093: Norway

It was one of those days. Nothing felt right, everything felt MEH, in capitals. I have felt that way for weeks now and I was tossing in bed, feeling like an empty bottle of ketchup - purposeless. It was then my husband picked his laptop from the floor, opened it up and went on RyanAir. 

"Where do you want to go? Tell me, and I'll book the tickets."

"Nowhere but somewhere, anywhere." (Told you I was difficult)

After browsing different options, we made a decision to commit to Oslo, Norway. A country we have rarely heard of previously - it is not Paris, Rome or Barcelona, far from a popular holiday destination. We had to even look up where it was on a map; we had no clue. Before even looking up what we could do there, we had already had our tickets booked - no turning back now.

Four weeks later, we filled our backpacks with the essentials for a weekend away in the uncharted (by us) lands of Scandinavia. Little did we know it is very close! Just shy of three hours by plane. My mom had a friend there who we planned to visit, and we also agreed to explore the woods located a little outside the city centre. But really that was the extent of our research - we are rubbish at planning. Coincidentally, when we were about to board the train to the airport for our adventure, I realised I left my phone charging at home. I would like to say that it was a conscious decision to unplug, but it really wasn't. There were heart palpitations and feelings of impending doom after realising I wouldn't be with my constant companion for a few days. 

What time is it? 

Was there an email I forgot to reply? 

Damn, I needed to whatsapp her about the thing! 

Watching my two hands fidget without its exercise toy was entertaining - no phone, free thumbs. It was scary, but extremely liberating at the same time. In the train, instead of cocooning myself to my screen, I was forced to look up at people and observe the scenery through the glass windows. We passed rivers, boats, lakes, trailer parks and smarties coloured houses. All I would have missed if I had Instagram open. But I digress, this blogpost is about Norway.

In a nutshell, it was a magical, thought provoking trip. Usually on our mini getaways, we gain headspace, away from the drudgery of everyday responsibilities. But rarely do we get enough of it to ponder and reflect on life itself. But this time we did. From the many thoughts that we had, here are five:

1. Green is grand

Not only was there literally no trash on public streets, it was as if the city was built around the trees that makeup the woodlands. On the first day, we took a train ride 20 minutes outside of the city centre. The carriage swerved in and out of dark tunnels, between houses and through the forest to get to our destination which was a deserted station on top of a mountain literally in the middle of nowhere. As we were circling around the hills to get to the top, the train tracks were mere inches away from the edge. "A gust of wind, and we could easily topple over," I thought, "But that's ok, that beautiful, sparkling blue lake would cushion our landing." Fortunately, the only drama we experienced were brothers pushing each other in seats opposite us. We finally arrived at Frognersteren (I attempted to pronounce this to the ticket officer at the station, and he actually knew what I was trying to say... phew!). It was literally a station, then forest. So into the forest we went, without a map or any clue where we were heading.

We collectively decided to wing it. We are "Let's just follow these well treaded tracks and see where this leads us" kind of people. That ultimately was a good decision as we managed to see so many great things like the olympic ski jump, people roller skiing up hills, a person dirt biking through the woods, and we even caught glimpses of the city centre below. It was so serene and quiet, I could here my heart thumping through my chest. The air was also icy cold, it left a stinging feeling in my lungs - this must what fresh air smell like! Gosh, being enveloped by nature is so amazing. Mind you, I was never a nature-y person before this. I tended to substitute hiking with documentaries about hiking. But honestly, there is no substitute for real life experiences. I wish there was a Nordmarka on my doorstep back home in Malaysia where currently there are no trees, but more like increasingly tall skyscrapers interwoven between packed highways. There I have to close my eyes to find space. But here, there aren't any distractions even with my eyes wide - I can just breathe.

2. Family first

At the end of our self-guided tour through the woods and around quaint surrounding neighbourhoods, we hopped on a train and bus to get to the house of a family friend. She, her husband and their three kids lived in a majestic white house with the sea as their backyard. "Are we sure this is the right house?" I asked as we slowly approached it through its driveway. Sure enough, we knocked and we were greeted at the front door. They have been living in Oslo for 2 years now and they couldn't be any happier. The kids are happy at school, even the youngest 1 year old goes to nursery from 7.30am to 5.30pm (the norm here in Norway). During dinner, we had a lengthy conversation about life in Norway and to our surprise, we discovered the many policies and social norms that prioritised family. For instance, if one has a baby in Norway, the family gets a gift of an equivalent of GBP 5000. Not only that, mothers are given 1 year maternity leave (topped up by the government if private firms give less) and nurseries are highly subsidised by the government too. So most mothers go back to the workforce, not worrying about childcare.

Even in the offices, you would be pushed to find someone staying past 5 pm. The working culture in Norway is such that one clocks in at 9am and works non-stop till 5pm with no long lunches or 10 minute Facebook breaks in between. And working over the weekend? A definite no. Drinks after work? Also rare - they expect you to be home with your family. Having worked in this environment for 2 years now, our friend, A admits that it would be hard to adjust once he is transferred to another country. Very understandable cause really, having tasted this, would anything be as good? The amount that the government spend on Danish families was staggering, yet it all made alot of sense. A great nation is built upon stable families. Why nurture the tree through its branches when you can go for its root?

3. Where are all the LVs?

Another interesting observation we made was that everyone in Oslo were relatively unglamorous. Compared to Kuala Lumpur and London where designer labels are present everywhere you turn, in Oslo, people dressed relatively plainly in their boots, sweaters and winter coats. Women didn't have heavy make up on and did without any designer bags on their arms. I asked our locals directly, "The Norwegians are really not the show-offey type, are they? I am guessing looking at the size of their houses and the price of their food, they can actually afford luxury items but why don't we see them?" 

They then told us of their neighbour who was a big shot businessman. He owned two Porsches. However, instead of showing it off on his driveway, his prize possessions are kept hidden in his garage, only seeing daylight when he drives quickly away in them. "They don't like displaying their wealth here. It is frowned upon," they said. "If they went on a holiday on a private cruise in the Bahamas during the summer, when they come back, the extent that they would let people know is: "We went away." They treasure quality products but not with large Ls and Vs on the material - no one should know that." This collective humility is definitely something to be applauded and followed. It helps that the high tax rates in Norway makes inequality in the country quite narrow. So when everyone is somewhat equal, there is little reason to boast.

4. The toilet is how much now?

Speaking of its taxes, the financial price of equality also means everything is ridiculously expensive. For instance, a small bottle of water will set you back 2.50 pounds. And a trip to the public toilet will also cost you 2 pounds (but to be fair, it was really clean, and you can enter by swiping your debit card!). The bus trip from the airport to the city centre alone would have blown half our budget. No wonder this isn't a prime destination for money-pinched students (like myself). Our wallets however were eventually saved by the museums (free!), activities like hiking (free!) and kebab shops (not free, but affordable!). As an oil rich country, I guess Norway can afford hiking up the price of goods and with it, its taxes. Norway is not in the EU, and that makes things so much more expensive. If this is the future of Britain, I can already envisage a skinnier older self.

5. Slow down 

On our last day, before we headed off to the airport, we sat on a bench overlooking the marina. It was a Sunday, nothing was open. Even supermarkets were closed. We sat there observing the city, noticing that it was as if we were watching a film and someone played it at half its original speed. There on the road, the cars were moving slowly, no beeps or horns can be heard. In the sea, there was a boat chugging, also very slowly - like it had no deadline or timetable to adhere to. People were also casually strolling with their dogs or partners in a stop start rhythm - nothing like the steam engine pace that I am used to in London during rush hour. Their pauses are part of them like our "fast forward" is part of us.

The nutshell

I just feel that the Norwegians understand what life is ultimately about. It isn't about chasing money or deadlines, nor is it being stuck in the mistakes of the past. It is rather being very present in the here and now. It is experiencing where you are and who you are in the context of this big universe at this specific moment in time. It is being aware of your surroundings and preserving them. It is realising a large part of who you are comes from your family, and investing in that. It is being truly content with your identity, health and wealth by not putting them on constant display.

They just freaking get it.

092: Thawb

I went to my hospital placement on Thursday. This is the hospital that I want to be placed at when I enter the workforce in several months time. It is close to my house, junior doctors say good things about the training, and the medical teams seem well supported and definitely less stressed than teams in other hospitals that I have been to. It also helps that a lot of the senior doctors are themselves non-British. Doctors and nurses from diverse backgrounds are caring for an equally diverse group of patients. If Brexit were to kick immigrants out, there would be no staff at this hospital.

On Thursday, I went to the Acute Medical Unit to examine patients with interesting signs. Upon arriving, I saw a tall, lanky man with a bushy beard, his hospital ID badge hanging from his neck. His tanned skin colour suggests he is from either Bangladeshi or Pakistani origin. It was not his beard that caught my attention first, it was his outfit. As he spoke with a British accent, I was left staring at his black thawb (an ankle length robe commonly worn as a cultural dress by Arabs). My eyes moved on to his head, as on top of his well quaffed hair, sat a kufi. If he wanted to be instantly recognised as a Muslim, he can't dress any better than a woman in a headscarf. I would find out later that he was also a consultant physician.

My first thoughts were:
a) Is that attire even allowed?
b) He is so brave.

It takes a level of conviction in one's beliefs and identity to be brave enough to portray them openly to the public. Especially in times when outwardly expressing one's faith will often not be received well. I wonder whether he thought twice on whether it was a risky move when he donned the thawb that morning as he looked at himself in the mirror. Maybe to him, the thawb is what a hijab is to me. Risky, yes. But also necessary - like a limb is to a body. However, unlike women in hijab, Muslim men can easily hide their faith from onlookers. I know of many Mohammads who would rather call themselves Mo for instance. A Muslim man with or without a beard, can don a suit and no ones the wiser. Some women in hijab try to blend in to their surroundings too. Yes, there is a scarf on my head, but most of the time, my outfit is very much Western. A buttoned down shirt and loose trousers are my staple. I guess I'm trying to portray a woman who on the one hand is Muslim, but on the other, a woman who is also very much like any other. Or in other words, a person who is trying to assimilate.

But as Muslim men have the choice to disclose or hide, I think a conscious effort to wear a thawb and kufi to work in England says something quite bold. To me, he is saying: I am a Muslim and I am not afraid, but proud to let you know that I am. When I see that consultant, I feel that his Muslim identity is so strong that it shone through to his appearance. On observation, there is no doubt that he is Muslim - portraying his total conviction within his heart. His light and his bravery shone through too - unknowingly emanating them to the most unlikely of observers - me. If he is brave, I can be too.

091: Melodious play on words

“There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always full of new things. And then comes a day when you realise that is not how it will be at all. You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer. And you realise, too, that you have to grow around and between the gaps, though you can put your hand out to where things were and feel that tense, shining dullness of the space where the memories are.” 

"What I had just done was nothing like bird watching. It was more like gambling, through the stakes were infinitely bloodier. At its heart was a willed loss of control. You pour your heart, your skill, your very soul, into a thing - into training a hawk, learning the form of racing or the numbers in cards - then relinquish control over it. That is the hook. Once the dice rolls, the horse runs, the hawk leaves the fist, you open yourself to luck, and you cannot control the outcome. Yet everything that you have done until that moment persuades you that you might be lucky. The hawk might catch her quarry, the cards might fall perfectly, the horse make it first past the post. That little space of irresolution is a strange place to be. You feel safe because you are entirely at the world's mercy."

― Helen Macdonald, H is for Hawk

Reading H is for Hawk, I feel Macdonald has a special way with words just like a conductor has his way with musical notes. Her word assembles onto page so naturally, captivatingly so that I am left with my soul deeply etched. It cries when she talks about grief, it tastes freedom when she talks about redha (opening oneself to God's Mercy). She sees depth and meaning in the most mundane of objects - teaching me how subjectively one's eyes can see and the true power of reflection. Akin to a crash course in emotions, the self, history, literature and philosophy in one, it is a hard book, yet one that is definitely worthwhile.

090: Conversations with those who passed

A conversation starts after being exposed to any creative medium. Be it a book, a film, a song, an email or a piece of art. When I read a book, a cathartic release envelopes me - it is as if the author is talking to me, and only me. Telling me about his or her beliefs, their thoughts on the world through their eyes, real or imagined. However, I also get a strong sense of sadness when I detach from a book, and remind myself that that the person who penned ink to paper is no longer in this world. Art is amazing, it transcends time and place. Words could potentially touch a person who is born 200 years in the future. Conversations persist although people don't.

When I read Paul Kanthini's book for instance, I can imagine his voice in my head. Although I have never met him, or knew of him when he was alive, it felt like he was sitting in my living room chatting with me over tea. It is even harder to detach myself from films or videos. Watching old episodes of Glee, Cory Monteith's portrayal of Finn now seems so strange. Or watching Christina Grimmie's old covers on YouTube. It is as if they are still here, yet not. A film that penetrated into the depths of my heart was a film called "Like Crazy". I watched it in a time of dark loneliness, and the characters portrayed by Felicity Jones and Anton Yelchin gave me such solace. Like the characters on screen knew exactly what I was going through. I found out recently that Anton passed away in a freak accident, much akin to Christina, and now I watch the film's trailer with a new pair of eyes. He doesn't know it, but Anton's performance gave me strength through difficult times.

Then, there are the ones closer to home. The emails.

Before I finished college, my late grandfather and I used to intermittently email each other - checking up on what the other was doing. Email was a foreign concept to him, so it took him time to reply. He would draft a reply on paper, then type it up slowly onto the computer. He even had a list of steps next to the computer as a guide to help him read and reply emails. Step 1: press ON button.

I still have his emails in my inbox. And from time to time, I would open them up and imagine him typing them to me. A draft in his left hand, his right index finger out stretched, pressing each letter one at a time. His voice is so clear, so familiar still. I sometimes think of replying him. There is so much to tell him, I wouldn't know what to say first. The few days following his passing, I used to write him letters, everyday for a month. I knew that there was never going to be a reply, but the act of writing did help me heal. So, 6 years later, here goes.









___________________________


Dear Embahyah,

I hope you're well. Sorry I took so long to write this email, but it has been a tough few years. A lot has changed since I wrote you last. For one, I am married now - to a wonderful, spectacular man. His name is Akmal, and you would have loved him. You met him, the last time you saw me - when you sent me off to London at the train station. He was there and he shook your hand. He loves cooking, just like you did. And he treats your granddaughter like a princess.

Also, I graduated with my first degree! The whole family was there during the graduation two years ago. You would have been so proud - I got first class (just like you always wished I would) and Dean's list. Next year inshaAllah, you will have 3 graduate granddaughters - Ezryn, Yana and I. The three musketeers. I remember how much you used to emphasise academic excellence, I hope we make you proud.

The family still meets up every week - on Saturday nights now. The little ones are now starting school, Adam is Standard 1, can you believe it? Afyq and Raeyn are teenagers in KYS. There are two additions since the last time we met, both Uncle Ajan's, Azanayla and Azafiya - both extremely adorable and growing too quickly! That makes a grand total of 13 grandchildren under your belt.

Bahyah's children are all doing well Alhamdulillah. Mama and Papa moved back into the PJ house after leaving Aberdeen. The layout is a little different, the living room is open plan now to accommodate for the ever growing Sagah family. It is quite empty during school term times, because Ezryn and I are in London whilst the boys are in Malacca. That leaves Fytri, Mama, Papa and Bahmak.

Speaking of Bahmak, she is doing well. You married a strong superwoman. After you passed, Bahmak lost alot of weight, her personality changed and the spark in her eye was gone. But slowly, she has regained the spring in her step, rekindled old hobbies and found her lost laughter. She is a little slower now because of the pain in her knee - but she still goes to her usual Quran classes and visits us in London. She is now into Korean drama too! I cannot begin to imagine what Bahmak has gone through losing you, Bahyah, but I suspect the hole in her heart you left behind will never be truly filled. Instead, she has found ways to strengthen the heart surrounding the hole. I don't know how she did that - but like I told you, she is a superwoman. And don't worry, the family is taking good care of her.

If it wasn't clear so far in this email, we miss you very much. Your absence has been such a tough struggle for all of us. We just can't wait to be reunited as a family, somewhere far better than where we are now.

I love you, I miss you so very much.

Your granddaughter always,

Ayne xxx

___________________________

089: The Ramadan Feels (1)

Day 1: thirst.

I am prepared for this. Last year, we braved 19+ hours of fasting a day. So, this year I am prepared-ish. But today, I woke in a daze. I had to report to a new hospital at 7.30am, startled in an unfamiliar room and an unfamiliar bed, the sun streams through the curtains. We shared a single bed, my husband and I, as we started our lodgings in the hospital accommodation for the next month. We moved to Luton begrudgingly yesterday night, thinking do we really have to spend Ramadan here?

With an ache pounding in my head, I put on my clothes and walked to the education wing of the hospital together with my other firm mates. I realised my throat was as dry as a newly bought towel, or more like a sandy desert. I gulped my own saliva several times to compensate, also noticing that I am not in the best of moods. Early morning waking is not my forte, and to add salt to injury, this is my first day of fasting. My body is throwing a hissy fit. Probably I have an excuse to be less chirpier than usual, but that is not inkeeping with the spirit of this month. And I knew it.

"Help yourself to tea and coffee," the administrator says to us. "Also, just your luck, we have breakfast goodies for you."

A plate of breakfast pastries were then plonked in front of me. Sugary, buttery and crispy - everything my stomach yearns for. My throat gets a little drier.

Be patient.

This made me remember a lecture that I listened to where the speaker was talking about fasting. He said, "You're throat, stomach, limbs will all be shouting for you to disobey Allah. Have a glass of water, reach out for that sweet. Yet, you don't."

This is a testament to our obedience to the All Mighty. We are in training, and with His will, this will get easier.

088: Silver hair sass

Sunday on the Westbound Piccadilly line

On the hunt for Japanese cheesecake, the husband and I ventured into central London in hopes that a particular speciality bakery in Covent Garden sold what we were looking for. We got on the Victoria line and changed at Finsbury Park. The ride was pretty normal - quite crowded, but as expected for a Sunday afternoon. I didn't manage to get a seat till about 4 stops to our destination.

As I sat reading my kindle, a tall man with a few carrying bags walked in and stood next to me. He had silver hair, dressed quite casually in brown and wore a hat. I wanted to offer him my seat but it took me so long to deliberate whether my offer would be misconstrued as offensive. This has happened many times before - I offer my seat, the silver haired person declines. Whilst I was having this internal debate whilst noticing the prominent blue veins that paint his hand which clasped the rail beside me (age marks and veins on hands mean old right?), we reached the next stop and many people on the carriage got off.

With many chairs now empty, I have luckily averted an awkward "would he-wouldn't he" encounter. Phew. As he made his way to the middle of the carriage to take a seat, one of his many carrier bags accidentally knocked the knee of the woman sat next to me. Ironically, she too, had silver hair. Her shoulder length bob cut sat on top of a pale slim figure clothed in a floral patterned blouse and cropped trousers. Responding to the bump to her knee, she stopped reading the free magazine we get at the entrance of tube stations and audibly uttered "Ow!" The guy with the silver hair walked on and sat down a few seats away, opposite us. Either he didn't notice or did, but didn't think an apology was warranted in this situation. But whilst the woman next to me made dramatic cyclical gestures as she rubbed her knee with her right hand, staring at the man, obviously wanting him to know what he did, I had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was too noisy? That could happen to anyone right? "I bet he didn't notice," I said in my head. Observing him, his bags were now on the floor, an opened newspaper covering his face.

Next stop was our stop. It was silver haired lady's too. As I stood up to leave, she bolted purposefully towards the entrance further away from us. As she made her way through the carriage, her little foot stomped hard onto his shiny leather shoe! He reacted with his body bent forward, his newspaper now on his lap, his face half confused half angry. That must have been painful! It looked like a hammer being slammed onto a nail. But she stealthily had stepped out of the train before he could do anything about it. Revenge is sweet?

I stepped out too, and I was hysterically laughing. "What happened?" the husband asked curiously. I had to wait to catch a breath before I could begin to explain. Who said that the over 65s has no sass?

087: The irony of motherhood

*Details have been altered to preserve patient confidentiality
_________

"Here, put this on!"

She says as she flings a packet of sterile gloves at me. The mother, Eva is on a birthing stool. Red faced, cheeks puffed, pushing. I swear if her eyes could pop out of their sockets, they would have by now. I get on my knees next to Judy, the midwife, whose hands were cupped, beneath the head full of hair, now visible to the world outside the womb. She checks baby's heartbeat. "Eva," she exclaims calmly, "Baby's heart is slowing down. We need you to push with all your might at the next contraction." Eva's mom, clasping Eva's hand, kneeling next to her begins to bawl. She is also shouting in another language, probably in Iranian, I'm guessing she is saying "push". Eva's husband behind her, totally gobsmacked, unsure of what to do or how to help, stays pale and quiet.

______

"You won't believe what my daughter did!" Judy exclaims to the two other midwives in the meeting room. "She attempted fraud through the internet using my email!" The other two gasps.

One replies, "No... what did she do?"

"She asked to borrow my phone a few days ago. She said that my phone had a better camera - she wanted to take pictures of her old things so she could sell them on the internet for extra cash. I was like... sure, of course! Little did I know, that piece of shit, took a picture of my phone, and made an advertisement to sell it online for £300. Of course, she never intends to give my phone to the paying customer. She'll take the money and jolt. I only found out because she had the audacity to use my email - I have been getting emails from random people since yesterday."

And here's me thinking - that is one convoluted plan. Flawed, but definitely con-artist material. Why go through all that trouble to then use your mother's email as correspondence? Stupid.

______

"Eva, harder, harder, HARDER!"

Judy's fingers are in Eva now, making space for baby's head. Eva's toes lifts off the ground, her knees to her chest as she pushes her weight downwards towards the stool. Looking at her tummy, I wonder how this boulder of a baby is going to fit through this relatively small opening. Labour defies laws of physics. "She might need to be transferred up to the labour ward," says Judy as another midwife, Anna, enters to assist. "Check the heart rate again," Anna orders. She does, as everyone holds their breath.

Heart rate normal, no decelerations.

"Its ok Judy, she can do this."

______

"I don't know what you're going to do about this. But when my son f-ed up, I didn't bail him out. I was the person who took him to the police!" replies Anna to Judy's story.

"He stole my car, that good for nothing. Then he got that car impounded. He might have crawled back to me with regret, but my mind was made up as soon as I saw my driveway empty."

The midwives and I are engrossed in Anna's story. So much so, the box of Ferrero Rocher I bought for them as thanks for letting me assist in Eva's labour remained untouched.

Anna continued, "As much as I love my children, I couldn't bring myself to let them get away with the horrid things that they do. Although it breaks my heart every time."

______

"I'm dying," Eva said just two hours ago. She was on all fours supported by an exercise ball on the bed. Her baby was in an unusual position. Baby was using Eva's spine as a hammock causing mom a great amount of back pain. Pain that massages from mom and husband did little to alleviate.

But now Eva is at the finishing line. "Put your hands on mine," said Judy as I placed my gloved hands around the baby's head. "Ready?" she looks at Eva. And with one last great push, blood gushes on the floor, baby's head and body wriggle free and a boy is born. Oh God, did I just sort of... deliver a baby?

Husband and wife, now officially dad and mom, burst into tears of happiness. A cord is wrapped around baby's neck, Judy swiftly disentangle him and hand him over to mom. A worthwhile prize in compensation for a long, hard struggle. Pale as a sheet, baby didn't cry for a good minute. Towels were laid on top of him, he was shaken vigorously as stimulation. But only when the cord was clamped did the baby, lungs strong as iron, belted out a solid cry.

Welcome to the world, baby Aidan.

______

Hearing Anna's story, Susan, the senior midwife says, "I only put up with my 30-year old daughter now because she has a daughter of her own. If not, I don't think I could take much more of her shenanigans. Do you remember the time, I told you she stole my money and jewellery to pawn off for extra cash? Gosh, the things that she has done to me. How old is your daughter, Judy?"

"She's 17 now. One more year before I can wash my hands clean off her really."

Judy turns to me, and it her sweet midwifery voice says, "Now, you have done nothing of the sort to your parents, right Ayne? You study hard, got into university, nothing close to this kind of drama." I shook my head, because she's right, I have nothing done anything criminally close to what their children have done. But that does not make me an angel. Countless times have I been the cause of my mother's sleepless nights, her worries and her tears.

_______

The irony is, in this room, seasoned mothers are divulging on how their children have repeatedly scarred them emotionally throughout parenthood. Whilst two doors down, first time mom, Eva is recovering with physical battle scars, stitches in tears where baby's head proved to be too big. Stretch marks up and down her tummy. And the memory of pain for the past 24 hours. Would Eva have pushed as hard as she did if she knew what was in store for her? All the heartaches, the arguments and the disappointments that a child would bring.

Looking at her though, her face now radiating joy and happiness as she nurses her new baby boy, smiling from ear to ear as if she hadn't fought for her life a mere few minutes ago. I would argue that she would have, many times over. And that's what makes every mother a hero.

086: The letter M

I have been enjoying being in the company of books recently. My bibliophilic tendencies tend to follow the trend of waves. There is the annual dry season - where no book is picked up for months. Followed closely by regular terms of steady pitter patter, with intermittent floods in between. Now is definitely what I call monsoon season. Going to bookshops give so much joy! It makes my heart flutter with excitement. So much so I am planning a "London independent bookshops tour" when the weather is better. I have mapped it all out. We will start in Notting Hill and end in a quaint little bookstore in Clerkenwell. Would definitely be damaging for my bottom line but if not now, when?

I recently finished two really good books. Medicine related, but more about life than science. When Breath becomes Air is a heart wrenching memoir by a neurosurgeon who was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Ate this one up in a day - extremely moving and thought-provoking. And the other, Mountains Beyond Mountains, revolved around the life of Dr Paul Farmer, a Harvard educated medical doctor who has dedicated his life to helping the poor all over the world. When I read books like these, I am in awe. They epitomise what I want to be in life; a great doctor, an advocate for the less fortunate and a person who pushes knowledge forward through research; a place I am often too impatient to wait to happen. At the same time, these books make me question: Am I ever going to get there?

These books made me question my capabilities. And even my aspirations. Before, my goal was just to be a good doctor. I thought that would have quenched my thirst for making an impact in the world. It would have, maybe 5 years ago. Then, I came into medical school and learnt that the minimum requirements for being a doctor here in the UK is to not only be a somewhat healer, but also a leader, an educator, an advocate and a researcher. Initially I thought that that was a big ask of someone who had already subscribed to a demanding profession. But as years pass, I see the necessity of being expected to do more and be more; for the good of oneself and more importantly, for the good of one's patients.

I understand that no one will fault a person for just being a doctor. But in my heart of hearts, I feel the discontentment in not trying to be more. I had this interesting conversation with a close friend who said, "My biggest fear is mediocrity." And I could definitely relate to that as I constantly struggle with my identity if it was measured as similar to everyone else's. But that is not the root of the problem though. The fact of the matter is, I feel accountable for the privileges that I have been given. Dr Paul Farmer would have defined this feeling as "ambivalence". A term coining the anxiety or uneasiness that some of the fortunate feel about their place in the world. In my specific case, its the good health, the excellent schools, the loving family, the spectacular marriage, the all-encompassing faith. Heck, even for the security of a home, food and clothes! All of which I have done nothing to deserve.
I feel God expects more of me.

085: Our First Half Marathon

Somehow, with the grace of God, we did it! 21 freaking kilometres. It might be a walk in the park for some, but for the two couch-loving, Netflix-watching and ice-cream eating people we both are, this is a triumphant moment. Note: this is the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life.

It wasn't the pace, it was the sheer distance. In hindsight, I think we didn't train for this. We trained for a 15km race, not a 21km race. So I reached the 14 or 15km mark that day on the verge of tears because every muscle in my body, including my brain was hurting. Before that though, the run was quite enjoyable despite the hell-ish rain and hale storm. Everyone was given plastic rain ponchos the day before to shield runners from the impending storm that await. But realistically, that thin sheet of plastic did little in becoming a barrier between us and the angry elements. It was also extremely noisy, flapping in the wind uncontrollably. So at the 5km mark we decided to take it off. We passed houses, back of factories, the sea, the harbour, even the Dr Who Experience Tour house! 

The route was said to be flat, but clearly the organisers lied to get more signups. There were several hills. The most painful of which came at Mile 12. Just when you think that you're almost there... you can taste the finish line... they give you a stinking hill. I can't really complain though, because there were several more ambitious runners in the race. There was a runner in a foot suit who was raising awareness for diabetes and we also passed a runner carrying a big wooden cross on wheels. Man, I felt sorry for him. But I guess all who signed up are self-inflicters of pain to varying amounts.

The only thing that kept me in good spirits at the very end was a piece of white chocolate. Bless the little boy who held a tupperware filled with blocks of chocolate who braved the rain to pass out these small drops of heaven to the runners. Honestly, that was the best tasting chocolate I have ever had. And it contained just enough sugary goodness to boost my energy in the last leg of the race.

At that point, I was beyond tired. My mind was on autopilot. My legs were moving, but my mind was blank. The survival instincts kicked in whilst I had to motivate the husband (who was pale, white as a sheet) to push on through the very last mile. At the very last turn, we saw the finish line. We crossed it hand in hand, followed by loud sighs of heavy relief. Upon stopping, my legs refused to function. It was as if they were made of jelly but stinged like jellyfish. I waddled along collecting water, a few bananas, a commemorative shirt and most importantly, a medal.

______

Whilst running though, there is much time for reflection. The three main things I had thought about can be neatly categorised into three Ls:

1. Legs

In times before this particular race, I feel that I was not properly introduced to my legs. My legs were akin to old furniture, ones that have been in the room for decades - very much used, unmoved, a constant fixing and largely unthought of. There is a sense of passivity in the relationship between me and my legs before. But during the race, no voice demanded more attention. If they were audible, my  hamstrings and quads would have been shouting. It required mountains of  energy to convince my mind to ignore them. However, in their united voice, I admired their strength, persistence and determination with each cyclical stride. During the race, I noticed their presence and were in awe of their large (often underestimated) capabilities.

2. Lungs

The state of my lungs in that race was akin to a two-year old on her tippy toes balancing on a wobbly stool reaching for that jar of cookies on the top shelf. Breathing was precarious and fragile. It felt like only the tops of your lungs were filling with air even though your stomach is consciously expanding widely in rhythm with your chest sucking as much oxygen in as possible. Running also reminds me of air's therapeutic properties. On Mile 7 there was a painful cramp on my left flank. It was incredibly sharp, demoralising and disabling. The only remedy that works for cramps like these during my training is long intakes of deep breaths. So that was what I did. In, out, in out. And the pain was gone, just like magic.

3. Life

I guess putting point 1 and 2 together, it is natural to conclude that running makes you aware of the presence of your body. And at the same time, also its fragile but limitless nature. This might be a paradox to some - how can something be easily broken but at the same time extremely strong with endless potential? Well, if examined closely, life is filled with many of these paradoxes. Even light is both wave and particle, sometimes at the same time. This innate plurality in living is what makes things complex, and this complexity is what makes life beautiful.

_____

Now blogging in the comfort of my warm home, I would like to think that we would attempt more half marathons in the future. But for now, we'll just stick to our comfortable 10k.

Hand in hand, till the very the end.

085: Restlessness

I tried laying on my back for 30 seconds. Trying to empty my mind of any thoughts except for the numbers I am mentally counting up to 30. I found it so incredibly difficult. Fidgety almost, like my physical body is nauseated by stillness. My hand automatically wanted to reach for my phone, a book, anything to fill the lull of awkwardness of truly being by myself with myself. This was really strange.

Its the feeling on the tube, when no one really knows where to focus one's gaze at. So the phone or ipad or newspaper or book comes out. Because staring into space is just not as acceptable as before. For one, you might accidentally be staring directly at someone, attracting unwanted attention. But more obviously, it is an incredibly large lull or buffering period in many people's daily routine. If possible, I bet everybody would opt to instantly teleport to their intended destination. No rush hour, yay! But technological restrictions forces us to experience routine means to ends. Like that multicoloured beach ball that constantly rotates when you're waiting for a computer program to load. An attention diversion from the now louder background white noise.

Its also the feeling when I sit in bed staring into space. My husband would instantly think something is wrong, stops what he is doing to ask, "Is something wrong?" Then there's me, slowly gaining comfort in the daydream, being snapped back into reality to reply, "Nope, I'm just thinking." When really I'm not - the act of non-thinking is actually quite liberating. An escape from the constant bombardment of tasks and the categorising of ideas in active everyday life. But, am I brave enough to admit it though?

Maybe its time to be properly introduced to these "times in between". Not being distracted by notifications, YouTube videos or Instagram photos. Probably, within this magical space sit wondrous epiphanies of the nature of life. If not, it suffices as a safe space to just breathe. And I foresee always being in need of that.

084: N is for Nigella

"She reminds me of someone," he says when she just about turns the corner. We are on a ward round, she is a senior physiotherapist and he is a trainee paediatric doctor. I barely know him - he is dressed neatly, with his hair combed back tight and his round glasses balancing on the ridge of his nose. The lens is stylishly in multiple shades of brown so I know appearance matters to him.

"Who?" the ward male nurse asks.

"That chef on television. She's really popular, the British one. What is her name?"

"Mary Berry?"

"No, the sexy one."

Ahhh.. I immediately knows who he means. But I didn't want to participate in this conversation. Let him come to realisation himself.

"Aha! Nigella Lawson!"

"What? No..."the nurse replies.

"Yes, she is small in stature, brunette and she is quite sexy," he says referring to the physiotherapist whilst sniggering to himself.

This succeeded with an awkward pause between the three of us for a good 20 seconds. The nurse averting gaze and diverting conversation, him looking quite pleased with himself, and I. Well, if my mind would speak, it would have shouted in an African American accent, "You say what now?"

That short conversation left a stale taste in my mouth. Like I just vomited up breakfast. If I were that physiotherapist, the mere personal reference of sexual attraction in this professional environment, would not only humiliate but also violate. But I am not her, so maybe to her and to others, my sexual harassment equates to their desired compliment. Where I would slap that doctor hard right across the face, they might blush in flattery, thanking him for his kind words.

Is being called sexy ever a compliment? In my world, this issue only comes in black and white. It is never alright to call a woman sexy unless she is actively asking for it. For instance, it is hard pressed for one to not call women who parade on catwalks in lingerie undesirable. Or if women dress up in tight, short dresses and sky high heels on a night out. But in this case, the woman in question was wearing a long sleeve sweater with long pants. In terms of skin coverage, she was basically covering all bases. The only giveaway was that her clothing cinched at the waist as she tucked in her sweater and wore a belt. This would bring no difference to a skinny, flat chested woman, but she was blessed with a full, hour glass figure - so everything that was covered was somewhat unintentionally revealed.

I don't blame her though, like how I don't blame any woman who are recipients of this sexual gaze. It happens because we are completely or partially naive to the effect our bodies have upon our male counterparts. We cannot begin to see ourselves through their lens. Even the slightest of subtleties are picked up by their radar like the long dress that cinches at the waist, or the skirt that gently hugs our bottom or the lanyard that sits warmly in the cleavage of our two breasts. They see these things, and by ignoring that it exists, we give them more opportunities to look.

But don't get me wrong, don't clothe more modestly for the sake of them. They are not worth it. But if you want, definitely do it for you. For me, I refuse to be looked at in anyway that resembles how the physiotherapist was looked at that day. I am not going to give them any opportunity to. That choice lies with me, and I have made it.

083: NYEs of the past

2011/2012

It was an evening spent in Bayswater. I joined in with his friends in playing Monopoly Cards with subsequent losses. I am competitive when it comes to games, let alone losing badly by men (ugh), so my ego was severely bruised. One of his friends was frantically getting ready for his first date with his long time crush. "We're going to try to see the fireworks," he says whilst rechecking his hair every minute or so in the mirror. Mind you, he was growing his hair out at this stage so his hair brushed his shoulders - a right bother to keep in place. All of us were silently laughing at how nervous he was. I don't know whether their love stood the test of time (ie whether they are still together now).

Him and I planned to go on a proper sit down dinner date that night. We picked a Malaysian restaurant which had good reviews located a mere 10-minute walk away. "Dress up," we said. So we left our friend's flat at 8.00pm, me in a pink flowy kaftan, him dressed in a black (borrowed) blazer and shiny black shoes. This is our version of dressing to the nines. Upon arrival to the restaurant, we ordered plates of yummy food. We enjoy eating, so we pretty much gobbled up a meal meant for four. When we were finished with our main course(s), we decided to order dessert. Then suddenly, the lights went out. Of all the days, NYE was the day there would be a cut to the restaurant's power supply. However, this didn't faze us - how many places could you dine in the dark at anyway? With the slight loss of visual input, my senses compensated, making the room a little bit more noisier.

The clanks of cutleries upon plates, the gasp of excitement upon gossip and the sighs of relief upon eating good food were more apparent. It was 20 minutes until the waitress told us that we would not be able to have dessert because the electrical cut affected the whole building, and that unfortunately included the kitchen. "Oh well, that's a bother," we discussed. "But at least we have eaten!" There were many more hungry customers patiently waiting for food who were also about to receive this disheartening news. I really didn't want to be that waitress right now.

He paid the bill before walking back to our friend's flat. As we were both students at the time, I knew that that dinner came with a heavy price tag - but he insisted on paying it all. I suggested a few days earlier that it would be fun to watch A Walk to Remember. I remember this film vaguely giving me the feels, and since he hasn't seen it I thought it would be a nice experience for the both of us. Somehow rather,  he succeeded in convincing one entire flat of 6 men to give up their television for 90 minutes to watch a soppy love story. Till this day I still admire his methods of persuasion on this account. The result was not the two of us, rather about 10 of us sitting in front of the television watching a film about the love story between a dying girl and a rebel boy. Watching it again with guys, I realised how ridiculous the script actually sounded on fresh, more matured, non-teenage ears. Critical remarks and banter were intermittently tossed by the guys at the television screen, ruining the movie altogether for me. Suddenly, each scene was more melodramatic and unrealistic than what I remembered.

It could be that it was just the fact that they are men, and they just don't get it. Or it could have been a lightbulb moment of realisation I needed to no longer be in denial of how soppy some romantic films are. The movie ended minutes shy of midnight. Then, the already noisy streets filled with cheers and the thunderclap of fireworks. We watched the coloured lights from the windows welcoming 2012.

An interesting end to an interesting night.