Therapy?

For as far back as I can remember I have been taking examinations, and like the marquee glitterata splashed across the arena entrance billing the next big fight as the "biggest ever", for me the biggest most important test is always the next one. Coming from a Chinese primary school meant you were used to the grueling tenure of monthly tests, end of semesters three times a year, and the obligatory, out-of-nowhere pop quizzes when the teachers feel just a bit sadistic that morning. Probably they spilt their coffee. And they felt like whacking us if we make any mistake. Back then in some tests, 90% meant you made ONE mistake and you get ONE whack of the cane, which sometimes was… ah, as good as it got. Lignocaine for my cane marks.

In the midst of taking all these tests I have come across many, many peculiar pre-test rituals among my classmates and colleagues through the years. Some believe in the "calm before the storm"… a relaxed last few moments before taking the exam, some pray in a circle, a few go "meh", and some are yet still more elaborate. Remember how Karl Malone acted every single time before he took a free throw? Exactly in that vein. One of my childhood friends, while taking a test, I took a glance of his left (non-writing) palm which said, in big, bold letters which nearly made his tiny hand appear black with splotches of skin in between… "you can do it." His father wrote it on his palm the morning of the exam, and it calmed his nerves somewhat. That was his propeller.

I have been having several sleep-disturbed nights, because as most of you all know, I’m going through what is known as "my biggest examination ever", until the next one of course. Factor in the late night cramming, fantastic frenetic Seremban weather, all the mosquitoes suddenly decreeing that my room is their favourite watering-hole, waking up in the middle of the night and realising you just forgot what you’ve read 20 minutes ago, and caffeine, sweet sweet caffeine who tease, play and grapple with your consciousness and attention like a stubborn ex-girlfriend (Ok, low blow, I know). And you have a pretty unstable exam-going dude. Today is the first of a 5-day break before the final paper, and I can afford to take my foot off the gas for a few hours. Just a few.

Something funny happened last night.

Superman had his dad and Luke Skywalker had his Obi-wan, in moments where life, fate, honour, glory and everything in between hung in the balance, their father figures would magically appear and tell them to continue on (or give them some tips), although all might seem lost and futile. After two grueling (the second time I’ve used this word in an hour) papers and a much-needed sabbatical before the final paper, when I least expected him and yet needed him the most… I dreamt of dad last night.

It was peculiar. He was shovelling snow in front of our driveway while we had another one of those father-son sessions (and everyone else on the planet just ceased to exist). We exchanged some light banter ("How’s medical school?" "It’s torture, dad." "Oh grow up.") while he shovelled on. Then he appeared to have some  knee pain and I went to check. He told me he was having some trouble with it and that he had gone to see a doctor about it. He was shovelling because he needed to "loosen up some joints". The medical part of me wanted to rest him, and send him off with some NSAIDs while he recuperated and stop the shovelling nonsense. The good son part of me rationalised "you really think that you know your dad better than he does just because you’ve read a few pages from an orthopaedics text"… my dad shovelled on, his knee pain lessening as we talked more.

And then I woke up. It had been 9 hours of uninterrupted, blissful rest… the best sleep I’ve had in yonks, I swear. The hot weather, mosquitoes, internal conflicts… nothing deterred me from getting the rightful rest I needed. And the weather is great. Not too hot, not too clammy. It’s a wonderful morning.

Being the child of a doctor meant you either embraced of repelled the medical profession completely, there is no inbetween. You either grow up to become one of them or go into something totally different. My sister and I are the perfect examples of both ends of the spectrum. My dad instilled in me the science of knowing, and a love for humanity. Which explains why I’m still trudging about in medical school while 90% of my high school batchmates have begun their journey to making their first million. Had he been alive today… dad’d be a ripe 56 years old this year. Sometimes I wish it’d be easier, no doubt, had he still been here. "Hey dad, how much dose erythromycin to give ah?" and I’d have my answer right away. But I’m not complaining. Not anymore anyway. Things happen as it should, and everything’s eventual.

My final paper is in 5 days and I need to study. See you all soon.

"So how’s medical school?"
"It’s torture, dad."
"Oh grow up."

My propeller.