Surgery: the rotation that was

It's been a while since my last blog post. My last post was on exhaustion... and I've been too busy (or indeed too exhausted) to blog since. Add that to the fact that I'm in 3rd year medicine... and what conclusion to you arrive at? Obviously I must be on the surgery rotation!

Well, I just finished my surgery exam on Friday, and let me tell you, it was a pain in the bum. In more ways than one, since somehow there was way too many questions on anal conditions. Those surgeons are really anal. Haha. Bad joke, but I couldn't resist...

My experience in surgery was coloured by the fact that my previous two rotations were not so cool (the less said of those rotations the better), and the fact that I had the added stress of resitting an exam I didn't pass from the previous rotation (I would like to say it wasn't my fault, but they all say that, don't they?). In surgery, amazingly, I found consultants who were willing and indeed seemed to enjoy teaching, registrars who were insanely busy but not too busy to spend a few hours a week teaching some students, and residents who treat you as one of their own. Best of all, was the fact that they all had that same sarcastic sense of humour as me. During my first few weeks I felt like I struck gold! Not only were the consultants kind and patient, they actually laughed at my jokes instead of allowing an awkward silence to fall.

So below is a sample collection of the quotable quotes from our interactions. I hope they bring a smile to your face, although I do fear that some of the jokes may be a little... subtle.
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Mum of a 12 year old: “He won’t listen to your advice, he still plays football despite his crook knee.”
Surgical registrar: “Well look, it’s up to you. I don’t mind if you play football, because then there is a high chance I’ll get to operate on you again, and I like operating on kids, it’s good practice. Shall I book you in for surgery now, or would you like to wait til after the game?”

Dr A: “So, Sida, as I am removing this thyroid, what am I trying to avoid taking out?”
Sida: “The… para… thyroid?”
Dr A: “That’s right, the parathyroid. What does the parathyroid gland do?”
Sida: “It… makes… para… thyroid… hormone?”
Dr A: “Yes… but what happens when we take out the parathyroid?”
Sida: “The patient wouldn’t have any parathyroid hormone?”

Dr A: "So, Sida, were you born in Australia?"
Sida: "No, I was born in China, then I lived in New Zealand for a while before moving to Gold Coast. All the shady places, in fact."
Dr A: "Haha... where did you live in New Zealand?"
Sida: "Northland"
Dr E: "I'm not aware of anything of note up there...?"
Sida: "That's fair enough, there probably isn't."

Nurse: “What size gloves do you wear? I'll get some for you.”
Sida: “Size 5 and a half, thanks very much.”
Dr B: “5 and a half! You can’t do orthopaedic surgery in size 5 and a half gloves! You need to learn to stuff your gloves and tell people you are a bigger size!”
Sida: “Is that what orthopaedic surgeons do?”

Sida: “Dr B, I’m rostered to join you in your surgery this afternoon.”
Dr B: “That’s fine. Just make sure you are nicely sterile when you come.”

Dr C: “I asked my resident after my surgery whether the surgery was the most fascinating intriguing satisfying thing she’d ever seen. She just flat out said no.”
Sida: “Do you think she didn’t pay enough credit to your awesomeness?”
Dr C: “What do YOU think, Sida?”
Sida: “Well, I think she was wrong. You should always sweet-talk your consultants, for one thing.”

Dr D: "Now that's what I call BBB - beaucratic bovine byproduct."

Dr D: "If you give him a plaster like that you will drive him to drink."

Dr D: "This sort of surgery is very difficult, very very difficult. This is something I would never attempt myself... I'd give it to my senior registrar." (As a background, the senior registrar is the highest level trainee under Dr D.)

Dr D on lawyers: "Have you heard the legal definition for the word 'reasonable'? A barrister explained to me while I was on the stand as a witness, and I told him it was illogical and circular reasoning. That bastard argued with me for half an hour about it, until the judge finally stepped in and told him: 'the Doctor is right, from a scientific perspective.' They are all nutters, the lot of them."

Dr E: "Doctor F, we have a medical student in our midst today. For the sake of the student, and for mine too, could you explain what you just said? "

Dr G: "Urology is interesting. It really is. Honestly. How do I convince you that urology is interesting?" Can't be done, I'm afraid.

Dr H: "Everyone is scared of us orthopedic surgeons. It's because orthopedics is hard, they don't know it, but we do, and they know we are cranky neurotic nutters. But you guys don't need to be scared, because it's all very simple..."

And the best quote of all:

"You know those elite athletes who win gold medals? They all say the biggest thing to conquer is yourself. The swimmer may be really tired at the last second, but he know he's got to push through, it's the last second that counts. Keep pushing, Sida, mummy believes in you." - my mum in response to her 22-year old daughter crying to her on the phone like a 5 year old.

Sida’s five stages of exhaustion

STAGE 1: Fatigue

This is usually sooner or later accompanied by hunger. Sida experiences an increasing awareness from her brain and muscles that the day has dragged far too long. If accompanied by hunger, Sida will repetitively say: “I’m hungry. Did I happen to mention I’m hungry?”

STAGE 2: Irritability

Sida progresses on to this stage if her body continues to be denied of physical rest and food. Signs of irritation are subtle in Sida, but usually manifests in the form of flat, dry sarcastic comments or jokes. The more irritated she is, the less sense her jokes and comments make. When Sida starts quoting Shakespeare (“Now is the winter of our discontent”, or “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…” ) it is time to evacuate the premises.

The length of time Sida spends on this stage depends on how the day went – if the day was a generally OK day, this stage does not last long.

STAGE 3: Delirium

Having felt tired and hungry for so long, Sida has come out the other side somewhat numb. She is chatty and giggly, but her chatter makes no sense, and no one can understand what she is giggling about. As she fights to keep her eyes open, some have likened this stage to being tipsy.

STAGE 4: Depression

Sida’s sense of justice wakes up and she can not believe that in this late hour she still can not go to bed (or, in some cases, still has not had the opportunity to eat dinner). Waves of self-pity and frustration crash upon this fragmenting irrational brain, and she will sob to herself quietly, lamenting the life she has chosen, and completely without the energy to actually get up and get some food and get into bed.

STAGE 5: Insomnia

Finally in bed, Sida tries to command her brain to switch off, but it punishes Sida for the overwork by refusing to obey. She is left lying there thinking about all the irrational things her brain wants her to process, ruminating all the decisions she made, and regretting that last cup of coffee.

The slightly drunkish med student talks about ward rounds

I'm not drunk. If I concentrate, I can still say "cyanide and thalidomide" without the syllables blurring together... at least, I can if I concentrate. Besides, I can type. Right?

You go through a whole day muttering swear words in your head. Everyone acts so patronising... the doctors, the patients, even the other medical students. Patronising in such an unhelpful way. Is it because I'm a girl? Or because I am young? Or because I am physically smaller? Or because I am an Asian? Or a combination of the above? Life on the wards is no fun for a young female short Asian medical student, maybe. But I'm not even all that short. Before I went and did medicine, I was a bloomin allied health professional, dammit, and they would have paid much more respect to me back then. Grrah.

So when my flatmates come home, having had a rough day on the mental health unit themselves, and having gone and bought some alcohol... the only fitting thing to say was: why not? They poured me a big glass of this really bitter thing. I poured a lot of it down the sink when they weren't watching... I hope they don't find out, I think that stuff is expensive.

The doctors on ward round stand around the patient's bed... one consultant, one registrar, two interns, three medical students... sometimes, one nurse. That's four doctors, three doctors-in-training, and a nurse. Eight medics. The doctors flip through the charts, murmur to each other, look at the progress... looking down at the creature before them like it's an intellectual puzzle, the way you'd look at a crossword or a jigsaw puzzle. The effing intern prims her hair, writes in the chart with her careful neat handwriting, stamps the chart carefully and proudly (are you proud of your stamp, which says "Doctor"? Live up to the title, you highly decorated waste of space), having never said a word to the person whoes chart she is writing in. The patient is not a person: he is a puzzle to be solved, a medical enigma, with a set of blood test results and obs. If the puzzle is solved, the person need not be dealt with. Once, when the consultant left to answer a phone call, the group huddled around a patient, and then proceeded to talk about another patient (of course never mentioning names), completely ignoring the one before them. I was angry enough to really make some enemies in there.

A few of them (the patients, that is) I have spoken to before; heard their stories... the son in university, the business for sale, the failing heart, the aging spouse at home awaiting for them to return home. When we enter, like a mob from the movies, they recognise me: the one person in this 7-doctor posse who has spoken to them for more than 2 or 3 sentences. Their eyes light up. "Hello, love", they say. "Yes, of course I remember you."

Today a patient was going to be discharged... he was finally allowed to go home to his wife and help out with the financial burdens of the family. He shook the consultant's hand. "Thank you doctor." he said. Then he turned to me: "And thank you." I hadn't done anything. I'd just sat down opposite him, and we only talked for about twenty minutes. A patient shouldn't need to thank a 3rd year medical student. I was angry to the point of tears.

Of course I have much more to complain about. The older medical student (older in age, not in training) who treats me like a primary schooler, despite the fact that he's never worked in health before... the doctors who think that if they ignore medical students then they will magically train themselves into doctors... the whole f***ing establishment, who thinks that if you sell your soul then maybe, just maybe, you will be considered good enough.

You could say that I am negative because I've been drinking. But you could also say that I've been drinking because the outlook is very negative. Now I think about it, my last drink was quite a few hours ago anyway. I'm not even sleepy anymore.

I guess I will make an attempt to do some reading, another little droplet to fill the vast emptiness that is my brain... then go to sleep... and wake up to another brilliant day on the ward.

The wind and the waves

The wind and the waves, they work so well together!
The waves, they toss my little boat about like a toy,
They spash against the sides; they laugh at my fear,
Like a gang of big playground bullies, they wall up around me,
There is no escape, no mercy, only salt and fear...

But the wind! The wind is much more subtle...
It howls past my ear, laughing and taunting,
I can feel his cold breath on my shoulders, my back,
His words and his laughter pierce my mind.

"You fool," he laughs, "you have no power against us,
You will fall into the murky depths, you are mine! Mine!
Your prayers go no further than this ceiling, your call does not go to the Above
For you are small, and He is big; you are tainted, and He is pure
With one glance He sees the heavens and the earth, the vast spaces and the flowing galaxies;
You are but a speck in His peripheral vision; He hears you not. Where is He now?"

"Look around you - you've been here before! Let the ghosts of the past flit through your mind,
Let the images replay like a silent film - do not deceive yourself!
Havn't you been here before? Are you not going around in circles?
Ergo, the future holds much of the same! There is no hope, no hope, no hope...
What are you holding on to?" laughs the wind.

I crumple in the corner, I can't block him out
His words and his laughter circle my mind,
Day in, day out, there is no respite, no rest for the wicked
Out of these depths I called to You, I called Your Words into mind:
"For I know my redeemer lives..."
"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made complete in your weakness..."
"The Lord is my portion, therefore I will wait for Him..."
"I am the good shepherd..."
"Your rod and your staff, they comfort me..."

I hold fast to Your promise, not because I am a person of great faith...
But because I have nothing left, because without You, I am alone in this storm
Though I can't hear you, Lord I know You are sovereign...
You are the creator and author,
The wind is Yours, the waters is Yours
This boat is Yours, this journey is Yours.

May this journey take me to higher ground,
May this cycle end today,
May Your power be made complete in my weakness,
May Your light shine into this darkness,
May Your promise be fulfilled in me,
May Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

The Cedars of Lebanon

Last year, a good friend of mine invited me to his church's 14th birthday celebrations. They hired the UQ centre, and it was like one big party (the praise and worship had break dancers etc), followed by a sermon. At the end, my friend asked me whether I wanted to stay back and meet some of his friends. I wasn't extremely keen, because he wasn't the greatest person when it comes to introductions, and because I was starting to feel hot and tired... but once I saw the gigantic creamy chocolate cake they had on offer, my decision became simple.

Introducing myself to people proved rather difficult, because it was crowded and noisy, and because I'd forget people I met only seconds after I meet them, producing the rather embarrassing situation of introducing yourself to them twice. My friend stood by looking around and not being particularly helpful. (Or at least that's how I remembered it... hehe) But anyway, I digress.

"Hi, my name is Sida" I say to one guy.
"Zita, nice to meet you" he says
"No, it's Si-da"
"Sita! I'm sorry..."
"No no, SI-DA... like the Cedars of Lebanon"

At this point, my friend next to me started chuckling and looked at me sideways, but wouldn't tell me what he was laughing at. I decided not to press him, partly because it wouldn't work, and partly because if he told me I probably wouldn't have liked it anyway. What's wrong with the cedars of Lebanon? Big, tall, fragrant tree mentioned in the bible for its majestic loftiness, used to build temples and palaces. After I got home I decided to look it up in the bible to make sure.

I found that, while the bible exhalts the cedar tree in some places, there are much more passages humbling it. The latter made me feel uncomfortable and I decided not to introduce myself to Christians as the cedars of Lebanon again. All this was tucked away in my mind, until yesterday, when I realised that this tree teaches me an important lesson in this stage of my life. I guess that's the long-winded introduction to what I'm about to write about.

The Cedars of Lebanon

The cedars of Lebanon is a type of pine tree, and its many endearing qualities make it an important tree historically, culturally, and in Judaism and Islam. Light in colour, fragrant in scent, strong, hard, and resistent to insects... the Lebanese people are so proud of their tree, it's their national emblem, and occupies the central position in their national flag.

In the bible, the cedar was used by Solomon to build the temple, as well as his palace. (In fact, the bible records that he called his palace the Forest of Lebanon.) Additionally, there are many verses that praise the cedar tree for its strength and majesty, and if something was to be described as very grand and beautiful, it was described (frequently in the Song of Songs and the Psalms) as being like the cedars of Lebanon.

On the other hand, there are also many verses that describe God humbling the cedar, and showing His power and righteousness. Psalm 29:5 says: "The voice of the LORD breaks the cedars; the LORD breaks in pieces the cedars of Lebanon". In the books of Isaiah and Ezekiel, the prophets compare proud nations to cedars, arrogant, cruel, and standing tall above other trees, but eventually coming to a crashing burning end under divine judgement. The myriad of verses that show the cedar in this manner made me never want to say "Sida like the cedar of Lebanon" again.

Now I think about it, it does show two aspects of my life and of my psyche. On the one hand, some of my qualities have been able to be used by God in His church, and though I am nothing like the cedars, I do believe that God has shown His grace and glory through what I do. But, of late, slowly and subtly, these same qualities have made me proud, and of course, with pride comes insecurity - the constant niggling feeling that you're actually not as good as you think you are, and the fear that others may find out. I know that this pride could eventually lead me far away from God, focussing not on Him but on myself and what others think of me. My ministry would eventually become meaningless, leading to one thing - crash.

Deuteronomy 9:17-18 tells us that the good things we are gifted with or have acquired, are not just because of our ability, because even if it were, the mere ability comes from God. I may be blessed in some respects, but I should never fool myself into thinking that these are my own work... I'm on God's journey, my abilities were given to me from Him, in order to serve Him. There is no appropriate attitude to take except for complete humility and servitude to Him and to others.

I'm amazed at how much I wrote... actually on this topic right now I could go on and on and on... but it is nearly midnight, I have a stomach ache, it's so hot I can hardly breathe, and so sleep seems like a very good idea right now.

Looking at stars

Looking at stars with you this summer night
We lie facing the heavens, the dry, warm ground on our skin
The insect repellent incense fills the air with smoke and magic
"What's that star there?" you ask

I take you to a world of nebulas, clusters, black holes and supernovas,
A world so far away in space and in time, your mind cannot grasp,
And your eyes open wide with childish wonder
Somehow, you think I can name every star in the sky.

I take you to ancient Greece, where the minotaur roams,
Orion boasts with his club, and the Big Dog guards the night sky
I bring out my telescope, and show you
Pleides, and Jupiter's companions: Io, Europa, and Ganymede
And the dark side of the moon, swallowing the light

One day you will grow up, and the moon's pock-marked face will no longer allure you,
You will no longer be interested in the twinkle of the Pleides,
Or wonder what Orion is dreaming of tonight
But until that day comes, you have reminded me
Just how simple, how beautiful, and yet, how mysterious God's creation is
Do you see His glory? Can you hear His song?

Sleep now, little brother, sleep and dream
Dream of the light dancing across the infinite spaces
Of the serene nebulae and the laughing galaxies
Dream of Jason and his argonauts, of Orion and his sword,
Dream the dreams of innocence and childhood
Before the world awakens you.

Cool med words

Some cool words I have come across thus far. I like the sound of them, or the imagery they bring up when you imagine the word. A disclaimer: the meaning of some of these words are conditions or treatments that are not very cool at all, particularly if you have them.

In no particular order:

• Radiation ablation therapy
• Caput medusa (literally, the Head of Medusa)
• Plethora
• Blastocystis hominis... and all other words that have "blast" in it, like blastoma, blastocyst
• Klebsiella (sounds like a nice name for a girl. Moraxella is not as cool-sounding, but reminds me of mozzarella cheese.)
• All words that start with oo: oocyte, oophorectomy, oophorohysterectomy... and the most awesome of all: oosome. Oosome is just so awesome.
• Succusian splash
• Murphy's Kidney Punch (the name of a diagnostic physical examination technique... for some reason makes me think of some Irish pub brawl.)
• Praecordial thump
• Thyroid storm
• Toxic megacolon

There were more on my mind when I was revising for my exams, but which has now left me.

Finally, I think the formidable Robbin's Textbook of Pathology deserves a special mention for its short but effective definition of dysentery: "Painful, explosive diarrhoea." The use of the word "explosive" cracks me up every time. Medicine is a production line of intellectuals with sarcastic (perhaps even cynical) dry wit, and this strange sense of humour often shows through in certain textbooks. One day I may create a small collection of some examples.

It's funny, I went shopping with some med friends the other day... and driving on the way to her house, I saw a big sign: Parkinson Learning Centre. Immediately I thought: "Parkinsonism..." At the shops, we were making comments like: "I really don't like this colour, reminds me of stearrhoea."

I guess you can take the person out of medicine but not medicine out of the person.

So you got into medicine...

Today, a good friend of mine told me he just received great news - he got into medicine! This kid, at the tender age of 17, already knows what he wants to do with his life. Since my exam finished last week, I've been reflecting on the Year that Was, and on my experiences in medicine thus far. Having received the news from my friend, I now have an excuse to blog about it.

At the end of last year, I looked back in reflection with rose-tinted glasses and thought it wasn't that bad. This year, I reflect on the year it's been... and there is no rose-tinting. How do I begin to describe the second year of the UQ MBBS degree? It has been a labour of love, but a labour nonetheless. I could compare it to one of the tasks of Hercules - or one of those fairytales where the hero has to pass through obstacles and behead many monsters. (It was like: it can't get any worse than this, right? And then it gets worse. Repeat repeatedly through two years.) The psychological torture that is the end of the year would make any Nazi (or horror movie film maker) proud. The end of year exam was a cruel gruel of irony, cooked up in the river Styx itself, a final insult to what sanity you may have left. You enter, armed with your notes from first year, and you come out the other side, battered and bruised and bleeding, encumbered with enough notes to endanger a rare rainforest, and having lost all memory of all that passed in between (except for the pain... oh the pain!)...

In spite of all that I said about the year that was, on reflection, I still find it hard to believe how blessed I am that I am here at all. What profession is there like medicine? Few other professions offer the same rewards, but require the same sacrifices. You may have to walk through mud and slime to get there, but it is a journey I wouldn't exchange for anything else short of rock stardom. (I mean, what other profession is like medicine? It is intellectually challenging, mentally fulfilling, financially rewarding, and socially exulted. You can find those things elsewhere, but not usually all of them in one job.) So, to the young adventuring soul braving the harsh extremes that is medicine, you made a good choice. Really.

Oh yeah, by the way, it's my 22nd birthday today.

What I am going to do soon

Today is Monday. 2nd year med exams finish next Wednesday. There is... about... 9 days left before I have total freedom (unless of course I fail the exam, but I'm not even regarding that right now). I've already thought of some of the things I will do when the holidays come around...

• Sleep and sleep and sleep
• Spend an entire day seated in front of the piano. I've wanted to do that for such a long time, but I can only last about 2 hours before guilt sets in and I go to study.
• Fix up the spelling mistakes in the powerpoint slides with the lyrics of hymns for church. There are quite a few typos, and it's been bugging me for ages.
• Buy a new pair of sunglasses. Go shopping and contribute to the betterment of our economy by burning some plastic.
• Exercise the leftover caffeine out of my system. (Well... I don't really like exercise so that's probably not going to happen. But it's a nice thought.)
• Watch the entire series of 三国演义 (Romance of the Three Kingdoms) again for possibly the 10th time. Cry like I always do when 子龙 crosses the enemy lines with the baby. Stop watching when 诸葛亮 dies cos after that it's just not worth watching anymore.
• Get my hair cut.
• Go check out Woop-woop, where I have been allocated to next year.
• Work and try to save some money for Woop-woop. I'll probably spend most of my time doing this actually... sigh...
• Blog.

Coming soon to this blog:

• Some humorous (or just cool) words in medicine
• Some thoughts on worship
• Our School Of Medicine's spectacular mess of a clinical-schools-allocation-scheme... the result of which is that I've been sent to Woop-woop next year. More on this later.

Job and his friends

"I have heard many things like these; miserable comforters are you all!" says Job to his friends. [Job 16:2 (NIV)]

Boy, I sure can imagine what Job felt when he said those words. To cut a long story short, I recently felt broken-hearted and disillusioned at something, and tried to speak to a friend about it, only to have it turned (somehow) into a theological argument. Of course it wasn't entirely his fault (and, for the most part, he was in the right), but Job 16:2-4 described my feelings entirely... my friend was not able to give me much comfort, but thinking of Job did. Reading the book of Job this morning brought me back to faith; and reminded me what it's all about. I remembered that I had wanted to write a blog about Job since the start of this year, but med got in the way... so here it is now.

Who is Job, and why does he puzzle us the way he does? Job is one of the oldest books of the bible, and describes a man who went from a life of prosperity and comfort, to an existence of excruciating physical, mental, and spiritual suffering. God's hand in his suffering, Job's responses, and the responses of his friends, make Job a very confronting and challenging book. Job is indeed intriguing, but unnerving, and not all Christians like the book. The book of Job offers no answers to our pain and sufferings, and so there is no way I can fully understand or explain Job... but I will make an attempt to explain what I get out of it and why it has comforted me today.

Job begins unlike other books of the bible - we are given a "behind-the-scenes" look at Job and what is about to happen, before we meet Job himself. God and Satan (literally, The Accuser) meet, and God says: have you seen my man Job? There is no one like him, he is blameless and upright." Satan's response? "Only because you have blessed him with so much! Take all his possessions away from him, and he will curse you to your face!"... God then allows Satan to "test" Job by taking away first his possessions, then his family and his health. [Job 1-2]

Philip Yancey mentioned in several of his books, that from the outset it is apparent that Job is on trial here, being tested. What is at stake? The glory of God... Satan effectively accused God of being loved only for the material comforts He provides, and not for God himself. It is like saying to a boy: your girl only loves you because you buy her nice things. Stop buying her nice things, and she will curse you to your face.

We are then taken to the scene where Job is sitting, alone, and covered in painful sores. Three of his friends come along, and instead of giving words of mercy, they give words of "wisdom" -- Job must have sinned for these bad things to happen, so therefore Job should confess to God and appeal for forgiveness. Either Job sinned, or God is not just. The former must be true (the friends imply), since the latter is undeniably false.

They found themselves faced an unrelenting Job, confronting them with pain and suffering that they were not able (and perhaps not willing) to understand. Job insisted he was innocent, and yearned for a "hearing" with God, although, Job admits, he can not make God answer, and besides, God is perfect, and how do you have a hearing with a perfect being? C. S. Lewis said that we have a tendency to put God on the dock, on trial, for an explanation for our suffering... and I guess this is an example.

In some ways I can relate to Job, even though our situations are vastly different. I am capable of being very stubborn in my decisions, my reasoning, and my arguments... and often I'm even stubborn in being inconsolably hurt. Like Job, I have high expectations of my friends... and like Job, I also sometimes lament that having this relationship with God is unlike any other relationship. With a friend, I'd put their strange actions down to various idiosyncrasies - it is much easier to forgive someone who is not perfect. With God, what is there to forgive?

I'm going to skip a large chunk of the book and skip straight on to the ending. A storm brews, and God speaks out of the storm. God does not tell Job his reasons (does God need to explain himself to a mortal?), but only merely reminded Job of His majesty and perfection. Were you there when the universe was formed? Does the waves and the mountains come at your call? Who are you, then, to want a hearing with God? Job did not need to hear any explanations, this reminder of God's omnipotence was enough. Job repented, his friends were rebuked by God, and Job's health, family, and wealth were restored to him. We are reminded that this journey was never about proving God's faithfulness, it was about Job's. Even though Job's life and fortunes were restored, I get the feeling that he'd never see things in the same light again.

I guess, for me, this is the crux of the story. I could wallow in my self-pity obstinately (and I am quite adept at that sort of thing), wonder why God doesn't answer back, or what the logic and reason is for the way things happen (I am also quite adept at trying to use logic on things that I shouldn't)... but I won't get an answer, and there isn't much point in scrutinising God to look for clues. Like Job, I need to realise that God is not the one on trial, God is not the one tested. I am.

As an interesting aside, Job verbalises our need for Christ. Job wishes that there were an intercessor between God and himself, to plead his case for him (Job 9:32-33, Job 16:20-21). We see many cases of Christ being our arbiter - the classic example being: Forgive them, they know not what they do. (Luke 22:34). Job also wonders if God knows how he feels. "Do You have eyes of flesh? Do you see as a mortal sees?" (Job 10:4).

The answer to which, is yes. Christ came in the flesh, and suffered greater suffering than we ever did.

(Yay, it's out of my system now. 00:34 am. Time for my beauty sleep, I think.)

Hannah's prayer

In bitterness of soul Hannah wept much and prayed to the LORD... As she kept on praying to the LORD, Eli observed her mouth. Hannah was praying in her heart, and her lips were moving but her voice was not heard. Eli thought she was drunk, and said to her, "How long will you keep on getting drunk? Get rid of your wine." 

"Not so, my lord," Hannah replied, "I am a woman who is deeply troubled. I have not been drinking wine or beer; I was pouring out my soul to the LORD. Do not take your servant for a wicked woman; I have been praying here out of my great anguish and grief."

Eli answered, "Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him."

She said, "May your servant find favour in your eyes." Then she went her way and ate something, and her face was no longer downcast.

I've always wondered what exactly Hannah said to God on that day, what exactly passed in between them. Perhaps not much, since the answer to her prayers came only after she left the temple. But either way, something in that temple comforted her. She entered that place, grieved in heart, not even able to eat... and left the place no longer downcast. What happened in between?

I imagine, actually, that many Christians have had this experience. Left with no where else to turn, we come to God with bitterness and tears. We cry, we complain to God, we appeal to God for mercy, strength, or perhaps a miracle. We cry until we are too worn out to continue. At the end of this, God still has not given us a substantial reply. Perhaps God is even silent through our wailing... but somehow, we are comforted, and we see hope.

Hmm, I don't actually know where I am going with this. I guess this is a testimonial of sorts. I have been very bitter lately... well, not bitter as such, but... upset might be a better word. I have reached the stage where medicine is no longer interesting, where motivation is at an all-time low, but there is so much to memorise (so much!) but no will to do it. Not just studying, but even other things connected with med, like tutoring, and going to any of the classes.

Even though I complain about med so much here in my blog, this is pretty much the only avenue into which I pour my complaints. Apart from other medical students, no one really knows what it is like, and find most people it hard to sympathise anyway. I try not to complain too much to other students, because then that would just start a cycle and we will stress each other out. So I guess, all this has been bottling up a bit, and one night, at about midnight, it came out, trickling at first, then a gush.

I didn't pray for as long as Hannah did; I think exhaustion took over shortly after I switched the light off to pray. I sat on my bed hugging my knees as the stresses, demands, and hormones (because that is also such an important factor in females) all came to the surface... and then, I was able to sleep, reminded that there is One who is capable of everything I'm not.

The following morning, when I was reading the bible, the tears nearly came back as I read in passage after passage of God's promises for me. I guess, like Hannah, God hasn't given me an immediate and direct reply. But God has given me a bit more strength to wait a while longer for His right time.

Some updates

I realised I have not blogged for a long time, over a month in fact... there was no specific reason, I've just been busy... so busy that I have not had a chance to stop and realise how much I've got to complain about.

Our beloved School of Medicine (note sarcasm) has let the 2nd year medical students have a week off this week. I guess if they didn't do that they would be accused of unethical conduct. It certainly wouldn't reflect well upon UQ if someone wrote a scathing letter to the editor of some newspaper... or indeed if some acopic medical student jumped off a tall building.

This week off isn't a holiday as such, it just means that we are not forced to attend any lackluster classes, which means all the more time to catch up on study. Having given some thought to the list of things I have got to do this week, I am now feeling pressured enough to blog.

Alright that's enough complaining about med... in life, things like med happens, and you've just got to deal with it, one day at a time if necessary. (Such wise words from someone who is wasting her time blogging...)

Apart from med I guess my life is going along as per normal... in other words, at a halt. It's rather pathetic the way med takes such a large chunk of my life. I have not seen my friends in weeks (those friends outside church that is), I have to turn my brother down when he says "can you read with me", and romance is a mythical concept that happens to other people. Well actually the lack of romance I can't entirely blame med, there is also my caustic sarcasm and lack of conformity to the attractive stereotype of gentle femininity. Hmm, perhaps I can blame those things on med too...

Good grief, I'm complaining again. I'd like to say that I have so many things on my mind, but in reality I have very little, and a great chunk of it is med. Med assessments, to be precise. Med is great fun, if only there were no assessments.

I was the interpreter again this Sunday, my second time. I wouldn't say it went well, but I guess it was not a complete disaster. People seem to think that my stumbling block is my nerves, when in fact my stumbling block is a defective brain. (A friend in med once said that others think that he is a genius simply because he is in med, and he wonders what will happen when people find out that he's no different to others of his age. As for me, the sooner they find out the better. But for some reason many people are still unconvinced... I don't really understand why they must be so stubborn about it.) I suck at it, but even then I have not made any funny memorable mistakes (which is rather sad). My mentor, who has been doing this for years, once said while up on the podium that a colostomy links the intestines to the bladder. Unfortunately only he and I got the joke.

Speaking of my mentor, I was really quite annoyed with him yesterday. When other people are just starting to be an interpreter, he sits in the front and prompts them if there are words they don't know how to translate, or to simply smile encouragingly and supportively. Not so while I was up there. Each time I looked at him, he was looking elsewhere, and it became apparent that he was avoiding my eyes. (I mean, no one stares at the ceiling like that, unless they are taking a Bachelor degree in Ceiling Studies.) When I came across difficult words, I have to guess. According to him, he sees me being nervous, and that makes him nervous, and so he looks away. This reasoning is defective for two reasons - firstly, no one cares if he is nervous, and secondly, if he doesn't help me it will make me even worse. I decided to not argue with him, but in the true female spirit, I remained annoyed. (Even though I like to think that, unlike the stereotypical female, I had logic and reason on my side.)

In the end I decided that it matters very little, because I was supposed to be relying on the grace of God, not the grace of The Mentor. He can take his Bachelor of Ceiling Studies with Honours in Looking Around Nonchalantly, and it won't make any difference... I have God on my side, and if there are words I can't translate I'll just flash my oh-so-charming smile. Ha! Take that!

Hmm, it appears I have ran out of things to complain about. Except to say, I have a craving for calamari. I really don't know where I get these cravings from...

On service, interpreting, and chocolate

"Be dressed for service, and keep your lamps burning." - Luke 12:35. It's funny, because when I read this, I immediately thought Jesus meant to dress in your best. Lately there has been some emphasis in our church about wearing our best clothes to church (with some ambiguity as to what exactly that means... apparently, my most prized pair of jeans doesn't count), especially if you are going to serve in any ministry. I was wondering at the time whether I needed to wear a suit for translation... the pastors and the other translators wore suits, but they are all men. So I read on, hoping Jesus would tell me whether to wear my suit or a normal jacket.

There was some confusion before I realised Jesus meant to dress like a servant. It does not solve my immediate problem of to-suit-or-not-to-suit, but it did remind me that, in reality, it is trivial. I needed to put aside my proud notions of looking good or seeming intelligent before everyone, and instead take on the heart of a servant. The attitude of servitude, so to speak. Pride is such an easy trap to fall into. (By the way, I didn't wear the suit, but I wore a denim blazer that looked like a suit anyway.)

Today was the big day, where I stood up at the podium with the pastor, and interpreted his words into English. The sermon lasted about an hour, but for me it seemed like at least 2 hours. If I were to evaluate my performance, I would have to say I sucked. I didn't know what St Augustine was in Chinese (I guessed, but by the time I realised it was too late), and interpreted some parts in a really strange way. My Chinese simply isn't good enough, I think. On the other hand, after the service nearly everyone in the church approached me to tell me I did well. Being a self-critical type of person, I take these praises with a grain of salt, but I also refuse to let me put me down. The experience had my sympathetic nervous system firing on all cylinders, and I had the tremors toward the end of the service. I've now come down from my high, and am confronted with a massive headache and an unquenchable thirst. Kids, don't try this at home.

Now that I've had some time to think about it, it really is a blessed thing to be interpreting at church. If God's message is spoken through the pastor, then the interpreter also is an outlet of God's word, a channel through which God's word flows. It is the next best thing to being the pastor himself - the privilege of being an outlet for the word of God, without the toil of seminary training.

As for the chocolate... it is the other thing I'm craving, aside from water and sleep. I don't think there is any proper chocolate in the house, and I can't be bothered going out to get some. I'm sure that if I look hard enough, I will find a chocolate biscuit. It's out there, somewhere, I know it.

A conversation with my brother

"Hey, are you going to have babies when you're older?" he asks

"I don't know. I guess if I get married I might." I reply

"Oh, right. Hey! I've never thought about this, but how do married people make babies?" He asks, "You can get married, but where does the baby come from?"

I stared at him, and couldn't hold back my laughter. He is 10 years old, and obviously his innocent mind is still untainted by modern media. How does one answer this question?

"E-bay." I said.

Barry Marshall to visit UQ

I received an e-mail today that would have given me a heart attack, were I not so meticulous about my diet and exercise (ha!). Barry Marshall is coming to visit UQ later this month to give a public lecture. Barry Marshall is coming to my campus.

For those who don't know, Barry Marshall is a Nobel Prize laureate for his contributions to medicine - specifically, for his role in the discovery of the Helicobacter pylori bacteria, which lead to the effective treatment of peptic ulcer disease - a painful and potentially dangerous disease which has plagued mankind ever since Man were given stomachs.

Last year, in March, I wrote a blog article entitled "If I Ever Meet Dr Barry Marshall" ... about his discovery and how crazy he must have been. I think I also wrote something about what I'd do if I ever meet him. I think I said something about giggling. <cringe>... This particular article caught the eye of Professor Marshall himself, and he got his staff to contact me to send me some memorabilia. This is all very good, but now he is coming to UQ!

I wonder if he remembers my blog. Probably not, but then, what if he does? If I were in his position, it would give me unspeakable joy to see what this girl would really do. It feeds my strange sarcastic sense of humour. I can only hope that he is not like me and has forgotten all about it, although, how much normality can you expect from a man who drank bacteria in a self-experiment? I better stop right here before I get myself into more trouble. The self-experiment did save lives, and it wasn't that crazy a decision given the gravity of the situation.

I think I will go and listen to this public lecture, but I'm don't think I will approach him afterwards, and if anything happens, I'm going to deny everything. The thought does occur that having contacts or knowing people (or pretending to know people) like Professor Marshall may be beneficial in some way. I could do what Sharon Stone did, and say things like "... my good friend Professor Marshall..." (Sharon Stone did it to the Dalai Lama) ... but it seems kind of like cheating, and besides, people would ask me how I know him, and that must be avoided at all costs.

Let this be a lesson to us all. It is embarrassing to write about Nobel Prize laureates and other famous people who are still alive. Save it for people like Einstein, Marie Curie, Mendel, Plato, and the like. Jesus is alive, but at least Jesus isn't going to come and deliver a public lecture at your campus.

Or will he? *shift eyes suspiciously*

Some updates

I've passed my mid-year exam. Not brilliantly, but I don't really mind. A pass is sufficiently brilliant, in my mind. I'm really thankful that my other commitments haven't gotten in the way of my grades or my career. I trusted God, and He didn't let me down.

I have taken on an extra ministry at church. Our church is a "bilingual" one - the preacher speaks in Chinese, and there is an interpreter who then translates the sermon into English. I will be taking on this role (as the interpreter, that is, not the preacher). I'm very nervous about it... I'm still not sure if my Chinese is good enough (I suspect not), or indeed if my knowledge of the Bible is good enough (I strongly suspect not). My first time is 13th of July, in about 2 weeks time. I've only been rostered twice between now and September, and each time I will be interpreting for the easiest pastor in the church (he speaks slowly and clearly and somewhat even repetitively). But in spite of all these things, I strongly suspect that I will be making a huge fool of myself.

But that's ok, I will be a fool for Christ.

I'm really feeling quite happy lately. Something which has bothered and hurt me on and off for a long time (well over a year, probably a year and a half or more) finally no longer has an effect on me. I'm not going to elaborate on the details here (that would be too painful, I think)... but suffice to say, I feel like a weight has been lifted. In fact I feel like an episode of my life is drawing to a close. Praise to God, who gives me liberation.

He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

-William Butler Yeats (1865 - 1939)

Mid year exam

Mid year exam is over. It was a very strange exam, almost eerie. As if the devil himself searched my brain, made a list of all the things I didn't focus on or hadn't memorised, and wrote an exam on it.

In general I think I would have passed, although I doubt I did very well. Strangely, I don't really care that much. I'm feeling rather numb about the whole thing. They were right, 2nd year med is the hardest year. They say it scars you for life. I guess I might have underestimated the whole thing.

Oh well. No point in guessing until the results come out. Time to get on with my one-week break.

The Pentecost

This Sunday is the Sunday of the Pentecost... (as well as Mother's day, that is). Pentecost is a date in the Christian calendar, and marks what is regarded as the birth of the Christian church.

Let me tell you a little about the background, first. Jesus was crucified during the Passover time, and rose from the dead 3 days later. He stayed with the disciples for 40 days, teaching them, and charging them with spreading the news of the salvation. He commanded his disciples to stay in Jerusalem, and wait for the rather mysterious and elusive gift of the Holy Spirit... and with this Holy Spirit, they will be his witnesses in Judea, Samaria, and the ends of the earth. Having communicated this, Jesus was taken up to the heavens before their very eyes. I'll use the bible's own words to describe what happened next...

When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them.

This phenomenon, of course, was not to go unnoticed. Jerusalem at the time was filled with devoutly Jewish pilgrims from "every nation under heaven" (Pentecost is the Jewish feast of Shavuot, which marks the giving of the Torah to the Jewish people). Parthians, Medes, Romans, Arabs, and people from many other nations (Acts 2:9 lists them all) could hear the disciples speaking in their own languages. In wonder, they asked one another: "What does this mean?" In boldness, Peter arose and explained to the crowd the purpose for the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. In that single day, 3000 people believed and were baptised... and this is the birth of the movement that continues to this day, some 2000 years later.

The changes in the believers are stark. The disciples and the few other believers were a strange mix of fishermen, tax collectors, ex-prostitutes, and even one lady who was the wife of an aristocrat.  At the sentencing and crucifixion of their master, fear struck their hearts, and all were scattered away... Peter even denied Christ three times. (How interesting it is that only the ladies remained!) When Christ was resurrected, not all of them believed it at first, and some of them didn't even recognise him when they saw him. I wonder what they must have felt, meeting together, not knowing exactly what to expect.

The bible describes the Holy Spirit as "tongues of fire"... what ever it was, it certainly lit them up like fire. Fearlessly, and on the spot, they proclaimed their faith knowing full well that they are proclaiming it to the very people who crucified their master. Not only that, their confidence was so strong that they were willing to be subjected to martyrdom for their faith. Previously slow in understanding Jesus' teachings and parables, they were able to preach it all around the world (well, the Roman world anyway). A small, haphazard mix of believers were suddenly empowered both in numbers as well as in spirit... able to reach all walks of life. (Not to mention the miraculous deeds they were able to do.)

The story marks the birth of the Church, a church that Jesus said not even the gates of hell can overcome. In a way, Pentecost is a symbol of what happens to each believer too, albeit in a more subtle way. A life is transformed by the gift of the Holy Spirit, the fire of heaven sets us alight, and we are never the same again. It changes us, such that, even though we are still imperfect, we have part of God inside of us... leading us, comforting us, empowering us.

As an interesting aside, the story of Pentecost contains one of my favourite verses of the bible. When the disciples were struck by the Holy Spirit, some people laughed at them and said "they have had too much wine.". In reply, Peter said: "These men are not drunk, as you suppose. It's only nine in the morning!" (Acts 2:14).

I'll leave you to figure out why that amuses me so much.

By the way, if you are interested, the story of Pentecost is described in Acts, chapters 1-2.

Please, do not smoke.

The following poem was inspired by the people I've seen outside the Princess Alexandra Hospital, and composed on the bus on the way home.

Please, do not smoke. It is simply vile.
Don't tell me you don't know what it does do your body;
Even my 10 year old brother knows.
You go to the gym, go on a diet, buy health foods, and complain about the city smog...
Don't do this to yourself. Please, just don't smoke.

You walk out of the hospital, and you want to light up.
Look behind you... nurses, physiotherapists, occupational therapists, radiation therapists
Radiographers, sonographers, dieticians, counsellors,
Cardiologists, pulmonologists, hepatologists, oncologists, gastroenterologists, surgeons...
They all work long hours, on weekends, on call...
All to deal with the complications of your choices.
Have some respect for their work... please, don't smoke outside the hospital.

You are pregnant, a new life living inside of you
You are the picture of feminity, of hope, and of beauty, and you know it...
For your baby you take folate, vitamins, iron, iodine, calcium, magnesium, potassium
... Fish oil, raspberry leaf, and some Chinese herbal thing you don't recall the name of.
You daydream about your little bundle of joy... you wouldn't want anything to go wrong
So, please, don't smoke if you're pregnant.

You are a parent, and you finally understand your own parents
You make sure they are vaccinated against everything...
Diphtheria, Varicella, measles, mumps, rubella, polio...
Meningococcal C, Pneumococcus, Tetanus, Hep B, and H. influenzae B...
You drive them to soccer practice, to piano lessons,
You make sure they eat their veges, don't watch too much TV...
You wouldn't poison your children. So, please, don't smoke around the little ones.

Yes, I know it's hard to quit. But some things are harder to deal with
Like cancer, peptic ulcers, stroke, and rotten teeth...
... and living with only one leg.

Yes, I know Sharon Stone and Leonardo Di Caprio looked sexy in those movies with a cigarette
But, let's face it. They look sexy anyway.
As for you, my dear, you are not Sharon Stone, nor are you Leonardo Di Caprio,
And I will be quite frank, a cigarette... will not help that much, in your case.
So please, just don't smoke.

Lastly...
Don't smoke.
Don't smoke if you are just outside the hospital.
Don't smoke if you are pregnant.
Don't smoke if you have children.
And, if you are outside the hospital, and pregnant, with a young child...
... just don't do it.

QUITLINE: 131848

Inspired by a lady I saw outside the hospital, brandishing her baby bump with pride, holding the hand of a little girl, and a cigarette in the other hand.

I havn't written a poem since school. I hope this didn't bore you too much. At least it was fun to write, hehe