Sculptures that Provoke Thoughts and Emotions

When I visited Seoul a while back, a friend told me about Ron Mueck’s exhibition at the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art during the time I was visiting. I’ve never heard of him until then, but a quick search tells me I shouldn’t miss it. For those who’re not familiar with him, Ron Mueck is an Australian hyperrealist sculptor known for his incredibly lifelike and emotionally evocative sculptures of the human figure.

What makes Mueck’s sculptures stand out is their astonishing realism combined with dramatic shifts in scale—his figures are either much larger or much smaller than life-size. He meticulously crafts every detail, from wrinkles and pores to subtle body language, creating a deeply intimate experience for the viewer. His works often explore universal human themes such as birth, aging, vulnerability, and mortality, inviting reflection and emotional engagement.

I was glad I went, despite the non-stop rain that day. Each and every piece shown at the exhibition were captivating in their own ways. Mueck created these figures that managed to reach out to the viewer and evoked emotions that are often times unsettling, gently prodding us to think about the deeper philosophical questions of life, death, and everything in between. I left the museum feeling both heavy-hearted and enriched. Here are some pictures from the exhibition to share. Captions are my own commentary.

So this is how being sick is like. What does one think about in their last moments of life? Does it hurt when we die? Do we turn into stardust and everything disappears?
Is that all there is?
Baby it’s us against the world.
The world is a harsh place to be sometimes. But you have me.
I’ll show you how to find optimism, in spite of all that surrounding us.
I wish… I could shut out the voices in my head.
Crossroads: Where do we go from here?
Mass (genocide). This… is happening right now. It hits a little too close to home.
How does it make you feel? What do you do about that, if anything?
Hard questions to ask, but better now than 10 years from now when it’s too late.
Are we friends, or are we foes?
Will I be your dinner tonight? Is there room for co-existence?
Is this still about us–chicken vs man?
We’re all wearing masks one way or another.
When the mask is laid down, what lies underneath?

I hope you’ll take away something from these 2D pictures. It’s not as real as the 3D sculptures at the museum, but if it makes you stop and think a little about the society we live in, the current events, our actions/reactions (or the lack thereof), if it makes you reflect or dig deeper about yourself, that’s something, isn’t it? That would be enough.

Broken Ribs But Not Broken Spirit

My own Popo and I. Last pic together. 2022.

I woke up at 3 am thinking about the 93-year old lady whom I discharged the evening prior, wondering if she’s doing okay.

Popo G (‘Popo’ means grandmother in Chinese) has a blue cap on her head, covering her face, shielding her from the bright fluorescent light of the exam room in the ER. Her family brought her to the ER because she’s been complaining of right-sided back pain since she fell off her bed the day before. She stares at me blankly when I greet her in her native tongue, Cantonese. Her daughter at bedside tells me she’s very hard of hearing, which explains her lack of reaction. In hindsight, I wonder if her stoned expression and subdued manner was because of the oxycodone she was given earlier. As I get to learn more about her later, her personality is nothing like this calm, subdued woman sitting in front of me, and she is able to hear me and others well enough to yell back with full strength. At that moment though, that isn’t what happens. I try hard to communicate with her, both yelling next to her ears, as well as using the tele interpreter on max volume, but all she does is stare at us with a blank expression. It’s as if there is a 6-inch fiberglass wall surrounding her, blocking out all sounds. All she says to us is, “I’m deaf!”

Popo G’s fall resulted in three consecutive rib fractures on the right side. Thankfully, there is no pneumothorax or flail chest, and nothing else was broken or ruptured. She was referred to me for an admission, mainly for pain control, and a physical therapy consult to ensure she’s safe enough to be discharged home, or if not, to go to a rehab for a short stay. It’s a straightforward enough case, and I admitted Popo after my failed attempt to communicate with her. I never thought that 3 hours later, I’d suffer the wrath from her for the plan to admit her to the hospital without her permission.

I get a message from her nurse Q, who informs me that “patient is threatening to jump out of the window if we try to keep her in the hospital”. I’m surprised by this, given that no matter how loud I yelled next to her ears earlier, she didn’t seem to respond or acknowledge that she heard me. How is it then, that she’s now able to express such threat? Q says they use the help of the tele interpreter to communicate with her. I’m intrigued, and I have to see for myself, this drastic transformation of character from hours ago. When I get to the bedside, this thin-framed but not-frail nonagenarian is sitting at the edge of the chair next to her bed, with her two daughters and a son-in-law at bedside, the tele interpreter, and her nurse next to them. Popo G seems to be in a fight-or-flight mode, or maybe just in a fight mode, and when our eyes meet, I feel the burn all the way through my eyes into the back of my skull. I’m both intimidated and amused at the same time. She reminds me of my own grandma.

What happens after is a long multi-way conversation and negotiation between this sprightly woman, her grandson who is a psychiatry resident out-of-state (on the phone), her family at bedside, the tele interpreter, the nurse, and myself. Popo wants to go home; she insists that the pain is nothing unbearable; she’s never been sick her whole life – and she reminds us she’s been around for almost a century – why are we trying to keep her in the hospital now, and how dare we make that decision for her without her permission! Family members seem to be okay with whatever decision I make for her, which aggravates Popo even more. Grandson says if I think Popo is safe for discharge, he’s okay with that, to which I tell him, to the extent of her three non-displaced fractures without other complications, she’s stable for discharge. That said, as is for any elderly patient who lives alone, there will always be some safety concerns given their high fall risk. Nurse Q on the other hand feels patient should stay, because she hasn’t been evaluated by PT, and thus is very unsafe to be sent home just like this. She adds that patient may need to be evaluated by psych given her threats to jump out of the window.

While it’s not wrong that there are some risks in sending nonagenarians like Popo G home after a fall, the risk of recurrent falls won’t change or abate whether we send her home today or the next day. In this case, she’s able to ambulate independently, her internal organs are intact, she tells us her pain is tolerable. She’s also shown us that she won’t give in without putting up a fight if we insist to keep her. First, there’s the question of whether it’s ethical to keep her against her wishes. One cannot assume the lack of decision-making capacity just because a person is old. Old in age does not equate senility. Even if we manage to convince her to stay, are we sure we’re helping her and won’t cause more harm to her? How many times have we seen unnecessary admissions for benign diagnoses such as constipation or simple urinary tract infection in elderly that was supposed to be kept overnight observation that turned into a long drawn out admission due to hospital-related complications?! Lastly, the threat that Popo G verbalizes? Should we take it seriously verbatim or is it her way of expressing her anger and frustration for having her freedom of choice taken away from her? Here is a woman who feels she’s about to lose her dignity and independence the moment she allows us to keep her in the hospital. She’s making her last pitch to fight for her freedom.

After discussion with her family, I ask her daughters to take turn sleeping over at Popo G’s house for the next few days just to keep a watch on her, which they gladly agree to do. The son-in-law will also work on lowering her bed and get her a walker in case she needs it. I send her home with some pain meds in case she truly is in pain and needs it, but emphasize to her the side effects, and to use it with caution. I tell them what to look out for, and to come back to the hospital if she has any new symptoms or worsening pain. Everyone seems to be happy and agreeable to the plan, everyone except Nurse Q. From the corner of my eye, I saw her slight dismay, and her sarcastic manner when speaking to me tells me she’s not at all convinced this is the right course of action. Too bad, I thought to self, I can’t please everyone.

The rest of my shift went by uneventfully, I got home and went to bed. Didn’t think much of it after Popo G and her family left. And so, it comes as a surprise to myself when I jolted up in the middle of the night thinking about this incident. Somehow Nurse Q’s response bothered me. I find myself wondering whether I did right by my patient. Have I been careless to send Popo home? Will she be okay at home? What if she suffers another fall, and this time break another bone? Should I have made sure she stayed the night and have physical therapy evaluate her before sending her home?

No matter how I think about this, I still arrive at the same decision. I just regret that I wasn’t able to convince the nurse to be onboard with the decision. I hope Popo G heals well from her rib fractures, and that she lives a long, long life without any fall or hospital encounter. I know she will be alright. Her sassiness and feisty self will keep her going for a long time.

As I drift back to sleep, I think of my own grandma. How I wish she was around a little longer.

Memories of Pre-Covid ICU

Found this note deep in the Draft section. Didn’t post it then because the pain was still raw. And so I kept it contained. I’m good at that, hiding emotions so people can’t see, can’t tell. All is well- on the outside. Nobody knows what goes on beneath the smiles. But years have passed, and it’s long enough that I feel like I can share now. So here it is.

—

Every beep and blip means different things in the ICU. There’s the cardiac monitoring alarm that goes off when oxygen level drops; the tone gets lower and lower, it’s inversely proportionate to my heart rate. Then there’s the beep for blood pressure falling lower than what we’d like. And another one that indicates arrhythmia. The ventilator alarm- intimidating and authoritative, as it should be. The IV pump that got stuck- this one reminds me of a screeching mandrake, and gets me worked up no matter how calm I was before that. The door-is-not-closed alarm – equally annoying, which IMHO is intended to wake sleepy residents up during the hours-long rounds. The one alarm, that should be attention-grabbing, fear-mongering, that should be sending a sign of impending death, is surprisingly soft and gentle- the code blue alarm. Makes no sense at all. But just like life in the ICU, logical sense is a luxury that those contained in it cannot afford.

It takes some getting used to before all these blips somehow managed to mysteriously harmonize into a Chopin-like piece, where you could hear them in your dreams (and not in a nightmarish kind of way). You wake up, go to work, come home, bringing the tunes and everything in between, home with you, go through the motion of doing what you need to do to survive, pass out on the bed. Day break- rinse and repeat, like clockwork. It becomes a comfortable rhythm that you do not question much, just going with the flow, lest you fall in between the cracks and get stuck or get hurt. And yet, sometimes, try as you might to avoid pain, it has a way to find you. 

This woman was unlike the others I took care of. Instead of graying hair and wrinkled skin, she had what most who ended up in the ICU had wanted- youth. She embodied a full body, well groomed, and in all her 5′ 7” figure, it painted a picture of a woman living a rather good (or at least average) life. Painted nails, trimmed eyebrows, and pubic hair. Little did she know, that her life would take a huge turn that day. All the hopes and dreams a mother has for her child would dissipate in an instance. It was there one moment ago, and then all at once- not at all. Zilch. Death is coming for all of us. You just don’t know when. 

That morning she wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t look quite well. So Mom brought little Brian to pre-school. Maybe if she felt better later she’d go pick him up. It was just another day for everyone, and everyone got along their usual business. Coffee, newspapers, chores. By lunchtime, Mom decided to check on her.  Not in bed. Where could she have been? The black Mazda was still parked outside; view from the upstairs windows reassured Mom that she’s still at home. Unless the Boyfriend came to pick her up. She thought she’d check the bathroom, just in case. A mother’s instincts were never wrong. There. It was there that the worst nightmare a mother could ever imagine started unfolding. The body that lied on the cold hard tiles next to the toilet. Still as a statue.  

There was no telling how long she was ‘down’ for. But nothing was looking good for her.

I tiptoed around the young woman much younger than me, checking her ventilator settings, making sure all the tubes were connected and functioning properly, while her mother lamented to me about how young she was and how unfathomable that she was in this vegetative state when she was still ‘normal’ the day before all this happened. Was she aware that we’re here in the room with her? Could she hear us? By the definition of brain death, I guess not. Still, I wonder if her spirit was there with us. She had been on the vent for more than a week now, being kept alive because her family needed time to process what had happened. I can only imagine how hard it is for the family. It was hard even for me, a total stranger, who waited for her in the ER ready to carry out our responsibilities, performing life-saving tasks and administering medications. Alas, it doesn’t always work; sometimes we lose patients too. Inevitably.

Hers was a story of trusting the wrong person. No one really knew what happened; but the deduction from bloodwork and family’s story was that she took what was thought to be marijuana, but which was likely contaminated with some synthetic or impure ingredients that led to her demise. In the two weeks I was taking care of her, I’ve gotten to know her family. One woman introduced herself as my patient’s second mother, because she practically raised her. She asked a lot of good questions, questions I was much more comfortable answering, the technical questions. But when she asked whether she’d ever wake up… there’s just no good way to break bad news. No matter how many times you’ve done it, it is still hard. Yet the most tragic part of it was she was kept alive until nothing can be done anymore. Her blood pressure continued to drop despite being maxed out on all pressors, all the chemistry labs were incompatible with life. When that happened, no family was there with her. That to me was the saddest part.

I do not know if other residents or doctors think or feel the same. But I felt somewhat responsible for that, even though I know I had no reason to. I felt a twinge of failure- failure for not being able to convince or persuade the family to let her go, and say their final goodbyes together at bedside before sending her off. That pained me, in a way that I couldn’t really express or share with anyone. Perhaps that is why I still think about it even now.

Foot Note: Details and names from the story above were made up or changed to protect their privacy.

—

As clinicians, we have the tasks to not only take care of patients with our tools of trade, but also to take care of their family members. In some ways I’d argue that the latter is even more important and could have long-lasting impact in their lives. How you say, what you say, matters to the recipient, because it directly affects how they feel and think at that critical moment. The ability to do so is what sets a stellar clinician apart from the rest.

I wrote that piece 3 years ago, about 3 years after the incident had happened. I still think about my patient sometimes. Since then, there have been patients like her (though thankfully not all are tragic stories or with similar outcomes), who managed to etch themselves in my mind, where during the quiet lull of moments would resurface, and I would revisit them. It’s a good reunion, albeit only in my mental space.

The End of a Chapter

The days are long, but the years are short. I was just here three years ago; thought I was going to be around for a few more years, yet life has other plans for me. In less than a month, I’ll be moving on to a different city, for a different job.

Honestly didn’t expect to be leaving this place so soon. A part of me feels a little wistful; another part of me needs to get out to save myself. I’ve tried to talk myself out of it, telling myself that I need to stick to what I initially chose, that persevering is good. That this is grit, I have the will to power on, things will get better, and I will eventually look back and be glad that I stuck around. But at which point do we know that persisting is no longer ‘grit’, and that it is time to move on?

There is no right answer, but I think this is the right time for me to move on. I’ll be taking a break from primary care, and will return to practicing hospital medicine, at least for now. I will miss my patients, some of whom have grown on me so much that it saddens me so much to say goodbye. But, it is what it is. Everything comes to an end eventually. I’m just thankful we’ve had all this time together.

Not all is lost. I’ve learned a lot from my patients, and gained a handful of good friends along the way. And I’m sure I’ll be back to this place to visit. That’s all for now. Off to start packing!

A cute little breakfast spot in Dover-Foxcroft, ME- Peace, Love & Waffles.

2023 Year End Reflections

Sometimes life has a way of surprising you, throwing you rotten lemons at the speed of light, that you don’t even realize you got hit. This one hit me hard. For a while, the pain was so intense I almost lost sight of the big picture. I thought about whether to write about it here, but decided now is not the time to share. Perhaps one day, when the pain and trauma has subsided enough for me to talk and joke about it, I will write more.

What is the big picture, though? We, mere humans, Homo sapiens, this insignificant species in the ever-expanding universe (or multiverse)–what are we doing? We wake up, go to work, consume, excrete, sleep, repeat. Some days I do wonder if any of what we do matters at all. But such thoughts are too depressing, so I try not to go there. Yet these days, I find myself thinking a lot about existential questions as such: Is this all there is? What is there to look forward to?

Perhaps because I’m reaching midlife, I find myself pondering all these midlife questions. Am I in what they call “a midlife crisis”? A crisis doesn’t have to be an imminent situation; it could mean “a turning point”. I think… this is where I’m at- at life’s intersection, trying to decide how to move forward, when ahead of me seems to be a thick fog that refuses to lift.

This year started off great. Was able to go home for a few weeks, spend some quality family time together, visited relatives, some of whom I haven’t seen in years. I celebrated CNY back home- the first since 2015. The following months went by so quickly: I got to see my bestie at a conference, visited a dear friend in NC, have a friend visit me in Maine. I then visited another BFF for a short weekend trip for her child’s birthday, had a reunion with a childhood BFF and her family, spent thanksgiving with my adopted family, sat for and passed the obesity medicine’s board exam. All in all a great year- I can’t complain. All good, except for the above said ‘incident’.

As I work to maneuver life and get past this fog, I hang on to the few things I know. I know I’m quite lucky; and I’m immensely thankful for all that I have- fairly good health, family and friends who will be there for me, the ability to think, work, and help people through my job. The acute awareness that none of this is guaranteed, and that any of it can dissipate at any moment, is not lost on me. And so on this Christmas, I pray for peace, love, and that the ongoing wars will end. I pray for more kindness, decency, honesty, generosity, and tolerance amongst each other.

Here’s hoping that 2024 will be a good year for all. Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!

I’m Back!

It’s been more than year since I last wrote anything here. If this was a room, it’d be full of dust and cobweb right now. An abandoned space. Makes me a little sad when I think about all the lost time that I could’ve shared something with you. Whoever ‘you’ are.

How did everyone else live their last year and a half? I’ve been thinking a lot, doing a lot of growing. My cactus has grown big enough to be cut off into a few segments and transplanted into other pots. For a while they looked like they weren’t going to survive the winter. I cried a little looking at them; thought I had to dispose them. In the end though I decided I’d just leave them in and keep watering them, talking to them. Eventually winter became spring, and then summer came, and they started growing. I think I have grown along with them too.

Some days there’s a voice in me that wants to just whine and rant, about how hard life is. But I won’t do that. Only the living gets to whine. And being alive is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present. No matter how hard life is, it still can be beautiful, and if we choose to, we will be able to find glimmers of joy, hope, peace. I will focus on those glimmers, whenever I find them.

With that, shall I share some stories with you all starting next post? All the stories I’ve collected over the last 2+ years need a place to call home. Otherwise, carrying them with me everywhere will weigh be down too much.

Love from home

Pneumothorax

One of the toughest rotations during my residency was the month of oncology rotation at another hospital. Albeit the long hours and exhaustion, I learned so much, not just the medical knowledge, but also about patients, the human aspect of things, of life, and death. Many of those stories – and people – stayed with me, even after all these years. But there was one that I remembered today, and wanted to share.

It was one of those busy days with a few pending admissions, sick patients in the ward requiring attention, family wanting updates, and me trying to finish my notes. I must’ve seemed like a battery about to die, blinking the ‘low power’ light, and going into power-saving mode, when someone called out to me. A middle-aged man in blue scrubs, sitting a few computers away, said, “Hey, come over here! Look at this- what do you think?”

I sighed inwardly, thinking to myself, I have no time for this, but didn’t want to appear rude, so I walked over. Took a peek at the screen, and there it was – a chest x-ray staring back at me. I took a closer look, and realized why he wanted to show me this. The right side of the lung was almost completely collapsed. I marveled at it for two seconds before asking him about the patient. He smiled, and told me that the young man did well after they did a needle decompression at bedside followed by chest tube placement. He then continued without missing a beat, “Amazing, isn’t it? Medicine is full of impressive stories and rescues like this. When you see one, don’t hesitate to share with others.” He then went on for a bit, most of which I don’t remember now, but just before he left, he left me with a sentence that went something like this: “It’s important to look for things that impress you, only then will you find ways to continue being inspired, and keep the fire burning for medicine.” And just like that, he walked away waving goodbye.

I never found out who he was, and I was pretty sure that patient with that x-ray wasn’t in our ward. I’ve often looked back and wondered what prompted him to share with me that x-ray and story, and why he said what he said to me. Perhaps I looked like I needed it. At that time, I was almost done with the rotation, and was feeling all kinds of exhaustion- physically and emotionally. I was starting to shut everything out to prevent anymore emotional pain; I was operating on auto-pilot to get through the day. That day I was feeling down, and perhaps he sensed it. Regardless, even though I’ll never know why it happened, his words stayed with me all these years, and I truly appreciate it. His advice came in a timely manner, for it did more than just inspired me; it gave me comfort, and it reminded me of why I went into medicine.

On that otherwise normal day, I am thankful for the few minutes of interaction with him. I could never thank him in person, but I hope he knows it meant the world to me. Since then, whenever I have a tough day at work, I remind myself of what he said. It is, after all, still a privilege to be in medicine.

Been a minute…

You don’t realize how time swooshed by until you look back, weeks or months later. In this case, about a year and a few months later. Where did time go? As we’ve all learned during this pandemic, time felt as stagnant as the murky water in the back alley, but also as if we time-traveled into the future with only a few wrinkles, lots of gray hair, and a muffin top to remind us of the lost time.

Last year I completed chief residency, moved from Maryland to Maine, survived my first winter in the cold frigid Maine, and learned more about primary care than I had in the years during residency. I’ve had interesting stories and encounters I wanted to share, came here, wrote them out, only to hit Backspace until nothing is left. I am still held back by fear- about the backlash of sharing stories, about how others would see me, about being different. I am still learning to be comfortable in my own skin.

A little over two years ago, someone I considered a close friend decided to stop talking to me just like that, and I never figured out why. Took me a long time to get over it, but I’m glad to say I managed to let go. Well… somewhat. I just need to remind myself that life is too short to be hung up on someone who clearly didn’t care about me as I did her.

It’s already May of 2022. Today is as good as any other day to reflect and ask ourselves, have I been doing what I said I’d do at the start of the year? Have I lived my life the way I imagined it to be? If not, what’s stopping me? I’m not sure about you all, but some days I still feel lost.

That’s all for now… everything is, a work in progress.

When Someone Is About To Leave, Stop

Poem by Samuel Blake

When someone is about to leave, stop;
look at their face and say goodbye: smile;
and know, that in that smile and look
you receive in return, may be a last
look and smile: a veritable photograph
in the mind that will memorialize the
moment, and permit a lifetime’s reflection.
Perhaps you will be hurried to catch a plane,
in a terminal filled with strangers. Or more trivial: they may leave for groceries:
stop, look at his or her face and smile, before they walk out the door; as that,
if they fail to return, you will have something left.

When a child or parent or sister speaks,
uttering even an almost inaudible whisper
listen, hear their voice and their words. It may be a happenstance of nothing, no meaning at
the time; but perhaps, all the world you have known, may well enough be brought to a standing
stillness — no longer things full. But in an act of listening, a sublime value may attach,
and usher forth a later viewing; a knowledge of time and sense beyond calculation.

Life is a motion of flowing photos, frame
after frame after frame. Inside the streaming, images become distorted,
disintegrate, into a clashing of what was and might have been.
Nature is man to the child; child to the man
is not the reverse; rather, an assimilation
into structure and measured frailty.

One can stare at a garden gate for hours,
hoping that someone will open it and walk
into your world again. Timeless and tearing,
the gate in truth is passage for you to that someone whom you didn’t stop and look
closely at and smile, or, someone’s voice
and casual utterance that you ignored. Rise up, unlatch the gate, give greeting on the other side,
and forgive yourself; as you will be with them; after passing onward and into a memorial world.

Internal Monologue

This space that has once given me solace, suddenly feels so foreign. It’s been too long since I wrote here. As the year comes to an end, I thought I’d drop by. (Even my choice of words reflect that- I’m ‘dropping by’ to this virtual space that once felt like home to me. Leave a place long enough, and it stops feeling like home… at least initially.) Anyway, I found a number of drafts that were never seen to completion. They were mostly stories about work, emotions that ICU patients and incidences stirred up. Stories of dissatisfaction and disappointment. Angst, anger too. Looking back, I think I didn’t post them for fear of repercussion. A part of me didn’t want to hold back anything if I were to write about them; yet another part of me, the part that ultimately won, was scared. Scared that if those people read it, they might know it’s about them, and would hate on me or react in ways I’m not ready for. Perhaps one day, I’d go back and clean up those drafts, and share them at some point. Today I just wanted to revisit and just… be here.

This year felt long and short at the same time. Anything pre-Covid felt so distant, like it’s been eons since that ‘normalcy’. We graduated from residency, and some of my closest friends left to start their new jobs and new lives elsewhere. Some people whom I thought were friends turned out to not be so. That was something I couldn’t get over. How many minutes and days have I spent (wasted) dwelling on the why…?! I wish I knew. Alas, I’d never find out. It took a long time to get out of the mind trap, and I think I’m finally over it (maybe?!). Sometimes you just have to let go. And so this year, amongst all the lessons I’ve learned, the biggest one is to let go. This theme keeps reoccurring, and I think to some extent, I’ll always find it hard to let go, and will never get used to, but it is something we all have to do. In life, if you care enough, you’d feel hurt. Not caring isn’t the answer; learning how to deal with it, is.

That’s all for now. I came here wanting to talk/write about something else. Ended up being sentimental/nonsensical. Blergh. Till the next time!

Another Milestone

It’s true what they say- the days are long but the years are short. I vaguely remember posting about the start of residency, promising myself I will write more (but I never did), and now, three years later, I’m done with residency! Where did time go?!

It’s a strange year to be in medical training, and to graduate in. The pandemic, and more recently a string of unfortunate events that led to the resurgence of BLM movement, have impacted every aspect of our lives. Our graduation ceremony was held via Zoom, which was weird in some ways, but fun in others. Definitely different, and it came with some perks. Many of our friends and family were able to witness this special day with us, which in normal circumstances they couldn’t have, so it was somewhat a blessing in disguise. We had more attendance/participants (88 at its peak, many of whom had 2 people viewing from a single device) than we would have if it were a live event. I loved seeing some of my classmates all dressed up in front of the camera, and their families doing the same as well. Some of our attendings joined us as well. Most people had their mic off, so you’d see silent applause after all the speeches and awards. We had our mic turned on for parts of it, so the 3 of us did the sound effect of applause. At times it was a little distracting seeing people walking around, eating while watching, or even driving, but I loved it all!

Dr. Cmar, one of my favorite human beings, our ex-PD (program director), someone I’m proud to call a mentor-friend, gave our commencement speech, all dressed up at the top half – in tie, white coat – but with flip-flops and shorts at the bottom half. Apparently this is the new in-thing to do in the Covid era! 😀 In any case, his speech was on-point, addressing the current events, and reminding us that it is vital we continue to address the health disparities and be part of the change that is much needed. He also reminded us that whatever we do as a physician, to not only focus on our patients, but also take care of ourselves as well. His entire speech was entertaining, peppered with humor and sarcasm, but not at the expense of substance. I’m so glad we recorded it, because I know I’d want to rewatch it every so often in the future, for all the wisdom he imparted.

The speeches from the graduating classes (PGY-3 and the prelim) were just as great. Amit has his own style of humor, and as always, so humble and nice, thanked everyone for being part of his work family in the past 3 years. Mac did the same, being his humble and funny self, shared what he’s learned over the past year of internship. I couldn’t agree more with their sentiments of gratitude and humility for being here, surrounded by mostly good people who are caring, generous, and willing to step up and help others in times of need.

Personally, I have so many people to thank- not just those I met during residency, but also all the people who made this possible for me. My mentors from med school and research days, my parents, my adopted parents, friends, relatives- people who believed in me even when I doubted myself most. I couldn’t have done it without them, and I will always remember their kindness and support. Hopefully I can do the same for future aspiring med students/doctors as well.

To all my classmates who graduated, thank you for this amazing experience and company! Wishing everyone best of luck in your future endeavors!

Here’s a screenshot of the graduation. I was too busy trying to ensure it runs smoothly, so this was the only screenshot we got. Better than nothing!

Mid-Point Reflection of the Year

2020 has been a roller-coaster so far. I remember back in January, when a group of us were sitting around enjoying our scrumptious meal, we briefly discussed the Covid situation in Wuhan. How terrible it must have been to be on a lockdown and not get to celebrate Chinese New Year with family and friends. We lamented and pitied, as if it were a tragedy happening to other people; as if we would never have to worry about the same affliction affecting us. How wrong were we! Who would have thought? In hindsight, we should’ve known better, seeing that we were all doctors on the table.

It’s almost embarrassing looking back and seeing all the memes that were circulating around, poking fun at how people were excessively cautious and concerned about Covid. I too, was guilty for partaking in the meme jokes at that time. But then things took a drastic turn, and before we knew it we were were all caught off guard. The tardiness in response has cost this country tremendously. One had to ask, how did we get here? How are we so not ready for this? But most of all, what will it take for us to recover?

Just when I thought things couldn’t have been worse, news about George Floyd being murdered by a police surfaced, and the police brutality towards protesters were even more atrocious. How could they?! I couldn’t understand how any human being had the capacity to hurt another being just like that, but I guess that’s the definition of brutality. I want to know, how are they able to sleep at night for doing such heinous acts? How do they tell their kids that “daddy went to work today and my job was to hurt other people without any provocation”, even though their profession is supposed to do the opposite? How do they reconcile with that discordance? Do they even care? Do they really think what they’re doing is right? Do they feel that their acts are justified because they’re merely following orders (if that at all)? I want to know if there’s another side of things from their perspective. Alas, my imagination fails me, no matter how hard I try- I can’t imagine how such acts could warrant a justification. It makes me really sad that even though we, as a human race, have made huge strides in many aspects, fundamental things like ensuring certain people’s human rights and basic access to healthcare for that matter, are still stuck in the past, making no progress at all.

It is the year Twenty Twenty. Pandemic has claimed so many lives, and in some ways there is a component of helplessness because we couldn’t tell who it will infect, and who will perish from it. There is a random factor to it. On the contrary, the inequalities that the African American people are facing is something we can do something about. There’s no randomness it it. We have a broken justice system, and inequality is real. We can use our voice, our actions to push for a change. This is unacceptable. Black lives matter too.

Humans are forgetful beings. If there’s anything we learn from history, it’s that sometimes we don’t learn from it at all. We need to remind ourselves that change doesn’t happen overnight, and that every human lives matter, regardless of race. We need to remind ourselves tragedies like that happen every day, lest we get comfortable and move on, forgetting about that day’s events, just like how so many lives were taken and forgotten. When the protesters get tired and the news dies down in a few weeks, we still have work to do. We have to continue to fight for justice. There are a lot we can do to change things; keeping silent is not one of them.

As I sit here in my living room, I can hear protests on the streets. While I chose not to go out and join the protest, I will do my part to stand with them. I will read more and educate myself, I will donate to some of the funds to help them, and I will continue to engage in conversations surrounding these discussions.