Bad with dates

I’m lousy with dates.

I don’t mean the smochy-moochy-hold-hands-look-deep-into-the-eyes-on-a-moonlit-night type of dates nor do I mean an Arabic fruit.

I meant I am hopeless when it comes to the numerics on a calendar.

Take yesterday for instance. I was dead tired after work. It was pouring cats and dogs (even the heavens are crying over the farce of an election that we, Malaysians, had to endure. The jam to my parents’ home was horrendous. A journey that usually takes less than 20 minutes took 45 minutes to complete. But no, this had to be done. It was my mum’s 76th birthday. The wife and kids were already waiting at the restaurant for our arrival, the dishes had been carefully chosen beforehand – dishes that my mum would like; vegetables cooked into a consistency my dad, with his ill-fitting dentures, would bring himself to eat (my dad isn’t a big fan of fibres) and a dish or two to satisfy the kids.

It took me another 30 minutes to reach the restaurant. We settled down, the food came and just before we started eating, I turned to my mum and said, “Mum, we are having this dinner to celebrate your birthday!”.

She looked at me as if I just spoke Sanskrit! There was this uncomprehending blank look on her face. In retrospect, she was probably wondering if her son has finally come loose and lost the last marble in his overeducated brain. And then the look changed into amusement and there was even a hint of pity.

She looked at me and said, “Son, my birthday is 6 of JUNE!”

At the moment, I must have looked as if I had been struck by lightning, had a heart attack and bloody diarrhoea all rolled into one. And then it painfully dawned on me.

Gaaargh!!!! I got the dates wrong! (again). My wife gave me this “How could you have gotten it wrong (again!), you adorable idiot!”

That’s how I am wired!

I’m probably dyscalendarlexic if there is such a term.

I recall the few times I booked flights for the wrong dates or time. There were several times where I hurried to a meeting only to discover I got the dates wrong.

Like this morning, for instance. Yesterday evening, I received an email from my boss – the message was short – get a presentation ready for a meeting on the 10th of May. I looked at the date on my watch and I swear I saw 9th clearly shown on the watch’s interface! And so this morning, I decided to skip the ward round (something I loathe to do unless I absolutely had to – I feel I have done the patients a great disservice) and spent 3 hours preparing the power point. I finished the project 10 minutes before the meeting was due, gathered all my stuff, saved the power point into my pen drive, sipped some water, took a deep breath and said to myself, “YOU CAN DO THIS!” and headed off to the venue – only to discover it was empty.

I rechecked the email and lo and behold, I discovered the meeting is to be held this Friday and today’s date is 7 May 2013!

Gaargh!

And this, this one has to take the cake:

Once I flew off to Kuching to attend a neurology conference over the weekend and discovered upon landing that I had arrived one week too early! Thankfully, my wife was with me and we were left with 2 options – fly home on the next flight or take an unplanned honeymoon! We chose the latter and had 3 glorious days in Kuching.

The following week, I returned to Kuching for the conference and many of my fellow colleagues were amazed at how much I know about the city and getting from one place to another! LOL!

I didn’t tell them about my impediment with dates.

Milked!

I became very ill last Thursday night. I had been unwell a few days prior to that – the usual under-the-weather-feeling coupled with intermittent diarrhoea. In fact, on Wednesday evening, I had a bout of chills and fever which subsided on its own. My worried spouse asked me to be admitted, which I stubbornly refused (all doctors are stubborn people).

Thursday morning, I was fine and was even able to perform the ward rounds after I had my blood sampled and sent for various tests including culture and sensitivity.

I suddenly turned bad on Thursday evening after dinner. My daughter was fast asleep as I had asked her to go and sleep and that I would wake her at 8 pm to take her for her tuition class. The wife and son had gone visiting the in-laws. At 7 pm, I felt especially unwell, the chills and rigors came in waves and I vomited out everything that I had eaten in the last decade. To add to the drama, my wife came back horrified to find me on the toilet floor, being too weak to get up.

She bundled me up, packed a few necessities and drove me to the nearest private hospital (the government hospital was too far away and I was in a bad state). En route, I managed to call my colleague at the hospital where I worked to determine from my blood tests sent in the morning if they found evidence of malaria (I had recently travelled to Bangkok but stayed in the city throughout the trip – but who knows…).

It was negative.

I won’t go into the details of my hospitalization although I would mention the one thing which struck me as being ludicrous, almost to the point of being darkly comedic was when the attending physician of the private hospital approached me a while after my blood was drawn for various tests and promptly announced: “The good news is, your cholesterol levels are normal!”.

Imagine the scenario – there I was lying on the uncomfortable hospital bed in the ED, breathing laboriously (my oxygen sat was 93%), tachycardic (rate 130/min), highly febrile (39 degrees Celcius), hypotensive (blood pressure was 80/50 mmHg), feeling weak (the potassium level was 3.0 mmol/L) and terribly unwell and then BAM! I’m hit with the ‘good news’ that my cholesterol levels were normal!

WTH!

I wasn’t elated, not in the least.

Anyway, it’s still a mystery as to what actually caused me to be hospitalized for 4 days (3 nights) and I’m still on the road to full recovery, more than a week after being discharged from the hospital (my darn appetite has altogether disappeared!), so if you meet me in the corridors, don’t ask.

What I CAN tell you is what the illness was NOT caused by:

1. It wasn’t caused by high cholesterol levels. (the good news, remember?)
2. It wasn’t caused by dengue (I had dengue serology done 3 times in 2 days although the blood works did not suggest it)
3. It wasn’t caused by syphilis (I don’t know why VDRL had to be done!)
4. it wasn’t Mycoplasma (the titre was normal)
5. It wasn’t a urinary tract infection.
6. It wasn’t any bug in the blood (cultures eventually came back negative)
7. It wasn’t malaria (the smear was done twice)
8. It probably wasn’t typhoid or typhus (so the street food I ate in Bangkok wasn’t to be blamed).

I honestly don’t know what it was.

It cost a whopping RM 3800 for 3 nights of hospitalization.

I have a feeling I’d been milked nice and proper.

 

Disconnected

My late pastor used to warn us against becoming ‘so heavenly minded, we are of no earthly use’.

I think the church which I belong to may have become what my late pastor had warned against. Take last Sunday for instance, while we were sitting in church listening in rapt fascination to an invited speaker telling us there will be Spaniards, Mexicans and Indians in heaven through a very animated sermon using a power point laden with every animation options available, we were totally oblivious to the fact, beyond the cosy little church we were all cloistered in was a nation gripped by two major events:

1. Whether a Bible-burning event called by people who were hell-bent on creating religious chaos in the country was actually going to take place – precisely at the time when the sermon in my little cosy church began! Mercifully the event was a non-event, thanks to the intervention of the authorities and level-headed people, and no doubt, the prayers of hundreds or maybe thousands of concerned Christians in not-so-disconnected churches who must have prayed for divine intervention.

2. Whether a 6-year-old boy who was left in a car with two other siblings by his parents who went to look at electrical appliances in a shop, who subsequently left the car to look for his parents and was never seen again, would be found and how his parents must have grieved and wracked with guilt and anxiety. The boy’s highly decomposed body was eventually found at a jetty 64 km away from where he first went missing. The social media was a buzzed with concerned netizens doing their civic duty in drawing attention to the news of the missing boy, all hoping against dwindling hope that by some miracles, the boy would be found safe and sound.

It was not to be and how we, the still-connected people, must have grieved along with the parents, trying to make sense of the tragedy.

The two incidents affected me deeply. They tell me that all is not well with my country. They tell me that the country needs much grace and healing.

I hope I wasn’t the only one who felt this way on that Sunday morning in church. It was all the more ironic because the theme of my church for the next four years centered around reaching out to the community around us.

I think we need to pluck our heads out of heaven and be relevant earthly people again.

Forgiving God

I’m currently reading another book by Adrian Plass (title: The Sacred Diary of Adrian Plass Christian Speaker Aged 45 3/4) which was lent to me by a church mate who obviously thought I needed some humour in life. God bless her soul. I chanced upon these passages in the book which I will duplicate here. It was part of the text by Adrian Plass when he was invited to an evangelistic event to give a talk. On that occasion, he didn’t feel particularly equipped for the task.

‘Look, I could be wrong, but I think God is saying to me that there are some people here tonight who need to forgive God. Of course, he can’t actually do anything wrong to be forgiven for, but that’s what’s so difficult sometimes, isn’t it? I mean – well, it’s not very easy to have a real row with someone who never ever gets anything wrong, is it? I mean, there must be some of us who want to climb up onto God’s lap like small children and bash at his chest with our little fists, and say, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I asked you to help me and you didn’t help me. You knew what I was feeling – you knew what needed to happen and you didn’t do it. You say you love me, but you don’t! If you did you would have done something, but you didn’t! I hate you!”‘

‘When my son was very small, he did exactly that once or twice. First he’d be really angry, and then he’d worn himself out with crossness, he’d cry, all curled up on my lap. Then, when he’d cried the last droop of energy away, he’d just fall asleep and I’d hold him for ages. And the important thing is – I think the important thing is that he had to go through all that fighting and fretting to get the nasty spiky feelings out of himself, and he did it all in the safest place in he knew, which was in my arms’

‘He’s used to taking the blame. In fact he’d rather you took it out on him than on someone else.’

I have some ‘spiky feelings’ I need to get out of my system too.

Too Busy

There are so many thoughts in my head that I’d like to pen (or type out as the case may be with a blog) but I’m just too busy. About this time every year I see the office emptying with people making plans to lay back and let things flow at a slower pace.

Not me… for some reasons, each year at around this time I find myself stressed to the max with work, chores, assignments, projects, papers, patients, students (and the list goes on and on and on).

This is not good.

I don’t even have time to pen my annual Christmas wish list to Mrs Santa (I want an iPhone 5 this year, Mrs Santa, in case you are reading this).

I swear this scenario shall not be repeated next year. It’s my end-of-year resolution.

Jimbo out!

A new sign?

I was just lamenting the other day to a group of medical students that very few clinical signs are discovered these days as most of them have been adequately described by various giants of medicine since antiquities. Nowadays we just read about them, rehearse looking for these signs while examining our patients and passing on the skills to others, often mentioning the persons credited for these famous signs – Murphy’s sign, Shamrock sign, Osler’s nodes, Janeway lesions, and the list goes on and on.

The other day, good fortune finally shined on me for I discovered, quite unexpectedly, a new clinical sign!

Or so I thought!

I was demonstrating to a group of medical students the proper way to palpate for the liver in a patient, being careful to time the insinuations of my fingers on the abdomen to the patient’s breathing rhythm. Just as I began to insinuate my fingers deeply on the patient’s abdomen as the patient breathed out, the patient suddenly cried out, “My foot! my foot!”.

I was stunned! I have never come across this peculiar sign before – an instantaneous reaction in the patient’s foot as a result of pressure applied to the abdomen! How amazing!

For a brief moment, I saw myself receiving the Nobel Prize for discovering a new clinical sign! I decided to name it the Jimbo Sign. The adulation! The praises! I could retire early! I could get my professorship instantly!

While I was ruminating about the implications of this new sign (the patient was quite vocal about the feeling on his foot at this point of time), it dawned upon me what had actually happened!

Just as I insinuated my fingers into the patient’s abdomen, the large number of medical students around the patient and I crowded closer to get a better look. The students who were at the foot end of the bed leaned their bodies against the movable table at the end of the bed, effectively pressing the table against the bed AND TRAPPING THE PATIENT’S RIGHT FOOT IN BETWEEN!!!!

I was mortified! A quick retreat by the offending students, a quick look at the much abused but undamaged foot and many humble apologies uttered thereafter left us with a much bemused patient who, while still in pain, accepted our apologies good heartedly.

Phew!

Absence of Silence

 

I was reading my book a few nights ago (Pillars of the Earth, by Ken Follett) after everyone has gone to sleep when I decided I had better turn in as well. It was one of those nights where one can hear almost nothing save the occasional cricket sound.

Well almost….because as I turned off my bedside table lamp and tried to settle myself comfortably on the bed, I became acutely aware of something I have not experienced for more than 40 years of my life:

The sound of silence.

A freak accident in my childhood caused some irreversible damage to my right ear. Since then there has been this constant ringing sound (we medical people call it tinnitus) in my ear, 24/7, 365 days of a year, every second of my consciousness. I guess I must have grown accustomed to it because the ringing sound hardly ever bothers me.

Except maybe on quiet nights like the one a few nights ago.

The constant ringing reminded me of what I would never experience – complete silence and solitude because no matter where I am or how quiet my surrounding is, there will always be that constant ringing. It’s a weird feeling.

It freaked me out that night and I got a little distressed.

It was a while before I finally fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, the ringing sound was there the moment I opened my eyes. It didn’t bother me then because the day’s chores awaits and I guess as long as I have something that occupies my thoughts, I won’t notice my unwelcome constant companion.

 

Deflated

This morning, I discovered a laminated piece of paper in my pigeon-hole. It’s a parting gift from the recent batch of my students who have graduated to become doctors.

On the paper were these words:

WORLD’S BEST TEACHER

My first reaction was that of elation.

Wow!!! World’s best teacher – ok, maybe it’s a bit too grandiose but surely it’s not too far from the (stretched) truth, isn’t it?!

I was mighty pleased with myself until my eyes caught sight of the same laminated piece of paper in every single pigeon holes of other teachers!!

Back to reality….

Instant deflation.

19092012@1050

PS: To the graduating batch of C110, well done and congratulations! I know you mean well.

Remembering My Grand Uncle

My grand-uncle passed away yesterday after suffering a stroke several weeks ago. I didn’t make the trip to KL to see him when he had the stroke – the family didn’t want any visitors. I only received news of his demise yesterday through my dad who was informed by my uncle in KL. My brother in KL told me that the wake and procession was held this morning.

Beyond that, I had no further news.

We visit him once a year during the Chinese New Year. Other than my grandma’s house (my granny is 101 years old!), my grand-uncle’s house was the next meeting point for the entire clan – there we would be assured of a proper lunch – usually satay and other simple (but halal) meals. You see, my grand-uncle was once an ambassador, so naturally he would have many visitors of all races on Chinese New Year. He would be standing at the front door welcoming all of us with a broad smile.

I must confess that I do not know my grand-uncle well.Even so, I’ve always looked up to him. To me, he was the epitome of the kind of person I want to be – kind, gentle, confident, dignified and very knowledgable. Despite his illustrious career, he led a simple life after retirement.

The one thing that I treasure most about my grand-uncle is the pride I see in his face and eyes every time I visited him. He offered me a beer when I was 16 – he told me I was old enough to drink. I didn’t of course (I didn’t think I was ready at the time) but many years later, I finally did when he again offered it. Just one can. To satisfy him.

When he knew I was going to pursue medicine as a career, he beamed with pride. He constantly asked my dad about my welfare during the years when I was overseas doing undergraduate medicine. When I graduated and next saw him, he welcomed me warmly with a good man-to-man handshake, again eyes beaming with pride. I was the first in the clan to be a medical doctor. It’s as if his very own son became a doctor!

And since then, every year, on Chinese New Year, he looked at me with that same pride – as I progressed with my life-calling, from the Masters to eventually subspecializing in infectious diseases.

Just before the last Chinese New Year, he had a fall. When we visited him on CNY, he looked frail. His wife took his place at the front door welcoming all the guests. When I stepped into his home, his face lit up when we made eye contact and he immediately beckoned me to his side on the settee so we could have a little chit-chat. He asked about me, my work, my family, my kids – I felt like a little boy all over again sitting next to him. He made me feel special.

Soon other guests came and we had to leave.

We never saw him again.

I think my grand-uncle has lived a full life. I’m going to miss him. I will miss his warm welcome and seeing the pride in his eyes. He had, in his own way, affirmed my life-calling and magnanimously approved.

And I’m going to miss having a can a beer with him.

The IKEA experience

Ryan and I doing what we do best at IKEA – fooling around.

During the long Raya break, we decided to take a trip to KL and visit IKEA – the home furnishings company famous for its flat-packed technology and DIY stuff.

Visiting IKEA always leaves me with mixed feelings. Stepping into the interior of the sprawling show room is like entering a surreal world. Everything is in its place. Everything looks picture perfect (in fact, this time round, I saw many parents actually made their kids pose and snap photos of them – whether they be reclining at that RM 699 piece of to-die-for-sofa or sitting serenely at the RM 899 if-we-have-this-at-home-our-lives-would-be-complete desk-cum-double decker bed.

In short, IKEA tells you what your home should look like. (Can some one tell me the company that provide cleaning services that IKEA uses?)

The mixed-feelings set in quite quickly when I remember my hardly-IKEA-ish home. There’s that 10-plus years old sofa with sagging seats that we bought with my first bonus. There’s the dining table with every imaginable stain – that permanent blue spot was the imprint from the Gardenia bread wrapper (I should sue Gardenia). That indentation at the table edge was made when Ryan tried to saw through the table with a butter knife (he was probably around 5 or 6 years old then). That other mark was part of the pages from Ryan’s Tintin comics that got stuck on the table.

And there’s my TV console with its unsightly wires and 4 weeks-worth of dust. Beneath the hardly-desirable display cabinet (which we got from a previous landlord) are the lizard droppings from that recalcitrant lizard that hides behind the cupboard and refuses to be caught.

The kids’ toilet is a no-go-zone unless one is desperate and have no other options (like, maybe when the toilet in my room is occupied). My kids are notoriously forgetful when it comes to flushing the loo. The walls are stained with shampoo squirts that Ryan must have used as water missiles during his longer-than-usual showers. Pieces of wet toilet paper are stuck to the floor or the wall. The light switches have dark finger print marks on them.

My study-at-home is the total opposite of what is displayed in IKEA. Everything is everywhere! The law of entropy is very evident here. Chaos reigns!

I think you get the picture.

It’s not like we do not buy anything from IKEA. In fact, over the years, we have bought quite a bit of stuff from there. There was a time when we won a RM 500 voucher to shop in IKEA and with it, we bought quite a bit of stuff. There in my bedroom is a little cosy corner (which I’d like to call my man-cave) where I have an IKEA-bought reclining chair complete with leg-rest. By the side of the chair is an IKEA-bought reading lamp. At the foot of the chair is a large piece of sheep skin wool (bought from Victoria Market, Melbourne) and on the adjacent wall, hangs 4 neatly framed pictures of the Great Ocean Road in Australia, arranged in a cascading pattern. Stacked nearby are a few free weights that I use when I have the urge to pump iron and hope for the elusive 6-pack-abdomen. That corner is the only corner in my home that looks a little bit like IKEA.

But I can count on my fingers the number of times I actually went into my man-cave and hibernate. Life’s chores and demands take up much of my time and I have little luxury to indulge and even if I do have time to indulge, I often find myself feeling guilty because I know my lovely wife is busy preparing dinner in the kitchen next door.

Yup, IKEA always makes me feel bad. But we still go every once in a while – because looking at the stuff there tells me that there is an ideal out there. In a way it’s a little spiritual experience for me. I’m not perfect at the moment but some day I will be. Some day I will reach the ideal.

Oh, and there is another thing….IKEA is a show room.

What I have at home is a HOME.

And HOME trumps IKEA every time.