157: 28.2 Snow

What a day.

Woke up to an ocean of white and before awe and delight kicked in, my mind became haphazardly awry thinking of how I was going to make it into work. I had to split a very expensive uber in the end as trains were shut. My day was spent wishing I was cuddled with A under a duvet on the couch, hot chocolates in hand, watching the snow fall from the heavens.

And because of the weather, I am now in a bed that is not my own. My colleague has kindly opened her home to my car-less self. And since I didnt want to repeat the morning I had, I accepted her invitation to stay over in her cosy house in east London. In her safe hands (she has actually been officially trained to drive in much snowier weather) I feel calmer knowing that tomorrow will be a more predictable than today.

For now, I am exhausted and its really time to go to sleep. Snow, you have turned London into a picturesque landscape and truly you are some of God’s most beautiful gifts, but boy are you also a trying test.

156: 27.2 Being female

Today we had a simulated teaching session where a group of us doctors were asked to assess an ill "robot patient." It was an opportunity to make mistakes safely. Having been half asleep the whole morning, I had little energy to participate so I volunteered as scribe. The group of four who did volunteer were made up of 3 doctors and 1 physicians associate, all of whom were women. The mock patient had trouble breathing. Wheezy, hypotensive and gasping for breath - the patient was suffering from anaphylaxis and they needed to treat him quickly. Adrenaline was administered and IV fluids were given. But despite all that, the pretend patient went into cardiac arrest and CPR was started.

All four participants were diligently doing their job - but individually and silently. From the moment they stepped into the simulation, everyone struggled to lead the scenario. Important points were raised throughout: "Shall we check his glucose levels?", "Shall we call ITU? I think this patient will need airway support." and "Can you take over chest compressions from me, please?" - every statement, although accurate and necessary, were tossed into the void without any real authority or conviction. No one volunteered to take charge.

After discussing this with a colleague, I soon came to the realisation that that simulated session would be much different if there was a male doctor in the mix. I bet that without any hesitation, he would delegate tasks, take charge of examinations and lead the cardiac arrest with confidence. It is such a male thing to do. And unfortunately the opposite is true for women, it is our tendency to shy away and not appear to be authoritative or dare I say, bossy. Men shine in the limelight, whilst women more often than not, are more comfortable having more supportive roles in leadership. It is well known that while man think more highly of themselves, women tend to second guess their true abilities and are more reluctant at acknowledging praise.

This gender difference is even more apparent when on-call. The majority of nurses who are from womenfolk act differently to male doctors than they do to female doctors. For instance, on my last weekend on-call, my colleague who is a male doctor insisted that the nurses assist in taking blood samples from patients on their ward that have not been bled. At first, I was skeptical. I remember being the FY1 on-call and having to spend a large portion of my weekend being the hospital phlebotomist. I would try to convince these nurses to help me, but to my dismay, none of them did. "Oh, I am too busy, doctor. I have drugs to give." or "We are really short staffed here - if you want bloods, you have to do it!" would be some of the replies that I received. But to my surprise, when my colleague insisted, it actually worked! The ward nurses magically found time to help take majority of the bloods - and our workload instantly became significantly lighter.

Even in medical school, I would be joyful when being grouped with other girls on clinical placements. That meant that I didn't have to compete with the alpha tendencies that my male colleagues tend to possess. If there was an alpha male in the group, he would volunteer first for every patient examination, be very boisterous and attract most of the attention from our supervisors. Tired of competing with such dominant forces and shouting over their already prominent voices, I would give in and only speak when necessary.

Maybe it is not my gender that is the problem, but my own timid personality. But it is hard to ignore other evidences that support the contrary. For instance, the female consultants in my hospital, although ten times better clinicians than their male counterparts, just do not attract a crowd's attention as seamlessly as their other male colleagues do. They are focused, calm, soft spoken, intelligent and brilliant doctors. But it feels like they have to work twice or three times harder to prove themselves to be somewhat equal.

As a Muslim, a woman and a minority - I have many "reasons" to be treated disadvantageously. Yet, Alhamdulillah, I have never been reminded of my gender in the workplace. Yes, I have more trouble assuming a leader's role, but like many, I can work on my shortcomings. The bottom line is, at work, I receive the same treatment as my male colleagues. Unfortunately, I can't say that I haven't been reminded of my gender in other parts of my life. But that is a story for another day.

155: 26.2 Intensive Care

In the few weeks in the department, I have learnt that intensive care medicine is different realm entirely. Patients here are sicker, often requiring multi-organ support. There are fewer patients and many more staff. The ward is wider, more sterile and machines are in an orchestrated beeping frenzy. There are a multitude of machines keeping patients alive, and the sounds that they make are louder than that people make.

Some of the machines include masks that support the air sacs in the lungs to stay open, there are lines that monitor blood pressure accurately and there are big dialysis machines that take over a kidney's filtration role when one or both start to fail. Assessing a patient's medical condition on intensive care is largely a numerical exercise. What is her PaC02 today? What is the patient's mean arterial pressure? How much is the urine output in the past 24 hours? What is the tidal volume for that patient on pressure support? Is his cumulative fluid balance positive?

And because patients are very ill, ward rounds are a lot quieter, less rushed. Coming from acute medicine, this feels like such a luxury. Doctors and nurses on the rounds move slower, combing through the smaller details of each patient's case with a fine toothed comb. Some of the patients have been on the wards for many weeks, so staff are very familiar with them and their families. Escalation plans are discussed more in this department, and twice a week, we discuss and learn from those who passed away on the ward, and we talk about possible alterations to current practice in order to improve overall patient care.

It is, I feel, a very interesting area of medicine - where man and machine truly work hand in hand. The practical skills that I have managed to gain even in these short weeks have also been invaluable - I managed to assist in placing a central line in a patient last week, and I flew solo in inserting my first ever arterial line. The cases are some of the most complex I have ever encountered, which makes it even more intellectually stimulating. 

So I do see and appreciate the attraction to anaesthetics and critical care as a speciality. One can be really hands on in acute emergencies and one can be present to offer additional support when a patient's organs stop working independently. Despite really enjoying this rotation, my heart is still in paediatrics. But who knows, maybe I'll be back in the future!

154: 25.2 The spotlight

My sister was dancing in her university's annual production of Malaysian Night yesterday. Arriving 10 minutes to its scheduled start, I met with my other family members before finding seats in the hall. The hall was filled with young faces, all of them very excited to be meeting up with friends and other Malaysians. As the space started to fill up quickly, I thought, "Are we really this great in number?" I even joked to my granduncle that if Malaysians stop coming to the UK for tertiary education, the country's economy will no doubt be in great threat. 

As the play began and my sister strutted her stuff on stage, I reminisced back to the time where I was in their position 6 years ago. It was very unlike me to participate in anything that required me to act. Throughout all of primary and high school, I managed to dodge that bullet because of my crippling shyness. But because I was determined to make friends in my first year at university, I tried out for the minor part of the wise grandma. One scene, a few lines - how bad could it be? However, after a few rehearsals, I was confronted with the reality that I am not amongst those who can seamlessly and confidently take on another persona on stage. In fact, it was the complete opposite. 

Instead of losing myself in a character, I would anxiously be hyperaware of my fraudulent self. I wasn't the character, I was myself playing the character. It was as if I was wearing a suit, and myself in the suit was struggling to navigate its restrictions. I couldn't project my voice and I struggled with  loosing self control up to the night of curtain call. I just couldn't let go and just act.

But in the end, despite the steep learning curve, I survived the night and the performance. I didn't forget my lines or throw up on stage (thank God!), everything turned out to be just fine. I made many friends through the process as intended, and I was super thankful that the play was well received. But I vowed that I would never act, ever again. Different to my siblings who love performing and being in the spotlight, I have accepted and have become comfortable with the fact that my talents are best utilised backstage. As they bask under the rays of the solitary beacon of light, I am akin to a vampire who flinches (and possibly melts) under its glaring heat.

Yesterday also reminded me of how old I am turning. With my age quickly approaching thirty, most of the audience were just entering their twenties. The play included songs from High School Musical and Camp Rock, Disney productions that were popular in my teen years. But I guess for them, they were most likely pre-pubscent when the movies first found fame. 

But anyway, it was nice to go back to my alma mater to see that things (other than songs) rarely change. Malaysian audiences are still rowdy and still obsessed with food from home. After many years living in abroad, it is nice to sometimes remind myself how great home is and how amazing Malaysians are.

153: 24.2 Guns

Yet again, there was another mass shooting in a school in the supposed Land of the Free. Even after so many children lost their lives in Sandy Hook in 2012, and scores of many other mass shootings since then, there is still no change in gun reform. If anything, gun laws have become more lenient. You would think that level headed people with even an ounce of intellectual capacity would acknowledge that guns are the problem. But no, the reality is that those who defend the second amendment have too much power and money to let anything destabilise the status quo.

And even more infuriatingly, the orange president proposed that instead of making it harder for those people to bear arms, he suggested that teachers should be encouraged and given bonuses to bring guns to school for added protection. In what world will having guns available in places where children are meant to be safe, a good idea? It is frankly disgusting and disgraceful. One doesn't have to be a genius to work out that yet again, nothing would probably change in terms of gun reform. Even though the young victims of the latest shooting are now spearheading the campaign for change, the NRA has such a strong hold on right-wing politicians, it would not be a surprise if nothing changes for the good. These politicians might as well have puppet strings attached to their bodies because it is so obvious to whom they are enslaving their agendas and efforts to.

In every aspect of logic, a person should not have the right to own guns that can shoot 50 bullets per minute. It just doesn't make any sense. What would they need that for? But those who still defend these rights by blocking gun reform, despite the horrible repercussions that has been inflicted onto thousands of innocent people, plainly have blood on their hands. They might argue that it isn't a gun problem, it is a mental health problem. But why is it then so easy for a mentally ill person to acquire a gun? And a mentally ill person could have been sound of mind when he purchased a gun. Mental illness is not black or white, symptoms come in waves - are we to check gun owners every so often for signs of instability in order to confiscate his or her arms? There isn't a law for that. And you don't have to be mentally ill to misuse arms - you just need one moment of weakness. Be it momentarily being drunk, depressed or just angry - a person can become a major dangerous threat in a split second if they have access to a loaded gun.

In denial of the real problem, I have also heard some argue that if only there was someone amongst the victims who had a gun, then less people would have gotten hurt. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Would America be safer if everyone just brought a gun with them at all times, just in case? No. There would be more instantaneous gun fights, and many other people will get hurt in crossfires. 

In the end, nothing about this makes any sense. If asked why should we defend the 2nd amendment, people will say because I want to defend myself. From what exactly? And they will say: guns. See the gaping huge flaw in this argument? I am just exasperated seeing young children losing their lives because the adults, those who are supposed to protect them, can't sort themselves out. Yes, they might have their rights to bear arms as per the constitution. But adults too have responsibilities. Namely, to keep children safe in places where they are meant to be safe. They are failing tremendously in that respect, so why should they even deserve the rights they have long fought for?

152: 23.2 Charging one’s battery

After 8 days of successive working days, over half of which were on-call shifts, I have emerged after a five hour luxurious nap, recharged. My body was really in need of deep slumber, and it feels great to finally be able to have the opportunity to give it what it needed.

151: 22.2 A cat

There is a cat - a cat on the other side of the window. Snow like fluffy fur and icy blue eyes. On my cycle route to work I pass a new residential area - the shiny type, often signalling the beginnings of gentrification. As I approach the exit of this area, I pass by the same house.

Its white and sits on the corner, opposite a big supermarket and overlooking the main street. There are two windows overlooking my cycle path. The first window is where the cat will be every morning - either waiting or sleeping. I have been accustomed to expecting its presence so much, that it has become part of my daily routine to turn my head left and check that my little furry friend is there. And today, like all the other days in the past two weeks, there it was.

I have never been an animal lover. Everytime I would visit a farm, I would be scared with every flinch of a creature and would be equally disgusted by the smells that these animals can give off. Growing up, we didnt have any animals at home - and whenever there was a pet around, I would jump up on a chair, praying that that thing wont unleash their frustrations on me using their sharp claws. But I confess, as I've become older and braver in the presence of four legged creatures, I have intermittently longed for a feline companion.

In Malaysia, we have adopted two cats. They were brothers dropped into a box and left my the side of the road. Our driver found them and brought them home and they have been with us ever since. From being so tiny that they could fit into my hand to being full grown hormonal adults, they have carved a cat shaped hole into my heart.

I have toyed with the idea of adopting one here in London. Ever since A’s trip home has increased in frequency, I do sometimes feel that a kitten will remedy my woes. But our household cant even keep plants alive! Thus, I do not trust us with the life of an animal just yet. In Malaysia, our kakak assists in taking care of the two cats - especially when they make a mess by marking their territories in the house. But if a cat were under my sole responsibility, I cant guruantee that it would be healthy or alive for that matter. So I am postponing that decision. For now, I am content in spying at other peoples' cats for comfort.

150: 21.2 Twenty Eight

His birthday is actually tomorrow. But in Malaysia, it is already the 22nd. And Malaysia is where he is at the moment - somewhere that is unfortunately not where I am. Alas, we must put on our brave faces and soldier on with patience, awaiting the day we are to reunite once more.

Happy birthday, my husband, my love. I miss you and I love you, with every atom of my being.

Hope you can feel my hugs and kisses from thousands of miles away!

Please come home xxx

149: 20.2 Acknowledging death

We had a lecture today about end of life care. One of the many topics we covered included the nomenclature of hard end of life conversations. It was pointed out that sometimes, to nudge the family into understanding what we mean, we often stay away from using the word "dying". Instead we use "deteriorating", "downhill" and "poor prognosis". All these terms lie on a spectrum - one of which your loved ones would always hope for the right end. You see, the word "deteriorating" has its partner in "improving", "downhill" has "uphill" and "poor prognosis" has "better prognosis". When using subjective terms like these, there is a high risk that those who hope for good news will not internalise the message.

One only hears what one wants to hear. So most times, the understanding of a patient or family member would grossly differ from what was being conveyed. But there is no flinching, scapegoating or alternative interpretation of the statement, "He or she is dying." The word "dying" could seem so abrupt but that is what is required to be truthful in order to prepare families and patients for what is imminently coming. By using "dying" there is an urgency - an urgency to tie loose ends, to call family members and to arrange plans. To be kind in this case, one has to be cruel. To lead people from hope to acknowledging reality is hard, but very much necessary.

I have had personal experience through the passing of my own grandfather. I remember that on his last day, the doctors were still telling us that he had a 50/50 chance. Even when the odds dropped to 30% survival, we were still hopeful. We thought 30% was still something - and we held on to that. We held on to that with every strength we could muster. But what hurts most is the knowledge that they all knew - the nurses and doctors -  they were leaving us with rose coloured glasses on, in fear that the truth would be too painful to bear. They gave us false hope. They all knew that he was not going to survive this - but no one was brave enough to tell us. No one mentioned the word "dying". And because we weren't prepared, his death was made even more traumatic.

Given the chance, we could have had the opportunity to say our goodbyes. But unfortunately that opportunity was robbed from us. The trauma from my grandfather's death has subsequently made me motivated to not allow families to go through what I went through. Although I am junior, I still make it a point to have those difficult discussions - one that many have problems having. I am not shy in approaching the subject of death, because I have learnt from experience, that denial and ignorance will lead to more detriment than bliss.

It is strange how that in this life, the only certainty is death. Yet, how little we speak of it.

148: 19.2 A series of unfortunate events

There was this one day of work where I thought - wow, that was a difficult day. Nothing emotional, but the day just had obstacle after obstacle to jump over. It started with a rainy morning. When I got to the station on the train, it was raining albeit sparsely. I decided to brave the elements and hopped on my bicycle anyway to get to the hospital. A little rain never hurt no one.

Strike one of the day was when it began to suddenly hail. In any other circumstances, I think I would have stopped and admired the rare event of nature. But as I was moving at a velocity greater than normal walking speed, the collision between my unprotected face and the sharp edges of the small hail stones were something not to be desired. It really did hurt! Even trying to slow down barely helped. It was lucky that I was already halfway to my destination. I decided to champion through, and managed to successfully seek shelter indoors without acquiring any battle scars.

Strike two of the day happened enroute back to the station. After a long shift on-call, needless to say, I was pretty drained. I was itching to get back home to sleep. I got on my bicycle and cycled to the station. Got on the lift to the platform, with a few minutes to spare. I reached into my jacket pocket to check my phone for the time, and that was when I realised it. I had left my phone at the hospital. Frantically checking my bag in hopes I left it in there - but unfortunately, it wasn't. 

This was not the first time - it has happened before, but the two previous times, I realised my mistake before I had reached the station. Whilst cycling, I would realise that I had left my phone charging then I would turn back. But this time, I was all the way at the station - the train was already on its way! I felt like kicking myself for being so careless, so much so I actually melodramatically cried out of pure frustration and fatigue. Painstakingly, I cycled back to the hospital for the second time that day. 

It was already dark, and on the way, strike three was when a stranger tried to be funny by attempting to scare me by shouting when I cycled past. I had my earphones on, and because of the difficult day I was already having, I didn't have the energy to give that person the reaction they wanted. I didn't even flinch or look back, I just gave them the cold shoulder and cycled even faster.

Panting after cycling uphill, I finally got to the hospital. I went onto the wards to fetch my phone and under my breath, swore to myself to never ever pull a stunt like this again. Finally feeling like I can end the day, I cycled back to the station to find that the train was already pulling up onto the platform. "Hooray!" I thought, "This day could not get any worse. I am almost there." But in my hurry, I accidentally tripped on melted hail (strike four). Thankfully, I was holding my bicycle by its handles so I didn't hit the floor - but I did knock my knee and slightly sprain my ankle. Great. Good news was despite my little slip, I finally got on the train and safely got home to my comfortable bed.

Patience and perseverance was the lesson of that day. When what lies ahead is a series of unfortunate circumstances, one should just ride the wave out with patience. And lots of it. And persevere with hopes of a pot of gold (or four) waiting for you on the other side.

147: 18.2 Princess!

*Details have been altered to preserve patient confidentiality

There was an elderly gentleman who sat across from me when I was reviewing a patient's notes. He sat on a chair in the hallway, a couple of steps away from the front door of his side room. He kept escaping the confines of his room, despite encouragements from nurses to be comfortable in his room.

"Can you help me get out?" he said.
"Sorry?"
"Can you help me get out of here?"
"Where would you like to go, sir?"
"Emm.. Hoddesdon."
"Oh, I am very sorry, sir. But I don't drive and I don't have a car to take you there."
"You are naughty, you are. A naughty girl. But I like your shoes."

He made me laugh. "Thank you," I said. "I like them too."

There was another elderly gentleman on another ward who when he spotted me walking down the hallway, would shout, "Princess! Princess!" I thought he was calling out to someone else,  maybe a favourite nurse perhaps. But every time I looked at him he would exclaim, "Princess!" with great force and certainty whilst standing upright and waving his hand, ushering me to approach him with urgency. Maybe he had mistaken my hijab for a crown? Unfortunately I was too busy attending to other patients to indulge him in his perceptions of grandeur. But I do wonder what a conversation with him would sound like. Maybe something similar to the talk I had with the previous patient about my shoes. Adding to the many colourful experiences on a otherwise mundane weekend on-call.

146: 17.2 His Plans (ii)

I had just turned 15 when I went to Thailand for a student exchange programme. I was part of a group of 10 students or so from my high school who went. It is there where I learnt about Buddhism and Thai culture. But more importantly, that trip was the beginning of my story with A. We have been in the same school for coming up to 3 years at that point – I knew of him, I heard his name being bounced around conversations, but I didn't know him personally. To me, he was known as the shy, quiet guy in the year above. Up until that trip, we haven’t really uttered a single word to one another. Not even a hello. But my best friend knew him from History Club (which he happened to be president of). And on one of the first days of us preparing for the trip, I looked around and saw all familiar faces except his. So I said to my best friend, “Can you introduce me to him, he is the only one in the group I don’t really know.” “Sure! He is really nice!” she replied. And as we walked together towards A, as they say in the books, I guess the rest is history.

 It makes me shudder to think that I wasn’t really eager to go to Thailand in the first place. Where I really wanted to venture out to was Japan. My school was organising another trip at the same time. And this trip to Japan, unlike the decades old ritual of my school’s annual visit to Thailand, was in its first ever year. The catch was – I had to dance, and dance well. Despite my appreciation for dance and dancers, I have been gifted with long, lanky limbs that hold little coordination or rhythm. Coupled with my short torso, me dancing is akin to witnessing a jelly fish at sea.

 There were open auditions held at the Grand Hall for the Japan trip. Anyone was invited to come up and strut their stuff for a coveted place. I did muster the courage to walk myself to the hall – but alas, only to the front door. Fear and anxiety of being seen on stage made me ultimately turn away and walk back. Although I wasn’t even in the running for a place as I was absent from auditions, when the list of names of those who were successful were finally published, I did still feel a tinge of disappointment and envy. It would have been nice to go to Japan. Thailand was my Plan B.

 But little did I know, it was actually God’s Plan A. The trip to Japan was never destined for me, because if I did go, I would have never met A, the man I was to marry 8 years later. God has planned my life with so much beauty and wisdom, that sometimes it overwhelms me by how much love I feel from Him. He has held my hand through every step I took throughout these 26 years, sometimes dragging me through doors when I was reluctantly kicking and screaming. But He persevered and He was patient with me, for only He knows what is best, mashaAllah. So as I have grown older, I have learnt to let go. I still treasure working hard, but at the same time, I have learnt to trust the process and to trust Him. I have learnt not to feel entitled to something just because I have worked for it. What is meant for me will never miss me, and what is not meant for me will never arrive to me.

145: 16.2 Receiving gratitude

Today I was on-call, covering the wards with my colleague. It wasn't a particularly busy night. In my blue scrubs, I clocked off from my day job in ITU and began doing jobs handed over to us from the ward teams. The serendipitous encounter happened when I was walking down one of the narrow hallways in the hospital. With my bright pink stethoscope hung around my neck, I just came from running a patient's blood gas. The results showed that the patient I reviewed had high potassium levels, so I was enroute back to him to prescribe medication to correct it.

Although the task wasn't super urgent, I had a long, fast stride. A walking style very familiar to the those who understand and practice the ways of hospital life. Before approaching the end of the same hallway, a man appeared from the front doors of a surgical ward. At first, I didn't pay any attention to him. But suddenly, I heard him say, "Thank you for all the work that you do."

I looked back at him, trying to recall whether he was one of my patients or maybe a patient's family member. Could he be patient A's father? No it can't be - I have nothing to do with surgical patients. It quickly registered in my mind that I have never seen this person before - and the way he said what he said made me realise that he wasn't thanking me personally, but thanking me for the work generally. Surprised, and equally confused with his statement, I instinctively replied in a generic British way. "No worries," I said, giving him a smile.

"Really," he replied. "Thank you."

In return, I too said, "Thank you."

Our little encounter lasted a few seconds. But it really made my day. I was dreading the long stretch of working hours that I have in front of me this weekend. But what he said really did give me the motivation to keep doing what I do. He reminded me why I love this job. As doctors, we get more complaints and scorn than we do praise. So for a stranger to literally appear out of the blue and acknowledge the importance as well as the hardships of this profession, it really means alot.

So far in my short 6+ months as a doctor, I haven't once shed a tear. I have somehow managed to withstand intense work pressures and persevered through sad patient stories and the sometimes long, gruelling hours. The work was yet to break me. But as I walked away from that brief moment today, tears of happiness began to pool in my eyes. My strong professional facade was finally broken by an act of random kindness. How honoured I felt to be given the opportunity and skills to help people when they are at their most fearful, vulnerable and sometimes lonely times of their lives. Truly, there is no greater privilege.

I walked back onto the ward, blood gas results still in hand. I greeted my patient and told him that I was to give him more medicine for his potassium levels. "Will I be ok, doc?" he asked. "Yes, don't worry. Everything will be fine."

144: 15.2 His plans

I once was (and sometimes still am) a meticulous planner. There were specific plans for almost everything in life - college plans, university plans and career plans. In high school, the majority of my plans came to fruition. I was somehow sheltered from failure - so I was naive to think that if I worked hard enough, I would get anything I wanted in life. However, life doesn't work that way. And it was only during my late teens did I have to overcome major life plan derailments.

In high school, I was set on going to Cambridge for medical school. That was the university I thought I was meant to be at. I wrote it down on every test paper, every notebook and every sticky note I owned as motivation for me to keep working hard. And it was also my way of prayer. I thought that if I said it enough times, it will happen. Needless to say, after all that wishful thinking and hard work, I didn't get that coveted place at Cambridge. In my hearts of hearts, I think I knew that the interview didn't go well but I still had hope - hope that they would give me a chance. But alas, when I received the rejection email, my plans were shattered, and so too was I. I had never tasted failure like this before, so I cried myself to sleep that night. Looking back, I was mostly ashamed that I disappointed my family in not being good enough to get that university spot. But honestly, no one really cared that I didn't get in - my parents, grandparents, family and friends were all understanding and supportive. Ultimately, it was myself that I let down. After building such an epic dream in my head, it was difficult to let it go.

But in hindsight, it was probably the best thing that has ever happened to me. Truly, my 18 year old self, who thought that only she knew what was best for her, was wrong. But God knew, and He steered me towards the path that was meant for me. In the end, after a long period of rejections and anxious anticipation, I was given a place at UCL. They asked me to defer a year, so I would be starting later than my peers, but at that point, I was just so relieved that I secured a place.

The gap year meant that I was given the opportunity to go to Kenya for five months and work as a writer for the other months. The gap year also meant that after a year living in halls (which was a bittersweet experience in itself), I found a true home in this lonely foreign city in Flat 10. It was a home in every sense of the word. Not only for those who paid rent for it, but also to many others who sought shelter for short or long periods of time. The gap year meant that I started university the same year as my other flatmates did. And when it came time for all of us to move out of halls and find an apartment to stay in - we serendipitously found one another, and later on found our magical flat in Lancaster Gate.

There were four of us. We went to high school together - so we knew each other beforehand, but we weren't close until we properly lived together. Those 3 girls and that flat were hands down, the greatest blessing in my pre-clinical years at university. Coming home to friends that felt more like family was a gift rarely experienced in other house shares. We would eat together, cook together, stay up talking till early hours in the morning and we would even pray together. It was a dream setup, and we knew we had hit the jackpot.

Having said that, we knew we couldn't hog our blessings just to ourselves. So we agreed that Flat 10 would have an open door policy. We would open our doors to any friend or family member who needed a temporary roof over their heads. Sometimes that meant 2 extra people, but sometimes that meant 10. And we very rarely (except for that time we were all close to finals) said no. We even had 2-3 honorary flat members who stayed with us for months at a time, practically moving in. Yes, the flat's location was a great attraction, but I think what made people come back many times is ultimately the company.

Those three girls were my lifeline when things were difficult. Throughout our two years together, we supported each other through death of loved ones, physical assault, breakups, family trouble and homesickness to name a few. We were also there for one another through the good times like birthdays, graduations, internships and subsequent engagements and marriages. Words cannot fully describe how much that little sanctuary meant to me, and how utterly devastated I was to leave when the time finally came to move out. Although we have all now gone our separate ways, the memories made in Flat 10 are some of the ones I hold most dear.

And to think, that if I did have it my way and went to Cambridge, I would have missed out on all of that. Surely, He is the Best of Planners. And nothing could testify to the truth of that statement more than the stories born from Flat 10.

143: 14.2 PDA

Quite recently, as we approached our 3 1/2 year mark, I asked A the question, "In your opinion, what is the most romantic public display of affection as a married couple?" Before he answered, I told him what I thought it was. I have long held the idea that holding hands is the most romantic gesture as a married couple. The simplicity of having your fingers intertwine with the one you love, to me, trumps hugs or stolen pecks on the cheek. As we pass many elderly couples on their walks around the city, I find it so beautiful that even after all that time, her hand is in his as they walk side by side, even despite sometimes their other hands are preoccupied holding walking aides.

It is also something about how the man leads his wife. I once held a theory that to identify who was the dominant figure in the relationship, one just had to observe how the couple held hands. The one whose hand lies in front of the union of fingers and palms (thus is the one who has more power to lead) wears the pants in the relationship. A and I once spent a day just observing how other couples held hands. Many of the hand holding were led by men, but some were led by women too. And as more of our friends got married, we would secretly theorise how their family dynamics would be by looking at their official married couple shots. Whose hands were holding whose? Goes to show how much free time we had. Needless to say, I have zero evidence to back up this theory - but it was a fun exercise anyway.

For A and I, he always leads our walks. His hand guides mine, representing not only the trust I have given him to navigate me through this complicated life, but also as a symbol of the promise he made to always protect me. As a quite head strong woman, it is also a humbling exercise to remind myself, that in this relationship, I ought not to be alpha - that I can be comfortable being the co-pilot and not the captain in our married lives. So in the end, when we are grey, old and walking at a slower pace, as long as my hand is in his, I will know that we are at the very least OK.

He nodded, acknowledging my answer as I waited for his. I could see the clogs slowly turning in his head. Eventually, he turned to me and said, "Probably being able to kiss you on your forehead." Upon hearing this, the many moments where this gesture occurred flashed through my mind. On the tube, at the traffic light or sometimes on a bench in the park. It is often associated with moments when I needed extra comforting. We would be stuck in the rain for instance, waiting for the traffic lights to turn red. I would moan about being drenched, and he would hold me tight and give me a kiss on my forehead. "Its ok we're almost there." Or when I was crying because of something menial, or because he had to leave the country for work, he would take me in his arms, and console me with the same kisses on the forehead. 

Looking back, I realised that both of our chosen romantic gestures marked our actual first physical encounters with each other when we were first married. On that white stage, more than 3 years ago, after my dad had officially handed him his blessings of marriage and after he was officially named my husband, he took a seat next to me. He slipped a ring onto my finger and I unromantically placed a watch on his wrist. After that, we joined our hands and I bowed down to kiss his. Then, he brought my face closer to his and leaned in to kiss my forehead. Without being completely conscious of this, we both had separately chosen our favourites from the first physical manifestations of our lives as husband and wife - how beautiful that is, mashaAllah!

I pray that we never get tired of holding each others hands and giving and receiving kisses throughout our lives together. May He always protect this marriage, and the marriages of others. For only with His permission were we united in matrimony, and only by His permission, will we stay lovingly united. Ameen!

142: 13.2 Focus (and lack thereof)

I am grateful that there is a lot of teaching involved in my foundation training as a doctor. Many of these teaching sessions happen through formal lectures, but with the advent of technology, as trainees, we are expected to complete a lot of learning modules online. After a long luxurious 4 hour nap, I decided to complete some of these mandatory modules tonight - dedicating about 2 hours to its laborious tasks which included pre and post module tests.

At the beginning, I was overwhelmed at how many modules that I have to complete by a quickly looming deadline. What do you mean there are 20 modules? On top of this, I unfortunately still have to prepare for my theory driving test too. After completing about three quite technical modules that involved graphs of pharmacology and remembering what how receptors work, I fished out the email detailing what modules we actually have to complete from our programme lead.

To my utter dismay, the three modules that I have worked on tonight were not actually compulsory. I had unknowingly spent 2 hours in my evening after work voluntarily completing modules that I didn't have to complete. Really felt like hitting myself as this is such a rookie mistake: Always read the bloody instruction, Ayne. Although I think that I do better answering given questions in exams, without the pressure of getting it right in everyday life, I find myself going off in tangents quite a bit - especially when asked questions in conversation.

My previous flatmates would attest to how annoyed I get when having gone so off topic, I can't really remember what the original question or idea was. Maybe its the lack of focus I have in avoiding mind distractions. Or maybe the lack of discipline, but my thoughts often wander to far off places, many times resulting in benefit (like gaining mini epiphanies) but sometimes, like tonight, resulting in time wasted and un-welcomed frustration.

Maybe it can be explained by the pin point focus that is necessary in my everyday work life. I need to make sure that I am addressing the right patient, reviewing the right bloods and completely focused when doing procedures. If one is not paying enough attention, a lot of easily prevented errors can occur and that could mean dire consequences for patients. And often doing 10 different things at the same time on the ward, it can be tough to maintain attention at an individual task. Not trying to give myself an excuse, but a lot of that focus at work can be tiring. And at home, it is a luxury to be exempt from that.

Probably there is a good balance between thinking straight and letting one's mind wander. I, for one, have yet to find such balance.

141: 12.2 You, Me & Crime Dramas

We dont have a television in our little London apartment. It was a conscious choice on our part when designing our home. We didn't want something in it that could potentially waste away many of our hours. We already have our phones and laptops for that. In contrast, our home in Malaysia is blessed with a modern, thin, curved television screen. It portrays TV shows and films in ultra HD, elevating anyones watching experience. But whenever I am home, I would wake up in the morning and plonk myself on the couch in front of that same television and switch it on. I would channel surf until I find something remotely good to watch. Usually I will not find it, so I would settle for something mediocre. Something that is barely interesting. Between this tendency to switch channels and the pain stacking lengthy advertisements, I would waste so many hours in front of this contraption. As such, despite many protests from family and friends, we have had a TV-less home for about 3 years now and have no plans of purchasing one anytime soon.

But this doesn't mean we don't watch television. When together in London, A and I would spend a lot of time watching TV shows or films that suit both of our interests. After a lot of fine tuning, hits and misses through testing different genres like historical fiction, comedy and family drama, we have found our common spot in crime dramas. Specifically, British crime dramas that sometimes spill out to those produced in Europe. We have found our niche in crime thrillers that include Luther, Happy Valley, Silent Witness and lately, Line of Duty.

Compared to their American counterparts, British TV dramas are more realistic - there are less CSI-esque over-the-top characters like Horatio. British characters are more fallible, complex and relatable. The British plots unravel slower too, adding to the overall suspense and viewer anticipation. And often, the plots are much more complex, with layers and layers of subplots embedded within the main storyline. Basically, it is great - we haven't been disappointed as of yet. I can't really pinpoint its exact pull, maybe it is the mystery of the murders? Or maybe the interesting take on corruption in the police force and in politics? Or maybe the relatable nature of its characters?

Anyway, we have only grown in our commitment to our common hobby by venturing into Danish crime dramas too - if you think British dramas are slow, Danish dramas feel like tortoises to the British hare. We started and finished The Killing (which has now been adapted to American TV, ugh) which spanned 12 episodes per season, each episode 1 hour long. It was a long slog, but an enjoyable one.

I never liked crime dramas before. It has always been A's line of interest. This and science fiction. I on the other hand, would rather indulge on family, medical or historical dramas. From This is Us, to Grey's Anatomy and The Crown, unfortunately I have never succeeded in converting A to my side of TV. Instead, somehow rather, despite my inherent disdain for anything alien related, he has converted me into a Dr Who fan. Needless to say, he is very persuasive.

In the end, after a long day, at work or otherwise, it is such a blessing to cuddle up on the sofa, laptop on A's lap with a hot cup of tea in my hands to watch some gruesome murders. We will play along with the game of "Whodunnit?" and once the plot twist is finally revealed (or not), we will call it a night.

140: 11.2 Furry black hats

A and I were on a long bus ride to Central London yesterday. It was a particularly wet and rainy day, so motivation for venturing out of my warm, well-insulated home was low. But out we went anyway. We hopped onto the bus to Waterloo and sat ourselves down on its upper deck. On days when our schedules are lax and we didn't have to be somewhere at a certain time, A and I would often take the bus and take the long route - often without a set destination. "Shall we stop at St Paul's? Or maybe Waterloo?" I asked. "Lets stop somewhere in between," A replies.

The bus yesterday had a daredevil driver at the wheel who swerved in and out of tight city corners with ease. He took us through the main hotspots in North London before arriving at the city's centre. Enroute, we passed by Stamford Hill. We didn't have to read the signs or look it up on Google Maps to know where we were. Having lived in North London for 3 years now, we have familiarised ourselves with that area and its residents. Through the window of the bus, we could see many well dressed Orthodox Jewish men walking the streets. Smart black jackets on, curly hair on either sides of their face, dark beards and very distinguishable furry hats. These hats were large and circular - one could spot it from a mile away.

We passed by what I gather must be a Jewish school - with young boys, with their white circular hat on their heads, were being picked up by their parents. Some mothers were present with many children in tow. Further down the street, there were similar looking moms, pushing prams, talking to one another. Dressed in black knee length skirts, with wigs on their heads - the women too were very distinctive. We passed Kosher supermarkets, synagogues and other shops written in Hebrew. It felt very much like a Jewish version of the Muslim London capital of Whitechapel.

As an outsider briefly observing their community, the first thought that came into mind was how unapologetic they were about who they are. They wear their faith visibly for everyone to witness, and that takes great bravery. Akin to Muslim men who grow beards and wear taubs, or Muslim women who don the hijab, it takes courage to be outwardly different to the norm. With Muslims in the UK, we are not removed from normal society - we have one foot in our faith and one foot in the normal day-to-day life in this secular country. But with the little knowledge I have regarding the Orthodox Jewish communities in London, they strive to maintain their community out of the throws of modernity. They have their own language, own schools, own businesses and own communities. Just makes me wonder whether it is easier to uphold traditions of faith in isolation? Is integration a threat?

In my own experience of being a Muslim in this city, being different has actually added to my faith rather than diminish it. In times of loneliness and being apart from loved ones, I seek God more here than I do in Malaysia where many hold the same faith. In a community where I am "the other" I would have to explain my actions and decisions more to those who don't know them, and that takes more learning and knowledge on my part. But in Malaysia, no one would ask why I prayed, everyone just does. And I don't have to worry about where I should pray when going out, because there would always be a prayer room available. And I guess in a way, the easiness of being Muslim in a Muslim majority country makes me take my faith for granted. The added struggle to practice my faith here has strengthened it. I understand that other people often have a different experience to mine when going abroad, because one can easily lose their faith too when tested.

Before I go on an even larger tangent, yesterday I learnt that possibly us Muslims have similar struggles with our Jewish brothers and sisters. That man wore that furry strange hat yesterday because he had the bravery and gusto to do so. And that somehow gives me the courage to do the same with my hijab. We are both embracing our "otherness", albeit in slightly different ways.

139: 10.2 Fangirling

Today I finished my first book of 2018. I started the year with a fiction book by Ali Smith that I have still yet to finish. But around last week, A got me The Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawande and I sort of abandoned efforts with the former book to devour this instead. It is a little disappointing that I have only finished reading one book thus far, but hopefully I'll keep myself on track from now on. This is my second book by Gawande that I have read - needless to say, I have a big literary crush on him. His observations on the world are thought provoking and the way he writes is expressive and also very much to the point. He brings readers on a journey, and although he primarily addresses issues in the medical world (as he himself is a surgeon), he broadens the scope of the subjects discussed across different professions; making his books relatable to everybody.

In one of his interviews he mentioned why he wrote. He showed his journals in which he has written entries over many years. He said he writes because it helps him think - it helps him break down problems and navigate his though processes. That statement makes him so relatable, because I too think better in writing than in any other form of communication like talking or drawing. After putting down the book today, I was in a state of awe. I just had to google him. So I did and I found out that he majored in science and politics in Stanford, then went to Oxford to pursue a Masters in PPE. Then he went to Harvard where he studied medicine and finished a Masters in Public Health. He started writing as a surgical resident for an online magazine which caught the attention of The New Yorker. And I guess from there, his literary career took off. And if thats not enough, he was also one of the main figures who designed and disseminated the WHO surgical checklist which is now being used in operating theatres worldwide. He is a surgeon, public health expert and writer - I cant be a bigger fangirl. At this point, I just want to achieve what he has achieved in his professional career.

Throughout the years, I have admired many from afar. Priscilla Chan and Paul Farmer to name a few. I have too idolised people who were somewhat in closer proximity to myself. As a wide eyed high school student, I used to greatly look up to this one person in particular. Lets call her Janet. I tried my best to emulate her in efforts to achieve what she had achieved in the scholarly sense. I admired her mannerism, her writing and her appreciation for culture. Back then I didn't just like her, I wanted to be her.

But on a recent encounter, unfortunately she didn't match up to the person I observed from afar. Janet was brash, inpatient and a little rude. She wasn't warm nor was she friendly. I left that meeting utterly disappointed. Maybe its partly my fault for building an untrue perfect version of Janet in my head that no one could have matched up to. I do still admire her for what she has achieved, but the stark reality of her personality did shatter my perceptions of her, and suddenly I did not want to be her anymore.

Probably now thats why I have opted for people who are unreachable, so to not be disappointed again. I would most probably never meet Gawande in my life, and in a way I feel safer because of it. And his achievements are way too lofty a goal for me anyway. Maybe someday (inshaAllah) I would achieve half of what he has professionally and Ill most probably call it a day. But it is also reassuring to think that all these greats did start where I am right now. From ground zero. And excitingly, the only way is up from here!

138: 9.2 His ring

As a sequel to the other blog post about my ring, this is the story about his ring. When we first got married, A was not too keen on rings. He was of the opinion that men do not wear jewellery of any kind. But I was adamant that he should have one as a symbol that he was officially off the market. As we would unfortunately be operating at long distances a lot, I needed an extra layer of protection to warn off prying female eyes (lol). But just as equally, I wanted to get a nice gift for him as his then new wife. 

We shopped around online for a while. Handcrafted titanium rings, plain wedding bands and those with engraving services on them were some of the possibilities. Although gold was out of the option due to religious reasons, we were still overwhelmed with the amount of choice that were available. Above all, I wanted to give him something unique. Eventually, after weeks of researching, thankfully, I found it. I was browsing the Tiffany's website and I spotted a lovely titanium ring. Two colours beautifully etched with a pattern of horizontal triangles. It was perfect. 

When we landed in London after the 2-week long run of wedding festivities, the first important task as a married couple (after we got over our jetlag) was to purchase this ring. I did show A the ring prior and he thankfully liked it too - so off we went to Bond Street to find the ring in his size. Similar to every shop on Bond Street, Tiffany's was a bit too posh for my taste. There were guards outside the door, everything was shinily expensive and the sales people were too proper. Suited and booted, every hair on their head was neatly combed and set. We felt very out of place. I showed the sales assistant what we were looking for by showing a picture of the ring on my phone. "Ah yes," he said, "Follow me." We went up the glass stairs to the mens section where he brought out a velvet tray of different sized rings. A slipped on the smallest one onto his ring finger. It looked really nice and suited him well. Everything was perfect, except that it was a tad loose. 

"Is there a smaller size?" we asked. "Unfortunately, that is the smallest size we have here." Oh dear. "But we have another branch in Selfridges if you would like to try them?"

After a short walk, we were at Selfridges hoping that there would be a solution to our sizing dilemma. We arrived to find out that Tiffany's smallest made size for that ring is the size that A tried on first. So our problem remained, it is still too big. Why do Asian men have such slim fingers? But as my mind wandered thinking of a solution, it hit me. My dad's wedding ring fits too snugly for his fingers now, although it must have slid in nicely when he first got married. Probably fingers just expand in size with age. So the best thing to do, I thought was to buy a larger ring now to deter from my husband having circulatory finger problems in the future. Ha! Problem solved.

So despite the ring being a little too big for A, I bought it. It came in the iconic turquoise box complete with the white ribbon wrapped around it - just like in the movies. The unboxing was done unromatincally in a nearby Pret Cafe and A slid the ring onto his finger, and there it will stay inshaAllah till the end of days. Hopefully this will mark the end of ring sizing problems in this marriage, with mine originally being too small, and A's being too big. But I wont be surprised to encounter some more jewellery related complications in the future. But for now, we are settled and happy with the rings we have, Alhamdulillah. But speaking of jewellery related mishaps, just today, the rock on my engagement ring somehow managed to scratch A's finger, leaving it bleeding. This adds to the many scars that A has to endure due to my unfortunate clumsiness and mishandling of everyday objects. But as he has a ring on it, thankfully he can't really run away! You should have known what you married into, poor guy.

137: 8.2 Home cooked food

Despite the many Michelin star restaurants in the world, nothing can really beat a hot meal right from the stove in the comforts of your own home. I am in a way, quite spoilt that A is a talented and passionate cook. It was him who taught me how to taste. And how to balance the ingredients in a dish. He taught me different textures of food and how to be patient in the cooking process. Since he is in town, I am blessed to come home to his comforting cuddles and delicious culinary creations. He loves to experiment - for instance there was this one night when I had a particular bad on-call shift, I came home to a living room with dimmed lights and candles on the dining table. He had spent the evening making us a little Indian feast (as pictured above)! I was particularly craving naan bread at the time, and he was thoughtful enough to make some from scratch. Needless to say, they were the best naan I have ever tasted. Tasted even more delicious with the chicken masala curry, chick pea daal and sag paneer. All engineered and crafted with great attention and care.

Home cooked meals are the best. Eating out could be an intermittent treat, but if done on too many occasions, I find myself being overwhelmed with overpowering flavours. Well, it depends on where one eats out, really. If it is eating out at good restaurants, one can be overwhelmed. But if its just at the generic chinese/thai/indonesian fusion takeaway place next door, one can feel the complete opposite. Probably I prefer spacing out my restaurant eating adventures with mundane home cooked dishes in between. The familiarity of my well practiced nasi ayam and spaghetti bolognese offer me comfort. I know these dishes very well, and they are always there when I need them.

But in desperate times, out comes the cheap takeaway food. Through weekend on-calls or nights where there is nothing in the fridge and I have no energy to go out to eat, I have to unfortunately resort to Plan C. Just Eat app opens up on my phone, I would scroll down and pick whatever that looks remotely edible and click order. Forty minutes later, food will appear in takeaway tupperwares or pizza boxes, most likely cold from the journey. Nine out of ten times the food will be disappointingly bland, but I devour it anyway because the alternative is to sleep hungry. It will take me back to my university and college days. Days when I knew almost nothing about good food. The only categories of food in my mind back then were: 1) edible 2) inedible. I ate just to sustain.

Thankfully I have grown up a lot since then, both as a person and as an eater. One of the biggest lessons I have learnt from A is the joy of eating and feeding. A loves cooking for other people - he inherited this trait from his parents, who are both passionate community cooks. Through him and our many sessions of dinner parties with friends, I have learnt that there is so much barakah in cooking for others - may it be in big occasions with friends, or simply feeding your small family everyday. The food you craft with your hands will help those who eat your cuisine acquire energy to go about their day - spending time at work, or with family or time gaining knowledge. The food you feed them will make up their muscles, blood vessels and nerves. Like oxygen, water and sunlight, food is a necessary aspect to life. We need it. So why not try and make as many meals you can that much more special.

136: 7.2 Lines and squiggles

Today has been a long day. Tomorrow is the last day of my acute medicine rotation, and I am done. This fast paced environment is just not for me. Seeing patients for 1 hour and handing him over to relevant teams, it feels like I am barely involved in their individual care. I miss having conversations with patients and families, even the hard ones. When the oncology or palliative team comes to review patients on my ward, I sometimes look longingly at them, quietly saying, "Please take me with you! I do not belong here!"

My next adventure will be with intensive care. Where cases are more complex and intellectually challenging. I can't freaking wait! There, I would hopefully have more time to spend with each patient. Not like now, where between paperwork and actual clinical work, I am just frantically putting out fires. Just enough to make sure all my patients are stable.

After the evening shift tonight, I hitched a ride with my friend home. We were talking about what we enjoy and didn't enjoy about the job so far. She is a fact person - she likes knowing what is going on all the time, areas of grey scares her. She likes numbers and charts. And there is me, the complete opposite - I thrive best in the grey. I love complexity - be it medical, social or emotional. I do my job for the connection and the stories I have the privilege to have access to. In a way, medicine is beautiful in its way that it caters for all types of personalities. It needs many people like my friend, and equally they need many people like me to work together in giving the best care possible to our patients. We need numbers and we need colour. We need the science and the art. One of the many reasons I can't imagine doing little else than what I do everyday.

135: 6.2 Fire

Pretty unexpectedly, a computer on a ward I was on spontaneously caught fire. Thankfully, I was not near this computer. It was in the hallway and I was in a room. I ran out in time to witness a colleague spraying the flames using a fire extinguisher. It only took two squirts of it to avert the patients and staff from potential danger. That same colleague retold the story to us later - how she was just minding her business typing away on the keyboard, and the next thing she noticed was a funny burnt smell and seconds later, there were visible flames. She ran up and down the hallway for help before locating the right fire extinguisher for electrical fires and aiming it at the computer. Minutes later, the fire team arrived and the ward was on temporary lock down. Thank God the response was quick, it could have been much worse.

Coming back from work, I thought how funny it was that after those panic-stricken seconds, staff just returned back to their duties - it was business as usual. I went back to the computer preparing the list for the day, doctors were reviewing patients and nurses went back to their drug rounds completely unfazed. It was as if the fire didn't happen. At home the same day, I was watching the SuperBowl episode of the TV show, This is Us. Without giving too much away, in this particular episode, there was also a fire. A fire that changed the lives of the whole family. It was tragic, upsetting and emotional to watch.

Watching that reminded me of the Grenfell Fire that happened in this city a few months ago. Waking up to the news that day was a surreal experience. I remember thinking how could a whole tower block in one of the most modern cities in the world catch fire? In this country, there has always been an emphasis on fire safety. In my many accommodations, university and work building, we were always expected to know where the fire exits are. And random midnight fire drills became a norm. Dubious electrical appliances weren't allowed in certain buildings, and there are fire safety doors at every corner to keep potential fires contained. What the hell happened?

As the story slowly unfolded through traditional news outlets and angry social media, it became apparent that dangerous shortcuts were taken and as a result, many families tragically perished. A week after the fire, I made the journey to the building to witness it for myself. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see. It was like I was on a movie set. From afar, the charred tower stood high in the skyline. Windows were burnt to a crisp and smoke was still visible, floating upwards to the clouds. The area surrounding it was closed off, but the road leading to the tower was filled with missing person posters. "Have you seen my grandfater?", "Finding mother of 4", "Missing baby" printed on sheets of A4 paper just lined every free gate, tree or lamp post. Each piece of paper represented a family torn by this tragedy. Death and loss was so palpable - it was absolutely overwhelming.

There is a church overlooking the tower. There, people left candles, letters and flowers. Prayers of every faith and non-faith were written and left on its steps as a vigil in memory for those who perished. It was there that I got on my knees, my eyes closed in prayer. I prayed for those whose lives were lost to be granted peace and sweetness of Heaven. And for those who have lost those they love to be granted patience and bravery through this thoughtless tragedy. May they be reunited once more, in a place fairer than here, in a place brighter than here and in a place filled with more love than here. 

Fires, like death, knows no wealth or status. It is indiscriminate in its undertaking. It devours with great passion. And when big enough, it is frighteningly unstoppable. Makes me shudder to think that flames present on Earth, however tragic they may be, just represent a fraction of what makes up the fires of Hell. May we all be protected from experiencing anything closely resembling it, in this world and in the Hereafter. Ameen.

134: 5.2 An unlikable acquaintance

In my first year of university, I was quite active in societies. It happened during a random talk I attended - nothing particularly fitting my interests, but I went anyway because of peer pressure. A group of them were talking in the corner of the room. There was him at the centre of this conversation. He is an acquaintance of mine, and I use the term acquaintance quite firmly because he is not my friend. In a minute you'll figure out why.

"There are only 2 reasons why someone would dislike you," he exclaims. "One possibility is that he or she hates you because he wants what you have and another possibility is that he hates you because he or she wants to be you." Everyone around him nodded, in awe of his "philosophical" revelation. Unfortunately I wasn't one of them. Upon hearing his statement, I raised an eyebrow and thought is this guy for real? Does he really think so highly of himself so much so he neglects the fact that people might really dislike him because of his character (or bluntly, lack thereof). He tried to explain the reasoning behind his belief, but by that time I had completely lost interest and walked away.

I attended another discussion later that same year. The topic was what motivates someone to vote for person A versus person B. At the time, I was pretty much politically blind, and had no idea what I was doing there to begin with. They were talking about looking at a politician's track record, background and their delivery on promises. Then came my turn to talk and I just plainly (and maybe stupidly) said, "I would vote for someone nice and someone I can trust. Someone who represents me should be someone that I can bear, or even like as a human being." Then, I talked about attending a talk given by a Malaysian politician and how I disliked that he used the word "I did.." when describing every success that he achieved. It was like he had to support, help or team who worked with him. There was no ounce of humility in his tone, and that really got to me. I didn't trust him thus he didn't succeed in earning my vote (not that I registered to vote anyway). But when I shared my thoughts with the group, they looked at me like I said something off-putting. One of them even suggested, "Maybe you should look at the track record of someone too before you vote for him or her." Needless to say, I didn't manage to win them over with my speech.

But for the record, a person's character plays a vital role in winning people over - both in small situations like friendships or even in larger contexts, like in the popularity contest of politics. And one  doesn't need to be envied to be disliked. All it takes is to be a bit of an ass.

133: 4.2 Hours

I wish there are more hours in some days, and less in others. On working days, there is little opportunity to do things that you want outside of the 9-5 grind. My typical routine nowadays after work is to get back home at 6, shower and cook something to eat which would take me to 8pm. Then I would relax, watch some things online. Then maybe spend half an hour to one hour writing. Then maybe spend several minutes studying for my theory driving test which is quickly approaching. That would take me to 11.00pm when I would talk to A on facetime before getting ready for bed, and the cycle would repeat itself the next day. There is very little scope physically or time-wise for perhaps learning a new skill, or reading or revising for specialist exams or exercising. Unless I opt to sleep less hours, and I am far from committing to that sacrifice.

Then there are days where I have nothing planned at all. I wake up at noon and laze my day away till nightfall around 5pm. Only then I would start being somewhat productive before giving up when I realise that I am never productive during weekends. I count the dreary hours, filling it with nonsensical entertainment and superficial television, till its the weekday again, when time would hopefully tick on faster. But like days like today when A is around and we have friends to meet and places to go, I wish that there were more hours that span my work-less weekend. No I did nothing productive today except writing this entry, but it was time well spent - especially important for my emotional health.

Yesterday at dinner with an old friend we realised that 10 years ago, I was in high school. TEN. YEARS. Its now in the double digits, and that is absolutely frightening. Where did all those years go?  How could it already be ten years? In a blink of an eye, it came and went. But in contrast, there are times especially nearing the clock-off times from long weekend on-call shifts, where 5 minutes feel like an eternity. I would watch the hand of the clock tick from second to second, just wishing it would hurry up.

I know that time is a fixed entity. There are 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour and 24 hours in a day. That is how the world works. But I believe there is also an inherent fluidity to time. A subjective aspect to it where two people can experience the same hour in totally different ways. Fast, slow or somewhere in between. And I guess this is one gem of many in life that ought to be appreciated.

132: 3.2 Standing up

*Details in this post are partly fictitious*

"You have just woken me up!" she exclaimed, very visibly annoyed.
"Yes, but you are in hospital, and I need to know how you are doing," I replied.
"I am fine, I just need to get some sleep! I am so tired, and you have rudely woken me up!"
"Miss, I am sorry that I woke you up, but it wasn't just for fun. And I didn't shake you, I just gently placed my hand on yours because I genuinely want to know how your breathing is."

She was a patient I had several weeks ago. She was in A&E for a nasty chest infection, treated with antibiotics and oxygen. She began to be irate on our second encounter. With the consultant, she wasn't in this kind of mood. I had to check up on her because a colleague of mine said that she had used profanity angrily when he offered to do a blood test on her. Her oxygen saturations were fine, and although she appeared angry, she wasn't in any respiratory distress. She clearly didn't want this conversation to be prolonged, so I turned my back and as I walked out of the room, I switched off the light. Since the blood test wasn't urgent, I thought I would give her maybe an hour to rest before trying again.

The time lapsed, and I plucked up the courage to try again. She was fully awake this time, so I thought its now or never. I knocked with the needle and syringe in hand.

"Hello Miss, its me again. Is it ok if I take a blood test from your wrist?"
"Another one? Well, if you must."
She was still cranky. I better be extra careful. After locating a good pulse on her left hand, I warned her of the possible pain from the procedure.
"It might hurt quite a bit," I said. "I am just warning you."
"It better not hurt, my left hand hurts already from the needle you lot put in earlier."
"This blood test is different, it is from the wrist, and I am just warning you that it might hurt more than your previous blood tests."
"Just get on with it already, before I throw you out of the room."

At this point, I had enough of her cattiness. Looking her in the eyes, I plainly said, "There is no reason to be rude to me, I am just trying to help." She looked away in silence and had no further comments after that. I continued the procedure and left the room to analyse the sample.

I am not someone who would often stand up for myself as I tend to avoid confrontation like the plague. Even when I am right, or even when I am clearly being bullied, I would either stay silent or leave the environment entirely. But sometimes, defending yourself is necessary. This was a great milestone for me because as medical professionals, we are often become a punching bag for patients and their families. We often relent and give in, sometimes to ease our work (because difficult patients tend to take alot of our time) and/or to avoid complaints. But having courage to say, no I would not tolerate unkind or inappropriate behaviour is important. At the very least, to preserve our own sanity (or what is left of it).

131: 2.2 Control and lack thereof

Some emotional reactions are beyond explanation. I was 12, maybe 11 at the time. I was in the small room downstairs, a room that was mainly our toy and nap room when we were babies. A single room, with a window and an adjoining bathroom. A closet at the corner housing books for all ages and some albums that preserved the fading printed photos from different eras of my family’s life.  Digital music hadnt really caught on yet, and we had a shelf full of audio CDs. I picked one randomly and headed towards the radio. After placing the CD in the top compartment, I pressed play. The very first song was Pachebel’s infamous Canon in D.

The song opened with a strong violin presence, accompanied by the sultry sounds of cellos. Although I wasnt actively listening to classical music at the time, somehow I knew that this song had once played an important role in my life. The notes, the melody and the harmony; it was like the song brought an unknown memory within me to its surface.The emotions suddenly flooded in as the piece approached its middle cadence. Without reason or control, my chest tightened and tears streamed down my face. My stomach started to ache as I audibly sobbed into my hands. Minutes after, I was on the floor, having a full meltdown in the corner of the room alone. I remember thinking “What has gotten into me?” Till this day I haven’t fully figured it out.

After many failed attempts, I finally managed to calm myself down. Wiping away my tears and looking at my swollen eyes in the mirror, I wondered what possessed me to have such a reaction. It was like an out of body experience. Like something previously held under lock and key suddenly exploded without warning. At the time, I didnt even know the song’s name or its composer - I just knew that I had heard it before.

I confided in Mama about my experience and she told me that when I was a baby, she used to play that song, together with many other songs from the Baroque era for most hours in the day. She would play in when I was awake, asleep, eating, maybe pooping even. She thought that by playing those songs, I would become a calmer and smarter child. Without me being aware of it, that song accompanied me alot in my early years, and maybe a part of my brain had stored this audio memory unconsciously.

Makes me think how much of our actual selves are we actually aware of. Especially in the last few years, there has been a surge in popularity of self-love and self-discovery in culture. It has been said that no one knows you better than you. But experiences like the emotional meltdown I had makes me think that we actually dont really know much about ourselves.

Maybe what we know of our existence is only the tip of the iceberg. There are influences and experiences that we have gone through that we are unaware of, or have forgotten. There is so much that is not in our control. Like the country we grew up in, the family we have, the food you ate as a child, or like me, the songs you heard as a baby. Those experiences influenced you to become who you are today.

It is somewhat frightening that you might have little control of who you are, and in a sense who you will become. But at the same time, I think it is also liberating and humbling. Humbling to think you are not in this alone as your self, is an amalgamation of many different influences from others. And liberating that when things dont turn out the way you planned, you never had full control anyway. Maybe ocassional unexplained breakdowns are necessary to remind oneself that sometimes, it is okay not to be in control. Maybe its just part of being human.