So I survived two weeks of In-Patient Surgery (I capitalize to emphasize the magnitude of this feat).
...Aaaaand it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. *Cue dramatic dun dun duuuuuun.*
Yes, the hours were terrible. For two weeks, I woke up at 4AM to drive to Mission Bay in the dark and braved rush hour traffic to get home by 7ish. Despite the hellish hours, I honestly feel that I learned and did more in those two weeks than a month and a half on outpatient medicine (like learning how to parallel park).
I went in thinking surgery was this enigmatic, unassailable obstacle that I would have to endure. My mind was filled with images of the cinematic OR -- a tense, fast-paced, high-stress environment, where every decision meant life or death for the patient on the table. Such is not the case. In actuality, the OR is a place where mistakes can be made and fixed; surgery is not as precise as legend may claim. I can still pinpoint the moment I came to this realization. We were running the intestine looking for metastasis of a renal cell carcinoma and we found a few bumps. The surgeon and the chief resident conferred and the conclusion was: "The tumor is aboooout here. Let's cut this much just to be safe."
One of the "tensest" moments I experienced on the OR during those two weeks** was when we were doing a splenectomy and the surgeon nicked an artery. I saw a gush of arterial blood and I thought "OH FUUUUUUCK." The surgeon just sighed, calmly walked around the table, stuck his hand in the port, and staunched the bleeding. LIKE A BOSS. The surgery went on like nothing had gone amiss.
**I will say though that I stood in on a planned C-section that progressed into a crash C-section unexpectedly. That shit was cray. When the nurse dumped a bottle of iodine on the patient's belly and the team of OBGYN surgeons came running in, I knew shit was going down. They had that baby out in a matter of minutes as I just stood there in mute horror.
There were bad moments in the OR too, but they were mostly the result of me psyching myself out. Like the time I stood in to observe on a surgery with another team and naively thought this meant I wouldn't have to do anything so I chose to put on larger (more comfortable) gloves BUT LITTLE DID I KNOW I would be called on to tie down a drain and I could literally do nothing but stare in horror at the strings in my useless, uncooperative, impotent fingers. The chief resident had pity on me and took the strings back, but FUCK that was embarrassing. I went home with a pair of gloves and practiced until I couldn't taste the shame at the back of my throat anymore. Took a while.
But that's another thing about me that I've come to realize. I'm not motivated by ambition or pride. I'm motivated by shame. For example, just the other day, I rolled into my second Psych clinic session ever, fresh out of my in-patient experience and literally stepping out of the OR earlier that morning. Long story short, I got owned. During the first session, which might I add, took place over three weeks prior, all I was expected to do was observe. Potato that I am, I had high hopes that the second session would be more of the same, with maybe a slight step up in my expected involvement. Oh ho ho, how wrong I was. From the moment I walk into clinic and the preceptor says, "Have you had a chance to read over all the patients for today?", my heart began a slooooow descent that would continue throughout the afternoon. I was grilled on psychosis. Tested on SSRIs. With each "uhhhh" I uttered, I could see my disappointment in myself reflected in my preceptor's eyes. I got some serious flashbacks to my childhood. I vowed to myself that the next session would be better. And it was. Because I studied my ass off. But if I hadn't failed so spectacularly, if my preceptor hadn't expressed his profound disappointment -- almost apologetically like he was saying, "I'm sorry, but I have expectations" -- would I have changed? Nope. I AM MOTIVATED BY FEAR AND INTIMIDATION. And shame. Because I'm Asian and I am nothing but a product of my upbringing.
Another thing I've come to realize: Being a doctor will always be something that I do, not something that I am. I am not fascinated by research and discovery. I don't wake up every morning, spurred awake and energized by the realization that I'm going to save a life today. That's just not who I am. Yeah, those things are cool. But I do them to meet a requirement. It's a job. It's not what I do for fun. It's not satisfying and fulfilling in and of itself. At least not yet. And I think I've been having difficulty accepting that over the past few years of my medical education -- something that has occasionally taken its toll on my mental and emotional health.
A tidbit the pastor touched on in his sermon today. When you're in a good place, you transition from unstable to stable, rigid to resilient, reactive to receptive, and detached to empathetic. These are definitely things that I've been seeing in myself over the last few months. Before my first day of rotations, I was so resistant to my roommate's suggestion to read over my patients before I went into clinic that I almost threw a fit. It wasn't that I thought I didn't have to, but there was a stubbornness that latched on because I didn't want to. I was tired. I didn't want to give more mental energy to this task because I hated the idea of giving more to medicine than I felt it had already taken from me. I didn't care about the patients in that moment, because they were a burden that I didn't feel ready to handle. Just more people who wanted something from me, people with expectations that I wasn't sure I was equipped to meet. Unstable. Rigid. Reactive. Detached. I was all of these things. On top of all this, I was thrust into the strenuous environment that is inpatient surgery.
But what is that expression-- something about boiling water softening the potato but hardening the egg? I guess this potato blossomed into an egg.
I thought surgery would destroy me, that I wouldn't last. But instead, surgery showed me that things aren't as terrifying and impossible as I make myself believe. I actually thought to myself, "I can do this." And I don't think change of heart is anything that I can claim credit for. If anything, it was the amazing team that I had the privilege of working with in those two weeks. I'm self-deprecating and insecure when I feel out of my depth, but they made sure to take the time to reassure me that I was capable, built me up with every learning moment, and most importantly, they gave me opportunities to prove to them, and myself, that I was competent. Those two weeks could have gone very differently and I thank God for His looking out and having mercy on my fragile state. More on me and God at another date.
So I'm resolving to move forward with a more positive and hopeful attitude. I hung out with some friends for the first time since rotations started and Kirk joked, "What if our entire anatomy group goes into surgery?" If you had said this to me during first year, I would have laughed in your face. But now who knows? Life is crazy like that.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Monday, May 1, 2017
I Hate Adulting.
So I just spent the weekend recovering from a hell of a week. Remember when I was all optimistic about third year being a great time to gain clinical knowledge and learn what it's really like to be a doctor? Yeah, well, that is still true, but little did I know, it sucks.
I recently listened to a podcast about people glorifying their lives on social media, glossing over hard times with instagram "candids" on the beach and curating updates to only include the #blessed moments. Well fuck that. I'm all about finding the instagrammable/Facebook post-worthy moments in the shit-pile that is life, but I also want the dirt. I want to acknowledge the truly terrible times so that one day I can look back and remind myself that I've made it through some shit, but life turned out alright.
Remember that time I failed my driving test 3 times? Now I love driving (in safe, non-metropolitan areas with wide lanes. And no parallel parking. Parallel parking is the devil.) But thanks to the limitless memory of the internet, I can revisit the nausea-inducing, hand-shaking terror that came with preparing for each test, followed by the self-hating rage that followed each failure. Yeah that was a rough time. But I made it.
Remember that time I didn't know a soul at Hopkins or the state of Maryland and I hated it and I deeply regretted ever making the decision to move to the East Coast? Guess what, now I think it was the best decision ever. I now have friends in every state (that matters...as well as New Jersey, I guess. heh) and a much broader worldview than I had when I left.
And here I am now. I just received the disappointing results from Step 1. Though I was/am devastated, I am also reminded that I still have a chance to stay in the Bay Area...though probably on a divergent path from the ROAD to happiness. The only person I've disappointed is myself, and I should be used to that by now.
Med school has been hard. Most times, I feel average or less than average. I know, cry me a river, just another person feeling entitled to success and achievement because of my educational background. Perhaps this too is strengthening, this constant feeling of inadequacy and impotence. But most times I feel apathetic. Other times I feel anger, like a toddler who is told that he can't play so he breaks all the toys. Whatever, I didn't want to play anyways. Funny how trying to adult drives me to regress.
Every time I can make it home, it's like a breath of fresh air. It's grounding, it keeps me sane. But at the same time, being at home reminds me that my priority will never be my education or my career. My family will always come first. Compared to my peers, maybe I just don't want it as badly. I've never yearned to be published. I've never wanted to meet famous scientists -- in fact, I can't really name many beyond the venerated Bill Nye. The word "networking" evokes the same set of emotions elicited by the phrase "deep dental cleaning". Some may call this willful ignorance. Am I proud of it? Hell no. I wish I enjoyed or even wanted those things. But as Ali Wong would say, "I don't want to lean in...I want to lie down." Maybe academia isn't for me. I just want to work 9 to 5, doing the same thing, help people, and make a steady paycheck that I can bring home to my family. Having coworkers I tolerate would be a bonus! Is this too much to ask?
Anyways, back to rotations. There are good times and there are bad times. Yes, it's shitty to get up early and commute for an hour in my monkey suit (business cas shoes are the bane of my existence). I'm hungry all the time and the hunger soon evolves into hanger. It's hard to remain positive when the people around you start to look like a rack of ribs. I also know that there are many others who wake up far earlier and get home far later than I do....but people who say that means I can't/shouldn't complain? FUCK YOU. That's bullshit. I can complain if I want. If I lose a finger in a tragic accident and someone else loses a hand, does that mean I'm not allowed to complain about my limited nine-fingered existence? Heck no. You can bet I'll be throwing them middle fingers up to the world (Unless the finger I lost was a middle finger, in which case I will be throwing one solo middle finger and one stump.) I'll be throwing them up for that poor chap that lost a hand too, because solidarity.
I hate independent learning about things I don't care about. I miss the days when they just gave me a list of topics that I needed to know. Now I need to figure out myself what I need to learn about? UGH. THE WORST. Bring me a cheeseburger. (Read above RE: me, not cut out for academia.) Also, I hate all the pomp and circumstance that comes with working in the hospital. Yo, cut it out with the "ecchymoses" and "conjunctivitis" shit. The kid's got a bruise and pinkeye. This one kills me -- "erythematous". IT'S RED. SAY IT'S RED. Why do I have to wrack my brain to come up with fancy mumbo-jumbo technical terms when you're going to have to spend the same amount of time deciphering the jargon in your head. Just say what you mean. Christ.
But I need to remind myself that there are things that I enjoyed this week too. I enjoyed being able to translate for a Mandarin-speaking patient. I enjoyed working in the Peds acute care clinic with the wee little (and blessedly silent) kiddies. (Maybe because I didn't have to do most physical exams on account of a common childhood fear of stethoscopes and otoscopes.) In the ED, I got to see a peer stitch up a wrist laceration, through which you could see exposed tendon/nerve. That was badass, even though my legs were getting jello-y with the patient's every grimace and wince.
I also noticed that all of the clinics I enjoyed gave me free food.... I got cake/cookies from ALS clinic, the most terrible tasting (but deliciously free) naan and Indian food from the acute care clinic, and a piece of donut from the ED.
Hopefully things will get better with time...though I doubt it because I'm starting inpatient Surgery next week. That's going to be fun. Kill me.
I recently listened to a podcast about people glorifying their lives on social media, glossing over hard times with instagram "candids" on the beach and curating updates to only include the #blessed moments. Well fuck that. I'm all about finding the instagrammable/Facebook post-worthy moments in the shit-pile that is life, but I also want the dirt. I want to acknowledge the truly terrible times so that one day I can look back and remind myself that I've made it through some shit, but life turned out alright.
Remember that time I failed my driving test 3 times? Now I love driving (in safe, non-metropolitan areas with wide lanes. And no parallel parking. Parallel parking is the devil.) But thanks to the limitless memory of the internet, I can revisit the nausea-inducing, hand-shaking terror that came with preparing for each test, followed by the self-hating rage that followed each failure. Yeah that was a rough time. But I made it.
Remember that time I didn't know a soul at Hopkins or the state of Maryland and I hated it and I deeply regretted ever making the decision to move to the East Coast? Guess what, now I think it was the best decision ever. I now have friends in every state (that matters...as well as New Jersey, I guess. heh) and a much broader worldview than I had when I left.
And here I am now. I just received the disappointing results from Step 1. Though I was/am devastated, I am also reminded that I still have a chance to stay in the Bay Area...though probably on a divergent path from the ROAD to happiness. The only person I've disappointed is myself, and I should be used to that by now.
Med school has been hard. Most times, I feel average or less than average. I know, cry me a river, just another person feeling entitled to success and achievement because of my educational background. Perhaps this too is strengthening, this constant feeling of inadequacy and impotence. But most times I feel apathetic. Other times I feel anger, like a toddler who is told that he can't play so he breaks all the toys. Whatever, I didn't want to play anyways. Funny how trying to adult drives me to regress.
Every time I can make it home, it's like a breath of fresh air. It's grounding, it keeps me sane. But at the same time, being at home reminds me that my priority will never be my education or my career. My family will always come first. Compared to my peers, maybe I just don't want it as badly. I've never yearned to be published. I've never wanted to meet famous scientists -- in fact, I can't really name many beyond the venerated Bill Nye. The word "networking" evokes the same set of emotions elicited by the phrase "deep dental cleaning". Some may call this willful ignorance. Am I proud of it? Hell no. I wish I enjoyed or even wanted those things. But as Ali Wong would say, "I don't want to lean in...I want to lie down." Maybe academia isn't for me. I just want to work 9 to 5, doing the same thing, help people, and make a steady paycheck that I can bring home to my family. Having coworkers I tolerate would be a bonus! Is this too much to ask?
Anyways, back to rotations. There are good times and there are bad times. Yes, it's shitty to get up early and commute for an hour in my monkey suit (business cas shoes are the bane of my existence). I'm hungry all the time and the hunger soon evolves into hanger. It's hard to remain positive when the people around you start to look like a rack of ribs. I also know that there are many others who wake up far earlier and get home far later than I do....but people who say that means I can't/shouldn't complain? FUCK YOU. That's bullshit. I can complain if I want. If I lose a finger in a tragic accident and someone else loses a hand, does that mean I'm not allowed to complain about my limited nine-fingered existence? Heck no. You can bet I'll be throwing them middle fingers up to the world (Unless the finger I lost was a middle finger, in which case I will be throwing one solo middle finger and one stump.) I'll be throwing them up for that poor chap that lost a hand too, because solidarity.
I hate independent learning about things I don't care about. I miss the days when they just gave me a list of topics that I needed to know. Now I need to figure out myself what I need to learn about? UGH. THE WORST. Bring me a cheeseburger. (Read above RE: me, not cut out for academia.) Also, I hate all the pomp and circumstance that comes with working in the hospital. Yo, cut it out with the "ecchymoses" and "conjunctivitis" shit. The kid's got a bruise and pinkeye. This one kills me -- "erythematous". IT'S RED. SAY IT'S RED. Why do I have to wrack my brain to come up with fancy mumbo-jumbo technical terms when you're going to have to spend the same amount of time deciphering the jargon in your head. Just say what you mean. Christ.
But I need to remind myself that there are things that I enjoyed this week too. I enjoyed being able to translate for a Mandarin-speaking patient. I enjoyed working in the Peds acute care clinic with the wee little (and blessedly silent) kiddies. (Maybe because I didn't have to do most physical exams on account of a common childhood fear of stethoscopes and otoscopes.) In the ED, I got to see a peer stitch up a wrist laceration, through which you could see exposed tendon/nerve. That was badass, even though my legs were getting jello-y with the patient's every grimace and wince.
I also noticed that all of the clinics I enjoyed gave me free food.... I got cake/cookies from ALS clinic, the most terrible tasting (but deliciously free) naan and Indian food from the acute care clinic, and a piece of donut from the ED.
Hopefully things will get better with time...though I doubt it because I'm starting inpatient Surgery next week. That's going to be fun. Kill me.
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Celebrating Love and Life
I keep telling myself that I'm going to blog after the next momentous occasion, but it seems that those occasions are less momentous in retrospect than daunting in apprehension. But better late than never, I guess.
Step 1 is now behind me and my general attitude has been to forget that it ever happened at all. My score doesn't come out until later this week, so in my typical avoidant fashion, I'm going to focus instead on the amazing, yet bittersweet weekend I've had.
This weekend, my good friend from college made a life-long commitment to the love of his life. It's crazy to think that, just a few short years ago, we were naïve college kids digging cars out of the snow with garbage cans to make midnight Taco Bell runs; laying out butcher paper so we could spread out our glorious feast of 100 chicken nuggets; belting out showtunes in the car -- wait, we still do all of these things...I guess the only descriptor that no longer applies is the "college kids" part. It felt so great to reunite with DtFnD (the nD is very important to emphasize, we've discovered) and celebrate one of our own graduating to the next stage of life, from boyfriend/fiancé to husband.
As it is with good friends, it felt like no time passed as all. One hug is apparently all it takes to bridge two/three years of separation. And in typical DtFnD, we caught up over food and alcohol...and dancing. Hours and hours of dancing. I start my rotations tomorrow and I think I've slept less than 10 hours in the past three days combined. NO RAGRETS.
The wedding itself was gorgeous. As we rose to greet the bride, I was able to sneak a look down to aisle to catch the groom's expression upon laying eyes on his radiant wife-to-be. It was impossible to miss the naked adoration on his face. Witnessing this wordless exchange of love, I felt a sudden and sharp pang of insight as to why people get married in the first place -- why people choose to bind their heart to another when one was serving them just fine to begin with. I am so, so proud of this couple and their commitment to each other before God. (I don't think I've been attended a more God-centric wedding, and I have once attended one that ended with the bride and groom leading worship, but alas that's a story for another day.)
It was a great weekend catching up with old friends. We may be scattered across the states, but we haven't changed much. "We still fit together like puzzle pieces," I remember thinking to myself as I cuddled with John, shrouded in the gentle haze of a good buzz. "Ratchet, ratchet puzzle pieces," I amended as Rudy crawled over to offer us another sip of straight rum from his cup....or he may have crammed a garlic knot slathered in marinara into my mouth. Or was that later? Memories are a funny thing. Nonetheless, you know it's a great night when it ends with hash browns and waffles at Waffle House at 1AM. God bless 24-hour diners.
While I spent the weekend celebrating the birth of a new relationship, the weekend was also marked by the death of my grandfather. On the morning of my flight out to Atlanta, I received a FB message (what's with me always receiving death notices via social media? Not cool.) from my aunt letting me know that my paternal grandfather had passed away peacefully the night before. This comes less than 4 months after the passing of my paternal grandmother. Though our family's relationship with my grandfather was sometimes contentious, it does kind of feel like the end of an era. My father is an orphan now. I can't even begin to imagine what he must feel, having lost his only remaining parent before he had the chance to finish processing the passing of the first.
I don't have much to say about my grandfather. He was not a perfect man, but I know he loved his children, even if he didn't always know how to express it. I hope he is now in Heaven with my grandmother, all earthly conflicts laid to rest.
In other news, I start my first day of rotations tomorrow. I'm not feeling particularly nervous or excited...but then again, a weekend of drinking and no sleep does tend to mute most emotions. I look forward to blogging again after my first day of being a real doctor (kinda)!
Step 1 is now behind me and my general attitude has been to forget that it ever happened at all. My score doesn't come out until later this week, so in my typical avoidant fashion, I'm going to focus instead on the amazing, yet bittersweet weekend I've had.
This weekend, my good friend from college made a life-long commitment to the love of his life. It's crazy to think that, just a few short years ago, we were naïve college kids digging cars out of the snow with garbage cans to make midnight Taco Bell runs; laying out butcher paper so we could spread out our glorious feast of 100 chicken nuggets; belting out showtunes in the car -- wait, we still do all of these things...I guess the only descriptor that no longer applies is the "college kids" part. It felt so great to reunite with DtFnD (the nD is very important to emphasize, we've discovered) and celebrate one of our own graduating to the next stage of life, from boyfriend/fiancé to husband.
As it is with good friends, it felt like no time passed as all. One hug is apparently all it takes to bridge two/three years of separation. And in typical DtFnD, we caught up over food and alcohol...and dancing. Hours and hours of dancing. I start my rotations tomorrow and I think I've slept less than 10 hours in the past three days combined. NO RAGRETS.
The wedding itself was gorgeous. As we rose to greet the bride, I was able to sneak a look down to aisle to catch the groom's expression upon laying eyes on his radiant wife-to-be. It was impossible to miss the naked adoration on his face. Witnessing this wordless exchange of love, I felt a sudden and sharp pang of insight as to why people get married in the first place -- why people choose to bind their heart to another when one was serving them just fine to begin with. I am so, so proud of this couple and their commitment to each other before God. (I don't think I've been attended a more God-centric wedding, and I have once attended one that ended with the bride and groom leading worship, but alas that's a story for another day.)
It was a great weekend catching up with old friends. We may be scattered across the states, but we haven't changed much. "We still fit together like puzzle pieces," I remember thinking to myself as I cuddled with John, shrouded in the gentle haze of a good buzz. "Ratchet, ratchet puzzle pieces," I amended as Rudy crawled over to offer us another sip of straight rum from his cup....or he may have crammed a garlic knot slathered in marinara into my mouth. Or was that later? Memories are a funny thing. Nonetheless, you know it's a great night when it ends with hash browns and waffles at Waffle House at 1AM. God bless 24-hour diners.
While I spent the weekend celebrating the birth of a new relationship, the weekend was also marked by the death of my grandfather. On the morning of my flight out to Atlanta, I received a FB message (what's with me always receiving death notices via social media? Not cool.) from my aunt letting me know that my paternal grandfather had passed away peacefully the night before. This comes less than 4 months after the passing of my paternal grandmother. Though our family's relationship with my grandfather was sometimes contentious, it does kind of feel like the end of an era. My father is an orphan now. I can't even begin to imagine what he must feel, having lost his only remaining parent before he had the chance to finish processing the passing of the first.
I don't have much to say about my grandfather. He was not a perfect man, but I know he loved his children, even if he didn't always know how to express it. I hope he is now in Heaven with my grandmother, all earthly conflicts laid to rest.
In other news, I start my first day of rotations tomorrow. I'm not feeling particularly nervous or excited...but then again, a weekend of drinking and no sleep does tend to mute most emotions. I look forward to blogging again after my first day of being a real doctor (kinda)!
Monday, January 30, 2017
Passing of a Nasty Woman
My grandmother is dead.
It wasn't unexpected. It wasn't sudden. And in my opinion, it wasn't necessary, but that is neither here nor there anymore.
My parents received word that my grandmother had 2-3 days left to life. They immediately bought tickets and left for Taiwan the next day. I thank God that they made it just in time to say their goodbyes. My grandmother breathed her last as her youngest son (my father) and daughter clasped her hands in theirs, sang her favorite hymns, and whispered assurances that they would be there with her until the very end.
As peaceful as her death was, her life was anything but. My grandmother was a fighter, and in many ways, she never stopped fighting. Never give up, never surrender, that was Nancy Soong. She fought the Communists. She fled China and left her family at the age of 19 to follow my 18 year old grandfather to Taiwan. She fought the Japanese. If my grandmother wasn't fighting, she wasn't living. She was a true #nastywoman of her time.
One of my favorite stories about my grandmother took place when my grandparents were still struggling to make ends meet. The landlord came to collect rent, one thing led to another, suddenly my grandfather and the landlord come to blows. My grandmother sees a man on top of my grandfather beating him, and being no wilty flower, she brazenly thrust a hand between the two of them, grabbed a hold of the landlord's family jewels, and squeezed. He clambered off my grandfather real quick.
That's another thing about my grandmother. When she loves, she loves 100% and she loved my grandfather. When I think about my childhood trips to their apartment, I always see my grandfather sitting in his favorite lounging chair, while my grandmother was constantly moving around the house. Was my grandfather warm enough? She got him another jacket. Was he parched? She put on the kettle for tea. Anything he wanted was just an order away. Whenever my grandfather was hospitalized (which was often, as he has always been somewhat of a hypochondriac), my grandmother could not be persuaded to leave his side. Even though she was a tiger in her own right, she served him because she loved him, and I've grown to respect that.
(That is not to say that she never unsheathed her claws. Another one of my favorite stories is about how the neighbors would always come running to beg them to stop fighting. Once, they came in to find a broom stuck in the ceiling.)
My grandmother also loved God. When my dad was still a wayward soul, my grandmother would sneak Bibles into his luggage whenever he left for trips overseas. He would discover them, curse, and throw them overboard. (My grandmother is single-handedly responsible for the conversion of legions of marine life.) But her persistence paid off (like it usually does, because my grandmother's persistence is bottomless). When I think about my grandmother's voice, I remember her emphatic "Amens" during prayers, singing Chinese hymns to herself, or just shouting "Hallelujah" out of nowhere. Every time I was about to embark on a new challenge, like moving away for school or going on a mission trip, she would tell me, "If you are ever afraid or in doubt, just call upon the Lord's name. He will hear you." Sometimes, I think she believed enough for the both of us.
My grandmother was a silly woman, but never intentionally. My family once attended a talent show hosted by my grandparent's senior center. My grandmother, who must have been around 80 at that time, announced that she was going to ribbon dance. When it came time for her performance, they couldn't get her audio track to work due to technical difficulties. Undeterred, my grandmother decided that the show must go on. She did her ribbon dance anyways -- a cappella. I don't think I had ever seen my father turn that color before.
She decided to get her driver's license later on in life. We begged her not to do it, but she insisted. Life became a game of "How to Avoid Getting Into Grandma's Car At All Costs". My cousin Jacky didn't get this memo and on one of his first visits to San Jose, he asked my grandmother to drive us to the mall. My sister swears to this day that that ride scared 5 years off her life. I must confess I blocked out most of the memories of that traumatic ride, but for some reason, I can still hear the echoes of someone screaming, "YOU CAN'T CROSS THE DOUBLE YELLOW!"
Every time grandma would see me, she would clasp my hand between hers and squeeze it firmly, like an orange at the supermarket. "Ah, you have thick hands (I tried not to take offense), these are the hands of a rich person." My dad would chastise her for believing in these superstitions. Maybe my Chinese isn't so great, but I think what she meant was that my hands were rough (rough and thick can be indicated by the same word in Mandarin...I think), which are a sign of a hard worker, and that my hard work would bring me to prosper. That's how I interpreted it anyways...so I put my head down and worked accordingly.
When my grandparents decided to move to Taiwan, we discovered that my grandmother was a greater hoarder than we had realized. My dad told her to throw away anything she didn't need, but as with many people of her generation who had to abandon everything once to flee hardship, it was hard for her to part with anything that she might...need later. We thought she had thrown out the most of it before she left for Taiwan. One day, weeks and weeks after their departure, my Dad discovered a stash of items that grandmother had hidden away in a small enclave outside our front door. She had literally driven over to our house, snuck up to the front door, and tossed a bunch of items into the small fenced off area that holds our water/electricity meter. That's grandma -- never give up, never surrender.
Sometimes my grandparents would visit our home while we were out. They would drop off treats on their way back from Ranch 99 or Costco. But we would always know they had visited because inevitably something will have moved. Never anything conspicuous. Just a feeling that something was off...then you would get a whiff of mothballs and grandpa's aftershave. Sometimes the signs would be more overt. I still remember the first time I found a small innocuous package wrapped in tissues. I picked it up and unwrapped it, still young enough to believe that all surprises were good surprises. My mom later chastised me, not for screaming, but for throwing grandma's dentures across the room. "The floor is dirty," she scolded as she washed them off and started phoning grandma.
When I first heard that Grandma had died, I was lying in bed. It was 2AM. I felt nothing. I woke up the next morning, talked to my sister about it, and still felt nothing. Feeling nothing was almost worse than feeling grief, because the emptiness became filled with guilt. When Sonatina died, I cried for a week, if not weeks. And now my grandmother is gone, and I can't even muster up a single tear.
We weren't close in the last five or so years. She and my grandfather moved back to Taiwan. We hardly spoke, and when we did, it was over my dad's shoulder as they talked on Skype -- him writing his responses to her in large black script on scratch paper so that she could see because her hearing had long started to deteriorate. We did a lot of waving. Forced smiles. The small, shrunken figure I saw on my dad's iPad screen seemed to bear less and less resemblance to the formidable woman who used to kick my ass at ping pong every weekend.
Even though the last few years had their share of acrimony and exasperation, I reflect now on all the ways she expressed her love. In fact, up until two sentences ago, I had forgotten that my grandmother was the one who taught me how to play ping pong. She used to bring over pickled daikon and carrots all the time because she knew I liked them -- either that or that was one of two things she knew how to make. Lucky for her, I really liked her 八寶粥 as well. Whenever we went to her apartment, she would be sure to have ice cream on hand. I think she would get them just for us -- little plastic cartons of strawberry and vanilla or chocolate swirl that you ate with a small wooden stick. She would always bring over extra things from her senior center brown bags, even when my mom would beg her not to. That was grandma's way.
I really don't know how to say goodbye. Because of her, I never lacked a strong female role model in my life. I could never complain about hardship because grandma was once shot at as the military arrived to break up a protest. If birthing and raising five children couldn't break grandma's spirit, I could sure as hell survive an organic chemistry lab practical. Nasty woman runs in my blood y'all.
I don't think I've processed this enough to cry, but I don't think Grandma would want me to cry. Especially in times like these, grandma would want me to fight. Because if I'm not fighting, I'm not living.
It wasn't unexpected. It wasn't sudden. And in my opinion, it wasn't necessary, but that is neither here nor there anymore.
My parents received word that my grandmother had 2-3 days left to life. They immediately bought tickets and left for Taiwan the next day. I thank God that they made it just in time to say their goodbyes. My grandmother breathed her last as her youngest son (my father) and daughter clasped her hands in theirs, sang her favorite hymns, and whispered assurances that they would be there with her until the very end.
As peaceful as her death was, her life was anything but. My grandmother was a fighter, and in many ways, she never stopped fighting. Never give up, never surrender, that was Nancy Soong. She fought the Communists. She fled China and left her family at the age of 19 to follow my 18 year old grandfather to Taiwan. She fought the Japanese. If my grandmother wasn't fighting, she wasn't living. She was a true #nastywoman of her time.
One of my favorite stories about my grandmother took place when my grandparents were still struggling to make ends meet. The landlord came to collect rent, one thing led to another, suddenly my grandfather and the landlord come to blows. My grandmother sees a man on top of my grandfather beating him, and being no wilty flower, she brazenly thrust a hand between the two of them, grabbed a hold of the landlord's family jewels, and squeezed. He clambered off my grandfather real quick.
That's another thing about my grandmother. When she loves, she loves 100% and she loved my grandfather. When I think about my childhood trips to their apartment, I always see my grandfather sitting in his favorite lounging chair, while my grandmother was constantly moving around the house. Was my grandfather warm enough? She got him another jacket. Was he parched? She put on the kettle for tea. Anything he wanted was just an order away. Whenever my grandfather was hospitalized (which was often, as he has always been somewhat of a hypochondriac), my grandmother could not be persuaded to leave his side. Even though she was a tiger in her own right, she served him because she loved him, and I've grown to respect that.
(That is not to say that she never unsheathed her claws. Another one of my favorite stories is about how the neighbors would always come running to beg them to stop fighting. Once, they came in to find a broom stuck in the ceiling.)
My grandmother also loved God. When my dad was still a wayward soul, my grandmother would sneak Bibles into his luggage whenever he left for trips overseas. He would discover them, curse, and throw them overboard. (My grandmother is single-handedly responsible for the conversion of legions of marine life.) But her persistence paid off (like it usually does, because my grandmother's persistence is bottomless). When I think about my grandmother's voice, I remember her emphatic "Amens" during prayers, singing Chinese hymns to herself, or just shouting "Hallelujah" out of nowhere. Every time I was about to embark on a new challenge, like moving away for school or going on a mission trip, she would tell me, "If you are ever afraid or in doubt, just call upon the Lord's name. He will hear you." Sometimes, I think she believed enough for the both of us.
My grandmother was a silly woman, but never intentionally. My family once attended a talent show hosted by my grandparent's senior center. My grandmother, who must have been around 80 at that time, announced that she was going to ribbon dance. When it came time for her performance, they couldn't get her audio track to work due to technical difficulties. Undeterred, my grandmother decided that the show must go on. She did her ribbon dance anyways -- a cappella. I don't think I had ever seen my father turn that color before.
She decided to get her driver's license later on in life. We begged her not to do it, but she insisted. Life became a game of "How to Avoid Getting Into Grandma's Car At All Costs". My cousin Jacky didn't get this memo and on one of his first visits to San Jose, he asked my grandmother to drive us to the mall. My sister swears to this day that that ride scared 5 years off her life. I must confess I blocked out most of the memories of that traumatic ride, but for some reason, I can still hear the echoes of someone screaming, "YOU CAN'T CROSS THE DOUBLE YELLOW!"
Every time grandma would see me, she would clasp my hand between hers and squeeze it firmly, like an orange at the supermarket. "Ah, you have thick hands (I tried not to take offense), these are the hands of a rich person." My dad would chastise her for believing in these superstitions. Maybe my Chinese isn't so great, but I think what she meant was that my hands were rough (rough and thick can be indicated by the same word in Mandarin...I think), which are a sign of a hard worker, and that my hard work would bring me to prosper. That's how I interpreted it anyways...so I put my head down and worked accordingly.
When my grandparents decided to move to Taiwan, we discovered that my grandmother was a greater hoarder than we had realized. My dad told her to throw away anything she didn't need, but as with many people of her generation who had to abandon everything once to flee hardship, it was hard for her to part with anything that she might...need later. We thought she had thrown out the most of it before she left for Taiwan. One day, weeks and weeks after their departure, my Dad discovered a stash of items that grandmother had hidden away in a small enclave outside our front door. She had literally driven over to our house, snuck up to the front door, and tossed a bunch of items into the small fenced off area that holds our water/electricity meter. That's grandma -- never give up, never surrender.
Sometimes my grandparents would visit our home while we were out. They would drop off treats on their way back from Ranch 99 or Costco. But we would always know they had visited because inevitably something will have moved. Never anything conspicuous. Just a feeling that something was off...then you would get a whiff of mothballs and grandpa's aftershave. Sometimes the signs would be more overt. I still remember the first time I found a small innocuous package wrapped in tissues. I picked it up and unwrapped it, still young enough to believe that all surprises were good surprises. My mom later chastised me, not for screaming, but for throwing grandma's dentures across the room. "The floor is dirty," she scolded as she washed them off and started phoning grandma.
When I first heard that Grandma had died, I was lying in bed. It was 2AM. I felt nothing. I woke up the next morning, talked to my sister about it, and still felt nothing. Feeling nothing was almost worse than feeling grief, because the emptiness became filled with guilt. When Sonatina died, I cried for a week, if not weeks. And now my grandmother is gone, and I can't even muster up a single tear.
We weren't close in the last five or so years. She and my grandfather moved back to Taiwan. We hardly spoke, and when we did, it was over my dad's shoulder as they talked on Skype -- him writing his responses to her in large black script on scratch paper so that she could see because her hearing had long started to deteriorate. We did a lot of waving. Forced smiles. The small, shrunken figure I saw on my dad's iPad screen seemed to bear less and less resemblance to the formidable woman who used to kick my ass at ping pong every weekend.
Even though the last few years had their share of acrimony and exasperation, I reflect now on all the ways she expressed her love. In fact, up until two sentences ago, I had forgotten that my grandmother was the one who taught me how to play ping pong. She used to bring over pickled daikon and carrots all the time because she knew I liked them -- either that or that was one of two things she knew how to make. Lucky for her, I really liked her 八寶粥 as well. Whenever we went to her apartment, she would be sure to have ice cream on hand. I think she would get them just for us -- little plastic cartons of strawberry and vanilla or chocolate swirl that you ate with a small wooden stick. She would always bring over extra things from her senior center brown bags, even when my mom would beg her not to. That was grandma's way.
I really don't know how to say goodbye. Because of her, I never lacked a strong female role model in my life. I could never complain about hardship because grandma was once shot at as the military arrived to break up a protest. If birthing and raising five children couldn't break grandma's spirit, I could sure as hell survive an organic chemistry lab practical. Nasty woman runs in my blood y'all.
I don't think I've processed this enough to cry, but I don't think Grandma would want me to cry. Especially in times like these, grandma would want me to fight. Because if I'm not fighting, I'm not living.
Sunday, December 18, 2016
Queen Fibroid
It's been two days since my first surgery -- a laparascopic uterine myomectomy, or in layman's terms, a fibroid removal. I've been meaning to write about this since I first found out about the fibroid in October, but as usual, life, school, and my own laziness have gotten in the way. Now the pain is pleasantly muted by some truly A+ narcotics, my mind is warm and cottony, and I'm going to do my best to provide a faithful account of my experience.
This story actually starts over a year ago, before I started medical school. One of my goals before entering medical school was to lose some weight, because let's face it, no one will take advice about obesity from an obese doctor. I started to go on morning runs in the nearby park. Every once in a while, if I ran too far or too fast, I would get really bad cramps followed by some spotting. Sometimes, the pain would be so bad, I would have to sit down on a bench and breathe through it until the episode died down. My mom convinced me to go to a doctor to get it checked out. At the time, I had insurance under Americorps, so I figured, why not, preventative care is free.
When I told the doctor at North Eastern Medical Services (NEMS) about my symptoms, she told me it was most likely a fibroid. She said that she could give me a referral for a ultrasound, but mostly likely, the ultrasound would only confirm the diagnosis. My symptoms were relatively mild and, in most cases, doctors choose to leave the fibroid in unless it is seriously detracting from the quality of life. I wasn't about to pay $100+ for a test that would only tell me something that I already knew, so I filed away this fibroid business to the back of my mind and just accepted the cramps as a part of exercise (No pain, no gain, and all that).
Fast forward to three months ago, when I started learning about pelvic exams in school. We were taught to palpate the inguinal region to see if we could detect any bumps (we shouldn't) that could correspond to problems with ovaries or even the uterus. As any good med student would do, I immediately went home to palpate the heck out of my inguinal region. I lied in bed and followed the oblique line of my inguinal ligament until my fingers pressed upon a large lump. Deeper pressure elicited a crampy sensation. A general rule of thumb when detecting a lump/abnormality is to check for symmetry. If the abnormality is equal and present on both sides of the body, it's less likely to be something bad. I checked hopefully on the opposite side and felt nothing. Crap.
I lied awake in bed and contemplated my own mortality.
The next morning, I made an appointment at the Student Health Center. The physician was super helpful and confirmed the presence of the lump with a bimanual exam (something that the doctor at NEMS never did). Things moved relatively quickly from that point on. I was given a referral to the radiologist for a pelvic ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed that the fibroid was larger than my uterus (11.5cm x 11.6cm), but fortunately, it was pedunculated (or attached by a stalk) so it would be relatively easy to remove. I tried to make an appointment at the UCSF OB-GYN, but they informed me that the earliest appointment would probably be in December. I may have shamelessly pulled the "I am a medical student, please help me so that I can get this done before I take Step One and disappear off the face of the earth, Queen Fibroid and all" card. Miraculously, the doctor called me the next day and squeezed me in for an appointment in early October.
Those two weeks seemed surreal. I didn't tell anyone about what I had found or what I was doing. If it turned out that I didn't need to have surgery, why worry my family prematurely as they waited for news? I confided in my sister after I scheduled my appointment with the OB-GYN, but we decided that I would tell my parents only if it turned out that I needed to have surgery. It was a time of high stress and uncertainty. Two weeks, three appointments -- it felt like I had more things inserted in my hoo-ha than I have had in my entire lifetime. (Let me tell you, pelvic ultrasounds are NOT fun. The ultrasound technician may have laughed at my face of horror when she showed me the transducer.) I would get asked the same questions over and over again: "When was your last period?", "Is there a possibility you might be pregnant?", "Have you ever had an STI?" My personal favorite is the doctor who asked me if I might be pregnant, to whom I responded, "Not unless Jesus is coming again." and then she proceeded to give me a STI test just in case. Thanks for the vote of confidence, ma'am.
Once I met with my OB-GYN in October, she confirmed that I would be needing the surgery. Though I wasn't having the worst symptoms (heavy bleeding, bad cramps during menstruation), the fibroid was large enough that it was compressing my bladder and they had concerns that it might continue to grow. When Dr. Illagansakare (YEAH. TRY PRONOUNCING THAT. Took me at least three encounters to get that right.) told me about the bladder compression, I was like "OMG. That's why I always need to pee!" Rotations are looking up, y'all.
I was scheduled for surgery on December 15th. A huge shout out to all the school admin who helped coordinate everything -- to Dean Jones who met with me personally to express his support and to Dr. Hyland who was so sweet about rescheduling my exam and checking in on me.
After all the dates were set, I was able to forget about the surgery for a good month or so. I had a minor scare with the insurance company two weeks before the scheduled date, when they rejected my insurance claim for the surgery. When I received the call from UCSF, I was incensed. I was ready to sue everybody. Who are these people to deny me this surgery, telling me it's medically unnecessary?? TELL THAT TO MY BLADDER. I spent an hour on hold with the insurance company the next day, and it would later turn out that there was a mistake on UCSF's part. They had coded the procedure as a hysterectomy and my insurance company, seeing I am a healthy 24yo F, was like "Um. Why are you removing her healthy viable uterus? Let's re-think this."
The run-in with the insurance company gave me another moment to reflect on how lucky I am. After a day of despair and anger, I was able to sort out the situation and eventually get the procedure that I needed. I can't imagine what would have happened if I didn't have the medical/bureaucratic literacy to navigate the system or the inherent inflated sense of entitlement to be like "No. I am getting this procedure." Or if I wasn't a student and I didn't have time to just spend essentially 1.5 hours on the phone with the insurance company during business hours. Or if I didn't have the necessary English proficiency to negotiate with the insurance representatives. This minor headache could have been a real nightmare.
The two or three days before the surgery, I had the worst sleep of my life. I was nervous about my exam and anxious about the surgery. By the morning of the procedure, I was almost looking forward to it -- sedation guaranteed the best sleep of my life.
The worst part about the whole surgery was the IV. I have the worst veins. Every phlebotomist I have ever encountered has called me a "hard stick". Once, a nurse told me that if I exercised more, my veins would be bigger (Dis Bitch. I now run 3 miles a day and lift and still have no palpable veins. All that exercise for NOTHING). Anyways, it took them three sticks to get a usable IV. A nurse tried, then the anesthesiologist's nurse assistant, and finally the anesthesiologist got it to work. I was super close to begging them to just give me laughing gas before they stuck me to their heart's content. Once the IV was in, they rolled me down the hallway and to the OR.
Upon getting in the OR, I remember them telling me to get up on the table. I remember saying "Wow, this table is super comfortable. I want one of these pillows for my bed." I remember someone saying, "I don't think anyone has ever said that before." Then laughing, then nothing.
The next thing I remember is coming to in the recovery room, distraught about everything. My nose was stuffy, snotty from apparently crying for the past 30 minutes. My sister and Dad were there trying to comfort me. I had just found out that I had to stay the night in the hospital, and I remember moaning, "I'm OK. I can go home. I can go home, I'm fine. I want to go home." My Dad told me they got a parking ticket and I think I cried about that for another hour. My sister claims I cried for 3 hours straight. Of course, she provided ample video documentation. At the risk of tearing my stitches, I watched these videos and I can attest that they are hilarious. I'll wait before I'm completely recovered before I share them. Too good, comic gold.
A brief preview:
Me: "TICKET!!!! (sobs)"
(brief pause)
Me: "Is there Wifi?"
or
Me: (look of intense betrayal) "You took my phone?"
Me: (Throws head back dramatically and starts sobbing)
My family has been super supportive through the whole thing. My sister took two days off work. She spent the night before my surgery with me in SF and took me to eat wings to help me keep my mind off things. My parents left San Jose at 4AM to take me to the hospital at 5AM. My family sat with me in the hospital as I humiliated myself and cried all the way from the recovery room to my hospital bed. My sister brought me jajangmyun and fried chicken for dinner (I hadn't eaten since midnight the night before. The doctors didn't believe I would be up to eating for a while...I proved them wrong.) Amy also stayed with me overnight in the hospital, brought me my First Aid book when I deliriously requested it in my semi-conscious state, and was an overall trooper through this entire experience.
I cannot express how thankful I am for my family for being with me from the start to the end. Even now they insist on feeding me foods I like and making soup "for my recovery". I also appreciate all the friends who have checked in or stopped by to drop off home-cooked meals and pray for me. I definitely feel the love!
As for the procedure itself, it was a success. They got Queen Fibroid out completely and we are now waiting from the report from Pathology to know the final weight. The surgery was supposed to be laparoscopic but I was losing too much blood so they had to make a fourth, larger incision from which to remove the fibroid in strips. They kept me overnight in the hospital to monitor me for any negative effects from the blood loss.
The doctor gave me a truly gnarly picture of the fibroid, cut into strips. Let me know if you want to see it, I would love to share. hehe. I am so used to showing this picture to med students who are like "AWW YISSSS. OMGGGG. THAT'S HUGE. WELL DONE." that I forgot when I was showing my childhood friend and she gasped and clutched her chest and was like "Warn a girl first!!!!" Oops.
Anyways, yes, I am now home eating donuts and doped up on Norco. Overall, a happy recovery! Another big thank you to everyone who has supported me along the way. I really appreciate you guys being in my life. :)
This story actually starts over a year ago, before I started medical school. One of my goals before entering medical school was to lose some weight, because let's face it, no one will take advice about obesity from an obese doctor. I started to go on morning runs in the nearby park. Every once in a while, if I ran too far or too fast, I would get really bad cramps followed by some spotting. Sometimes, the pain would be so bad, I would have to sit down on a bench and breathe through it until the episode died down. My mom convinced me to go to a doctor to get it checked out. At the time, I had insurance under Americorps, so I figured, why not, preventative care is free.
When I told the doctor at North Eastern Medical Services (NEMS) about my symptoms, she told me it was most likely a fibroid. She said that she could give me a referral for a ultrasound, but mostly likely, the ultrasound would only confirm the diagnosis. My symptoms were relatively mild and, in most cases, doctors choose to leave the fibroid in unless it is seriously detracting from the quality of life. I wasn't about to pay $100+ for a test that would only tell me something that I already knew, so I filed away this fibroid business to the back of my mind and just accepted the cramps as a part of exercise (No pain, no gain, and all that).
Fast forward to three months ago, when I started learning about pelvic exams in school. We were taught to palpate the inguinal region to see if we could detect any bumps (we shouldn't) that could correspond to problems with ovaries or even the uterus. As any good med student would do, I immediately went home to palpate the heck out of my inguinal region. I lied in bed and followed the oblique line of my inguinal ligament until my fingers pressed upon a large lump. Deeper pressure elicited a crampy sensation. A general rule of thumb when detecting a lump/abnormality is to check for symmetry. If the abnormality is equal and present on both sides of the body, it's less likely to be something bad. I checked hopefully on the opposite side and felt nothing. Crap.
I lied awake in bed and contemplated my own mortality.
The next morning, I made an appointment at the Student Health Center. The physician was super helpful and confirmed the presence of the lump with a bimanual exam (something that the doctor at NEMS never did). Things moved relatively quickly from that point on. I was given a referral to the radiologist for a pelvic ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed that the fibroid was larger than my uterus (11.5cm x 11.6cm), but fortunately, it was pedunculated (or attached by a stalk) so it would be relatively easy to remove. I tried to make an appointment at the UCSF OB-GYN, but they informed me that the earliest appointment would probably be in December. I may have shamelessly pulled the "I am a medical student, please help me so that I can get this done before I take Step One and disappear off the face of the earth, Queen Fibroid and all" card. Miraculously, the doctor called me the next day and squeezed me in for an appointment in early October.
Those two weeks seemed surreal. I didn't tell anyone about what I had found or what I was doing. If it turned out that I didn't need to have surgery, why worry my family prematurely as they waited for news? I confided in my sister after I scheduled my appointment with the OB-GYN, but we decided that I would tell my parents only if it turned out that I needed to have surgery. It was a time of high stress and uncertainty. Two weeks, three appointments -- it felt like I had more things inserted in my hoo-ha than I have had in my entire lifetime. (Let me tell you, pelvic ultrasounds are NOT fun. The ultrasound technician may have laughed at my face of horror when she showed me the transducer.) I would get asked the same questions over and over again: "When was your last period?", "Is there a possibility you might be pregnant?", "Have you ever had an STI?" My personal favorite is the doctor who asked me if I might be pregnant, to whom I responded, "Not unless Jesus is coming again." and then she proceeded to give me a STI test just in case. Thanks for the vote of confidence, ma'am.
Once I met with my OB-GYN in October, she confirmed that I would be needing the surgery. Though I wasn't having the worst symptoms (heavy bleeding, bad cramps during menstruation), the fibroid was large enough that it was compressing my bladder and they had concerns that it might continue to grow. When Dr. Illagansakare (YEAH. TRY PRONOUNCING THAT. Took me at least three encounters to get that right.) told me about the bladder compression, I was like "OMG. That's why I always need to pee!" Rotations are looking up, y'all.
I was scheduled for surgery on December 15th. A huge shout out to all the school admin who helped coordinate everything -- to Dean Jones who met with me personally to express his support and to Dr. Hyland who was so sweet about rescheduling my exam and checking in on me.
After all the dates were set, I was able to forget about the surgery for a good month or so. I had a minor scare with the insurance company two weeks before the scheduled date, when they rejected my insurance claim for the surgery. When I received the call from UCSF, I was incensed. I was ready to sue everybody. Who are these people to deny me this surgery, telling me it's medically unnecessary?? TELL THAT TO MY BLADDER. I spent an hour on hold with the insurance company the next day, and it would later turn out that there was a mistake on UCSF's part. They had coded the procedure as a hysterectomy and my insurance company, seeing I am a healthy 24yo F, was like "Um. Why are you removing her healthy viable uterus? Let's re-think this."
The run-in with the insurance company gave me another moment to reflect on how lucky I am. After a day of despair and anger, I was able to sort out the situation and eventually get the procedure that I needed. I can't imagine what would have happened if I didn't have the medical/bureaucratic literacy to navigate the system or the inherent inflated sense of entitlement to be like "No. I am getting this procedure." Or if I wasn't a student and I didn't have time to just spend essentially 1.5 hours on the phone with the insurance company during business hours. Or if I didn't have the necessary English proficiency to negotiate with the insurance representatives. This minor headache could have been a real nightmare.
The two or three days before the surgery, I had the worst sleep of my life. I was nervous about my exam and anxious about the surgery. By the morning of the procedure, I was almost looking forward to it -- sedation guaranteed the best sleep of my life.
The worst part about the whole surgery was the IV. I have the worst veins. Every phlebotomist I have ever encountered has called me a "hard stick". Once, a nurse told me that if I exercised more, my veins would be bigger (Dis Bitch. I now run 3 miles a day and lift and still have no palpable veins. All that exercise for NOTHING). Anyways, it took them three sticks to get a usable IV. A nurse tried, then the anesthesiologist's nurse assistant, and finally the anesthesiologist got it to work. I was super close to begging them to just give me laughing gas before they stuck me to their heart's content. Once the IV was in, they rolled me down the hallway and to the OR.
Upon getting in the OR, I remember them telling me to get up on the table. I remember saying "Wow, this table is super comfortable. I want one of these pillows for my bed." I remember someone saying, "I don't think anyone has ever said that before." Then laughing, then nothing.
The next thing I remember is coming to in the recovery room, distraught about everything. My nose was stuffy, snotty from apparently crying for the past 30 minutes. My sister and Dad were there trying to comfort me. I had just found out that I had to stay the night in the hospital, and I remember moaning, "I'm OK. I can go home. I can go home, I'm fine. I want to go home." My Dad told me they got a parking ticket and I think I cried about that for another hour. My sister claims I cried for 3 hours straight. Of course, she provided ample video documentation. At the risk of tearing my stitches, I watched these videos and I can attest that they are hilarious. I'll wait before I'm completely recovered before I share them. Too good, comic gold.
A brief preview:
Me: "TICKET!!!! (sobs)"
(brief pause)
Me: "Is there Wifi?"
or
Me: (look of intense betrayal) "You took my phone?"
Me: (Throws head back dramatically and starts sobbing)
My family has been super supportive through the whole thing. My sister took two days off work. She spent the night before my surgery with me in SF and took me to eat wings to help me keep my mind off things. My parents left San Jose at 4AM to take me to the hospital at 5AM. My family sat with me in the hospital as I humiliated myself and cried all the way from the recovery room to my hospital bed. My sister brought me jajangmyun and fried chicken for dinner (I hadn't eaten since midnight the night before. The doctors didn't believe I would be up to eating for a while...I proved them wrong.) Amy also stayed with me overnight in the hospital, brought me my First Aid book when I deliriously requested it in my semi-conscious state, and was an overall trooper through this entire experience.
I cannot express how thankful I am for my family for being with me from the start to the end. Even now they insist on feeding me foods I like and making soup "for my recovery". I also appreciate all the friends who have checked in or stopped by to drop off home-cooked meals and pray for me. I definitely feel the love!
As for the procedure itself, it was a success. They got Queen Fibroid out completely and we are now waiting from the report from Pathology to know the final weight. The surgery was supposed to be laparoscopic but I was losing too much blood so they had to make a fourth, larger incision from which to remove the fibroid in strips. They kept me overnight in the hospital to monitor me for any negative effects from the blood loss.
Anyways, yes, I am now home eating donuts and doped up on Norco. Overall, a happy recovery! Another big thank you to everyone who has supported me along the way. I really appreciate you guys being in my life. :)
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Up In Smoke
Last night, I watched my neighbor's house burn down. As I look across the street at the burned husk of what used to be a home, I can't help but reflect on how quickly life can change. Two families were made homeless overnight. At the same time, a neighborhood of strangers came together to form a supportive community.
We were sitting in the living room watching the Olympics when we first smelled the smoke. My Dad said, "It might be from the fire in Watsonville."But it didn't smell like a campfire, it smelled more like burnt rubber. Amy immediately starts looking around to see if any of our outlets are smoking, I check the backyard to see if someone has been setting off fireworks again, and my Dad goes out the front door. Suddenly, I hear my Dad yelling and sprinting up our driveway -- "THE HOUSE ACROSS THE STREET IS ON FIRE!" Everyone explodes into action. Amy runs to call 911. My dad has already grabbed the garden hose and has run across the street. I roll out the hose for him and turn on the water, but our hose is far too short to reach the flames. The best we could do is wet the car and the front lawn in hopes of slowing down the fire. My Dad has me try to turn on our neighbor's hose, but their water pressure is much too weak for it to be of any use. My Dad yells, "Someone get Victoria!" I'm like, "Who's Victoria??" Out of the corner of my eye, I see the neighbor next door to the burning building (who turns out to be Victoria) jump into their car and move it. At this point, the fire is creeping closer and closer to the front of the house, where there are several cars parked. I hear my sister and my mom yelling, "Get back! The cars will explode! YOU IDIOTS, get back!" We have to drag my father back to our side of the street. We later find out that the husband of the house works on cars in his backyard and that there is something like 5-6 cars in his backyard and a small plane in their garage.
My sister has the phone in hand, "911 has me on hold!" she murmurs in disbelief. It turns out that the dispatchers had probably been inundated with calls from our neighborhood. The firefighters arrive in less than 10 minutes.
Neighbors and strangers are now gathering. Luckily, a firetruck parked right in front of our driveway so people stood instead on the lawn next door. They climbed his pickup truck in an attempt to get a better view. Dozens of cell phone screens documented the chaos that was happening across the street. There are no less than six firetrucks parked in our neighborhood now. We await breathlessly as they roll out the hose. "Why don't they turn it on already," someone exclaims. In that moment, we all became expert firefighters with strong opinions on how fires should be put out.
Victoria's family and dogs have been evacuated; she joins us on our driveway. We count the cars in the neighbor's driveway and are reasonably sure that they are not home. "What about the dog?" we ask with dawning realization, a fluffy white friendly beast that has been a thorn in my parents' side since it decided that our front yard was its favorite place to poop. I remember turning to my sister, who whispered in horror, "I hated that dog, but I didn't want it to die."
Just a few hours before the fire, Victoria had brought over a bagful of homegrown tomatoes. As we watched the chaos across the street, she remarked ruefully, "Good thing I picked those tomatoes. The plants are right over there by the fence on fire." Also, can I take a moment to say what a BOSS Victoria is? Lady is PREPARED. Apparently, she grew up in Florida, where evacuating their home for hurricanes is a pretty common event. She apparently had all her important documents in a box in a closet by the front door. We all need to learn to be more like Victoria.
The fire has spread throughout the entire house at this point. When we first arrived on scene, the fire was localized to the back of the house. Now, the flames are bursting out of the upstairs front window. We watch apprehensively as cinders float across the street. We fear that the massive tree on our lawn will catch fire.
The neighborhood is a cacophony of sirens and alarms, but at the same time it feels like we are drowning in silence.
As the fire is slowly contained, we hear that the family has returned. Is the dog with them? It turns out that when the firefighters had knocked down the fence in an attempt to attack the fire from the side, the terrified dog had streaked out of the flaming yard. Praise God, the dog is OK! Everyone breathes a sigh of relief as the entire family is accounted for.
We have only exchanged words with these neighbors a handful of times. Once or twice about the dog poop on our lawn. Another time when my Dad spotted someone breaking into their car at 5AM. As we walk up to the mother, she is visibly in shock. My Dad offers our house and tea to her and her family. As she pulls out her phone to call her son, her hand is shaking so badly she can't press the buttons. I put my arms around her and press her trembling hands.
It was a long night. The fire started around 9PM. The family stayed at our house and sorted out their affairs with the firefighters, Red Cross, and the insurance company until 1AM. The firefighters stayed even later to clear out the debris and rope off the house.
The Red Cross was able to find accommodations for both families. The firefighters give them $100 to tide them over for a few days. We offer to take care of the dog for the night.
It's crazy how many things there are to worry about after a house fire. On top of losing mementos and official documents, the wife worried about not having her husband's diabetes medication. The solar panel company had to be called to turn them off. The wires had been damaged so badly that if they were still on when the sun came out, the house could reignite. Both families had dogs that needed to be boarded for the upcoming days but most hotels wouldn't take them. The husband called StateFarm (to my eternal disappoint, the agent's name was not Jake) and when asked what the problem was, he stated bluntly, "My house just burned down." We all laughed, a moment of startled levity despite the circumstances. The family realized that they had bought the insurance years ago and had never really read over the terms; all the papers going over the contract were now reduced to glowing embers across the street. (My sister and I immediately turn to our Mom and demand to know whether we have house insurance. We do.)
The events of last night have gone a long ways in restoring my faith in humanity. Yes, there were rubberneckers there hoping to catch a glimpse of the action, but there were also just as many neighbors exchanging numbers, asking if there was anything they could do, and offering up their homes. The firefighters told us this isn't always the case. Apparently, in some neighborhoods, people come out, watch/film the fire, and then go back in their homes and close their doors. Unbelievable.
In the end, we are just grateful that no one was hurt. I think the entire neighborhood is going to look into their insurance policies and make emergency evacuation plans. It was definitely a much-needed wake-up call, but man! This neighborhood has been through some shit. Four houses and numerous cars broken into and now a two-alarm fire.
So yeah, lesson learned -- say "Hi" to your neighbors from time to time, you never know when you'll be knocking on their door for help.
We were sitting in the living room watching the Olympics when we first smelled the smoke. My Dad said, "It might be from the fire in Watsonville."But it didn't smell like a campfire, it smelled more like burnt rubber. Amy immediately starts looking around to see if any of our outlets are smoking, I check the backyard to see if someone has been setting off fireworks again, and my Dad goes out the front door. Suddenly, I hear my Dad yelling and sprinting up our driveway -- "THE HOUSE ACROSS THE STREET IS ON FIRE!" Everyone explodes into action. Amy runs to call 911. My dad has already grabbed the garden hose and has run across the street. I roll out the hose for him and turn on the water, but our hose is far too short to reach the flames. The best we could do is wet the car and the front lawn in hopes of slowing down the fire. My Dad has me try to turn on our neighbor's hose, but their water pressure is much too weak for it to be of any use. My Dad yells, "Someone get Victoria!" I'm like, "Who's Victoria??" Out of the corner of my eye, I see the neighbor next door to the burning building (who turns out to be Victoria) jump into their car and move it. At this point, the fire is creeping closer and closer to the front of the house, where there are several cars parked. I hear my sister and my mom yelling, "Get back! The cars will explode! YOU IDIOTS, get back!" We have to drag my father back to our side of the street. We later find out that the husband of the house works on cars in his backyard and that there is something like 5-6 cars in his backyard and a small plane in their garage.
My sister has the phone in hand, "911 has me on hold!" she murmurs in disbelief. It turns out that the dispatchers had probably been inundated with calls from our neighborhood. The firefighters arrive in less than 10 minutes.
Neighbors and strangers are now gathering. Luckily, a firetruck parked right in front of our driveway so people stood instead on the lawn next door. They climbed his pickup truck in an attempt to get a better view. Dozens of cell phone screens documented the chaos that was happening across the street. There are no less than six firetrucks parked in our neighborhood now. We await breathlessly as they roll out the hose. "Why don't they turn it on already," someone exclaims. In that moment, we all became expert firefighters with strong opinions on how fires should be put out.
Victoria's family and dogs have been evacuated; she joins us on our driveway. We count the cars in the neighbor's driveway and are reasonably sure that they are not home. "What about the dog?" we ask with dawning realization, a fluffy white friendly beast that has been a thorn in my parents' side since it decided that our front yard was its favorite place to poop. I remember turning to my sister, who whispered in horror, "I hated that dog, but I didn't want it to die."
Just a few hours before the fire, Victoria had brought over a bagful of homegrown tomatoes. As we watched the chaos across the street, she remarked ruefully, "Good thing I picked those tomatoes. The plants are right over there by the fence on fire." Also, can I take a moment to say what a BOSS Victoria is? Lady is PREPARED. Apparently, she grew up in Florida, where evacuating their home for hurricanes is a pretty common event. She apparently had all her important documents in a box in a closet by the front door. We all need to learn to be more like Victoria.
The fire has spread throughout the entire house at this point. When we first arrived on scene, the fire was localized to the back of the house. Now, the flames are bursting out of the upstairs front window. We watch apprehensively as cinders float across the street. We fear that the massive tree on our lawn will catch fire.
The neighborhood is a cacophony of sirens and alarms, but at the same time it feels like we are drowning in silence.
As the fire is slowly contained, we hear that the family has returned. Is the dog with them? It turns out that when the firefighters had knocked down the fence in an attempt to attack the fire from the side, the terrified dog had streaked out of the flaming yard. Praise God, the dog is OK! Everyone breathes a sigh of relief as the entire family is accounted for.
We have only exchanged words with these neighbors a handful of times. Once or twice about the dog poop on our lawn. Another time when my Dad spotted someone breaking into their car at 5AM. As we walk up to the mother, she is visibly in shock. My Dad offers our house and tea to her and her family. As she pulls out her phone to call her son, her hand is shaking so badly she can't press the buttons. I put my arms around her and press her trembling hands.
It was a long night. The fire started around 9PM. The family stayed at our house and sorted out their affairs with the firefighters, Red Cross, and the insurance company until 1AM. The firefighters stayed even later to clear out the debris and rope off the house.
The Red Cross was able to find accommodations for both families. The firefighters give them $100 to tide them over for a few days. We offer to take care of the dog for the night.
It's crazy how many things there are to worry about after a house fire. On top of losing mementos and official documents, the wife worried about not having her husband's diabetes medication. The solar panel company had to be called to turn them off. The wires had been damaged so badly that if they were still on when the sun came out, the house could reignite. Both families had dogs that needed to be boarded for the upcoming days but most hotels wouldn't take them. The husband called StateFarm (to my eternal disappoint, the agent's name was not Jake) and when asked what the problem was, he stated bluntly, "My house just burned down." We all laughed, a moment of startled levity despite the circumstances. The family realized that they had bought the insurance years ago and had never really read over the terms; all the papers going over the contract were now reduced to glowing embers across the street. (My sister and I immediately turn to our Mom and demand to know whether we have house insurance. We do.)
The events of last night have gone a long ways in restoring my faith in humanity. Yes, there were rubberneckers there hoping to catch a glimpse of the action, but there were also just as many neighbors exchanging numbers, asking if there was anything they could do, and offering up their homes. The firefighters told us this isn't always the case. Apparently, in some neighborhoods, people come out, watch/film the fire, and then go back in their homes and close their doors. Unbelievable.
In the end, we are just grateful that no one was hurt. I think the entire neighborhood is going to look into their insurance policies and make emergency evacuation plans. It was definitely a much-needed wake-up call, but man! This neighborhood has been through some shit. Four houses and numerous cars broken into and now a two-alarm fire.
So yeah, lesson learned -- say "Hi" to your neighbors from time to time, you never know when you'll be knocking on their door for help.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Meaning of Service
So it's summer and I've sold my soul for ~$1000/week to teach rich kids science. After three weeks on the job, I can definitely say these children are of a different breed from the underserved kids I have worked with in the past. But I'll save those stories for a different time.
I've been thinking a lot about my future. More specifically, I've been worrying over whether I should be doing more for my projected career path. I still have no idea what specialty (or non-specialty) I want to go into. I'm spending this summer working for $$$ instead of doing any meaningful research or volunteerism. I feel like I burnt out all my ambition trying to get into medical school and now that I'm here, I've been coasting. Honestly, I could be working harder and doing more, but after a year of being in the workforce, I feel like my priorities have shifted. I'm too old to be making myself try things I don't enjoy in an attempt to fatten my resume. I'm over building and investing in relationships with new people. I'm beef jerky -- med school applications have leeched me of my succulent youth and vitality. I don't want to lean in...I just want to lie down. (Baby Cobra is my life goal right now.)
Anyways, I haven't emerged from my months-long blogging dry spell (just) to complain. There's been a lot going on in my father's side of the family and watching my Dad weather through it all has reminded me of all the reasons why I appreciate him so much. Even though sometimes he frustrates me on a visceral level that only family can attain, my Dad is a good man and I am proud to be his daughter.
This weekend, my Dad took us to visit an older woman with whom we attended church back in the day. Grandma ZQ is now 93 years old and I have the vaguest, almost fantastical, recollection of her in a knitted white cardigan and a silk scarf. My parents met her when they were still young Christians -- my sister was still little and I barely alive. My only recollections of that church involve stealing sugar cubes from the coffee cart to suck on and flashing the audience (and my horrified parents) from the stage on Palm Sunday.
Though I barely remember her, Grandma ZQ embraced us each like family as she welcomed us into her home. She was so excited to see us, she was breathless as she herded us around her pristine apartment. She kept on repeating that she was "so happy to see us". At first, this struck me as rather weird. Her name was one that I had heard around our house every once in a blue moon, but I could not remember the last time that we had visited her. But as we sat with her Saturday afternoon, she regaled us with stories about the things that my parents had done for her over the years.
Grandma ZQ was diagnosed with cancer when she was 35. She was told she had two years to live. She was part of the first test group of patients to receive rudimentary radiation treatment in China. Out of that group, she was the only one to survive. Her family was once well-known in China, but they lost it all in the cultural revolution; her family home remains a historical landmark to this day. Rather than being embittered by her losses, Grandma ZQ is one of the most positive human beings I have ever met. She was just so grateful for everything that she had and generous with anything extra she'd been given.
When my parents attended church with her, Grandma ZQ was diagnosed with another form of cancer. My father urged her to seek care, but most of her children were still in China, her only child in the US was busy at work. There was no one to take her to her treatments at Stanford. My Dad, being my Dad, volunteered to drive her. He and my mother took turns driving from San Jose to her home in Newark and stayed with her during her treatment at Stanford before driving her home. Grandma ZQ recounted the time that my father bought her a humidifier because the radiation treatment had debilitated her salivary glands, leaving her mouth and sinuses dry -- she even recalled that it had cost $59. (Mind like a steel trap, that one!) A lot of the things that she remembered and was still touched by, my parents didn't even remember doing. It just served as a reminder that people will always remember the way that you made them feel, even when you don't. There were probably times that my parents felt that they had bit off more than they could chew as they drove Grandma ZQ back and forth from her appointments, but I know that they had no regrets that afternoon as they saw how much their actions meant to her.
But that's just so much like my Dad. When he commits to doing something, he does it 100% and more importantly, he does it joyfully. I know I take more after my mom in this aspect. I'm more likely to think practically about how much something is going to cost me and how sustainable my actions will be. I also tend to get fed up with things once they become an annoyance or burden. But I thank God for that afternoon with Grandma ZQ. Not only did we leave laden with homemade buns and wontons (she emptied her fridge and thrust them upon us despite our vehement protests), but I left with a reminder of the true meaning and purpose of service. We are not called to serve merely when convenient, but whole-heartedly in all aspects of our lives. I hope that the next time such an opportunity presents itself, I will remember my Dad and Grandma ZQ and have the strength to do the right thing.
I've been thinking a lot about my future. More specifically, I've been worrying over whether I should be doing more for my projected career path. I still have no idea what specialty (or non-specialty) I want to go into. I'm spending this summer working for $$$ instead of doing any meaningful research or volunteerism. I feel like I burnt out all my ambition trying to get into medical school and now that I'm here, I've been coasting. Honestly, I could be working harder and doing more, but after a year of being in the workforce, I feel like my priorities have shifted. I'm too old to be making myself try things I don't enjoy in an attempt to fatten my resume. I'm over building and investing in relationships with new people. I'm beef jerky -- med school applications have leeched me of my succulent youth and vitality. I don't want to lean in...I just want to lie down. (Baby Cobra is my life goal right now.)
Anyways, I haven't emerged from my months-long blogging dry spell (just) to complain. There's been a lot going on in my father's side of the family and watching my Dad weather through it all has reminded me of all the reasons why I appreciate him so much. Even though sometimes he frustrates me on a visceral level that only family can attain, my Dad is a good man and I am proud to be his daughter.
This weekend, my Dad took us to visit an older woman with whom we attended church back in the day. Grandma ZQ is now 93 years old and I have the vaguest, almost fantastical, recollection of her in a knitted white cardigan and a silk scarf. My parents met her when they were still young Christians -- my sister was still little and I barely alive. My only recollections of that church involve stealing sugar cubes from the coffee cart to suck on and flashing the audience (and my horrified parents) from the stage on Palm Sunday.
Though I barely remember her, Grandma ZQ embraced us each like family as she welcomed us into her home. She was so excited to see us, she was breathless as she herded us around her pristine apartment. She kept on repeating that she was "so happy to see us". At first, this struck me as rather weird. Her name was one that I had heard around our house every once in a blue moon, but I could not remember the last time that we had visited her. But as we sat with her Saturday afternoon, she regaled us with stories about the things that my parents had done for her over the years.
Grandma ZQ was diagnosed with cancer when she was 35. She was told she had two years to live. She was part of the first test group of patients to receive rudimentary radiation treatment in China. Out of that group, she was the only one to survive. Her family was once well-known in China, but they lost it all in the cultural revolution; her family home remains a historical landmark to this day. Rather than being embittered by her losses, Grandma ZQ is one of the most positive human beings I have ever met. She was just so grateful for everything that she had and generous with anything extra she'd been given.
When my parents attended church with her, Grandma ZQ was diagnosed with another form of cancer. My father urged her to seek care, but most of her children were still in China, her only child in the US was busy at work. There was no one to take her to her treatments at Stanford. My Dad, being my Dad, volunteered to drive her. He and my mother took turns driving from San Jose to her home in Newark and stayed with her during her treatment at Stanford before driving her home. Grandma ZQ recounted the time that my father bought her a humidifier because the radiation treatment had debilitated her salivary glands, leaving her mouth and sinuses dry -- she even recalled that it had cost $59. (Mind like a steel trap, that one!) A lot of the things that she remembered and was still touched by, my parents didn't even remember doing. It just served as a reminder that people will always remember the way that you made them feel, even when you don't. There were probably times that my parents felt that they had bit off more than they could chew as they drove Grandma ZQ back and forth from her appointments, but I know that they had no regrets that afternoon as they saw how much their actions meant to her.
But that's just so much like my Dad. When he commits to doing something, he does it 100% and more importantly, he does it joyfully. I know I take more after my mom in this aspect. I'm more likely to think practically about how much something is going to cost me and how sustainable my actions will be. I also tend to get fed up with things once they become an annoyance or burden. But I thank God for that afternoon with Grandma ZQ. Not only did we leave laden with homemade buns and wontons (she emptied her fridge and thrust them upon us despite our vehement protests), but I left with a reminder of the true meaning and purpose of service. We are not called to serve merely when convenient, but whole-heartedly in all aspects of our lives. I hope that the next time such an opportunity presents itself, I will remember my Dad and Grandma ZQ and have the strength to do the right thing.
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