Murky Clarity

It never gets easier

It was early this morning. Or late last night, depending on how you count days. Around 0200 hours, give or take ten minutes. Most people were either asleep, getting home after a late night show or a session at the latest clubs, or surfing porn behind closed doors, with the lights turned off. I was wide awake longing to be asleep. I just came back (to the hospital) after grabbing a quick dinner at McDonald's Ampang Jaya. Before that I was drilling holes in people's skulls. I knew there was a patient who deteriorated an hour past midnight in our ICU. I knew there was a possibility I had crawl into the blue OT attire again, to open up the patient's skull, to take out the bone, the blood, or whatever that was making him more ill than he already was. Sounds routine, doesn't it? The patient has not quite reached sixteen years breathing the air we're all breathing. I have about twelve years on him, and God willing, I may see more years passing by. But he won't. In the time I'm writing this, his life force is barely a flicker, ready to be snuffed out. I wasn't the one who admitted him, nor was I the one who operated on him. I'm simply the doctor managing the ICU where he happens to be treated. I had the opportunity to explain to his father about his condition. I told him that his son, the one on the bed that looked much too big for his still form, with all the tubes and wires connected to him like a grotesque parody of a sci-fi novel, was in bad shape. But he's still young. There's hope. There's always hope. That was on Friday, before I went home after work. Fast forward to Sunday, 0200 hours. About eighteen hours into my call. The same patient deteriorated. Where was the hope? Out with whatever dreams he had before that freak twist of fate that landed him on the ICU bed, dying. What happened to him in the first place? No, he wasn't riding a motorcycle, doing whatever stunts teenagers these days are doing. He didn't play truant during school hours. He was playing soccer with his friends. Witnesses said a flag pole fell onto him. His family kept asking me whether there was a possibility someone hit him at the back of his head. I may never know what happened. But whatever happened definitely wasn't his fault. Life's unfair that way. I offered to inform the family. I knew it was going to be hard. I spoke with the father earlier. I saw some of the relatives. In a way, I had a fleeting glimpse into his life. His father was working night shift, so his elder brother came. I led him into a room and took a seat facing him. How do you tell close family members that the younger brother is already brain dead, that only his heart is pumping independently? How do you tell them that the sixteen-year-old will not live to see another day? I chose to tell the elder brother straight on, without pretense, without medical jargon. I spoke as softly as I could, as slowly as I could. I paused to let the words sink in, and saw the change in his face. I saw the hard set of his jaw, the tears welling in his eyes. I saw his denial, I saw his anger. After a minute of silence, I broached the subject of organ donation. I hate myself for doing it, but it had to be done. The patient was a suitable candidate for it. Naturally, from the look on his face, he was not going to listen to anything else from me. I laid it there. I told the brother to call his family members, to say their goodbyes, to be there with the patient as he fades away, with their prayers and their blessing. He asked me if there was anything else we could do. I told him the truth. There wasn't, other than to ease his passing. The patient's mother stopped me at the door on her way in. She asked me what was happening with her son. I told her he was dying. She turned and headed his direction. I stood by the door long enough to see her sit down by his bed, her head and shoulders slumped. I went into my room and lay on my own bed, trying to absorb the enormity of the words I just exchanged with the patient's family. I heard the elder brother talking on the phone, telling other family members one by one that his brother no longer was. Before I knew it, a few drops of warm tears rolled on the bridge of my nose and cheek. Maybe I was yawning at that time. If I was, I couldn't recall doing it. This morning, his blood pressure was unrecordable. His heart was still beating, but weak; it was a flutter compared to the stomping of mine. I did the only thing I could do: I whispered the syahadah into his ears before asking the nurses to call his family in. This time his father was around. I told him it would be anytime soon. I asked him to guide his son, to ease him, to be there in his final moments. He asked if his wife could come in. I nodded and asked the nurses to provide them with a few books of Yasin, and a couple of chairs. I asked for them to draw the curtains, to give the family the scant privacy we could afford them with. Life goes on for me. I reckon I'll be facing similar situations, like I did before this. But the same is not true for this particular patient. Nor will it ever be the same for the family he's leaving behind. I cannot even attempt to imagine how it is for his parents, to see him slipping away from their embrace. I sincerely hope, I sincerely pray, that my family and friends will never face this nightmare. May it never touch you and yours, whoever is reading this. This is dedicated to the patient. His family loves him, deeper than the roots of the earth, but Allah loves him more. Al-Fatihah.

I'm not crazy, just a little unwell

It's been a hectic and tiring week...didn't have time to update my blog! Fine. I've received a copy of The Sims 3. And I'm hooked on telling my Sim what to do, where to go. He's now a Rock Star, by the way. I have another Sim whom I'm training to be a writer. His wife, a hot redhead with a pixie haircut (drool), is busy tinkering with tubs and stoves. Self-cleaning. Figure that. Yes. I'm an addict. But more on that later. I'm going to dedicate one long post -- with pictures -- on my addiction to games. And yes. I'm playing The Sims 3, which is only scheduled to be released June 2nd. All Malaysians are pirates (I'd prefer the term resourceful). Get over it. Doesn't mean I'm not tempted to buy the original game. I've read we get a complete downloadable town after purchasing the game. Another redhead to frolic around a new town. Yummy. But seriously. I'm not lying when I said the week's been hectic. The whole month, in fact. Not enough MOs, so more workload for those still around. Blah blah blah, same story everywhere. This month has been a transition period. A lot of people are taking leave before going for their Masters program, and a lot of Masters students sat for their exams. Next month we're supposed to get new people in. Yay! The tired body is not condusive for creative thinking, though. So I'm left with the almost-mindless job of ordering my Sims around. I still owe that tutorial, and I also owe Tita a short story where the female main character gets more spunk and character. One that resonates. That's a tall order, but I think I have a story in mind. Just. Need. To. Think. Straight. Looking forward to and dreading June at the same time. Results are coming out the end of the month. For those who know about the competition, you know we can't advertize our entering it online or whatever. Wish me luck! I'm actually waiting for a patient to get zonked out (getting sedated and prepped for operation) so I can drill a hole in his head and stick a tube into his brain. Gross, huh? In private hospitals, they actually charge people RM12k-RM16k for the procedure, with the surgeon's fee of around RM4k. Not so gross anymore, huh? I'm doing it with a payment of RM170 for 24 hours. And I have two more patients waiting to get drilled and stuck with a tube. Gross. K, I have to go. Cheers!

Tender Moments

We walked side by side, not saying anything to each other for long minutes. I loved the silence between us; it was comfortable. As comfortable as her fingers intertwined with mine. The silver rings on her thumb and forefinger felt cool on my skin, enhancing her warmth in contrast. I loved how she swayed her arms when walking. Front, back. Front, back. Front, back. My right arm swung along with her left one. There was no awkwardness in the movement, despite the tip of her curly head not quite reaching my nose.

All around us, their figures reflected on the polished marble floor of Pavilion, were people milling about with their own shopping trips. Most of them moved at a fast pace, their mannerisms reflecting the pace of Kuala Lumpur. But the two of us were in our own timeline. Our movements were deliberately slow, our arms going front, back, front, back, as our feet moved forward. Despite the surrounding noise, I could almost hear her heartbeat as I felt the pulse on her wrist. My own heart, usually beating fast, must have slowed down to match hers. Not intentionally; she had this effect on me without her realizing it.

The music greeted us even before we came across the string quartet playing on a platform in front of Tangs. The tune was light, but the acoustics of the complex amplified the sounds. Without releasing my hand, she turned to face me and lay her free hand on my chest. I stopped walking with my right foot in midair. If her hand on my chest was causing my heart to flutter, the look on her slightly cocked head almost made it burst.

"I know this song," she said behind her wide smile. Even with the slightly crooked canines, no one else could compare to that perfect smile. "I know this."

"Endless love."

She swatted my chest. I barely felt it, but my heart did a stumble.

"Ouch." I winced, crinkling my nose for added dramatic effect.

"Not fair. I wanted to say it first." Her voice was soft, a feather floating in the wind.

I loved the silence between us, but more than that, I loved hearing her voice. "Sorry."

From the smile on her face mirroring mine, I could tell she wasn't buying my apology. "Make it up to me."

I groaned. My reaction this time was genuine. "Agh...you're not gonna make me try on women's hats again, are you?"

"Tempting, but no."

"Then?"

"Dance with me."

My jaw must have dropped, because she suddenly burst out laughing. I looked around us. The hallway was almost packed. A small crowd had gathered around the musicians, listening to their rendition of the beautiful song.

"Dance? Here? Now?"

"Why not? We're not breaking any laws."

"Yeah right."

"Come on. Dance with me."

"You know I can't dance."

"I can't dance too but that's not stopping me." Her smile was fading fast. I could see disappointment forming on her face from her furrowing eyebrows.

"I mean..." I started, not knowing exactly how to react. "I'm not so sure it's a good idea."

She sighed. She didn't pout; this light of my life never pouted, and only rarely allowed her anger or disappointment to surface. "You're right. It's a bad idea."

She turned and started walking. I saw her shoulders slumping a fraction. My eyes trailed down to her left hand, which was still holding mine. With a sigh of my own, I jerked my hand back, pulling hers in the process. She turned with a high-pitched yelp. I caught her before she could straighten her legs, and encircled my left forearm around the small of her back. My feet started moving with the beat of the music. I was moving at the same spot, one foot lifting after the other. Before I knew it, she was resting her face on my shoulder, moving in perfect rhythm with me. I didn't have to look at her to feel her smiling.

People were looking at us, some even pointing their fingers. Maybe there was approval in some faces. Maybe there was disapproval too. I drowned it all by closing my eyes. In that moment, there was only me, her, and the music.

In that moment, our hearts were beating as one.

Fallen From Grace

He stands where he fell battered and bloodied his wings torn apart. He is condemned denied his place yet malice dwells not in his heart. He is alone looking to the heavens above for the place he once called home. Yet his place no longer is among the stars but here on Earth where he is forever to roam. Once he was light so pure his wings the envy of all but one almost perfection was his face. He is now a shadow of that mem'ry for he is an angel fallen from grace.

On Greatness

We are none of us great writers. Not until we are beyond hunger, beyond pain, beyond warmth, beyond joy, beyond cold, as we lie silent in the grave. Not until prose or poem, song or sonnet, that we claim our own, is read by children grown up. Not until our name is spoken throughout the Ages. Fadz J Rosli

Writing, just like anything else in this gloriously complex world, can be learned. It is not the providence of the select few. All of us have stories to spin, tales to tell. We are storytellers, in varying degrees. But writing, be it fiction or non-fiction, is a form of Art. To some, writing comes naturally. Words flow seamlessly from the mind, to the hand, to the small muscles of the fingers. To others, written expression needs to be teased, coaxed, or even threatened out. Be wary of those who claim they have written perfection. In a world much flawed, perfection is only a utopian dream. But when in our heart we know our creation is perfect in its imperfection, we have done it justice. We have given our best. We should be proud. Writing is never sacrosanct, other than the Words of God. It may be personal, but there is always room to grow. If you find, along the way, a reader who whispers the truth instead of singing praises, consider yourself blessed. It is better to be bruised knowing you need to improve your piece, rather than to be blisfully ignorant of mediocrity. We who aspire to be writers, we who explore, who push, who expand the faculties of this particular Art, we who strive for greatness, must never stop reading. Read to enrich the mind. Read to find new forms of expression. Read to learn what is wrong, to make it right. The first command God gave our Prophet was to read. The best advice a writer can give another is to read. I wish you Greatness.

Procrastination

I am supposed to be going through a very thick book for my PTK (Penilaian Tahap Kecekapan) exam on Tuesday. It's something that'll give me a pay rise if I passed. But, as I said, the book's friggin THICK! And I only had this weekend to study it. Yesterday I was flat asleep most of the time, and today...well...I spent half the day tweaking html coding for this blogspace. Tomorrow I'm gonna be oncall again. Bloody Friggin Hell! I still owe my readers another tutorial. I still can't believe I have even one reader, let a lone a few. Oh well. I'm going to continue living in denial.

Knowledge sharing

I'm currently reading The Elements of Style (Fourth Edition), by William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White. These are some things that have always stumped me, and have been brought to light. Just thought it'd be nice to share. Directly quoted from the book, page 11: Wrong: Virgil Soames is the candidate whom we think will win. Correct: Virgil Soames is the candidate who we think will win. [We think he will win.] Wrong: Virgil Soames is the candidate who we hope to elect. Correct: Virgil Soames is the candidate whom we hope to elect [We hope to elect him.] Directly quoted from page 13: The difference between a verbal participate and a gerund (a verb form, which functions as a noun -- ending in -ing) is not always obvious, but note what is really said in each of the following: - Do you mind me asking a question? (May I, instead of others here, ask a question?) - Do you mind my asking a question? (Is it okay to ask a question?) In the first sentence, the queried objection is to me, as opposed to other members of the group, asking a question. In the second example, the issue is whether a question may be asked at all. *I added the sentences in ( ), to make things clear(er). Next up: tackling expositions, narrative summaries, and dialog in Cal and Emily.

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