Murky Clarity

The Sounds of Sunrise

 Photography, to me, is just like writing prose. It's about capturing the moment--the lights, the emotions, the temperature, the thoughts, the sounds. When we read a story--the good ones, at least--we visualize what is written. Text is translated into images. The same goes for photography. Images are translated into sounds and evoke emotions.

I believe that having the luxury of treating photography, illustration and prose-writing as something I love instead of main income generators affords me the freedom to just jump into it whenever I feel inspired. It's not about being perfect, it's not about impressing others. If others are impressed, well, that's a big bonus for me.

Kuala Lumpur early in the morning gives off a vibe that you will not get at other times. The heavy traffic may be bothersome for others, but I've learned to appreciate the time it gives us--provided the air conditioning is in working order, of course. When I was still schooling, my parents used the time we were stuck in traffic to talk. The topic didn't matter. Now, because I drive alone, I get to put on the music full-blast and sing along to the songs. I get to think about work, about my characters, about plots.

But when you get to places like KLCC Park, you can hear the world breathe. The sounds of traffic are a faded background, and if you stand still, you can hear the hasty footsteps of people passing by, the rustle of tamarind leaves, the call of barristas welcoming customers, the hiss of steamers, everything that amounts to the throbbing heart of the city.

Since I came back from Kelantan, every day that I got to stop by KLCC to buy my 'usual' order of a venti caramel signature hot chocolate and an apple multigrain muffin, I snapped at least one picture from the park. Instagram has been a boon, and I'm having plenty of fun thinking up ways to diversify my perspectives.

I hope you'll enjoy imagining the sounds of KLCC Park waking up.

 

Flash Fiction: The Question

At first I didn’t give Jasni’s drooping right eyelid much thought. I did worry he would grow up one eye smaller; which mother would want her child grow up less than perfect? When he started complaining of headaches, I attributed it to the time we spent outdoors. Kuala Lumpur’s sweltering heat always gives me a headache.

It was when he started vomiting that I knew something was not right.

My husband and I brought our son to our family doctor, who scribbled a hasty note and advised us to take Jasni to the General Hospital. If it were up to me, I would have preferred a private hospital; the General Hospital was old, and I heard a lot of unpleasant stories about the place. But we were both clerks with limited medical coverage. Private care was out of the question.

I expected the old, peeling paint of the ugly cartoon murals. I expected the creaky plastic chairs. I expected the tired look on the nurses’ faces. What I never expected was the quality of care offered to my son. The doctor, though he looked about my younger brother’s age, spoke with us with a kind, gentle tone. He arranged for immediate admission and an urgent MRI. At first I didn’t know what it meant. But seeing the narrow tunnel in the middle of a large white machine, I consented for them to sedate Jasni. I would ask for sedation myself, if I ever had to go into that loud tunnel.

An older doctor came to us with large sheets of black plastic films a few hours after the MRI. She was a small, curly-haired lady with red-rimmed reading glasses framing her face.

“Hello.” She offered her hand for me to shake. “I’m Doctor Tan, the Pediatrician managing your son. Puan Salbiah, I’m afraid I have grave news.”

From the moment I saw her grim face as she approached us, I knew my fears were confirmed. “Jasni’s not well, is he?”

“No. He has brain cancer, and the tumor has spread to his spine.”

Never in my thirty-two years of life had I imagined I would call a hospital home. But home it became, when my son was diagnosed with atypical teratoid rhabdoid tumor, an aggressive childhood brain cancer. Finding out your four-year-old child has cancer is something a mother should never face. Jasni underwent surgery and a few sessions of chemotherapy, but even I could tell he was getting weaker with each session.

We tried to lead a normal life, as normal as a family could get, living in a hospital. My husband continued working, while I took unpaid leave. We had dinner at the cafeteria; I even made friends with the cashier. Jasni loved visiting the playroom, a dilapidated, sad room that had seen better days. He played with stuffed toys that had missing limbs. He played with building blocks, whatever was left of them. He would always look up and squeal at me with the energy of a normal four-year-old, energy I wished I had.

Almost two months in the oncology ward, Jasni asked me a question someone his age should never have to ask.

“Mama, am I dying?”

I pulled him from his bed onto mine, and cradled him close. I looked out the window, hoping he would not notice the tears forming on my eyes.

“Mama, I’m scared.”

“Me too, sayang. Me too.” I held him tight, dreading to let go of him.

Long after he fell asleep, I was still crying.

And I couldn’t let him go.

When showing is better than telling

There is a saying among writers--a rule, really: show, don't tell. Instead of saying a character is sad, you show it through descriptions, how his whole body is deflated, how he drags his feet like they weigh the world, how he sighs and stares at the speck on the wall, his eyes unfocused.

Sometimes, no matter how good your description is, people still have a hard time grasping the truth you wish to share. Sometimes, when other voices are involved, the truth gets distorted and is subsequently misinterpreted. At times like this, it is better to show the truth using actual pictures. So here they are, the truth of my accident almost 6 months ago.

 

 

These shots were taken at the workshop in KB. Faiz has more pictures of both cars, but I believe these are enough to illustrate the horror I went through. Usually, when I ask patients to give a history of their accidents, they blank out and inform me that they do not remember what happened. They are the lucky ones.

I remember everything. Down to the song playing at the moment of impact. I can no longer listen to The Butterfingers' The Chemistry (Between Us). I have avoided the song, really.

The truth is, I am lucky to be alive to share this post with everyone. I am lucky in that I escaped with seatbelt injuries and not with something that could have left me paralyzed or bedbound or without the faculty of my mind. Unfortunately, I've heard that there are people who made light of my injuries, that I was faking my pain to escape having to be on-call, that I was milking my predicament to breeze through work for as long as I could.

I sustained a left iliac bone fracture, but people conveniently discount the fact that all major muscles that flex, extend, abduct, adduct and rotate the hip are attached to the bone, that whenever I moved in any direction, the action grated the fractured bone, sending flashes of intense pain that I would almost black out with each wrong movement. The first two weeks I would wake up every 2 hours or so to manually shift positions, and the first two months, even the simple act of putting on underwear and pants would bring beads of sweat, and sometimes tears.

I forced myself tu use crutches so I could ambulate early. I graduated myself to one crutch despite the pain. I stopped using a crutch altogether because I needed to be fit enough to start doing calls again. Moving was painful, but knowing I was troubling my colleagues with extra calls hurt even more.

That is why it hurts when I found out that people still think I took advantage of my situation to shirk from responsibilities. I did everything in my power to get back in action as early as possible. It hurts that they make light of my predicament.

What they do not know is that my pain is not only physical. I still battle with survivor's guilt. I finally made an appointment with a psychiatrist after the exam, and he confirmed the diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I still wake up in the middle of the night after having a nightmare of gruesome car accidents, though now the visions are varied. In quiet moments, I relive the accident over and over again.

I am not bedbound. I am not paralyzed. I still have the faculty of my mind. I was angry I survived, but also thankful at the same time. People keep telling me there is a reason I am here today, and not rotting underground. I refused to see their point, but after I tasted saving lives again, and teaching students and house officers what little knowledge I have, after seeing one of my patients go home with a lopsided smile on his face, after helping a friend edit her thesis, after seeing a house officer confidently inserting a subclavian central line...

Allah has plans for me. I know that now.

It doesn't matter if people think badly of me. I know I do not stand alone. I have a loving family who cushions my fall. I have friends who offer a hand to pick me up. I refused to use PTSD as a crutch and gave my best during the exam in spite of the lack of excitement and agitation.

Allah has blessed me with wings.

I hope you will help me fly.