How To Spend A Day Off

When I get days off as I do now, the weather outside may be outstanding like it was today, with just the right amount of sunlight, gentle spring breeze and the perfect number of clouds in the sky.

Being as inspiring a person as I am, I will spend it

in my room. Watching hours of Youtube. Reading a book. Snuggled up in bed. Afraid of sunlight. Playing the guitar. Singing love songs for no one. Eating unhealthy snacks. Not exercising.

I am not as cool as many people think that I am.

(I am, however, as cute as many people think that I am. Which is nobody at all.)

(and I can't bake 231 cupcakes.)

But then, once, in a long, long while, I will snap out of this funk, and I will do this.

I woke up about eleven a.m. today, and once again, someone had suggested the house needed spring cleaning. Somehow, I always end up doing it the moment someone else suggests it!

But today was a day well spent. I managed to clean the living room and kitchen area completely (ie. I redistributed the rubbish downstairs around the three bedrooms upstairs again!) and I went out with my housemate to lunch, did grocery shopping, visited the library, fixed the leaking washing machine, watched three episodes of Frasier, did the laundry, and refueled the car.

Which begs the question - what's there left to do tomorrow?

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For readers of my old blog, I had a trend of writing something current, and a flashback to the past. I was trying to do this in a chronological manner but I don't think it's working out. So, I'm just going to put it under the new heading as such:

Random Memories: 7 years old

Hands up if you've ever been rotaned in your primary school before! Since I was such a teachers' pet in primary school, I can only ever remember two incidents when I was caned.

I was seven when I walked into school one morning. A Malay boy, whose name was Hisham, and tall for his age, who decided that my name was too hard to pronounce, decided to call me gemuk (ie. fatty. fatty. boom. boom.) instead.

I took particular offense to this, and so I clambered on his back and pulled him to the ground.

In my little seven year old mind, this did not equal a fight. But some Indian boys who were about two or three years older than I was, and knew a fight when they saw one, hoisted me (which, if you saw how fat I was then, would have surprised you. Oh wait a minute. I was gemuk! Why did I take such insult to the Malay boy stating a fact?), and dragged me, literally kicking and screaming to the guru disiplin's office.

Discipline. Teacher. Who was like a teacher, you know. Soft spoken, eager to fill young minds with knowledge, loves children. But with a license to kill.

Our discipline teacher was a real bad ass, from his high receding hairline and shoulder length hair to his caterpillar-moustache. He looked like a police officer from whichever 1980s Malay movie you were watching.

I was thrust into his office by the Indian boys with the Malay kid being led by his elbow reluctantly behind me. Pleased with a morning's work well done, the Indian boys left the two of us to quake in front of Cikgu Inspector.

"Kenapa kamu gaduh dengan dia?" ("Why did you fight with him?")

"Dia panggil saya gemuk, cikgu." ("He called me a fatty, teacher.") I never looked up all this time, and peering over to my left, Hisham's head was bowed as well.

"Dia panggil kamu gemuk, kamu panggil lah dia balik! Tak payah lah gaduh!" he barked. ("He called you a fatty? Why didn't you just call him something in return? There's no need to fight!")

Andthenitranthroughmymind,whatamIsupposedtocallhimback?tinggi?(tall?)kurus?(skinny?)nothingwouldmatchthesheershameandpleasureofgemuk!(fatty!)

I remember being in his office, as each of us assumed the position. My head came up to see through the gaps in his windows, the other kids in assembly, singing Negaraku, oblivious, as the cane sang through the air and each of us earned our first primary school stripes.

We became really good friends after that, Hisham and I.

More Evidence That I Have Cool Friends!

When I was in Sydney, and was going around with Nicole (see Up Under: Four Days in Sydney) we chanced upon a lady selling these mini cupcakes at the (rip-off tourist along this dotted line, please) price of $1 per mini cupcake!

Being the gullible person that I am, I bought five home for little M (which she thoroughly enjoyed - See? I spoil the women in my life! Hahahaha!)

They were cute mini cupcakes - with either colourful sprinkles on them, or a Smarties, or a tiny marshmallow adorning the top.

It was then when my friend Nicole decided that she could do as well as this lady, if not better! Nicole promised that she would set aside a weekend to make a hundred minicupcakes as her next 'project'!

I didn't think it would come true - until I saw this on her blog today!

Martha Stewart has got nothin' on these ladies!

Amazing! Hahaha! Please click on the picture to marvel at not one hundred, but 231 mini cupcakes! With way cooler toppings than that cupcake lady had in Manly! Check out the Malaysian flag, and marvel at the cupcake faces! And the cupcakes spelling out her blog name! See if you can spot the 'FCUK' one!

Congratulations again to Nicole, her little brother and her friend Heidi for a weekend well spent!And if I do the calculations correctly: 231 cupcakes x $1 = $Cha-ching!$

History in the Making

I remember when I was growing up, how I would measure my life by the Olympics. When I was 8, in 1988, my Dad would always make sure that the TV was on throughout the evening, and names like Carl Lewis, and Ben Johnson would forever be on our lips.

When I was 12, in 1992, I remember sitting in the bus one day, thinking - 'You know, I will be sixteen before the next Olympics comes around.'

And just like that, in the blink of an eye, I was suddenly sixteen, wearing my geeky prefects' uniform, watching the Olympics at home with my family, remembering names like Michael Johnson, and Ato Boldon, and, closer to home - Cheah Soon Kit and Soo Beng Kiang.

And then I was twenty, and twenty four, and I didn't care anymore about the Olympics. Sydney 2000 and Athens 2004 came and went, almost unnoticed.

Then, at the age of 28, in the year 2008, the whole world and I started caring again. Maybe it was because it was China, a newly democratic and capitalist nation eager to leave an impression on the world, and the fact that I am Chinese made me pay more attention. Maybe because Malaysia made it all the way to the mens' single badminton finals, and it was our first real shot at gold in twelve years.

The truth is , it is in a large part due to this man:

Bolt out of the blue.

Sure, there was Michael Phelps *yawn*, but nothing defines the Olympics for me like the 100m and 200m sprint, and in one fell swoop, Usain Bolt from Jamaica smashed two world records en route to winning the double, a feat that has not been achieved since Carl Lewis in 1984. The world is watching once more, and being treated to a real superstar - a kid, who at 22, looks like he's having fun out there, devastating sprint records in the process.

This has been a really memorable Olympics, from the opening ceremony, to the swimming, to the badminton, to the wrestling, to gymnastics, to track and field. I have not watched an Olympics so consistently since I was eight.

I will be 32 the next time the Olympics comes around.

Up Under: Four Days in Sydney

the last day

My flight was at 4.00 pm that evening.

F very kindly agreed to take little M swimming while P and I took some time off to catch up alone for the first time this trip. We ended up going to this wonderful part of Sydney called the Rocks, which is a pretty chic area tucked in under the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which gave an awesome vantage point of the bridge.

We went to this place called Pancakes on the Rocks (a tourist trap, I know, but I had to go there for old times' sake) and had a really nice western breakfast complimented with an awesome vanilla and chocolate (both the pancake and ice-cream!) pancake for dessert. It was a deja vu moment for me, remembering how it was almost seven years ago when our family was brought here by a friend of my father's for the pancakes.

That's because they cook the pancakes on rock ovens.
Okay, so, no, they don't.

We went for our last meal together at this quaint part of Sydney, a haven for the hippies tucked away in a corner easily missed by the unobservant eye. It was a very nice cafe, but, as pointed out, one for the free spirits.


The cutely named Badde Manors cafe in Glebe, one of Sydney's treasure finds. Piano player not included.

Everything there was either organic or had the word chai in them, which is always a dead giveaway! Hahaha! But it was a really nice cafe, with friendly staff, and really yummy breakfast pastries. A lady kindly gave up her table of four to us when we walked in. (Hint: always carry a toddler with you to score sympathy tables!)

We left Badde Manors feeling satisfied, and I actually bought some pastries back for my brother and his girlfriend. Naturally, it sat in the fridge for 2 weeks before I remembered that they were there. I ate them ayway. (Mmm... organic moldy goodness!)

We dropped F off and I said my goodbyes to her. P then drove me to the airport, and it was a reluctant goodbye when it was finally said. One last long hug and a wave farewell to little M, and suddenly all I had was memories to take with me.

I started this series by saying that I love airports, because of the excitement of new places, of saying hello to old and long lost friends - but now, it was a different place - it was a place of goodbye and Godspeed, a place of 'I don't know when I'll ever see you again, but I will remember you in my prayers.'

Goodbye and Godspeed, P and your family.

And see you again, Sydney.

Up Under: Four Days in Sydney

day 3

P dropped me off at F's place and we walked out from her apartments to the nearby cafes for breakfast. It was a sunny winter's day, but here in Sydney, you can actually take the sun seriously. The morning chill hung over the air, but the bright sun tingled on our skins as we sat out in the back courtyards of this quaint little cafe.

Overhead there were dangling Chinese lanterns, and we were surrounded by young mothers with their prams and magazines, by older men and women who had earned their right to be out here on this beautiful Monday morning.



We had the most wonderful conversation over milkshakes and Mardi Gras tea as the leaves died their natural deaths around us, and as pigeons curiously surveyed the floor for crumbs that had fallen from the tables. F had just begun a relationship which she had been praying for, and we laughed and talked through the uncertainties of her new relationship.

P picked us up after breakfast and then we went over to Sydney's equivalent of Lygon Street. When I say equivalent, I mean, poorer imitation of. There was like a few pizza places and maybe one or two gelati shops but nothing to the extent of the Italiano feel of Lygon. We ended up having a pretty good hearty lunch anyway, considering me and F having just eaten half an hour ago!

We went home after for an afternoon siesta, but P was soon busy again - walking little M to the park to sit her on the swing - getting mini gelatos for dessert that night, and cooking up a respectable briyani meal for the night. We had A and M over for dinner, and P looked like she was trying her hardest to set the both of them up!

Little M chose F to read her bedtime story that night, and when everyone had left, and little M was tucked nicely into bed, P and I just sat in the living room, two friends talking late into the night for what was going to be the last time for a very long while...

Help!

I have worked at least six of the last seven days, but it has been a really fun time at work... Although most doctors do not like emergency for how busy the department is, for the irregular hours and constant work, I actually quite enjoy it!

I mean, here is the brewing pot of all the sickness - you get to see the patients, you get to be the first to think through their problems, come up with a diagnosis and then either send them home or onto the wards.

It's a pretty good place to test your diagnostic skills and also a good mix of procedures and cases.

You can see anyone from the youngest of kiddies

to the pregnant mothers

to the really old nursing home patients (we had someone in the other day who was a hundred. If I reached a hundred, I might die from just trying to blow out my candles!)

to the plain weird and wonderful things.

Let's just say if you've ever seen the sitcom Scrubs (best imitation of real life medicine ever) there is something in the department we fondly term as the "ass box".

Seriously doctor, I don't know how that got up there! Pic taken from streetanatomy.com

But there is immense job satisfaction personally, having helped someone, and then seeing the thankfulness written all over their faces. I'm not pretending we don't get our share of disgruntled families or alcoholics or difficult patients, but getting a grateful smile or a genuine laugh from a patient makes this job worthwhile.

Maybe emergency?

Up Under: Four Days in Sydney

day 2 (night)

Having returned from a whole day of excursions, I joined P in her church, and it was here that I met F again. We were really excited to be meeting again as we probably only get the chance once a year. The church was small but cozy, with mostly young families at the service we were at.

That night, we returned to P's house and she had planned a steamboat dinner, which was a wonderful idea - I had the chance to meet A and T and MN again, who I haven't seen since my IMU days. It was a lovely dinner filled with laughter, and we were just really full by the end of it.
Steamboat recipe. Make soup. Put raw stuff in. Boil. It's almost like instant noodles.

We ended off with desert - they polished off the Turkish pastries that I bought (Melbournians - you have to try Balha's pastry on Sydney Road. You will die smiling!) and we also had some really good ice-cream.

Little M was so used to having so many adults around her, she was unfazed by all the noise we were creating. As we wrapped up, P gave little M a choice of who she wanted a goodnight story from. She selected me to read her her bedtime story!

The story was about a fire-breathing dragon who nobody loved because he kept burning his friends' things... the story had a happy ending though - they finally found a use for him - lighting up birthday candles on a cake. Yay!

(Except that he burnt the cake as well.)

And all is well with the world again as we all crept into our separate beds, sleep coming easier from a tummy full of steamboaty goodness.

(P.S. If you didn't notice, I'm still being bossed around by a two year old girl.)

In Sickness Or In Health

He drove to work today, and as he was approaching the hospital, a thought crosses his mind. I can't remember the last time I had a good cry, he thinks to himself.

It was about ten a.m. and well into his work day when he saw a familiar name flash on the screen. This was someone he had seen two days ago with a headache, but who he had sent home as it was improving.

He picks up the file and goes outside to call the name, and leads the 30-odd year old patient and his family into a consulting room. We'll need to do that brain scan today, he laughs, and the patient gives a slight smile. His wife is there with him, sweet and supportive. Her younger daughter wriggles playfully around her, doing her best to grab her attention.

What work do you do again? he makes small talk.

Oh, I'm a manager, the patient says.

Any recent stress at work?

No, it's been going perfectly fine.

If anything it's been a bit too quiet, the wife laughs.

Where's the other one? he asks, as he remembers seeing two the other day.

Oh, she's at school, the wife smiles.

He repeats the clinical examination and finds that nothing much has changed since he last saw him, and orders the CT scan of the brain. Just wait in the waiting room, and I will call you with the results.

the results

He walks him into a cubicle, trying to look confident and calm, when he was shaking inside, unsure of how to break the bad news.

Just take a lie down on the bed, he says. The wife is still standing.

I'm afraid I've got some bad news. She starts looking worried. He realises that she is standing, and should be sitting for this. He rushes out to grab a chair, cursing his timing, and walks back in. He puts the chair under the wife, who by now is fearing the worst.

He walks over to the patient's side. I'm afraid you've got a brain tumour, he says, holding his hand. And I'm really sorry, but it's a really large one.

this is the sound of universes collapsing

The wife is rocking to and fro in the chair, shattered, and not knowing what to do. She's not the type to wail and throw her hands in despair. But despair was written all over her face, submersed under years of self-restraint.

The patient sits there staring into the ceiling, in an almost surreal daze. His hand travels slowly to his head. The patient continues to be stoic, saying a Yes and Uh-uh as the doctor explains that they need to transfer him to another hospital and that they'll need medications to help with the swelling around the tumour and to prevent seizures.

The wife paces around the room, her little one still playing around her legs, oblivious to the tremendous change happening to her life in those small minutes. The wife is crying silently, the tears streaming down her face. She should protest loudly but it is not in her nature.

It is the silent tears that break the doctor. He feels the emotions surge through him, uncontrollably forcing its way upwards. He holds his hand to his mouth and whispers a quick apology while darting out towards the toilets. He stifles a sob.

He was feeling extremely upset at the unfairness of it all. Nice family - young man, gentle wife, with two kids. Whose life will now be measured in months or a few years.

He was briefly angry towards a God who in His infinite wisdom, knew better. He closes the toilet door and starts to cry, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

He allows himself only a brief cry before drying his eyes and walking back to the patient and his family, knowing he needed to remain professional. He arranges everything for the transfer and finally wishes the family all the best, trying his hardest not to cry in front of them.

They leave for the other hospital with an ambulance, their lives forever altered in one afternoon.

He returns his attention to the other patients who need his help, and he takes in a sharp breath and exhales again, his breath disappearing once more into the routine chaos of the emergency department around him.