music to my ears

i'm in a mood for lots and lots and lots (did i mention LOTS?) of new music.
i'm listening to everything from m-flo to t-pain to the new pornographers to yo-yo ma.
it makes studying almost enjoyable.

got suggestions?
bring it on.

the juice is worth the squeeze

Since the start of this humble blog not so long ago, I've never mentioned the inspiration that led me to bestow the name of "Hope&Pomegranate". And even though you lovely readers out there have failed to ever inquire upon the subject, I am nonetheless here to offer a response.

I am a huge fan of exotic fruits. When I was a kid, my favorite fruits usually turned out to be the most expensive and hard-to-get fruits on the market. Starfruit, lychee, sugar cane, pomegranate, dragonfruit...loved 'em all. Apples, bananas, grapes were good, but they were just so ordinary and prevalent. I, being the little brat that I was, always wanted the off-season or imported fruits that sold in limited quantities for outrageous prices. As I grew older, my parents stopped showering me with gifts of exotic fruits and opted for simpler everyday ones. I didn't mind; I had more important things to worry about.

However, a little while back, my mother came home with a pomegranate, a fruit I hadn't remembered eating since my childhood. It was a gift from her co-worker and looked absolutely gorgeous. After dinner that night, my mother asked me if I wanted to have it for dessert along with some ice cream perhaps. Although my first inclination was to say yes, I paused and considered the consequences of my would-be decision. If I were to eat the pomegranate, I would first have to go through a series of tedious steps of cutting it open and wading through all the pulp in order to extract the seeds, only to find myself enjoying a few teaspoons of juice for a duration of seconds before having to spit out the seeds. I decided that it wasn't worth it and declined the offer.

For the next few days, that lonely pomegranate sat ignored in the fridge. I saw it every time I opened the the fridge, always glancing hungrily at it, but always too lazy to put in the effort. Poor pomegranate.

Finally, one afternoon I was absolutely dying for something sweet and juicy. My mother was running late from work and I was getting restless and hungry at home. I flung open the fridge door and without thinking, grabbed the long-abandoned fruit. I tore it open and began my long excavation of the plump, red seeds. Five minutes later, I had about 40 out of the approximate 600 tiny seeds extracted. ONLY FORTY! I could have engulfed an entire fuji apple already! Boy, was I frustrated!

But then I figured that since I had come so far, I might as well at least finish extracting the seeds for half of the fruit, saving the other half for later (or whoever else that may have the patience for such labor). So thirty minutes later, I had filled a bowl half-full with plump little red pomegranate seeds ready for the eating. I plunged my spoon into the bowl, scooped a spoonful and shoved it in my mouth. Immediately, the sweetest, most delectable juice I've ever tasted filled my mouth. My taste buds were in heaven, absolute heaven. I stared at the rest of my hard work sitting in the bowl, amazed. The juice was definitely worth the squeeze.

I have found that my walk with Christ and the process of acquiring Faith intrinsically parallels my incident with the pomegranate. The notion of having Faith was so appealing. I knew on a superficial, textbook level that having Faith in Him would do wonders in my life but at the same time, I didn't really want to commit and work hard at digging for things deep inside of me. I wanted the seeds to magically pop right out of the pomegranate and be mine for the taking. But somehow during these past few years, the people and situations that God has placed around me have really inspired me to dig for those seeds, spending frustrating days and weeks struggling with myself. And I can tell you, without knowing what's in store for me in the future, that the juice has already been worth the squeeze.

With more pomegranates in my fridge and increasing hope for the future, I write.

sometimes

i don't get many things right the first time
in fact, i am told that a lot
now i know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
brought me here

what if i'd been born fifty years before you
in a house on a street where you lived?
maybe i'd be outside as you passed on your bike
would i know?

and in a white sea of eyes
i see one pair that i recognize

next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties
and one day passed away in his sleep
and his wife; she stayed for a couple of days
and passed away

i'm sorry
i know that's a strange way to tell you that i know we belong
that i know

that i am
i am
i am
the luckiest.

unremarked courage

7:30 am this morning I walked timidly into a room full of surgical residents, orthopaedic fellows, radiologists, and attending physicians from the multiple musculoskeletal departments sitting around waiting for conference to start. As I took a seat quietly and unnoticed at the far back corner of the room, I noticed an attending physician drilling his first year resident on the best course of action regarding the treatment plans of a particular case. The resident replied each question with a professional tone, seemingly at ease and confident with his answers. However, I then realized that he was actually getting everything wrong when the attending practically yelled "NO NO NO!!! RADIATION IS DEFINITELY IMPOSSIBLE!" The resident fell silent as the attending went on to explain why. Then, before I knew it, he threw another question at him. The resident didn't look quite as confident now, his body language appearing slightly hesitant, but after a moment of consideration, the same confident, professional tone escaped his lips as he announced his answer. He was right this time and managed to escape the wrath of his attending, who only offered a seemingly unimpressed "Okay, good."
By the time the head of the orthopaedic oncology department, aka my advising clinical research doctor, arrived, the room was packed with a throng of white lab coats. Cases were presented and treatment plans discussed amongst the physicians and radiologists presenting the imaging scans. In the midst of my concentration, trying to keep my spinning, sleep-deprived brain from totally tuning out the myriad of intelligent-sounding yet utterly foreign medical terminology and jargon, I turned my attention back to the poor first year resident. Case by case, my adviser singled him out for questioning. The poor kid answered quickly and intelligently, even when he had no idea what the answer was and anxiously awaited for another "NO NO NO!!!" or at least an indication if he was correct. But my adviser just looked bored and replied to each response with a frustratingly vague, "So, that's what you would do...hmm okay." For once, I was glad I was being ignored. The last person I wanted to be was that first year resident.
It gets better.
At about 8:30, the conference ended and the crowd dispersed, leaving only those going on rounds remaining. This group consisted of my adviser, three orthopaedic surgical residents, including the first year, and a mix of rehab therapists and their respective students (plus me). We were led by the first year resident out of the conference room to see the first patient. Apparently a bit frazzled by the morning's activities already, he promptly led us, more importantly, my adviser, into the correct room on the wrong floor. He quickly realized his mistake, but not quick enough to dodge the tsunami of belittling jokes that ensued. My adviser asked him if he needed a GPS for rounds. The resident embarrassingly yet gracefully played along being the object of hilarity on this morning's rounds. I chuckled out of politeness but I felt a strange pang of anxiety and fear that I will inevitably be in his place in a few short years. After finding the correct room on the correct floor, the rest of rounds went by smoothly but not without constant reminder from my adviser of his slip.
I think I've hit a significant emotional state where I'm simultaneously terrified and fascinated with the field of medicine. I've always heard and known that interns, residents, and even fellows get constantly yelled at and belittled by those in positions above them; it's a regular part of the medical training process. But no amount of warning could prepare me for what I only got a taste of, through observing the resident this morning. The look in the attendings' condescending eyes alone can probably drive me insane. In a field where what you do may affect the well-being of someone's life, there is no room to be unnerved and commit a mistake even under the most judgmental eyes of your superiors. Yet, being human and inexperienced, things will go wrong. Patients may be harmed during a routine procedure just because it's your first time in action. You live every day knowing that if you do something right, it will go completely unnoticed but if you happen to make even a silly mistake as walking into the wrong room for rounds, you will be berated for your utter stupidity. But at the end of the day, no matter how you've failed, endured the scorn of those around you, or even been completely ignored, you have to remain persistent in your training and tackle the next day with the same energy and spirit as if the man you almost killed the other day didn't freak you out at all.

One day in the near future, I'm going to strap on that kind of bravery. I'm just relieved that today was not that day.

travels down under

Gosh, I've ignored this thing for forever. I knew I couldn't actually keep a blog...I'm such a commitment-phobe.

I got back from my travels Down Under about two weeks ago. Besides it being a "family vaca", it was truly a delightful experience being away from bustling cities and annoying people and the ever-present stress of exams for a month. For many people who've been to New Zealand, the untouched, gorgeous landscape is usually the main highlight. For me, it was the attitude and the cultural mindset of the people that stood out above the rest. The first impression that I had of these people was that they were all so laid-back and just chilllll. We stayed in many holiday parks, which are basically high-tech campsites with shared shower/kitchen facilities. One particular park in Westport, there were many Kiwis (what New Zealanders call themselves) from other parts of New Zealand who worked in Westport and lived in that holiday park five days a week. As we cooked dinner next to a bunch of them, we easily struck up conversations with them. By the end of the night, we had befriended half the camp and sang and laughed along with them. It was such a heart-warming moment. Moreover, I found the people of New Zealand to be just honest and good people in general. At every tourist location, not a single shopkeeper or tour agency came up to us to try to sell their product. They let us browse undisturbed and when we did want to purchase something or ask a question, they not only provided us with a comprehensive answer, they also introduced us to better money-saving deals that we weren't aware of. Maybe it's just me, but I haven't been to many places in the world with salesmen not obviously eager to make a good sale. I must say, the refreshing hospitality of the country was the icing on the cake of an incredible trip.

But now I'm back in the land of cities and pissed-off LA drivers and the impending doom that is the MCAT. Gosh, it's so depressing here.