Two Hundred and Sixteen, Carburetors

     Puttering along. No, that would imply I work in a factory or office setting. Unfortunately the profession I'm in is increasingly being run like a factory improving efficiency however the acceptable losses is still considered to be zero. Unlike carburetors–of which the worst case scenario is a flawed shipment costing $$$–people are not expendable. When a carburetor isn't functioning properly the usual treatment is to replace it.  Not so with human beings. There is no reason for a mechanic to be on call to fix a car emergently in a night.
     It is enjoyable though and satisfying. That little part that glorifies in fixing problems while interacting with people burns brightly every day for me. Although every now and then I fix a problem or two and then my patient happens to pass away from something else despite the improvement he or she had shown.
     But those thoughts are for another day.

Two Hundred and Twelve, Wildfire

It's amazing how fast news can spread in today's day and age. If we go back simply two generations, news traveled as fast as the post did and even then not necessarily to everyone. First the immediate family would get notice and then they would inform close friends in their locations. Dire news such as deaths often had a travelling family member who would go around telling other family members of the death before everyone went to the town where the person used to live for the funeral and such. Friends of those folks would be brought in to take care of the farms/shops/plants while the family was gone.

Now, less then twenty-four hours after the fact, folks connected online have knowledge of deaths of people they might not have seen in years. Those folks tell their friends who are not online about it and then they end up calling others and so on and so forth. It amazes me the speed with which the news spreads, good or bad. Wildfire.

Two Hundred and Two, Girls and their Fathers

Reading a facebook post put up by a girl that says she misses her Daddy breaks my heart when I remember her Dad died almost a year ago.

One Hundred and Ninety-four, Cardiac Arrest

I have been remiss from this forum for quite a while mainly because I did forget about it in the jumble known as life.  This entry doesn't herald my sudden return to all things blog but it is to point out a small event that occurred earlier today.

A patient in the hospital for whatever reason stopped breathing and pumping his own blood.  Doctors rushed in along with nurses, I stood outside the room with my three colleagues.  I hear different orders being shouted through the air, "Get the crash cart!" "You start compressions!" "I'll get the kit" "Push another atropine!" "Stop! Does he have a pulse?" "Rotate on compressions" "We have a pulse!" "Ok, he's stable" "I lost the pulse!" "Quick, start compressions again!" and on and on.

At one point, one of the residents turns to me, points, and beckons.  As I near him, he tells me to leave my white coat outside the room.  I hurriedly rush in sans white coat and grab the gloves he gives me.  

"You're going to relieve the guy giving compressions."

My mind's jaw drops.  My physical body continues as directed to the side of the room where the folks giving compressions are standing and doing their job.  As I stand behind the fellow whose shoulders are heaving as he pushes heavily onto the old gentleman's sternum, someone tells him to pause to check pulses.  They find one!  Everyone relaxes (again) as the people in the room prepare to move the bed to the ICU.  As the connections are dropped, they notice his pulse is gone again.  Matt, my resident, turns to me and points me in.  I step up, place my hands as taught and practiced on rubber dummies, and start counting while doing my job.  I count ~50 compressions when the lady next to me says, "I can feel your compressions, stop so I can see if he's beating on his own."  I halt.  She still has a pulse.  I step back after glancing at Matt as the bed is wheeled off.  As I exit slowly behind the bed and its horde of people, my two colleagues come up to me and congratulate me on saving a life.  I stutter like I always do when I get a compliment.  Jokes continue into the night about using the story to score chicks at the bar.  I'm just happy he lived.  And constantly reminding myself in my mind about how oddly the feel of the elderly gentleman's chest felt just like the mannequins we practice on.  The only odd part was the face staring up at me slowly turning first purple, then pink with compressions, and with a mouth slightly parted in the agony of the situation...

One Hundred and Ninety-two, Death of 'Ole Blue

Around eight years ago the four of them came into our lives as brothers of the same factory.  The gentle blue with a glowing insignia were soothing to our sense, the ergonomic shape eased into our palms.  We four had found our mice.  Lord Chaos, the Beatnik, the Engineer, and myself revelled in our gameplay for many years with these mice.  Switching to each other's computers was simple with the same peripherals.  Orcs, dwarves, trolls, gnomes, terrorists, scientists, Gordon Freemans, robots, Soviets, Allies, GDI, NOD, pyros, engineers, Psilons, Silicoids, roller coasters, trains, Civilization(s), Tribes vehicles, mutalisks, carriers, seige tanks, Jedi, Sith, smugglers, bounty hunters, augmented UNATCO operatives, Ylloj - my frost sorceress, a red Boba Fett-lokalike named Silencer, fantasy warriors, X-COM operatives, cities, evil minions and mistresses who you could slap, Kabuto, and Meccs are but a few of the creatures and races under the sway of our mice at one time or another.  

'Ole Blue has travelled a lot too between three different cities and almost 10 houses/apartments.  He provided my thumb a gentle gel-filled pad on which to rest.  He outlived two of his three brothers in regular usage.  One got lost to the annals of "old equipment" while another hemorrhaged out gel fluid.  One sibling remains who still feels the love of a human daily.  The Beatnik has just built himself a new computer and his mouse will hopefully get to experience it for many years to come.  Mine decided six months was what it could last on my new PC.  Today the years of rough use and the cord's weight to the ground finally pulled some connection loose inside the mouse.  I tried a splint with tape but it can't hold with the pressure needed.

Today I went out and found the great-great-great-great grandson of my Mouseman Wheel, the G5 Laser Mouse.  

It's been hard with it because it is unruly and different.  My thumb sits slightly differently, there are a few extra buttons, and the slide is smoother than I'm used to.  I'm sure I'll get used to it though.  Already today I've gotten to like the slide and messed around with the extra buttons.

But I'll still miss that blue glowing symbol on my first real mouse.

One Hundred and Seventy-five, The Elderly

I went into a room to check on an 83 year-old man's progress that day.  "Good morning sir." I said clearly as I turned on the light and approached his bed.  His eyes perked up and his head tilted slightly towards my voice.  In the corner the television was blaring away on some news channel some family member or nurse had put on for him.  I realized as his eyes stared at the ceiling that he would not be focusing directly on me.  I involuntarily speak louder asking him how his night was.  In reply, a slew of noises issued from his toothless mouth.  I put my ear close to him to hear him better.  No avail.  How was I supposed to gather information from this fellow?!  I stood at the side of his bed despairing that this man with a rich history (all 83 year-old people have a rich history) couldn't communicate what he was trying so hard to tell.  I continued explaining my exam steps as I checked his heart and lungs and operative site and legs.  He never stopped with his trail of words.  In fact, I couldn't hear clearly at all in his chest due to his larynx sending sound waves down through his body into my stethoscope.  As I said goodbye and left, he quieted down in what I imagine was frustration.  He might have had a stroke, but he obviously was aware of people.  He just couldn't communicate effectively and that is what made me saddest.

In opposition to that experience, I met a nurse later on that day who was from the Philippines.  She had immigrated 58 years ago.  At the spry age of 79, she worked regularly in the operating room as a circulating nurse--the nurse who makes sure everything runs smoothly in the OR and gets stuff we don't have in there.  She was telling us stories about her younger days and stuff about her husband.  Her husband is Japanese and apparently when she married him, the Philippine government took away her Filipino citizenship.  She told an elaborate story about how she eventually kept from being deported to Japan through friends in high places and even getting her name on a bill that Lyndon Johnson signed.  And then there was the story about her husband who was to be deployed in the war "in just a few days when the war ended."  At one point a newer worker in the area, some nurse or tech, came by asking if she would help move the patient back to the ready OR.  The 79 year-old fixed a look on the intruder which clearly meant, "Let me finish my story, then I'll take care of it!"  She picked up where she was decribing a kamikaze's underwater counterpart, a Kaiten.  Her husband had been training as a pilot for one of these and was scheduled to be deployed a couple days after Nagasaki.  Her wrinkled face was animated throughout the storytelling.  Deep furrows appearing in her brow when reciting the parts regarding her possible deportment and the fact that her husband was a Kaiten pilot.  Wrinkles clearing out with her smiles when she reached the happy conclusions of remaining in the States and her husband not being deployed incidentally.

In one day I encountered two people who showed me the wide variability in human function and communication.  I also grew to appreciate different qualities in each.  From the gentleman patient, I had a glimpse of future disability that is more likely to strike than sudden death and the possibility of unheard stories.  From the nurse, I learned the richness of a life and the joy of knowing the lives others have lived.  In fact, it gave me hope hearing her realizing that the gentleman probably had regaled other people with his own stories prior to his mishap.  I hope those people take those stories and remember them time to time.  

What are we but the sum of our experiences and knowledge? 

One Hundred and Sixty-seven, Deliveries and Home

My days this past week included two Cesarean sections, one normal delivery, and one ectopic pregnancy. I've managed to find many babies' heartbeats while they're inside mommy using Doppler devices. I've met a woman who is pregnant for the third time after having lost her first pregnancy because the baby developed no brain and lost the second in a miscarriage. She and the doctor are ecstatic that this third pregnancy is going well and she's getting really close to term with a healthy baby growing inside her.
This past weekend I saw the Engineer and some other friends. I came to realize that while I had become slightly desensitized to bar smoke in the past, my year or so of abstinence from smoke-ridden air caused my throat to heal up and feel Friday night stronger than usual. My grandmother's birthday was on Saturday. And Valiben showed up just before I ate dinner and then drove off to my schooltown. Sunday I managed to get laundry done and I had some good chats with a couple friends.

One Hundred and Sixty-six, Humanity's Progress

I had a family member who witnessed a terrorist's bombing. I will work with my family to make sure she gets the psychological help (from family and professionals) she needs to work through it in her mind. I do not wish for revenge on the ones that did that and killed others. I just wish for proper justice based on the transgressed laws of that land.

Evolutionary fight between physical might and the ability to protect/kill versus moral understanding and the ability to understand/forgive?

One Hundred and Sixteen, An Inquisitive Gentleman Who Was

The beady eyes bore through the lenses into my eyes.

"So tell me what you do!"

I explained how I was in engineering school hoping to enter medicine.

"Medicine! Such a fine field! You should work hard to become a good doctor."

I sheepishly glance around the room letting it sit upon my second cousin once removed beseeching her to save me from this senile gentleman.

"So how do you plan to use your electrical engineering in medicine? Research on the electrical signals of the heart or brain? Or going more into imaging? There's plenty of money in imaging and radiotherapies! I know a couple companies that produce medical equipment and they're at the top of the markets these days!"

My head whips around quickly. Here was a man I'd never underestimate again. This man, a repository of knowledge stretching back 80-some years, kept going inquiring about specifics some which I'd know and others I would have to admit of having no knowledge. And it was all interesting! The intensity he used to speak to you made you aware that You mattered and your thoughts on his topics were of the utmost importance to him.

After seeing him back in 2000 and experiencing him for the first time, I began seeing him once each time I went back to India. 2000, 2002, 2004, 2005 -- I met him a total of four times. Yet we imprinted ourselves on each other. I always asked after his health whenever I would talk to my relatives there. And they'd let me know how he always inquired about "that nice boy who chatted with me the one time." We met four times yet for some reason we remembered each other and always asked after each other.

Yeah, it got to me too.
आवता जन्ममा मलीसू दादा।

One Hundred and Six, Thank You John Spencer

I feel like I've just witnessed the oddest rollercoaster of emotions and it's all thanks to a TV show. For almost four years now I've slowly been progressing through The West Wing episodes. It's really funny given the general apathy I have towards politics throughout my life. The first time I ever saw an episode was over at the Beatnik and Lord Chaos' family's place. I think it was one of the early shows that still had Sam Seaborn in it. The West Wing finished it's run with a total of seven seasons. One year short of completing two actual terms in the Oval Office. And they really covered a lot of ground there, even after the creator Aaron Sorkin left the show. From the first days of Jed Bartlett's Presidency to the new Election of Matt Santos and a million things in between, every major governmental occurrence that could be written into the show was. Seven seasons, four years is a long time to get to know people, and that's what 156 episodes accomplished. As Heather! Anne! mentioned, one of the best moments was Josh and Donna's carefully structured romantic hookup. There's something to be said for the gradual buildup they had in this show, something about the depth to each character the watchers have come to appreciate over the years.

One thing which I found quite poignant was that one of the actors actually passed away during the taping of the last season. Actor John Spencer died December 16th, 2005. Vice Presidential Candidate Leo McGarry passed away on Election Night, the night his ticket won.

Fourty-seven, George O'Malley's Dad

It's knowing that you'll never see a person again. The Ultimate Goodbye. I think that Forever is impossible for a human being to really understand. We just put an arbitrarily chosen large number there in place of actual infinity. No communication is possible. Did people feel this back when an adventurous family member would depart and no word would ever come back? No idea whether the ship wrecked and all hands were lost halfway through its journey or whether the fellow traveled the world, gathered riches, and lived the high life in some far off fancy world? What would his parents have thought? His siblings and his friends? This person who has been part of the fabric of their lives, just ups and disappears.

I know I'm terribly lucky in some ways. One of them is that in my conscious memory, I have not had to deal with the passing of an immediate family member. I've always heard about so-and-so dying here or in India but never been emotionally vested in it. I've only had one person go who I felt strongly about; a crotchety old man who I came to love through my best friend. So I consider myself lucky. I complain about not having luck in everyday things but I don't really mind. Not when I know that I've had a lucky life when it comes to the important things.

Then again, maybe I did pay the price for the luck. Just in a vastly different way than most others.

Karma will continues its march and I shall go with it.

Fifteen, Death

Count Chocula is immortal. He's a vampire after all. The only fear of death he has if from a traumatic situation like a stake to the heart. This is a big difference from most of humanity. Over the past couple days, I've heard of two deaths in this world. One is the death of a classmate's boyfriend. The other was my 1) mom's mom's sister or 2) grandmother's father's cousin's wife.

I can't say I was close to either (the classmate is basically an acquaintance), yet overall, they cast a somber mood upon me at the start of this new year. On top of that, I spent time talking with my dad about mourning in India (my mom's brother passed away a couple months back).

About the young fellow who passed away, I think it's just the shock of someone close to my age dying. I remember when my dad heard about one of his cousins passing away during a trip to India earlier this decade. I had never heard mention of this fellow in my memorable life from anyone in my family yet my dad was hit hard by the news of this cousin's death (I think a heart attack, just a few years older than dad). Since people in this world do not really spend every day dwelling on death, it tends to come as a surprise. And it's even more of a surprise when it's someone with similarities to you. This young guy who died in a car accident was of no significance to me until hearing about him reminded me that hey, this can happen to you too! In the same vein, my conversation this morning about mourning brought light to the idea that while older individuals tend to receive a certain amount of mourning, people taken before the oldest generation tend to get more and more time. While my uncle was no teenager, he was "young" to his mom. She saw her son die. It's always depicted as being something huge when we hear about it or read about it. But it's impossible to really imagine being that parent unless, Bhagwan forbid, you live through it.

This is in stark contrast to the passing of the elderly lady (who I'm related to through my mom's side of the family and whose deceased husband I'm related to through my dad's side of the family). Interesting how age is a big factor in mourning.

I think I'll just eat some cereal on Tuesday.