point of interest...hmm

10:00 am. monday. class is as boring as ever, and we're about to start another lecture. I'm sitting in the 4th row from the front, along side Ron and Tim. Ron wispered to me:

" Pss, phil, look over there!" He points to the 1st row, on the left side of the auditorium.
"Who? oh, yes. he's cute...very cute." I concurred.
"No, not him! the other one!"
"Oh okay, yeah, but that doctor is definitely cute." Tall, dark hair, medium complexion with a chiseled jawline you can probably grate cheese with--this was one hot doctor.
I noticed his perfectly fitted suit beneath the white coat, impecable shoes, and neatly trimmed hair. "He's a neurosurgeon!" I exclaimed to Ron.
"And he's also married," Tim chimed, "Notice the ring?"
"Lucky wife. Damn!" I sighed.
"No, no, not necessarily." Ron adamantly protested. "First of all, it's Massachusetts, so it may not be a wife. And second of all, plenty of gay guys wear wedding rings."
"You mean because they're in the closet?" I asked.
"Not exactly, they wear it so people won't question their private lives. " Ron patiently explained to me," This single gay guy I know from my gym says he wears a wedding ring because he works at a school, and he doesn't want people to ask questions."

"Really! That just makes it even more confusing! You know there was a Dean at Harvard who dressed impecably like the doctor over there, and it took me 2 years to figure out that he was gay." I exclaimed.

"Was it because he wore a ring?" Ron asked.
"No. Well, he had shirtless pictures of himself in his office though...very sporty, and he wore really nice shoes." I responded.
Ron sighed, and responded: "And it took you 2 years? In that case, Phil, your gaydar needs a tune up."

tipping point

It is simply not fair for parents to use their childrens' love as a bargaining chip in order to get what they want. In my case, they're saying: "If you love us, then don't live your life." Fucking great. I think it's time for another brutal re-coming out party to remind them of their denial. I'll beat this issue to a bloody pulp if I have to. I don't think they know how cruel I can be, but they're forcing my hands.

Uncomfortable

"Um, hello?"
"It's mom."
"Oh hi mom!"
"How are you? How was the test?"
"Oh, it was okay. Nothing too bad."
"You always say it's 'okay'. hm. [slight chuckle; pause]. So grandma and grandpa, and Uncle S is coming to boston this weekend....they want a copy of the CD to take back to France."
"Oh really? Well I'm flattered..."
"I know you left the one copy we had back in Vietnam though...I didn't know if you could get another copy soon enough..."
"Oh well, yeah [pause]. Mike can get it for me."
"[silence.] Right, Mike. I don't think I'm comfortable with that Mike helping out or anything..."
"He's still my boyfriend."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"[pause] Of course not."
"And remember that we're not talking about it infront of your grandparents, you understand?"
"[long silence]. The only reason I'm coming home is because you asked me to."
"[pause]. Well, I don't want you to bring it up."
"Of course, why would I ever want to share my life with them, right?"
"[silence]. Call your dad when you get home."
"Will do. bye."
"Bye."

just because

H

Do you ever get the feeling that the people you meet in life are not due to accidental happenings? Yes, that sounds cliche, but perhaps only because the question has been so frequently asked and dismissed at the same time. This past weekend was great: complete avoidance of all work, just hanging out with friends, catching up on their lives. I could say that about the WOFIGO retreat too, but this was different. It wasn't so much a time to shore up existing friendships, but to start them anew. I met someone. We said 'hi' in the elevator, and I mispronounced his name. He and I share a mutual friend, and her revelation about him has stayed with me. It is changing my life outlook in a way I have not thought possible.

At school the focus has turned to neurology, and case presentations invariably expose us students to strange and terrifying disease states, such as tumors and strokes. Brain tumors are especially hard cases to deal with, not in terms of their pathology, but their progression and outcome. Tumors in the frontal cortex change personalities, while in other areas obliterate memory, speech, and awareness--eating away at everything that makes an individual himself. To think, the prospect of loosing ones self is terrifying enough at any age, but to see cases in children and young adults in the prime of their lives...

I have tremendous respect for him, and admiration for what he is going through. The caregiver within me wants to leap out and help in some way, not out of pity, but out of sheer hope and a desire to learn from him. That, and he seems like a really cool guy. I hope I get the chance to become his friend.

Harvard: no more early admissions. Um...yay?

Apparently this is a shocking news flash on CNN, and as I was eating my dinner--home-made bean and lettuce wrap, refreshingly cold from my fridge with at least 94% of my recommended daily intake of fiber, mind you--numerous thoughts of What Would I Have Done (WWIHD) raced through my head.

So yes, I got in early action, as did most people I know at Harvard. I applied to Harvard as a wager with some friends that I'd never get in (I still owe those guys the dinner I promised). Early action seemed logical. Figured I'd get the fanciful application out of the way, and get ready to deal with 'real' apps for school like Tufts and BU and UMass. Early action had other sweet advantages: if I did get in, it's straight to senioritis-ville for the second semester. Sweet cruising, no real learning. yep. Life would be good. If I didn't, well, I never expected I'd get in anyway, so life would go on as planned. Sweet.

I feel the need for a medal now when I think about how I schemed all by myself, since the CNN article made it sounds like it was only the advantaged prepschool kids with in-the-know counselors/$20,000 consultants who can deviously scheme such a cost-benefit analysis and execute said plans. To be fair, it appears that in general more advantaged kids are the real recipients of the benefits of early action at the expense of more disadvantaged applicants. Hopefully abolishing the system will encourage a more diverse application pool, as Harvard thinks it will, and create a fairer process. I'm still skeptical about making the process less stressful, however. If anything, now one has one more school to apply to, at the same time as plenty of other ones, to add to the innevitable 'ball of stress' come senior year.

I was scheming, and calculating, but on my own. Whatever. Without early action, I don't think I would have applied to Harvard, and the bet with my friends would have remained just another lunch time conversation in the cafeteria. I'm so glad I applied early though, especially since senior spring was awesome once my brain check out in January. Ahhh, those were the days......

Hipocrisy in the Harvard CSA

pic taken from here

This, on the surface, is not my issue. I am not a member of the Catholic Church, and as an outsider, I am rightfully myopic in my view of internal matters of the Church. Harvard student organizations, however, have a duty to serve students, and the Harvard Catholic Church, a duty to minister to all those who consider themselves among the faithful. This Harvard church is about to lose 1 more soul.

It is heart-breaking to see someone loses his faith in an organization where he once had so much faith and love. I see it as a slow death, a choking, stifling suffocation that rots from the core but leaves the gilded exterior unmarred. M. loves the church. He is a devout member and goes to church every Sunday. He also happens to be gay. The greater Catholic Church at the moment isn't exactly welcoming to gays. Still, M. runs a student support group within the Catholic Student Association for GBLTQ name Cornerstone, helping to fulfill a central mission of the CSA, a mission that is supposed to bring the faithful into communion, regardless of their differences, to celebrate the miracle of Christ's love. The CSA in the past has been a welcoming haven to people like M. Tiptoeing the line between loving the individual and hating the 'sin', the CSA has managed to strike a seemingly impossible pose of tolerance and doctrinal coherency in supporting an organization like Cornerstone. I once strongly respected them for this. I now realize my respect is misguided.

Recently, Cornerstone's fliers were banned from the CSA table at the Harvard Freshmen Activities Fair. There is no explanation, other than a previous lie told to M. by the President of the CSA that because no other group had advertising, Cornerstone couldn't advertise. But M. found plenty of fliers and buttons and advertisements from other CSA groups on the table at the fair. When he again inquired the President and the Priest advising the organization about whether he could put his innocuous fliers (devoid of gay pride flags or 'celebrations of the lifestyle' or 'activist/leftist propaganda'; it's a simple notice for the group's first event), at the CSA table, all he got was a stern 'no.' This maybe the first instance of direct opposition, but M. has been sensing support for his organization waning in recent years, support for an inane organization that holds weekly meetings with a chaplain of the Church, in a small room at the Catholic Student Center, to talk about current events, watch a movie, or discuss Catholic life within the greater Harvard community. In his own words, he thinks they want Cornerstone to die.

A dark pessimist would conclude that perhaps the CSA wants Cornerstone to exist in name only, to claim the title of tolerance as sword and shield with which to beat back criticism and trump dissent, without any true effort. But why this false-face hypocrisy? Is it because the trick has worked so well throughout the history of the Church? I see something deeper, more intrinsic, more sinister still. I can imagine why the current CSA would not want a group like Cornerstone to survive, to advertise to incoming Freshmen who may be grappling with issues of faith and homosexuality, to offer support and pastoral leadership to those who would seek it. In effect, the spirits of old Judeo purity laws from the times of the New Testament come into mind. From the outside looking in, it is as if those who are less than perfect need not taint the purity of the Church and the CSA, these afflicted sinners who seek fellowship, and communion, and God's grace. But if the gays are to be treated like lepers of the New Testament, then surely the CSA and its Church could remember Jesus and his lessons about purity and true compassion. At a time when Catholicism is losing its flock, at a place like Harvard and a student organization like the CSA, is there any room left for such lessons of Jesus to be truly contemplated?

What the CSA is doing is hypocritical and antithetical to the very meaning of Christian faith and fellowship. On a personally level, it is hurtful and devastating to M. I feel vicariously the silent erosion of his faith, and I refuse to let such withering go unnoticed. We shall see how this calamity progresses, but I am obliged to cry foul, if only for M. who loves the organization still, and doesn't want to see it falter in the eyes of the public. However, when so many in the Church have remained silent in the face of injustice and hypocrisy, and they themselves perpetuate the disease, sometimes it takes an outsider to act. I am that outsider.

Food Club

It's not like fight club. You can talk about it. And as much as I thought bravado might be involved, I was pleasantly surprised. Food club is our medical students' version of pearls and slinky black dresses, of canapes and martinis and petit amuse bouche on a quiet evening with friends. We have pot luck dinners together, and until recently, I've shunned the club, fearing a reprise of the Harvard cocktail hour I've grown to both desire and dread. I was wrong.

It was Italian night. Pasta puttanesca. Tiramisu. We were swamped with delectable food. The president of the class offered up his recently redecorated spectacular downtown loft, which he shares with his gorgeous wife and two years-old daughter. I spent a good amount of time taking in the black granite kitchen counters, the tasteful chocolate colored wall and red exposed bricks, admiring the smartly designed space with bursts of color and beautifully placed art. It was a real home, a young, hip home, which made the event felt more like a gathering of twenty-something professionals and less like a college dorm party. People I hadn't thought of as existing outside the classroom came. They were cordial, interesting, and the conversations finally buzzed about something other than school. Ben's girlfriend was studying at the Cordon Blue in Paris. Eikero traded recipes with Elana for flour-less molten chocolate cake. We talked about the news, and news of friends dating, having kids. We talked about Mike. Suddenly, these personalities that irked me in class became interesting, human, and fresh. I finally realized that my impressions of them were incomplete, and I stand very much corrected.

In the end, I also realized this: I really should get out more.

Hushed

Mona Kuhn

So much has changed in the past couple of weeks. I feel different, not necessarily more content, just--cleansed. The parents were informed. Much was left to be desired in our conversations, but life is all about desire, isn't it? Desire is, afterall, the cog-wheels of dreams, the potential for newness. For now, they live in silence, hoping, desiring change. We do talk, but the words are largely meaningless; I can see them melt away, the way ice cubes slip into non-existence on the hot pavement, silently, without protest.

There is an inescapable sense of stillness within me, one that I cannot shake, and it scares me to think that the stillness should remain for good. I, too, see all around me a marked change in my classmates; the second year has imparted upon us a sense of reckoning, the realization that this is the true calm before the storm. We are quieted by the fear of the unknown, and I feel the overwhelming silence encroaching on all sides. It hushes us all.

So much has changed in the past couple of weeks. And I'm waiting for the storm.

The Deed-1

I sat at Givral away from direct sunlight, trying my best to avoid a tan. It was over 100 degrees outside, with 90 percent humidity, the kind of weather that made cotton shirts cling in perpetual films of sweat. Curious, though, while the air around me tasted of damp earth, as if anticipating a summer storm, there was no cloud in sight. My waiter--gaunt, wafer-like, slightly comical in his over-sized black pants and ill-fitting tuxedo top, his face a shade of burnt umber framing a sharp, protruding nose beneath glassy blood-shot eyes--bowed as he delivered my coffee. He mustered a slight smile, crooked and shy, as the light bounced from the edge of my silver spoon to the deep valleys receding from the corners his eyes. He asked me for how long was I visiting, in heavily accented, but still understandable, English. I told him two weeks.

Vietnam was becoming a new country. My generation, children who left after the war, had joined the ranks of tourists pouring back to this place of a thousand newness. Cell phones and internet, I-pods and cars--these were the shiny fruits of globalization in the modern Vietnamese economy, an arranged marriage of convenience between Western capitalism and socialist impulses that still littered Saigon's government-sponsored billboards. Fighting to rise above the din of KFCs and Calvin Klein ads, these banners often portrayed forever smiling, androgynous children in dark school uniforms against red backdrops of sickles and stars. "Children are our future!" exclaimed one such banner, overlooking the rotary in front of Saigon Market Square. The banner was right, of course. The war had been fought in the name of countless Vietnamese children for their future peace and prosperity. The children had to smile and be grateful; it was the dutiful thing to do.

My Vietnamese surprised my waiter. He thought I was Korean. In the new Saigon, he was right to be cautious; foreigners were a fact of life. I told him two weeks, and maybe an extra couple of days, depending on whether I was to head North to Hanoi to view the property. He nodded knowingly. "Another land deal," he asked in Vietnamese, "Are you coming back to live? If so, welcome!"
"Too many uncertainties," I mumbled a non-answer.
He understood; I didn't want to talk about it. A quick, slight bow, and he was gone.

The white heat outside seemed to have intensified since I sat down, but I was safe here. This old restaurant, I was told, had survived three governments, unmarred by the upheavals and bloodsheds, protected inside its own bubble of colonial elegance for nearly a century. My grandfather took me here when I was five, for ice-cream and air-conditioning, rare and expensive treats back then. Two commanding Corinthian columns still framed the entrance to this grand bistro, columns whose creamy marble gleamed in the midday sun thanks to recent renovations. Instead of looking out onto run-down shops, Givral now faced the five star Park Hyatt across the street, with its exquisite facade of white, modernized colonial splendors and rusticated masonry, impulses reminiscent of the old French Indochina that, for a time, had to be publicly forgotten in this socialist republic. If my grandfather had lived to see it, he would have been happy, perhaps, that we now had more ice-cream dining options in this freshly air-conditioned Saigon.

He was what brought me back here, back to Saigon. I palmed the envelope delivered to me this morning by his caretaker, feeling the thick stationery with its reflected whiteness glittering in the sunlight in ways that pained me. The brightness was overwhelming. In between sips of coffee--an intense, bitter brew that burned on its way down--I closed my eyes. I slowly succumbed to the darkness, allowing the world to dissapear beyond my senses as the Beatles' "Yesterday" floated around me. An eternity soon passed. I opened my eyes to see the envelope still there, on the table, waiting. I reached for it. Amidst the muted din of cityscape rushing past me, to the soft hum of air-conditioning as the Beatles strummed on, I began to read.

a little behind..

I will need to post soon. apologies for the extended silence.

I'm doomed.

"Congratulations, you've received the distinction of "Honor" for Growth and Development."

Oh. Really? Really? Because I rarely went to class, read the book the day before the final exam, and um, made fun of the professor all the time when I was in class. This is the second time this has happened in a class taught by this professor, who is a psychiatrist. Granted the material is piss easy, and the exams had questions like "True or false: old people have sex" but 'honor' is a mark that is scaled so that less than 10% of the class would receive it.

The alternative theory is that it's my fate to become a psychiatrist, because these two classes were geared toward precisely that. It's ironic because as a psychiatrist, I will need to also see a therapist to work out my issues about being annoyed at having to listen to other people's problems.

Damnit, where's the Paxil when I need it?

Summertime at Trauma 1

First year of medical school is over. The final anatomy exam was a breeze compared to the 3 days of studying without sleep (5 hours of sleep total, actually) that preceded the exam. I really liked anatomy, and I think I will miss it dearly. I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Speaking of not sleeping, I will be shadowing an anatomy professor of mine who also happens to be an ER doc at MGH. I will follow him on his overnight shifts, and will possibly do some triage work with him as well. And unlike humbling experiences of anal premeds who volunteer for the ER and end up pushing carts/delivering flowers, I will have my white coat and the pretense of knowing what I'm doing to fend off these menial tasks. Oh, and Dr. S will protect me. I hope.

In the day time, I've signed up to do some clinical research over at NEEC. I'm honestly much more excited about the ER gig, if anything, for the chance to really see what it's like to live the life of an ER doc who's relatively young and married, with a newborn daughter that is beyond cute. I like ER docs, and I don't mean the ones on TV. In real life they tend to be sharp, inquisitive, athletic-looking, funny, and um...cute. I suppose I shouldn't pick a profession based on the advertising, but hey, a little bit of projection and self delusions now and then can't hurt. MGH is a trauma one center and Harvard affiliated, which means they get all kinds of interesting cases. The 'Havaaad' bit, meanwhile, makes them *the* preferential care center for any celeb or politician. I don't know why this last factoid matters, but in the words of an ER doc at BU talking about the ER at MGH: "They get all the hot socialites in car accidents!" Hmm, interesting.

Albino Whale (I mean Kaavya) Sighting

From 'Nick', edited to protect the innocent, and 'recrafted' for dramatics:

"'Ben, Sybil, and I were having dinner in Mather, a Harvard dining hall, and we spotted what appeared to be the behind of Kaavya's head as she was heading toward the tray carousel and heading out. In the most blatant way possible, Ben and Sybil shrieked: "Oh, um, we're going to check our mail!" The mail room, coincidentally, is in the direction KV was heading. They banged their chairs against the table in the mad scramble to get up, when suddenly, Sybil yelled loudly: "Wait, she's coming back!" In true awkward form, they sat back down, pretending to eat as if nothing had happened. I watched Sybil stuffed a huge bite of salad into her mouth, her stupified gaze directed at the back of this girl's head. A cherry tomato that didn't quite make it, fell out. Someone else nearby, meanwhile, muttered rather loudly, "What is she doing parading around like that?"'


"Parading"? Err sure, if parading now means the girl was just getting a bite to eat in a dining hall. Wowza. The cherry tomato bit, however, is hilarious. As I've said before, she's a campus celeb now, for better or worse. Johnathan Taylor Thomas, eat your heart out.

pic stolen from here

back-logging

My psyche returned to me this morning, after the Physiology final. Don't you worry, the old noggin was working during the exam. It was my temporal-spartial-memory-thingy that took an early vacation. Now that it's back, it's telling me that I never recounted the unique experience of participating in the memorial service for Anatomy. The event is a rite of passage for first year medical students, the conclusion of a whirlwind tour through the human body, in celebration of those who gave us their remains and confer in us a different way of seeing. I, for instance, will never look at beef the same way again.

Humor aside, the event was very nice. Lots of flowers, and professors reading poetry and choking up on the podium. What wasn't so nice was the ad nauseum stream of musical contributions from the student body, of which I was also guilty. In my defense, I channeled every fiber of blackness within me into finding the right voice and expression for "Wayfaring Stranger". I think everyone was pretty much surprised that the quiet asian kid who sat in the back could sound like a 200 pound member of the Tuskegee Singers. Thank god for DayQuil, although it did make me forget 2 lines of lyrics. I thought about scatting, but decided to spare further insult to the quiet diginity of the spiritual I was butchering, and decided, instead, to lift lyrics from various dramatic points in the song. Unfortunately, the lyrics were printed. Appart from a few raised eyebrows from stupid Dental students, I escaped unscathed. I didn't think Barbara would mind.

I don't have nice words for the school's a cappella group, however. I felt like crying, for all the wrong reasons. They need to retire, or at least spare the old folks in the old-folks home who can't physically get away everytime, and captive audiences like students at the memorial service. Seriously, what's with the pitch pipe? They didn't need it, since everyone in the group made up his own starting pitch anyway.

Adding insult to injury, the ceremony ended on a low note, or should I say, a very badly sung high note that became a low note because the Dental soloist stopped trying. It didn't help that his guitar was sharp, the piano was flat, and the trumpets were playing a different tune. It's bad to criticize such sincere efforts, since the act is morally equivalent to making fun of mentally retarded children. I know. But really people. Really. Have mercy on the rest of us, cadavers and all, please!

More Asia Watch: Chinese Cheating

NY times, Monday: "In a Scientist's Fall, China Feels Robbed of Glory"

A top Chinese computer scientist had recently been accused of fraud and intellectual theft by stealing plans for digital signal processing computer chips from a Western company, designs he had previously claimed were his own. The word 'glory' caught my eye, for similar language was used to describe the fall of the S.Korean scientist who worked on cloning, late last year. I can't blame the NYtimes for employing words like shame, glory, and pride. That's just Asia, folks.

Money quote: "In a society where honor is particularly important and where the fear of public shame runs especially deep, the story of Mr. Chen has a profound resonance. Now, after all the honors and accolades bestowed on this 37-year-old favorite son, who returned home to China from the United States with a Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin six years ago, people here are beginning to question whether China is pushing its leading thinkers too hard to innovate and catch up with the West. Could Mr. Chen's downfall, they ask, represent an example of how even smart and successful people in China are being forced to cut corners to meet the nation's hyper-ambitious goals?"

Sounds familiar? It should. KV rings a distant bell here, too. Of course, KV is American, but her South Asian roots smack of similar codes for honor, pride, and unrealistic expectations.

More money quotes: "'Professor Chen is really unlucky," said a male student named Wu, who asked not to be further identified for fear of recriminations. "He lied and was caught. I think there are other people faking their research, but they haven't been caught yet. He's probably not the worst."

"Another male student named Wang, who also would not give his first name and cited the same reason, said: "I'm not surprised by the scandal. Now a lot of professors are like businessmen. They are good at talking and promotion, and many of them have their own companies and make as much money as they can."

This is alarming to say the least, because these students are the future Chinese scientists in training. But the problem is not restricted to China. The decrepid state of Asian scientific research ethics has been discussed at length within scientific circles, which I need to find sources for to cite here. Still, from what I gleamed, the discussions usually lament the foundation of Asian work ethics that are top-heavy, defferential to authority, and especially, based on the concept of shame vs. honor. These concepts are detrimental to the sciences, fields that demand teamwork, openmindedness, and the ability to accept failure. From many accounts, Chen Jin is a very smart man, and is well educated. True, he has demonstrated much greed and contempt for the very nature of intellectual inquiry. However, shaming him into oblivion will not help China's problems, but will perpetuate the same pressure cycle that will lead to the very 'shame' these cultures claim to abhor.

Asia Watch: "White or Wrong?"

NY times, Sunday:

"An ad for a skin-whitening product in Hong Kong says: "White or wrong? The right choice. Beauty White makes your whole body white."

Ah yes. I remember seriously freaking out when I watched a 5 minute commercial in Tokyo advertising L'Oreal White Perfect cream before the screening for War of the Worlds. My friends and I were stunned. I thought only my backward community had this obsession. My mother and her family instilled this nasty little bit of wisdom in me, and their paranoid relationship with skin color is, at times, down right racist. At least now it's good to know that it's not just my family; it's most of Asia too.

Skin bleaching is a booming industry in most of East and South East Asia, and while the message is disturbing or strange to non-Asians, apparently people are very open about admitting their own use of such products. Skin bleaching even extend to bleaching nipples to achieve a pinker hue. Given the prevalance of these creams, it's no wonder that at some point somebody will get hurt using cheap brands. I guess not everyone can afford L'Oreal 'White Perfect'. The name says it all.

White skin is desirable, not unlike tanning in the West. However, my own observation (and this article) seems to confirm more dangerous dimensions to this obsession. While the West prides tanning, it doesn't actively denigrate those who don't tan or insinuate that those who don't tan are of a lower socioeconomic class or belong to an inferior race. Asians actively denigrate those who have darker skin colors. The association is harsh, and it starts with language. Case and point: phrases calling people 'black as a duck's liver' or 'black like savages' are commonly used as insults in Thai and Vietnamese. The Vietnamese one is most telling, isn't it?

I frankly do not buy the argument that white domination in the form of colonialism or cultural global influences plays a large role in creating this trend. Rather, Asians have always had an intrinsic notion of class and race that is tied to physical attributes, and skin color is the most obvious. What is truly sad is the inability of these cultures to shake these beliefs from within, co-opting the message of beauty from the West to bolster existing prejudices and intrinsic racism. Quite pathetic, really.

another one bites the dust

Just took the final for Physical Diagnosis, which included me pretending to know what I'm doing on a standardized patient (a trained actor who pretends to be a patient). He was really cool about it, and afterwards, gave me pointers on techniques that he said was "usually meant for 2nd or 3rd year students". I'm proud to say that playing pretend with Mike really helped. I only forgot to examine 1 thing, but really, who needs intact hearing anyway.

My hands however, were uncooperative. They were not shaking, just bone chillingly cold, the kind of thing that I have vowed not to inflict my future patients because I hate doctors with cold hands. I apologized at least 4 times. Nothing I did to warm them up worked. Not even sticking it in between my legs, although that looked awkward and I decided to stop. Fun times. Fun times.

Can't say I did equally well on the written portion though. Stupid cranial nerves. If you have peripheral nerve palsy or something like that, don't ask me, because apparently I have no idea what the hell is wrong with you. Oops.

What's in a name

Harvard Medical School. It really shouldn't hold any sway over me. It really shouldn't. I thought I gave that up, the pangs of jealousy mixed with respect. I thought I left it in highschool.

While perusing thefacebook after some friends here at the medschool friended me, I found myself searching for alum'05, and an old aqquaintance popped up. We were never friends. Ethan, not his real name, and I took two semester of organic chemistry together, and on occasions, in class, we chatted. We had the same Teaching Fellow, and eventually, we sought this man's help throughout the semesters. Organic chemistry was one of those courses that can make or break a pre-med, and we knew the stakes were high, both because Orgo is a hard subject, and failure at it had consequences for our supposed futures. But Ethan didn't ever seem to me to be the intellectually inquisitive type; he was more cavalier, the premed-by-day, final-club-party-by-night kinda guy. I guess he knew how to live.

I still remember the time he asked me for help to study for the Orgo final. I never got any good vibes from him as a student, and truth be told he was terrible at it, but not because he was dumb. It just seemed like he didn't study enough. I explained the problems to him. He thanked me. We never talked after that. All the years at Harvard, he rarely acknowledged me when we pass on the way to the same dining hall, even though we live in the same House. I felt used. I still do.

He's at Harvard Medical School now, an MD-MBA candidate. I'm not.

It really shouldn't matter; it's just a school. His success does not mean my failure. It shouldn't mean anything at all.

But in this game, clearly, he did something right.
He always knew how to live.

MI III needs better medical consultants.

I am ashamed to admit that I've watched MI III and enjoyed the 2 something hours of Tom Cruise in human skin, doing what only a Thetan level 7 being can do: defy gravity, death, and logic. I can't say the same for the writers though. Whoever decided that a crucial plot point has to hinge on a defibrillator requiring 30 seconds to charge needs to be shot. Haven't they ever watched ER?