Ironic Medicine

I was told today that I must be a good doctor because I looked so tired.

I can't help but feel sometimes that my choice of profession is somewhat sick. The countless hours spent in the hospital is a stark reminder of how precious life is, how every ephemeral moment should be treasured. And yet it seems that the ones that are living the lessons I'm learning are the ones that haven't learnt said lessons at all. And me who keeps learning the lessons they're living, will keep learning and not living so that they may live instead.

A moment of today, all of my yesterdays, for one more tomorrow.

consumed

And in hate he was consumed,
until there was nothing beyond nothing,
of why he was.
Void of everything,
in the infinite shades of a man's heart,
infinite, only as time would make him,
cold, only as time would leave him.

The making of a coffee table

As with all great stories, this one begins with one of the cardinal sins of man. Though I fear to disappoint, and rest assured I bear with my own disappointment that this story does not detail one of the racier vices of lust or grand theft, this tale sparks its birth from the green seeds of envy. But not just any envy, dear readers, no. It was envy of a 30” Toshiba flat screen HDTV with a 5.1 channel digital surround sound Boss speaker set and an XBOX 360. He obtained these items in a shopping spiral to adorn the barren void of our common room, but in doing so inadvertently mocked my nascent sense of electronic gadget ego found in countless college aged Korean men. When I moved out into my own apartment, I decided, no, I pledged that I would have an entertainment system to rival that which I had seen.

The pride of the Korean male coursing through my body fueled my search for the ultimate TV. However, it also fed my necessity to find the best possible deal on this new addition to my life… and thus my search on craigslist began. After weeks of searching and emailing I found the TV I wanted. It was a 30” Sony HDTV WEGA, editors choice in 2004 for best picture quality and bang for its buck. Beautiful. I met with Dave, who later revealed himself to be a CEO for a porn industry in North Hollywood, traded cash for the goods, and made my way home. A part of me died (a few hundred dollars of me to be exact) when I found that the TV didn’t work. Now, before you berate me for being an idiot (trust me I know), let me assure you that I did everything I could to remedy this tragedy. I tried getting it fixed, I tried taking the case to court, and I tried beating it senseless in hopes that things would start working again (the latter of the three after the form two courses of action were taken). Long story short, busted TV, Won very sad.

The TV thus sat, and many of you have seen what a lovely side table it has made over the months. My backpacks and jackets had grown fond of being carelessly thrown upon the electronic shell of what was a masterful tantalizing piece of audio video heaven. However, the bulky corpse, I found was too much for my apartment to accommodate, and thus began the making of a coffee table.

The project was simple, the front glass plate would make an excellent table top. Take out the tube, take the front plate, chuck the rest. No problem.

Unscrew, unscrew…

The front plate is actually a part of the picture tube…

Big problem.

Hatchet.

Problem solved.

I then ensued to smash away the glass from the posterior aspect of the picture tube (for those who can’t visualize what it looked like previous to my Last of the Mohicans’s moment, see figure 1). Shards of glass flew everywhere, but despite the adrenaline and terror, I threw my faith to my Rubbermaid dish gloves and make-shift surgical mask of toilet paper and continued. Actually the mask only came after I realized that I was pulverizing the glass and aerosolizing it… probably the 3^rd scariest thing I’ve done in my life. I taped up the bottom ends of the cut surface to don the guise of safety, and the top was complete. Too low for a coffee table, though. Hey, the frame has circular holes in it. HEY, the ikea lamp poles fit PERFECTLY into them. After much research online, I found that the lamp poles would be fit by a 19/6 – 18 TPI bolt… yea. Good thing Home Depot has everything.

Final product~

And they said it couldn’t be done…

holding breaths

Every moment we are alive, we are living. A trite statement of rhetoric, perhaps, but one whose simplicity it took me 24 years to understand. A being of goal oriented thinking, I spent my entire life wondering when I would finally be able to live, as if years of education and training were merely preparation for a future of luxury, of contentment, of "life". Fool. As if the future - which with its counterpart, past, do not exist, as one is merely an idea of events yet to happen, while the other is the scent of events that already were - were something special. As if these delusions of grandeur could really be more incredible than the oxygen that flows through my blood, giving life with each breath; more great than the calm morning wind that caresses the core of my being as I walk tranquil streets. A phantom of things to come, the potential of things that are not, more real or wonderful than the simple majesty of things that are? Impossible. Yet just as difficult to see. Those that hold their breath, waiting for tomorrow, not pausing to inhale the fragrance of roses, will die waiting, as tomorrow never comes. The tragedy of life is not that we must die, but that we wait to live.

Trauma Surgery Rounds at Harbor

I shadowed the trauma team at Harbor UCLA hospital today.

There was a man who was brought in naked, just the way he was when he jumped (or maybe fell) off the third story balcony of his home, blue pills scattered all over the place. He had multiple fractures throughout his body: left humerus, right pubic symphisis, transverse spinous processes. He had slit his wrist somehow before he left his loft, yet despite all this was amazingly still alive. His perineal bleeding led to his scrotum swelling up to the size of his thigh (i kid you not); I wonder if he thought he was more of a man for this. He crashed while waiting for the interventional radiologists, who were the only lazy bastards in the hospital that couldn't be found - 20 minutes of this man's life added to their already inflated paychecks. A thoracotomy was performed, and the trauma surgeon manually pumped John Doe's heart with the accuracy of any good SA node. I watched Doe's left lung inflate and deflate, inflate and deflate, into the open air of the OR. He flatlines. No good. No pulse. Intrathoracic defibrillators. Still nothing. Ok, wait. A heartbeat. Radiologists continued looking for the ruptured vessels to stop the incessant bleeding. Need more blood. The blood bank says they're running out. Tell them to call the Red Cross. More blood. More plasma. They drip the life of others into him as it drips back out as his own onto the OR floor. He flatlines. Time of death, 21:55. 16 units of blood, 12 units of plasma, transferred from life saving bags to the OR floor and his scrotum. Police say he had been drinking heavily while abusing antidepressants for the past week. He didn't want to live anyway. With slit wrists, blue pills, and a third story balcony, what right did we have to try and save him?

swept away

A great mind once spoke of taking a road less traveled. The footsteps along a path of consequence, forged in the heat of passion; a passion for living, a passion for believing, a passion for dreams. I too have embarked on such a path, but feel as if I am being swept by the tides and eddies of consequence, into a depth I do not comprehend nor wish to fathom in fear of my own mortality, my own humanity, the smallness of my being that nurtures a flame of purpose, or a search thereof, within the human soul. Though this vessel is small, and powerless against these tides, I shall keep it sailing with pride as the waters of misfortune wash me to the directionless depths of mediocrity.

I am water... flow with me baby.

You are water. You're not really organic; you're

neither acidic nor basic, yet you're an acid

and a base at the same time. You're strong

willed and opinionated, but relaxed and ready

to flow. So while you often seem worthless,

without you, everything would just not work.

People should definitely drink more of you

every day.


Which Biological Molecule Are You?
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Hand of God

Howl, lonely wind!
Howl in forlorn melody.

Ubiquitous wind; they call for you.
Your invisible, thankless hand,
With purpose, unanchorable; name ungiven.
Resonance of desperate prayers.

Blow, empty wind.
That lonely hearts may breathe,
lonely breaths,
and fallen leaves may find fallen limbs.

Soothe, loving wind.
Kiss dry the eyes you've stung.
Deal hope, with death you've given.
Promise spring, in autumn's eulogy.

Bastard wind, torment me not!
Let silent cries, be silent still.
May fallen leaves, adorn this path,
of tattered love, and broken will.

The thoughts of an unexpressful mind...

"Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual. Their brain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you that the umbrella of the gardener's aunt is in the house."

--W. Somerset Maugham, The Moon and Sixpence


I must say that I disagree with this statement. Not so much in the obvious truth in the limit of our human tongue, but rather in the lamenting of the nature of man and language. There is deficiency in all things: physical energy is lost wastefully to friction and heat; seeds are produced in masses of thousands so that one may have the chance to live. It is clear that words in their banality degrade meaning and emotion into the very simple signals that this writer speaks of. However the deficiency in our expression is what makes good expression truly great. As the diamond in the rough is prized for its worth, while the diamond in the diamond field is but another diamond, the degradation of our every expression into the mundane whisperings of everyday life ensure that our truest moments are left as opportunities for theatric excellence. Our broken hearts are expressed in tears and writhing mouths, void of any words, but laced with human expression. Our smiles are recognized in every language, dialect, and nation... death and grief just as consoled and understood. The handicap of our tongues to express the majesty of our minds make the poems that move tears from dry eyes, music that move hearts from closed walls, and speeches that move men and women to their feet in inspired unity, truly works of art, a testament to the human spirit despite the shackles of our physical beings and restraints of our simple tongues.

A world where thought was shared in complete and utter understanding would be a more banal world than this. The value of human thought is not in question, but rather the ability to share these thoughts. In a world where all is shared, and nothing expressed, all thoughts would be equal, all ideas understood, and they would all meld and mend into a potpourri of human feeling, no one being more distinct or precious than the others, no one more moving or melancholy than the next. All thoughts would be shared, each one understood, on account of this perfect communication. Why express yourself through poetry, art, music, or deeds, when the feelings of your mind and the intentions of your heart are already known? A world without the need to overcome the barriers of human expression would be a world without the need to be human. Our language limits mankind from ever reaching one another, and inadvertently sears the desire to forever long for one another in consequence. Let our barriers remain, so that we may forever fight to overcome them, and in doing so, live out our humanity.

Pediatric ICU

On Thursday morning I shadowed one of my instructors who works in the peds cardiac ICU. It was amazing. One of the patients was a 14 day old baby who had his chest cut open with only a thin film of plastic draping the hole in his thoracic cavity to prevent infection. Lemme tell ya, watching a baby's heart beat from an opened chest is friggin nuts.

I luv bein a med student.

I was used today...

Vishal asked me for my cell # today... he subsequently mentioned that he felt better now that he had an even number of entries in his cell phone. So used. He said I should write a blog entry about it. So here it is. But I've exhausted the excitement, drama, and altogether overwhelming emotion of the incident in my first few lines, so I shall bring a close to that saga of my life.

Chapter 2: Vengeance is Mine
I looked up your cell # on the med roster Vishal and added you. You're #143. You may have the peace of mind knowing that you have an even number of entries in your phone, but let it haunt you, let it hound you, let this sword of Damocles plague your every waking moment and the lulls within your dreams because you know that somewhere, somehow, you're an odd entry in someone's phone.

Glasses

Sometimes the glass is half full.
Sometimes the glass is half empty.
And sometimes, there just aint no frickin glass.

Ode to a Med Student...

Never let them see you bleed.
When you're wounded
tell them it's ketchup.
But not your ketchup
no, that would show weakness.
Someone else spilt it.
Obviously.

Never let them see you cry.
When they look,
ask if they think it strange
that it's raining,
under a cloudless sky.
Ludicrous.

In weakness, show strength.
In strength, show weakness.
Sun Tzu thought so.
Sun Tzu taught so.
This art of war begs a dialectic champion.

Misery loves company.
Our education binds us,
intertwines our minds behind us.
My weakness will become yours,
and yours will become mine.
Hiding our tears from ourselves,
averting our eyes from wounds not there,
and in unified solitude,
conquer that which might have been,
and that which tomorrow may be.

Is it possible?

Today was another amazing day.

Another day, another chapter closes, another verse begins...

Today was my first day of medical school. Like whoa. The people are amazing, the faculty are incredibly nice, and the curriculum looks like it'll keep me entertained far better than I was during undergrad. The day started off well. I woke up at the ungodly hour of 7 to shower... after which I moseyed on down to the shuttle stop so I could take the bus to avoid the strenuous 15 minute walk to campus. Introductions were haphazard as I sifted through the milieu of people, making my way to the all so important pastry table. Muffins, fruit, whatever; they had good orange juice and that's all that matters. My love for this orange juice did not go unrequitted, as it soon found its way to my backpack and pants (it doesn't waste any time this juice), embracing me with its glory. What a way to start the day eh?

The rest of the morning went rather quickly. We listened to deans talk about how great UCLA was (duh), and some more interesting statistics regarding matriculation and whatnot. UCLA undergrad sends the most to UCLA med (about 30 students), followed closely behind by Berkeley (woo hoo... we're so awesome haha). Another interesting factoid (this will give you all the more reason to come here zohair...) there's about a 3:2 girl to guy ratio here. With only 160 students in your class, the potential for drama is just way to high if you ask me though. But, different strokes for different folks eh?

We met in groups to do some learning. Then watched this amazing cultural awareness presentation put on by professional performers. Then we went to Chili's to chill (I'm so punny).

Anyway. It's awesome. When I'm working 80 hour weeks with 32 hour shifts during clinicals, I'll look back and think on the good old days... Here's to another 4 years.

whispers in the night..

the problem with staying awake when you're not supposed to is that often times the paths of your conscious mind begin to blur. the lucid becomes mirky, the crystals now limestone. maybe i'm getting nostalgic. maybe now that i'm at the edge of the world, ready to embark on something that matters i'm getting cold feet. the human lust for opposites permeates our condition as people. it drives me crazy. we never know what we have until it's gone. we don't know it has begun until it's over. all is fair in love and war. comfort breed contempt and children. actually that last one had nothing to do with this topic but it's an interesting quote.

i believe i'm at an all time low on endogenous intoxicant. those beautiful opiates, endorphins, and neuropeptides that remove us from the reality of our days. namely they are: chemical fluctuations in an evolutionary mechanism to pass on our genes, the depression of our reticular activation system and downmodulation of the thalamocortical tract, and ethanol ... simply put: love, sleep, and alcohol.

not being someone that drinks, i'm short outta luck when it comes to inebriation i'm afraid. being a poor med student i can't afford the luxury of love. and being someone with bigger aspirations than he can swallow, sleep is a distant dream as well.

one of my friends was playing all her depressing music cause she's been kinda in a rut. i told her it wasn't healthy at first, but sitting here bored outta my mind i realize how beautiful it is to twist your own soul in bittersweet anguish in the memories and feelings of other heart trodden beings . not only do they feel the pain you feel, but they've colored and adorned themselves with shades of their own. it is this ensemble of misery that cries out to us, pleading us, be a part of my melancholy... in our unified tears we are strong, alone are wet eyes are pitiable.

I-PhrOD

There exists a new social order in this era of information & technology. The substituents thereof are not the genetically superior, for the upper echelons of beauty, intelligence, and strength are not solely comprised of these beings. Nor are they the proletariat or the followers of the American Dream, as comfortably wealthy members of society have joined this rank as well. No, the primary requirement to be a part of this new elite caste of American culture is but to own an IPod.

The IPod is not simply an MP3 player women use to accessorize with its undoubtable beauty and men use to compensate with its enormous hard... drive. Rather, it stands as a symbol of musical authority, a testament to your peers and colleagues that you too are musical connoisseur enough to necessitate such a monstrosity. The chic shades of fruit dialectically paired with the unprecedented white head phones speak to your unquestionable sense of good taste and modern fashion. As they are the symbol of a new social class, the envious dwellers of earth (whether we'd like to admit it or not) have checked the price tag on these items. Knowing we cannot afford such a thing makes the IPod an artifact of affluence and conspicuous consumption - pocket sized.

As our quazi progressive nation (I saw quazi progressive because we are in the era of Bush) moves towards a society of equality, it is time for the common man to be given his reprieve. The IPhrOD is the solution.

The IPhrOD simply put, is a pair of white earphones. "What the ..." you may ask. The reality of the situation is simple. Don a pair of these IPhrODs and watch heads turn and eyes enviously follow. Legitimate IPod owners will notice your equipment and quietly offer their nods of approval as you pass them by. Who cares if there's no 20GB musical hard drive at the other end of the cable. Tuck your social inadequacy nicely into your sweatshirt pocket or your backpack: no one will ever know.

This isn't about music... this is about respect. Order yours today.

Losing Touch

I've lost touch with reality.
Uprooted. Estranged.
Syncopated rhythms lulling syncopated rhymes
Not for me.

Me, the mouse in the apartment refuses.
Enter the trap, I will it.
There is cheese in there, I say.
He stares.
Blink.
Blink.
Blinks in mouselike mockery
(if they are capable of such a thing).
He is smarter than I.


...

In Jeans at a Fancy Restaurant...

Yesterday was Mike Lew's bday!!! Happy birthday Michael!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In order to celebrate his birthday, a bunch of his friends surprised him at a snazzy little restaurant called "Salute" over in Richmond. It was fun and all but this post isn't about that.

On our way out I noticed a father with his two boys eating there as well. Maybe it was because one of the boys was 8 years old that I noticed them... or maybe it was because they were wearing jeans at a restaurant where everyone else was dressed up that made me notice. The younger son was jumping around, excited to be with his father; the older one (maybe about 16) was quietly cutting his steak with an intensity that made you suspicious that it would leave his plate if he looked away. It was as if the scene was taken from a Dicken's novel - the estranged father sees his sons after a few years without even a Christmas card. The younger son knows nothing but that he spent an hour after school each day, waiting by the door, knowing his father would one day return. The older is furious that this man they used to call "dad" abandoned their mother and them without even a goodbye. The old man knows he screwed up, but he can barely make ends meet taking care of himself, not to speak of a family and children. Still, he wanted to make it up to them, and scraping together three days pay from his night shift as a security guard at a parking garage makes enough to take his boys out to a classy little "ristorante" called "Salute e Vita"...

About nothing at all...

This post is about nothing. The nothing that surrounds us, the nothing that binds us. The nothing that vasts the oceans blue. The nothing enclosed within the minutest crevices. The nothing that is everything, but in it's pervasiveness eludes meaning and substance. The nothing we can speak about for ours... we think about nothing... talk about nothing... do nothing, say nothing, believe nothing, eat nothing, feel nothing... All things considered people may perhaps utilize nothingness more than somethingness.

And this rude woman just made a ruckus by dragging a chair across the floor. It's the library dang it - show some respect.

She just disturbed the nothingness that was in the air.

Ashes from ashes, dust to dust. All things full circle, nothing a must.