Murky Clarity

A Plea to All Malaysians

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka.

Yes, it's that time of the year again. A time for breathtaking displays of fireworks, for colorful parades, for concerts, whether on a live stage or on TV, and for a day away from work and study.

Face it. For most of us, this is what August 31st means. For my family, it also means Arwen's birthday. Beyond that, how many of us really do care that 54 years ago today, we first stood together, as an independent nation?

What is independence anyway? Is it a piece of paper, signed by people with powers to move mountains, to destroy entire nations? Is it that one momentous action, that raising of the right hand high in the air, telling the whole world that we are here, and we are here to stay? Is it an impassioned speech that had created a people out of fractured and orphaned multi-ethnicity?

Or is it a state of mind?

 

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka.

Yes, it's that time of the year again. What have we learned so far? How much have we progressed? Why are we still that invisible plane between Thailand and Singapore? Why are we a stagnant nation, so caught up in the past that we are afraid to place a foot forward, into the future?

I have never liked politics. Never cared for it, really. I may get into trouble for this. Big trouble. Just as there is a major misconception that Malay is Islam and Islam is Malay, there is also a misconception that Barisan Nasional is Malaysia, and Malaysia is Barisan Nasional. We have to stop thinking like this. Malay is a race, a common grouping of individuals based on genetic and physical traits, as well as locality, traditions and diet.

These are the definitions that I got from Google Dictionary:

¹Race
noun
races, plural

Each of the major divisions of humankind, having distinct physical characteristics
• - people of all races, colors, and creeds
A group of people sharing the same culture, history, language, etc.; an ethnic group
• - we Scots were a bloodthirsty race then
The fact or condition of belonging to such a division or group; the qualities or characteristics associated with this
• - people of mixed race
A group or set of people or things with a common feature or features
• - some male firefighters still regarded women as a race apart
A population within a species that is distinct in some way, esp. a subspecies
• - people have killed so many tigers that two races are probably extinct
(in nontechnical use) Each of the major divisions of living creatures
• - a member of the human race
• - the race of birds
A group of people descended from a common ancestor
• - a prince of the race of Solomon
Ancestry
• - two coursers of ethereal race

²Religion
noun /riˈlijən/ 
religions, plural

The belief in and worship of a superhuman controlling power, esp. a personal God or gods
• - ideas about the relationship between science and religion
Details of belief as taught or discussed
• - when the school first opened they taught only religion, Italian, and mathematics
A particular system of faith and worship
• - the world's great religions
A pursuit or interest to which someone ascribes supreme importance
• - consumerism is the new religion

 

Note that on both accounts, there plural names to the nouns. Plural, as in many, not just one. I'll talk about this later. Anyway, as you can clearly see, the definitions are clearly different. But wait. ³The Malaysian Constitution, Article 160 defines a Malay as a Malaysian citizen born to a Malaysian citizen who professes to be a Muslim, habitually speaks the Malay language, adheres to Malay customs, and is domiciled in Malaysia or Singapore.

⁴As a result, Malay citizens who convert out of Islam are no longer considered Malay under the law. Likewise, a non-Malay Malaysian who converts to Islam can claim to be a Malay, provided they meet the other conditions.

Now, can you blame the media when they use Malay and Islam interchangeably, when by actual definition they are not supposed to?

But I'm not talking about race and religion here. Search as I might, I cannot find a similar definition within the constitution that equates Barisan Nasional with Malaysia. Why, then, when people talk bad about Barisan Nasional, whether through speech, articles, comics, blogs or even social medias, said people are looked upon as traitors of the country?

In a certain course that shall remain nameless (more from legality issues), we are reminded in rapid succession that we should be thankful to our Barisan Nasional forefathers for bringing us independence, for bringing us peace. Yes, we are thankful, but how long must we hold on to this sentiment alone? How long must we get bogged down with past gratitude? Another 50 years? 100? How long must we wait for another visionary like Tun Dr Mahathir?

By the way, in the same said course, we get snickered upon whenever we get the titles of politicians wrong. Seriously. Do we get our citizenship revoked if we call such politicians by name? Do we fail exams if we get the titles wrong? I didn't get angry when the facilitators called me 'Encik' instead of 'Doctor'. Maybe I should have, since they defended the titles of these politicians so passionately.

Again, in the same course, everyone's so passionate about racial unity, about the deal struck between the BN and the representatives of pre-Merdeka Chinese and Indian peoples, about 1Malaysia, but when I stood up for non-Malay folks in a much earlier course under the same name, I was branded a traitor of Malays. Yes, I can still call up witnesses to testify this. Why the hypocrisy?

On another note. It's funny how the bonuses in the public sector come once every 4 years, right before the general elections. Well, yes, we've received RM500 'assistance' annually in between, but actual bonuses? It's also funny how the stretch of road near my house get potholes, patchworks, and potholes again, but a full coat of Tarmac is only applied, again, every 4 years.

Worse, near the general election, newspapers and televisions promote the goodwill and the community contributions from BN, and highlight the blunders and infighting between the opposing parties. Of course, 'independent' media shows the exact opposite.

People say voting is our right. But withholding oneself from voting is also exercising one's right. To choose between a bully and an immature child? Might as well ride the tide and see what happens. Show me an individual, a political party, a body that sincerely shows progress and maturity, and I'll be among the first to line up to vote.

Problem is, when we don't register to vote, when we don't vote, we also get labeled as a traitor of the country.

See the pattern here?

Childish. Utter immaturity. These are our elders, the ones holding this country together.

It's a waste of time to talk about political parties. One one hand, we have bullies. On the other hand, we have a coalition of immature old men who can't hold it together after a historical takeover of several states. Instead of showing the whole Malaysia how well they can perform, they prefer to squabble among themselves. They break apart before our very eyes, and we don't even need the media to highlight their stupidity.

 

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka.

We are a stagnant nation. It's easy for us to talk about political parties when we are not directly involved. But what about us, the common people? Instead of figuring out ways to help our own country, we are more interested in things like a Malay ⁵artist wearing bikinis OUT OF THIS COUNTRY. Even if she did wear bikinis here, WHO GIVES A DAMN?!

I can understand the political reason behind Anwar Ibrahim's sodomy trial, but do we have to flaunt it in prime-time news and newspapers? Must we highlight how ⁶healthy the plaintiff's anus is? Must we show the ⁷pornographic snippet in prime-time news? Why can't we see that such things are supposed to be handled as discreetly and as delicately as possible? Even though we may be that invisible plane between Thailand and Singapore, THE WORLD IS STILL WATCHING. Why can't we see that we are being ridiculed?

Come on, folks. There are still Malaysians who cannot pay an electricity bill for three months, that amounts to RM24. There are children here who cannot go to school because they have to take care of their family, of the younger ones. There are whole families riding a motorbike as if it were a car. There are children riding motorbikes with the blessing of their parents, adding to the statistics of fatal road-traffic accidents.

When we don't get a bonus, we grumble. But what about our own contribution? Do we give our all at work? Do we serve the public with sincerity, with a smile even though we're tired? Can we honestly say we've earned our keep?

 

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka

We have this ugly attitude running rampant. We tell people, "If you don't like our service, feel free to seek it elsewhere." Or, "If you're not happy with how the country is run, feel free to seek citizenship elsewhere." Why, when disgruntled people voice out, can't we reflect on what is said, and try to improve ourselves?

I've been a victim of this. I'm a doctor practicing in a public sector, but when I was not happy with how I was medically treated IN THE HOSPITAL WHERE I WORK, I was told that if I wasn't happy with the management, I was free to seek opinion at a private clinic. This is our attitude. This is Malaysia.

We can be friendly and demure, but we are a selfish people. How often have you given way to drivers from the opposite direction, who needs to enter a lane in front of you? Do you even see the driver? Do you pick up a piece of clean-looking trash that lies in your path, and stuff it in a dustbin? When was the last time you stopped to give directions to lost tourists? When was the last time you actually guided the lost tourists to their destinations? When was the last time you give up your seat for a woman, a child, an elderly, the blind? When have we given a kind thought toward strangers, instead of to ourselves and our lot?

 

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka

We flaunt 1Malaysia. We force a show of unity among the races and creed, while at the same time show the world how insensitive we are. From the usage of Allah in a ⁸Bible translation and the debacle that ensued, to the ⁹throwing of a cow's head in protest to the resiting of a Hindu temple, we are showing the world how goddamn ignorant and petty we are.

Have you spent some time at a kindergarten? You should, if you haven't. After a tentative awkward period, these children will become instant friends. They don't see skin color or gender or religion. They see children. Children who can be friends. Plain and simple. No faking, no force-feeding unity.

But you know what, in my generation, and in generations after mine, we don't really care about race and religion, other than special sensitivities that we seem to be innately aware of. In my generation, this is especially true among city folks, those who grew up in schools with a mixture of all these major races. In younger generations, people my age are instilling this wonderful value.

People who keep on talking about racial unity? They're the ones who are acutely aware of race. They're the ones who are racists themselves.

 

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka.

When people mention how stagnant we are, we immediately defend ourselves by saying, "Hey, we could do worse. Look at (fill in the blank with a 3rd-world country name)."

Why not compare ourselves with fast-developing countries? Why must we bask in our complacence? Why must we leave all the thinking, all the work to the governing force? And why must voices of progress be stifled?

When our founding fathers fought for our independence, they wanted us to be a strong nation that can stand on its own, on the backs of its people. Not peoples as in plural, not peoples as in fractured bands based on ethnicity and creed, but a singular noun, a nation, a country.

 

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka.

We are a nation clinging hopelessly to the past. The ruling political party keeps reminding us of how their predecessors had brought this country together, instead of gaining our respect and loyalty by carrying us forward.

We prefer Raya songs from 20 years ago or earlier.

In our hearts, we leave no room for new songs.

In our minds, we leave no room for new thoughts.

 

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka.

This is a plea, my friends. From the powers that be, to common folk like you and me. The past will always be there for us to learn from. It won't disappear even if we let go.

It's scary, stepping into the unknown. It's scary, facing forward and not know where we'll end up.

But I have faith in you. I have faith in us.

I have faith in Malaysia.

May this 54th anniversary of our independence bring about change. May it bring about progress. May we step into the future as one people, as one nation.

 

Merdeka, Merdeka, Merdeka.

Assalamualaikum.

Peace be with you.

Always.

 

- * - * - * -

Sources:

¹ Google search: Race

² Google search: Religion

^{3, 4} Wikipedia: Malaysian Malay

⁵ Berita Harian Online & Berita Harian Online

⁶ The Star Online

⁷ Harakah Daily

⁸ Asia News

⁹ Utusan Malaysia

Tender Moments

Raya. A time for family. A time for celebration. A time for forgiveness.

At least that's what advertisements keep saying. I've never believed in advertisements. People have a way of making things seem much better than they really are.

I slouch on the sofa beside Abah, whose face is hidden behind the newspaper. Since he retired, this has been his routine, every day at ten in the morning. He even sits in the same position: leaning back with his right ankle on his left knee, the newspaper opened wide in front of him. The only difference is today he's wearing a navy-blue baju melayu, complete with a silver-threaded songket and a blue-black songkok.

Mira is lying on her belly in front of me, her head propped up using a cushion folded in half. She's fourteen, but she hasn't outgrown Raya morning cartoon specials. Tika is beside her, in exactly the same position. Identical twins. I can never understand them. They're wearing matching baju kurung, with white floral-prints on a navy-blue base. Ibu is wearing the same thing, only she's tailored hers into a kebaya instead of baju kurung.

Guess what I'm wearing. Yep. Even at twenty-two, I'm wearing baju melayu that matches the rest of my family, with a songket the exact pattern Abah has. But I refuse to wear a songkok, and after years of squabbling with my parents, it's my one small victory. Not that I have a say in this 'Raya uniform' matter. Six months before Raya, Ibu had already bought swaths of linen and silk to be sent to her tailor. She does this every year. To the same tailor who's been sewing our attires since I was four.

Guess how old she is.

I play 'Patapon' on my PSP, partly because I'm not into the cartoon the girls are watching--Barbie or Tinkerbell, with fairies prancing around--and partly because I have no choice but to sit here in the living area. Raya is a time for family, remember? Ibu is in the kitchen preparing a proper breakfast with Bibik. Her name is Kartika, but I've called her Bibik since I first learned to talk. Ibu said Bibik was my first word. Guess how disappointed she was. Bibik's our nanny and maid, but none of us see her that way. She's more like an aunt, a permanent fixture in the house. Ibu even ordered a baju kurung for her that matches the other ladies in the house.

The spicy scent of beef rendang being heated on the stove wafts into the living area. My stomach growls. I've had some lemang with serunding before going to the mosque at eight-thirty for the Eidulfitri prayer, but lemang doesn't taste right with floss beef. I can also catch a whiff of lontong and kuah kacang. We used to eat them with ketupat, but since none of us had deigned to learn the art of coconut-leaf-weaving from my late grandparents, we have to settle for instant rice cakes.

"Ibu," I call out without taking my eyes off the PSP. "Can we eat now?"

"Yeah, can we?" say Mira and Tika at the same time. Twins, I tell you.

"In a bit," Bibik says. You'd think, after over twenty years living here, Bibik's Javanese accent would have been obliterated. But no. Her Malay still has a certain twang.

"I'm hungry!" I say. And I'm not kidding.

Abah chuckles, sending the newspaper shaking.

"Abang," Tika suddenly says, kicking my shin. "Isn't that Kak Intan?"

The mere mention of her name sends my heart thumping. But I play it cool. "Where?" I ask, feigning nonchalance. I've been getting better at it, of late.

"TV," Mira answers.

I move my head a fraction to look at the LED TV bolted onto the wall. Play it cool.

Remember what I said about advertisements making things look better than they really are?

Scrap that.

Intan looks exactly as I remember her, even with her subtle makeup and her loose curls oh-so-professionally done. In this advertisement she's wearing a peach summer dress that accents her lean figure. The guys are ogling after her. Of course they are. This is Intan I'm talking about.

The same Intan who broke my heart when she ended our relationship after graduating from secondary school.

I've seen her in TV commercials and on billboards. She's the 'it' girl in KL fashion scene. I even heard MTV scouts had approached her last year. Because MTV VJs are all Eurasians. But she turned them down. She wanted to concentrate on her modelling career.

Of course I know all this about her even though we haven't spoken for almost four years. This is Intan I'm talking about. I've followed her web presence like a bloodhound.

I'm pathetic. I know.

"Let her go, Fiq," Abah says.

I turn to look at him. The newspaper half facing me has been dog-eared inward so that Abah can look at me directly. His face is stren, but he has that look that tells me he understands.

"I have," I say. I turn oh-so-slowly back toward the TV.

No matter how much you tell yourself you've moved on, there will always be that one person who makes your heart flutter whenever you hear their name being uttered, when you catch a glimpse of them, however fleeting.

For me, Intan is 'it'. She has always been my 'it' girl, way before the world discovered her. And she always will be.

Within seconds the advertisement ends, and another one takes over. The story of my life.

"Food's ready," Ibu calls out from the kitchen.

The girls are the first to rise. They scamper like six-year-olds to the dining table. Abah folds his newspaper neatly and places it on the coffee table. I stay glued on the sofa, my PSP forgotten on my lap.

"You'll find another girl," Abah whispers and squeezes my shoulder.

"You're right," I say. I smile at him.

But what if I don't want there to be another girl? This is Intan I'm talking about.

I finally rise from the sofa. My joints feel stiff. My whole body feels numb. Will I ever recover from this?

But what if I don't want to recover?

Just as I'm about to go to the kitchen, my handphone in my front pocket blares and vibrates. It plays one of the songs from Glee. The number on the screen is not in my contact list.

"Hellop?" I say.

"Selamat Hari Raya, Fiq."

I freeze where I stand, with one foot in the air.

"Fiq, you there?"

"How did you know my number?" I ask. My heart is doing backflips now. Even her voice is the way I remember it, soft, wispy, dreamy.

"It's the same number," Intan says. "How can I forget?"

"Why are you doing this to me?" I ask. I didn't mean to say it out loud, but I breathe easier after saying it.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted--I thought of you and--I just wanted to say Selamat Hari Raya."

"You still think of me?" It's amazing how my mind can still work.

"Yes."

I've always wanted to hear her say that. I dreamed of it. I fantasized it. But hearing her say it doesn't make it real.

"I thought you have a boyfriend now?" One after another, all models, all much taller and better-looking than me.

"Friends. I've never had a boyfriend. Not after you."

"Oh." Yes. My mind is still working, but my tongue has decided to play dumb.

"Well," Intan says. "I just wanted to wish you and your family a happy Raya. And I wanted to say sorry for what I did to you. Bye, Fiq."

"Wait," I blurt out.

"Hmm?" she says.

"Selamat Hari Raya to you too." I stop talking. For a few precious seconds, I stop breathing. "I miss you."

"I miss you too." Her voice breaks when she says that.

"Do you think--is it possible--forget it."

"Can I see you over coffee?" Intan asks. Intan, not me. "Starbucks? I'll buy you a venti caramel frappucino."

My greatest weakness, after Intan. "How can I say no to Starbucks?"

"Good. Selamat Hari Raya, Fiq."

"You too."

She disconnects the line.

My heart still thumps so wildly my chest hurts. But it's a good kind of pain.

Raya. A time for family. A time for celebration. A time for forgiveness.

Maybe the advertisements are right.

A Time for Forgiveness

This will be my second Eid away from my family, and my first one in the east coast. As I drove along Jalan Bayam, I did not see any lemang stalls with open fires under rows of bamboos. For those of you who do not know what lemang is, it's a delicacy here, glutinous rice packed with generous amounts of coconut milk inside the hollow wall of bamboo sticks (the large-diameter ones, most of the time). The inside of the bamboo sticks are lined with banana leaves. If you haven't already salivating reading this, you should. When cooked just right, not too soggy and not too hard, it's amazing. Especially when eaten with beef rendang (I don't know the details of how rendang is cooked, sorry. Beef or chicken or mutton, with coconut milk, chili, onions and spices, cooked over oh-so-many hours over a low fire, preferably using wood or charcoal). Or my mom's Kalio Chicken.

Okay. I'm still fasting, so enough about food.

I have heard that people in the east coast celebrate Eidulfitri a little differently from us in the west coast. Different food, different celebratory air, but the same sense of togetherness. You'd think that by now I'd be well-adjusted to celebrating Eid among colleagues, and not family. Maybe I have. But I still miss my family.

But this year, my Raya post is not so much about me. I may not have my family physically at the moment, but I'll still meet them on the second day of Eid. I can't say the same for some of the patients I have here, especially this one particular lady. I am not at liberty to discuss her details, but she's been with us over a month now, in the ICU, breathing through an endotracheal tube. And she's as alert as you and me. She has an autoimmune disease, this lady, and when she was first in crisis over forty days ago, she had difficulty breathing and had to be intubated. One complication after another arises, and she's still waiting to be tracheostomized.

The first few days of Ramadan she wrote me a question in her notebook: "Boleh Makcik balik ke Sarawak untuk Raya?" She asked me whether she would be able to return to Sarawak for Eid, which was still roughly a month away. I didn't know what to answer her. I told her that there was always hope.

She will not be returning to Sarawak for Eid. She will not even be out of the hospital to celebrate Eid with her family. There's a possibility she won't get the tracheostomy done today, and the sad part is, she's been holding on to this minor surgery as her beacon of hope, as it would show progress, improvement in her condition, even though it's not particularly true. And because of an accumulation of complications, even this minor surgery has become a major undertaking, and has been delayed multiple times over the past three weeks.

She's still holding on to that hope.

Makcik, my prayers to you. I sincerely hope you'll survive this ordeal the stronger. Friends, I hope you'll extend your prayers to her too.

I still have to say she's among the lucky ones.

Over this past week we've had patients with acute strokes. Some passed away, some survived with varying degrees of disability. It's a given that Eid for them and their family this year will not be the same. Life for them will never be the same again.

There are still patients in the wards and ICU, and their family members will be spending the precious first few days of Eid in the hospital. Not to mention the nurses and attendants who will not be celebrating Eid at all with their family members, as they have to work. Duty comes first. People don't seem to realize that, don't seem to care. Regardless who you are, doctors, nurses, pharmacists, assistants, attendants, or the general public who have family members in hospitals, either working or as patients, have you wished these nurses and attendants a happy Eid? Have you thanked them for their sacrifice?

All of us celebrating Eid away from our families, either working or studying, always remember that we are the lucky ones. We still have health, we still have strength, we still have a sound mind. And we still have family members and loved ones to call and wish a happy Eidulfitri.

Ramadan is a time for reflection. Eidulfitri is a time for forgiveness.

Papa, the things you did (and did not do) were wrong. They were evil, in fact. Because of you Mama has led a hard life, because of you she's unable to enjoy the fruits of her labor. Because of you our family is broken. I am sorry to have been the one to cut you off, but I hope one day you'll understand why I did what I had to do. I forgive you. I will never forget a single detail, and I'll carry the wounds and the scars forever, and I still resent you, but I forgive you.

Reza, a part of me will never let go of you. But I've finally admitted to myself that you were seldom there for me when I needed you the most. Lies and secrets consumed our friendship. Being a passive friend, accepting the good and the bad, does not equate with actually caring. I will always love you like the other brother I should have had, and maybe time will eventually see us on friendly terms again. But your life is not my responsibility, even though I made it mine the past 12 years. Regardless, I will always be here when you need me. I forgive you, my brother. I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me.

Mima, what we had was special, even though it was undefined. I'm sorry to have hurt you the way I did. I'm sorry to have created this impenetrable wall, this unfordable distance. You deserve someone so much better than I am.

Sani, nothing I can say will ever make things right between us. The things I did were childish; worse, selfish. But I'll never forget that you genuinely cared, that you were, in essence, a true best friend. Please forgive me, my friend.

To those suffering form illnesses, be them mild or debilitating, I pray for your health, your strength, and your peace of mind. I pray for your acceptance of your condition. I pray that you will come out a much stronger person, physically and spiritually.

For those celebrating Eid with loved ones, be sure to hug them, share tears with them, forgive them, and seek their forgiveness. Remember the less fortunate ones. Pray for them.

Assalamualaikum.

Peace be with you.

Always.

Twenty Thousand Words and Counting

In my whole writing career, I have never surpassed 20 000 words. It's the biggest hurdle for me. The closest I got was with Stormcaller at 18 500 words (or so). Then I stopped writing. It's like there's an inpenetrable wall stopping me from going further.

I just broke the wall. At 01:05 today, my word count showed 20 005 words. And I'm not even 1/3 into my WIP. I don't feel like stopping. I want to write more. I need to write more.

I'm still in shock. But it's a good kind of shock.

Resurrection

 

Should you build me back
from these broken bones
grant me wings
that I may fly away,
away from here,
from all that is familiar.

Should you assemble me
as you gather these scattered parts
leave out my heart
or, if you must,
give me a heart of diamond
so it will never break, never shatter.

Should you paint a picture of me
as you sculpt my features
a new face I plead you give me
so I may roam unrecognized
by the people who loved me
by those whom I will love for all eternity.

Should you pull my soul back
from this land of forgotten dreams
one thing I pray remains the same
let my have my memories,
painful they may be,
for without them

I am no longer me.

Hate Me

 

 

Have you experienced songs that speak to your soul, that you internalize and match with your personal joys or struggles? I was driving to work this morning when my iPhone played Blue October's 'Hate Me'. I have the phone jacked onto the car's stereo system, by the way. I haven't heard this song for quite some time, but I've always loved it, right from the start. Needless to say, my eyes glistened with pooling tears as I drove. Why, you ask? Do I tear that easily?

I hope this post will answer those questions.

I'm not the easiest person to love; mostly because I don't love myself. While I have a sometimes-inflated sense of self-worth, I don't value my life as much as I should. I have a strong feeling when I die, I'll end up in hell. Maybe they'll reduce my sentence for good behavior (I can always hope, can't I?). When I was twelve, going on thirteen, I had attempted suicide. Maybe at that time I didn't really mean to die, but I was so desperate to get out of boarding school I was willing to do anything. When I woke up from the drugged sleep, I saw something that made me vow that no matter how bad things get, I would never resort to suicide. Not again.

I saw the fear, the hurt, the disappointment in Mama's eyes.

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure to meet my mother in person, let me tell you a few things about her. When she was working, she used to wake up the earliest, and then she would wake us up one by one to get ready for school. In the car, she'd talk to my dad about her friends at work. Or she'd be dozing off. For lunch she would have bread or leftover food from the day before, and seldom bought lunch for herself. She would buy dishes and one of us would cook rice; that was our usual dinner schedule growing up. After she cleaned and cleared the dishes, she would wind down in front of the TV, and she'd end up sleeping halfway through her favorite drama.

She loves dressing up for any occasion. Even now, having worn the hijab since January 1, she makes sure she's fashionable. She loves it when people ask about her age, and she's one of the rare women who don't hesitate to tell their actual age. Mostly because people invariably exclaim how young she looks, with grown-up children (and a granddaughter) to boot. She is vain; then again, so are all her three children (and her granddaughter).

She doesn't hesitate to ask the caterers for takeout, especially when she finds the food amazing. She's always thinking about her children. Always. She haggles for the cheapest rate a seller can offer, and then she'll haggle for an even lower price.

She bakes the wickedest chocolate cake, and her laksa Johor and spaghetti are to die for. And the chilli-tauchu crabs--I'm allergic to crabs, but they're my favorite! She's an excellent cook, but somehow her fried rice is weird. I always eat her fried rice with a glob of thousand island dressing.

She speaks English with an accent, and she inserts Rs where they don't belong. We love teasing her about that. Whenever she sings along to a song, we'll always ask her if it's an old song (even when it's newly-released).

She makes friends as easily and as naturally as she breathes, even with random aunties or uncles when we're at a taxi stand.

She's one of those people who you can immediately tell are beautiful both inside and out.

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you

Mama always has this impossibly high expectation from me, no matter what I do. Maybe because she already knows I can be great when I want to. All my childhood was spent trying to please her, because I had always been observant even when I was a child. I knew the sacrifices she made for the family, and all I ever wanted was to wipe the tired lines from her face and to make her smile. But somehow whatever I did was never enough. Kasha and Faiz were not academic achievers, so Mama dumped all her pressure on me. At one point, during undergraduate years, I reached a breaking point and decided not to do things to get Mama's approval, because it was pointless.

And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling “Make it go away!”

Then I looked at her sleeping in front of the TV, the years slowly creeping along the edges of her face, and I was immediately brought back to the quiet evening when she straightened my school uniform before I left for boarding school after spending a weekend at home. She was kneeling in front of me, her hands lingering on my shoulders, and she told me that she wanted a better life for me. I was her hope; she knew I could do it.

And she's right. All her children are university graduates. All of us are good at what we do. Kasha is brilliant at copywriting and graphic designs, Faiz is a visionary photographer and videographer, and I'm pursuing Neurosurgery and writing. She brought us up to be atypical Malays, to converse in English with a slang and on occasion a misplaced R, to be open-minded like her.

I think about death, maybe more than is healthy. Maybe it's a part of me, maybe it's because I face death so often. If anything, I want to die before the people I love do, so that I don't have to face living on without them. And as much as I don't want to, I think about life without Mama, without her smile, without her mothering nag, without her presence. I always pray that she'll remain young and vibrant for at least fifty years to come.

Most of all, I don't want to lose her with things I didn't get to do for her. Just like in this song, it's okay if she no longer loves me, if she ends up hating me. Just be there to hate me tomorrow.

I cannot express how much I love her, how much I appreciate the things she did for me, even when I hated her for pushing me too far. I know that in our own ways, all three of us love her almost as much as she loves us. Kasha understands her in a way only a woman does with another. I love her with a natural sense of duty. Faiz, although he hates showing it, loves her the most. He doesn't show his feelings, but Mama makes him explode with anger, makes him jump with excitement, makes him distraught when she's disappointed in him. And he's the first one to ask what to buy for Mama whenever we eat outside.

In a sick way I want to thank you
for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself,
you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions
on things like suicidal hate
You made me compliment myself
when it was way too hard to take

Why am I writing this now? Why don't I save this post for Mother's Day or for Mama's birthday?

Because I don't want to take things for granted. I don't want to do it too late. I don't want to regret not showing Mama how much I love her when she's still healthy and vibrant.

Faiz, if you're reading this, maybe now you'll understand why I always listen to Mama, why I almost always do whatever she asks of me.

I don't want to lose her, but I don't want to live with regrets when I do.

 

Listen to the song again, this time accompanied by its lyrics:

 

(If you're sleeping are you dreaming
If you're dreaming are you dreaming of me?
I can't believe you actually picked me.)

(”Hi Justin, this is your mother, and it's 2:33 on Monday afternoon.
I was just calling to see how you ware doing.
You sounded really uptight last night.
It made me a little nervous, and a l... and... well... it made me nervous, it sounded like you were nervous, too.
I just wanted to make sure you were really OK,
And wanted to see if you were checking in on your medication.
You know I love you, and...
Take care honey
I know you're under a lot of pressure.
See ya. Bye bye”)

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head
They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed
Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I’m alone
Playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home
There's a burning in my pride, a nervous bleeding in my brain
An ounce of peace is all I want for you. Will you never call again?
And will you never say that you love me just to put it in my face?
And will you never try to reach me?
It is I that wanted space

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you

Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

I’m sober now for 3 whole months it’s one accomplishment that you helped me with
The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won’t touch again
In a sick way I want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicidal hate
You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
So I’ll drive so fucking far away that I never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you

And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling “Make it go away!”
Just make a smile come back and shine just like it used to be
And then she whispered “How can you do this to me?”

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you
For you
For you
For you

[Children voices:]
If you're sleeping, are you dreaming,
if you're dreaming are you dreaming of me.
I can't believe you actually picked me

[Girl:] Hey Justin! [x12]

 

Have you told your mother how much you love her? Give her a hug, a call, a prayer. Don't hesitate to show your appreciation, your love, your respect.

I love you, Mama.

Fly away, my peregrine falcon

 

Away, my peregrine falcon
Fly away
You whose nest
is rooted
               in my heart
                              so deep
You who are a part of me
the very best

 

Away, my peregrine falcon
Fly away
To wherever
the wind takes you
To a place where I can
no longer
                              see you
               hear you
feel you

 

Away, my peregrine falcon
Fly away
May your wings never tire
May your flight be true
May you find
               what you are
                              looking for

 

Away, my peregrine falcon
Fly away
I shall mourn your
                              absence
I shall cry an ocean’s worth
                              I shall carry you
               in my memory
for
eternity

 

Away, my peregrine falcon
Fly away
If you ever come this way
If you ever need a place
                              to rest
               to nurture
to belong
Know that
you will always
find a home
in
               my
                              heart.

Book Review: Readings from Readings

Readings from Readings: new Malaysian writing
Bernice Chauly & Sharon Bakar, editors
Word Works, 2011

 

I'm an avid follower of Sharon Bakar's blog. She provides wonderful insights on Malaysian English writing scenes. I've met her in person, when I read an excerpt of my story at Readings@Seksan's back in December 2010. I used to be horrible at public speaking, but I shed most of my jitters--most, not all. Sharon welcomed my whole family with warmth rivaling the sun's. I also met Amir Muhammad there, and it felt good to finally meet the people behind their internet presence.

But this is not about me, nor is it about my reading session. I'll start talking about the book. Yes, sir, ma'am, sir! I found this little book in Kinokuniya, where I almost always find storybooks that I end up buying. I love supporting local publications (and so should you), so I bought the book, priced at RM29.90, along with other titles (not local). As far as fiction goes, this book is sold at a good price.

The cover by Shahril Nizam is clean and simple, but most of all, beautiful. The pages are made from thick, high grade paper, and the layout is clean. I can't say I dig the scent of the pages, though. You know those storybooks with brownish, textured pages? God, I love their scent. Not that I'm being overly critical, mind. I'm just saying. By the way, this book is bilingual--most of the works are in English, but some are in Malay.

Having read numerous Malaysian-English anthologies, I've come to expect a certain pattern of storytelling that, in my opinion, has got to be Malaysian. Cynical stories that meander using elements that don't really contribute toward the climax, with twist endings that reveal how rotten people really are. Rapists, cheats, unfaithful partners,  and bullies, to name a few. And I wasn't disappointed--or, in actuality, I was disappointed to find such stories in this book. The opening story, "Moon Scars" by Lydia Teh epitomizes this. The first three quarters of the story tells the superstition of some villagers regarding the dangers of pointing at the moon, but ends with the uncle molesting/raping the niece, partly as a revenge toward his elder sister who used to be tough on him when they were younger. It's well-written, don't get me wrong; I just don't like this kind of stories, with the meandering and misleading plot device, and the trick/clever ending.

The second story, "It's All Right, Auntie" by Saras Manikam, continues this thread. The narrator is a little boy whose parents have marriage issues. His mother chooses to stay with her brother, while his father is always out, presumably working. The narrator's aunt feeds him, nagging on and on about his irresponsible parents. When his father finally arrives home after working all night, the narrator greets him, catches a whiff of perfume, but happily ignores it and agrees with his father about fetching his mother from his uncle's house.

Dipika Mukherjee tackles this trope with a much-refined grace, though. Her story, "The Rules of Chess" is about a young boy, who's a chess prodigy, whose parents live in separate countries because of work. Like most geniuses he is socially awkward and vies people like objects, pieces of chess. His father has plenty of mistresses, a fact that his mother is well-aware of, but she overlooks his vice because she refuses to lose him. Somewhere in the beginning of the story, the narrator mentions about his maid's mysterious death, but the real culprit is revealed in the climax, where a sacrificial chess move is made in order to save the king. Beautifully written, with a great story arc, and of which all the elements are used to progress and end the story.

In Malaysia, sex is taboo. No, strike that. Taking about sex is taboo. And for a woman to openly talk about sex? People usually brand them with vulgar labels. It came as a pleasant surprise when Nora Adam tells a story about a woman craving for sex from her husband in "Waiting". The husband is not cheating on her; he's just not that into her anymore. I don't normally like second-person point of view narration, but this one is well done, and is highly entertaining. Dina Zaman's story, "How to Stay Married" is also about sex life from a wife's perspective. The story unfolds at an almost lazy pace, taking its time to tell itself. It also reveals how far a woman is willing to go to keep her husband happy and loyal. To tell you the truth, these two stories are eye-openers. I didn't know Malaysian women can talk about their sex life (or lack thereof) so openly. I'm not talking about the authors, but the main characters in the stories.

Karl Hutchingson's "Harding" is one of those quiet stories ends up tearing your heart open. A beautiful literary piece about parents who still mourn over their firstborn, a toddler who had been killed during WWI. I love this one.

Kam Raslan read his story "Betrayal" the same day I read my story, but it was an excerpt. Luckily the story is included in this anthology. The narrator's voice is rich, and I can easily imagine him with his tailored clothing and ruler-straight back, and a slight British accent (he's Malay). His exchange with a couple of perfume promoters is hilarious, but like most comical stories, it ends with a tragedy.

If I'm not mistaken, Jordan MacVay's "The Six Maidens" is part of something longer. It's about a young man, lost at sea after a tsunami wrecked his home, who encounters six naked women stranded on a tree-top. Instead of getting excited and aroused, he is only curious, and cannot help the women as he and his friend are equally helpless. He turns to God for strength. The story, although well-written, doesn't quite work for me. One, it feels incomplete--but I'll overlook this because this story is a small piece of a whole. Two, I'm not so sure about the narrative voice. The story is told in first-person point of view, but there is no indication about his education level. He's pious, that much is clear. The narrative voice is that of someone well-educated and well-read. It's a bit out of place, given the context of the story. Not among the stronger pieces in this book.

Brian Gomez's "a/p" is one of the strongest ones, though. The story is about twin girls, separated when they were still infants. Both parents are Indians, but the father married a Malay woman and converted to Islam. He wanted both his daughters and he wanted them converted as well, but the girls' mother struggles for her own right. It's a story about acceptance (or the lack of it, rather), and the story also shows how mean the community (even children) can be. Rich voice, memorable prose, and subtle but poignant messages. A definite asset in this volume.

"The Third Man" by Bernice Chauly and "Weather or Not" by Muslin Abdul Hamid are...weird. And disturbing. Definitely disturbing. That's all I can say. Sharon Bakar's "Homunculus" is entertaining, in a morbid way. The narrator's mother has this obsession for articles and pictures of cancerous growth, and when she develops terminal cancer, she becomes a subject for a cancer-related article, without her knowledge. The story's too short for me to empathize with any of the characters, but it's entertaining.

"Eh, Saya Orang Islam! Tak Boleh!" (roughly translated: "Eh, I'm a Muslim! Cannot!") by Reza Rosli is about and eighteen-year-old boy who's eager to be independent and to explore the wonders of city life, but ends up getting pinned against an alley wall by a passive-aggressive man. The man wanted the boy to give him a blow job, but when the boy refuses and explains how wrong homosexual acts are in Islam, the man just gets confused and offers to blow the boy instead. I really don't see where this story leads. I've read excellent GLBT stories; this just isn't one of them.

Another story that I don't see where it leads is "Chicken or the Egg?" by Shanthini Vanugopal. A group of university students in Toronto, and one of them finds a cluster of eggs at the front door arranged in a semi-circle, and cooks them. When the friends find out (after taking a bite), they get all kampung and superstitious and act like village idiots, seeking a priest's blessing. But the mystery of the eggs is never solved. The narrator even asks the readers for theories. WTF?!

I am thankful that there is a beautiful story named "Strolling Between Two Latitudes" by Chiew-Siah Tei to save the day. It is a simple one; a woman who grew up in Tampin spends her adulthood in Glasgow and compares the two places, both worlds apart. At first she notices how Glasgow is not quite like home, but later on it's the other way around, and then the differences blur and no longer matters. A simple story, but with a deep connotation. A solid piece.

I don't normally like politics-laced fiction, but I like Rafil Elyas's "Progress Report". It's a satirical piece about the racial divide in Malaysia between its independence in 1957 and the year 2007. But it's written as a progress report by the demon Mephistopheles to the lord of the underworld. The demon's also not subtle about his desire to climb up the administration ladder. Wonderfully depicted, complete with graphs and charts. Funny as hell (pun intended).

There are two stories in Malay, "Pada Hari Fatimah Comot Bawa Sayap Pari-Pari ke Sekolah" ("The Day Fatimah Comot/Grubby Fatimah Brought Fairy Wings to School") by Sufian Abas, and "Cat" (I still can't figure out it's "Cat" or "Paint"--both elements are featured in the story) by Uthaya Sankar SB. Both of them are from children's perspective, but while the first story is a solid piece about how mean and jealous children can be, the second reads like something a ten-year old would write for his essay exam. It's a thinly-veiled satirical piece about the administrative office, but stylistically it's awkward and immature. Then again, the story is told in first-person point of view, and maybe the author had intended to pull the story off this way. Whatever it is, the story feels weird.

Peter G. Brown's "Blackmail" borders preachy, which isn't always a good thing. Wait. Preachy is never a good thing. A man commits adultery, but eventually learns the err of his ways and wants to do commit his mistress toward the right path--only she rejects that path. And he gets blackmailed, so he's seeking God's mercy and grace. The plot is common enough, but the presentation is preachy.

I think Ellen Whyte's "Why Malaysian Cats Have Kinky Tails" is an anecdotal non-fiction. I don't see that many factual citations to back this piece, but it's good to know that Malaysian cats' twisted tailbones don't come with a genetic defect like with other cats. Thank God. My cat Keeno has a stumpy, twisted tail.

"Airport" by Janet Tay uses second-person and third-person points-of-views. I'm holding the book in my hands, but I'm still glossing over the story. Very eh.

My favorite story, hands down, is "The Girl With Ruby Red Shoes" by Jade-Yi Lo. It's about a father's love that transcends death, about a daughter discovering her father whom she never really knew, and about a mother whose quiet strength, though underplayed, is not left unnoticed. It's a story about hope and a family's love toward each other. God, why can't there be more stories like this? Why won't Malaysians write stories that showcase the beauty of a relationship between loved ones? Why can't there be hope for a better tomorrow, a better place? This is one beautiful story. Read it.

 

As for poetry, I on occasion read it, and sometimes write it. But since I haven't learned the craft, I cannot truly appreciate the lines behind the curves. So I won't comment much on the poems in this book. A quick glance, sure. I love Alina Rastam's first piece, "Pantun", but I find the other two ("My Lover's Hands" and "Brickfields: One Saturday") a tad pretentious and overreaching. Although Jerome Kugan's poems ("Jellyfish", "Salt" and "Joy") are blatantly sexual--well, maybe "Jellyfish" isn't blatant--they are tastefully written, as opposed to Azwan Ismail's "Misteri Zakar", which is plain crass. There's art, and there's vulgarity. This particular piece is the latter.

Sharanya Manivannan has two beautiful pieces in this anthology, "Frida to Sharanya" and "A Minute Thing", but to me, these pieces are meant to be read aloud to be fully appreciated. Same goes for Liyana Dizzy's "Grand Parents".

As for the rest? They don't leave an impression on me, and I'm not trained enough to be discerning. Rather than saying bad out of ignorance, I find it wiser to not say anything.

 

There are typos scattered across the volume, but not that glaring to be annoying--unlike a certain anthology that I refuse to finish reading in view of the abysmal editorial effort. This book proves that brilliant writers exist here in Malaysia, writers who evoke emotions, who make me laugh, who make me reach for the characters. Just like the reading sessions at Seksan's, this book provides a platform for Malaysian-English writers to showcase their talent, to be noticed, to be appreciated.

I hope you'll buy this book. Or you can borrow mine (just remember to return it. I'm absent-minded). I also hope there will be more anthologies such as this, that include voices both old and new.

Bernice and Sharon, if you ever read this, be proud of what you have achieved.

Words of wisdom

 

Write in a way that your mother understands

She is, after all, your biggest fan.

So you want to be a doctor

The physician's highest calling, his only calling, is to make sick people healthy--to heal, as it is termed.

- Samuel Hahnemann

 

I have noticed that my blog is listed under a doctors' blogroll, by several people, either newly-graduated ones, or those aspiring to be doctors. It's weird, because my posts are far from doctorly. Not exactly writerly as well, but no one is complaining. I am honored beyond measure to have people reading my rants, but to get listed on their pages? Dude, you guys rock!

To show my deepest appreciation, permit me to share some anecdotal tips, especially for doctors-to-be. First, a disclaimer. I am employed under the Ministry of Health, and I am now a Neurosurgical trainee, but this post is personal, and does not reflect my official position and my employers. Also, there is no scientific or factual basis to this post. We clear? All right, let's go.

 

 

Let's talk about the why

So. A doctor. Why? This is a recurring question, sometimes by people around you, and sometimes your inner self will ask you this. Especially when you're up at ungodly hours attending patients who just have to get involved in that frakking accident. I don't think you'll get over asking yourself why you insisted on becoming a doctor in the first place; God knows I still ask, "Why oh bloody why?"

 

1. I want to heal people, and make this world a better place.

Let's face it. This is the standard answer you'll give (and get), while your inner self will say an entirely different thing. Yep. I can read minds. I know what you're thinking. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me.

However, believe it or not, there are people for whom this reason for being a doctor (or a nurse or a paramedic) is real. It's easy to spot them. They're the ones who genuinely care about others--not just patients, but everyone around them. They shine the most when they help others, when they save lives. You can't fake this. Some people have inborn compassion toward perfect strangers, while others can't care less. These people are healers, and a rare breed.

 

2. I want to be like House and those amazing people in Gray's Anatomy, ER, Chicago Hope, and (insert your favorite medical drama here).

Don't laugh. I know you're one of them. Yes, you, the one who's snickering. We grow up drooling over the glamorous lives of these beautiful doctors, who get to save lives between rampant sex (sometimes even during rampant sex. Wait. That's a certain porn that shall remain nameless). We look at the doe-eyed patients and their family members, all gushing with eternal gratitude for saving their lives, for salvaging a limb to near perfect condition, for bonking them when they're about to die--wait...nevermind.

Point is, some people grow up deeply influenced by these medical dramas, and believe that they want to become great doctors like these fictional characters. Yes, they are FICTION. Sure, some doctors are supermodel-good-looking, some do enjoy rampant sex, but then there are people like me. A 30-year-old virgin, whose face only small children love and trust. No, I'm not a pedophile, dammit. Don't put words into my mouth!

When I was younger, I loved watching medical dramas. I liked how they saved lives. I liked how when they cardiovert a patient, the doctor rubs the pedals together, places them on the patient's chest, yells "Clear!", and turns the thing on, and the seemingly dead patient convulses mightily on the bed and then wakes up. Day saved. When I first cardioverted a patient, I knew that rubbing the pedals together is a BIG NO NO, and even though I got to yell "Clear!", the patient just flipped limply on the bed. His heart reverted back to sinus rhythm, but he passed away after 10 minutes anyway. I was left with a sense of disappointment and the sting of burnt flesh in my nostrils.

Needless to say, I stopped watching medical dramas altogether. Yes, even Gray's Anatomy. Nurse Jackie, now that's a different matter. Screwed up doctors and nurses. Now that's more like real life. You should watch it.

 

3. It's all about the money, money, money

Don't be surprised that a majority of those who answer (1) actually have this as their deep, dark secret. To be honest, I don't see why people hide this. You love money. You want to make lots of it. You believe that doctors make moolah, lots of it. You want to buy that certain CLK-550 (drool). You want a penthouse overlooking KLCC Park. What's wrong with wanting expensive things? At least you plan to do it honestly. Be proud of it.

But don't forget about those who want a better life for their family, those who come from a low socio-economic background, who want their parents, siblings, and children to have a living of much higher quality. God, this is one powerful and noble motivation. Never ever be ashamed of this. Make it your strength.

So. Can doctors make money? In an effort to prevent doctors from leaving the public sector, the government has given us a special pay scale that automatically increases the longer we stay in service. I've worked 6 years, and my pay before tax deduction is RM6900 a month. That's excluding on-call claims. Yes, compared to doctors in other countries' public sector, our pay sucks, but among other government staff, that's considered high.

And we have one of the greatest potential to make more. If you work part-time at private clinics, you get paid between RM30 and RM40 per hour. If you write medical reports, you get paid RM40 per report. If you leave the private sector and work full-time at a private clinic as a Medical Officer, you get around RM15,000 per month. If you own the clinic, you'll get so much more. If you work as a specialist in the private sector, you can easily make between Rm30,000 and RM60,000 per month, and that's excluding extra pay from surgeries and procedures. Like other lines of work, it depends on how badly you want to make the money, but unlike other lines of work, the opportunities are more, with numerous options.

 

4. It's a glamorous job. People respect doctors.

Quite a number of such people are influenced by medical dramas (see (2)). Let me get this straight: it ain't glamorous, and people no longer treat doctors like demigods. You save a life, you get blamed for not restoring the patient to his former self. You don't save a life, you get blamed for not doing your best, for being a screw-up doctor, for being a racist (yes, this happens). You give patients information, they challenge you with articles they read from the internet, which are by and large unverified. But they don't care about that. The internet says this, and who is the bloody doctor to say otherwise?

Sure, some older people still put doctors on a pedestal. They entrust their lives to you. They'll give you their house if you ask for it. They'll offer you their unwed daughter(s) even when you don't ask for her/them (yes, this happens, too). But then their children come into the picture and treat you like shit.

Being a doctor is an honorable job, an honest one. Be happy with that. Respect is never freely given, but has to be earned.

 

5. Being a doctor is a challenge. I love challenges.

As long as you don't faint at the sight of blood, by all means, bring it on.

 

6. Doctors have fancy tools and gadgets. I want them!

Buy a set at a nearest Toys R Us. Better yet, train to be a spy.

 

7. My parents insist that I become a doctor or they'll disown me.

I'm saving the best for last. Let me be absolutely honest with you. Most of those who flunk out of medical school belong to this category. Most of those who get mental breakdown belong to this category. Most of those who quit the job and become house-spouses belong to this category. Most of those who still work as doctors but hate the job until the day they die, yep, they belong to this category. And those who don't care about the patient, who just treat the job as a job and nothing more, you got that right. They belong here.

You have to realize from the start that you'll be dealing with human lives here. You'll be dealing with people who have families, jobs, mortgages, a future. You deal with individuals with names and faces. You can end up murdering a patient. If your dream is to become a banker, a teacher, an artist, an engineer, an architect, a horse rancher, a space cowboy, anything other than a doctor, go for your dreams. You'll do so much better doing what you love, trust me. If you don't see yourself as a doctor, and you hate it with all your heart, tell your parents the truth. They'll fume over it, accusing you for being ungrateful, but they'll get over it. Eventually.

Still. If you're totally trapped into doing this, then do your best not to resent the path chosen for you. Open up to the wonders and possibilities that lie ahead. Have fun, will you?

 

 

What to expect when entering Medical School

So you're a fresh high school graduate. Or you've gone through your STPM or A Levels or matriculation, and are one step closer toward becoming a doctor, regardless your reason(s). From the blogs you read, from stories you hear from people you know, from medical dramas (see how much I resent medical dramas?), you must have a few expectations.

I'm quite certain most of you are academic over-achievers. After all, the competition to fill up slots in public universities is beyond tough. Even though private universities are always an option, they don't just let anyone in, do they? Oh, wait. Some of them do, and end up producing dangerously ignorant and unequipped doctors.

God, the amount of things you have to remember, and most of them in Latin, if not French. Here the teaching medium is English, but if you're studying in Indonesia, the medium is Indonesian, and in Russia, you've got to learn a whole new alphabetical system! I have friends, highly intelligent ones, who had a hard time the first (crucial) year because they had a poor grasp for the English language. That, plus having lecturers teaching in English, thickly flavored with Indian, Burmese, Vietnamese, the likes.

I'm lucky in the sense that I use fluent English. I comprehend things fairly easily, too, especially when they come with diagrams. But I'm freaking lazy. I'm writing this instead of studying, am I not? I don't like memorizing things for the sake of memorizing, and I suck at mnemonics. That's why I scraped by, just enough to pass the major exams without hitches.

If you expect praises from lecturers and peers for being brilliant, guess what--to a certain degree, they're as brilliant as you are, if not more. Sure, at school you were the smartest of the lot. Everyone else was scum. But there are thousands of schools in Malaysia alone, and each of them has its own top students. You can always aim for straight As and Distinction Viva, and by all means, go for it, but if you expect people to bow in awe of your greatness, be prepared to be disappointed. There are always bigger assholes than you.

Do expect medical school to be expensive, even with sponsorship. The textbooks can have a pricetag reaching over RM500. Each. Some post-graduate books are over Rm1,000, but by that time, you were supposed to have saved up a lot to be able to afford those books. Yes, I'm berating myself here. Anyway, the food you consume late at night to fuel your midnight studying sessions, they cost money. The monthly trips home, some more money. The long-distance relationship with the significant other who you are convinced will wait for you, it costs a BOMB. And these relationships usually don't last. Trust me.

Expect to alienate your family and friends. Your schedule is different from other schools/disciplines, and you're supposed to be studying anyway.

If you brace yourself for a tough life ahead of you, you'll do fine. Learn humility, and learn it early on. It'll make your life so much easier. Again, trust me.

 

 

...and once you've graduated 

Congratulations!

 

 

 

Eh. That's it?

Of course not.

Life has just begun. Remember high school, when other students were scum beneath you? You're the scum now. If your family has thrown a party to celebrate your graduation, or has rewarded you with shiny toys or that trip to Europe you've always coveted, well, savor them. That's the last you'll feel good about yourself for the next two years.

I've read numerous rants and complaints in blogs belonging to House Officers. I find most of them ridiculous simply because they fail to grasp the enormity of their responsibility. For most, it's their first job. However, unlike any other jobs, one small mistake can kill a patient. You may think that clerking a patient is a silly, redundant task, especially since the Medical Officer has already clerked the patient. But the Medical Officer on-call has to attend to a lot more patients and new referrals. They may glance through the history and examination, only seeking vital information. A house officer has more time to deal with individual patients, or is supposed to, and can find out about, say, a patient's allergic history. If that is missed, and the patient develops anaphylactic shock and dies, that house officer has to take responsibility too. If your first reaction is "Don't blame me. The MO prescribed the wrong medication," then you'll spend your whole life blaming others for your mistakes.

When something goes wrong in the ward, the house officers are the first to be called. Imagine yourself a fresh graduate, attending a patient who's blood pressure has crashed, and whose oxygen saturation is too low to be picked up by the monitor. The nurses expect you to do something. That was my biggest fear when I started working. If you really don't know anything, suck it up and ask the nurses for help. The senior ones know their shit. Don't be too proud, because your pride can kill a patient. Get help from the Medical Officer, from the specialist, and don't be a hero. If you wanted to be one, you should have joined the army. Or the League of Extraordinary Gentleman.

Some complain about ungrateful patients, difficult patients, and patients with poor compliance. We have to keep reminding ourselves that these people are unwell. At the bare minimum, they have discomfiture. When you have a fever or a flu or whatever ailments, you're not your perky self. You're irritable, you bare your teeth. Why would you expect patients to be any different?

I have a pet peeve, and that is irresponsible parents. People under 18 cannot sign the consent form, and parents or guardians who delay or refuse treatment rob their children of their right to seek medical attention. As for others, well, we can only advice them about healthy lifestyle and the importance of medications or surgery. If they refuse, or are not compliant, it's their lives. When they come back with complications, derive the pleasure by telling them "I told you so."

I heard now there are more House Officers than there are patients. I used to take care of a whole ward by myself, and between 3 and 6 wards when I was on-call. I'm not going to be one of those who keep on saying "During my time...". Even with an abundance of House Officers, the workload is still high, especially with the burden of being responsible for the safety of patients. The first time I drove home after a 36-hour day, I rammed into a Volvo, which was static from the massive traffic jam. I had dozed off and accidentally tapped on the gas. Even now, I still have to periodically slap myself so I don't fall asleep while driving home. My family knows not to disturb me whenever I'm post-call, because I bite their heads off.

To make matters worse, some specialists and MOs take pleasure in reminding House Officers that they're scum, simply because they can. If you're dangerous, you're dangerous. If you get extended for this reason, then you have no one to blame but yourself. But sometimes, even when you know you're competent, there are always a certain senior who makes your life miserable. Here's a little insight: it'll never change. There will always be a superior who makes you feel worthless.

How to overcome this? Be the best doctor you can, and manage your patients well. That in itself is a reward. Forget the insults, and cherish the smiles from patients who recover.

Plan you career. I cannot stress this enough. It's never to early to figure out what you want to be, and being a doctor is no longer enough. Whatever your field of interest, prove your worth while you're a House Officer, so that specialists and/or the head of department may back you up and pull you into the department once your tenureship as a House Officer is over.

Don't take too long to take up a Master's Degree. I've been in service for 6 years, but I didn't spend those years reading academia and brushing up my knowledge. As a service Medical Officer, that was what I gave: my service. Sure, I gained a wealth of experience--not nearly enough, though--but I don't have to discipline to study without being pushed. Entering the program is indeed the push I needed to better myself.

 

 

Last piece of advice

Have fun no matter what you do. Have a life. Being a doctor is a facet of your existence; you have lots more to explore. Learn the piano and guitar. Take dance classes. Write stories. Play futsal with friends from your old school. Date the girl and/or guy you've always had a crush on. Go to the movies. Make movies. Use protection. Laugh. Cry. Laugh so much that you cry.

Wear sunscreen.