It wasn't until his college years when my brother finally started to blossom. He was amongst young women now, and he was making fast friends in his class. He also started to do well in his class because he wanted to outdo the smartest girl in class, to impress her. (Why is there always a girl involved? If only you girls knew the way you have us wrapped around your fingers).
In fact, he excelled in college and his university days academically - in retrospect, maybe we should have started him in a coed school from when he was seven! Socially, he was much better as well, still being himself amongst the 'normal' crowd, but adapting better to their etiquettes.
Over the past few years, I have grown in my admiration and love for my older brother. We are similar in many ways but still retain the opposites of our childhood.
I care too much about what people think and that dictates the way I act, while he doesn't care at all about people's opinions. This can be detrimental, but it has also allowed him the freedom to do things his way. I remember when Dad was in a wheelchair, and we would often go out as a family on Sunday evenings. Some of the family members, myself included, would 'umm' and 'ahh' because going out in public always attracted unwanted attention because of Dad's condition.
My brother, on the other hand, would hurry us up, and shoo us into the car, and then we'd go out, and have a great time, which we otherwise wouldn't have done had he not been there.
Living with him here, I continue to see the other traits that make him wonderful - he is able to love unconditionally, and it is evident in the way he serves the members of his cell group at church. He continues to invest faith and love in people the 'normal' world would have turned their noses up at, 'outcasts' like himself once.
He also carries a level head on his shoulders. Yes, he can get emotional about things that he is passionate about, but he is often slow to anger, and I can attest to that, since I'm not the easiest person to live with sometimes.
Today, we decided to go for a drive to Williamstown, because he wanted to go somewhere outside - to study his CA stuff. Initially, we were supposed to go to the Great Ocean Road for a day trip to 'study' - try to work out his mind, 'cos I can't! - but I had to run some errands in the morning.
So, come lunchtime, he dragged me out of the house and into the car. I was quite tired and a little irritable, but he was patient, and we made the drive down there, and it was beautiful. Williamstown is a bayside town, and it was a gorgeous sight - with the silver waters in the foreground, and the boats and yachts rocking gently in the distance, and against this was the backdrop of the Melbourne city skyline.
It wasn't the warmest of days, to be fair. Fifteen minutes out in the bone-chilling wind on the benches surrounded by evil-looking seagulls was about as much as we could take, and we spent most of the time in my car. I was reading Alexander McCall Smith's latest 'The Good Husband of Zebra Drive' up the front while my brother was in the back, studiously going through his notes.
I fell asleep in the car, not once but twice! This is definitely a day off well spent! We stayed until it was sundown, and I was about to drive off to dinner because my brother had just finished his reading his notes. 'Wait!' he cried. 'I want to go for a run!'
'In your jeans and walking shoes?' my mind yelled out. 'You'll come back soon, it's freezing!' I said. He dashed out of the car and onto the nearby green grass with a small playground on it. I went back to my book, and it was only when I looked up, to my right five minutes later did I see him on the swings by himself, swinging up and down, enjoying himself uninhibitedly.
I couldn't have loved him anymore than I did at that very moment. Yes, my brother's in the real world, working, earning a living, going through life like the rest of us. But there was still a child in him that he would not suppress, who he would let run out once in awhile, laughing freely into the skies, without a care about the world.
It's because my brother is, shall we say, special.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
My Younger Older Brother Part 1
'So which one is the older one?'
Because we are only two years apart, my brother and I got to share many experiences together, like primary school and high school, the school bus, Sunday school, church, and right now, living in Melbourne together.
We used to get that question a bit - when I was in high school, especially, people would mistake me for the older brother. It was because my brother was, shall we say, special.
I've always thought that being the eldest in a family is always the most difficult of all. No one is there to pave the way for you, no one is there for you to look up to, you need to be responsible and set the example. Being a kid, that's always a tough ask.
So my brother grew up the best way he knew how, and was always non-conformist in his behaviour. When all the teenage girls were drooling over boybands, my brother was extolling the beautiful music of James Galway, flautist. Kids around school would laugh at him because he would wear his pants a little higher up, and he basically never cared about what people thought of him.
I continued, on the other hand, to live for the approval of my fellow man (ie. friends and teachers), and so I did my best to fit in at school, making friends with everyone. I was (only slightly) mature beyond my prepubescent years, and I guess, people saw me as normal.
(Okay, you can stop laughing now.)
(Okay, now.)
It also didn't help that I was doing better in school than he was, gaining the approval of my teachers and friends.
And so, understandably, in high school, seniors would come up to me and ask 'Hey, that one your brother ah? He's the older one ah?' barely masking their surprise. I would always smile shyly, almost apologetically whenever people ask that question. He wasn't exactly cool/'in', and I was trying my best to be.
This subtle embarrassment started from an early age, as in this illustration:
We used to play in this playground near our house, and the times we spent there is another story in itself.
It was a playground that had all your usual trappings - imagine a playground like today - see-saws, swings, monkey bars, chin up bars - but instead of the colourful safe plastic material that all kids enjoy today, everything was made out of metal and wood.
We used to like this girl on the playground (why is there always a girl involved?) and we were both, among the other boys who played with us, vying for her attention. I can't remember the game that we were playing that evening - I think it was police and thief - and my brother was trying to impress with his speed.
Somehow he ended up cutting open his chin on the side of one of the wooden platforms. All the kids were standing over him, aghast. 'He slipped because he run too fast,' whispered one. Everyone watched this pitiful bleeding mass, groaning in pain.
Seeing her, he got up, slowly. He was groaning a bit in pain, but he did his best to be brave about it. I don't know why, I can't explain the way little kids think, but I was embarrassed to be there at that moment. I started walking home first, and he followed behind. The other kids dispersed, the evening abruptly ending.
He trailed behind me, calling out to me in pain, to please slow down, but all I did was walk away a little faster.
I don't understand what happened that evening, but all I know was that the same attitude defined our high school years. Of course, it wasn't a physical walking away, but emotionally, and in my mind, I have, regrettably, left him standing on his own countless times.
Because we are only two years apart, my brother and I got to share many experiences together, like primary school and high school, the school bus, Sunday school, church, and right now, living in Melbourne together.
We used to get that question a bit - when I was in high school, especially, people would mistake me for the older brother. It was because my brother was, shall we say, special.
I've always thought that being the eldest in a family is always the most difficult of all. No one is there to pave the way for you, no one is there for you to look up to, you need to be responsible and set the example. Being a kid, that's always a tough ask.
So my brother grew up the best way he knew how, and was always non-conformist in his behaviour. When all the teenage girls were drooling over boybands, my brother was extolling the beautiful music of James Galway, flautist. Kids around school would laugh at him because he would wear his pants a little higher up, and he basically never cared about what people thought of him.
I continued, on the other hand, to live for the approval of my fellow man (ie. friends and teachers), and so I did my best to fit in at school, making friends with everyone. I was (only slightly) mature beyond my prepubescent years, and I guess, people saw me as normal.
(Okay, you can stop laughing now.)
(Okay, now.)
It also didn't help that I was doing better in school than he was, gaining the approval of my teachers and friends.
And so, understandably, in high school, seniors would come up to me and ask 'Hey, that one your brother ah? He's the older one ah?' barely masking their surprise. I would always smile shyly, almost apologetically whenever people ask that question. He wasn't exactly cool/'in', and I was trying my best to be.
This subtle embarrassment started from an early age, as in this illustration:
We used to play in this playground near our house, and the times we spent there is another story in itself.
It was a playground that had all your usual trappings - imagine a playground like today - see-saws, swings, monkey bars, chin up bars - but instead of the colourful safe plastic material that all kids enjoy today, everything was made out of metal and wood.
We used to like this girl on the playground (why is there always a girl involved?) and we were both, among the other boys who played with us, vying for her attention. I can't remember the game that we were playing that evening - I think it was police and thief - and my brother was trying to impress with his speed.
Somehow he ended up cutting open his chin on the side of one of the wooden platforms. All the kids were standing over him, aghast. 'He slipped because he run too fast,' whispered one. Everyone watched this pitiful bleeding mass, groaning in pain.
Seeing her, he got up, slowly. He was groaning a bit in pain, but he did his best to be brave about it. I don't know why, I can't explain the way little kids think, but I was embarrassed to be there at that moment. I started walking home first, and he followed behind. The other kids dispersed, the evening abruptly ending.
He trailed behind me, calling out to me in pain, to please slow down, but all I did was walk away a little faster.
I don't understand what happened that evening, but all I know was that the same attitude defined our high school years. Of course, it wasn't a physical walking away, but emotionally, and in my mind, I have, regrettably, left him standing on his own countless times.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Bustin' Ours... To Save Yours...
The above theme sits on top of our Emergency Department webpage, and everyone knows the missing word is 'ass'. (not the donkey)
The child in me bursts out laughing whenever I see that statement. There is some truth in that, though. Working in the Emergency Department has always been, to me, medicine defined. I mean, that's why people become doctors, right? To save lives.
The Emergency Department is the first port-of-call to any patients in a hospital. Patients are brought in to the hospital via ED, at all levels of dying, from the very much alive with minimal complaints to the very much dead, who come in DOA (dead on arrival).
ED is fun for three reasons:
1) You get to think. Sometimes when you get stuck with a hospital ward job, you feel more like a glorified secretary, just mindlessly writing down whatever someone else has to say. Not much thinking on your part, usually, because the thinking's done for you.
In the Emergency department, however, every patient you pick up is a new case to be considered in the context of their past history and also the events leading them to your hospital doors. They say that the world renowned Sherlock Holmes was actually based on a friend of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's, who was a very observant doctor.
2) You get to do. I have done sutures, plasters, cannulas, lumbar punctures, ring blocks, reductions, arterial stabs and I'm getting to see so many more things as well. I'm still not doing anything near as much as the doctors on House M.D., though. (because they're not real doctors, you see. They're actors. Who are earning more in an episode than I will in a lifetime.)
3) You get to interact. Sometimes you are assigned to the fast track area, which is like a GP's office, almost, and it really is fun talking to the patients and sorting out the simple problems. No patient is more appreciative than the healthy ones who just need to be told that there is nothing wrong with them, it's a virus, just go home and get some rest.
Of course, it's can get quite busy and crazy in the ED, but there are times when I've been smiling at work and thinking 'You know, it's almost unfair that I'm enjoying work so much!'
That's us - bustin' ours, to save yours.
Thing No. 6: The Boy Goes To School (Darjah Dua)
Do you remember those yellow manila cards they gave out to you once a year? You had to paste your photo in the right hand corner, fill in your personal details, and then some random other things. One column I remember best comes with the heading:
Cita-cita (Ambition): 1. 2. 3.
For me it always read like this:
Cita-cita (Ambition): 1. Doktor (doctor) 2. Peguam (lawyer) 3.Jurutera (engineer) /Akauntan (accountant) depending on the career du jour.
[My friend LWK, upon realising that writing down your ambition in those columns weren't going to automatically transform you into having that career, once wrote down, for fun:
Cita-cita (Ambition): 1. Badut (clown)
Just for that moment, he got his wish. ]
If you are an Asian kid in a typical Asian family, your columns read the same too. Don't bluff, I know. All Asian parents have a degree in Brainwashing Your Child, B. Sc.
Now, truth be told, I didn't want to be any of those professions. I had very little idea about doctors, much less about lawyers and almost nothing at all about what an engineer did. (They dealt with engines, right?)
We had an English oral test once in Standard Two. The topic I had to discuss with the teacher was on 'My ambition'. Once again, I said I wanted to be a doctor. She said, 'Oh that's good. It's hard work being a doctor, though.'
At some point during the discussion, she asked 'And what about those poor people who cannot afford to see doctors?'
'I'll see them for free,' came my reply.
The child in me bursts out laughing whenever I see that statement. There is some truth in that, though. Working in the Emergency Department has always been, to me, medicine defined. I mean, that's why people become doctors, right? To save lives.
The Emergency Department is the first port-of-call to any patients in a hospital. Patients are brought in to the hospital via ED, at all levels of dying, from the very much alive with minimal complaints to the very much dead, who come in DOA (dead on arrival).
ED is fun for three reasons:
1) You get to think. Sometimes when you get stuck with a hospital ward job, you feel more like a glorified secretary, just mindlessly writing down whatever someone else has to say. Not much thinking on your part, usually, because the thinking's done for you.
In the Emergency department, however, every patient you pick up is a new case to be considered in the context of their past history and also the events leading them to your hospital doors. They say that the world renowned Sherlock Holmes was actually based on a friend of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's, who was a very observant doctor.
2) You get to do. I have done sutures, plasters, cannulas, lumbar punctures, ring blocks, reductions, arterial stabs and I'm getting to see so many more things as well. I'm still not doing anything near as much as the doctors on House M.D., though. (because they're not real doctors, you see. They're actors. Who are earning more in an episode than I will in a lifetime.)
3) You get to interact. Sometimes you are assigned to the fast track area, which is like a GP's office, almost, and it really is fun talking to the patients and sorting out the simple problems. No patient is more appreciative than the healthy ones who just need to be told that there is nothing wrong with them, it's a virus, just go home and get some rest.
Of course, it's can get quite busy and crazy in the ED, but there are times when I've been smiling at work and thinking 'You know, it's almost unfair that I'm enjoying work so much!'
That's us - bustin' ours, to save yours.
Thing No. 6: The Boy Goes To School (Darjah Dua)
Do you remember those yellow manila cards they gave out to you once a year? You had to paste your photo in the right hand corner, fill in your personal details, and then some random other things. One column I remember best comes with the heading:
Cita-cita (Ambition): 1. 2. 3.
For me it always read like this:
Cita-cita (Ambition): 1. Doktor (doctor) 2. Peguam (lawyer) 3.Jurutera (engineer) /Akauntan (accountant) depending on the career du jour.
[My friend LWK, upon realising that writing down your ambition in those columns weren't going to automatically transform you into having that career, once wrote down, for fun:
Cita-cita (Ambition): 1. Badut (clown)
Just for that moment, he got his wish. ]
If you are an Asian kid in a typical Asian family, your columns read the same too. Don't bluff, I know. All Asian parents have a degree in Brainwashing Your Child, B. Sc.
Now, truth be told, I didn't want to be any of those professions. I had very little idea about doctors, much less about lawyers and almost nothing at all about what an engineer did. (They dealt with engines, right?)
We had an English oral test once in Standard Two. The topic I had to discuss with the teacher was on 'My ambition'. Once again, I said I wanted to be a doctor. She said, 'Oh that's good. It's hard work being a doctor, though.'
At some point during the discussion, she asked 'And what about those poor people who cannot afford to see doctors?'
'I'll see them for free,' came my reply.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Let's Dance In Style, Let's Dance For Awhile
As young adults, especially far removed from home, we sometimes live a sub-sistence. We exist on a lesser level, we do not really live as such. Work is a drudgery that we all are eager to get out of, a necessary evil to get us the things we need and the things we want.
We live our lives spending the weekdays dreaming of the weekends, and when the weekends do come, they pass too quickly and soon we are faced with the dreaded rinse repeat cycle of the week ahead.
We try to numb ourselves during the weekdays when we get home from work - with You-tubes sticking out of us, keeping us artificially alive; we watch TV, we read each other's blogs and Facebooks, we escape to another world (of Warcraft). Anything to pull us through the weekdays in order to get to the weekends.
These were some of my thoughts back in Malaysia, as I was on the bus headed out to Singapore. Now, six weeks later, although there still is some truth to those thoughts, I realise that it is greatly exaggerated as well.
I've found the time during the week to have cherished catch-up dinner with my friends, and my brother. I've managed to squeeze in some good movies, and good books as well into the week. And working has made time off all the more meaningful and appreciated, with last weekend being an excellent example.
We had a barbeque lunch on Saturday to celebrate the birthday of a dear friend of mine, R, and it was a glorious day to do it in. We had our fill of sausages, lamb, chicken, salads and such in the sunshine. After that we adjourned to her house, where we spent the day just hanging out, playing music, Singstar-ing badly, watching missed series and cartoons, playing Mafia, catching up, laughing out loud.
In a time where everybody's in such a rush to grow up, we were lucky enough to have the chance to be young again, if only for a day.
We live our lives spending the weekdays dreaming of the weekends, and when the weekends do come, they pass too quickly and soon we are faced with the dreaded rinse repeat cycle of the week ahead.
We try to numb ourselves during the weekdays when we get home from work - with You-tubes sticking out of us, keeping us artificially alive; we watch TV, we read each other's blogs and Facebooks, we escape to another world (of Warcraft). Anything to pull us through the weekdays in order to get to the weekends.
These were some of my thoughts back in Malaysia, as I was on the bus headed out to Singapore. Now, six weeks later, although there still is some truth to those thoughts, I realise that it is greatly exaggerated as well.
I've found the time during the week to have cherished catch-up dinner with my friends, and my brother. I've managed to squeeze in some good movies, and good books as well into the week. And working has made time off all the more meaningful and appreciated, with last weekend being an excellent example.
We had a barbeque lunch on Saturday to celebrate the birthday of a dear friend of mine, R, and it was a glorious day to do it in. We had our fill of sausages, lamb, chicken, salads and such in the sunshine. After that we adjourned to her house, where we spent the day just hanging out, playing music, Singstar-ing badly, watching missed series and cartoons, playing Mafia, catching up, laughing out loud.
In a time where everybody's in such a rush to grow up, we were lucky enough to have the chance to be young again, if only for a day.
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