Murky Clarity

Fix You

 

 

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

- Coldplay, "Fix You"

 

My entries for the past few months have been somewhat depressing, haven't they? The sporadic entries after the accident are even worse, I believe. I've taken one too many hits throughout 2011, culminating in the life-altering experience in December, that the spring inside me, already taut and at the brink of breaking, finally snapped. I no longer had the capacity to care about others, when I couldn't find it in me to care about myself.

Last Tuesday brought an epiphany. I wasn't originally supposed to be on-call, and since I was already on-call on Sunday and my healing hip was still aching from the excessive rush-walking throughout the day and night, I wasn't too happy to do the Tuesday call.

I went to see a referral in the evening. A five-year-old child operated by our neurosurgeon, and is currently being treated by pediatric oncology. He has medulloblastoma, a primary brain cancer, primarily in children. He's five years old, for fuck's sake, and there's a high chance he'll not live long enough to experience his first heartache.

Until late last year, he was just like any 4-year-old, active, inquisitive, mischevious. I can't help but think about my niece Arwen when I think about toddlers. Such vibrance and exuberance in such a small body. The child must have dreamed the same things toddlers have: of infinite futures enveloped in their loving family's embrace.

Then things started to go wrong. He cried of headaches when no children should be experiencing any kind of headache in the first place. He became less active, and became sick at an alarming rate. Doctors found a large growth that almost obliterated the posterior compartment of his brain. He was immediately operated to remove most of the tumor and to relieve the pressure buildup within his skull vault. The tumor couldn't be completely removed because it had invaded important structures within the brainstem, the most rudimentary but important chip in the human computer that is the brain.

Unfortunately, the child did not wake up after the surgery. Now he only cries and moves his limbs in reflex to painful external stimuli. He is fed using a tube that passes through his nostril, into his stomach. He doesn't recognize his parents, or anyone, for that matter. And there is also a tumor at the lower end of his spine, which does not bode well for him.

During the short time I spent with his father, I could see the unflinching devotion in his eyes, in his movements, in his care. I saw an unconditional love, an adamant refusal to admit that his son's condition is not likely to improve. The father mixed the milk formula, filled up the syringe, and fed the boy lying unmoving on the cot.

Then I opened my eyes to the whole ward. All around me were children of varying ages, but children nonetheless, cachectic, with wisps of hair clinging limp on mostly bald pates. Cancer patients. Children. How fucked up can things get?

Worse, the less sick ones still went about with the same vibrance of a healthy child. They held on to life with such tenacity that I could not meet their eyes. My throat was suddenly constricted, and I had to escape the ward. It was too much. Too much.

Why do they cling on to life? Why do their parents show such devotion, when there's a high chance they will live far longer than their children? Where does the unconditional love come from? Scientists and neurologists have discovered that human emotions are mediated by hormones in the brain. Serotonin modulates lust and mating behaviors, and oxytocin modulates sexual arousal and bonding between mates, as well as maternal instincts toward her child. Human emotions are nothing but neurotransmitters working on specific receptors in the brain.

So why do people cling on to life? Why, when they are hit so hard they can no longer rise, they still fight for survival? And why, despite my lingering guilt for surviving the accident, I finally realize that I have much to live for just by seeing dying children?

I got home last night and downloaded all the episodes of American Idol that I missed. The selected contestants could all sing, there's no doubt about that; however, even though they were great, there were always better singers, unique voices and styles. It was the elimination process to select the top 24, and it was evident that some effortlessly sailed through. Some had to work hard to keep themselves afloat, while some, those who sing for a living, could not accept rejection with grace. And then I heard Colton Dixon dedicating "Fix You" for his sister, who was eliminated during the top 42 selection. His voice was haunting, and the song he sang made me think of the boy I attended to last Tuesday.

And I don't care if human emotions are nothing more than neurotransmitters. I don't know what the neurotransmitter for guilt is, but I will no longer let it rule my life. I survived for a reason. I know, among my neurosurgery colleagues, I cannot achieve their academic excellence even though I am confident of my surgical skills. I know, with my writing, I may not win accolades and prestigious awards. But I know I cannot not save lives and I know I cannot not write. It may take me 4 years to earn my master's degree; it may take me 7 years, even. If I do graduate, I may not be the brightest star produced. It may take me 10 years to finish my novel; it may take me a year or two before I publish another short story. Even then, I may or may not be able to sell my works at a professional rate.

But I know what I have. I move others through my written words. I make people laugh, cry, angry, disturbed, inspired. I also have what not many writers have: first-hand experience with life and death. This is God's gift to me, and it'll be a shame if I just gave up. It'll be a shame if I were to lose hope and not fix myself. My boss encourages me to write, especially stories that involve neurosurgery, so that people who read my stories can learn that there is always hope.

Even when hope dies, there is always love.

 

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to
fix you.

I haven't given up on life; I've only stopped living

 

 

And we don't know how,
How we got into this mad situation,
Only doing things out of frustration
Trying to make it work
but man these times are hard.

- The Script, "For the First Time"

 

Regardless whether I can decently sing or not, music moves my soul. Once in a while, the iPhone would play a song that resonates with my state of mind at that particular moment. Earlier this morning, while having breakfast, the iPhone played Boyce Avenue's cover of "For the First Time" by The Script. I instantly tapped 'loop', and I'm still listening to this song over and over again.

I've been at war with myself since I was small. I've always been the 'good boy', the 'obedient son', the one whose only fear was letting others down. Inside, however, I began to resent this because the imposed hopes accumulated, pushing me harder, always pushing me harder. At times I just wanted to let go, to just let things be, but that particular fear never failed to choke me into submission. So I smiled to the world, projected the image it wanted to see, all the while seething and boiling inside.

The only time I found solace, when I felt absolute freedom, was when I drew, when I wrote stories. These were the only things I did for myself, with no expectations, no imposing pressure. I rarely drew for others; I don't think I've ever written a story for someone in particular. I'm talking in past tense because I've lost even this one thing I've had for myself.

Reading back my posts the previous year, I realize that they are my last confessions, something people may dissect and ponder upon after my death. I've mentioned earlier that I won't take my own life, but that does not mean I'll fight for survival if something tragic happens. I've given up on living, even before I enrolled in this Master's Degree course. When the accident happened, when my car spun for a single moment that stretched forever, I had let go. I had let go of everything, I was ready to meet God even though I had no right to do so, but my body clung to life.

Now, as I'm slowly admitting it to myself, I resent myself for surviving, for escaping the harrowing experience with relatively minor injuries compared to what the other family is now facing. I resent my body for healing; I resent it even more for the lingering pain, for the vivid memories of that horrible day. Strangely, I still cling to those terrifying hours, to the memories of the subsequent pain. I kept returning to a particular moment: when I let go of life.

I know I should be thankful to God for keeping me safe. A part of me is desperate to believe that God has plans for me, that there's something big I'm supposed to do before I die. To be honest, however, I'm running on autopilot right now. I feed my body when I absolutely have to, I go to work because of my obligations, I'm going to sit for my exams because I still have that illogical fear of letting others down; I don't want to disappoint Mama and my boss back in HKL, the two people I respect the most. I'm no longer living. I spend mindless hours watching Kdramas to pass the time instead of studying. I stare at the computer, reading Twitter and Facebook feeds instead of preparing for my presentations. I keep my fingers trained on the keyboard, my eyes fixed on the blank screen, my mind equally blank. Stories no longer come to me. My stories mostly have a common theme: hope. How can I write about hope when I have none? I doodle once in a while, but I cannot bring myself to draw something complicated. I smile and try to overcome my limp, but the only thing I want to do is crawl to a dark corner and make myself disappear.

I think, all things taken into consideration, I fractured my soul immediately after the accident. The best parts of me, the ones that truly enjoyed life, had broken off, and I don't know if the fracture is beyond mending or not. I really don't know, because I believe that a part of me had died that day.

My brother-in-law, Ayis, had a long chat with me, and his words ring true even now: I can have a truckload of people supporting me, but it all amounts to nothing if I refuse to see the light, to heal. And I don't think I'm ready to heal. I don't know when I will, or if I ever will. Intuition tells me to seek God's help; no matter how tainted my soul is, I know God is not vindictive, that God is ever patiently waiting for me to ask for help.

 

Oh these times are hard,
Yeah they're making us crazy
Don't give up on me baby

 

When I hear the song, these words resonate the most. I can just take the easy way out; I can just decide to quit the course, pay the penalty, and either continue working as I had earlier, or request for a transfer because standing, walking and sitting for extended periods make the pain barely bearable. I can just quit learning and maybe find my voice again. After all, I decided to take up this Master's Degree for two reasons only: not to disappoint Mama and my boss, and to gain more knowledge so I can operate better, so I can save more lives. The points are now moot, because I barely care about my body and health, and I no longer have the strength to fulfil the hopes of others. And what's the point of saving so many lives when the opposite happened, even though it was out of my control, it wasn't really my fault?

I think there's a reason I'm writing this, there's a reason I wrote all those posts the previous year. Maybe I'm hoping that the people I need the most will end up reading this, that they'll reach out no matter how screwed up I am. Maybe a small part of me is telling myself to not give up no matter hard the times are.

Right now I'm making a deal with myself: to at least try and sit for the Professional I exam this coming May and not intentionally tank it. If I do fail, at least I've tried, and I can quit then with a clearer conscience. You see, that fear of not letting others down is so ingrained in my subconscious self. I'm not doing this for me; I have honestly stopped living. At the very least, I can cling to the part of me that lives for others; this is the only piece of flotsam that I can hang on to after the ship of my life has sunken.

I'm lost at sea, plagued by storms and turbulent waves. I have no sense of direction, and I'm barely breathing. Maybe I'm not ready to be found. Still, I'm not ready to release my grip on the flotsam. Maybe, by writing this, I'm finally lifting my head to seek rescue ships.

Maybe, I'm doing this as a last effort before I let go and let myself drown.

Pain means I'm alive...if you can call this living

 

I shot for the sky
I'm stuck on the ground
So why do I try, I know I'm gonna to fall down
I thought I could fly, so why did I drown?

- Jason Walker, "Down"

 

Several months ago, Kasha and I took our cats to the vet to deal with their flea infestation. The condition was so bad that nothing we did was working, and the whole family suffered from flea bites. Arwen had it the worst, probably because she's the shortest.

We don't have carriers for the cats as we much prefer to carry them in our arms. Neither of them like being in a moving car, because they know it always entails a trip to the vet. They'll hide under the seats and we have to force them out of the car, and when we carry them to the vet, they'll ball up in our arms, head hidden, body shivering uncontrollably. That last trip was no different.

As usual, Keeno glared at the vet and growled her objections to the indignity of being treated. She didn't struggle or lash out, but she was cursing non-stop in cat language. Chiqa, though much bigger and bulkier, simply froze. Literally. She sat on the table unmoving, eyes wide and unblinking, and before long, she began salivating. Right then, she embodied the term 'frozen with fear'.

I found it amusing then. I wondered what it was like for someone to be so terrified that he becomes petrified, unable to fight back, even if it's just to growl and complain. I even toyed with the idea for a possible story.

Little did I know it would end up as the story of my life.

I had a car. It wasn't the fanciest car on the streets, or even the fastest one, but it was mine. Mama helped a lot with the deposit, but the car was the first (and only) asset with my name on its deed. I loved my Latio, even though I should have taken care of it better. Driving gave me pure and simple pleasure, even when I was stuck in traffic. The drive was always smooth, the insulation from outside noise and heat a blessing, and I had total control over song selection thanks to my iPhone and its accessory, the Griffin Roadtrip. Whenever I returned from long trips, I would always stop by the driver's side before unlocking the car, smile, and say softly, "Hello, car." It was my ritual. It was my appreciation for what I had.

Then the accident happened on December 3rd. You know the details by now, and I'm reliving every painful moment of it on a daily basis, so I won't put it down in writing again (except maybe in a potential story. Someday. Maybe). What's important is that my Latio saved my life at the expense of its own. Sure, I'm still limping from my left hip fracture, and my fractured rib still moves when I lie on my side, but you should have seen my car. I almost vomited when I saw it the first time since the accident.

Right now I'm driving a rental. A rickety Kancil without air-conditioning, without a working radio, without character. I only drive it to and from work, and I derive no pleasure from driving. At RM900 a month, it's just something that I use to get me from point A to point B. Nothing more.

You know what? I'm rambling. I don't even know what I'm talking about. It's much easier than talking about the real issue. Deep breaths. I should just get it over with.

I have what you would call 'Survivor's Guilt'. It used to be a diagnosis on its own, but for the past thirty years or so, it has been absorbed under Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Have I seen a psychiatrist to arrive to this diagnosis? I'm a doctor, so I know enough to recognize the signs and symptoms. Should I see a counselor or a psychiatrist? I'm still contemplating on that, so for the time being, I'll just express myself here.

Here's something that I revealed only to Kasha: when my car stopped spinning and everything was silent, hot and painful, I did not have my whole life flashing before me. Instead, I was ready to die. I wanted to die. I wanted to just let go of everything. My only regret was that I would not be able to see Mama again, to be there for her. For Kasha and Faiz. But the breaths came, albeit painful. My heart kept beating.

More than anything, I was disappointed.

If I close my eyes now, I can hear the little girls screaming "Ayah, Ayah." I can see their mother's bloodied face and clothes as she lay beside me in the ambulance. I can see the attending doctor's face when he informed me that the driver had passed away. The children's father, the woman's husband. And yet, I'm still here. I'm back working. I'm in pain more than I let on, and I'm pretty sure quite soon I'll be a painkiller junkie, but I'm able to drive the stupid rickety car, and I'm facing an exam soon. Life goes on for me whether I want it to or not.

I've been advised to be prepared for legal actions and a heavy financial blow, and I'm still waiting word from the police. My future doesn't look so bright anymore, so I've lost all interest in the present, especially when it comes to planning for the future.

Every passing day, the idea of quitting my Master's Degree program becomes more enticing. After all, what's the use of studying for exams when there's a possibility of imprisonment and a debt so deep to cover for damages? I get a deep guilt whenever I feel good about something, because I know how bad things surely are for the other family. That's why my tweets lately are so bleak. I have to force myself to wake up in the morning, bear the throbbing pain on my hip as I down a tablet of Arcoxia and two tablets of Paracetamol, and wait an hour or so before the pain subsides enough to get by. I don't even know how I'll cope with being on-call, but I've burdened my colleagues enough these past two months.

I can't even write a story or study because the pain always distracts me. And that's just the physical pain. You have no idea how messed up my head is right now.

I have given up hope on passing this approaching trial exam. I'm trying to coax myself to at least prepare my five presentations for the intensive course. I'm failing even that.

Right now, I'm exactly like Chiqa. I'm frothing and frozen with fear. My whole body is in panic mode, and even though I'm surrounded by loving and supportive family and friends, my mind refuses to break free. My life used to be like my Latio. Not the best, but at least I loved living it (most of the time). Now it's the Kancil: almost a broken-down junk, barely functioning, enough to get by. I derive no pleasure from living my life right now.

But the Kancil is just a temporary means. I hope to get a new car soon, maybe something better than my old one. But just as I'll never drive my Latio again, life post-accident will never be the same. I'll never be that same Fadz. I'll always hear the echoes of the screams and tears.

I miss my Latio.

I miss my old self.