QUOG: Day Job, Night Job, No Job?

aka What Is A Quog

aka If It Sounds Like A Rant, Walks Like A Rant, Talks Like A Rant, Must Be a Duck

aka This Is A Rant

Back in the day, before I set up doyoubelieve.ca, I used some bastardized Hotmail/Microsoft publishing tool that helped me express my nonsense around the world. This is pre Facebook filling that need, so when I had some thoughts that were shorter than my regularly hyperbloated blog posts with unnecessarily dramatic beats, I did the QUick blOG - the pleasing sounding QUOG. 

Welcome back you fat mess. 

...

In reference to myself AND the word I've Frankensteined. 

^-_-^

I need some advice. 

As long suspected, and honestly as I've always feared, my medical and comedy life are clashing. 

I work in health care and have had pooncomedy.com for the past two years, with an accompanying Facebook Page for about that long too. I've done comedy longer than that, and as I was advised back in medical school, I did my best to keep my medical career separate from my comedy one. It's actually why I use a fake name on Facebook at all. 

A lot of my humour is related to medicine and the life of a doctor, but there is absolutely no patient information or confidentiality exposed. I am incredibly careful with that, both out of respect and fear of litigation. 

Since I've started, I would not mention I am a comedian to my patients, though some who have looked me up incidentally found it entertaining. I've had some patients watch my shows, and some audience members later become my patients. It's been fun, insightful, and most importantly, separate. I have also been paid to do stand up at medical conferences/shows, and it has been a known fact to most of my colleagues. I do not promote myself at work to any of my staff, though do mention it to other residents and students. 

A week ago, a patient who was upset at her care called my boss to the effect of "I found this guy's comedy - don't you screen your people?"

To be clear, as confirmed with my senior staff, this person was medically managed appropriately. It seems it may have been a personality conflict with me, and my notation/charting was very thorough. 

This was mostly upsetting because it is my personal life. On my comedy website I have a disclaimer specifying I am not affiliated with any hospital in regards to my comedy.

I have already contacted my medical resident representatives who have stated that this is quite unprecedented in the medical field, but that because my professional comedy life is separate, they don't believe it should be an issue.

Today I received an email from my top boss, who, while cognizant of my disclaimers, has asked me to take my comedy website down.

Have any of you been asked to stop doing something you do publicly by your workplace? My suspicion is that if I had a website for my work as a street performer, acting, or medical advising on TV/movies, this would be a non-issue. 

I am honestly happy with both my jobs, both medical and artistic. 

I want to make sure I that still have both at the end of this. 

- David

The Barbarian

aka My New Best Friend
aka The Only Nickname That Stuck
aka It's Time To Du-Du-Du-Du-DUEL
aka The 21st Lap.

It's a well known fact that the majority of my friends share commonalities.

They tolerate my nonsense.

They stand by my shenanigans.

And most importantly...

... they know I'm cheap.

It's within this trifecta of madness that I am able to evaluate who will be acquaintances, fleeting and evanescent, and terse out who are my true friends, loyal and burdened by me.

Shackled by the bonds of a David Poon friendship, my eccentricities an albatross hung around the neck of a life that would otherwise be pleasant and happy.

...

Let me tell you about Mark.

^-_-^

Back when I started high school, my homeroom class (the main group of people you would learn with for that year) inexplicably did not have my best friend in it.

Since high school is the natural starting point of a complete makeover, it was time to find a New Best Friend.

So I thought about what qualities my original bestie had, and decided I wanted the opposite.

I was looking for someone intelligent.

Capable.

Imaginative.

Mark Milne was the template for high school television nerd who turned out to be hot at the end after taking off their glasses.

Except he was a guy, and he actually looked better with his frames.

Evidence:

Him with frames:

And him without:

BTW, the reason he looks so miserable in the first picture was because he was the only one I could convince to come watch my cheerleading team's tournament.

I guess he thought the floor was more interesting than my pom poms.

...

Smart, great with computers, and a bigger geek than I could ever hope to be, he was the ideal candidate for New Best Friend.

But could he stand for my nonsense?

Believe it or not, I can be a bit annoying, and believe it or not, not everyone tolerates that.

Early on, when I was trying to designate Mark as my New Best Friend, I invited him over for dinner.

Because I'm cheap, and to be honest, because I like annoying people, I made us macaroni and cheese.

With only chopsticks to eat.

Too polite to ask for a fork, and too dumb to realize he should have just left, Mark spent the next half hour struggling to pick up each individual macaroni noodle from the serving bowl on to his plate, then proceeded to barely take each individual macaroni noodle to his mouth.

I'm fairly certain after an hour he just left home hungry after having eaten only about eight pieces of macaroni, and a glass of water I forced him to drink with chopsticks too.

Because of how daintily he handled the pasta, and how ridiculously sheepish/polite he was about the whole ordeal, I gave him the nickname "Mark the Barbarian" which stands until this day. The juxtaposition of a feeble nerd eating pasta with wooden callipers to the statuesque brute warrior we would imagine made the nickname both hilarious and, oddly, timeless.

It's actually a little absurd how much he's put up with. I've had him repair my Macbook Pro when it was smashed to the point he had to glue the chassis back together. According to the Apple employee I later had assess my machine, it was an impressive job, and much like Frankenstein's monster, it should have never been done.

Except that was the precedent of our relationship. Mark never failed to be there for me despite how flawed my ideas were.

At the end of our first year as friends, as he solidified the mantle of New Best Friend, I had a year end party at my house.

It was much like the high school parties you see in American movies except there were no bikinis, girls, and instead of beer we had the Sega Dreamcast.

Mark helped me run the party, and even helped me clean up. He had to stay overnight, and just asked that I make sure he gets to school in time for him to get some grade 9 certificate he was getting.

Well I slept in, he was too nice to wake me up, and he missed whatever piece of paper he was being awarded.

Forever the class act, he never bugged me about it, just happy that I had a great party.

Plus we got to play more Dreamcast.

...

An interesting footnote in our lives that I remember clearly, but Mark has long forgotten, was during one of our earlier gym classes, when we barely knew each other.

The hellacious truth of high school physical education is that your entire future is determined on your ability to #literally run circles in a gym, with those who don't make the endurance quota shamed and removed from the experience.

Believe it or not I wasn't much of an athlete, and believe it or not, I was actually not great at running laps.

Or running in general.

Like the epitome of eugenics, high school phys ed is where the weak are faded out for inferiority, with only the strong to achieve greatness.

As I started to falter on what seemed like my 100th lap (I think it was actually 19th), Mark slowed down just to keep pace with me. At the time we might have had only one or two conversations by then.

I told him,

"I can't run more than twenty laps. This is where I usually stop"

He kept pace.

He looked at me.

And then he simply said,

"Then how will you get any better?"

...

After that I kept pace with him and exceeded all my expectations.

And after I finally took my well deserved rest following the 21st lap, I knew I had a friend who not only tolerated me, but pushed me to be better.

Today, he is married to a wonderful woman, and has bought his own home. He has his own webdesign company, and has big dreams building towards a future.

As of this writing, it may be the first time I have told him how he still helps push me, encourages me, makes me strive towards being better.

More than ten years later, Mark and I have remained the greatest of friends, despite my numerous attempts to ruin everything from his video games to his wedding. Irrespective of that chaos, that madness, that burden I place on his world, he is loyal, and I know he always will be.

There is no greater compliment I can give him than he is the first person I went to when I had had a business idea. Instead of dismissing my antics, he gives them legitimacy by questioning them in the scope of reality.

He has helped turn the frenzied batshit crazy spontaneity of my half baked chain of a mind into a functional shenanigan of a business I can show the world. And most importantly, as a partial stakeholder who doesn't take salary, he completes the trifecta I need in my friendships...

... he works for cheap.

When I gave him the name, Mark the Barbarian, it was tongue in cheek, referential to a person I never thought he was.

But as I reflect on a friendship spanning over a decade, one I hope will last decades more, I see the strength, vision, loyalty, and will this unassuming four eyed nerd is truly capable of.

And I realize that, for him, there is no more perfect a namesake.

- David

Back when we were young and stupid. 

Now we aren't young. 

Happy 30th Birthday Mark. 

I'm sorry this is a year late.

Now lets get back to work. 

We have our deadlines to reach, and I refuse to do an extra lap.     

Grandmother's Eggs

aka The Week
aka Back Up Your Data
aka For Realz, Back Up Your Data
aka No Play Play
aka Ah Mah

I hate loss.

And I don't mean loss like a normal person (is there anything I do like a normal person?), but I mean I'm still upset that I dropped part of my pasta dish a decade ago.

I mean I paid for it. A whole 13 dollars tax included.

And more than ten years later, I'm still not over it.

In particular, some of the worst loss though?

Data.

And I'm not talking academic papers which you've renamed about 17 times, each with a longer iteration of the name. You know you have about 16 more copies of your wacky dissertation about which scrambled eggs pair with duck flavoured soy sauce saved in the cloud, or that free USB stick you took from freshman week at uni.

file folder / papers
/eggswithsoy.doc
/eggswithsoy2.doc
/eggswithsoy2-1.doc
/eggswithsoy2-1PRIME.doc
/eggswithsoy2-1PRIMEfinalcopy.doc
/eggswithsoy2-1PRIMEfinalcopy2.doc
/ULTIMATEeggswithsoy2-1PRIMEfinalcopy2.doc
/ULTIMATEeggswithsoy2-1PRIMEfinalcopy2-1.doc
/PonEditULTIMATEeggswithsoy2-1PRIMEfinalcopy2-1.doc
/PoonEditULTIMATEeggswithsoy2-1PRIMEfinalcopy2-1.doc
/recoveredfile.doc

etc etc.

Ultimately my academic papers are worthless (at least if you ask every journal I've submitted to).

The loss I really can't cope with are the memories. Pictures, videos, text messages with pictures and videos. They are the hardest.

I'm including every blurry retake picture of that half assed version of eggs with soy too. It's marginally more meaningful than the six shots of the McDonalds french fries I wanted to Instagram before I realized I wasn't #basic. And I don't have #instagram for food, I'm not Asian (just ask any Asian person I've submitted to).

I was in Malaysia for around two weeks and left about a week ago. The day before I left, some files were deleted off my hard drive (there is a technical explanation, but to the less savvy, it reduces to a simple "David Poon is an incompetent idiot").

These were the pictures of seeing my maternal grandmother, my Ah Mah, in the hospital. I flew over urgently because we were worried she was going to die. She was discharged and survived.

But the data didn't.

The pictures of seeing her after so long, the videos of her children celebrating a birthday with her, impressions of a Chinese New Year surrounded by family, the memories of a trip to be remembered.

Gone.

I don't handle loss well.

And in this digital age where we can feasibly keep everything on an external hard drive that you can buy for less than a weeks worth of coffees?

I shouldn't be having loss.

...

I think I share that fear of loss with my Ah Ma.

Last year when I was visiting her, I recorded a long shot of a few of her stories. I was interested in her experiences during the Second World War. I #literally slept through high school history class, but as best I can remember, Malaysia was part of the war.

Can't remember which side.

Can remember the naps were FANTASTIC though.

Can't remember if I passed the class.

Anyway, turns out Malaysia was occupied by the Japanese, who I think were allied with the Germans, but they didn't use the verb allied. I think they were axis'ed with the Germans, or whatever the word is.

I slept through English class too.

Her story was translated to me, for two reasons:

1) I don't speak Asian
2) I don't understand Asian ladies anyway. Or any females in general. Just ask any woman I've ever spoken to.

As I understood, in Japanese occupied Malaysia, there were rations of rice and foodstuffs given to the people from the invading army. This would be collected by the man of the home.

For various reasons, Ah Mah had dressed as a young effeminate man (see where I get it from?) to get the rations from the Japanese, and hold a job as well. On the backdrop of beheadings and violence in a developing jungle oasis of a country, this in itself was quite courageous, but there was a story that stuck with me.

As best as I remember, at one point, there was a man (some sort of uncle or distant relative perhaps) who the Japanese were looking for around my Ah Mah's home. She hid him and, as a Japanese official approach, confronted him.

A young woman dressed as a man facing a powerful man dressed as a destroyer.

She faced complete loss.

And lived.

...

If this was in the digital age, I'm sure some bystander would have taken a video of the whole thing on her phone.

And then I would have somehow accidentally deleted it.

^-_-^

Because my parents worked so much, for about ten years, Ah Mah lived with us in Regina. She sacrificed a lot to be with us - essentially her life in Malaysia was put on hold just to make sure my sister and I were taken care of.

She said I was the best baby she ever took care of - apparently if you drew a circle around me I wouldn't leave.

She thought it was because I was well behaved.

Obviously it was because I was lazy.

^-_-^

After school on the walk home, there is a corner window of the house I would be able to see. Without fail, every day, Ah Mah was watching from there, making sure I got home.

Fat kids like me need to be fed after all.

Ah Mah's signature dish was something she called Grandmother's Eggs. A simple dish which was essentially scrambled eggs with dark, sweet soy sauce I'm not sure it was anything culinary but it was everything emotionally. It was synonymous with Ah Mah's cooking and immediately called to mind by everyone in the family.

It was my sister's and my favourite.

Always waiting for us at home.

Much like Ah Mah.

And I'm much like her.

She raised me after all.

Waiting for my sister and I after school wasn't the only time she worried about me. Even until my teen years, she was worried that after a house party at my place, someone would have stolen my items, or if I was out late, she was sitting in the dark, at that same window, making sure I was safe.

She actually worried about all of us a lot.

About money, about food, about loss.

This was before hoarding was a thing, but her part of the fridge was so full of food so old the entire family was convinced one day it would poison her.

I'm much like her. 

If we tried to take it from her she would snap and say it was for her, in some eventual doomsday scenario.

The inevitable someday where another war might take away her supply of food.

Or the someday where she may have lost one of us.

I asked a question on this recent trip.

"Has Ah Mah ever lost someone?"

My Mom and Uncles then told me about how her older brother left the family to join Chinese communists when she was very young. One day he was gone from her life.

And I think this fear never leaves.

Which makes letting go of it so much more brave.

Mom always told me that without Ah Mah, she would have never become a doctor, instead living out her life in the poor Malaysian kampung (small village) she was born in. While Kong Kong (grandfather) wanted as many children as possible to work the fruit selling business, Ah Mah insisted on the smaller family of three boys, one girl, and for them to have the chance to be educated. Ah Mah had no education but knew the future for us was within school.

My Eldest Uncle took responsibility, manned up and took the only job available to a poor family - joined the military. The second and third went away to Australia, and my Mom went elsewhere in Asia to study medicine, eventually going to Canada.

As hard as it was for her, Ah Mah said goodbye to her children to make sure they had their lives. That they were safe.

At the risk of losing them.

Ah Mah spoke seven languages and every one helped us understand how much she was afraid of losing us. It was her sheer intelligence she did what she could, mistakes and all, for her children, for her life.

My cousin sat me down about nine days ago and reminded me the value of family, and to not live with too many regrets. I had to get back to Canada to sort out of few things but I resolved to come back and see Ah Mah again.

Before I left I took some pictures with her. Just a few, dwarfed by how many which were deleted.

But some.

I kissed her on the forehead not wanting to lose her. I just had to go, but I knew she would be waiting for me when I returned.

Like always.

...

Ah Mah died this morning.

One week after I left.

Eight days after celebrating her last Chinese New Year surrounded by her loved ones.

Nine days after being reunited with all of her children, who haven't been all together for many years.

Ten days after having a birthday for one of her children.

Two weeks after being discharged from to the hospital

Twenty days after being admitted into the hospital.

A lifetime of giving, sacrifice, pain, tears, and giving some more to a world she was afraid of losing what little she had to.

A lifetime of building a family and keeping them safe as best as she could.

Imperfectly - but as best as she could.

About ten seconds after my data loss, I realized what happened. I immediately went to recovery, and a few hours later I was able to get some back. I haven't sorted through them all, but there is some back.

I can lament about what I've lost.

Or cherish what I still have.

Much like the precious moments and memories I still have of Ah Mah.

...

I hate loss.

And I don't mean loss like a normal person (every normal person grieves), but I mean I hate losing a woman who raised me for a decade.

I mean she paid for it. A life left behind in Asia, a husband an ocean away.

And a more than a lifetime later, I will never forget it.

In particular, some of the worst loss though?

Safety.

And I'm not talking about physical safety, though that is of course important. I mean the security and false idealism that allows you to believe your loved ones will always be there the longer they live. Even by one more week. You always think, hope, stay staunchly ignorant that there is a safe tomorrow harbouring future memories that will keep you safely unaware of the pain you have yet to endure.

memories / ahmah
/grandmotherseggs.mem
/grandmotherseggs2.mem
/grandmotherseggswithsalt.mem
/grandmotherseggswithsaltwhenIwassad.mem
/grandmotherseggswithsaltwhenIwashappy.mem
/grandmotherseggswithvegetarianduckwhenIachievedsomething.mem
/grandmotherseggswithvegetarianduckwhenIjustneededittogetthroughmyweek.mem
/grandmotherseggswithvegetarianduckwhenIdidntknowhowtogetthroughmyweek.mem
/grandmotherseggswithalltheloveshecouldgivedespiteallthefearandinsecurityshehadinherheart.mem
/grandmotherseggswitheveryintentionofkeepingherfamilysafewhileafraidofbeingaloneattheend.mem
/goodbye.mem

I love you, I love you.

Ultimately my grief will pass (I've made my mistakes and take responsibility).

The loss I really can't cope with are the futures. The pain all of us in the family will face knowing there is no tomorrow for her. They are the hardest.

I think Ah Mah waited for all of her children to come home before she could pass. I think as she lay bedridden, being tube fed, eyes glazed and barely aware, she knew that she had to wait for us.

She had to know we were safe.

And as she waits for us, watches us, it is finally a time where she does not need to be afraid of being alone.

As she was never alone.

Some things cannot ever be recovered.

But lessons, examples, feelings of love, fear hardship, pain, strength, compassion, and the recipe to the best soy sauce scrambled eggs in the world?

Some things are never lost.

...

The safety of love transcends the insecurity of loss. 

I think I will never lose my Ah Mah.

- David

One of the only pictures I have from the last trip to Malaysia. This is not one of the recovered files, but one of the shots I took after realizing I should forget regretting what is already gone. This is the last picture of us together. 

This song played in the background while I typed this at a cafe. I've never heard it before. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IB6qsyq9YIE

I love you Ah Mah. Thank you for taking care of me and loving me. Be safe. 

David Poon and the Road to Medical School: Udon Party

David Poon and the Road to Medical School: Udon Party

aka Updates from Now On!

aka Not a Lemon Party.

As I'm typing here on my kitchen counter, with my girlfriend making a delicious udon, I'm reflecting on my 27th birthday tomorrow... 

It reminded me that to make a commitment, to build something great, takes time, dedication, and the long fermentation to create the amazing - whether it be a soy sauce, or a blog. 

From now on, I resolve, daily updates.

...

April Fools.

- David

I wonder how many people will wish Aszreal JT Smash Happy Birthday, or delete him tomorrow.... wonder if it would be the same number for David E-O Poon

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. 

A Wingman Story

Lemmie tell you about Alex Grolle.

...

He's an idiot.

I've known him ever since pre school, in a little place called Gingerbread. That means, both he and I turned 25 this week, we've known each other for more than two decades.

Over that span of time, our intertwined lives have been a sordid affair seeping with inadequacies, summer camps, and sleepovers with zero sleep, if you know what I mean.

^-_-^

In a totally non homosexual way.

We're not gay.

...

Through our elementary school years, Alex would master a technique we have all learned he epitomizes.

Being terrible with women.

For some reason, elementary school girls treated Alex back then much like middle aged divorced women treat me. With chasing adoration.

During recess, they would play Boys Vs Girls, which always, always resulted in three girls chasing Alex. Given that their options included stellar selections such as a 120 pound Asian 10 year old with glasses (read: me), I wouldn't say that Alex was any more suave back then.

Just, you know, decent.

Now any intelligent young man would naturally take this opportunity to use his limitless charms during these formative years to become a hunky playboy of a man, but

1) Alex does not have limitless charms, and
2) I said intelligent young man.
3) Also I said man (zing!)

So, without a thought, Alex spend the rest of recess running away from the girls. Hell, until this day I've never seen a guy so bad at picking up women he might as well be running from them. At least that way, they get to see his fine, fine behind....

Also we are not gay.

Like any good friend, I've spent a good amount of time being his wingman. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, a wingman is a military aviation concept where another pilot (the wingman) offers an assist during a dangerous mission. Nothing short of sacrificing himself is under the duties of a wingman to ensure a successful mission. In these cases, the wing man was me, and the dangerous mission was trying to get Alex a girl without getting arrested for trying to solicit prostitutes.

The wingman in dating concept in men arises directly from a female behaviour that dictates that any attractive girl in a social situation is always accompanied by a fat ugly best friend, likely to make the attractive girl even more comparable to David Poon in terms of raw beauty.

One year, Alex brought me to Victoria to hang out with his grandma Good times, though (like with any Alex Grolle interaction) it would obviously end in horrific hilarity.

We were at this club (after Alex heroically got scared by a bouncer at a separate club), were we saw:

A beautiful, auburn haired white girl, slim profile, blue eyes, and delicate facial features that were just sharp enough to pierce the heart, but remind you that she will never break it.

as well as...

her fat ugly best friend.

^-_-^

Like I said, Alex has zero skill with the ladies.

So like any good wingman, I prefer for doom.

I ask the FUB friend to dance.

She hesitates.

I scream silently.

The beautiful girl tells the FUB friend to go ahead.

I open my arms to go around her.

Then I open my arms a little wider.

I think I settled for the shoulders after the fourth attempt.

But I did it. The beautiful girl was free.

And then....

... without a thought, Alex hides behind some black guy. Another man 30 seconds later comes in, dances with the beautiful girl, and I think they make out later.

If we keep up with the aeronautic metaphor, this would be the equivalent of the wingman crashing directly into the enemy army, leaving the base exposed, while the heroic lead pilot ejects, takes a taxi back home, and watches Denzel Washington movies with his grandma.

I hate you Alex.

At least I would, if I still had the ability to feel after the night with the FUB friend deadened my senses to the world.

Though honestly, I guessed I probably owed him one. He did save my life once.

When we were kids, he and I annually went to camp. Sometimes science, sometimes sports, one time even art.

Take a guess which camp I didn't do so well in.

During sports camp, we had to do drills in swimming. As a fat kid, and as Newton would dictate, that meant I was a hazard. I mean, I could have worn a tshirt in the pool to cover my man boobs and avoid bullying, but you know, I'm not THAT fat.

(At least until I met girls...)

I remember when some kid grabbed my head and held it under the water. I didn't know how to swim. It was scary cause I didn't know what was going on, and you know, I was drowning.

I was screwed.

I remember Alex grabbing me, pulling me back up, and saying

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah... you saved my life!"

"Yeahhhhh...."

Turns out he was the one drowning me. Without a thought, he figured it was just having fun.

WHAT EXACTLY IS FUN ABOUT GETTING SCREWED WET BY ANOTHER MAN!?!?!? (Nothing because I'm straight!)

Somehow I always get in trouble with him.

In grade 11, there was a dance to find out who would be elected to high school student council. When I won the election to become president of my high school, I was with my girlfriend at the time, and Alex. JUST BECAUSE I accidentally kissed Alex instead of my girlfriend in my excitement, my ex got pissed off.

At me!

Can you believe it?

Just cause Alex has pretty lips!

Bastard.

He's always like this; one time, in grade 7, we were skiing on these things in Saskatchewan we call slopes (which are actually pretty close to piles of snow taken from the streets).

I was just learning how to ski, but I was getting pretty confident. Alex and I went up the lift, the highest height I had ever been to (yeah yeah, Alex takes me higher than I've ever been before, we're not gay).

We went down, but since he was more experienced, he was ahead of me. I was getting comfortable, so I started picking up speed.

Down.

Down faster.

Alex in front, me behind...

it was awesome.

And not gay.

Not sure what he was thinking, but as he would tell me later, he was worried that I was going to run into the orange fence that was set up at the end of the hill, to prevent lost skis from running into people at the chalet.

I wasn't.

I was slowing down pretty good actually. But Alex was never that good at math, or thinking, really, and so...

But as I bolted down the hill, I remember, and will always remember the moment where without a thought, Alex turned around, skied in front of me, put his arms up to brace himself, and...

(dramatic silence)

WHAM.

My weight, combined with the speed I was going at, ran both of us directly into the damn orange fence.

Idiot.

...

Lemmie tell you about Alex Grolle.

He is my best friend in the entire world.

I remember when we were just 13 or so, and I was having a goodbye party at my place. Someone was leaving, but on top of that, there were some deeply personal issues I was sorting out. I remember making a speech to the person leaving, and well, breaking down partway through. I ran out the back door to a nearby park, and just sobbed.

Not long after, Alex found me.

Held me together.

He had started chasing me after I left.

Without a thought.

And I think about it now, and I realize the measure of man he is.

A little tidbit of trivia is that while Alex and I met in pre school we were too young to remember it at the time. It wasn't until four years later, when I transferred elementary schools, that we met again.

It was scary being the new kid - I didn't know anyone at the new school, who I thought my best friend was at the time left me, and, let's be honest, no one likes the fat kid.

On my first day, without a thought, Alex asked the teacher if he could show me around.

I have no doubt that seeing that act of kindness when I was that young shaped my amicable nature today.

Be good. Be friends. Simple.

A week later, a new, new kid showed up, and thanks to Alex's example, I volunteered to show him the school.

Who knows how my life may have been - would I have been bullied in elementary school? Would I have been able to make as many wonderful friends in my lifetime if I didn't have the guts to raise my hand and say "I will be your friend?"

Will I have been who I am had I never known Alex.

Where would I have been without him to be my wingman and help me fly.

When I wanted to dress up as the Backstreet Boys, only he would don the clothes. At swimming, when I bled from the nose, he came with me to the washroom and helped me clean up the blood.

Also I accidentally saw his penis in the change room after, the first time I saw another person's ding dong.

...

When the police first came to my house in Regina, before any of my family knew about the allegations against my father, my sister was by herself. My mom was in Asia helping my family, my dad at the hospital helping his patients. I was in Edmonton for school.

My sister, terrified, didn't know what to do, with two officers asking for my father. She called me, but I was just as confused, and just as scared.

Still not knowing why the police were at my door, the next person I called was Alex.

I asked him to go to my sister and watch out for her.

Not even asking what happened,

not questioning anything,

stopping everything,

without a thought,

Alex drove over to my place, made sure Lisa was safe, and didn't leave her.

Alex may seem like a regular white guy, going to work, coming home and playing video games.

But he is an exceptional person. One of the best men I know.

One of the best men we all know.

He is far more intelligent than I will ever give him credit for, but he will never make you feel like nothing.

Though he has never had much luck with women (in fact, has been treated pretty badly by some) he offers nothing but respect to any girl he has been with.

He doesn't earn alot of cash, but never once does he think about swindling someone. He gives to his friends the best he can offer, even when he doesn't have much himself.

He never did well in school, but perhaps unlike the rest of us high energy academics, he has never even considered copying work, or cheating on an exam.

He knows what is right, and lives by it. Not due to pious air of superiority, and certainly not due to a cowardice of reprimand.

He lives honestly because it is who he is.

My immediate family is close to me, my brothers, my sister, my mom and my dad. We love each other, fight each other, scream at each other, then come back together.

But as they say, you can't choose your family - but you can choose your friends.

Which means bonds between family can't be broken, but friends can eventually leave you.

Alex Grolle is my best friend in the whole world.

We don't fight. We hang out. We go to McDonalds at 3am and talk.

It's how we choose to be together. It's how we are, and how we always will be.

And I don't care if that makes me his fat ugly best friend...

... or his wingman for life.

- David

Today is Alex's 25th birthday. If you haven't seen him in awhile, or just want to ask him if anything I'm saying is actually true, go to his Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=504352371

He could use the attention. No one else likes him. 

A New Year, a Birthday, a Reconnect

A New Year, a Birthday, a Reconnect

aka EVERYONE FORGOT MY BIRTHDAY
aka Not Another Damn Introspective Rant from Poon
aka Yet Another Damn Introspective Rant from Poon

Let it be forever remembered that David Poon is a master of two things:

1) Recognizing great ideas, and
2) Not bothering to act on them.
3) Women
4) Lunacy!

My girlfriend, a half breed from Japan, told me about a tradition they do there. Like us white people do for Christmas, New Year is a time to send letters to the people who matter to you, and who care about you.

I liked the idea, despite the fact that while the list of those in the former category rank in the 100s, those in the later category exist in my imagination.

Or that Japanese Virtual Reality dating simulation I downloaded.

I guess that's why I call my gf 'too good to be true.'

Hah. See? Pun?? Is that a pun???

...

It's been months since I've written anything. I'm a little rusty, not to mention, Asian drunk (read: 2 shots in my birthday martini).

So, to all my fans that I left without inspiration... I'm sorry.

That should appease both of you.

^-_-^

Couple that with the fact that I locked my Facebook wall, changed my Facebook name, and proceeded to not respond to any email, text message, or male flirtatious advance for the past few months (all of which I usually do), and avoided you in the grocery store, it was reasonable that most of you concluded one of the following things:

1) I was in Regina, when you were in Edmonton.
2) I was in Edmonton, where you were in Regina.
3) I got pregnant and went to live with my aunt.
4) I'm a rude bastard who ignores you.
5) Lunacy!

The sad fact is that I finally figured out that instead of talking to people, I could play video games, and well, I stand by my choice.

I forget, is my gf real or a Japanese videogame?

Heh heh, I play both.

Hope she's not reading this. I could get in trouble.

...

So I wanted to, in the New Year, send personal, heartfelt messages to each one of you, to rebuild the shattered relationships I ignored for so long.

A New Year, a new life, a reconnect.

And then I sold my video game collection in preparation.

After which I used the money to buy a new collection.

And then I didn't contact any of you.

While rebuilding my life was an arduous and somewhat impossible task, rebuilding lost relationships required something I simply didn't have:

Someone else who wanted to rebuild that relationship.

Meaningless self deprecation aside, as the weeks post New Year passed, my procrastination got the beter of me, and I didn't call any of you again.

Until a different, Chinese kind of New Year happened.

Then I just forgot.

And despite so many of you emailing, txting, calling... I realized I just wasn't quite ready to say hello again.

And the sad truth is, maybe you forgot about me too.

And I deserved that.

But;

If being rejected by girls has taught me anything...

Other than protecting my face from slaps, perseverance is vital to success.

I had the chance to break a new start of renewing old friendships.

My 25th birthday. Today.

Ever since I was a kid, I would stay up most of the night before my birthday. I remember being in elementary school, pacing alone near my bedroom.

If that sounds sad to you, don't worry - I talked to my teddy bear for advice.

I would spend the night contemplating, considering the big questions - where was my life going, what would I become, Charizard or Blastoise...

In brief, I tried to answer the question of "what did I want?"

Since I was a fat kid, obviously meaning I was grossly unpopular, I wanted friends.

And that's what I'll do.

Though it seems all of you refused to wish me a happy birthday JUST BECAUSE I DISABLED MY FACEBOOK WALL, I know that I wouldn't be anywhere without you, my friends.

I've been doing a 'Reconnect a Day' - that means some of you have been victimized by a phone call, an email, a dinner, or a hang out with me once a day for the past two weeks.

And like that jacket zipper said to my nipple, 

"Don't worry, you'll all get your turn."

However... it's also like I said to my bowels after forgetting to take my Metamucil, 

"Damnit, why don't you just get started?"

So lets reconnect online, till I see you soon.

I suppose my sudden distancing from life could be seen as arbitrary as a Canadian snap election (zing!) so lets start there.

My self imposed silence has admittedly given me a somewhat misconstrued air of rudeness; but after my father was sentenced to two years in prison last summer, I went into hiding. Disabled my Facebook wall, and placed myself in isolation.

Then, as the Faculty of Medicine found out about the Poon Blog, I didn't want to leave myself vulnerable to scrutiny, leaving me open to reprimand particularly under very harsh times. I closed doyoubelieve.ca immediately, despite its rather cathartic appeal to me during hard times. I suppose humour, particularly poorly written humour, isn't always well received. And taking a page from any tip book on how to look professional before a job interview, I changed my Facebook name to my old high school alter ego, 'Aszreal' aka 'Emo Poon' aka 'David Poon wearing black nail polish' aka 'If Snoopy can be Joe Cool, I can be Aszreal'.

This is typically an okay thing to do under the circumstances, except well, I wasn't as okay as I thought I was. I couldn't handle medical school, and disappeared again.

Hiding because I couldn't face very harsh realities was reasonable, if not cowardly.

And hiding from those who want to use information against my best wishes is smart, strategic.

But hiding from those looking out for me, trying desperately to help me...

... hiding from you?

Lunacy.


That means today, on my 25th birthday, I start doyoubelieve.ca again.

And I never forget my friends.

...

So what have I been up to?

I won a prize in a Cosplay (costume play) contest at Animethon. I was a Tetris block. Turns out years of having my life twist, turn, and fall really came in handy.

I gave Aszreal a last name. 'Aszreal JT SMASH' but Facebook wont let me change it because there are too many capital letters.

I learned what being happy meant.

I recommitted to medical school, and will graduate in 2013. Sure, that means I was one of the first of my friends to get into med school, and it also means I will be one of the last to get out.

But I'm happier now.

I found a closeness to family I never had before.

I met a wonderful girl. She's a half breed - all the good looks of a white person combined with the fantastic attention to domestic cleanliness of an Asian person.

The Faculty, as a condition for my reacceptance, had me do a learning assessment, to ensure I don't have any academic issues. 

Turns out I qualify for Mensa. 

And now I've been a member for two months. 

For those of you who don't know what Mensa is, let me tell you, it's NOT what my sister thought it was (the North American Man Boy Love Association). Seriously.

I'm not into men that young.

I'M NOT INTO MEN AT ALL.

I learned to study for the knowledge - not for the marks.

Learned how to file my own income tax.

Gained 30 kilos.

At the advice of my Mommy, got a personal trainer.

Lost 10 kilos.

My girlfriend bought me a scale for Valentines Day.

Lost another 10 kilos and counting.

Met some of my new classmates.

Found some of my old classmates.

Got a job at EB Games for a little while. Some people dream of working at a coffee shop. Used video game store is my coffee shop. And I do mean coffee as a drug.

Started watching LOST...

... and finished watching LOST. All of it. It's incredible.

Had my girlfriend move in with me.

Began writing a musical. It's gonna be totally awesome and reassert how masculine I am. It'll also have lots of dancing.

Fought with a man I consider my brother. Came back together as families never give up.

Got invited back to a business competition. Saw something I started continue. Felt proud of my friends.

Guinness World Records emailed me last week. They are allowing my claim to break a world record. I'll let you know how it goes.

Found out how horrible it is to see your loved one's hometown lost in an earthquake and tsunami.

Found out how beautiful it is to see loved ones survive and endure.

Helped my sister buy a car.

Told my mom I loved her.

Shook my father's hand.

Became a man.

...

I have eschewed my deliberate insistance on refusing to grow up. Finally.

I am 25 now. Though, that doesn't mean I forgo the lessons and traditions of my youth.

Ever since I was a kid, I would stay up most of the night before my birthday. I remember doing it in elementary school, pacing alone near my bedroom.

If that sounds sad to you, don't worry - I still talk to my teddy bear for advice. 

I spent last night contemplating, considering the big questions - where was my life going, what would I become, be thankful or be bitter...

In brief, I tried to answer the question of "what do I want?"

...

I have you. I have my family.

My loved ones. My life.

There's nothing more I want.

See you soon everyone. Looking forward to it.

Miss you too.

- David