Wilbur Larch

Breaking and Entering

2009-03-13T06:17:00.001-07:00

Have you ever done something criminal without intent?

Like, many people have left a store with something in their pocket they forgot to take out at check out. Something like that.

Did you go back and pay for it or return it? I mean, what are you supposed to do? You don't want to admit you stole something inadvertantly. They're going to give you a dirty look. They might even remember your face next time you're at the store!

You don't want to get blacklisted for a 25 cent packet of Juice Fruits. No!

Like what if you REALLY want to steal one day. Then you're screwed because they're always watching you. 'Oh, my god, Tasha. It's that guy who "accidentally" stole a packet of gum. We better keep a close eye on him."

I bring all of this up because I actually have unintentionally broken and entered a house in the past.

What happened was few of my friends and I were delivering a piano to an house where the owners had gone on a vacation and left the driver the key. The driver knew the homeowners personally and had been shown inside the house. And you have to understand, my involvement was very peripheral. I was just there to give a hand to move the piano.

The driver parks in the driveway at the house where we're supposed to drop off the piano. Two guys and I grab the piano from the back of the truck while the driver goes ahead of us to get the door. We rush to the piano to the front door when the driver guy says, "guys, the key isn't opening the door."

"What do you mean?"

"The key isn't working."

"Let me see that," I go working on the key. Jiggling and wiggling the key. And it doesn't work, "It's the wrong key. Try the other doors."

We go around and try to open all kinds of doors here and there. And none of the doors work. @#$@#!

And here's what happens. You know, one of my biggest strengths is also my worst! I don't like to take "no" for an answer. I mean, what are we going to do with the piano? Return it?

No! The piano is going into the damn house if it means I have to break and enter!

I rose to the occasion. I was meeting my life's challenges head on. I put on my McGuyver hat.

I pulled out a credit card. I shimmied the card in the space between the door and its frame. And in 10 seconds, I opened the door.

Yeah, I was THAT good. Like some spy. The guys were in awe, "you are the man, dog!"

More than anything, we were just glad that we didn't have to drive back to the place where we picked up the piano.

So we pick up the piano and run into the house. It couldn't have been three steps into the house when the driver guy says, "guys, something's not right."

"What is it this time?"

"I don't recognize the inside."

At this point, I have a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. The guy runs out of the house and looks at the house. And the thought enters my mind when from outside I hear, "@#$%, guys1 We're in the wrong @#$%^&* house! Get the @#$% out!"

"Oh, @#$%!" We grabbed that piano and loaded it onto the truck. Then we peel out of the driveway when our driver guy says.. "ah, we were supposed to go to that house," pointing to the next house down the road. We drive 50 feet down the road and onto the driveway, praying to God that the neighborhood Big Brother watch group has taken a day off.

Sure enough the key opens front door at the new house. We dropped the piano to where it was supposed to go and flew out there like bat out of hell.

And that's my story of accidentally breaking and entering into a stranger's house.

Political Implication of Benjamin Button the Movie

2009-02-26T05:06:00.001-08:00

Brad Pitt Facial Transformation (Ed Ulbrich. TED Talks: How Benjamin Button got his face)

When I watched "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button," I thought that they did a remarkable job with to make Brad Pitt look old. So imagine my surprise when I learned this morning via TED podcast that the old Brad faces were actually computer generated. What they did was a remarkable feat. Phosphorus marker was used to map out a basic set of human facial expressions (in this case, of Brad Pitt) which was then superimposed on an older facial model.

Besides the obvious entertainment applications, this holds a great political implication. Any head of a political state can now be recreated on the computer with his/her willing consent. For instance, this may be something that aging dictators (i.e. KIS of N. Korea) might want as a backup plan to keep the masses at bay. Osama bin Laden may have uses for this.

Granted, this is not possible in the immediate future. The technology is still in its infancy and is too expensive when compared to a body double. You'd need banks of computer to store and process. This may become an application for a routine public service announcement within ten years. There will be a need for public policy and law against the use of this technology for the purpose of deception, broadcast impersonation, identity presumption, etc.

Though this is no news, we do live in a brave new world.

America, revisited.

2009-02-25T17:33:00.001-08:00

America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America, sixty thousand IOU's. November 19, 2008.
I can't stand my own mind.
America, when will we end the human war?
I'm sick of you jacking off to warmongering videos on YouTube.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't rewrite this poem till I'm in my right mind.

America, when will you be a Bodhisattva?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you feed the hungry?
When will you be worthy of your million dead poets?
America, why are your libraries full of empty chairs?
America, when will you send your meds to Africa?

I'm sick of your insane demands.

When can I go on eBay and buy what I need with my good looks?
America, after all it is you and I who are perfect - not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Your starving, hysterical, naked poets are dead of bloody cirrhosis.

It's sinister.

Are you being sinister? Or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to a point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.

America, stop pushing I know what I'm doing.

America, the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't watched the news for months,
Everyday the old yell "terrorists!"
while the young kill each other.
America, I feel sentimental about the nine-to-five workers.
They cry every night wondering if life should be so pointless.
I stare at the moon, blue and poignant.
Everything is made from corn.

Damn it.

America, I used to be a Sunday school teacher and I'm very sorry.
Now I repent with the green, green tea every chance I get.
When I go to Chinatown I eat hot noodle soup and walk down the K-alley to the city light.

My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Tolstoy.
My parents think I'm perfectly crazy; and I won't say the Lord's Prayer anymore.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.

America, I still haven't told you what you did to Little Robert after he came over from Iraq.

Hey, I'm addressing you!

Are you going to let our emotional life be run by easyspeak Armani boys?

I'm obsessed by the tube.
I watch it when I don't want to be human.
It stares back like a mirror image of my self.
I even take it to go on my iPhone in the morning.
It's always telling me about patriotism.
Politicians are serious. Reverends are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
Everybody is talking about terrorism.

It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a Chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.

My national resources consist of two bags of green tea, millions of mis-educated emo kids,
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1 gigabytes an hour and twentyfivethousand nursing homes.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the 46 millions of uninsured,
who go to chiropractor for medical problems
acupuncturist for chiropractic problems,
and emergency room for pain pills.

I have abolished the orphanages of India, Haiti is the next to go.
My ambition is to be the President despite the fact that my eyes are slanty.

America, you are a free country. Aren't you?
America, how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like MLK.
My lines are as vivid as his dreams.

America, I will short all my verses against your burning stocks.
America, your CEOs jump from scrapers.

America, free Llasa; free Tibet
America, save the Invisible Children
America, creativity and the blue sky must not die.
America, I am the Guantanamo animals.

America, when I was thirteen, my family moved to New York.
I only knew three words of English, "Yes", "No", and "Thank you."
Children can be mean.
They spat at me for being a ching-chang-chong.

Still the sun shone brightly then and the fog wasn't as thick
You have no idea what a good thing blowjob was back in 1993.
Your president smoked cigars instead of coke.
Mother Teresa was still alive.

Everybody must have been a terrorist.
America, you don't really want to go to war.
America, it's them bad Terrorists.
Them Terrorists them Terrorists and them Muslims. And them Terrorists.
The Islam wants to eat us alive. The Islam is power mad.
Inshallah wants to take our children from our Jesus H. Christ.

China wants to grab Africa. Her needs oil reserves.

Her wants our auto plants in Detroit. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes wetbacks learn Ingles and Mandarin.
Him with two billion little slanty eyes like mine.

Hah!

Her make us work in Wal-Mart twenty-four hours a day. Halp!

America, this is quite serious.
America, this is the impression I get from the TV.
America, is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or replace desperate someone's desperate job
I'm unpunctual and narcoleptic anyway.

America, I'm sleeping hungry on the bare floor tonight.

- Credits to Allen Ginsberg

This is a tribute to Allen Ginsberg. He addressed America regarding the anti-communism hysteria in a sarcastic yet non-condescending undertone. I have been contemplating this poem for a while now. I draw a parallel of our era.

2008-07-24T21:53:00.000-07:00

In life, one must measure growth in all forms of one's personal wealth.

True wealth is an abundance of values. Ownership of values is universal, permanent and inalienable. The worth of these values does not change with time and becomes part of the person him/herself. It cannot be lost. By this definition, money is a poor measure of wealth. A person can experience great wealth as a hedge fund manager or a penniless sage. However, a wiser soul understands early in the course of life that there is a general negative correlation between material growth and personal wealth. One may possess much material wealth, but such things easily tax the mind and body. One is often tempted to throw away everything to take ownership of the self and everything else. For some, this is an absolutely necessary step. For others, this is an excuse to escape fear.

We should spend our energy and time in generation of valuable products. These are things which sustain our bodies, mature our minds, and lift our spirits. Most values and valuable products are universal to plants, animals, and people. Some examples of this include water, knowledge, experience, kinship, sunlight, the Nature, land, and the Self.

Knowledge is free. Once obtained, it cannot be taken away with threat - empty or otherwise. It can be freely shared as any true form of wealth is always experienced.

Wisdom, also, is free. Though seemingly hard to find at times, its only prerequisites are openness and proper discernment. Wisdom and experience nourish the generations of human beings whether they are rich or poor.

The right to express the opinions formed from knowledge and wisdom is a great treasure to humanity. Though we do not like to hear propaganda , true scientific process requires empiric observation of both true and false knowledge. Silence is only a fool's gold. Just expression of wisdom is much more valuable and precious. However, like all forms of wealth, one must not waste right speech on people to whom these values are lost. Values pass like wild fire when speech is free.

Time is our principle form of currency. Everyone is given 24 hours a day, yet some achieve more wealth than others. Those who do more with less do more with less because they understand well the value of time. The five stages of grieving are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Life is a long process involving these five processes in regards to death. If somehow one accepts death as the natural outcome of their life - as it is - one can finally appreciate time. Therefore, acceptance of one's death is the prerequisite for achieving great wealth.

Emphasis:

Acceptance of death allows appreciation of time.

Appreciation leads to proper expenditure of time.

Proper expenditure is wealth.

Example: Men and women of true wealth have accepted their death long before death accepted them.

Though the world is full of suffering, most relationships and interpersonal encounters are positive. It is through the meeting of people one learns values regarding human relationships.

Families are the building block of all relationship. These are people to whom we are born and with whom we will die. They help us form our fundamental values whether by good or by evil.

Friends form a natural extension from your family. They provide us with traditions of their ancestors with which to test the truths of our childhood values. True, lifelong friends are ones who forever hone our values by their love and gentleness.

Teachers are like bridges which connect islands of isolated values to a greater body of knowledge. By their instructions, we learn not subjects but a way to grasp the world and taste its fruits.

Ultimately, it's the strangers who teach us the most about values. Values we learn from our families, friends, and teachers are bound to be homogeneous and true only from a local perspective. Strangers present us with values different from our own. Through their eyes, we understand the partial failure of our current values in the universality test. Incorporating a strange custom, religion or tradition, one understands his ancestry and relationships in a new perspective with new insights. The more strangers we meet, the wiser and wealthier we become

Meeting of strangers cannot happen if one does not travel in the true sense of word.

One cannot travel if one does not appreciate the luxury of time.

Again, appreciation of time comes with acceptance of one's mortality.

Traveling not only provides opportunity to inherit foreign values but also teaches us values which are extrinsic from human relations.

When I was lonely, I appreciated the value of my loved ones.

When I was lost, I appreciated the value of my Self.

When I was thirsty, I appreciated the value of water.

When I was hungry, I appreciated the value of food.

When I was dirty, I appreciated hygiene.

When food and water was scarce, I appreciated the value of land, water, and the Sun.

Thirst forcing appreciation of true values, we purify ourselves from the former idea of wealth based on monetary currency which only serve to enslave us with false material security destined to betray us sooner or later. Rather than draining our energy and time into a drab, nine-to-five void, we find a good human balance to nurture all aspects of our lives all the while remaining in the creative force necessary to create material valuable which promote health in people, relationships, plants, animals, and planet.

Valuable products create wealth for the producer and consumer. Such things are appreciated for intrinsic value rather than the satisfaction of ownership. A bowl of rice is cherished for what it is. An expensive jewelry, not so. As such, one's daily function in a society should serve to enrich one's life as well as those who use his service. An ideal work brings inspiration and excitement on the way to work, provides the bare necessities of valuable products for one's own consumption, and produces goods and services which is in line with creating wealth for all. For example, a farmer enjoys his work, his works provides him with food and shelter, his land produces that which is healthy for everyone including himself.

The greatest inheritance is a wealth based on knowledge and wisdom. Proper knowledge enables children to self-nurture. Wise children discern wealth and the course of life which allows them to maximize their individual talents and creativity. Combined, these two values grow children to the fullest in Life. Such children do not repeat the mistakes of our fathers.

Then we inherit the greatest wealth to Life. Leaving the planet cleaner with gentle, kind, and loving children.

2008-07-18T18:32:00.000-07:00

Ten things I learned on my hitchhiking trip (or alternatively the Ten Commandments of Hitchhiking)

There is always more than one person going your way.
People want to help
Time is your greatest currency.
Smile.
Don't walk at night.
Don't walk on highway.
Don't try to hitch from a police officer.
Don't carry anything of monetary value except for one item.
Carry a CB radio.
Never settle for a ride which stops at Exit 24 on NC I40.

2008-07-07T08:48:00.000-07:00

Fresh asphalt, black burning tar

Walking free,

free as road debris, road kill

Locusts hop midst the wild crop

Great white clouds stroll down its own blue highway of a sky

Neither caring nor knowing where it goes

following the directions of the great smells.

Boycotting airlines and various forms of capitalism,

if only for a weekend,

Carrying all necessities on my sweaty back

Extra luxurious amenities to soothe the lonely soul

a bag of peanuts and a box of menthols

Proving a point which no one seems to care

to the point of looking obviously avoiding a fare

I scream down the lonely highway

"Jack, you cirrhotic, adventurous ghost of the past!

Share you wealth rambunctiousness,

lest all other static elements propel us quickly into

the deathpit of our corporate overloads!"

The plants, crawlies, and the birds share

the lone planetary, platonic mind cares

Grand solitude in the wild highway

waiting for a strange hitch

pick me up

drop me off

in another place and same time

to continue this journey

hoping never to be late

ending too soon

dragging me into the drab civilization

of my own daily routine

of death-making ritual

of my spirit, soul, and Holy Ghost.

2008-07-06T09:29:00.000-07:00

It's old news that I've been using a convoluted "Skype/Gizmo/GrandCentral" ménage-à-trois system to replace my cursed cellphone experience. There were many things I liked about the cellphone-less way of life:

Save $60 every month
Save $$$ on the cellphone every couple of years
Save myself from constant need to be on everyone else's time
Save $60 every month
Save time from fidgeting with gadgets.

The downside to not having a cellphone did not go unappreciated however.

Miscommunications were hard to rectify if I was not around my computer
Need for internet
Cumbersome logic of having to use Skype for calling out and GrandCentral/Gizmo to take calls in.

Well, today I discovered that I can drop Skype's monthly 3 dollar unlimited call service for GrandCentral's somewhat unadvertised unlimited call feature. It seems that I can make phone calls by pressing the "Call" button on GrandCentral's web portal and it will automatically make a call for me and connect that call to my Gizmo account. This means that though I'm making a call to someone else, it is technically a free VoIP call-in as far as Gizmo is concerned. Ergo, absolutely free calls within US via GrandCentral/Gizmo.

Additional benefit to this approach to calling out is my GrandCentral caller ID actually shows up on the people receiving the call. SkypeOut did not allow me to have a caller ID without first having a cellphone (which defeats my purpose of using SkypeOut).

AT&T, it's been great. Thanks for all you've done for me over the years. Though your new 3G iPhone be enticing, we are no longer just taking time apart. We are through. You should go find somebody else who will treat you better with their fat bank account and a new BMW.

2008-06-20T18:12:00.000-07:00

Slay my Siddhartha
Chop Bodhi Tree - A Fine Cross!
Nail Jesus, Find God

2008-06-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

Many of you know that I'm a Kerouac fan.

This past week, I finally got around to acquainting myself with "On the Road" which is highly appropriate given my current occupation in Rocky Mount, NC where Kerouac used to visit his sister, Nin.
In one sentence, "On the Road" can be described as a crazy fable of Neal Cassidy and his posse which takes multiple journeys across the America involving love, lust and everything inbetween and without. The grand-theft-auto style of Cassidy was delight to my soul but also revealed a startling revelation - which is the interest of this writing.
As I ready for the end of medical school years and the practicum to follow, my heart yearns for a certain escape and dynamic quality. Certainly the road is ripe and tempting those who have been beating the paths less travelled. "On the Road" allures me to take to the road again, but I recognize, through Cassidy's example, the threat it poses for those I love - them whose values align with the predictable traditions of our fathers.
I believed that true spiritual development is irrespective of the "old" values which serve only to stabilize society to the detriment of true creative spiritual growth. This individual approach to spirituality has helped me escape the confines of organized religion, the 9-to-5 mentality, and most importantly the oxymoronic "scientific values" of 21st century.
To become a Cassidy myself, I would have to depend on generosity of people who have less than I. They would gladly feed me, clothe me, and drive me to wherever my soul fancied. This is somewhat socially irresponsible. To be a Cassidy means to become indebted to the world - especially the poor, the sick, and the downtrodden.
"On the Road" shook me to my core ridding me of the spiritual miscalculation of, yet again, what is right and wrong. I am going on the road while feeding the hungry, healing the sick and taking people to places that they've never been.

When Cassidy steal car, I Cassidy road.

2008-06-09T20:15:00.000-07:00

Life can be loveless.

For a while early in my twenties, I felt this way. Life - the culmination of the body, mind, situations, relationships, and light - was just glim. Fortuantely, these hopeless, loveless times are not perpetual motions. Though it may take years, we often find ourselves in new strange adventures which fill our hearts with excitement. The entity without subject - Love - finds us, and suddenly we understand such profound things as Bob Marley is a prophet. Ideas like "everything's alright, and a child that cries is the child you soothe" fill your head with cotton candies and, though these ideas fleeting and immature, you are whole because you know you are love.

For a few year in my early twenties, I was this loveless zombie. Every step was heavy. The sky was always gray. I searched for my Buddha and Jesus drinking wine under a tree playing chess but, never finding either, cried nightmares of anger and revenge against no one but myself in the mirror. I thought it'd never end, and I gave up the search for love in some ways.

So it's was a surprise when this one morning in India, as I rode this small yellow truck with the volunteer camp friends, I recognized something about myself which was different from the days before. The best vague description of this experience was that I was happy beyond my prior self. I slept with the music of crashing Indian Ocean waves under the blanket of starry night skies. Life was a miracle and a grace. Everything was cool, clear and I had no fear in the darkness. This was the first time, I had found love in my heart again since childhood with the sense of newness every day and adventure in the most mundane things of life.

Sometime this third year of medical school, I had lost that love again. My days were dreary, and I lost the soul music. I woke up panicking every morning, not knowing where I'm supposed to go, who I'm supposed to see. I didn't know what to look for in a patient. I stuttered in front of my superiors. It was the wake-up-panicking-daily kind of stress that drained me. My function was to dread going to work and look forward to going home. I lost track of what I really love about what I do - the learning and the care of patients.

It was so until approximately the third week of my surgery rotation this March. I woke up one morning as usual. Got ready for work: brush teeth, take a shower, eat breakfast, get in scrubs and grab all the paper for the day. I grabbed the blue bicycle out of the shed, tucked my pant sleeves under my sock and started pedaling my way up the hill towards the hospital. As I moved past the houses, I was able to look at myself -- to watch myself think -- as I was looking forward to the day just like I did on that Indian truck. I loved what I do; and I loved who I am. Man, that spring air was fresh! I pedaled every Carolina spring morning - dispatching my doubts and fear under my bicycle tires. Freedom was delicious and hot like a bowl of soup at the end of a winter day's hike.

Now it's hot June summer in Rocky Mount, this North Carolina city where Jack Kerouac used to come visit his sister, Nin, every so often to rest and write of his adventures. I am nearing the end of my third year of medical school and also feeling the end of this long journey of medical school having less than a year of it left. As wonderful and crazy these past few years have been, I spend each day in electrifying expectancy for what new adventures are to come my way.

2008-05-27T21:14:00.000-07:00

Dear America:

Hi. Harijan here.

Jack called yesterday. He asked me to say hello. He said it's getting really hot up in the mountains. He's feeling the Summer.

Since I was already charged with the season's greetings, I thought I'd also write on behalf of beatnicks, the real hippies, and whole people of this earth(the jury is still out on hipsters... heh....), to the young people of America. Yes, that includes the beautiful you.

It is now again incumbent on the shower-once-weekly crowd to inform you that life must not be so painful. In the daily drama that is 21st century, we are once again living nightmares during the day and daydreaming in our sleeps.

Though it is important that we respect and love nature for practical reasons like prevention of global warming, it may be that your needs for nature are greater than the nature's need of you. It is well that nature takes its clothes off it gets hot, bu t you cannot take off any more clothes than you already have.

Ret me ask you. When was the last time you sat on a mountain's shoulder and shared an afternoon shower? To look upon a wide land like the very old tree growing where two boulders meet, we can learn so much about our lives - the lessons without which we are bound to learn by mistakes.

The vast ocean and the sky that accompany in all combinations of shades welcome you day and night, sunrise and sunset. It's not good enough that we cry with sadness and happiness. We should cry with beauty of each moment irregardless of its "academic insignificance." And there is no greater teacher of the subject of mindless beauty-crying than the sight of the wavering dances between the water and celeste.

But don't be fooled by these grand gestures! A regular tree in your own yard might have some medicine you can use. Open your window and listen to the leaves rustling in the wind. Carefully....... listen. Be quiet in your throat but also in your mind. Arboreal jazz is still funk; you'll never hear the same beats again.

Now what of walking itself? You know, most of history is written walking. You ever pick up an interesting book where people just sit around a desk all day? Yes?

Well, I don't want to read it. I want to read about people walking and talking and smiling and laughing and eating and singing and dancing and smacking lips and smoking free air and going la-la-la like they don't have a clue or care in the world.

"Why did Bodhidharma go to the East?", some idiot asked once. I don't know, but I'm going to walk to the kitchen now to get some food.

The other day, I was hiking early in the morning. It was pretty awesome. I was feeling good. Weather was perfect! I ran into spidy web. I wa s annoyed and retarded my face with my hand as I failed to remove the silk. Then suddenly a satori out of nowhere: "When a person walks into a spiderweb on the trail in the morning, he is the first person to walk through that trail that morning." So it was an honor. To be the early bird. To get a flying lesson.

Then, BAM! I ran into another web. I thought I had already learned the lesson and I didn't feel like I needed it anymore. Blah blah. But, ohhhh! I realized: "When a person walks into a web twice in the morning, he learns that spiders are the first to close the trail if we don't walk the trail anymore."

AMIRITE??? URIKE?

Oh, yes, so getting back on track.

We need another revolution. A revolution for the planet. A revolution for the people.

What we need is a fundamental change in the way we view life. Our lives. Pure. Free. Simple. This means that we turn off the TV. This means that we listen less to the same people to whom we have given free reign on our perspectives. Take for example security and how it affected hitchhiking.

Since the 60s when hitchhiking in the US was at its peak to now, what do you think has changed that made hitchhinking that much difficult? Oh, that's right. It's just more dangerous now.

But wait a second, you mean to tell me that people.... PEOPLE... changed since 60s? You mean your parents, your siblings, your teachers, your friends, your doctors, lawyers, your assholes and saints have somehow changed since the 60s? Do you mean to tell me there are more raping, murdering, doped-up thugs on the highway now than in the 60s? (For more technical info: please wiki crime in the USA.)

Eh, sorry. Lynching was just starting to die out in the 60s if you remember our dark history.

What changed since the days of beatnicks and hippies is that our perception of safety and of "others" has changed. We don't trust because we don't know. We just believe what we see because it is easier to - again - not walk. If we walk, we'd find otherwise.

When our student body president, Eve Carson was murdered in the recent past, safety became a huge concern for the campus itself. From what I can recall, the emergency text-messaging system may have been pushed forward in time because of this incidence. I really applaud the community and the school for having come through such a trying time while feeling the sad ness and anger of a life taken away so forcibly. What we should not allow to happen from this is to have a false paranoia of safety. The murder rates per population has not changed significantly from year to year such that it would be a significant change that cannot be accounted by pure chance (state crime statistics- look it up you rself).

What I'm saying is that, though it's prudent to practice precautions, we need not think less securely of this world. We can still go over to the new neighbors and say hello. We can still make eye contact when we see someone down the street. And hell, we can still hitchhike. While I was hitchhiking this February, I've met some wonderful people who has helped me to learn that the world stands contrary to the boob stand.

So let me bring back to you a point. A closure.

We find it hard to breathe now. We are congested with unreasonable fears. Let's throw away the pretentious caution. Pay attention to the moment. First with the flowers and trees. Then to the mountains and the seas. We must now walk. We must get on the road - with a rucksack full of bare necessities of life and all the luxuries of love.

With love and gratitude,
Harijan.

2008-05-20T18:29:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a Christian family in South Korea. As such, I have not had a formal training in meditation. I first started meditation two years ago. At the time, I was suffering from nightmare induced insomnia and depression. These nightmares were often about my father who was abusive to me in my development. It was the most miserable days of my life. I was willing to try anything that would help me go to sleep and feel better.

I had gone to the doctor, but he said that I was perfectly healthy. He recommended that maybe I could go get tested at the sleep center at Duke but warned me that the fee would be substantial. That was not an option for me. I would not go to the psychiatrist because I was barely getting by with paying bills and groceries. I think this is when I started drinking on a daily basis. The intoxication helped me to forget the nightmares somewhat, but at the same time, I was not living my life clearly either.

When I started meditation, I had no idea what was going on. There were so many different types of meditation. I often started daydreaming or fell asleep as soon as I closed my eyes. It was an exercise in frustration. I did not understand how counting breaths can help me understand the secrets of life or somehow turn me into an enlightened person. But then I realized that I was falling asleep during my meditation and found it very useful when I am anxious about falling asleep at night.

However, the real benefit of meditation came about a year later. Gradually, I began to understand things about myself, my father, and life in general. Although nobody has really explained to me how and why, I realized under what circumstances I was born in my family and –more importantly- under what circumstances my father grew up in. When I came to this, there was no reason to be hurt and scared because I understood things were as they were.

In being healed, I would have forgiven my father one would think. However, forgiveness implies that there was actually a wrongdoing on the behalf of other party. When I understood that my father did not know to treat me any better because he himself grew up in a post-Korean war era without supportive parents, I knew that there was no real harm. It did not mean that I would let him anyone else hurt me like that again, but I understood the circumstances surrounding the past events. I stopped having the nightmares and started sleeping like a baby.

This is not where my experience with meditation and depression ends, however.

A lot of people at school are puzzled about me. Of the many things I have heard about me, the two most interesting description was that I was “excessively happy” and “like contantly being on mushroom.” The following event was what I attribute to the change in my life.

It was early March of 2005. I was having a horrible sickness. I remember being in terrible fever at night. It was so painful that I wanted to die. Then I remembered from one of my lessons that embracing the physical pain was the way out of my psychological pain. At this time, I still had depression related problem even though my issues with Dad had mostly been resolved. So that is exactly what I did. I stopped resisting and hating the pain and “allowed” the pain to be a part of me. It was difficult, and I passed out in the midst of it.

The next morning was different. I was not sick anymore. The fever was gone. But there was something more significant than the missing fever. At first, I felt intoxicated since my mind was different. It was a few hours later that day I realized that I was not anxious and depressed anymore. Even more than that, nothing worried me. Thoughts of money, work, girlfriend, etc. did not really concern me. I thought it was so strange that I would not concern myself with things like that, so I thought long and hard about all the “bad things” in my life. To my surprise, I was somehow immune to generating negative emotions.

The next four days I did nothing but whatever I liked to do. I would lie down and listen to music or walk my dog around the town. Watch the clouds float by. Whatever I liked to do. I stopped going to work. It was heaven. I played video games.

Then I realized how sad everyone else was. This person was disappointed. That person was anxious. I remembered that I used to be that way. I wanted to explain to them that they did not need to feel that way – regardless of what predicaments they may be in. But it was so difficult to explain it to them, and no one really understood what I was trying to say. I taught meditation to few people, but they were easily discouraged and did not have the motivation to continue.

Since then, I met people like me who smiled gently and took life as it came. Some of these people were just born this way, but others came to the same conclusion that I came to through means other than “meditation.” (Some of these people I met in medical school.) Being with these people, I have realized that I am not the only one in this world who thinks Life is beautiful and, at least for me, meditation played a big part on my maturing process since it facilitated so much understanding.

As aspiring future holistic physicians, our responsibility is not only with physical health but also with healing our own psyche and spirit. Whether it may be yoga, meditation, worship, religion, or a poem, we owe it to ourselves and our patients to be healthy in all aspects of our lives. I can give many reasons why this is pertinent, but a better reason would be, “why not?” Why would you not want to live the rest of your life beautifully and vibrantly?

Physician, heal thyself.

2008-05-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

House MD, as a show succumbs to yet another medical error. In the episode House's Head (Part 1), Gordon gives the bus driver antibiotic - reasoning that he has transverse myelitis. Transverse myelitis is not an infection and thus not treated with antibiotic. Everybody in the show continued without a word. Cuddy repeats this error again by saying, "he has TM. We're already giving him antibiotic" (or something like it). House just brushed the whole TM thing off.

Sorry, TM is treated with steroid.

2008-03-31T04:03:00.000-07:00

US interests in 'Free Tibet' movement: it's hard to be an activist.

The recent violence surrounding the Tibetan protest against Chinese rule has taught me a little bit about "news behind news." Although there have been many US citizens who were interested in the welfare and rights of Tibetans for decades, the US has not offered any opinion one way or another towards Chinese government until this past month (as far as I know about Tibet issue). I was thinking why US government proper would be so interested in voicing their opinions this way until I remembered all kinds of news I've been hearing about China.

If you go back for the past year, most news and statements towards China have been Orwellian. China is investing heavily in natural resources in Sudan and has indirect ties with what's happening in Darfur. China is aggravating global warming. China eats babies. China grows horns. China is the devil.

True; most of the news has factual basis (minus the horns and eating babies). China does have horrible human rights record. However, the effect these news and public statements seem to be getting the American populous ready for another war. A preemptive justification for conflict of any type between US and China. Of course, I would sound pretty dumb to imply that US and China are going to war anytime soon. But, it doesn't have to be a physical conflict; the Soviet and US were never really in physical conflict during the cold war. In fact we may actually be in an economic war between China and not even know about it. But I digress.

I feel 'Free Tibet' has become another China-bashing bandwagon for the US media conglomerates (and subsequently the powers that be) to jump on. This is a difficult situation for activists because it is hard to maintain neutrality when a big power is also supporting your cause. From what I've observed from history, wiser and safer (for the people we are helping) course are taken by activists who take the independent, neutral path. Even if the government or the media walks next to us for the moment, we will continue to walk straight until the mission is accomplished.

Tibetan people's rights must be respected.
The government of China, as are all governments including our own, should be held accountable for any human rights violation.
The activists must be vigilant about unsolicited alliances which are often wrought with ulterior motives. We do this not for our ignorant pride, but for the people we work and die for.

2008-03-21T05:01:00.000-07:00

With the recent escalation of Tibetan protest against the Chinese government, Dalai Lama spoke against the violence and even threatened to resign from his executive position in Tibetan government-in-exile if Tibetan protesters continue to resort to violence. Initially, I thought it was a prudent thing to say for a buddha to say until I thought that it may have been a political move to separate the goverment-in-exile from being associated with the violence aspect of the protest. If I was a buddha and a leader of people, I would just have said, "please stop fighting" without the negative consequences of not obeying what I believe is The Way. As much as it hurts me to say write this, I think Dalai Lama's spiritual leadership may have been compromised by political needs.

It is better for a parent to console a hurt child then to threaten orphanhood. Tibetan people need Dalai Lama. The world needs Dalai Lama. He may not quit his leadership. He may not threaten his own downtrodden people.

2008-03-13T00:38:00.000-07:00

Guys, it's true what they say about surgery. It's not human.

I am going to sleep and getting up earlier and earlier. Like 3:30am this morning. It's back breaking work. I'm sore every day. Please call the whambulance, etc.

But what "they" didn't tell you is this work is as fascinating and worthy as it is hard.

Is all. Gotta go study and preround.

2008-03-02T20:39:00.000-08:00

Children cry and laugh.
Snow faces smile ear to ear
Nose runs on red cheeks.

2008-02-21T20:42:00.000-08:00

Freezing air, fingers,
Bike wheels turn fast, fast!
On Cold February Morn.

2008-02-21T03:29:00.000-08:00

Yours truly was published in UNC-Asheville's weekly newspaper, the Blue Banner.

With a small pile of kindling situated close by, Aram Harijan, the hitchhiker, pulled out a lighter lent to him by a friend, and reached down to spark a fire.
Nothing happened.
He cursed the broken lighter, and chided himself for not being better prepared. Violently shivering, Harijan climbed into his one-person tent, and again turned on his iPod, falling asleep to a podcast of a medical lecture.

I still remember that moment like it was now. This reminds me that I need to invest in a zippo lighter.

2008-02-20T17:46:00.000-08:00

2 minute cocaine talk

HISTORY

Caca-Cola® contained 0.75 mg of cocaine per ounce until 1903 when increasing knowledge about stroke, heart attack lead to discontinuation of cocaine. Cocaine received little public or medical attention for the next 70 years, until the "crack" cocaine epidemic of the 1980s. Cocaine is schedule II substance; can be prescribed in 4-10% solution for topical ointment.

CRACK, POWDER, FREEBASE?

Salt form is more water soluble at room temperature. Therefore, it dissolves in mucous membrane and can be absorbed directly through the nasal epithelium. This is the snorted cocaine. Can also be injected. Like chewing tobacco.

Base form is water insoluble and will not be absorbed across the epithelium. It cannot be injected either because it remains as a precipitate in most solutions. However it has a low vaporization temperature and is thus smoked and absorbed in vapor form through the lung epithelium. This form is only smoked. Like cigarette.

$ TO $$$$. HOW IS AN EXPENSIVE DRUG LIKE COCAINE MORE PREVALENT IN A POORER POPULATION?

Cocaine really is expensive in any form. However the salt form usually requires a higher dose per use than freebase form. Crack cocaine is usually sold in smaller quantities (1/10th gram 'small rock' costs ~$10) and anybody can afford it at this level.

WHERE DOES THE NAME "CRACK" COME FROM?

The freebase cocaine crystal has small amounts of water. As the crystal heats, this water boils and makes crackling noise.

HOW DOES COCAINE WORK? Dopamine, serotonin and NE reuptake inhibitor. Ventral tegmental area to nucleus accumbens reward pathway is activated.

USEFUL INFO ON URINE SCREEN TEST: Benzoylecgonine is the major metabolite of cocaine and is present in urine for 2-3 days. Chronic users therefore cannot escape detection if they present to ED or clinic after this window.

WHAT SHOULD I BE CONCERNED ABOUT?

Body: STROKE, AMI (beta blockers can precipitate AMI in cocaine OD), SEIZURE, WITHDRAWL (pains, tremor, chills, involuntary muscle movements).

Mind: Psychosis, mood disorder, motor disorders (akathisia "crack dancers"), SI.

Relationships: Money, significant other (trading sex for crack), legal issues (arrest due to possession; violence or stealing stuff. see money).

Taking care of patients who abuse or are dependent on cocaine (may not resemble reality)

Approach to patient: First remember countertransference. This patient is not the crack cocaine patient from yesterday or the neighbor who stole my beloved playstation. Even if the patient is unreasonable, looks dangerous (and may well be dangerous), and/or smells bad, patient could still use an advocate - especially now in the hospital when they seem to have no control in their lives.

Decision to admit: Remember cocaine abuse or dependence is just as much as a social condition as a biologic disorder. Let the axis guide your decision on whether to hospitalize the patient or manage them in outpatient setting. If you send them out, make sure they have social support that would encourage the patient to stay sober.

Gather collateral information. Once admission was decided, collateral is going to be useful in understanding and management of patient as well as discharge planning.

Nursing Supportive environment with diet and sleep ad lib

Bio

Take care of existing medical conditions.

Benzodiazepam may be used in SEVERELY agitated patients or sleep issues.

Depression longer than 2-3 weeks or SI may require antidepressant treatment.

Risk of relapse is highest in early withdrawl; craving is easily triggered by stress or other drug-related triggers (like a spouse on crack). Patient should be referred to treatment program for ongoing care.

Social

Wounded soldiers aren't told back to go back to battlefield after their trauma, so why should this patient go back to the place that traumatized them? Think about relationships, family, money, work, education, Vocational rehab. www.ca.org.

Therapy

No one therapy is better than another. High intense and long durations are associated with better outcomes. Treatment of other psychiatric comorbidities.

Credits to wikipedia and uptodate articles on cocaine.

2008-02-20T11:10:00.000-08:00

The Lotus Touts

ONE. Give people more than they expect and do it cheerfully.

TWO. Marry a man/woman you love to talk to. As you get older, their conversational skills will be as important as any other.

THREE. Don't believe all you hear, spend all you have or sleep all you want.

FOUR. When you say, 'I love you,' mean it.

FIVE. When you say, 'I'm sorry,' look the person in the eye.

SIX. Be engaged at least six months before you get married.

SEVEN. Believe in love at first sight.

EIGHT. Never laugh at anyone's dreams. People who don't have dreams don't have much.

NINE. Love deeply and passionately. You might get hurt but it's the only way to live life completely.

TEN.. In disagreements, fight fairly. No name calling.

ELEVEN. Don't judge people by their relatives.

TWELVE. Talk slowly but think quickly.

THIRTEEN! .. When someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, smile and ask, 'Why do you want to know?'

FOURTEEN. Remember that great love and great achievements involve great risk.

FIFTEEN. Say 'bless you' when you hear someone sneeze.

SIXTEEN. When you lose, don't lose the lesson.

SEVENTEEN. Remember the three R's: Respect for self; Respect for others; and Responsibility for all your actions.

EIGHTEEN. Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.

NINETEEN. When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.

TWENTY. Smile when picking up the phone. The caller will hear it in your voice.

TWENTY- ONE. Spend some time alone.

I get many annoying forward emails, but I actually liked this one. I am posting it for your peace of mind. At least I didn't forward it to your inbox.

2008-02-20T04:05:00.000-08:00

Care Too Much to Care Just Right.

When I was reading Patch Adams, I wondered why countertransference was such a big contention for him. After all, if an idea is so widely accepted in a profession, there must be a good reason for holding it true. Yet the person I admired as a buddying healer was behemently against an idea designed to protect patients. I held this thought in my head for the first two years of medical school until I met my first patient, Sarah - a cystic fibrosis patient who passed away from a fungal infection.

I had met Sarah four weeks earlier while I was on the infectious disease team. She was my first patient as a clinical medical student, so the experience was special to me like most first experiences are. After a long hospital stay, she left with a fever that kept coming and going because she was feeling fine otherwise. Soon after her discharge, I went on to a different medicine team, but the resident would often keep me updated on the patients I cared for. I had this sinking feeling when I heard that Sarah was back in hospital.

I was extremely busy with all of my patients at that time and kept putting off visiting her until I heard that she was in the ICU. She was already intubated and out of it. I talked to her parents in the room and apparently they had heard of me from Sarah. They explained that Sarah felt bad because she was harsh towards me about her frustrations; she would often get frustrated when plans changed without a clear reason for such changes. I will not say whether those were reasonable responses or not because I don't think I am objective in this case, but I reassured them that I understood and was sorry to be tardy to say hello. I went up to her, held her hand, closed my eyes and said a quick prayer in my head. And left the unit to attend to my other duties.

It was two days later. I remember it was a post-call day when I visited Sarah before I headed out the giant hospital doors. It was a bright sunny day with beautiful weather such that I had to stop myself from smiling as I walked through the ICU door. Immediately, I realized what had happen as Sarah's mother was sobbing in front of Sarah's room. It must have taken me only ten steps from that moment to when I walked up to the room, but I immediately visited a long past when I was crying endlessly after a child's funeral. I lived the whole experience again from hearing the news of the child dying to the moment when I wept without control. I also remembered an uncle's funeral and how we went out to the lake that night to drink together. I remembered how I felt in those moments with that tight sensation in my chest and a dull remorse for nothing specific. The doctors had already pronounced Sarah dead. I felt my body feel unreal as I watched Sarah still pink and breathing through the tube. Held her hand and said another prayer which was a bit longer this time. I listened to Sarah's mother for a while.

I went home after that on my bicycle. I spent that afternoon thinking about Sarah out in the back yard. It was such a beautiful day and the sun was setting and happy when I stopped crying. My neighbor and I often build a bonfire in that yard. We built a fire that night and I talked about Sarah. I burnt an incense to signify the passing of a life that night.

Her funeral was held in Charlotte which coincided with a study day; I drove early in the morning. As I sat and watched Sarah's relatives and family, I realized how I felt when the boy and the uncle passed away. I thought I saw part of me and the funeral attendees of long ago in each of the attendees now. I wondered what my attendings would think of me sitting there stupid in a crowd of strangers crying about a patient I've known only for three weeks. I didn't even know if it was proper for me to be there; I was there because I wanted to be human.

After saying goodbye to the family and friends of Sarah, I drove back home in my happy yellow convertible car. I remembered Patch again. I thought how he would have done the same, but I thought some of what was going on was countertransference. Then I started laughing and crying at the same time with the wind in my face! It was a ridiculous sight really. It was counter transference, and it was OK. Actually, it was countertransference and it was necessary. The whole stupid thing was just simple empathy! Of course Patch was against a device which in some light suppresses a gunuine human character. I relate to others. They relate back. We relate. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?

Countertransfer, to me, assumes that doctors and patients are inseperatively devided in the roles of healers and persons needing to be healed. This is true sometimes. I surely don't want to fall in love with a patient whom I seek to serve. If I were to hold this type of healer role always, I do not know if I would want to live as a doctor. Such doctorhood would be too lonely, too removed, and too .... above all.

I understand Patch now. I understand, too, why countertransference is important. I could eventually hurt a patient because my empathy is exactly what hurts them. For that patient and others, I hope I can shake the idea of being a total healer. Otherwise, I may care too much to care just right.

2008-02-04T20:34:00.000-08:00

This is the story of my first hitchhiking trip. I visited my friends in Germany winter holidays of 2007 and read "Dharma Bums." The book was very much in line with what I had been wanting. I wanted simplicity all over again. I wanted sangha. So when I got back to US and found myself some time, I decided to explore and become free. This was the last of three days.

When I woke up - must have been about 8AM - I noticed there was frost inside the bivy from my breath condensating against the coldness outside. When I opened the bivy I was confused because more ice flakes came through. Soon, I realized that it was not more frost from the outer surface of the bivy but snow! My stupid luck! With only my upper body out of the bivy, I wolfed down half-rotten banana, pieces of bread, a krispie, a scone, and milk. I was so cold that I was only occupied with moving myself again to generate some heat. I packed everything in the sack and left the site only to realize 10 minutes later that I had left my glasses somewhere back at camp. Frozen, I moved back towards the Lodge.

    I found my glasses in a repairable fashion about two feet away from where I had slept. As I got back on the trail, there came this gentleman with a husky and a boxer my way. I asked him for directions and he sent me straight back down to the parkway where I started walking towards my origination. The wind blew strong against the side of mountain and the snow still continued to come down though not heavily. Aside from the wind, the experience of walking through winter mountain was new and beautiful. The snow flakes gently swept across the parkway as birds might fly over black winter seas.
    I walked about two hours when this machinist from Black Mountain, Roger picked me up and gave me a ride to Black Mountain. He said he wouldn't have picked me up if it wasn't for the fact that it was so cold outside to be walking for anyone. He figured even if I was a no-good bum, I didn't deserve to be suffering that cold. I was thankful for his compassion. He dropped me off at Denny's where I had two eggs, grits, biscuit and two cups of coffee. It was the most expensive meal through the whole trip at $7.60. After the meal I felt nirvina flushing my cheeks in the warm air. You can probably imagine that I took my time getting up from the chair. I drank that coffee real slow like life.
    I started hitching with a new energy and a new message on the whiteboard: SMILE. I listened to Jack Johnson, bobbed my head to the beat, and waved the sign and my big ugly smile to the drivers heading towards I40 east. A lot of people cheered me on.

   The next person to pick me up was Mr. Tom Snickers, an USMC veteran. He was in MC before Vietnam era and had a step-son who worked at UNC hospital. Really nice guy. Told me to look up the Everley brothers; which reminds me that I still haven't done that. He was on his way home from the VA hospital where I had sttarted my hike the day before; he had a pacemaker. His home was in Morganton and that was where I stopped next.
    Next was July. She was on her way to her hypochondriac sister who just said her goodbyes on the phone with the plan to swallow a fistful of pills. July didn't seem too worried about her sister; I assumed that her sister had been doing this kind of stuff in the past. She was taking care of her mother who suffered episodes of stroke. July herself suffered from Sjogren's disease with arthritis. She confided to me that she hopes not to die before her mother does because she was not sure if there was anyone else who would take care of her. In the end, she thought it wise to drive me 5 miles further than her sister's place just so I can collect from the 77 traffic as well. She was really sweet.
    Unfortunately for me, the location was bad to hitch from as the onramp traffick from highway 77 was too fast. I improvised and got a ride from a couple of brothers who had a flat tire. I got to the next stop with them and their spare tire. I thanked them at the gas station and walked towards the onramp again. They probably thought I was crazy, and I think I would have to agree most of the time.
    The next hitch was from this unlikely couple of dudes. One was a middle aged white guy and the other a teenager of southeast Asian complexion. The old guy must have been like a Big Brother because he had this mentor's tone the way he talked to the kid. He told the kid about his San Francisco days when he would hitchhike everywhere. Drove me 5 miles or so to a lazy exit where a ride proved to be difficult to find again. I lost one of my two canteens in that car. I sat down and wrote some of this journal and ate some bread and the sardines. After about an hour of fail, I decided to walk with my rucksack on I-40 East. It would seem difficult at this moment, but I had a decent whistle tune to keep me going for a while.
    I couldn't have been but 10 minutes on the highway when Keith picked me up. He told me he used to hitch daily to his work. One trick he taught me was to hitch around the signs that have place names with the distance written on them. We talked about world affairs and the meaning of Hitler. He believed that Hitler went to Heaven because he taught the rest of humanity an important lesson. He reasoned it would be illogical for God to decide to make him the way he was and then punish him afterwards. Of course, this was an old arguement, but I understood what he meant. Keith handed me a bottle of water which I assume he bought for himself. I thought about this bottle of water for few seconds and realized that it symbolized the goodness of people I met on this trip. I've not done anything for the people I've met, but they have taken it upon themselves to share with me their life stories, their car, and their goodness. I told Keith about this and how this trip has helped me solidify my belief that the world is full of good people with just few apples. That hitchhiking is still possible in this age of war on terror. He seemed real happy when I shared this.
    Next generosity came from Mr. Whitehead, an ex-furniture and textile salesperson. Man, he was a talker! He told me from A to Z about his life, marriages, his wives, Christianity, his home, and everything Jon Whitehead. But I didn't mind because he told them so well. After about 40 minutes of this, he asked me if I would like to join him and his beautiful Wife, Susan for dinner. Feeling rather hungry and slightly wary of the road, I readily took his offer. At Chez Whitehead, I had two servings of rice and stir-fried chicken and a blueberry muffin. Susan had a bypass surgery in August last year and was trying to eat right and exercise much, so she gave me all the food that she wanted to eat herself.
   Susan must have been around mid-60s and was showing so much grace and beauty such that I imagined I would have asked her out if I was her contemporary. Or would have thought about asking her out but never do it because I am a chicken reincarnate. After dinner, Jon dropped me off by the nearest I40 onramp which sucked because there was no traffic nor light. I must have looked pretty unfriendly in that dark corner with my jacket hood on my head. I decided to walk to the next exit. I figured someone would have picked me up out of pity or that the next stop might be a better place from which to hitch. I am a man of faith, you know.

   I walked for the next 30 minutes with much fail when I saw my shadow grow in front of me. I turned around in eager anticipation only to be let down by flashing blue lights from a police cruiser. I guess I could count that as a hitch, too? I was promptly transported to the next exit at a gas station where another bum was trying to hitch. Poor guy was so cold and out of fortune. I would have given him a ride myself if I was driving. After brief exchanges about our hitches of the day (it was funny how we talked like two fishers might talk about their day's work), he walked off into the darkness and I was again left to myself and the road home.
    This - the last stop - was the most trying. I walked to the onramp which had a street light, but it was not bright enough to dispel the distrust of the late hour (9pm in January). I left the ramp and tried my luck at a gas station with McD's. I talked to a few patrons there but no one was going East. Soon there weren't any customers, so I walked to across the street to a bigger gas station where the lights were brighter. Initially I stood in front of the store but was told to stay inside because it was too cold out. The store clerk - Christine - had a sweet southern drawl and was pregnant to 7 months or so. I was encouraged by the fact that so many truckers came through the station but I saw the west-bound trend of the trucks and learned that some gas stations serve one direction better than the other. It might also have depended on the time of the day as well. I put the rucksack on a chair and the placard on the table, "RALEIGH," so the drivers can see them as they walk in the store.
    I was feeling a bit hungry again. I think the cold makes it a necessity to feed constantly because it was only two hours after the large dinner at Whitehead. There was a hot water spigot for tea, so I bought a dollar can of Vienna sausage in the station. Dunked that and ramen into my metal pot with hot water hoping it would slowly cook. Hopeful planning. My impatience got the best of me; I started picking at the sausages with plastic-straw chopsticks. Man! They were sofa-king delicious! Of course, I couldn't stop eating. I nibbled on the noodles which were still uncooked. The broth was damn good. I gave in and ate the hard noodles in the lukewarm broth with mucho gusto. After feeding my tummy, I tried to read the book but I was too tired. I felt asleep hunched over the book and the table.

I was awakened by this Mexican guy, José. He blurted something to me about witness and driving but I couldn't understand because I was still trying to figure out what was happening and where I was. There's this 15 second period after waking up when I can't understand or speak any language. Soon, I realized he was trying to give me a ride. Life came back to me and I quickly gathered my things together, threw the rucksack in the back of his GM truck, and jumped into the cabin. About five minutes into the ride, my driver tells me that he was going to Raleigh because he needed to see his probation officer. Gahaha! Imagine my apprehension, right? I started wondering what he did when he told me about getting caught for driving without license for three times. I was ambivalent about the situation because at least it wasn't assault or drugs or something, but that probably meant that he was driving without license again. Perhaps I should have offered to drive for him?

José and I shared few stories about immigrant life. I told him my stories about working with guys on contruction yard after high school and he told me about his children. He told me how he wanted to get a job and get back on track with life. I wished I knew how to console the guy, but I thought it artificial to try. I just acknowledged his story and looked at the early morning I-40 traffick. It was sparse and José drove with speed. José was a good guy in a bad situation. I felt sorry.
In the end, everything turned out well. He dropped me off where I had left my car - my yellow sports car like hotwheels. I thanked him like a brother and watched him drive off in his old black Ford truck. It was 5 AM. I got into the car shivering and drove home. I took a scalding hot shower once home to get all the road grime off me. I turned my computer on to play some music and laid in my bed - my mind still wired from the road but my body so tired and ready for rest. I thought about each and everyone I met on this trip. Faces after faces of smiles and concerns, and life meshed with health and relationship problems and hopes and dreams and everything in between and outside. I thought it so comfortable to be sleeping in a bed again. Then went to sleep with so much gratitude and warmth in my heart for the people who cared for me these past three days.

2008-02-04T20:25:00.000-08:00

Next morning, I got up, took a hot shower.

I think I was munching on some trailmix, Jay handed me his handheld GPS unit to use which was surprising to me because I didn't think he knew me enough to trust me with it. He told me to keep it for the whole week! And this proved to be a handy device - but more on this later. He also invited me to a tea party (with BBC and everything) on Saturday 4 pm. As Jay had a 9am class, Bob and I just sat around browsing internet and writing email. When Jesus came back with sniffling nose, our hunger moved us outside. We walked through the dead winter garden and the rest of UNC-A where you could sense that it was the first day of the school and people felt fresh. We even took a picture in the quad where someone had written down "Today, we all get A's!" At the school cafeteria, Jay paid for my meal and I made sure I made every penny count. I hurt a lot of food: apple, sausage, pancake, hot salad (with beef steak), rice krispies, coffee, scones and milk. I pakced some of that left over food into my rucksack and told Jay and Bob about my first time eating krispies in the States and how I thought it rocked my world. How rice krispy had changed my life. By the end of that epic brunch, my belly was very full; my rucksack, too. The sun cold sunlight flushed the cafeteria as I sat there with a cup of mediocre coffee and excellent company of two young gents.

   Originally, everyone was planning to head out downtown, but Jay wasn't feeling well - a cold coming on. He stayed behind at school. Bob still wanted to check out downtown (or maybe Bob just wanted to make sure that I wasn't alone), so we got on this bus which took us away from downtown - making the foot trip even longer than it would have been otherwise. We tried to hitch a ride downtown but no success. We walked an hour to downtown.
   Once we made it to downtown Asheville, B and I visited a map shop and an art gallery where I snapped a picture of a bronze man. The French Broad Food co-op was pretty disappointing but I picked up two Thai Kitchen ramen noodles for the next two dinners. We walked to the bus station and said our goodbyes. He seemed sad; and me, too. I took Bus 13 to the VA hospital where I walked to Blue Ridge Parkway and to the Folk Art Gallery. There, I found out about the Mountain-to-sea trail. I hiked about 5 minutes out of the parking lot when a character named Duncan caught up to me and told me about the trail and the Rattlesnake lodge. I figured I would camp there althought it seemed like a long hike - especially since I left the Folk Art Center around 5pm. He invited me to his house but I didn't like the vibe I got from the dude so I "no thanks"ed him and rushed against the setting sun and the darkness veiling the mountainscape.
    Of course, I got tired quickly and found a slower pace my heart could keep up with. As Duncan said, there were three hills and a trough but the distance was truly understated. He told me about 3 to 4 miles, but I walked for two hours before I came off the trail and back onto the parkway before the last ascent to RSL - which was surely more than 4 miles by my estimation. I was wet, tired, thirsty (I had less than a liter of water for the next day). The sun disappeared quickly and I was soon walking, hiking under the moonlight - the same ambience as the night when I slept with a girl for the first time. But no need for reminiscence at that dangerous cold hour. I saw the lights of Asheville far in the distance and the occasional cabins somewhere down in the valley to the left. The shadows were tricky because I would sometimes mistake them for rocks or tree roots. Several times I almost ate dirt but managed without falling or breaking a bone. I started using my Bob Marley-playing Ipod to light the difficult parts of the trail but still was very slow through the elevation changes and where the vines were thick overhead. At about 8PM I stopped and had two krispies and a sip of water. It was starting to get real cold and I was feeling pretty exhausted from the weight on my back. I had packed entirely too much of the wrong stuff. I decided that I would hike till 9PM and if I was not at Rattlesnake Lodge, I would just camp the nearest place without the wind. Over the next hour, I felt the temperature drop more and realized that my waterbottle was starting to make a slushy noise from the freezing water.
    Not having arrived at Rattlesnake Lodge by 9, I sat on a log about 50 feet off the trail. Called Jay to say my thanks since I haven't talked to him after brunch and Renée just to check in before our weekend trip(originally she and I were supposed to meet up in Asheville to check out Biltmore and rest of Asheville until I decided to come back home early). It was good to talk with people as it helped me feel less lonely up in the cold mountain. I checked the GPS for the last time before I completely gave up on Rattlesnake Lodge. By stupid luck, I saw Rattlesnake lodge on the screen which was only .2 miles Northeast from where I was. I found new strength and motivation and stood up again. I practically jogged in the dark trail - if anyone was there to watch me, I must have looked like a madman running through the trail at night like that!
    Once I got to the lodge - which only took 5 light minutes - I gathered enough wood to start a fire so I can cook a can of sardines with ramen I had bought earlier. Except I realized that the lighter was completely shit and I couldn't build a fire. I was horrified and dismayed. I cursed Andy for giving me this piece although I knew I had no one else to blame but myself for not having prepared adequately. Imagine my disappoint after all that walking and cold and realizing that I have to go to sleep cold and hungry. I was shivering violently by this time and I wasn't going to get any warmer by crying about the lighter. I quickly set the bivy and jumped in with the rucksack in my sleeping bag under my foot to keep the water from freezing.

It was fucking cold!

    I had too few layers of clothes, and my toes felt frozen the whole night; my fear of hypothermia was real. I started to shiver voluntarily whenever I woke up just so I could get warm enough to fall asleep again. I must have woken up 5 times because of the cold except this one time when I realized I have to pee! This time I cursed myself and stood over the bivy and peed right next to myself. I must had stepped on my glasses at this time and not notice it because when I woke up, I didn't see it where I usually leave it in the bivy.
   Anyway, I went back into the sleeping bag before the coldness robbed of any warmth I had built inside the bivy. I distracted myself from the cold by listening to podcasts of medical lecture. Who would have thought it? An ipod is a great survival tool - provides light and mental solace! I don't think I will ever go hiking without it. I fell asleep listening to anesthegiology lecture about airway management.

2008-02-04T20:22:00.000-08:00

I started the first day too late because I was waiting to borrow a camping equipment. When I realized that the gear would not come through, I borrowed the camping gear from my neighbor and bud, Andy. I packed the usual camping stuff, four cans of delicious sardines, and a book. Drove my car by Trader Joe's where I bought a pound of trailmix with chocolate pieces, a bread, and salami. Then parked my car at a friend's apartment which was only a mile away from exit 270 on I-40. I walked over to the exit ramp with courage and ambition.

I wrote "California" on my little whiteboard and made some drivers laugh. After about 30 minutes a lady, who used to work for my medical school, picked me up. We talked about relationships and life. It was great; I talked about Marie - a French girl and the recipient of what will be my life-log infatuation. Apparently, she also knew a thing or two about French women because her husband had an affair with one whilst they lived in France. I shared my disdain for the way Marie teases me and left things at that. She asked me what religion or beliefs I held, and I gave her my quintessential "Jesus not a Christian, Buddha not a buddhist, I just walk this life." She told me she understood and told me that she was a unitarian. In fact, she was just coming back from church in Durham to her home in Mebane when she saw me by the onramp. We were at Mebane too soon. She dropped me off at a gas station and wished me good luck for the journey and also for my future career.
I didn't have to wait but 5 minutes when a dude that looks like Jesus drives up in an old Toyota Camry. I waved at him; he responded with an are-you-serious type of look on his face and pulled over. I asked him, "where are you going?"

He thought about his answer and then decided that he should find out first where I was going, "wait, where are you going?"

"Asheville."

Jesus says, "Oh.. well, get in! I'm going to Asheville. I guess I'm your ride."

I threw my rucksack in the back seat and got in the passenger seat with stacatto beat. We shook hands and drove onward. The guy's name was Jay and he was very much interested in what I was doing. I explained to him that I wanted to try something new which would help me become a stronger person. I also explained to him about the downfall of internet social interactions where there's actually very little human contact (i.e. facebook). He understood and reciprocated his story about trying to get a party going with his friends via facebook and finding out that no one came except for the ones that he called on the phone. Yeah, about that.....

Jay was a thin guy with stubbles on his chin and long brown hair to the effect of looking like the white Jesus on bathroom walls. He's from Raleigh but is a student at UNC-Asheville. He hold several creative interests, especially in digital media. He taught me a couple of things like Creative Commons and chip music. Pretty cool stuff. Another idea he shared with me was the difference between art and music. He reasoned that appreciation of "art" is usually 2-3 generations older than music and is therefore more "difficult" unless one has studied to appreciate art. He said music is just simply appreciated when it comes out. I saw some logic in that. Jay asked me if I had plans to sleep anywhere and I told him, "no." I told him I wouldn't mind sleeping on his floor if he had some space which was readily cool with him. I grinned as Jay's Camry zipped on top of the wet asphalt towards my destination.

When we got to UNC-Asheville, I met Jay's roommate, Bob from Hickory. He was an art major - giant, tall with glasses. The kind that you know he's always in his head because he doesn't say much. He was playing a video game on his computer which was interesting enough to watch for hours except that Jay and I were hungry. All three of us drove out to the grocery store and bought rice noodles, rotisserie chicken, cilantro, lime, bell pepper, zuchini, broccoli, chicken broth and hot sauce. We came back and cooked bowls of hot rice noodle soup with chicken and all those vegetables! After dinner, I was very content and felt like smoking a cigarrette - except that I didn't have any and it would make me smell bad. Overall, the day was good and I felt asleep hoping that the next day would be even better.

2008-02-04T04:55:00.000-08:00

Last night, I dreamt about my parents with whom I don't associate much. I don't associate with them at all. In fact, I changed my name a year ago to signify that I no longer belong that family anymore. You can say that I've disowned them.

In that dream, my mother was not around because she had died after many years of psychiatric illness. This had taken a huge toll on the youngest brother. He was growing up without someone who tended to him after school. I thought briefly about children who grow up without a parent and how much they are likely to get in trouble. I felt sad at the thought of my little brother who would always have an unfulfilled yearning for the motherly care.

My father had opened up a Chinese restaurant where he wasn't doing quite so well. In fact, his health was so deteriorated it pained me to see him work in the kitchen. My brothers and I were on our holidays from work and school, and we helped him at the restaurant that day which was busy only because it just opened. At the end of the day, we all got into the family van and drove to a church friend of my father. The drive was uneventful - which is an excellent situation given the recurrent fights my father and I have in the car. When we got to the destination, I got out of the car and started walking towards the friend's aparment when I realized the old man was still struggling to carry his weight off the car. Breathing congestive heart failure, huffing years of physical self-inflicted abuse and neglect, he dragged his feet slowly across the black parking lot asphalt. His sunken eyes showed no hope and only remorse for life. I saw death in his eyes, but he was never ready for it. It would not be dignified.

The sight of him, neither actively living nor preparing for his death, was such that I began to cry. I felt sad and compassionate towards this human being and understood his suffering. I began sobbing heavily and my brothers noticed this. They came around and asked why I was crying as children would ask innocently. I didn't answer because it wasn't their burden to know the suffering of others; it was enough they grow without worries for now. I told them to go help Father carry himself.

Feeling sick, I sat down on the curve and continued to cry. My heart was constricted; I stared at him through the tears. Born during the war and raised in harshest conditions, malnourished throughout childhood lived all his life try not to repeat the mistakes of his father. Failing at this, produced a son who hated him for what he did and didn't do - me. I drifted into my thoughts.

Was this why you had told me about your childhood? How you had to eat locusts in the field because you would never have meat to eat? So I can understand, forgive and forget your transgressions against your own life?
Yes, I understand your demons. I know your father had been harsh to you. I know that you didn't know better. I know you regret it. And I've forgiven you a long time ago. But you still continue to be the person that you were - the same person you hate. It is dangerous for even for a nation of people to forget the aggressions of others - so it is more so dangerous for me to forget about your beatings and words of angry blame. Because survival of my psych depends so much on holding you accountable, I cannot afford to let you know that I care much for you and your peace. Because you are dangerous to me and your other children, I will remain hard and strong against your fits of rage.

My brothers, still innocent from this samsara, carried father with concern on their forehead. I sat down and sobbed. It was more than just me versus my father; my experience not being unique. I wondered how many fathers and sons, mothers and daughters experienced this sadness and gridlock relationship where we loved each other but had to keep knives at each others' throat just to survive and breathe. I felt sicker and tighter in my chest - a migraine coming on.

This is where I woke back up to reality where despite differences in situations, the essence of relationships and our nature was still the same. I laid in my bed alone and still, feeling the warmth of my body reflected by my comforter. A slow, quite classical music comes on and I turn the light on. I contemplate about my family. Remember how I didn't answer my mother's phone call because I held her accountable for always running away from home. I think about my father and count his years. He'll be 60 in a few of years; I'll be training to become a surgeon then. I wonder if I will have children then? Am I going to be a benevolent father?

I am awake now. The dreams of the dark night is no longer on my mind and this music lifts my soul. I hear a nameless morning bird outside. The calendar shows ECT observation at the hospital today. I'm going to help children feel better today on the psychiatry ward - some of which experience the same sadness I occasion. I wash, get dressed, eat a banana, and walk outside to the cold dry air. I give a brief compassion prayer to the sky asking the world to be just slighly more peaceful and less pained.

2008-01-22T17:17:00.000-08:00

My buddies and I started medical school like children. We studied human body like it was the world, and we stayed up late nights drinking beer and studying physiology by our campfire. After two years of this we were let loose around the hospital. We worked hard and we took care of patients. We slept very little, but we were good at what we do. When it came time for us to choose our specialty, I went into general surgery at the best residency program in the US thinking I would go to Africa after my training. My friends went into various specialties and we all went separate ways.

Intern year was no sleep, much soda pops and crying alone each time a patient died. I learned so much and became that much harder inside. By the time residency was over, I was able to sleep 5 hours a day on average and still do emergency surgery without batting an eyelash. In fact, my patients liked me so much that I had to borrow a friend's SUV to bring home all the Christmas presents of my last residency year. My attendings loved me and the Chief of the hospital begged me to stay promising me that I would be able to practice and help people as much as I want to. He even told me that I could take 6 months out of the year to go to Africa, so I stayed and became an young assistant professor of surgery at the world renowned hospital.

I worked for the next five years and made a lot of money, and I even received a full professorship through the university to which my hospital belonged. I was working more than ever and never once was allowed to go to Africa because the hospital was always short on hands. One morning I woke up to a rising sun in my 20th story condo and I realized that I was fucking dead inside. My childhoodish dream was still waiting for me to catch up. I drove my Porsche to the hospital that morning and told the Chief, "I am going to Africa. Here's my resignation letter. Sorry." I walked out while the Chief was still in denial of what was happening. I didn't return his calls; the letter was enough.

I liquidated all my assets in 2 months into a Swiss account and joined Doctors Without Borders to learn the ropes. I worked in a post-conflict region in an unnamed country in Africa where I developed even connections. I worked 14 hours every day and studied French 2 hours each night with a nurse. After my contract with Doctors Without Borders, I stayed in town and helped develop the community with the money I had saved up - eventually building a hospital and a medical school. In my spare time, I built myself a small house with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen and living area next to the beach. I liked how things were turning around in town. That nurse ended up moving in with me.

By this time, I started calling my old friends from medical school. They were making a ton of money but were just as dead in their heart. I asked many friends to join me and a few of them did come visit me to volunteer and also to relax. One friend who is a radiologist even decided to quit fucking everything back in the States and start anew at the town where I lived. I was really glad because we were paying a lot to have our xrays read by outside agencies.

Next ten years, we woke up every morning to help people without worries about money or politics. The hospital by this time was pretty much self running through government insurance program and by the doctors from the medical school. On the tenth anniversary of the hospital opening, that radiologist friend and I sat down by the beach drinking local beer and listening to Bob Marley and watched healthy children play in the water. My friend asked me, "Wilbur, do you know what day it is?" I replied "no, I don't know... Is it Saturday?" without much thought. He said, "I don't know, either, bro." We both smiled into the sunset. My hair was now turning white but I was still very young in my heart.

I was a child again.

2007-11-21T21:28:00.000-08:00

Any discussion in metaphysics serves only to entertain in my drunkenness among good company. However this is the night before Thanksgiving and I have nothing I'd rather do than get this out of my head.

Problem: Am I truly free to do things as I will them; or have I been predetermined to do those things (whatever mechanism one proposes for predetermination)?

Most of the time, the focus is on the human being and his/her perception of the capacity to make a decision. The arguments for each side (free will versus predetermination) quickly based on the perspective taken. If the choice (or illusion of choice) is seen through human eyes, free will seems like a plausible reality. On the contrary, the viewpoint of God or an absolute order of the universe could support predetermined natured of our lives.

In my extensive research (of 5 minutes on Google), I have yet to come across anyone who questioned the assumption of separate entities. Who is God? What is a human being? What is an absolute order? The first question belongs to the theologian. The second to the sociologist, anthropologists and other -ologists. The third question posed to physicists. There are no clear answers on these questions in year 2007.

Right now I have the choice of going to bed or stay in front of this computer, but I am going to stay in front of the computer. I have exercised a choice in options. However, whether that action (or inaction) was a result of free will or predetermination depends on the definition of Who "I" am. If "I" am an entity of single human unit which decided not to go to bed, then the action was the result of exercise in free will. However if "I" am an entity composed of countless molecules subject to laws of physics, then perhaps the seeming single action of "staying in front of computer" was a predetermined output of a predetermined input. Neither answer alone is satisfactory in explaining the phenomenon of causation of "my" action just now because ownership of this action is not clear. Even if one were to accept the two seemingly contradictory perspectives, the reality is not any more understandable or acceptable.

Eh, of course, I am not going to stay up and try to define who I am. That would take too long.

One thing is certain though. If I define myself too strongly (or with too much certainty), I will create more dilemmas about metaphysical nature of my experiences. The practical application of this intellectual exercise is very clear: be damn unequivocal about the self if any semblance of harmony is desired.

11/21/2007
-Wilbur

2007-11-19T12:18:00.000-08:00

Do you remember the first time you did something? First day of school. For example, the first date with someone special, first time at work, or first time traveling abroad. For me these times were both exciting and scary. I usually have these same thoughts, 'I'm really happy to begin something new, but what if I mess up?'

Zay was my first patient as a medical student. I was excited to finally be on the hospital ward. At the same time, I was also scared that I might make a mistake. What if I tell her something not true? What if I tell her something that upsets her? What if I hurt her during physical exam?

On that first day, we talked for an hour. Zay in her blue hospital gown sitting on her bed, and me in my yellow gown in a chair. She told me about her life with CF (cystic fibrosis) and the lung transplantation. How she had to come to the hospital this time because she wasn't feeling well.

She also told me about other things about her life. How she had worked as a town manager. How she had traveled to Paris and would like to go back sometime. How she cared for others. How she cared for herself. Every morning for the next three weeks, I woke up Zay up apologetically to see how her night went. Listen to her lungs. Talk about how the day might go. And both of us leave each other with our fingers crossed as a quick prayer of sorts.

Soon I became comfortable being Zay's reporter for the team. I would tell the team, "Miss Lawson had no acute events overnight. Her temperature was 36.7. Respiratory rate 16" and so on. I even learned how to treat bronchiectasis and pneumonia. Advair, albuterol, atrovent, saline nebs, supplemental oxygen, tobramycin nebs, and antipseudomonal antibiotics. What was initially a mumbo-jumbo really started to make sense to me in two weeks.

For this opportunity to learn, I am grateful to Zay.

Grateful, too, for being patient with me when I took too long to listen to her lungs and heart. For putting up with my own anxiousness towards her well being. For allowing me and my teachers to do the best as a team. To trust us and thereby allowing us the satisfaction of being the caregiver of someone who deserved the best.

I am still very scared for my other patients, 'What if I forget to ask an important question? What if I overlook an important lab value?' I worry quite a bit when someone gets a fever; I think about Zay. Her fever was the sentinel event to her passing.

Zay makes me careful. She helps me to remain human when I find it difficult to face the suffering of another human being and through her example, find redemption and comfort in our inevitable human nature.

I am in debt for the beautiful experience of getting to know Zay personally and of partaking in her life though briefly. I hope to pay off the debt of her spirit as I continue to live this life and dream of traveling like Zay often did.

Here's to you, Ze-Ze; I hear Paris is a beautiful place this time of the year.

2007-11-19T12:10:00.000-08:00

To begin this story, I have to confess that my opinions on cultural sensitivity and sensibility are biased because I was once a migrant myself. Having experiences the stereotypes and prejudices - not all of which are negative - I am sometimes overwhelmed at how crude and insensible my fellow students could be toward another human being because they did not understand the psyche and social apprehension people of different cultures hold.

The hospital is not a place where only physicians and patients are the only people who exist and matter. The doctors and medical students provide a large part of the service, but without the nurses, food services personnel, pharmacists and other staff, we cannot function in our role at all. In the basement departments and hallways are people who work to pick up the trash, wash the laundry, clean up empty rooms of blood and feces and generally keep this a hospitable place. These most basic functions of the hospital are most often served by a Hispanic person.

Today during our physical diagnosis round with the chief resident, we came through the set of doors outside the 5th floor Women's hospital elevators only to be greeted by a foul smell in the hallway. A student blurted out rambunctiously, "Oh, man! What is that smell? It smells like trash!" It became immediately apparent to me the smell was coming from one of those large trash carts which was being pulled by a service staff - invariably a Hispanic gentlemen.

Another student next to me pointed in the general direction of the man and trash cart, "It's the trash!" The students, stimulated by the irony of wondering what smells like trash and finding out that there was a large cart full of trash, started laughing. The student who first asked the question laughed also because he found his own remarks to be silly.

I looked at the man again. He was a dark-skinned, short man. He was moving down the hallway but had stopped because of the noise we made. We had caught his attention in our childlike laughter. He saw us point at the trash. His face turned sour, then he looked away. Walked away.

Of course, I cannot say for sure what exactly he was thinking or feeling, but I can tell you that I have been in a similar pair of shoes in my life. I had worked along with Mexican construction workers. I befriended these guys and learned lay Spanish from them. Often when we would work, the American home buyers and American supervisors came to look at the house. When these people showed up, we felt that we were invisible or transparent. Our existence felts as an inconvenient but temporary measure to fulfill the needs and wants of these strange blue eyed creatures who somehow have a lot more money than we do. The people who can afford to live in the houses which we built with our sweat and blood. Whenever those people passed by me, they never said hello or looked at me in the eyes. I felt very, very small.

As I saw the man push the cart away from us, I became sad and enraged. I was sad that we may have made the service person embarrassed. I was enraged that my colleagues would be so insensitive as to point and laugh at a person who is providing a valuable service which none of us would be glad to do. Are we not supposed to be doctors? Are we not supposed to comfort people?

I have a tendency to antagonize people in these situations as I try my best to protect the people who have less capacities to protect themselves. I tried my best to convey the man's perspective to the students involved, but I wasn't well received. One of the students told me that she or he was laughing only because of the situation and not at the man. I decided to drop it at that point. I have still much to learn in the diplomacy of bringing the perspective of the disadvantaged side to the table without causing more friction.

However, the reader must understand. Our failure was not in the intention; we didn't have any intention except we let our mind run free where it shouldn't have. It was insensitivity which led to that one-sided situation. We should have recognized that we were in the presence of another human being who was carrying a cart full of dirty trash. Perhaps we would not have laughed so loudly or pointed at the cart. Maybe just a smile would have been enough for us. Maybe some of us could even have smiled at the person and nod our head in greeting - as we did for a Hispanic mother and child we saw just 40 second later.

This assignment was supposed to be a reflection on how culture affects patient care. However, the discrepancy between what I saw in the hallway today and what other students saw serve to show the real failure in cultural competency. In our training we are asked only to recognize cultural issues as they exist in the context of clinics and in whom we consider to be "patients." Perhaps such training serves the requirements of a prominent social medicine faculty or a Medicare requirement, but it does not address the fact that medical students and doctors treat people of lesser socioeconomic background with ignorance. We must not only remind ourselves to treat all of our patients with respect but also with everyone else we see daily. We cannot simply say, "we'll treat this group of people well because these are our patients but not the nurses or cafeteria workers." We must recognize culture everywhere.

I am sorry to tell you that I have been served much more by my immigrant background, my travels overseas, and by the drunks I've met than by social medicine class or the interviews with that patient from a privileged background. By my humble but frank account as a someone outside of the "main" culture, too many our students are culturally incompetent and insensitive. I won't have them take care of my family.

I am also sorry to say that we cannot teach equanimity; it can only be learned. For those of you other students, good luck. For you residents and attendings, I'm going to keep standing up for the migrants, poor people, the homeless, alcoholics, the service staff, and others for whom medicine serves only to increase the gap between the well and not-well. All I ask is that you don't berated me for being naive or idealistic during morning rounds when I stand up for a chronic pain patient.

Wilbur Larch

10/31/2007

Remember Carmen

2007-02-16T09:12:00.003-08:00

Soon to come.

Rain on my Conscience

2007-02-12T12:41:00.000-08:00

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz…

I have been stuck in this windowless excuse for a library entering research data for a whole Friday afternoon and evening. I look to the bottom right corner of the computer screen to see that it is 2:13 AM – a lot later than I imagined. Look at all these piles of patient files I have gone through!

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz…

I stretch my hands to reach for the pager, but it slides away from me with each vibration. I stand up, stretch my back, and snatch the pager as a cat would a black mouse. It’s probably not Doctor King or Poe at this time. Most likely a trauma code.

“ATL1 TB1 ETA 15m”[i]

I am so damn right. It’s all about pimping the page demographics. Wait… what else could it be besides a trauma code at 2am? I’m not thinking straight. I am hungry. I decide to call the computer quits, pack up, and walk out of my building towards the ER.

Drip, drop, drip….

It’s raining. The air is humid as it always is on a North Carolina summer night, but it’s surprisingly nice outside. The humid warm air feels soft and warm on my skin after being in the air conditioned building for so long.

Splat, splat, splat, splat…

My slick, black Danskos on slick, black rain on slick, black asphalt. This code has to be a MVA (Motor Vehicle Accident). I am 90% sure. I actually don’t know what that means because when that person comes through the door, he is not going to show up with 90% MVA and 10% some-other-trauma-diagnosis-on-rainy-night. He’s going to be either MVA or not. Percentages are impersonal like that. Same thing with cancer patients. They are either going to have complete remission or they are not.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz…

“ATL1 TB1 ETA 10m”

The trauma codes are usually paged twice. Most of the time, the message is exactly the same except for the ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival). The trauma personnel told me the second page is to keep the trauma team updated as the patient is en route. However, I have my own explanation. Occam be damned. I secretly believe that the second page is an apologetic whisper for that poor trauma surgery resident who suffers from chronic sleep deprivation – alluring him to leave the stupor of on-call room and greet the next customer at the ER door with a tired smile. I never say stupid stuff like this except in my head because I know my mentors would put me into a Zen coma of tying knots. I forget which resident is on call tonight. Poor guy. Wonder how much sleep he got last night.

Swoooosh….. Phooomp.

The electrical door opens as I approach the ER. I nod my head at the nice security guy whose name I forget. Hence the nod instead of “How are ya, Ted or Bob?” I feel bad. I glance at his name tag. His name is John. John, John, John, John, John.

I pop the little blue handicapped figure on the little round plate next to the door that says, “Press Here.” Another set of doors open for me. I imagine I am a little mouse in a labyrinth of a hospital. All day long, I have been pressing buttons for my morsels of cheese. Right now, my cheese is the trauma code. This code is my reward for working so hard tonight. I feel bad for the person who is coming in. He’s probably in really bad shape. I have to learn from this though. It’s difficult to look at hurt people, but it’s the right thing to do. Face the pain and fear. Learn to do something about it.

The ER is quiet. Few regulars in different rooms, and no one seems particularly rushed. The nurses are chatting up the trauma code. Blah, blah, blah, MVA, blah, blah. MVA it is.

For the next few minutes, the sleepy looking people straggle in. Rhyne is the lucky trauma resident. Five feet six inches of caffeine junky. I smile. She smiles. Her eyes betrays her desire to look sharp and awake; I can clearly see sleep deprivation-induced ptosis. Conjunctival mucosa is definitely dry with mild injection. I wonder how many surgery residents use stimulants at our hospital. Oops, not supposed to think about stuff like that. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. William Osler. Harvey Cushing. What was Cushing syndrome again? Moon face, buffalo hump. Excess steroids? Let’s see Addison’s is no steroids, so… Oh, Rhyne is getting ready. I should, too.

I dress myself in a yellow gown and put gloves on, too. We lean against the wall in ER hallway next to the trauma bay with our arms folded in. The attending walks in – Dr. Pruell. He looks like crap, too, except he looks good looking crappy. That’s the difference twenty years makes. De facto tiredness that doesn’t faze him. Just too cool. I greet him.

“Good evening, Doctor Pruell. It’s MVA.”

He nods. He puts his gear on and leans against the wall next to us. Dr. Pruell is probably thinking about his children. Rhyne is thinking about… I don’t know. What do mid-thirties surgical residents think at 2:23am in the morning? Oh, she might be wondering how long this case is going to take. She’s probably hearing the tempting call of on-call room bed. Poor Rhyne.

We wait. The trauma bay is clean and ready for our patient. Three generation of medicine people crazy about spending countless nights with hurt strangers. I know what drives me, but what drives Rhyne and Dr. Pruell? Money? Value? Obsession? Faith?

Bang, clang, shwoooo-clang, phoomp…

The ambulance crew flies through the door with the patient on a gurney. Had it not been for the straps, the patient surely would have fallen off the gurney; the crew was in a hurry to get to the bay. The patient’s eyes are open and wanders over to me and other people in the hallway. He has a neck collar on. His arms are moving.

OUCH! I feel a chilling sensation through my spine even before I recognize what I see. Bone. Bonessssss. More than one. I see several phalanges and metacarpals on his right hand. The hair on my neck stands up erect, but I maintain a serious poker face. Someone calls for orthopedics resident on call. I wonder how much sleep that resident got last night.

“Patient is a 38 year-old African-American male who was traveling on a motorcycle… GCS of 15...”

One of the EMT’s blurts out the relevant facts in rapid succession. The busted hand and motorcycle story fits. He wasn’t wearing gloves, eh? Rhyne, Doctor Pruell, and the rest of ER staff rush into the trauma bay after the patient and EMT’s. It’s an orchestrated chaos. Doctor Pruell is conducting, and the team moves in a fluid manner. There is little waste in motion or time. Beautiful as can be.

People are shouting out medical findings at the speed of light. Another trauma resident, Jack jumps into the bay. This patient is a human funbag. They poke him every which way possible. They shine light in his eyes, cut his clothes off, get IV started, and insert a folley catheter. Jack shouts to the patient that he will insert his finger into the patient’s rectum to check for blood. The patient does not hear Jack first because he is in a lot of pain and second because Rhyne just asked him to open his mouth and say “Ahhhh.” In front of my eyes, Jack performs the fastest digital rectal exam I have ever seen. The patient cringes. I cringe.

“Patient’s assigned name is Zebra.”

The record nurse yells out the trauma patient’s pre-assigned name. These names are predetermined names in alphabetical succession so we know what to call the patient even before the trauma patients’ identities are known. Mr. Zebra is the last patient on this set of names. I wonder what the next trauma patient’s name would be. Abracadabra? Angel? Doctor Pruell is staring at me. I think he just asked me why one of the legs was shorter. I respond with a slight delay.

“Doctor Pruell, I think… I think he, uh, I think the leg is broken. I’ll get the femur traction kit right away.”

I sound like an idiot. Why didn’t I say he has a broken femur? Femur, femur, femur, femur. I unravel a cardboard box that contains a simple yellow sheet of plastic that folds into an open box which allows a strap to pull on the broken leg. We apply the traction kit to his leg. Even with the utmost care, it still hurt him like hell. We pull. He cries. God knows I hate people in pain. Wait. That’s not what I meant. I hate to see people in pain.

The X-ray technician comes in. I step behind the closest person wearing a lead vest to save my thyroid and testes. Everybody stops moving around as if their own bones are to be X-rayed. After the films are taken, Mr. Zebra is again molested by prodding fingers and by interrogative questions.

Beep….. Beep….. Beep….

The monitor is online. It shows Mr. Zebra’s blood pressure, oxygen pulse, heart rate, and few other numbers I don’t understand. ABC (airway, breathing, and circulation) looks good. From what I can understand, Mr. Zebra seems very stable.

The X-ray is on the LCD screen. I step closer to hear Dr. Pruell, Rhyne and Jack talk about the fractures. I see little white clouds floating on a black sky. The little white clouds are broken femur pieces belonging to Mr. Zebra. That sucks. Comminuted fracture. He’s going to need screws to set them in place. He is going to need surgery for his leg as well as his hand.

I wonder if he has kids. Just as I look to for a wedding band, the resident grabs the ring-cutter and works the wedding band over the bare bones. Mangled. Like its owner. I wonder if this is going to really change Mr. Zebra’s life. The orthopedic resident comes in. Tall, white guy. I haven’t seen him before. Brian’s name tag tells me his name is Brian. Brian the Bone Doctor.

Brian preps the cast material. I stand watch. The trauma team decides the patient is stable. One by one the room empties. The trauma surgery team back to sleep. The ER staff back to homeless patients and a pair of anxious parents of a febrile, crying baby. I hope the baby has something benign.

The ortho resident picks Mr. Zebra’s hand up to his face and stares as he would a fine piece of tangible art.

“Mr. Zebra, we’re going to need to do surgery on your hand. OK?”

“OK.”

I look closely at Brian. Judging from the little hedgehog on his chin, I know he didn’t have time to groom himself. Less groom, more sleep. Still, his eyes are sharp, and I am sure he’s really good at what he does. He moves over to the leg and glances at the X-ray on the LCD screen. Brian immediately knows that it’s going to be a long night. He’s not happy about it. He’s looking at Mr. Zebra. I sense a bit of edge in his eyes and in his voice.

“What were you doing this late at night in the rain driving on a motorcycle?”

“Driving home.”

“Were you drinking?”

“No.”

“What were you doing?”

“…”

“What happened?”

“I lowsided. Too wet.”

“No shit, man.”

“….”

Mr. Zebra is tired now. He wants to rest. He really wishes he wasn’t here now. He wishes he was home. I wonder if he has insurance. Brian starts wrapping Mr. Zebra’s leg.

“So… what kind of motorcycle do you ride?”

“…”

“What kind of motorcycle do you ride?”

“It don’t matter.”

The nurse in charge of paperwork is called out of the bay. I look up. It’s a battlefield for sure. Cabinets are left open. There’s stuff lying around everywhere on the counters. I look down. Blood and plastic wraps litter the floor. The dirty clothes bin is overflowing with yellow gowns with blood stains.

Brian, Mr. Zebra, and me. Hey, great! White, Black, Yellow. What is that? The German flag. I think.

“Was it a crouch-rocket? It bet it was nice.”

“Why you wanna know?”

Yeah, why do you want to know? Why are you fixating on this, bud? Do you ride a motorcycle yourself? Wait, no sane orthopedic resident rides motorcycles. Why is he grilling this guy about the motorcycle? That’s the least of Mr. Zebra’s concerns right now. His bones are sticking out for crying out loud!

“Is your motorcycle OK?”

“Why you wanna know, man? It don’t concern you, man.”

Wait, Brian doesn’t care about the motorcycle. He’s just pissed at Mr. Zebra.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to have a broken motorcycle. That would be just awful. I wouldn’t want you to lose money on it and stuff.”

Oh, now that was just too obvious. Come on, Brian! You know damn sure that this accident put him back at least 50 grand IF he has insurance. We may bankrupt him for this admission. That’s bullshit about you caring about his motorcycle and money. I know it. You know it.

You are only pissed because you don’t want to stay up and put Mr. Zebra bones and tissues back together. Brian wants so badly to call Mr. Zebra an idiot for riding in the rain at 1AM. Brian probably believes that Mr. Zebra deserves a Darwin award for the state that he’s in. The worst part is that it’s not that he doesn’t want to say it; he cannot say it. There is no use in scolding the patient at this point. Sort of like how you don’t tell a end-stage lung cancer patient “if only you hadn’t smoked so much.” The milk is spilt. There is no need to yell at the spilter now.

My hands are sweaty. My body feels weird. This is really uncomfortable. I see their mouths moving, but I don’t understand. I try.

“……………………..Just leave me alone, man.”

Brian, leave him alone. Just do your job. I’m sorry you’re tired. He’s tired, too. We don’t need to make him suffer any more than he already does. He’s paid dearly for his decision. I feel compelled to say or do something.

Just shut up and pretend like you are cool with everything.

I hear Pete, my mentor in my head; he’s right. I speak too much of my mind at times. My throat feels tight. I am a mannequin. Brian knows he screwed up. Mr. Zebra is more unhappy about Brian than about the accident and his broken bones and possibly his broken life. I know saying something to Brian wouldn’t help because I’ll force him to defend himself more. I also don’t care for any excuse he maybe have for himself.

Mr. Zebra, did you expect this to happen at the hospital? Do you think that Brian is treating you this way because you are black? Would you have preferred a black resident? Is this disparity? Is this racism? Mr. Zebra, it’s funny. I’ve lived in the U.S. for more than a decade now as a foreigner and as a minority, but I do not remember being treated as you have been here by Brian. I am sorry that you are in so much pain, and I am sorry that things are the way they are.

“Hey, you’re going to need surgery for your leg, too.”

“…”

“Did you hear me? I said you’re going to need surgery for your leg, too.”

“Why do I need surgery on the leg? The cast is good enough.”

Mr. Zebra needs surgery.

“Your bones are broken in such a way that you need screws. Otherwise, your leg will not heal right.”

“My cousin had a cast for his leg. He didn’t need surgery.”

“I don’t know what your cousin had, but your legs are broken in multiple pieces… we need to put screws in…”

“I don’t need it.”

Brian, I think what Mr. Zebra means is he doesn’t want surgery from you. At best, he thinks you are a punk and at worst, a racist. If I were Mr. Zebra, I would probably choose to walk crooked than have you fix me. On the worst hour of my life, you judged me and gave me a hard time for a decision I already regret more than anything else in my life. I probably would’ve punched you in the face if my hands weren’t so mangled. Or I would’ve punched your face with my other hand if it wasn’t for the morphine-induced haze. I wouldn’t care if I have to go to court for it.

But I’m not Mr. Zebra. I’m a medical student. Just here to learn. Shut up and watch. You have to watch. Learn from Brian. Learn from Mr. Zebra. I am sure Brian is a great guy. I would not have thought Brian to be the way he is now if he and I were out drinking at a bar together, but he certainly did his best to make me second guess him. More importantly, he lost his chance to become Mr. Zebra’s confidant, and Mr. Zebra is alone in this hospital.

Brian knows it himself, too. He has become quiet in the last minute. He’s thinking. Maybe he’s thinking about his medical student days when he slept 8 hours a day and thought about ideals as I do now. Are you hating yourself for being mean? Were you just tired and cranky?

“Well, it is my professional opinion that you need surgery on your legs. I am going to go ahead and get ready for the operating room and call my attending. You think about it and let me know when I come back.”

Brian struts out of the bay and leaves the heavy air and his guilt behind. Now it’s just black and yellow. What is that, a bumble bee? He’s looking at me. I look at him. He doesn’t say anything initially, but I know he wants me to stand up for him. He needs someone he can trust. I am not that person. I try anyway.

“Are you cold? Do you need more blanket?”

“I’m fine, man, but let me ask you something.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I need surgery for the leg? You see, my cousin had a broken leg once, but he didn’t need no surgery, man. I don’t want to get surgery.”

“Well, I’m only a medical student. I don’t know anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, but what do you think?”

“You see that X-ray on the computer? Your leg bone is shattered. I agree with Brian about the surgery.”

I bite my tongue. Damn it! I sided with Brian. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did I do that?

“I don’t know, man. I don’t think I need it.”

I so want to come clean and tell him straight that Brian was an asshole. I don’t.

“Hey, I think you’re always entitled to a second opinion. But it might be hard to get a second opinion right now. You want me to go grab a nurse and see if she can page another bone doc for you?”

“…”

“Just let me know.”

I’m sorry, Mr. Zebra. It’s crap, I know. Wish I could help you more.

“Where are you from, kid?”

He sounds more composed now.

“Korea. The one without nuclear weapons.”

He chuckles.

“Hey, you said, you’re a medical student, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What you wanna do?”

“Probably surgery. I like kids, so maybe pediatrics. I don’t know yet.”

“I probably don’t need to tell you this, but don’t be like that white guy. Fucking asshole.”

I don’t reply except with a hint of a smile.

“I’d like to talk to a nurse. Can you please go ahead tell somebody?”

“Sure thing, Mister….”

“James. Call me James.”

“Alright, James. I’ll go get that nurse and then come back and say goodbye before I head home.”

“Thanks, man.”

James closes his eyes. The monitor is still beeping in rhythm with his heart. Regular rate and rhythm. He’s going to be fine. I leave the bay under the pretense of looking for a nurse, but I know too well that I deceive myself. I am enjoying the escape from the heaviness of the room just like Brian did earlier. I tell a nurse behind one of the counters and tell her that Mr. Zebra wants another orthopedic doctor. She looks at me with a where-am-I-going-to-find-another-orthopedic-surgeon-at- 3am-on-a-Saturday-morning look. Just as she was about to ask why, she halts and realizes why the patient might be asking that. She probably knows what happened in that room.

“Thanks, kid. The attending orthopod is going to see him later anyways.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

I walk back to the bay.

“James.”

“…”

“Hey, James.”

“…”

He is out.

The monitor is still beeping. I decide not to wake him up; the ortho attending will wake him up shortly anyway. He can use the sleep. Just like everyone else in the hospital. Just like Brian. Just like Rhyne. Doctor Pruell. As do I. I should go home and sleep.

Splat, splat, splat…

I walk out into the drizzling black rain to my car. The image of James’ bare bones follow me into the rain, and it gives me spine chill again. I think about my old 600cc Honda crouch-rocket. I am glad it was stolen instead of destroyed – along with my hands and legs. Then I judge and hate Brian for having worked 100 hours last week and being tired and cranky tonight in front of James. What a bastard. No matter how tired I am, I am never going to torture my patients like that. Never ever. I bathe in my self-righteousness.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz…

Uh, oh.

“ATL1 TB2 ETA 25m”

Another trauma code. I consider for a split second if I want to stay for this code, but I remember how awful it was in the room with James and Brian. If I have to see Brian again tonight, I don’t know if I can look into his eyes. He would probably figure out that I am judging him, too.

For Brian’s sake, I hope the new code is for a white person who doesn’t need an ortho consult. For my sake, I hope that I figure out a way to get enough sleep when I am a resident myself. If I fail to do that, I hope I just shut up and do my job for James’ sake. It’s only right.

Ok, I go home. This headache is killing me.

[i] ATL1: Adult Trauma Level One; TB2: Trauma Bay One; ETA 15m: Estimated Time of Arrival in 15 Minutes.

La Vita é Bella (Speech)

2007-02-12T12:34:00.000-08:00

Thank you Madam Toastmaster.

Fellow toastmasters. Welcomed Guests. Dear friends.

Have any of you ever watched the Italian movie La Vita é Bella? Or Life is Beautiful?

The movie portrays the life of Guido and Giosuè, an Italian Jew and his son, in a concentration camp during World War II. Now, if you have not seen this movie, you must be thinking how can living in the concentration camp be anything close to beautiful? If you have seen the movie and don’t remember, you probably are wondering “why was that movie called Life is Beautiful again?” Ladies and gentleman, in the next few minutes I wish to answer these questions by first sharing with you a little bit about my life, then propose to you, life can be exceedingly beautiful even in the least hopeful settings.

My father. He was an abusive man. Before I go on any further, please do understand he dearly loved me and the rest of my family, and I love him very much so. I cannot condone what he did to me as a father or as a person, but I also understand the frustration and pain he suffered as he grew up in postwar Korea with an abusive father himself. In that light, I feel that he had done his best and would like you to know that I have relieved him of any guilt as far as our relationship is concerned.

I mention this about my father and the abuse because it was the biggest stumbling block of my life. I felt that the world was a sick, sad place for a father to beat his child. There was a period of my life when I had nightmares of violent fights with my father. I often woke up from these recurring nightmares in the middle of the night and became very scared of falling asleep. At times I found solace in alcohol-induced stupor in mornings after those long, sleepless nights. I am finally coming to understand that my experiences are very similar to what physicians describe as post-traumatic stress disorder in psychiatry.

I tried whatever I can to forget about these things and move on with my life. Finish undergrad, find a job, find love, have kids and live happily ever after. It took me two years of what people call “soul-searching” to find peace. There was a lot of introspection and remembering the stories my father told me about his childhood. I remembered he would often tell me how he could not go to school because his father made him work in the field. How he was always hungry. How he loved to eat grasshoppers because it was the closest thing to any kind of meat he could eat. He found the most satisfaction in buying us food so my brothers and I could stuff our fat faces! In the end, I realized that he did the best that a father could do as an abused child himself. To that extent I give him credit for trying his best. Realizing this, the world was not such a bad place anymore. I felt that I did not have to live my life as my father did. More importantly, I felt that I had the choice not to live as he did.

When I was just beginning to see the world in a different light, the Indian Ocean tsunami had struck various parts of South Asia. This time, instead of despairing about this world, I joined a friend to volunteer in a small fishing town in India where several villages had been devastated by the disaster. We worked on many different projects, but the activity I enjoyed the most was playing with the orphaned children there. I was sad for those children – not all whose parents were lost to the water but to diseases. Every morning, we woke up at the urging of the Indian sun and went to work doing whatever the day asked us to do. It purified my soul to have the simple daily objective of helping others. It was such a wonderful period of my life. Naturally, it was heart wrenching for me to leave India and the people behind.

Since that trip, I had kept my head shaven as you see me now in remembrance of the little boys and girls whose heads were shaven when their parents had passed away. I also threw out my bed because I felt that I should sleep on the floor just like my friends did in India. Also, I traveled to New Orleans, Haiti, and Guatemala to volunteer. These trips reinforced my idea that life is not so sad or meaningless and that I am able to make this world a little better. I found myself worthy of life for the first time.

To this date I still do not have a bed to myself. However, I have recently been diagnosed with a sleep condition. My neurologist pleaded me to sleep on a bed because comfortable sleep is especially important with my condition. I am not totally convinced yet, but I may be getting a bed for myself soon. I pray that the children do not think I am a sellout. I hope I stay the course and become a savior of children - not for my own ego but for the resilient children who still found a way to smile.

In Life is Beautiful, the father tries hard to protect his son’s innocence even through the hardships of living in a concentration camp. Beauty is not defined by the surrounding conditions - be it good or bad. Indeed, the world can be a very depraved place for a lot of people. Just like the father in the story, I feel that I can make this life a little more beautiful if I worked to protect the lives and innocence of people who live in worse conditions than I do.

True beauty is found when we look into each others’ eyes and realize that our basic desires and needs are very much the same. When we share what we have and who we are, we finally find beauty that transcends good and evil. This is my outlook on life now. I cannot deny that my upbringing was not ideal. I also recognize that there are many man, women and children dying of hunger, famine, curable diseases, and war. Despite this, I hold a positive outlook on life because I now know that today I am doing what I can to help these people. Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly submit to you, in spite of what is going on in our world and in our lives, Life is beautiful.

-Wilbur