David Poon and the Road to Medical School: Driven

David Poon and the Road to Medical School: Driven

aka: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the OR

aka: All Cars Should Be Bumper Cars


I cannot stand early mornings.

I think it evokes painful memories of me being 17, getting up at "it's still dark" hours to get to high school two hours before everyone else for an extra credit class called TOK, or Theory of Knowledge - a class where I've driven an icy, barren, labryinth of destitute Regina Saskatchewan streets to make it to a class where we discuss "what is thinking" to an extent that would make a PhD in Philosophy candidate groan from the self important curriculum aggrandizing.

...

Or maybe I'm just lazy.

...

The point is, early mornings are terrible.

In medical school, we are sent on a series of rotations. These are essentially a number of 6 week internships to expose us to a variety of specialties, to help us decide what type of doctor we want to be when we (if we?) graduate. It's quite an effective system, with just the right amount of length to inspire us if we're interested, and not long enough to torture us if we aren't.

Well, depending on how much we hate mornings.

The past six weeks I have been on my Subspecialty Surgery Rotation - this is when we learn about cardiac surgery (heart), otolaryngology (ear, nose and throat), neurosurgery (brain). The wondrous thing we really learn about surgeons?

Working an 11 hour day is actually considered light work.

A 6am to 5pm shift is when we are lucky.

And a 6am morning means AT LEAST a 5:15am alarm - which, given my well worn strategy of hitting snooze at least 4 times, leaves me about 15 minutes to rush to the hospital without forgetting my pants.

Usually.

The orthopods, the bone doctors? They work the hardest. And I don't mean anecdotally, I mean given even the possibility of an alternate funding plan (AFP) where doctors usually work less for the same amount of money, orthopaedic surgeons actually work LONGER hours.

Which means earlier mornings.

Crap.

The force that pushes the orthopods is incredible - the hours needed to see all their patients, the physical strength to pull a man's spine back together, and a special sort of determination that pushes them forward, that I could have never predicted.

In the short two weeks I spent in orthopaedics, I was ashamed at the frustrations I started to develop. Almost angry, as I, perhaps for the first time, felt patient's damned themselves to their own fates.

At about 11 AM, word came in of a severe MVC (motor vehicle collision) that involved three people. Alcohol was heavily involved, no seatbelts were worn, and all three people were thrown out of the car.

Only one survived to the operating room.

Spinal fracture, brain damage.

I had seen workplace accidents, falls from trees, bad turn signalling, and explosions and oil factories - but I had never seen such raw, self destruction. The complete devastation of life over a bottle, a key, and a bad decision.

I reflected on this as I watched my preceptor and chief resident - they remarked how sad it is, perhaps even had a moment of empathy before getting to the work. In the hopes of ensuring the patient would be able to walk again, they had to effectively, carefully, piece together a broken spine. During a a scraping of her spinal cord that had to be completed, her blood sprayed towards my face in what was clearly a great way to elevate my spirits.

I asked to walk away to wash up and cross my fingers that I didn't contract HIV or something.

Later that day, a many in my preceptor's hometown drives into a middle school. Three young students are pinned under his car. One girl, the most hurt, is sent the our hospital to the pediatric orthopaedic surgeon. Her broken body I can only imagine fought with every pulse to survive another moment.

She didn't.

I can't stand mornings. I can't stand the self destruction. I cannot face another alarm where its only beckon is the prospect of another day of misery.

And the surgeons press on. Persevere. To the next case. Another few hours. Answer the pager, help the next patient.

As people drive themselves into broken fates, the surgeon is driven to rebuild a delicate, fragile future.

And perhaps that is enough reason to get up in the morning.

...

My sister called me today. She was driving on the highway, spun out of control. As she describes it, she turned 180 degrees, facing down a semi truck.

Which stopped before it hit her.

Thankfully.

Though...

I saw a patient last week. A 17 year old kid.

Getting up at the "its still dark hours" to drive an icy, barren, labyrinth of destitute Edmonton Alberta streets.

He slides on a patch of black ice.

His truck flips. 

In the OR, I see his spine. Fragile.

Gone.

In assessing him post operatively, I find out he has lost all sensation in his lower limbs. He is paraplegic.

His 18th birthday is the next day.

He smiles at me.

He presses on.

We talk about video games. Netflix.

We talk about his birthday.

Tomorrow.

Driven towards a bright, new, morning.

- David

This was written as a Reflective Narrative Assignment for my Subspeciality Surgery rotation. For my reflective surgery assignment, I decided to create an Orthopedics related post for my blog. The topics on my website are based on my thoughts and reflections as a student of medicine, in a series I call “David Poon and the Road to Medical School.” They are all inspired by specific instances and observations during daily ward life. No confidential or identifying information is ever presented. The concept is similar to Parallel Charting, though in my case is as much an introspective on public perceptions of medicine than the medicine itself.

David Poon and the Road to Medical School: Hypnos

aka Why I Took Classical Mythology AND Medical Terminology in My 2 Years of Premed

“Why did Michael Jackson die?” I asked sincerely.

A short silence, then an almost amused sigh. My senior physician replied candidly,

“Because he didn’t have an anesthesiologist.”

…

Heath Ledger, the famous actor, apparently had such difficulty sleeping when playing the role of a psychopath, he inadvertently overdosed on anxiolytics (pills to calm a person). Within a the span of a few months, the death of songstress Whitney Houston was followed by celebrated painter Thomas Kinkade, both, apparently, to similar medications, as well as suspected heavy alcohol use.

And of course, the King of Pop himself, Michael Jackson famously was “killed” (according to the courts) by his physician, a cardiologist, when he was given propafol to help him sleep. Propafol, a powerful and common anesthetic, is used to keep patients sedated during surgeries, where Michael Jackson’s heart doctor used it to get him to sleep. The man who made Thriller died suffocating, as he was so heavily sedated he couldn’t breathe.

This is what the public learns about anesthetics.

 

Pop culture has pervaded our common sense in a variety of medical facts. Many of the populous truly believe an atrocious number of myths, from fallen food being unable to attract dangerous pathogens due to an inane “Five second rule,” to being under the impression that slamming one’s fist into someone else’s chest while yelling “Live, damn you, live!” will bring anyone back to life should it be a dramatic enough point in the story.

I’d be remiss if I did not say I am subject to these eccentricities myself. 

While it is a widely known fact that medical students are heavy drug users – caffeine is our lifeblood after all – it’s an odd secret that many of us are so wound up from the large amounts of stress, challenge, and coffee that we are faced with that we have trouble sleeping. So zopiclone (a sleeping pill), Ativan (an anxiety pill), and other calming drugs are used more often than we’d admit. I myself use the occasional sleeping pill during a bout of insomnia. And I’ve been terrified quite a few times because of what I see on the news.

And I’m supposedly well educated on the subject (though I’m sure many of my professors would doubt that!)

So I wonder – how does any patient unfamiliar with pharmokinetics face a time where they must receive anesthetics? Before a surgery, does the man fear the sensationalism presented to them from the media, with his favourite pop stars dying from commonly used medications?

During my surgery rotation, we spend a few days doing anesthesia – that’s the doctor who puts the patient to sleep while the surgeon essentially cuts open their bodies. The anesthetist is actually the one technically responsible for the patient’s life during surgery; not only does he or she make sure the patient is unconscious, immobile, and amnesic during the procedure, but the anesthetist monitors the vitals (heart rate, breathing rate) and gives medicine to keep them stable. Legally, if a patient crashes or dies on the table, the anesthetist, not the surgeon, is typically primarily responsible.

This is why the anesthetist has a thorough discussion with a surgery patient before a procedure. I’ve seen many of these over the past few weeks. The doctor typically describes the anesthesia as a very deep sleep, or the anesthetic as a very strong sleeping pill. They cover the risks of having these medications, such as feeling nauseous, feeling sore, feeling weak, and of course, the small but very real possibility of in fact, “dying on the table.”

Which brings me full circle to the base topics of anesthesia. Awake and life.

Sleep.

And death.

With a recent patient I saw going to surgery, a kind older woman having a hernia repaired, watching the propafol blissfully cause the patient to close her eyes, I could think of no more fitting words than those of Homer, the Greek poet:

 "There she encountered Sleep, the brother of Death." 

Quite suiting is that these words are from the Iliad, an epic poem depicting a great battle of high stakes. Much like the Illiad, a patient faces her fears, challenges myths, and is literally set upon a stage of life and death, with only the chance of waking up  being the sole distinction from sleep and its brother.

Thanatos was the Greek embodiment of death, and in these legends, his brother was in fact Hypnos, the personification of sleep. So close are they seen in the popular culture of humanity, that artists ranging from the aforementioned Homer to current day rapper NaS, where audiences are told “… never sleep, cause sleep is the cousin of death.”

With this continuous cycle of myth surrounding sleep and death, there will always be the air of tragic hope whenever our eyes close. As we face the medications and surgeries to save our lives, in many cases all we can wish is to awaken once again.

Or, in the immortal words of Kenny Roger’s ‘The Gambler,’ “And the best you can hope for is to die in your sleep.”

Anesthetists in many ways are the keepers of this mythic symbolism. They bring about sleep, and they can fend off death. They are the first voice to awaken the patient after surgery, therefore in some sense, bring about life. With every patient they see to the operating room, they define a journey that some may not survive, though a great many more pass. And like any great odyssey, this is a journey taken out of necessity to live a dream of better health.

Perhaps this has all already been said eloquently: as Hamlet ponders the mortality and morality of man, he muses,

“To die; to sleep; To sleep; perchance to dream.”

- David

This was written as a Reflective Narrative Assignment for my Surgery and Anesthesia rotation. For my reflective surgery assignment, I decided to create a special Anesthesia related post for my blog. The topics on my website are based on my thoughts and reflections as a student of medicine, in a series I call “David Poon and the Road to Medical School.” They are all inspired by specific instances and observations during daily ward life. No confidential or identifying information is ever presented. The concept is similar to Parallel Charting, though in my case is as much an introspective on public perceptions of medicine than the medicine itself.


This was written on 3 hours of sleep and South Park playing in the background. 


The Avengers movie was incredible - I originally wanted to name this post Thanos. 

David Poon and the Road to Medical School: The Healing Touch

aka Take Your Kid to Work Day

aka Mothers Know Best

My Mommy is the best doctor I know.

I want to practice like her someday.

And it’s not because I love her like a mother (which is true).

And it’s not because she’s paying for my fast food (which I eat in moderation).

And in particular, it’s certainly NOT because she bought me a gym membership and a personal trainer for Christmas (which I DO NOT NEED).

No, her enduring skill as a physician is something medical school admits is nearly impossible to teach.

She lives for compassion.

That’s a rarity.

See, all my life, I’ve been compared to how similar I am to my Mommy.

No, not because I’m girly.

No, not because I wear her dresses.

No, not because of my high pitched voice.

And I know what you’re thinking, no, not because I like men.

Cause I don’t.

I don’t like men.

I mean as buddies.

But not those kind of buddies.

You know. Those kind.

I like girls.

I just don’t like what girls like.

Such as men.

See, the critical similarity between my Mom and me is due to the fact that I’ve tried to emulate her compassion for all people, her unyielding faith that good begets good.

…

Lemmie tell you about urinary tract infections (UTI).

This is what happens, usually to female patients, when improper toilet hygiene is practiced. In simpler English, when a girl wipes from back to front, or doesn’t shower well. It’s also pretty common when you don’t drink enough water.

It’s not particularly hard to treat usually, just rehydrate the patient and administer antibiotics.

Seriously though - the most frustrating thing you get to treat on the wards.

There are just so many.

And they are (for the most part) so preventable.

Now medical students, say it with me. You’ve all presented this patient to your attending:

“80 year old female with no significant past medical history presents with 3 day history of symptoms consistent with delirium…”

“Okay that’s enough,” your preceptor says.

“Why?” you innocently ask, knowing EXACTLY why you don’t have to say another word. 

UTI.

The number one reason we get paged at 3am on our Friday night call shift.

Hang the IV, start the normal saline, ask the nurse to administer the antibiotics, don’t forget to thank her in Tagalog.

… and then the patient starts crying.

Oh no.

She’s going to dehydrate herself some more.

Sometimes it’s hard to understand. All of this could be prevented if she just drank a little more water. If the family stayed around and made sure she was clean.

But before you can go console the poor lady, you’re paged for the next 75 year old women who was brought to the ER by her children cause “she didn’t look right.”

…

See in medicine, the faculties have trouble teaching us patient centeredness because

1)   No one shows up to the non mandatory classes of Patient Centered Care (PCC)

2)   It’s hard to prove that listening to how a grandmother’s son doesn’t visit often enough can shorten her hospital stay. We call it RCT, randomized controlled trials, that are a system of proving if particular treatments work. If it’s not proven, we don’t do it.

I remember telling my Mom about this. I told her

“What can I do! The treatment is simple! There’s nothing more I can do! But these poor women, the problem is at home, no one is bringing them water, no one is helping them bathe, it just keeps happening!”

Yeah yeah, I know, I talk to my Mommy when I have girl troubles. Who doesn’t?

Mom told me this:

“David, these ladies, from what you tell me. They just want someone to talk to. Hold their hand, dry their tears. It’s not the antibiotics that will make them feel better. Talk to them, listen to their problems. They’ll really appreciate it.”

And that is the kind of doctor she is.

It shows – her patients love her.

She won some award for “Hottest Woman in Regina” a few years ago from our local paper. That was fun, though I admit as a son, I have… ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA HOW TO PROCESS THAT IN MY BRAIN.

Regardless, she’s known to her patients for her friendly demeanor, her big smiles, laughs, and hugs, in addition to multiple costumes just for jovial fun.

She loves her work, loves medicine, loves her patients.

There was a custodian working in Regina. Great guy, great personality. Wasn’t a big name, no real status, but needed help.

And that would never matter to Mom. People were people and that was that.

He would become her patient, as would his family later on. They developed a friendship. Not for wealth or popularity. Just because people are people, and people can be friends.

The man was trying to become an entertainer.

And yes, he did succeed.

Over the years, the man’s music career would blossom.

Of course there would always be the strange phone call I would get at home.

“Hello?”

“Hi David. Can you talk to your Mom for me? I’m starting to come down with a really bad sore throat and I better get it looked at before my show next week.”

“Don’t you just like, eat oregano or something? That’s what Kevin from the Backstreet Boys says.”

“…”

“…”

“You’re really a medical student?”

He has become one of Saskatchewan’s biggest acts, and a tribute artist that makes all aforementioned little old ladies swoon to the front of the stage.

They just have to share the front with Mom – this King of entertainment always keeps tickets for her.  Sings at a lot of our functions too.

Obviously friendship isn’t always in fair-weather.

It’s the dark times too.

I remember a patient of hers who later moved to Vancouver. Dying of cancer, alone without family, he contacted her. Asked her to visit while she was passing by BC.

I’ll never forget how she comforted him as he was dying.

There was absolutely no obligation for her to be there. She couldn’t bill, not that she would want to. She didn’t tell people she was going to do that, she doesn’t’ care about the accolades.

From the goodness of her heart, she is there for a person who needs her.

If they need a hug, if they need a friend. She can be confidant, secret keeper to the biggest cheer in the auditorium. The friendliest face at your kid’s birthday party, or the explanation the family needs at your grandpa’s funeral.

For patients who have no transport – she brings medications to their homes.

For patients who have nothing to eat – she offers whatever she has.

For patients who have no one – she shares her friendship.

For patients who need a hug – she gives a hug.

For patients who need her not only as a doctor, but as a person – she is there.

…

My Mommy is the best doctor I know.

I want to practice like her someday.

And I never will be able to.

Today…

We live in a world where distrust has superseded benefit of the doubt.

We live in a world where litigation has more weight than compassion, and form filling is more meaningful than smiling.

We live in a world where befriending a patient is considered a conflict of interest.

We live in a world where a grateful person must second-guess himself when offering a free seat to a concert, for fear of looking like he’s bribing his doctor.

This is a world where smiles, laughs and jokes are crushed under pretenses of political correctness.

This is a world where doctors are sued for not ‘catching’ cancer early enough.

This is a world where a doctor trained today who wouldn’t dare go to a private residence to a former patient, no matter how alone. No, the terrible risk of getting sued, even if the doctor didn’t treat the patient at all, is too much of a barrier to allow that sort of kindness.

We are in a world where even seeing your patients outside the wards raises a public eyebrow.

We are in a world that rewards physicians for spending more time with their charts than with their patients. In legal terms, what comforting words are told to the patient are not nearly as important as what was written in the progress notes.

In this world, accepting gifts is considered inappropriate. The cookies that 80 year old woman with the UTI baked you? Don’t take them. You might be seen as exploitative.  

In this world, doctors are afraid to do physical exams on anyone of the opposite sex.

Or same sex, for that matter.

We live in a world where holding a crying patient’s hand can be deemed medically irrelevant and therefore subject the doctor to professional discipline.

I live in a world where if I hug my patient I can be charged with sexual assault.

…

Nurses call it the healing touch. I’ve heard the Japanese art of reiki is the same concept. The idea is that various forms contact, even if not proven in randomized controlled trials, can somehow make the patient feel better. This includes massage and hand holding, or just spending that extra amount of time at the bedside.

I want to practice like my Mom does.

Hold the woman’s hand when she’s sad, make a friend when you can, cheer my patient when he’s onstage, eat the cookies I was baked, and visit their home when they can’t come to the clinic.

My Mommy is the best doctor I know.

She lives for compassion.

That’s a rarity.

Because how in the world can doctors be like that anymore.

- David

An International Student's Road to Medical School

When we think of Asian medical student, we usually think of highly pressured shells of social liveless calculators, who are able to find a sustinance on rice, Spam, and piano lessons.

Then they kick our ass on the MCAT and become the best damn Internists and Surgeons possible.

The more liberal ones? We do family medicine through the shamed whispered tones under our family's beguilment.

Today I tell you the story of another type of Asian medical student.

The kind you don't usually think of.

The kind - from Asia.

...

Growing up, I was told about a young kid who was born in mainland China. During that time period, certain goverment policies made living difficult for people of particular educational backgrounds.

Anyone notice how politically sensitive I wrote that?

Toyin's family was unable to make a good living where he was born, so they subsequently left the small town he was born, relocate in Hong Kong when he was a child.

As the only male child in an Asian family of four children, his destiny was clear: medicine.

Bring face to the family, take them out of poverty. Medicine is to Asian people what sunlight is to flowers - life itself.

And that is where Toyin's story begins.

By the time he was 16, working multiple jobs and keeping together the shattered remains of a broken family, Toyin was sponsered by an uncle to go to Canada.

He had some family in Alberta - his grandfather came during the end of railroad construction and owned a restaurant. He was told Canada was full of gold. Full of opportunity.

That was where the future would be.

Toyin's uncle sponsered him to go to Edmonton. Shortly after he arrived, the uncle passed away.

And then the young man was alone.

Poverty stricken and alone, he worked odd jobs at restaurants and put himself through school. For a time he took work in camps, but ultimately his focus was on the same dream it had always been.

The dream of being a doctor.

He sent back what money he could to his mom back in Hong Kong, to take care of his sisters. He worked and he worked, but in an all too familiar plight,

his marks through high school were not that great. His university marks were adequate, but not super strong.

So he did what any aspireing medical student would do.

He went into pharmacy.

Complething his degree, he worked as a pharmacist for a few short years. He made good money, had a good life.

But he knew he had a dream. He knew it wasn't money or lifestyle that draws people to what he wanted to do.

He wanted to be a doctor due to the passion he had for it.

And that didn't change.

His relatives scoffed at him. As a wealthy pharmacist, why throw away time on another career?

He still fought on.

His relatives laughed at him. Was he stupid? He had a great career already, the money he needed. What else could he want.

He still fought on.

The Road to Medical School continues, irrespective of adversities. The heart of someone who wants to be a doctor, is the heart that drives someone to become a doctor.

He still fought on.

So as is dictated for a pharmacist, he did the logical - applied to medical school.

And he didnt' get in.

As if the fates were using him as a case study for medical students, his path

that had him struggle through university

that had him rejected from medicine

that had him become a pharmacist

that had him rejected from medicine again

led him to what we all know is the unshakable natural progression;

pay a lot of money to go to an International Medical School.

Having gone back to Asia, Toyin applied his work ethic to complete his MD. He found a doctor wife, and she travelled back to Canada with him.

They became married, and they started a life together.

As they were completing their residencies, an unexpected turn of events rocked their lives.

A baby boy was born.

And their lives stopped for a moment. The wife stopped her psychiatry residency, the husband stopped training to be an internist.

Family medicine. Pun and all.

Their world expanded, a beautiful daughter was introduced, their careers bloomed to be professionals well loved in their homes.

Honour was brought to their families.

A great life was built.

So much thanks to the Road traveled in medicine.

...

He became the director of a large Canadian medical organization. His family's medical business expanded.

And then...

His life took another turn.

His family broke apart.

His business went under seige.

His credibility questioned.

But;

He still fought on.

And he will never give up.

...

My father's full name is Dr. Edward Toyin Poon.

An established doctor for 25 years.

He currently is under trial for sexual assault.

He has lived a life that has spanned the world, started a family, built an empire, and helped countless lives.

All from one dream.

To be a doctor.

Today is Father's Day - a time to reflect on the male role models we have had in our lives. Whose stories have affected us in particular ways, sometimes for the better, sometimes elsewise.

Regardless of how difficult, challenging, and changing times we have in our lives, there are some unshakable truths.

We are alive. We have a mother. We have a father.

Dr. Edward Toyin Poon is my father.

He is my dad.

He will always be.

- David

David Poon and the Road to Medical School: Funny Story / Love Story

aka Poon is NOT A SEXIST

aka A Revisionist Love Letter to the Disgustingly Cute

I’m probably never getting married.

And no, hah hah it’s not just because no one would ever bother marrying me.

There are websites for that. And I have my Mommy’s credit card.

No, it’s because I doubt my non-stop repertoire of never ending wit and charm is honestly enough to convince a girl to spend the rest of her life with me.

And no, hah hah that doesn’t mean I’m going to go to men.

I mean, I’m not going to switch to men.

Cause I’m don’t need to switch.

Cause I like girls.

Not men.

No switching needed.

Cause I’m straight.

…

Italics means emphasis, not sarcasm correct?

…

Correct!?!?

^-_-^

I remember during the first year of medical school, we were all put in mandatory sessions to learn something like ‘balance in life,’ ‘avoiding burnout,’ ‘childhood obesity’ you know, generally topics that had no relevance to our careers as doctors, but we’re required to know because someone crashed and burned during school and therefore the Faculty had to institute policies to show they cared.

Hm…

I wonder if next year they are going to introduce “How not to end up like David Poon to the curriculum.”

Hah.

Who am I kidding.

They already have childhood obesity.

One thing that sticks out in my memory the most was the Faculty having one of these sessions, with a very particular piece of advice:

“Your relationships will be strained. You will be on call, you won’t see your family, your spouse will argue with you. Be prepared.”

We then hear about high rates of divorce amongst surgeons, and how women in residencies typically put off having kids.

I’m not being sexist here, I mean it’s just very difficult to have a child and not take maternity leave (not that women HAVE to), so many women choose (BECAUSE IT IS THEIR CHOICE BECAUSE THEY ARE AUTONOMOUS IN AN EQUAL OPPORTUNITY WORLD) to have children later in life (NOT THAT BEING OLDER MATTERS BECAUSE A WOMAN’S AGE DOES NOT AFFECT HER CAREER, PERSONALITY, OR MARRIAGE PROSPECTS).

Additionally, because of the nature of medicine (long hours, call shifts taking you away from home) marriages can just fall apart.

So forgive me that my relationship jadedness was further exacerbated by that little piece of advice.

Fine, chalk it up to immaturity.

When we first heard this talk, a good handful of us were probably immature too. And not just because of age, some of us just hadn’t been in a real relationship.

About six of us, me included, were 19 when we got into med.

How well do you think we could handle relationships and medicine at the same time.

I mean really, if I can barely handle girls now…

How well do you think I could handle women 4 years ago?

And just to clarify….

I don’t mean handle women physically.

Cause I’ve never been allowed to.

I mean, handle them emotionally.

Not that they NEED to be handled per se…

Cause they’re not objects.

To be objectified.

Cause independent creatures don’t need handling.

Cause they don’t need to be controlled.

Cause they can’t be.

Not that women should be controlled!

Cause they’re not animals!

OR CREATURES FOR THAT MATTER!?!??!

I’M NOT A SEXIST!!!!!

I’m heterosexual!

NOT THAT I FEEL THE NEED TO REASSERT THAT EVERY TIME I MEET NEW GUYS.

AND I DON’T MEAN “GUYS” LIKE MEN.

AND I DON’T MEAN “GUYS LIKE MEN”

CAUSE I LIKE GIRLS.

…

I met this half Asian, half not Asian girl my first week of med. She was the same age as me (and therefore TOO OLD FOR ME TO DATE), and I thought she would be a great friend to me.

Luckily, this half breed girl had a broken leg, so couldn’t run away from me. Which I guess in retrospect makes her the perfect female in my books.  

In short she met this half Asian, half not Asian boy a few months later. They got married recently, after years of dating.

At any wedding here in Canada, convention states that the ‘dinging’ of a class with a utensil demands a kiss from the newlyweds.

Course in the marriage of two half breeds, there is really only half convention.

So at their wedding, we ding our glasses – but before they would kiss, the requisite was a “funny story’ about the couple had to be told.

There were naturally the tearful stories of friendship from the bridesmaids (not that women only cry) and the plethora of sexual innuendos from the groomsmen. The drunk uncles (made much funnier by the fact that that they were drunk ASIAN uncles) held the spotlight whenever baby stories were needed.

Missing something though.

These two people… they met in medical school

Now, I started with both the half-breeds, and realizing that my entire class is far too polite to embarrass the happy couple, that left me to tell the tales that were unmentioned.

Seated at the table with me was my Vice Dean of the Faculty of Medicine. Knowing that I have my fledging stand up comedy career and a “hilarious” website that confuses the copious use of punctuation marks as humour, she suggested I say something.

And as we all know, as the great medical student I am, I follow medical orders to the tee.

Believe it or not, I’m not nearly as funny as I lie to myself. My spontaneity, hidden amongst a plethora of dramatic silent beats and puns, is actually a result of planned anecdotes running concurrently with a thesaurus.

Pretty much, I had to think of something.

And I thought…

Definitely talk about their public displays of affection (PDA).

One of the bridesmaids mentioned how over the first few weeks, the girl slowly started sitting in the front row to be next to the boy.

I sat in front row too.

I think it’s safe to say I started moving towards the back.

I doubt I’ll ever be able to wash the image of him functionally GROPING her scalp in front of all 140+ of us in class one day.

It’s like how in a movie theatre, you expect people having sex to be doing it in the back.

So you sit in the front, so you can see the movie in peace.

Except in this case, replace movie with fundamentally important mandatory learning, put the innocent bystanders in the back, and place disgustingly cute somewhere in the unavoidable in between.

Oh oh, and I got to mention one time they invited me to go to the park with them.

She, in her short shorts, and he in his tank top…

… touch Frisbee has forever been scarred in my mind.

Emphasis on the word touch, incaseyoumissedit.

But I scrapped that idea for a speech, cause honestly, I embarrassed the couple enough for potentially accidentally buying them some sort of softcore porn called ‘Young Doctors in Love’ as a wedding gift instead of a toaster.

I figured it would be hot enough in the old breadmaker.

Get it?

A pun.

Like toast.

…

But then it occurred to me that the funniest story may be the oddest one…

The fact that the story existed at all.

I wanted to tell the story of a girl from a small rural town in Alberta. She dreamed of bringing back to the isolated communities, yet ironically grew up alienated from her own family as she grew older.

How through sheer determination, she became the top of her class over and over again despite circumstances dictating that she would have to do it alone.

How at 19, her work ethic and focus led her to medical school. And led her to meet her future husband.

I wanted to tell the story of how she inspired me. A girl no older than I, with far fewer supports and privileges, who overcame nigh unbearable odds.

Who ultimately had the courage to rely on her future husband, even if she didn’t know it at the time.

While I struggled and fought, kicked and screamed, cried and hurt alone,

she opened her soul that had been so long neglected, gave her heart to a man who at times seemed solely to exist to hold it.

She was young like me

but brave.

As my own life collapsed, I could not find my peace. My devotion to medicine overpowered my responsibilities to myself.

As her life fell apart, she gained new strength in medicine – her partner, in her class, could share her every pain

from losing her first patient

to delivering her first baby.

Whether she was next to him in first row, or away from him for a year in Rural Family medicine, her strength, her inspiration, her capacity for and from the person she loved made all the difference.

…

I wanted to tell the story of a girl who knew the value of something I will forever regret not knowing the value of sooner.

She knew the value of love.

The power of an unconditional bond in the darkest of moments.

The pleasure of going to class with someone you know you want to spend every moment of your life with.

The end of call shifts, collapsing beside a person who, despite staying up for the past 26 hours plus, is never too tired to hear you whine, complain, or most importantly, cry.

I dinged my glass.

Got up to the microphone.

The groom said, “Now I’m scared. Is this about a toaster?”

My classmates smiled, “Maybe he’ll say something funny… for once.”

I started;

“Funny story.

Med school was wrong.

You can find love.”

In between the public fondling, grossly absurd public displays of affection, and sometimes just sickeningly cute couple talk;

I realized how they made each other stronger.

In every painful experience on the wards, there was another experience that the couple could share.

Within the madness of choosing a specialty for their individual futures, they understood how simple their decision really was, simply because what mattered was already there; they were together.

The stress of medicine didn’t tear them apart.

It bonded them together.

In a profession where the darkest moments of despair consume you…

In palliative care, where an old man watches his wife become decimated by cancer.

In neonatal, where a young couple prays for their first born.

In the wards, where some kid plays with his DS while her bedridden grandpa sleeps another day away.

In the ICU, where the solitary beep of the heart monitor is your patient’s only companion.

You learn the value of love.

You learn to appreciate it.

You learn exactly what it means to find it.

And you learn exactly how beautiful it is to have it.

On the Road to Medical School, we were all prepared to compromise on our emotions. We were all ready to sacrifice our happiness for our careers, our relationships for our goals.

But I saw something different.

I saw the impossible.

I saw four halves make a whole.

And I am truly blessed to have witnessed such a spectacle.

Funny story.

I figure I’d like to get married someday.

Just, after I get my MD.

I’m fully Asian, after all.

- David

How Comic Books Change Poon

aka This is Way Too Nerdy for the Average Person Part I

(WARNING: Bring your NERD CORE CREDENTIALS for this post. If by the time you see this symbol ^-_-^ the word 'Leonardo' has not crossed your mind FOUR TIME, turn back. You are not geek enough to understand)

We all find role models in some way or another.

Some of look up to inspirations. "Great Black Hopes" like Marcellus Gilmore Edson, Michelle Obama, and Michael Jackson.

We have mentors, our professors, supervisors, older relatives, and Kumon teachers.

We have aspirations to be like someone.

For us Asian kids, it's usually some unrelated Asian Uncle's kids who got higher marks on their MCAT and are therefore, as Asian custom dictates, have more of a right to live.

And maybe not all of us find inspiration from modelling of existing lives either. All white people are led by their king, Noam Chomsky, but they also have their sacred text "No Logo." Neither is more important, each having their own unshakable role in the lives of Liberal Arts Students everywhere.

There are those who are more moved by the Mona Lisa than the flying machine, more convinced a ninja turtle in a blue mask is more life changing than a movie depicting Forrest Gump battling Gandalf.

^-_-^

Somewhere we find examples of who we want to be, or what we want to create.

Normally in the formative youth years.

See, cool kids in elementary school played hockey at 6AM in a flawless plan to be the next NHL star.

Cool kids in elementary hung out after school to go to the convenience store and buy Pixie sticks, 5 cent candies, and rent VHS.

Cool kids in elementary got to hang out with girls.

I don't think I knew a girl other than She-Ra and April O'Neil.

And Raggedy Anne, but she never wanted to play. Always lying in bed lifeless.

Not alot of fun.

Usually.

I got home from elementary school immediately after, to my wonderful life of multiple servings Grandma's cooking, processed foods, extracurricular math class, and...

... cartoons.

I grew up with superheroes. 

Batman, Spiderman, the X-Men

I was going to be a hero!

Captain Planet, Toxic Crusader

Environmental Medicine FTW!

Cept you know, every time I tried on the tights and spandex, my parents seemed to get a little more worried about their son's lunacy, and my chances with girls got a little more slim...

At least SOMETHING did!

Hah. 

Fat nerds.

Like me. 

Ah, this is why my stand up comedy never worked out...

Cause fat people can't stand up

Hah, double burn! 

I'm on FIRE

Cause fat is flammable!

Triple!

(any discussion of the superhero genre must acknowledge the fatness of geeks, and now my quota has been sufficiently filled)

Cartoon characters were just the superficial representations of the characters. And as is common for me after ordering a bottomless pop at Boston Pizza - I needed to get to the bottom of it. 

That's when I developed a love for comic books. The source of all superhero fiction.

continued... 

- David