Sleep In Heavenly Peace

To all my readers who have been checking the obituaries for me, let me just say that there is a death in my life indeed. My computer of six years is finally dying on me, and with it, all my photos and associated memories.

It is irredeemable, and I am afraid that I will be unable to write for the next one or two weeks. I will be dependent on the kindness of my friends for access to the internet these next few weeks.

Oh, well, change is inevitable, I guess, and what better way to ring in the New Year, than, perhaps, with a new computer.

Have yourself a blessed Christmas, and may you keep your resolutions in the coming year. If only for a week.

Of A Different Set Of Parents

I watch as the mother speaks, her volume drumming both the men in her life to quiet submission.

She is loud and crass, and heads in the restaurant turn to look at us every time she opens her mouth to speak.

I remember her son describing to me that his mom is like that lady in Kung Fu Hustle - the one with the really big breath and loud voice. The one with curlers in her hair. He sounded really apologetic, yet I thought he was only joking. Tonight, I found out first hand.

They say that as a couple ages, the woman loses her oestrogen and assumes a more dominant male role while the reverse is true for the men. They lose their testosterone and develop into quieter, less aggressive creatures. I have only seen this to be true in Asian families, though. Maybe we do grow up to be our fathers.

They obviously did not enjoy the Malaysian dinner experience tonight. The father is more subtle in his dislike - he has stopped eating after one bowl of rice, politely declining further entreatments for a second helping. The mother, on the other hand, wears a scowl, almost disdainful for the food served tonight. I do not take offense, instead, there is a smile creeping on my insides, for I know that despite all this rough exterior, they are both kind souls and have loved their son the best way they knew how.

She calls loudly for the bill,- lau pan! - her hands outstretched and her neck angled as if she were reaching for something beyond her grasp. Mai tan eh! she says loudly. The restaurant owner, who vaguely knows me, smiles and looks up at me, as the dance to pay the bill begins. No let me, no I'll handle it, no let me.

She sits in the back of the car with her husband as we drive through Melbourne by night. She is very keen on the houses here, and keeps asking whether we were driving through a rich person's area. She keeps repeating how the air in Australia is good, and how where she comes from the people are many and the cars are few, but it is the reverse here. Her husband sits in silence, talking only occasionally, flinching ever so slightly when the repetition becomes obvious.

I wonder if there ever can be an equality in a relationship of two people. What I've often witnessed is that one person will take the spotlight, with the other (?forced to be) content in the shadows. And then I wonder if I will ever marry a woman who will match me in my noise and my silence.

I finally rescue a night that is spiralling into disaster, bringing them to Docklands, which is a beautiful part of Melbourne, especially at night, situated by the bay. I see the both of them happy for the first time tonight, breathing in the cool night air together. He carries a slight smile and his cigarette, observing the reflections of the bright restaurant lights on the water. She is like a child at Christmas, gushing over the beauty of the place, wondering how much apartments nearby must cost.

We walk around for awhile and a peace settles once more, one that comes from a quiet contentment and relief. They, for having seen this beautiful bit of Melbourne after a fairly dreary night, and I, for having brought them here.

I look at the both of them again - sure, there are no overt expressions of love, but somehow, there's this indefinable bond that holds them together, one that comes from being together for so long. Like a pair of comfortable old loafers or a doll that you had since you were a child, neither of which you are willing to part with.

Penang

"Heng Ghin, lei kei tak Ah Mo ke sai mui mo? Lei sai ke si hei ho sek lei gah!..." (HK, do you recognise Ah Mo's little sister? She loved you a lot as a little boy!)

Penang. Pearl of the Orient. Penang always holds a special place in my heart because Dad was from there, and I was raised there for the first three years of my life by my uncle and his family.

It was my cousin's - Ah Pak's second son's - wedding that I was attending in Penang, and he was the last of the Ah Pak's children to tie the knot. Interestingly enough, their family mirrors ours - two boys and a youngest daughter. Which bodes badly for me in the marriage department. Again. Hahaha!

I was raised in this very house for the first three years of my life, although I have very little recollection of my time there - a dark memory of me singing Hokkien songs as a child perhaps, and maybe running along the tall lalang grass that grew wildly in the backyard. Otherwise, I have almost no recollection about my childhood in Penang at all.



Oh, indeed, there is photographic evidence of my time there - there is a sepia-ed photograph of my Ah Mo, holding my head against a mango tree to compare how big it was. And that all compromising nude-baby-lifted-from-a-plastic-bathtub-to-expose-his-wee-wee-for-photographic-evidence-of-his-gender-in-case-he-decides-on-a-sex-change-later photo is there as well. With pretty flowers at the side for good measure, because Ah Mo, till today, works as a florist for a living.

And then there is this picture of me celebrating my second or third birthday, with a plastic toy guitar in hand, in white overalls. There is a table behind me with all sorts of kuih and a birthday cake and the compulsory traditional pink hard-boiled eggs symbolising ...er... dangerous colouring that could seriously stunt a child's growth. (I don't know what they symbolise, do you??)

I looked happy in those pictures, so I must have been.

Every time that I go back, I would always be introduced by my relatives to the neighbours again, and everyone present. "This is Heng Ghin. Remember him?" In turn, the strangers would be introduced to me "This is so-and-so. Remember them?".

The light of recognition will flare up in their eyes, and they would recognise that big-headed, small wee-weed (I'm just humble.) boy who they used to adore and play with. They would look at me in anticipation, but be rewarded instead with a polite smile of someone who's meant to recognise them, but stares as blankly at them as if he were demented.

Add to the fact that I can no longer speak Hokkien, and the death of that little boy is complete. The polite smile is returned, and the aunties shepherd away their children, carrying the memories of that little boy now forever lost to them.

Home. Sick.

This first week of return back to Melbourne has been a difficult one, but I think I am getting the hang of it once again.

Two weeks back home is just about the right amount of time, I have decided. Once you spend three weeks, a certain inertia will creep in, and one is guaranteed to develop homesickness as well.

This sickness has translated into actual physical sickness this week, when I had to take a day off work to attempt (unsuccessfully) to recover from a head cold. It always seems to hit me this time of the year, for some reason. But now, finally, I am rested enough to have returned to some semblance of health.

Christmas and the New Year fast approaches, and it is time once again to say "How time has flown, man! I remember this time last year...", reminiscence, regret and thanksgiving all rolled into one.

I have just sent my brother and his girlfriend to the airport yesterday to take the same journey that I happily took one month ago, and in my current state, a part of me just wanted to creep into their suitcases and take that journey home with them.

Melbourne is really quiet this time of the year, and come next week, when all the pre-Christmas sloth develops into a full blown two week hibernation, it will be quieter still.

Anatomy Of A Chinese Wedding (III)

We now come to the most important part of any Chinese wedding - the dinner. The dinner is the usually both the climax, and the closing ceremony, if you will, of the Chinese wedding. All of the couple's planning will culminate in this event, after which they can finally kick off their shoes, and spend time together as husband and wife, the events of the past few days a sweet memory to look back on, rather than a stressful time to look forward to.

(Sorry for being unromantic, but weddings can be fairly stressful events!)

In Malaysia, especially, the guests will saunter in past the time indicated on the invitation cards (6.30 pm sharp!), so the couple will often make a fashionably late entrance at about 8.00 pm to much fanfare. One couple I heard about was brave enough to start fifteen minutes later than the allocated time, so only half the wedding hall was filled when they walked in!

The Chinese wedding dinner itself will be of a standard eight course meal (I have heard of a thirteen course one, which I think is unnecessarily extravagant, and will require lots of ta-pauing). A typical Chinese wedding dinner menu will look like this:

i) The opening entree platter - The four (or five) seasons platter. This dish has four different hors d'oeuvres which are meant to represent the four (what is the fifth season?) seasons - spring, summer, winter and autumn.
ii) A soup. This traditionally is the sharks' fin soup (Poor sharks. Poor yummy sharks.) or the double boiled soup.
iii) Chicken. Or suckling pig, if you've got a fully non-halal (kosher) guest list.
iv) Prawns. The usual standard is the custard prawns (lai yau ha) though I have seen cold salad prawns as well.
v) Fish. This is usually steamed with soya sauce, although the one we went to had a very nice spicy Pattaya sauce variant.
vi) Vegetables. Lavish vegetables cooked well. One for the vegetarians. Unless sea cucumbers are animals (are they?)
vii) This is usually rice of some semblance - fried or steamed in lotus leaves. By this time you're usually so full you don't care.
viii) Dessert - can be cold (longan jelly) or warm (red bean with fried pastries).



The dinner itself is a noisy, festive event. Especially if either the bride or bridegroom are Hokkien.

Giveaways that you're at a Hokkien wedding dinner

1. There is a loud boorish wedding singer who has been hired for the occasion. He or she is very good at working the crowd, and can sing My Heart Will Go On in three different languages.

2. There's an uncle who must have been dragged here by his wife who is conspicuously uninterested in the fact that you're getting married. How do you know that? He is reading newspapers at your wedding.

3. You have uncles or aunties who insist on blessing your wedding with select irrelevant songs sung by them. They try their best, bless their souls.

4. One of the compulsory songs is "Ai Pia Cia Eh Yeah" (In Order to Win, You Must Try Hard.) Which I suppose means that in order to win children, the couple must try their hardest. No, I'm making that one up - I honestly don't know what that song is doing in a wedding dinner. Here is a (not-so-cheesy, if you can believe it) sample:



All the sincere singing of songs aside, there's the important, beautiful bits - the speech by the bride and the groom, and the speech by the parents of the bride and groom. This is one of the few moments in a wedding where the clanging of chopsticks against porcelain bowls will quieten down to a minimum, and where the uncle will (hopefully) put down his newspaper.

There is also the cake cutting ceremony and the popping of the champagne bottles. The wedding singer at this point will interject with sweet words of the significance of both ceremonies. The champagne is then poured into glasses, and the climax of the wedding then begins - the Yam Seng.

The Yam Seng is the loud and raucous part of the Chinese wedding dinner, where the guests all unite in one voice to wish the bride and groom all the best. This part of the wedding is usually lead by the emcee or the wedding singer, and follows three rounds of wishes:

1) To the bride and groom and their families. For a long happy marriage together, through thick and thin, and for wealth, health and happiness.
2) To the bride and groom. To the pitter-patter of tiny feet, a euphemism for many, many, many children. (At this point the bride will lose her smile. And look terrified.)
3) From the bride and groom. To all those who have taken the time and travelled from near and far to grace their wedding. Even the newspaper reading uncle.

Each wish is then ended with a unified, protracted Yaaaaammmmm Seeeennnggggg!!! from both the families and all the guests. This is a glorious part of the wedding, as the whole restaurant literally reverberates with the well wishes of the guests, and there are always smiles all around.

The poor bride and groom don't actually get to eat much after that, as they will be going from table to table, thanking people for coming, and there will be intermittent episodes of Yam Seng from each individual table as the well wishes continue.

Unless there are faithful groomsmen by his side to take the gulps of wine after each Yam Seng for him, you can bet that the groom will be pretty drunk by this stage. The bride will be smiling through her third change of dress for the night, and be praying at this stage that her new husband will not embarrass her too much tonight, or vomit all over her evening dress. The good bride is supportive and will not care at all, happy that everyone is having a good time.

The night finally dwindles to a close, and the bride and groom and their parents are outside the banquet hall, waiting to thank all the guests for coming. There are hugs and handshakes, and as the last of the guests leave, both families will sit down, heaving a sigh of relief that the night is finally, successfully over.

And the groom will reach out and gently grab his bride's hands, look into her eyes, smile and then vomit onto her evening dress.

Melbourne-cholic

It feels better today than it did yesterday. I know that it will be better again tomorrow, and that these transitional blues are normal.

[Note to A: I have absolutely used up all my SNTPG (sit-next-to-pretty-girl) points and sat next to... no one on the way back. Two seats to myself! The Shack has come in really handy, thank you very much! Awesome read too, by the way... more than halfway through it.)]

This has been a really important trip back to Malaysia, though, and I think God in His infinite wisdom, and His impeccable timing, has allowed me to go back to Malaysia at a time which is important to my family, and my friends.

It has been a time of seeing love consummated, and love interrupted. It has been a time of sitting around food, exchanging ideas and laughter, hearing of the things that have happened in the breath between our last goodbye and our present hellos.

Now I sit in the silence, and the quiet isolation of Melbourne again. I cannot describe this distance to you, except to say that it has always been here.

I will be okay, in the days to come. Life will take over again.

Anatomy Of A Chinese Wedding (II)

Beep! Beep! BeEeepPPPP! BEEPPPpppPP! BEEEPPPP! BEEEPPP!!

It sounds like irate drivers on a highway in rush hour traffic, but the sound is highly alien in the setting of the small roads of this little taman. The guests look up from their catered meals and smile when they see who it is.

The bride and the groom have both arrived in the wedding car, and have come over for the second most important event in a Chinese wedding - the tea ceremony.

The tea ceremony, or the chum cha is a very important tradition in Chinese weddings. It is both a symbol of respect for the elders, and the couple seeking their blessings for their union.

The tea ceremony almost equates to an officiation of the marriage, as parents (and my grandmother) will often sigh wistfully when their unmarried children take forever to get married, sparking the phrase "Ngo kei si yam tak san po cha ah?" ("When will I ever get to drink the tea of my daughter/son-in-law?") (Lei yau pai tang lah, po po!)


(From top, left to right)
The wedding car. Typically a classy luxury car, like the Mercedes Benz or BMW. Typically, as well, with two soft toys hanging on for dear life (look how frightened Mickey and Minnie are) for the rest of the day, signifying the couple's desire for cruelty to soft toys.
There was food for the guests all the way from yesterday night until this afternoon. There is always curry chicken as well, symbolic of a spicy marriage. (Okay, so I made that one up). Notice the tables and canopies especially erected for the occasion.

The guests stand in respect as the bride and bridegroom make their way out of the car into the house. They are not alone, however, and are being led by the kam jie (the Chinese wedding specialist). These kam jie are like the aunties you always want at your wedding, - loud, shameless and funny enough to brighten up any occasion.

She leads the way into the home, uttering blessings in Hokkien all the way, ensuring that the married couple walks into the fragrance of her words. The kam jie is also an adept tea pouring machine - preparing all the cups and tea for the bridegroom's family for the ceremony.

So this is how it works - anyone older than the couple gets served tea while seated in front of the standing couple. This includes grandfathers, your parents, every separate uncle and auntie (all twenty of them), your older cousins and siblings, your neighbour and the dog who is older than you by virtue of its one years being equivalent to our seven human years.

(I'm kidding about the dog. They don't like tea.)

While giving the tea, the young couple will have to say "(Insert relationship to you here ie. Mum, second maternal uncle, third paternal aunt) please drink this tea." This is an acknowledgement of being now included in the family and taking on your spouses' relatives as your own.

In return, the older relatives give you ang paus - red packets filled with money, and sometimes, gold trinkets, if you're lucky - a symbolic gesture of their blessing and goodwill towards you and your new husband/wife. (With the right pawnbrokers, suddenly the wedding doesn't seem so expensive to the young couple anymore. Hahaha!)



And then it is the newlyweds turn to sit down and give out ang paus to all those younger than them. The kids in turn will have to acknowledge the newlyweds as their new uncle/aunt before they are rewarded with ang paus themselves. The kids will then run to a quiet corner and rip open the red packets, with their newfound wealth, their eyes crazy, their lips snarling "Myyyy preecccioouss....." (Yes, kids are like little Gollums.)

Soon the tea ceremony ends, and the family gathers around for photographs with the newest additions to their household.

The tea ceremony is peformed in both the bride and bridegroom's families separately, and is a simple yet beautiful ceremony signifying the marriage of not only the husband and wife, but of their inclusion into each other's families as well.

My Grandmother

Everytime that I come home, and travel, I learn new things and remember old things about my extended family.

My grandmother is 86 this year. She was the prettiest little thing in Kampar and married my grandfather, who was the son of a rich man in Ipoh. My grandfather was an alcoholic and was one of those layabouts who never really fulfilled his role as provider of the family.

He was a lucky man when it came to gambling, though. As my mum tells me, "Tai yat pai, chong lok hap choy, tai yee pai, yau chong lok hap choy, tai sam pai, chong fan shi". (He struck lottery the first time, he struck it again a second time, and the third time, he struck death.)

Grandma was widowed from an early age and had to raise five children by herself, which was no mean feat in itself.

Her children all turned out pretty well, brought up with strong work ethics and moral values.

Grandma is the only grandparent I have ever known in person. Both my paternal grandparents and maternal grandfather died by the time that I was born.

Through the years, she has been a quiet unobtrusive presence in our growing up years, breaking the silence only to ask how we were, and to encourage us to "kan lik tit took shi ah!" (Study hard!)

She has been living with my mom's sister and brother in law (my tai yee and yee cheong) in the early years, and I remember the annual birthday celebrations that we would throw for po po. This usually meant an eight course meal at some fancy Chinese restaurant, which was always a treat that we little children looked forward to.

During these dinners, po po would join in the initial conversations, but soon fade into the background as the families start to converse in English, inadvertently excluding her from the ongoing topics. She would never complain, however, and continue to happily feed away at her sharks' fin or suckling pig.

She has remained relatively healthy in her old age. Age has left her with a walking posture like that of a hen - leaning forward with her arms folded behind her, one foot plodding after the other. Time has left her health relatively untouched - she climbs stairs with the speed of a forty year old, and with the surprising silence of a trained assassin.

One thing that time has robbed her of, however, is her mental faculties. Over the past few years, po po has been stricken with dementia, leaving her short term memory ravaged. She would often repeat questions, much to our amusement. My youngest uncle once made a funny observation, that grandma would make for an awesome inquisition - she would be able to break down any spy or prisoner of war, simply with her gentle repeated, repeated, repeated questioning.

But some things evoke more sadness than mirth - having the memory of a goldfish means that po po gets terrified every time she gets left alone for too long. My yee cheong was telling us how they would leave the house for a period of time, and, in the early days, po po would subtly hint at her fear of being left alone - "When are you coming back? Should I be cooking for you?". Right now, it is a full blown somatisation of her anxieties - "My head doesn't feel right. I think I need to see a doctor" - whenever they leave her home alone.

The way that age has tinkered with her brain also means that she has conversations with herself and sometimes sees her sister who has been dead for many years. Almost as if po po was suspended in time, an unwitting intermediary between the living and those who have gone before us.

But her appetite and strength remain intact, and it was a pleasure seeing her again this time. I know that there is still some feistiness left in this old lady, as she told me off for being twenty eight and not getting married yet!

Sorry lah, po po, my dear grandmother, the gentle grand old dame of our lives.

Anatomy Of A Chinese Wedding

"Oi, can you please say something nicer or not leh?"

The voice of the zhi mui (literally: 'fellow sister', actually 'she-devil') rings out across the gates and into the streets. It is the morning of the wedding, and the bridegroom is finding his way to his bride a little more difficult than he had hoped.

The zhi muis are one or more female friends of the bride employed for the sole purpose for making the passage of the bridegroom as arduous as possible before he can reach the ultimate reward that is his blushing bride, normally hidden from view in a bedroom, adorned in her wedding gown.

The groom has his heng tais ('fellow brothers') with him, who will help him defeat the evil zhi muis and end up rescuing his bride.

The groom normally has to perform a series of tasks to satisfy the zhi muis. This can involve something innocuous, like singing a love song loud enough for the bride to hear, or professing his love for her in a romantic way. (Most Asian males will falter at this early stage!)

The tasks may range from the physical (doing fifty push-ups, piggybacking your groomsmen while promising your wife you will carry her throughout life in the same manner) to the downright lewd (your groomsmen have to eat bananas dangling from your waist area! What is that supposed to signify?). Some are more creative, like my piu je's (cousin sister's) wedding a few years ago.

The zhi muis had gotten a napkin, and had ten people (guys included!) to plant lip-sticked kisses onto the napkin. The groom, in order to pass through the door ('koh mun') had to guess which lipstick print belonged to his bride-to-be, and had to pay ten dollars for every wrong guess. Let's just say he was thankful there was only ten lipstick prints to choose from.

The koh mun exercise can sometimes be an extortion effort as well, as the sisters will demand a certain amount of money (as is the Chinese way) of auspicious value ($888 dollars, $99 dollars, $388 dollars and so forth).

Some of the other activities carry some meaning, like I remember, as one of the groomsmen, being served a platter with sweets, raw chilli, lemon slices and bittergourd, each signifying sweetness, spiciness, sourness and bitterness. These signified the emotions of any marriage, and it symbolised that the groom was ready to share life's platter with the bride, through any season(ing).

Finally, when the poor groom has been tortured to the point of leaving his bride (hahaha!), the zhi muis will finally relent, and allow him through, taking his first of many happy steps to the door that opens into the room where his bride sits demurely, waiting for him.

*********************************

'Let me in! Let me in! I have waited too long for this moment, battled too hard to see you, and I can't wait for you to finally be my wife! Won't you please let me in, and not frustrate me, when all that matters to me is within reach, just the distance of a shout away; when all that stands between me and my happiness are these horrible friends of yours! Let me in!'

In My Life 2: The Love of CHK

Eleven years of primary and secondary school. A total of about five hundred weeks of my life spent in classrooms, Mondays to Fridays, with Saturdays being taken up by extra-curricular activities.

I cannot speak about school without speaking about something that was just as daily a routine as school was - the school bus.



Ah, the school bus. Long, ripe yellow vehicles with the words BAS SEKOLAH emblazoned in black on its side sitting between two bold lines. With a belly full of schoolchildren being eaten and regurgitated in the early mornings and late afternoons (if you were in the morning stream) or in the early afternoons and late evenings (if you were in the afternoon stream). Offensive drivers, and equally offensive fumes of thick black smoke belching from its exhaust pipes.

An unlikely setting for romance, if you will. But there she was.

I don't even know her name, to be honest. All I know was that she was the second last person to be picked up on the bus route while I was always the last. Which means that every morning at six thirty a.m., I get to trundle up the metallic stairs to the bus and stand next to the classiest girl in the bus on my way to school.

Beauty and the Beast

To be honest, I was anything but charming. In fact, I was the bus bozo. To start with, I was a fat kid growing up. Seriously. My light blue prefect shirt would always threaten to pop at the buttons. The six buttons tracking from my neck to my waist would always pucker from being stretched by the little giant it was trying to contain. I looked like I ate other smaller children for breakfast.

Add to the fact that I was clumsy, and that my bag was huge (I was the prototype kiasu student (nerd) - I carried all my exercise books and the A and B workbooks, even though the A workbooks were completed in the first semester and never used again).

I looked like a fat tortoise. If the bus driver made any sharp turns, my bag would sometimes be so heavy it would pull me to the ground.

(Falling on your behind always impresses the women.)

She was something else completely, her mixed parentage had gifted her with sweet brown skin, she had eyes that you could swim in, and she was poised and elegant and rarely spoke. Almost like a gazelle, if you will. Her speaking was done by her two sisters - the snotty obnoxious older sibling, and the snottier obnoxious-er younger sibling.

I would often be so nervous around the girl that I was convinced was the love of my twelve year old life, that I would be drenched in sweat on some days just standing near her (when her sisters didn't get in the way).

(Sweating always impresses the women.)

I spent countless mornings cursing my awkwardness as I got off the bus, squandering another chance to have said hi to her.

Rebel Without A Clue

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Puberty happened along the way, and this clumsy, ugly duckling suddenly transformed into a clumsy, ugly swan. Hahaha!

I made a fresh start as I began my high school years, and redefined my persona as the unwitting bus heartthrob, for two years at least. It was no fault of my own - let's just say puberty was kind (initially) and made me a presentable fourteen year old. Add to the fact that I surrounded myself with an aura of cool mysteriousness, and the girls were going crazy.

We would often stop for bus changes, and instead of joining the crowd of boys and girls buying junk food or playing around with each other, I would often sit alone on the bus somewhere near the back. I would often look out the window, my arm at an angle supporting my head, as I looked faraway and deep in thought.

The truth is, my deepest thoughts were "I think I will die if a girl comes up to me and starts a conversation now!"(Way to go, all boys' school product!) so I appeared aloof and distant to ward off interest. This plan, however, backfired, and I found myself attracting the interests of giggling girls my age.

She never giggled. She was too classy for that. But I could tell she noticed me, and wanted to come and say hi. But neither of us were brave enough.

It was the last day of Form Two, and the bus route dictates that she was the last person to get off the bus before me. I was pretending to be deep in thought again, but out of the corner of my eye I could see her, as she stood by the stairs, waiting to alight. She turned to look at me, one last long lingering look, carrying with it the regrets of words unspoken.

The bus stopped and she thanked the Mr. Wong, the bus driver as she got off. With that, she was gone, and I never had really saw her again on the bus after that, when we started morning streams the next year.

I just wished that I had asked her for a name, at least.

- And even though, the moment passed me by, I still can't turn away -
Name, Goo Goo Dolls

Love Languages

Love Language No. 5: Physical Touch

I thought I would wrap up these series on the love languages by touching (pun badly intended) on the last love language - physical touch.

Physical touch has always been shown to be an essential part of not only our communication of love, but to our whole survival, no less. (That's why Asian kids are a dying breed. Haha!)

There were these less-than-humane tests performed during the World War, where babies were separated into two rooms. Both groups were fed, changed and looked after equally, but one room were given cuddles at regular intervals while there was strictly no touching of the babies in the other room apart from administering the routine care.

The babies that were held and cuddled thrived while the untouched babies basically withered and sadly, died eventually despite being well nutritioned. Such is the importance of the human touch.

Physical touch is not (always) spelt S-E-X (how many Google hits will find this site now!?) or E-A-R-T-W-I-S-T-I-N-G. Something as simple as a hug, a chaste kiss on the cheeks in some cultures, a cuddle, the holding of hands, a pat on the back - all these are ways of saying "I love you" without needing words.

The Anti-Free Hugs Experience

In the Asian cultures, especially the Oriental ones, the hug is a foreign experience among the adults. Children may get it in bucketloads, but two Chinese adults hugging each other must either be a) under the influence of some intoxicating substance (ie. alcohol, love) or b) on a Chinese game show.

I remember a particularly painful fourteen year old experience when I was performing on stage for Teacher's Day. It was a poorly received rendition of Ace of Base's I Saw the Sign and goodness knows how it showed gratitude to our dear teachers, but a few friends did the honour of being our "fans" and coming up on stage with flowers (read: weeds) and giving us hugs.

Now I would have relished hugs from screaming female fans, but one is not afforded that kind of luxury in an all boys school. To add insult to an already injurious performance, the following Monday, our afternoon supervisor teacher decided to highlight our performance as a wonderful segue into the sins of Western society and all this unhealthy all-touching, all-hugging culture. Hahaha!

(I can look back at it and laugh now. There is still some residual pain and embarrassment, but nothing two Panadols and some alcohol won't fix!)

The "Real" Hug

I think that the first person to introduce me to the hug was M, a good friend from my high school days. M went to a church where hugs flowed as easily as "hellos" and through the initial awkwardness and repeated process, I finally incorporated the hug into my love language.

I had a conversation with another friend, JM, who brought up the issue of the "real" hug. She was complaining about the "half-hug" or the half-hearted hug between awkward acquaintances. The distance between the bodies would be obvious, the timing shorter than an eyeblink, each person pulling away as soon as they enter the hug - and she feels that it is worse than no contact at all.

She relishes the real hugs - the tight, warm, lingering hugs that say "I really missed you" or "I'm not ready to let you leave" among friends.

Granted, I understand that touching can be viewed as taboo by some, and hugging is not really second nature to Malaysians, especially among the Chinese community, where the handshake is as much touchies as you will get. Just makes you wonder how if hugging was so unnatural to us, whether or not physical intimacy would be even more awkward!

But as with any other love language, this love language of touch - the hugs, the kisses, keeping your hand on someone's shoulder as you talk to them, the brushing of hands - can be learnt. I am testimony to that, and it has now become an essential part of my love language, especially among my family and close friends.

So come on, give me a hug. A real one.

Tujuh Pagi (Seven In the Morning)

Sitting here along the equatorial line, the sun gets up at the same time every morning in Malaysia and retires to bed at the same time without fail, day in, day out.

At six a.m. the city stirs from its slumber, but it is only at about seven a.m. that my little Taman is in full bloom.

I walk out from my gate and I am greeted by the faint light of day, the light weak as a power-saving light bulb warming up. The trees form an overhanging guard of honour and the sounds of the morning are already evident – the smooth swish of traffic and the noisy motorcycles in the foreground, while the industrious crickets sit in the background and play their symphony. There is the random repeated call of birds as well, hidden from sight but with voices as familiar as those of old friends.



I walk a little further and I decide to take a little detour away from the breakfast places into our local playground. This playground houses many of my early memories, and has been beautified through the years to the immaculate state that it is in now. There are fences around the tennis courts and the soccer field, the swings and childproof floors of the play area are new, the pathway is paved and the grass is kept neat.

Even as I approached the playground, I could see all the uncles and aunties strolling past me in their morning uniforms – the collared white T-shirts, the tracksuits in various shades of blue, the sneakers, and the prevalent face towels around the shoulders, making them look like they were wearing semi cut-off superhero capes from the front.

I was a bit taken aback by the hive of activity this place was at seven in the morning. There were at least four distinct tai chi groups here this morning, the largest one congregating around the gravel tennis courts.

It was an amazing sight – at least a hundred people of various ages looking like slow-motion puppets on a string being pulled by some invisible master, their hands and legs synchronized in a simultaneous dance to the hypnotic droning blaring from the radio – Fu, Chi. Fu, Chi. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Along the footpaths encircling the park, there were people in various stages of motion, those who stood still to shoot the breeze with old friends, some older ones taking a leisurely stroll, others brisk walking and the occasional jogger. I saw one gentleman who had obviously suffered a stroke in the past, who still persisted with a walking stick around the park, his gait curious as a three legged creature.

There were parents playing badminton with their children, perpetuating Malaysia’s favourite sport, while some teenagers had taken to the basketball court to shoot some hoops.



It is seven in the morning, and the restless citizens of my little taman care not for the luxury of sleeping in.

Makan!

Everyone who reads this blog (and my previous one) knows that I am what Alain de Botton describes as a "word-painter". I try my best to capture a situation or an emotion just with words, both due to neccesity in the past (ie. the lack of a camera) and my love for words.

But since getting my camera, I have had the privilege of supplementing and, indeed, replacing those words when they seem inadequate. And some things you just need photos for:


From left top corner (clockwise): Succulent Sweet and Sour Chilli Crab, Fried Glass Noodles, amazing Lai Yau Ha(Milk Oil Prawns?), the perfect blend of flavours in Teochew-style Steamed Fish.


Mother Gluttony, Sister Gluttony and Brother Gluttony: One Happy Family At Home

There is this beautiful restaurant in Klang called the Coconut Farm Restaurant which our family has been going to for years. It is a thirty five minute drive away, past two tolls costing us an additional RM 4.20 both ways, and almost impossible to find - but the food is so good that we keep going back time after time!

We usually order the same things, and the food is always of a good standard, fluctuating between "This is good stuff!" and "Damn! That's amazing!". Yesterday it was pretty much It's-so-good-there's-a-swear-word-for-it-but-I-can't-publish-it-because-kids-might-be-reading-my-blog.

The crab was fleshy and the sauce it sat in was just the right blend of sour, sweet and spicy. Soak that up with steamed man taus and each mouthful is just heavenly!

The Lai Yau Ha was really good as well. Prawns, with their backs open from being deep fried in this delicious coconut-cereal mix, their skins crackly as you bite into them, their heads juicy if you choose to suck out the goody essence!

The glass noodles were pretty good as well, though I think we should have eaten it hot when they first brought it to our table, instead of waiting for the other dishes.

But the ultimate dish was the Chiew Chow style steamed fish - a perfect blend of tastes and colours - a little salty, a little bit sweet, with the saliva-inducing zest of vinegar to give it its wonderful sour taste. And if the fish is fresh (and it was really fresh yesterday), then you have the perfect appetite stimulant when added to your bowl of steaming rice.

And that is why Malaysia is a food paradise, dear readers.

(Disclaimer: The author will not be held responsible for any drool-related damage to your keyboards as a result of reading this entry.)

Anak Sudah Kembali

I have officially used up my "sit next to a pretty girl on the plane" points. If I behave myself for the next five years, I might chalk up enough points to sit two seats away from one. Haha!

It was an uneventful flight back home, spent alternating between deep slumber and airplane meals. I got to watch "Wanted" on the Entertainment system, and I must say that I was suitably impressed by the special effects in this over-the-top movie. But my sister made a really interesting point later - Morgan Freeman has starred in one too many films where he is the good-guy-who-turns-out-to-be-the-bad-guy-who-is-actually-the-good-guy-why-oh-why-are-your-roles-so-complicated-Mr.-Freeman.

I got off the plane and waited for my luggage. Mum had insisted that I bring home cherries and mangoes from Australia. The mangoes were mostly intact, but Doreen, could you please inform Li that he was right. We shall enjoy cherry sauce instead. Haha!

Twenty eight minutes on the ERL and a warm feeling rose up in my heart again as I saw my homeland rouse from its sleep. The morning sun was just warming up, unable to muster enough energy to drive away the mist that hung around lazily along the meticulously arranged palm trees and the haphazard undergrowth. The ERL took me past condominiums and little makeshift squatter homes, giving way to the city. I sighed with recognition when it sped past Mid Valley Megamall, all its cracks evident in the light of day, yet still the shopping mall of choice.

I feel loved by my family most when...

I half expected to take the taxi home from KL Sentral, and I was not relishing the prospect, what with my box of mangoes in tow. However, as I was crossing the ticketing machines in the exit lanes, a familiar complaining voice rang from the front "Hoi, never see us ah?". My little sister and Mum were walking towards me, and if it were not for the box of mangoes in one hand and my suitcase in the other, I would have ran towards them and squeezed the life out of them!

A quick deposit of the suitcases at home, and then it was off to church.

Of (Almost) Newlyweds and Newborns

It was a good time in church, and I got to catch up with most of my Sunday School friends here. I have specifically come back to visit one couple who were getting married, both of them in my Bukit Bintang Sunday School class since I was a little boy of seven.

But what really made me feel my age was when another friend from Sunday School, who married just last year, was celebrating the birth of his firstborn son some four days ago. You could hear the joy in his voice of this new experience as a first time father, describing the messy birthing experience at the Assunta Hospital, and also how the wife was going through a period of confinement right now.

In Malaysia, in the Chinese community, there are confinement ladies who look after the mother for a period of time after delivery. These ladies are paid handsomely for their experience in looking after both mother and child, brewing herbal remedies and dealing with the aches and pains of the recovery process.

It was wonderful hearing him describe all these things, as both Western medicine brought his baby to the world and Eastern traditions cared for mother and child after the birthing process. This magical swirl of science and mysticism, of best practise and traditional values, firmly reminded me once more that I was home.

Balik Rumah

At the start of this week, there were four nights to be completed in the Emergency Department prior to flying back to Malaysia.

Sometimes I think of work like jogging - the start is usually not too bad, and then you start to tire somewhere in the middle, and your spirits are flagging and your feet are begging you to stop. But for some of us, there is a resilience stronger than our lactic acids - our minds, which tells us to push on through the pain, to keep those arms and legs swinging despite their tiring. And we are rewarded with the final corner, the end line in sight, and a second wind comes to push us through victoriously past the finish line.

It has been a busy and testing four nights, two of which we operated with three doctors when there were meant to be four on. The department on Thursday night/Friday morning was almost as full in the night as it was in the daytime, which is saying a lot.

But by the grace of God the sun broke on the dawn of Friday morning, and the end line was in sight. It was still a hard final few hours, but the second wind came, and we managed to plow through past the ticker tape, hands raised victoriously, as we came to a stop, stooping over to catch our breaths and rest our weary muscles, our skins glistening with perspiration.

And the ultimate reward tonight of being able to sit in the Tullamarine International Airport, journal in one hand, whiling the time away observing other people leaving and returning, allowing the content sigh of one word to escape my lips.

Home.

The Gift Of Rain

Tan Twan Eng's The Gift Of Rain.

The words Malaysian, Chinese and author do not normally go side by side without a snide remark accompanying it. Having grown up with Malay literature and English literature, I know the beauty and immense depth in our sastera Melayu, but English literature had always been a borrowed experience, as we read the Wordsworths and the Shakespeares and the Steinbecks.

I have spent the last month reading through Tan Twan Eng's The Gift Of Rain, however, and here is finally someone to redeem that phrase. I met the book with a little skepticism initially, I must admit, despite it being longlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2008.

But just a few pages in, and the flowing deliberate narrative and eloquent description of a pre-war Malaya transports you back into the shoes of the main character, Philip Hutton, who is a product of his English father's second marriage to his Chinese mother. This division of himself is further accentuated as he befriends and follows the tutelage of a Japanese sensei, and is left to make some very hard decisions during the Japanese invasion of Malaya.

Told with great care and empathy, this book is all the more personal to me because of its settings in my tanahair, and reminds us of the atrocities perpetrated not so long ago, already forgiven with the passing of a generation.

Tan Twan Eng writes like how I would like to write, and this sprawling saga definitely earns its place among the best of the books this year. An important read for all Malaysians, I think!

Flying In The Face of Winning

I remember when I was a little boy, and my Singh friend, N, told me once how a tiny cockroach had decided to set up nest in his nine year old ear. He had to be brought to a clinic where the doctor poured some paraffin into his ear and then removed the offending creature with a pair of tweezers.

Little did I know that the way my stupid nine year old brain put that inconsequential piece of information into the "Important" folder instead of the Recycle Bin would one day come back to help me.

Not one, but two patients walked in the other day complaining that they had felt an insect crawl into their ear and they were fairly distressed because they could still hear the insects flying about in their ear.

(Bzzz... bzzz... bzzz.... gottogetthroughgottogetthroughgottogetthroughwhat'sthiswalldoinghere gottogetoutgottoget outwheretheheckamiwheretheheckamiohgoshohgosho bzzz...bzzz...bzzz...)

Today's recipe:

Insect Tartare

1. Lay the patient on the side, with the offending ear facing you.

2. Take a bottle of castor oil and pour it into the ear till it brims.

3. Position your light towards the ear and attempt to visualise the insect, failing which an otoscope may be of value.

4. Through the mess of blood and oil, once you have visualised the offending insect, you are now read to begin extraction.

5. Use a pair of tweezers/forceps and aim approximately at the angle where the insect was. After a few blind catches, you should be able to extract the insect. Check that the whole insect is intact.

You are now ready to enjoy your insect tartare. Serves 1.

Something about this really bugs me, y'know?

It was Melbourne Cup Day as well, and the nurses were going around collecting two dollars from everyone in the department. I hesitated for about five seconds before throwing my lot in, joining in the festivities. I reached into the box and drew out my alloted horse. Number 10. Viewed. It was two dollars I knew that I would never see again.

I was working in the doctors' area when the group of people that had gathered around the TV set in the tea room started streaming out after the main race in the Melbourne Cup. How'd it go? I asked one of the nurses. "Ten, twelve, four," she quoted the numbers of the trifecta.

"What?!" I said. My horse had won. By a nose, as replays would show it. "Drinks are on you!" smiled another nurse.

That completed an awesome day at work!

He works hard for his money. So hard for his money.

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old

He remembers the World Cup Fever that had taken the host nation, the United States, by storm. A nation crazed about baseball and basketball had succumbed to the charms of the world game, if only for a few weeks.

World Cup fever spread through the world, and made its way into my humble school - as evidenced by the bleary eyes from the early morning wakes to watch the matches half a world away, and by the excited discussions along the school corridors, and also by kids taking to the school field with a reinvigorated, if brief, interest in the beautiful game.

But nothing said that World Cup was here more than the bookies. Little entrepreneurs emerged from the woodwork, taking bets from their classmates and friends; having done their research, they were often the victors, and occasionally the victims.

One such businesskid, however, did the foolhardy thing of keeping an account ledger which he was busily filling up in our Kemahiran Hidup (Living Skills) classes. We did learn about accounts in our KH classes, but he was doing it while a teacher was teaching us about electronics. He got found out, his ledger confiscated, and the repercussions were huge.

Let's just say the teachers cracked down hard on the bookies, and it finally worked its way down to every single student who had gambled on this World Cup. Alliances were lost in the blind panic that swept over every guilty boy, and threats were made to tattle out the students who would not volunteer themselves in an admission of guilt. If they were going down, they were going to drag every single guilty one down with them.

I made the grand total bet of fifty cents. On a game which I won. The winnings which I never collected! But in a school with moral standards way beyond the other school's of our time, the principle was that I still gambled.

We learnt our lessons that World Cup - we earned a minimum of two strokes each and an additional two week period of community service for the leaders of the school - the prefects and librarians who had failed to set a good example. The school toilet and stairs were cleaner places for our indiscretions.

I think although it was a painful period in our lives, a lot of us have come off better from having been discplined at school. These were formative years, and lessons that would save us grief many years down the line had to be learnt.

Even if it meant getting on your knees and scrubbing the stairs with your toothbrush as your teachers walked past, throwing sympathetic smiles at a punishment that many parents protested as being too severe.

Ora Et Labora. Work and Pray, my dear alma mater!

A United Nation

In most movies, the President of the United States is often projected as a true leader - eloquent, courageous and, above all, inspirational. Memorable "presidents" and presidential speeches have included Michael Douglas in The American President, Morgan Freeman in Deep Impact, and, especially this inspirational (if slightly schmaltzy) speech from Bill Pullman in Independence Day. I remember the tears welling up in my eyes as I heard the authority in his voice and the hope he tried to instill in a people about to face certain annihilation. I have had friends who stood up in the cinemas and clapped at the end of this speech. In Malaysia, no less!

Few real American presidents in recent memory, unfortunately, have managed to inspire the same kind of hope, courage and confidence in real life. Not the saxophone-playing, intern-chasing Bill Clinton, not George Bush (Senior or Dubble-yeah) and not Richard Nixon. Few have been able to match the simplicity and simultaneous depth of Lincoln's Gettysburg address.

Everyone, however, will remember where they were the day Barack Obama became the nation's first African-American president. TV reports were filled with eyes of African Americans brimming with bittersweet tears who never thought they would see this day come. Not in my lifetime.

From the days of the end of the slavery, a full century later, America has finally matured enough to look beyond race and elect a President worthy of that title.

Hear his honesty, embrace his hope and humility, and feel that choking sensation well up in your throat as the chorus of "Yes, we can" rises up from a people - impoverished of hope and devoid of security - to the man who they believe will lead them out, from the darkness, and into the light.

The Drive Home

I decided to try a new route home from work the other night.

In the year that I've been working at this hospital, I have always taken the same road home - the same road that carries me past suburban houses and petrol stations, the journey interrupted by traffic lights changing their minds ever so often. I am never alone on these trips, often competing with the hustle and bustle of rush hour, and, even in the most solitary nights, another car will often turn up to keep me company.

This new route starts off on a highway and then tapers off into the crowded Sydney Road - a mess of tram lines, jaywalking pedestrians and turning cars flanked by exotic Middle Eastern and Indian shops.

The part I like best is the highway bit, as it reminds me a bit of home. The eternal roads with long stretches of blind darkness dispersed only by the force of my headlights. Everyone from Frank Sinatra to the Phantom of the Opera, the Goo Goo Dolls and Boyz II Men, crowded into my USB transmitter, each one in turn escaping to keep me company, filling my car with our duets.

I get a glimpse of home, and by God's grace I will be home soon.

Random Memories: Ten Years Old

The things that we remember most as children in the Cheok family were the trips that we took interstate. It would often be school holidays, and Dad, despite his disability, would get us into the modified Proton Saga and take us to Penang or Ipoh to see our relatives and have a holiday.

We would often bring along tapes to play in the car - we had a boxful of cassettes given by a thoughtful church member to our family (that's how we came to know the Beatles, Nana Moskouri and Frank Sinatra) and one year we had ABBA's Gold hits to accompany us (take a chance take a chance take a cha-cha-chance If you change your MIND, I'm the first in LINE, Honey can't you SEE, take a chance on ME...take a chance take a chance take a cha-cha-chance) on our family trip.

I remember the early days, before the days of highways and toll plazas, when you had to use the trunk roads to get interstate. These were often two tiny lanes with traffic coming in both directions, separated only by the perforated invisible wall formed by the intermittent white stripes on the road.

It was not uncommon to see families stopping by the side of the bigger roads (three, maybe four lanes), their children clambering to the grassy knolls with the uneasy waddle of someone with a full bladder near to the point of explosion. The more modest ones had both their front and back car doors open, forming a makeshift urinal as they answered Mother Nature's call on Mother Earth.

These trunk roads often traversed small towns, whose economies were booming due to the weary travellers taking a break at their restaurants, stopping for food and to brave their toilets. These toilets were often grimy and stunk with years of unwash and neglect, repulsive to a point where it would only be used by the most desperate of people, which the travellers often were. These were the times that I was glad I was a boy, as there was no way I would even dream of approximating my skin to the toilet bowls.

I remember it was only my brother and myself in the early years, and we would play games to keep ourselves entertained in the long rides, when the songs ceased to be fun to sing along to anymore.

(I spy... with my two little eyes, something beginning with the letterrrr.... 'L'
*looks around wildly while his brother tries to follow his gaze*
'Land?' "No."
'Lamp post?' "Nope."
'Lorries?' "NOPE!"
'I give up!!!' "LIGHT!!! cackle cackle" *avoids the playful punches his brother throws at him*)

Our little sister finally joined us as a family, singing along to the songs and trying to outwit us in our childish games. And during lulls in our journey, she would rest her tired little head on our laps, dreaming five year old dreams while we stared outside the car window, watching the world go by at a hundred kilometres an hour.

Love Languages

Love Language No. 4: Gifts

Can you remember any of the gifts that you have received in your lifetime which you have treasured?

It could be a seashell that you were given by someone as you were on a beach holiday. Or maybe a friend made you that CD all those years ago. Or even a flower someone bought for you or picked for you ten years ago.

If you remember the flowers, then your love language may be gifts. If you still have the flowers, then your love language is gifts. If you still have the flowers preserved in formaldehyde from the day you were given them, then your love language is definitely gifts, (and please don't hurt me).

Some people respond to gifts tremendously. You will see it in their faces - their eyes light up, the smile is sincere, they get really excited and most importantly, years later, they will suddenly bring up the fact that you bought them something a looong time ago.

If your partner's complaint is "You never buy me anything nice anymore!" that's a pretty big clue what their love language probably is.

The gifts do not need to be expensive. They need to be very expensive. Hahaha!

The most important thing is the thought that has gone on behind the gift.

You take notice of the person's favourite musician and buy them a CD from that artiste.
You bake 231 minicupcakes which they'll never get to try because you're in Sydney, and he's in Melbourne.
You buy someone's favourite cookie or biscuits while you're at the supermarket.
You buy someone an exciting Hello Kitty keychain for their boring car keys.
You give someone a book or DVD that they've been dying to read/watch but can't afford at the moment.
You cook someone a dish they've been dying to eat for a long time.
And then they actually die from eating your dish.

But seriously, it is the thoughtfulness that is important. A thoughtless gift may actually serve to offend the person whose love language is gifts.

Learning how to speak this language will also benefit you in your creativity in thinking up gifts for someone, and will also teach you to observe others and serve them in that way.

So, is this your primary love language?

Random Memories: It Is Better To Give

He thinks about it now, and wonders why he never saw it earlier. He was staying with a previous housemate, a really nice guy from Penang.

As all good housemates do, they had a falling out. Big time, and both parties were affected for a good long time.

But he remembers the happier days, especially during his birthdays, where he was given some of the best gifts ever. Two tickets to an awesome John Mayer concert. The guitar that sits in his bedroom with the sticker JOHN MAYER Musical Sound on it. All gifts which involved a lot of thoughtfulness.

And he never really gave in return.

He wonders if gifts are actually his primary love language, something he had assumed all along. Sure, he loved giving thoughtful gifts occasionally, but it required a whole lot of thinking before he recalls the gifts that he has been given in his lifetime.

And he wonders if things between him and his former housemate would have been different had he learnt to speak his housemate's love language earlier.

J30 (The Preparation)

So you want to throw a party? Your brother's turning thirty?

Throwing a birthday party for someone is often a stressful and time consuming event, so remember to be prepared early.

The ingredients you will need are:

1) Someone to plan it with you. Often, your brother's girlfriend will be the best person to plan the party with you. She helped plan last year's birthday sabotage, after all.

This time last year. For someone who's just been saboed, he looks pretty happy.

2) A programme.

A party theme often works well. It gives people a chance to dress up, and also gives shape to the rest of your plans, including:

i) Music. Play music from the birthday boy's era. You will be surprised how the party turns into a spontaneuos karaoke session.

ii) Games. You can shape your games around the theme, and also, around the birthday boy. The more entertaining the games, the more people will forget that you didn't have much food at your party or alcohol.

iii) Decorations. You can decorate the house according to your theme. Decorations may require some laborious preparation, and a good idea is to actually use photos from the birthday boy's past. The more embarrassing the photos, the better. Ring Mum up and ask for nude kiddie photos. That always guarantees a laugh.



Be prepared for many sleepless nights, adrenaline rushing as you toss and turn in bed, coming up with ideas for the party. Prepare for last minute printing of said photographs and a mad scramble to get the main decoration ready, at your workplace.

3) Help for preparation on the day itself. Enlist the help of your brother's kindest/most creative friends in preparing your house. Your housemate, who is a genius with handiwork, will also be of great value.



4) The element of surprise. Get your brother's girlfriend to take him on a trip to the gym on Saturday morning, and pretend that when he returns, you will go out for yum cha. Have him dream about the plates of siew mai and har gao as he turns the key to the door. If you have done all the above well, it should look a little like this:



Enjoy!

J30 (The Party)

You should have seen the look on his face when he walked through the door.

One of the greatest blessings of my brother Joseph is his semi-blurness, which is always a blessing when you're trying to throw a surprise birthday party!

It turned out really well - there was a good amount of food (with killer chee cheong fun from Auntie Kim) and people enjoyed the music (thank you for the music, ABBA!)

The party started off a little awkward initially, as all parties do - not everybody knew everybody. There were friends from work, old friends and church friends there.

Everyone warmed up much more after the games - the underlying theme was a Hollywood one, because of my brother's interest in movie-making. Three teams were formed - team Dollywood, Jollywood (with Jo in it) and team Hollywood.

We played the Queen of Sheba game and my brother got to be the judge. Basically, I call out an adjective, and the teams send out a representative with the said adjective, although they do not know what the noun will be (ie. deepest... dimples or longest... breath). It was really funny towards the end when the groups had to send out the member with the sweetest... tongue, and they had to pay a compliment to my brother on his birthday!

The next game was Character lines, which is like Chinese whispers, but instead of speaking a message, the participants had to act it out down their row, and then the last person had to guess who the famous personality was. One of my brother's friends, Sean, did a really amazing Phantom of the Opera (that's him strutting his stuff in the top right corner).


The Character Lines game. That's my friend Jules in the middle bottom, acting out the Lion King (she's so going to kill me for putting up this picture!)

We then reconvened at home for the last set of games - Trivia! Basically, it was divided into two categories - movies, in keeping with the Hollywood theme, and Joseph trivia. It was really good 'cos people got to know facts about my brother which they otherwise wouldn't have known. (ie. Did you know that Joseph once got hit by a taxi on his was home from primary school in his excitement to try out the new Double Dragon game?)

(Oops. My Mum reads my blog. Er, this wasn't how I meant you to find out, Mum!)

Prizes were then handed out to the winning teams by my brother. The winning team, Jollywood, pipped everyone else by answering the last question (Who is handsomer, Joseph or his younger brother?) correctly. (Answer - Joseph, but only on his birthday.)


From the top, counter clockwise: Dollywood, the winning Jollywood team, and Hollywood.


Then it was time for the cake, which was an awesome sticky date pudding made by my brother's friend, Jeannie. (Remember that cake, Mum?) This was followed by the gift giving, and then a poignant time of sharing, which really blessed both my brother, and the people at the party.


That's a lotta candles. There were two remaining when my brother, in his old age, tried to blow them all out in one breath!

Fake gift (inset) and real gift (in ugly green box).

I got to give my gift towards the end of the party. On Thursday, when we went out for dinner - I gave him a set of Playstation games, only to find out that he was fasting from entertainment until the end of November. (*looks up into the skies* WHY??!!) But this was just a distracting gift from the actual one, which was in the green box.



To everyone who came for the party, thank you for honouring my brother with your presence, and also for being sporting enough to join in all the games. Here are some trivia goodies about the party:

J3O was meant to stand for Jo thirty. There is a similar logo on the envelope of the birthday card which I gave him on Thursday, which accompanied the two Playstation games. It's meant to be a premonition, but I'm not sure he picked up on it!

My brother really wanted yum cha that morning. He was (very) slightly disappointed that he got a surprise birthday party instead!

The colours blue, yellow and red were from the old TV3 logo back in Malaysia. What's the relationship between the two, you ask - three = thirty - Oh well, some relation! Hahaha! If you noticed, the napkins, and plates had the same colour theme.

All good things come to an end.

To Joseph, happy 30th birthday, dude. You are richly deserving of all the effort and planning that went into this party. I'm everything I am becaused I am loved by my family.

Now for the big Four-Oh?

Hooked On You

So today at work, I had this thirteen year old kid come in with a fishing hook embedded in his left thumb. He was with his relatives fishing when it happened. He had been to other country hospitals, but there were no doctors there on a weekend and so his Mum had brought him to us.

I had to suppress my nausea when I saw it in his left thumb, as the thought itself was stomach churning. The fishing lure had three barbed hooks, one of which was sitting under his thumb. It looked like a thumb piercing gone wrong!

This brave little kid had been to several different hospitals and had been waiting for several hours in ours with the fishing lure in his thumb.

I brought him into the procedure room and then did the natural thing- started tugging at it a little. The kid flinched. He had been trying that himself all day (you idiot doctor), did he drag his bottom an hour away to our hospital so that I could do the same to him?

I put in a digital nerve block, which is just two small local anaesthetic needles to the side of his thumb to try and numb the thumb. I tried to pull a little harder. He flinched a little more. I can still feel it! he protested.

The problem with the hook was that it was barbed - which meant that it had an additional sharp needle sticking out of the hook in the other direction. Which meant that little fishies would get their mouths caught on the barb and would get more stuck the more they tried to wriggle free.

Which meant that the hook got more stuck the more I tried to wriggle it free. (Fishing hook manufacturers obviously have no children of their own).

After some gallant/blind attempts, I decided to ask a senior doctor to come and have a look. She manipulated the thumb with the hook in it, and it hurt the boy enough to start tearing. Mum was getting a bit restless, seeing her little one in pain. Make a cut along the pulp, the senior said, and then try and pull it out.

And so I tried it. The anesthetic was kicking in now, and I made a small centimetre long incision along his thumb tip and tried to pull out the hook. It didn't work.

Now what?

Hit by a sudden moment of inspiration, I pushed the hook through the thumb so that the barbed bit was sticking out. Yes, you heard right. I made another hole. By this time, the boy could not feel his thumb, so fascination had taken over his fear. While he was admiring my/his handiwork, I rushed upstairs to theatre to get a pair of wire cutters.

These wire cutters are not dainty little plier like appliances. They were wire cutters. You know, the type people use to snip fences to illegally cross national borders. Yes, those wire cutters.

I brought the wire cutters downstairs, excited as a child at Christmas, and then proceeded to carefully snip the barbed end. It was almost excruciating - I had to turn my face away, in case the barbed hook decided to behave like a stray toenail that flies into my eyes after snipping it.

Finally, after much grunting and straining, the hook came off with a satisfying snip.

Disappointingly, the barbed end did not shuriken itself into my face, but instead laid limply at the top of the wire cutter edge, defeated at last. With the barbed end gone, the rest of the hook surrendered to a simple tug without any resistance, and the relief in the room was palpable.

I stitched up the little cut that I had made and dressed the thumb. Mother and son walked away with grateful smiles, the rest of the offending lure stored in a tiny plastic jar to do whatever he pleased with it (ie. torture it, I suspect).

It felt really good figuring this one out and doing something to help. I could almost see the +100 XP (experience points - for those who don't speak geek) sign in red rising above my head like in a computer game. Now I'll be ready for the next person who comes in with a fish hook!

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

I remember being at a farm of one of his church elders in Malaysia. It was about an hours' drive from the city, and it had the works - lake, vegetable gardens, poultry scampering around.

The elder had invited over the church members for a fun day at the farm, even if only to give the city slickers a taste of the rural life.

I was eight at the time, my brother ten. My brother decided to go fishing with a group of the church members and I decided I wouldn't join them, but wander around the farm instead.

As I was happily walking around, there came a sudden loud scream followed by a litany of curse words coming from the stream.

One of the other church elders had inadvertently stuck a fish hook through my brothers' thumb, and the enraging shock and pain had caused my brother to swear at the church elder, telling him to go to that special place where Christians will not end up.

I was stuck between being embarrassed by this sudden show of passion from my brother and laughing out loud at the honesty that had come shining through! (And feeling sorry for him. Of course.)

Hahaha! (I bet my brother doesn't think it's funny).

A Day In The Life

To all my readers, who love doing just that - reading. Dedicated especially to my friends who are sure I sit home and Youtube all day (sometimes I do.) And here's why. :)



He works in one of the busiest Emergency Departments in Victoria.

He gets to work at 1.45 pm, fifteen minutes before he's actually meant to start. He goes to the laundry trolley and reaches for a white gown which he ties around his neck.

He scrolls through the computer screen and sighs. So many patients waiting to be seen, and not enough doctors around to be assigned to every one of them.

He is given three patients to see by his consultant, and he cannot find room to see them in. He sees the first one, a gentleman who had come in with abdominal pains a few days ago who was representing with the same pain. There were bugs in this patient's urine, but after discussion with his consultant, he is asked to order a CT scan to make sure there's no stones. He goes and talks to the radiologists, often not the friendliest of people especially when busy, and after a bit of growling at, he gets his CT request granted.

He picks up his next patient, a gentleman who was washing his concrete truck with some acid when some of it had gotten into his eye. He sits the gentleman down in the procedure room and proceeds to examine him with the slit lamp. He sees a small area of debris lying in front of the pupils, and reaches forward with a small needle to clean out the debris. The man is thankful to be rid of his pain and irritation and he is all smiles as he leaves. The doctor feels fulfilled by his immense gratefulness from having done so little for him.

The next patient is a lady in her late forties, who was coming in with a two week headache. There is no room in the department to see her, so he brings her around to the clinic areas, and makes do with seeing her in a treatment room. There are other doctors just sitting outside the waiting rooms seeing patients, so precious was the bedspace in the Emergency Department.

Something worries him about this lady - she has had an intermittent headache for two weeks and some dizziness. What concerns him is that she is normally a high functioning professional, and when he's examining her, she can't seem to get the place right, and the year as well. And there was almost a childlike detachment about her, giggling in an almost fascinated way as the doctor examines her neurological status. He orders a scan of her brain.

He sees the next patient in the triage area, an area with a nurse deciding how urgently a patient needed to be seen. There were two reclining chairs and a bed in that area.

It is a gentleman with a worsening large chronic ulcer of his legs, and the doctor is a little surprised that it hasn't smelt worst than he'd half expected it to. He knows this man needs a bed in the Emergency Department, but he can't get one yet. The doctor puts in a cannula and sends some bloods off.

It is time for handover, where the morning doctors would hand over their patients to the evening doctors, and they congregate in the dark handover room. The morning doctors speak about their patients and the consultants reassign the patients in the department to the evening doctors. They then disband out into the department again, and see the patients that they have been handed over, as well as the new ones.

He has been handed over a 19 year old with a headache, which could be a migraine. And given a new 1 year old with a crush injury to her 4th and 5th fingers.



when it hits the fan

His mind is now torn in five directions. The gentleman representing with the abdominal pain. The gentleman with the ulcerated leg. The lady with the headache. This new boy with the headache. And the one year old.

But the alarm suddenly goes off in the department. A lady in one of the monitored cubicles had crashed. There is no pulses that anyone could feel, and she is turning a dusky grey colour. There is a brown fluid that she is vomiting out. It looked faeculent.

A group of doctors and nurses descend upon the cubicle, suctioning her mouth, starting CPR, putting on the defibrillation paddles, giving her adrenaline. They rush her into one of the two resuscitation cubicles, CPR continuing the whole time.

"She's got a shockable rhythm," the doctor volunteers. The consultants look up and the nurses as well. Let's shock her, came the decision. Everyone stand clear. They deliver one shock, throwing her body about four inches from the bed. Her heart rhythm returns to normal.

They put a tube down her throat to help support her breathing and put in needles so that they can hook up the fluids and medications to save her life. The brown fluid is still coming, and they put another tube down into her tummy to try and drain it out so that it didn't go down her lungs.

The chaos settles down in the resuscitation cubicle as the patient is stabilised, for now. He asks if there's any other thing else he needs to do, and the consultant says, I think we'll be all right here.

now that you've saved her, for now/this is the sound of universes collapsing, again

Now back to his patients. Where was he?

He checks on the report of the gentleman with the abdominal pain. It shows diverticulitis, an inflammation of the large colon's little outpouchings. Causes diarrhea, fevers and painful bowel movements. He gets a bed for the gentleman in the department and starts some antibiotics and fluids. He then speaks to the surgical registrar, who is thankfully an old friend, making the referral easier.

He remembers too that he needed to check on the lady with the headache. He approaches the radiology registrar, whose face told him that the news wasn't good. She had a frontal brain tumour, and it was squashing the brain to the point of imminent death. The doctor starts getting a little rush of adrenaline again, as there were things that needed to be done for this lady now.

He talks to his consultant, who follows him into the radiology department to see the images himself. She needs to be transferred out into a tertiary hospital. He begins the long walk back to the patient and her husband to break them the bad news.

The doctor cannot believe it himself. This is his second brain tumour in his two and a half months of work here. How do you tell someone that they have a horrible tumour with only months to live? He does not cry this time. He cannot cry this time.

He sits her down and the husband as well, as he breaks the bad news. There are no tears coming from either of them.

She stares at him as the words roll out of his mouth in slow motion, but there is this invisible glass pane that has stopped her from understanding fully what he was saying to her. The tumour was also affecting her ability to take this all in and understand the true consequences of what she was being told.

The husband sits in silence, the news obviously will have to take time to sink in. The doctor rattles off a plan to give them structure in their time of grief. We need to give her steroids to help with the swelling. We need to give her medications to prevent her from fitting. We'll need to transfer her to another hospital. They nod in quiet acquiescence.

it's not just us

The doctor sets about arranging the transfer. He calls the tertiary hospitals. No beds at the moment, unfortunately, says one. Click. He speaks to another neurosurgical registrar. Why don't you call our bed manager and find out if we have beds? Click. I'm sorry, but we're on hospital bypass at the moment. No beds. Click. Finally he reaches one of the main tertiary hospitals, and the neurosurgical registrar accepts the patient. But they had no beds as well.

Call the Emergency Department and see if they'll take him, says his consultant. I know what they'll say. They'll say we have no beds. Then she'll have to stay here overnight. It's not ideal, you know, but. He shrugs.

He calls the admitting officer of the other Emergency Department, and, by the grace of the God who loves him, manages to secure a transfer to the other Emergency Department. He tells the patient about the transfer, and hurriedly orders an ambulance and puts together the films and the drug charts of the patient. He types a letter out to the doctors in the other Emergency Department.



only human

While all this is happening, patients keep turning up on trollies, being brought by Paramedics into the Emergency Department. He looks at them and sighs. Where are we going to put them? he thinks quietly. He sometimes wishes he could bring the Health minister and the whole health ministry into the Emergency Department to let out his frustrations. Look at this. We need more beds. We need more staff. We need another hospital.

He is not the only frustrated one. In the midst of his trying to resuscitate the other patient, and arranging the transfer, the parent of the one year old had gone off his head, unwilling to wait any longer. He was hurling abuse at the triage nurses, and had stormed off with his child.

The doctor refocuses, not wanting to dwell any longer on what he couldn't change. The gentleman with the leg ulcers. He spoke to the medical team, and overworked as they were, they tried to play down his problem and said that he was probably okay to go home with different antibiotics.

The doctor goes out into the waiting room to tell them the news. The daughter of the gentleman looked displeased, and wanted her father to come into hospital to sort his ulcers out. The doctor once again becomes the middle man, trapped between the desires of the families and the reluctance of the medical team to admit this gentleman into hospital. Another hour of careful negotiations had to happen before the decision was reached to admit the gentleman into hospital.

breathe. focus.

The consultants know that he's having a difficult day, and allow him to choose his next patient. He picks up another patient, a staff member with dizziness, but unfortunately, there is no room at all to see her in. He does what he can, asking for them to give her something for the dizziness in the triage area.

His mind is now in five directions. The man with the diverticulitis. Admitted under the Surgeons.
His mind is now in four directions. The man with the chronic leg ulcers. Seen by the Medics.
His mind is now in three directions. The lady with the brain tumour. The staff member with the dizziness. The young boy who was the hand over to him, with the headache.

He sees the young boy and discusses him with the consultants. They come to the conclusion that he needs to have his brain scanned. And then for a lumbar puncture, which is a needle into the spine to draw out some fluid around the spine.

He arranges the CT brain and waits for the results. He goes to grab some dinner, and has not sat down for five minutes before he gets called out again. The ambulance was here for the lady with the brain tumour. But her cannula had tissued. He needed to put another needle in.

He puts the needle in, and says his goodbyes to the unfortunate lady and her husband, wishing them all the best. He whispers a quiet prayer for them.

The staff member with the dizziness is asking to be seen. She wants a needle for her headache. He knows he should examine her fully first, but he lacked the time and the space, and going by clinical judgement and her story, the needle would be all she needed. He hopes. He asks for the needle to be given, and the nurses, who are Godsends, help him with it.

The CT brain on the young boy comes back normal. It was going to be time for the night handover soon, but the consultants tell him to just do the lumbar puncture, and she will hand over his patients to the night staff. He has had an eventful day, and she was being really understanding.



this is spinal tap

He sets up for the lumbar puncture, but the 19 year old is a little spooked. You would be too, I guess, if you were having a needle put into your spine, for goodness' sake, to have fluid taken out of it.

Before the doctor has finished setting up the lumbar puncture kit, a piercing alarm had gone off in the department. An old lady who had come in with a bleeding nose had gone unresponsive in the triage area. He is the only one of two doctors around as the rest were in at handover. He rushes to the lady, and they get her onto a bed and into the resuscitation cubicle. He puts in a needle and gets blood from the lady, and she comes to in a short while. A simple faint. He heaves a sigh of relief and returns to his lumbar puncture.

The staff member with the dizziness has improved, and is asking to go home. He should really fully examine her but he can't. He scuttles about organising for her medications and telling her to return if the dizziness persists.

He gowns and gloves up and proceeds to sterilise the back of the young boy with an alcohol solution. He then puts in local anaesthetic, and then guides the spinal needle into what he hoped was the spine. He was successful, thank God, and the fluid that comes from the spine was reassuringly crystal clear.

It is almost time to go home, and he ties up his loose ends, and hands over the rest of his patients to the night doctors personally. He is tired, but has had a fulfilling day. The white gown comes off easily as he disengages the knots that held it in place - and the whole chaos, the whole drama and all the frustrations fall from his shoulders with the gown.

If only for tonight.

He works in one of the busiest Emergency Departments in Victoria.