I want to make it clear that even though tears came to my eyes I did not cry, because I hate it when work stuff does that, and I do think it’s kind of weird to react to people you work with the same way you would react to a cheesy movie.  I’ve gotten pretty good at looking down and thinking unmoving thoughts in moving moments, which I can only imagine is like how it is for boys thinking unsexy thoughts in sexy moments?  Regardless I liked this and thought it was worth writing down.

I went to this continuing education lecture yesterday and to break up the monotony of the powerpoint presentation slides the doctor invited one or two former patients to share their first person accounts of their experience with traumatic brain injury.  Usually the folks I see and come into contact with could not be more opposite from me, young guys from central california who barely made it through high school, old men from the streets who have made it through decades of alcohol and drug abuse.  There was this chick yesterday though, she had just turned 30, parents from Taiwan, we even had the same last name, hit by a car while she was training for a marathon, just after she had graduated from medical school and 2 weeks into her residency.  Her neurosurgeon showed us her brain scans from the first week after the accident and took us through the decision trees that would have suggested a 50-some percent chance of death or “bad outcomes” and they debated whether she was worth operating on.  She didn’t talk or eat for the first six months.  I googled pictures of her from earlier on in her recovery and she was all lopsided and wonky.  Then she got all asian up in here and took rehab to another level, practiced saying her name over and over and over again, bought herself Rosetta Stone to therapize herself in English and now in Mandarin, and now she gives speeches all the time welcoming new interns to the med school she is working at, and to groups like mine yesterday.  Five years out, she smiles big, toothy, and symmetrical.  Shops at j.crew I can tell.  She’s driving.  And even though her speech is still halting and nonfluent and sometimes I had to decipher the telegraphic messages she uttered and the melody in her voice sounds flat like the automated lady voice on GPS, she shared two gems that I liked about what she’s learned in the process: “I… have… no… limits” and something along the lines of confidence coming from within, no matter what a test says your IQ is or how fancy a job you hold.  

Awhile back back I was feeling major job jealousy of almost everyone around me - the wannabe mark zuckerbergs starting start-ups that I didn’t understand, the wedding photogs and makeup artists that quit their day jobs and are now making a killing off of suckers like me, my korean oil-change guy who gets to be a Boss, and even Mike, who landed a job that would be a dream for any lead in a romantic comedy - creative, kind of hip, and he gets to work from home sometimes.  (OK so that last part is really my dream, because I always assume that “wfh” means gchatting and looking at blogs and occasionally checking your email.)  I job shopped hardcore, flirted with any potentials at the Linked In bar, thought about making my own business cards, feeling like someone would surely appreciate me for the passionate, COMpassionate, hard-working, charming, and really really really REALLY smart (I scored 800 on the math section of the SATs, ok people? and I will never let that go) SLP that I am!  

But it turned out there were a lot of duds out there, they just weren’t anywhere near the “10” that I was going for, they weren’t even close to my league at all, they couldn’t hold a conversation, and they didn’t offer to take care of my bills (i.e. no health insurance).  I went back to my occasionally abusive partner, tail between my legs.

I joked in an email to my girlfriend that I was sick of being micromanaged and was ready to micromanage someone else.  And like a gift from the heavens, all of a sudden the powers that be bestowed upon me multiple interns in a row, that I was responsible for grooming and priming and nitpicking and advicing, and all of a sudden, I’m coming home everyday feeling a little more accomplished.

I saw this movie called Jiro, Dreams of Sushi which is basically about this sushi chef that has done the same thing everyday for decades.  Yeah, the movie was often boring and I fell asleep, which was kind of a testament to his life, but he was inspirational nonetheless.  He believed in selecting a craft and perfecting it.  He also seemed like kind of a dick to work for, in the same way that people talk about Steve Jobs, or I do like my boss, but maybe that is the stuff that greatness stems from, the relentless pursuit of your perception of perfection.  Oh yeah and bossing other people around.

M recently got a license so that we could enjoy chocolates at our leisure and not have to “hey mister” our former high school drug dealer, current hedge fund analyst friends into scoring us some.  I think this is kind of ironic because it comes after so many years of living on Haight street and now we are finally grown and respectable contributing members of our communities.  But I guess that also means we’re kinda old and get tired when we have to stand in bars too long, and sometimes have hangovers after a beer and a half.  And we all gotta get our kicks in somehow.  But I think I went a little overboard, feeling like the lost boys from pinocchio, turned into a brain dead donkey, and this entry kinda sucks, the end.

today is day one of no coffee and no wedding blogs.  not that i have anything against coffee, or wedding blogs, i have thought that they are both, in fact, great enough to spend ample amounts of money and time on and well worth the yellow teeth and picking-out-linens-dreams that come with.

but it sucks when you can’t catch a mid-morning buzz because your neurons are numb to the regular 12 oz. drip from mcdonalds drive-thru every.morning.at.6:48am, and it’s just not right when you are starting to think that DIY pinwheels and paper rosettes are prerequisites for the party.

for awhile i was all about cultivating - doing something over and over and over and over again until i had carved out these grooves of grooviness.  and there is still a time and a place for that but i’m trying to avoid grooves that trip me up into ruts, falling into habits and routines that throw me deeper into abysses in the form of looking forward to a 16 oz mccafe on fridays like a true junkie, or forcing my mind so tight into a box i might as well give up on life and tiger mom it into thinking that there is only one path to success. 

anyway, there are a number of other habits i had also contemplated putting on hold for awhile, like drinking, but i need to keep at least that one up to go along with this trying new things thing.  already on my third bottle of Wine That is Not Two Buck Chuck, and the exploration is going swell.

I’ve been pretty close to death now for a couple of years.  One of my former patients’ wives recently posted a blog with a picture of the book she was reading when they got into the accident; the cover was splattered with blood.  My heart broke when I read the title: “What to expect when you’re expecting.”  They won’t be needing it anymore.  There have been times when I get a consult for a swallow eval in the ICU in the morning, if I’m too busy to get around to it till after lunch, I won’t have to worry about in the afternoon because there’s already a death note in the chart.  So it was pretty surprising to me that Sunday was the first time I was actually around to witness it happening.

When I walked in and saw her vitals I was startled but tried not to show it.  I had never seen oxygen sats so low, in the 40s.  I took a seat on the floor since the seats were all already taken by family and knitted quietly, there was nothing really to say.  I have kind of come to hate it when people say things that aren’t true, or that don’t really mean anything, in times like this.  

It took about two hours from the time I arrived.  We watched the numbers sink slowly, the countdown.  

After it was done, there was a lot of that kind of talk - making assumptions: “See? she waited until you got here.  She was waiting for you” - things that don’t matter: “I’m glad I went out to go pick up some fresh underwear for her for the funeral home” - the obvious: “At least she’s at peace now.” 

I felt weird.  There were inappropriate thoughts - I had recently started netflixing The Walking Dead and zombie imagery kept coming up.  I left early with my sister and we ate ramen before we went our separate ways.  I wondered if we should have eaten vegetarian, like we did in Taiwan the first however many days after the other grandparents died.  But it didn’t matter here.  This side didn’t care about stuff like that.

We were never close, even though I tried to cultivate some fuzzy feelings, or at least a mutual understanding of filial piety.  When she first moved here, I tried to bring her the Chinese newspaper and Safeway baked goods on my trips home to pick up the mail, and I would go to her corner of the house and greet her.  But more recently I would just try to sneak in and out so as not to disturb her and make her come out to the living room so that we could have an awkward conversation.  We just were on different people, and this was far beyond cultural or generational or language barriers, and we weren’t going to have that connection.  

And it’s funny how even if that was the case, her death could still stir up strong feelings.  Even though I denied it I think that part of me wanted some sort of that beautiful narrative that my mom sometimes thinks up aloud, a fond memory to mourn, or the coming together of the rest of the family to offer support to each other through a tough time, or to bond with the living while simply participating in the ritual involved in sending an elder to the other side.  I didn’t even hug my dad when it was over, I felt too weird.  And even though I think my sisters can relate to him on a better level than I can, they didn’t either.  

My office at work is right off the dining room, easy access for patients who want to say hi.  There’s this one guy, he literally will come by 4 times a day, stick his head in and say in his slurred drawl, as if he just polished off a six pack, “You goooootta minuuuute?  I jusss came to sssssssay g’byee.”  And I’ll say, “Why?  Where are you going?” (as if this isn’t the 3rd time we’ve had this conversation today) And he’ll stick his hand out to shake mine and say, “I’m retirrrring.  I’ll be leaving for Oregon at midniiiight.”  And I’ll say, “Do you know where you are right now?”  And he’ll answer, “Twin Falllllls, IIIIdahoo?”  And I’ll say, 

“No.  You had a heart attack and a brain injury in January and you’re in the hospital and you’re here to get better.  What city are you in?”

And he’ll chuckle and give me the “right” answer, but he’ll insist I’m mistaken and offer to show me his atlas if I’ll just go out to the parking lot with him to find his car.  It’s gotten to the point where lately I’ll keep my door closed and even if he’s just seen me walk in and shut the door and if he knocks immediately after, I’ll get quiet and pretend I’m not there and hope he goes away.  I feel bad even as I typed that.  (I meditated on patience and compassion tonight while doing my rodney yee power yoga dvd.)  But tomorrow it will be the same.

Grandma has been sick in the ICU for a couple days now.  Even though she has always been kind of foreign to me, and we’ve never been cuddly, I’ve been wishing I could put in more time at bedside just to maintain the vigil, but unfortunately haven’t been able to due to transportation issues.  I call my parents for updates in vain.  Dad conjectures his conclusions that are always summed up in some sort of poor prognosis even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t really know what he’s talking about.  Mom always discusses the imminent End in the context of some sort of Meaning of Life story.  They both seem to be ready to close the book on this chapter, ready to tie up loose ends and square away things neatly.  I admit that even I had felt some pangs of irritation when I called and there was never a clear answer, or a timeline, yes or no, now or later, discussion of advanced directives or discharge placements that I could plan around.  But I know that as much as my mother would like all of this to be spun into a beautiful and cohesive narrative, it might just be like this for an undetermined amount of time.  And it could be for a long time.

At family meetings at work, our favorite response to nearly any family question always starts with, “I wish I had a crystal ball to tell you, but…” Sometimes people come in after a simple fall and end up lingering on the MSICU an extra couple of weeks to pick up a tracheostomy on ventilation, pneumonia, a feeding tube, a bad bout of diarrhea, and even though they might wish this upon themselves at some point or another, they still don’t die.  

They hang out, and it sucks for awhile.

I don’t know quite when we crossed the line, but all of a sudden we have found ourselves neck deep in sick or grumpy grandmas, trying to keep up with the to do lists of retired dads who probably shouldn’t be, booking weekends solid with rides to the airport and sitting quietly through dinners listening politely to old people make fun of us and tell us How It Is.

Outsiders assume nothing changes for the cohabitating couple who decides to get married. What’s the difference when you’ve already peed in front of each other for years? But I could smell this coming long ago. I used to lament that Chinese people had no bar mitzfahs or debutante balls, no coming of age formalities. I thought maybe that college graduations were the closest thing but even those aren’t typically acknowledged with a party. But my suspicions are slowly being confirmed - this public declaration isn’t really so much about about our life long love story IS IT??  It’s really more of an announcement that I’ll be passing out red envelopes instead of collecting next new year, and that what used to be considered favors are really now more expectations that, of course, will be taken care of before mom and dad can even ASK.  There will be no more slinking away when a great aunt needs help moving, no more feigning ignorance via language barriers or cultural/generational divides.

Not that I mind, I’m all about pulling my own weight around here, taking one for the team, especially in my prime.  I generally like old people and helping out.  Still.  I’m just sayin.

I went to visit my old friend Glo this last weekend.  We shared a house in college, a city in our early twenties, and a whole lot of drunken nights in between.  After leaving the bay and traversing the world, she has landed in Colorado, where the suburbs sit against a postcard backdrop much prettier than a Coors can, where one of the main attractions downtown is a flagship super REI store (we guessed that it probably has its own rock climbing wall), and where you can easily find 173 types of beer at any given liquor store and yet find yourself eating hamburgers for dinner for multiple consecutive nights despite hitting up different restaurants.  (What can I say, I love hamburgers.)

I came home and I was happy to be back among the city lights, dog poo on my driveway, $7 coffees, pho within a 10 minute radius, and stupid hipsters.  I read this blog and I lol’ed: http://fuckyournoguchicoffeetable.tumblr.com/ because I got every reference.  I drove myself to work, my job that I love most of the time, but hate enough of the time to have considered leaving, but can’t bring myself to let go of the extra money that goes along with this job so that I can afford a bay area mortgage, an eames chair, and some $7 coffee.   Just kidding, I drink McDonald’s coffee on the regular, I’m not that ridiculous.  Although I have found myself purchasing a 4 pack of beer, in cans, for $15.  Imported from Colorado.  

Despite our differences, what’s really amazing is that we’ve somehow managed to find ourselves in the same place, able to whip up a dinner for 6 at the last minute, without a recipe.