Forget choosing yellow vs green

Dead babies never get any easier. There's something inherently awful in the knowing that the baby you're carrying inside is dead; this little one only had three weeks to go, and now he is dead. There is tragedy in helping a woman bring forth something dead and rotting from her womb. Somehow, I am not surprised that this is happening on my shift at this juncture. They never get any easier to do. Death instead of life; grief instead of joy; ironic juxtapositions of a shell-game-like switcheroo...

Random babbling

I've been thinking about the inherent issue of death and decay; I suppose since I see it enough. The futility of healing, the elusiveness of cure. You know, one thinks about making this world a better place, but it sometimes becomes difficult to see that happening. The difference between sympathy and empathy has always lain a little too closely, and I am not sure if I have run dry of both, leaving little left for anything else. Maybe I'm not meant for medicine....

Profuse apologies

I am considering the fact that this blog's raison d'etre is perhaps starting to get a bit murky... I'm considering starting another one... for those of you interested in the new address, please let me know... I haven't fully decided yet...

Temporary alternative track

What I find heartening is that there are 44,000 national Indian missionaries, all trying to reach their own people. That's more than Canada sends out altogether. That is encouraging news. It is encouraging that, despite our own bloated, self-centred, and little lives in the West, God still works. And that He, in fact, can reach more people, more effectively and with more fruit, than we think we can. For I still contend that God has forsaken us in the West, that the glory of the LORD has departed our lands, that our civilization and culture are on the decline, and that, like all Empires, we are in the twilight of its age. (Wars for water aside....)... OK, maybe I'm trying too hard to write on an alternative track... obviously, I'm not right in the head...

Porphyria

Some have expressed concern that I am going mad; perhaps I am. They say I make little sense, that I'm incoherent at best, pedantic at worst. I suppose blogging in the middle of the night stuff that doesn't make sense to most is a sign.
What I find curious are decision making trees. How do they happen? Are they rabbits in hats, or do they actually make sense? It is also funny what kinds of decisions people make, despite the cautions and the prohibitions others older and wiser warn of. I certainly know of decisions that I have made that were wrong, even though 'older and wisers' told to me to choose otherwise.
And what about people that make you feel icky? People that just make you want to crawl out of your skin and scream? I haven't felt that way in a long while, but it just happened a few days ago; I think my fuse is shorter now than it used to be; I see aspects of myself that have been lost over these past few years that others have warned of and saw happening in real time. It's like I emulated questionable characteristics of the other that changed me (I see them), and I don't know where mine have gone (where are they?). I've been told that people want me back, that they haven't seen me for a long time as I seem to have disappeared under expectations, fear, demands and judgement. Is it possible to find yourself in madness? After years of being buried and suffocated? Does joy in the morning return as brightly as it once did, or does it remain a sickly hue after years of smog? Perhaps I am going mad....

Aphorisms

There are many cliche truisms, several of which I have heard repeated over the last little while. One is, when it rains, it pours. In this week alone, I have encountered five people struggling with (previous and present) adulterous partners, two very ill little children, a miscarriage, and someone who needs neurosurgery (and this doesn't include patients, cause that's not fair; including patients would staggeringly increase the number of sorrowing people all the time). I suppose it's to give me a bit of perspective on myself, to tell me that other people have experiences similar to mine, though for me, it simply increases the grandeur of sorrow and pain.
The second is, life is not fair. I don't know how many millions of billions of times I've heard that said. Though it may be a truism, that is no reason that we should resign ourselves to such things, for He has overcome the world.
For though there is much I do not know about God, one thing I know for certain: that He is indeed a God of justice. That though things may not appear fair, for now, they will be retributed and redistributed in due time. There is great comfort in that; that the oppressor will be brought low, that the weak and the sorrowing will overcome the mighty and the powerful- those with 'hand'. That ultimately, those that hurt, maim, wreak havoc on others, destroy, will indeed be brought to justice.
I try not to be overly joyful in that; facing the wrath of God cannot be a picnic. And certainly, I recognize all of us, in some measure, will indeed face the wrath of God; I think just being a wealthy Westerner alone will cause God to come down hard on me, let alone my other myriads of faults and shortcomings. Yes, I have been trying not to rejoice too heartily in that vengeance belongs to the LORD, and that He shall repay in His own time, for I know I myself shall repay. However, missing part of my very flesh will eventually demand a pound of its own, despite Shylock's protestations. It's not meant in anger; simply a statement of fact. Certainly, some had suggested various legal and medical methods of exacting my own vengeance, though thoughts that are entertaining to consider, and, perhaps in due time, may be pursued in their own way, are probably wrong.

Mirroring

I realize, of course, that the entries that I put in over this next little while will definitely be seen as histrionic by those who won't particularly give a flying shit, and that really, I should just shut up and put up - and, of course, will get very angry that I would dare say so. That's fine, as I suppose people can have their own opinions, as misguided or incorrect that they might be. As I suppose I may be deluded/misguided into assuming that my opinions are histrionic. (Boy, I can really feel the anger now... if there is at least one positive thing I must say in all this, I can say that I am glad that I am free from living in oppression and fear of rage and violence...)
However (despite their distaste for such), I think there is some value in living 'in' the moment. I suppose I am a typical Romantic that way, as opposed to Enlightened. Perhaps it would have been best to be some mad genius (not that I'm not in some senses already - perhaps therein lay the fatal flaw - some people just cannot handle wit, and would rather have dullness and insipidity), locked in some garrett, producing my oeuvres by candlelight and weeping over the dramatic losses and perils of the world, while planning my ultimate demise by drowning in absinthe.
But I still contend there are those who do not give a flying shit. On the other hand, I've been told, neither should I... that's a bit harder as that's not in my nature....

The Stick-'Em-Up

I just had someone I deeply respect make me question my veracity, my trustworthiness. It gets to be a bit much when those you have confidence in undermine your own. I think I feel even more stripped of my defence, like kneeling at the feet of Jesus, trembling, while being thrown there by the Pharisees, ready with the stones. Except for Jesus isn't there, and no one is around to question or defend, and so the pelting begins...

A sea of granite and marble

What is a curious phenomenon is how people define sorrow, or, at least, perceive how they emphathize with others' pain. I think it is honestly difficult to understand where another is coming from, particularly when they are lost and swirling in the depths of despair, but I also note that, for some, it becomes an opportunity for counter-transference, to bring to mind issues that plague their own minds as well. Isn't that curious? It turns the table on those who are dying; they, instead of receiving life sustenance and nourishment, must bring succour to the medic. It is selfish in nature. Certainly, it demonstrates to me that when I do the same, that I must bring healing to the hurt, and not bring my own wounds into the picture. It's strange how certainly I would never dare do this in my clinical work, but, thinking back, perhaps I have been guilty of this phenomenon myself. Particularly where I am both the healer and the one who caused the wound.
If I am the one to cause injury, who am I to dwell on my own wounds? If I struck a blow at my loved one, who am I to then talk of all the thrashing that I've received from other sources? Do I weep for myself, or for my beloved (beloved being either gender)? I think if I do that, then I steal from my beloved, I demonstrate my lack of compassion and mercy, I kill their dignity and their soul, and live the lie that they are cared for. It is not a life-affirming manner of dealing with loved ones, but I suppose if I am demonstrating the lie that they are cared for, then I suppose affirming life isn't exactly one of my priorities for them... I'll have to ponder about this some more...

and flits with its wings

I know it's the middle of the night, but the Seas of Sadness are, I think, lapping at the shoreline.
Death of hope is a terrible thing. Loss of 'family' is too. I'm not sure which is worse. 'Family' being not just blood, but people who are so near and dear, that even if the biologicals are far away, you still feel like you belong, that they are a part of your home and hearth, that you have significance, that you might actually mean something.
Loss of 'family', using that definition, feels like losing a limb. You still 'feel' the limb for the rest of your life, but it is no longer there. A part of you, completely gone, but its part in the whole very poignantly missed, irreplaceable, in fact. I think that's the kicker; family cannot be replaced. Hope can rise again like the phoenix, but family members can't.
It really is a tragic thing. I can't even write properly, really, being overwhelmed with that...

OK Computer

I've also been thinking more about the inherent alienation that occurs in our place and time. I realized, thinking back with some other people, that it's hard for us to remember how we 'functioned' without email, without instant messaging, without cell phones. Which, to be honest, wasn't that long ago; basically high school for most of us. And I must confess, I don't remember how my friends and I found each other, or planned to do things. But I do remember that it worked, somehow.
I somehow get the suspicion that as our 'connectivity' has increased, our 'connections' have decreased. A few friends that I have not seen for long while and I realized that we could've easily maintained our 'relationship' at the 'occasional email' level, and been able to go the rest of our lives without laying eyes on one another, and yet, still kind of called each other 'friends'. I think also the lack of responsibility or accountability by simply sending a few sentences by email demonstrates our lack of committment. Um, that doesn't quite make sense: I think I was mulling and expounding on this a bit further a few days ago, but I think to write it here would turn it into a mini-essay....
I think I am starting to rebel against the 'email conversation' (unless, by virtue of vast distances - more than just Mississauga to Scarborough- or business, makes that necessary). I think it is possible to start a new revolution of people actually speaking to one another. Perhaps even revolutionary hand-written letters (and postcards!). I am tired of group semi-spam with 'conversations' that only a few respond to that no one listens to. I am tired of not listening enough, and of not being heard. I think in the cacophony of the city, one's own small voice disappears amongst ring tones and beeps and firewalls.
Of course, I recognize the inherent irony of making that kind of announcement in a semi-anonymous medium as a blog...

Chang geum, or, my parents have lost it...

OK, so I know it's kind of past the 'trendy' mark for Chinese people, but my parents have finally discovered the joys of Korean chapter movies... though, at least, they're watching it in the original Korean. It's really nice, and kind of funny, to see them just plain old liking these movies as least as much as Chinese people that I know. However, my parents have this idea that if I sit and watch with them, I'll somehow learn more Korean by osmosis. Firstly, there's no subtitles on the discs we have. Secondly, they're obsessed; they're watching 5-7 episodes a DAY.
This is the usual attempt that occurs when they ask me to watch with them:
I oblige and sit down, and begin to watch a movie that I understand very little to nothing about what is going on.
Me: "Hey, what just happened there? I just heard something about the king..."
Them: "Shush! You're interrupting the movie! Just listen to the movie!"
Me: "But I don't understand what they're talking about! I'm listening, but no comprehension is occurring...."
Them: "Shhhhh!"
Me: "This is ridiculous. I don't understand what's going on. I'm going upstairs...."
Them: "Hey! Where are you going? How are you going to learn Korean if you don't watch the movie? This is part of your culture! Hey! Hey..... oh, wait, something's happening"... and then their attention rivets back to the screen. It really is quite funny. This has occurred on several attempts since I've been back, so now they're way too engrossed to barely even acknowledge when I return home :) . I've been relegated to asking Chinese people what happens in these movies so I know what the plot line basically is... :)
Next time, we've got to get something with English subtitles.

Blinded, you lost your way...

I had the opportunity to meet with a very dear old friend, and, in finding him, also found that he has lost faith. Though, I must admit, I am not entirely sure in what. It's a curious thing, the gift of faith. Faith moves mountains and shakes the heart of man, but yet, begins as a tiny seed, almost invisible and intangible, a small miracle.
And yet, in what should be a time of despair and grief (which, indeed, it is - that drew a stake through the heart of me), I also see hope. Despite everything that's occurred, there are a few things that I know to be true, and one is that God does not abandon His children, no matter if they can no longer accept their kinship nor no longer want to be a part of His family.
I think I see a small reflection of my own heart, as well as many of our hearts, in this as well... more on this thought later...

FFT

This made me laugh very hard, b/c it's true... must've been written by a resident who was overworked and bitter that day... I can only hope that no resident thinks the same of me...

Any Resident's Story

11:14 I can’t wait until I’m on staff. I’m gonna leave my watch at home every day. Maybe I’ll just forget how to tell time altogether.

11:20 Okay, he should be here any minute now. No apology, of course. Not even an explanation. Is there an explanation? Stuck in traffic? Attacked by badgers? Trapped under something heavy, like his ego? Maybe he’s looking after some really sick patient somewhere. Really sick, unlike his patients here, who are apparently only sorta sick and not really worth his time. Maybe someone’s dying somewhere.

11:27 There’d better be somebody dying. Only excuse I can think of for being 27 minutes late.

11:31 There’s nobody dying anywhere. Well, dying of iatrogenic boredom, maybe. I wonder who the victim is. Some poor patient? Another resident? Maybe it’s some other staff jerk, who’s seriously reconsidering ever asking for a curbside consult again.

11:36 I’d leave and try to get something useful done, but the second I do he’ll turn up and blow a gasket because I’m not here waiting for him with his slippers in my mouth. Should I page him? No, he hates being paged. Whenever I page him he’s in the middle of something important, like curing cancer or inventing oxygen or defibrillating the Pope.

11:41 Why am I even here? I’ve forgotten everything I was going to talk to him about. Dammit! Aww, it doesn’t matter, anyway. He never wants to hear anything I have to say. Vitals? Bah! Meds? Phooey! Has the patient recently eaten nectarines? That’s what he’ll want to know. Has the patient ever been in a marching band? Has the patient now, or has the patient ever been, in possession of a humidor?

11:43 Oh, here he comes now. You’d think he was on vacation, the way he’s meandering down the hall. Hey, wait a second… he’s got a coffee! He’s been at Tim’s for God’s sake! That’s it. He’s really gonna get it now. I’m gonna take a piece outta him. Here I am waiting to talk to him about his patients, and he’s getting a double-double and a muffin! I’m gonna…

11:46 I really shoulda let him have it.

12:02 Well, I guess I won’t be getting to that lunchtime teaching session. This is plenty educational, though. Listening to him go on about how residents today don’t know how to do a physical exam is certainly going to make me a better doctor. I bet he knows of a study that says so.

12:08 Shut up. Please shut up. I’ll pay you one hundred dollars to shut up. Seriously. Stop talking now.

12:14 Randomize this, you $%&@!
-Paul Moorehead