hand in hers. She’s trembling. “Oh, Khir.”
I stiffen and pull my hand away. “Hui Ling.” My voice chokes. “Is she—”
Mrs Chia shakes her head. She’s crying in earnest now. “She’s going to be all right. She’s awake.”
“Alhamdulillah,” Ibu and I mutter at the same time.
Mrs Chia caresses my cheek. Maybe all mothers do it. “But there’s something I need you to know.”
I push the wheelchair into the high-dependency ward. I’m getting better at moving about in the wheelchair. Hui Ling’s parents are standing beside the bed nearest to the sliding door, and Hui Ling’s leaning against the propped-up bed, with an oxygen tube running beneath her nostrils and looped around her ears. She is bald, with tufts of growing hair covering most of her scalp. A large question-mark-shaped wound runs across most of the right side of her scalp. Fine scabs line most of the wound. The scalp encompassed by the wound is slightly sunken, the edges where part of her skull had been removed can be clearly seen.
Hui Ling looks at me approaching her, and then turns to look at her parents. Her father remains stoic. Her mother is smiling, though her eyes are on the verge of tears.
Hui Ling returns her attention to me and offers me a half-smile. “You were in an accident, too?”
She doesn’t remember the accident. That much is expected.
I take a deep breath. “We were in an accident, Hui Ling.”
She cocks her head slightly to the left, a habit of hers when she’s curious. “My friends call me Hui Ling. Others call me Chia.”
“But we are friends. You’re my…you’re my…what’s the word? Du peng yu.”
Her eyes widen, and then narrow into slits. “Your Hokkien is terrible.”
I snort a laugh. See? Her parents are wrong. The doctors are wrong.
“But I’m not your girlfriend,” she continues. “I don’t even know you.”
Just like that, my heart shatters into a thousand pieces. “I’m Khir, remember?”
“No. I don’t know you.”
I wheel my chair closer. “Please remember, Hui Ling.” I reach for her, but she pulls away.
Those shattered pieces of my heart? She tramples on them without even knowing it.
Without even knowing me.
Hui Ling turns and reaches out for her mother. “Ma, what’s he saying? It hurts. Take him away. Take him away.”
“Hui Ling,” I plead. “Hui Ling.”
Mr Chia marches toward me and grabs hold of the wheelchair’s handles. “That’s enough, Khir. She needs her rest.”
“How come she doesn’t remember me? She has to remember.”
“I’m sorry.”
Funny thing is, he sounds genuinely sorry. Maybe he’s not against the idea of his daughter having a Malay boyfriend.
Funnier thing is, his daughter doesn’t even remember she has a Malay boyfriend.
I can’t help it. I laugh. Right outside the high-dependency ward, as the sliding doors close, I laugh until my sides hurt.
Over the laughter, I cry.
#
I know I can’t hide away forever. Time heals everything, people say. Three months after the accident and after intensive physiotherapy, I’m already walking without a crutch. My orthopedic surgeon was right; the scars are ugly. He also said I may never regain the original strength of my left leg, but at least my limp is almost imperceptible. My leg still hurts, sometimes, especially when it’s cold outside. I don’t know if the pain will ever go away.
The other thing that still hurts is my heart. Everyone decided it would be best if I didn’t hang around Hui Ling. It’s for her own good. My opinion didn’t matter no matter how loud and hard I argued. In the end I had to concede. I had to let go of her.
Three months after the accident, and my heart still hurts, goddammit.
I attend classes as usual, but I no longer hang out with my friends, with other students. I can’t stand the pity in their eyes. I don’t need their pity. I don’t need their reassurances, their condolences. I don’t need any of them. Not a single one.
I sit at my favorite spot behind the chancellery building overlooking Penang Bridge and the Straits of Malacca. The day is overcast, and the sea looks dull without sunlight dancing on its surface. I’m not supposed to be here during office hours, but the pak guard only nods when he passes by.
I take my time to tune my guitar. I haven’t played it since the accident. Playing the guitar brings back memories of times I can never go back to. But I can’t run away forever. Once I finish tuning the guitar, I play the first song that always comes to mind.
I play Name.
I’m so lost in the song that I only notice her sitting on her knees across from me once I finish singing the last note. I blink. She blinks back at me.
“Hui Ling,” I stutter. “I mean, Chia—”
She cocks her head slightly to the left. “You’re Khir, right?”
I nod. That’s the only thing I can think of doing.
“How come I can remember everyone else, but not you?”
I shake my head. “What are you doing here?”
She points at the chancellery building. “My doctors say it’s good for me to go back to familiar surroundings, and I need to finish my degree. So here I am.”
So matter-of-factly. So Hui Ling.
“That song you played,” she says.
I sit straighter. “You remember the song?”
She shakes her head. Her hair, now at least three inches long, juts out everywhere. But she’s still beautiful.
I slump on my guitar, defeated.
Hui Ling takes out her phone. “I have a recording of the song. I didn’t know whose voice it is.” She hits play, and my voice comes out from the speakers. “Now I know,” she says.
Hui Ling plays one song after another, all the songs she recorded of me singing. I can only sit and watch the girl I love sitting across from me, the girl who doesn’t even know who I am.
After a few minutes playing the recordings of my voice, Hui Ling stops and lets the phone fall on her lap. She searches my eyes, capturing them, holding them in place with just her gaze. “You were an important person to me, weren’t you?”
You’re important to me, I want to say. Instead, I just nod.
“The song you sang, Name? Will you sing it again?”
“Why?”
“Simply. Sing. Now.”
Memories come rushing in. At least for me. “Why?”
“Because I love your voice. Because even though I can’t remember you, I’d like to get to know you. Now shut up and sing.”
This time, I don’t hide my smile when I start singing Name.
"So remember when we were driving driving in you car Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder And I...had a feeling that I belonged And I...had a feeling I could be someone Be someone, be someone."
- "Fast Car", by Tracy Chapman
Growing up in metropolitan Kuala Lumpur, traffic has always been a major part of my life. My childhood memories are littered with scenes from inside my parents' Isuzu Trooper: my dad taking off-road shortcuts that felt more like cratered surfaces of the moon; sleeping on a mattress laid out at the back as we made our annual 8-hour drive to Johor Bahru; making myself small so that my mom couldn't reach my seat and pinch me whenever I couldn't get the spelling from the list right; the car breaking down in the middle of the road and I'd be lying across the backseat, sweating away as my dad fiddled with the repairs. Now that I'm driving my own car, my memories of getting caught in traffic are different. They are filled with songs that I play almost full-blast, songs that I sing along with, and daydreams of stories that I craft -- or used to craft, at any rate. I actually enjoy traffic jams, provided I'm not in a hurry at that particular time.
But the best memories I build driving around Kuala Lumpur happen during two situations: late at night when it's just me, some random cars and daredevil motorcyclists, and the city lights; and in the mornings during weekends when I drive home from work, where the cool breeze tastes fresh, where the city itself is yawning and stretching, not quite awake just yet. My playlist during these times are more often than not acoustic renditions and covers. I'll be driving fast with the window down, my hair whipping about. The city sits beside me, her long fingers caressing the back of my neck as she shares with me the hidden beauty all around me. Sometimes the city is a guy, but I still appreciate the intimate sharing of sights and sounds all the same.
I've never belonged anywhere. I'm too weird and artistic for the scientific and medical world, but too rigid and structured for the artistic world. Perhaps I've never made enough effort. Perhaps I've been trying too hard. At home, I don't get to share my work experiences because they are too different from what my family members face. Also, having spent my entire career proving my worth but getting glossed over all the time is not something I'm eager to share with anyone. And of late, I've been questioning my worth as a writer that I've quit writing prose altogether. Bits and pieces of Instagram poetry, sure, but I've said my goodbyes to writing stories. I've spent my entire writing career trying to prove my worth, but I still get glossed over, and it's wearing me down.
I'm just tired. So tired. And frustrated. But mostly tired.
I don't know if I can keep this up any longer. Playing by the rules, doing everything right, being professional despite the hits that I receive, and yet never taken seriously. I don't know why my Master's Degree that I literally almost died for seems to worth far less compared to others'. And writing-wise, I keep getting rejections that claim that I'm such a strong writer, with excellent characters that come to life, but best of luck in getting representation elsewhere. And get this: I can't even buy a house because my money management is horrendous. And my face is so messed up now, I'm surprised children still trust me enough to be around them.
So basically my life that's supposed to be a success story is a failed attempt at adulthood. I'm whining, I know. I'm supposed to be grateful for surviving the car accident. I'm supposed to be grateful for earning my Master's Degree. I'm supposed to be grateful for being graced with artistic talents not limited to writing.
What does not belonging have to do with driving? The only time I feel that I belong anywhere is when I'm driving fast in the city with the window down, catching sunrises and sunsets between skyscrapers, passing orange tunnel lights. Just me, the city in the passenger seat, and the possibility that I can be someone. This is the only time that I get to simultaneously think about going ever faster so that I'd crash the car and end my existence, but holding on to life just a little bit longer because there's so much beauty to behold.
"You got a fast car Is it fast enough so we can fly away? We gotta make a decision Leave tonight or live and die this way."
All the hospitals I’ve worked at have these big, unflattering OT scrubs that aren’t even comfortable (it’s true). In 2010, I started wearing non-standard scrub caps because I developed contact dermatitis toward the rubber band and the material. However, only when I was in the Master’s Degree program I felt comfortable enough, confident enough, to seriously consider wearing a non-standard scrub set. Also, the standard scrub made me itch, too.
It wasn’t easy.
I had to cajole and beg my Neuro OT sisters to allow me to buy a customized scrub. I had to promise them to go through proper works to eliminate risks of surgical infection. Then I had to convince my big boss (who was actually okay with the idea). Suffice it to say, my sweetness went on overdrive. And then I bought four sets of customized black scrubs from scrubs.com at almost two hundred ringgit per set, so that I’d be wearing a fresh gear every day. Yeah. At least the exchange rate didn’t suck as bad as it does now.
Even then, it wasn’t easy. When I wore my black scrubs in the general or pediatric OT, I had to defend myself to the respective OT sisters. One particular sister even almost forced me to change. When I was stationed at other hospitals, I continued to wear my black scrubs. Somehow it became my identity. Other than “the doctor who laughs a lot” and “the surgeon with (thankfully) great playlists”, I became the “doctor in black scrubs”, even among my superiors.
It’s been two years since I graduated, and I still retain the identities – especially the one with the black scrubs. When I found out that my medical officers intended to make a scrub, and the chosen color was black. I wasn’t happy. My identity was at stake. So I approached the most senior and influential medical officers, as well as my adopted kid brothers. I asked them, “Please. Not black. Anything but black.” Then I went, “If you want to declare war with me, go ahead. Don’t blame me for whatever happens afterward.”
They laughed and teased me, and I thought – I hoped – they considered my request.
But they made their scrubs black, anyway.
I knew they went ahead with the color, but it was when I saw them on two of the medical officers I’m particular fond of earlier tonight that the reality struck me. Especially when one of them is my adopted kiddo. And when I texted my other adopted kiddo, he laughed and said, “all in war with you.”
Maybe I’m overreacting for something so trivial. But here’s the deal: I could have told them, “I am your superior. I am your surgeon. You are beneath my payscale, so you have to listen to me. No black means no.” Or, I could have went, “Pick black and you’ll disrespect me.”
But I didn’t. To me, respect is earned, and not forced upon. And I’ve always believed that I’ve done (mostly) right by these kids. I teach them to the best of my capacity. I’ve always been there whenever they needed me (sometimes even when they didn’t want me around), and I’ve always been supportive. Well, I do overlook some of them, but I am seldom mean. Come on, I’m not a saint. At any rate, I thought I had earned their respect and their affection.
Apparently not.
Worse, when I texted said juniors earlier tonight, none of them apologized. Sometimes saying sorry isn’t about admitting you’ve done wrong, but about comforting the bereaved. They don’t teach this in medical school. Maybe they should, because my juniors do not have a shred of empathy. I was secretly hoping they would choose another color, so that I would know that I did do right by them.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should see it as me making an impression, and they wanted black as a nod toward me. But what I am right now is heartbroken on a massive scale. None of them acknowledged my plea, and none of them even bothered to find out why I insisted on keeping the color for myself.
All the times I was there for everyone, they wouldn’t allow me this one grace. I just…I don’t know how to react right now.
I am disappointed. Above everything, I am heartbroken.
I am this much closer to giving up on everything, on everyone.
This is an open letter that I hope will reach you. But it’s not just for you. This letter is also meant for those whom I have never personally met. This letter is for those in the future, as well as the past.
I’m sure by now you’ve grown tired of your seniors and superiors going, “Back in my day, we were much much better.” Truth is, what we feel is nostalgia. Despite our hardships – or, rather, in spite of our hardships – here we are, survivors who give unsolicited advice on how to be good doctors. Truth is, things were terrible back then. Before my time, the pay sucked. Like, minimum-wage-was-better-than-our-call-claims sucked. During my time, we had a minimum number of doctors, and our seniors, who were supposed to be our mentors, were overworked and too tired to teach us on proper care. During my time, we had calculative colleagues who got away with doing the least amount of work. We had doctors who could be seen running about like a chicken whose neck didn’t get cut just right but, like said chicken, didn’t get anything done other than creating a bloody mess. We had doctors like me and some of my friends who had (and still have) to give that much extra effort to cover the problematic ones, but got into trouble (and still do) whenever we were too tired to give it our all.
Sure, we also had fun, but back in my day, things weren’t that great. My seniors and registrars back then taught me enough so that I got things right. If I didn’t cause more morbidity than I should, it was all good. I am forever indebted to them, my teachers as well as my elder siblings, but I’m not ashamed to share with my juniors the things I got wrong. I’m not proud of my mistakes, but it’s better that you learn from my wrongs than make your own.
But whenever you do make your own wrongs, you know that I’m there to correct you, to guide you. I don’t go telling everyone but you about your mistakes. You know that. If you get it right, I make an effort to congratulate you and to encourage you to keep it up, to be better. You know that, too.
There has always been one reason for that: I want you to be much better than I was when I was in your position. On my second day of my Master’s Degree program, my professor told me that with my work experience, I would have already been a neurosurgeon in his country, but I knew nothing. Sure, it stung, but I knew he was right. I’ve learned much since then, but to this day, there are those who still think that I should not have been inducted into the fraternity.
Because I’m not dedicated enough. I won’t be a humblebrag and regale everyone with my work ethics, but you know how I work. You know that the accusation is unfounded.
But enough about that. That story is for another time.
The reason I’m writing this is that I am disappointed in you. Yes, you. When I give you my plan, sometimes you go, “It’s okay Boss. I’ll discuss with someone else.” When I discuss a patient with you, and another specialist calls, you leave me mid-sentence until the other specialist is done. When I review my patients, you don’t attend to me and carry on with your own work instead. When I point out what you’re doing is wrong, you snap at me, saying, “I’m tired, can’t you see?” When I scold you for your irresponsibility, never once do you say, “I’m sorry.” When you get into trouble you expect me to be there, but when I ask for a little piece of your time, “Boss, I’m outta here.” I’ve done my darnest to teach you to get it right, but you take shortcuts anyway, because for you, it’s just work that needs to get done. I’ve given my hardest to fight for you, but it is another person’s scrap of approval that matters the slightest whit.
I get berated lots of time for blurring the boundaries between specialist and medical officer. Truth is, I don’t know how to act like a specialist. I’ve been blessed enough to have seniors who took me under their wing right from the start, and I still call them Kakak and Abang, for they are my elder sisters and brothers. I’ve been blessed enough to have different senior nurses who gave me the same sage advice throughout every stage of my career: don’t ever change how you treat others, how you treat us. Stay just the way you are.
I can force you to be there, but I can’t force you to care. And it’s killing me. Because I care too much. I care about you, and I care about my patients. It kills me that you don’t afford them the dignity of a fellow human being. It kills me that you identify them as bed numbers and not their given names. It kills me that I have to ask you for updates on the patients we operated together instead of you updating me without needing to be prompted.
So this is where we part ways. This is where we say goodbye. Forgive me if I only actively care about just one person among your ranks. I wish you all the best, and I hope that one day you’ll be amazing no matter what you do, be in in the medical line or outside, and that you get to tell your juniors that during your day, things weren’t that great but you made it anyway.
I hope that you’ll remember that you had a teacher and an elder brother that tried, and failed, and said goodbye.
Above all, I hope you’ll never get to experience that.
Let it be known that for me, 2016 has been The Stagnant Year aka The Year Where Nothing Happened (except for an ever growing list of celebrity deaths).
2015 had been a whirlwind: I published my collection of short stories Faith and the Machine at the same time I was sitting for my final exams to become a neurosurgeon. I actually passed said exam, and my title changed from Dr to Mr. I finished my gazettement at my home base Hospital Kuala Lumpur, and I'm still serving here, alhamdulillah. I finished my first novel-length work, and submitted it to multiple agents in USA & UK. I was getting full requests along with rejection slips.
2016, however? I'm the longest serving registrar in Neurosurgery HKL & it's not because of incompetence. I'd like to believe that, because bigger and more complicated cases are thrown my way. The registrar pool is severely understaffed, and I feel guilty letting the Master's Degree candidates doing 10 calls a month. Recently, as I was grinding a World of Warcraft dungeon, I had this thought: I did exactly this 8 years ago. On-call, surgeries, WoW (plus other MMOs). On-call, surgeries, WoW. Nothing changed for me. I'm just a glorified Medical Officer with a new title that doesn't really mean a thing to everyone around me (including myself) with no life other than online gaming. Well, there are some changes, I must admit. Now I have more nieces and nephews stumbling into my room seeking attention (and the occasional "Milk please Mo, milk please Mooooooooooo.") Other than that? Exactly. The. Same. My life has become an endless loop that I can't escape from.
I thought being in a position where I can officially help my juniors, I'd be of some actual help. I entered the Master's program with next to no knowledge. While I was more than competent with the surgical knife, theory-wise I had lagged behind. I don't want this for my juniors. I believe that they should enter the program far better equipped than I had ever been. But it's been a frustrating ride so far. I don't think anyone sees me as someone they can learn from. All attempts I've made have been futile. I even got called to the Head of Department's office once for scolding a Medical Officer in the ward, in front of patients (also for using the word "fuck". Yeah. My bad). I got berated for fraternizing with the MOs. There should be a division between specialists and MOs, they said. It becomes all the more frustrating because I've always believed in working in a family-mindset environment where hierarchy is an abstract concept that we only acknowledge when officially needed.
Maybe I wanted to leave a mark too much. Maybe I wanted the juniors to one day tell their juniors, "I learned this from Fadz" like I've been telling my juniors about my teachers Datuk Saffari, Mr Azmi, Mr Ramesh, Mr Ng, Hafiz, Kak Siti, Kak Azleen, Saiful Razman, Wei Ming, Rahmat and the rest of my seniors. Or maybe the juniors are just not used to hardship as I had been -- you know, that Gen Y & millennial thing. My friends keep reminding me that I cannot impose my standard on everyone. But here's the thing: what I'm able to do, everyone should be able to do. I'm nothing but a professional accomplished loser.
In the writing front (what writing front?) I have been attempting to finish my second novel-length work, but I've not written any new words for the past 3 or 4 months now. Actually, it's not my second attempt at writing a novel; so many previous efforts have been abandoned in the elephant grave of my mind (and cloud storage). I completed a novel while I was supposed to be studying for my final exam early last year, and to date, it has raked over 120 rejections from agents and competitions. I don't think it totally sucks; I've gotten over 30 full requests, and several requests to submit another work when it's ready.
I haven't written a short story in over a year now. The one that has made the most bill to date has its publication pushed back indefinitely. Payment has been made (and completely spent). Oh well. I have somehow been consistently rejected by local venues while at the same time solicited by international ones. Again, oh well. Maybe my writing is not dipped in belacan enough. I think I've decided to stop submitting locally. What's the point? The lowest blow came in the form of a local editor asking me, "Why don't you write in Malay?" I think that conversation has left a permanent scar in my mind.
I didn't share this earlier, but I almost sold 507 copies of Faith and the Machine to Perpustakaan Negara Malaysia (our national library) thanks to Azida, a fellow writer who has a book under the same publication house. That's RM12,675 -- RM6337.5 to bring home after splitting 50% with the publisher. What was more, the book could have found a home in every single district library throughout the country. Could have being the key word. Since the publication house is a small-press one, it didn't have said amount of copies lying about. After multiple delays, the sale didn't come through. I also need to publish under a different house if I want to submit a new request to sell Faith and the Machine to PNM. So that ain't happening. Oh well.
Oh. I think I almost fell in love, but it wasn't meant to be. That's all I'm going to say about that.
Also, I can't even afford a studio apartment. Can't apply a government loan for it, and banks are only willing to provide an 80% loan despite it being my first home. Credit cards. Personal loans. I'm bad -- no, terrible -- with finances. Saving up means planning for the future. I don't want a future.
Maybe it's completely natural that The Year Where Nothing Happened follows The Year Where Big Things Happened. Maybe it's God's way of telling me to take a deep breath, to take stock and to appreciate where I am, where life has taken me. Maybe it's a prelude to another big year ahead. At the rate 2016 has been going for the world however, things don't look so good. I guess I should be thankful for my health and family, and for my achievements. It's just that having been raised believing that I'm never good enough, I don't think that I've achieved anything. Being a doctor -- a neurosurgeon -- is nothing special. Being a published writer is nothing special. Saving lives is a normal daily activity. I wrote this in an Instagram post: We have normalized hardship so much that we forget that what we do is hard.
Yeah, sure. For those of you who have read this far, you must be thinking to tell me, "Fadz, it's time that you settle down, build a family." You may not understand it, but it's not something that I want. I'm just broken that way.
Maybe I am stagnant because I don't want to change. Finishing that brilliant, totally publishable novel means putting myself out there. Acknowledging myself as a specialist means creating a rift with my juniors and support staff. I really don't intend to build a family, so let's not even go there.
Well, change is about to come. Starting from next month, I'm officially in the specialist call pool. Maybe I should embrace it. Maybe I should just finish that novel and let it get rejected again and again, or let it get picked up by someone who believes in my work. I don't fear rejection; maybe I should embrace the the fact that what I actually fear is acceptance. Maybe I should start saving up. If not for my own future, then for all the Johanabas 2.0. Maybe I should also accept that the juniors will come to me when they are ready to learn, and not a minute earlier.
I had many false starts with this post. I didn't think I could ever write again, but here I am, 1380 words and counting. Maybe it's a sign that I'm going to write again.
Or maybe the world as we know it will end in 2017.
Do me a favor and listen to the song while you read this. It doesn't matter if you don't understand the words. That's the beauty of it.
I haven't watched anime for the longest time, and I don't know why. It's not that I've outgrown it; I still read One Piece manga even though I can lo longer be bothered with watching the anime series. I used to love anime. The story lines are usually more mature and have more depth than Western cartoons. Heck, they even have more depth than a lot of live-action TV series out there.
I read on Twitter that someone recommended watching Kimi no Na wa | Your Name for its brilliant use of lighting and cinematography. So I looked for the anime on a whim -- well, I was procrastinating and watching a movie was one of the best excuses to not write -- and I managed to watch it tonight. Right before writing this.
We all know if I immediately write a review on something, I have strong feelings about it.
Wow was I blown away. Yes, the movie is visually stunning. But. Much more than that, it is beautiful in its entirety. Kimi no Na wa is one of those quiet movies. You know, those without an antagonist or monsters or quests. What I'm saying is that it's not for everyone. Adventure lovers can find it boring. So read no further.
Kimi no Na wa by Makoto Shinkai revolves around the comet Tiamat whose blazing path becomes visible as it makes its 1200-year orbit around the sun. Seventeen-year-old Mitsuha Miyamizu, raised in the ancient ways of Shinto but hating her life in her sleepy town, experiences these vivid dreams where she becomes a seventeen-year-old boy in Tokyo named Taki Tachibana. Taki experiences the same dream, where he wakes up in Mitsuha's body. Eventually both of them realize that during these "dreams", they switch bodies. I don't want to say more for fear of spoiling this beautiful, beautiful movie.
Watching Kimi no Na wa reminds me that I live for quiet stories. Stories without antagonists or monsters or quests. Not so much in-depth introspection typical of a literary work (even I find those boring), but stories where the main characters don't have to triumph over an antagonist. Stories without bad guys.
Yeah, yeah. These stories are boring, you say.
For me, there is strength in the quiet. These stories envelop me like a subtly colored quilt blanket and keep me warm, comforting me, staying with me long after the stories are over. There's a staying power in these stories. And there is so much beauty.
The first novel I finished writing is a quiet one. Well, more than one literary agent said so, so I guess it's true. Too quiet, even. The current one I'm writing, despite the adventures, is also quiet. Maybe once it's done, it'll get rejected over a hundred times, too.
I may write in multiple genres, but I love writing quiet stories the most. It is where I find my strength, where I discover and explore beauty.
Maybe one day I'll get to share these quiet novels with the world. For now, I'm thankful that I've found myself again.
If my thoughts were butterflies fluttering by I would catch them with a net lest I forget I would pin them on a board Each wing a swirl of thought And put them on display So I'll never run out of things to say.
Fly, fly, my butterflies Spread your wings and take to the skies.
If my thoughts were butterflies fluttering by I would keep them in a jar and they would never fly far Wonder against wonder As they merge together Seeds will start to grow As thoughts are wont to flow.
Fly, Fly, my butterflies Spread your wings and take to the skies.
If my thoughts were butterflies fluttering by I would witness the hatching of the eggs Tiny caterpillars with tiny legs I would feed them ideas as they grew I would feed them knowledge, old and new In cocoons they would converge And from them, more butterflies would emerge
Alas, my thoughts are not butterflies fluttering by.
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I wrote this in response to a post in my local FB writers' group, where one of the members shared the painting as a prompt to write a poem or a short story. I am not a poet; I don't have the finesse or the skills of one. Sometimes, however, the words flow out, especially when I haven't written a story in a long time.
The world is a scary place. It's an ugly place. But it is also a place of unimaginable beauty and wonder. The words we share can be ugly; they can hurt. The words we share can also be beautiful, and can heal the soul.
Maybe these words can never do the beautiful painting that inspired them justice. Maybe these words will float in the void that is the internet.
But still. The world needs more beautiful thoughts.
