The Courage of Detroit

Three months since my last post and I still don't have much to say. But Mitch Albom does, and he does it in a eloquent way. So, for all of you don't know about Detroit or hate on Detroit, read on.

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2009/writers/the_bonus/01/07/detroit/1.html

How to prevent malnutrition one child at a time...

Today I went to hear John Patrick, MD www.johnpatrick.ca speak. What I learned from him was something that I already knew. But was afraid to say... until now.

What makes my blood run hot is medical missions. It makes me remember that no cushy radiology/ dermatology paycheck and no house in the 90210 will ever make me as happy as touching a human life and soul. Those things cannot compare to the reward of answering God's call by serving those in need. By going on missions, I have felt so many deep, deep things in my heart. These are things that God has given to me, and only me, to help keep my heart soft.

For example, when I went to Yunnan, China this summer, I was moved to tears by the random assortment of English letters that were inscribed on a church wall. Apparently, the Lisu tribe had a written language because a missionary, James O. Fraser, gave them phonetic English letters. Though his sermons probably only touched his immediate population, his gift of language helped sustain the tribe's identity in this rapidly advancing world. He personally transcribed the people's oral language into one with written English letters, now known as the Lisu/ Fraser alphabet. So, in the Yunnan mountains where I was, I saw more English letters than I saw Mandarin characters. Isn't that amazing? I know for a fact that people all around the world are the same-- looking for community, for love, and for purpose. And some of us are lucky enough to find those.

Anyways, back to John Patrick. Years ago, he was asked by missionaries and doctors in Nairobi to work with the widespread problem of protein- energy malnutrition in children. So he, with his 80 publications and wealth of medical knowledge, set out to create a protocol to feed the children. Yet within nine months of working there, he knew that he was unable to solve the starvation problem, on the condition that there would be no permanent foreign expatriate help. (He did mention that the researchers and doctors now are close to finding a solution.)

While in Africa, he was invited to give sermons to graduate students, tribal councils, and eventually, entire tribes. One (or many) of the tribes had customs where the men would eat first, and then the women and children would eat the leftovers. Since the women made meals in one big pot, the men would pick out what was the best and then after they dispersed, the women and children would all scramble and grab what was left in the pot. Dr. Patrick described that there were younger or weaker children who never even got close to the pot... and it was those that died from malnutrition.

In one of Dr. Patrick's sermons to the African tribes, he preached about the Jewish customs of families eating together. He talked about the importance of gathering around a table and having the father passing down customs and stories to the children that way. Dr. Patrick did not even understand the implications of his sermon; he was just trying to preach as he always did. Yet, something surprising happened. One of the tribal men told Dr. Patrick that because of that sermon, he had started to have his family eat and talk together at mealtimes. The man said that he noticed that he had a child who was a much slower eater than the rest of the family. The child could never eat his fill because the pot of food was gone too quickly. Consequently, the man said that he gave that child a plate of his own.

That was one less child dying of malnutrition in Africa, said Dr. Patrick.

And I believe it. This story does not mean that all medical and health solutions can be found in religious customs. But this anecdote shows the importance of tradition and ethics in the home. It is the core of a good family. God created the concept of a family; he knows how to best run one. If people only listened to these rules, there would be a lot less emotional and physical brokenness in both the family and the world.

You say I'm premature, I call it ectsasy...

(My post has nothing to do with its title.)

Today, my parents dragged me to go walking with them at seven freaking am. Luckily, I was too tired to "viva la resistance" and just allowed myself to be conned into doing aerobic exercises and walking a good 4 miles before 9 am. My efforts were rewarded with some McDonald's breakfast and coffee.

I decided to take pictures of my early morning journey.

Mimosa Pudica- Shy Plant-

My friends and I used to play with this plant all the time. It responds to mechanical pressure and sunlight by closing its leaves. Therefore, in Chinese, it is known as the "Shy Grass." Here's my wannabe Jeff Corwin video. My mom's hands star in the film.



Interesting, huh? Sorry for the crappy quality.

Being a kid...

I came back to Taiwan about a week ago with nothing to do except Step 1 questions. Needless to say, all I have done is looked at the table of contents of one book and soothe my guilt with extra House episodes. All I have learned is that it's never Lupus AND... ganja growing puts you at risk for cadmium poisoning. All very interesting.

But the reason I blog today is because there's something be said about returning to where you grew up and skidded your knees. I grew up here in Kaohsiung, TW till I was twelve and moved to a surburb in southern California. I lived in a sprawling gated community with a pool, a roller skating rink, tennis courts, tons of empty land, a basketball court, and two or three playgrounds. It was the ultimate wild child's paradise and a parent's dream-- no fear of amber alerts and freedom to roam. It was here that I spent every afternoon playing.

The glorious afternoons of my seven to twelve year old life were filled with nothing but plans to steal old furniture from the local trash dump and eggs from bird nests. My friend, brother, and I would "borrow" old chairs and folding tables and create makeshift shelters and boats in the abandoned basement of our building. We also did things such as make flower necklaces and eat nectar. I also attempted wheelies on my bike and "triple salchows" on my rollerblades. When I look back, I am amazed that I never needed stitches on my chin. The most "trauma" I ever suffered was from the wrath of fire ants chewing my hand away. (I accidently stuck my entire hand into an anthill.)

The past week here has been absolutely awesome. To help you gauge what relief I've had from being outside for two hours a day, I'm just going to say that I have not once wanted to go shopping. With this kind of weather, I would much rather ride a bicycle up and down ramps, over curbs, on dirt roads and paved roads, and dodge roller skaters and mommies with baby carriages. Shopping does not hold a candle to the outdoor things of life.

This all brings me to my point: kids should be outdoors for at least three hours a day. There will be a time for Halo 3, The Hills, Gchat, Facebook, Wii, and Texas Hold' Em. It ain't when they're eight or twelve. It should be when they're in college at 2 or 3 am with nothing better to do. While kids have the time and energy to soak in the sun-- that's what they should be doing. It is such a pity that abductions and unfortunate accidents have made parents very watchful of their kids. For sure, one of the best things about playing outside was that your mom wasn't there to watch you make a disgusting mess out of your clothes or tell you to wear a helmet. GAWSH... I hate helmets. They seem just like sweaty buckets you wear on your head.

The phrase "All work and no play makes ______ a dull kid" cannot ring truer. I would be such a dull person if I skipped my childhood. I am not sure if I would be rock climbing or playing with every dog I see had I been pent up at home all my life. All of my childhood adventures makes my medical school life almost bearable.

If I had the choice, I would go back to being ten for a year. Being a kid is way better than being a dramatic adolescent, or a partying college kid, or an over-caffeinated med student.

Anyways, I am forcing all of my future offspring to play outside everyday. What doesn't send kids to the ER really just makes them stronger. I am a firm believer that the flu bugs, the bruises and cuts, and the grass are important things for kids.

Sidenote: My dad refuses to ride my brother's old bike anymore. Apparently, he
saw my brother jump the curb so effortlessly that he decided to practice doing it too. So one day, he totally ate the pavement... in front of the security guard station of our gated community. I think his ego is pretty bruised. Bro- you know about this?

this story is going to make your heart melt...

The following is a true story from Inner Mongolia. (I've translated it from a Chinese e-mail. If you would like the original ppt, let me know.)

A Girl has a Goat for a Mommy

Today, the girl is two years old. When she was 48 weeks old, there was a huge fuss over who would take care of her. At the time, her mother was deathly sick and her father was suffering from a serious neurological disorder. Her grandfather was around 80 years old at the time. Consequently, the girl's extended family was considering giving her away to friends because they themselves were unable to take care of her.

However, the girl's grandfather said, "She is my own granddaughter, give her to me and I will take care of her." Everyone wondered how he would be able to do this because he was both old and unable to provide milk for the infant. The grandfather had an idea-- he would purchase a goat to provide sustenance for the girl. He went to a lady in the village who owned goats and told her, "Look at this girl. I have no milk for her and am also very poor, please sell me a goat for a discounted price." The lady took pity on the family and sold the goat for 360 mongolian dollars.

Whenever the girl started to cry, her grandfather would ask his neighbors to help him lay down the goat so that the girl could suckle. A few men of the village would come by to hold the goat down each day so that the girl could eat. The goat was very afraid at first and would be kicking the entire time she was held down. But as time went by, she grew accustomed to the child and her attitude changed.





The grandfather made sure that the goat ate well and therefore, produced good quality milk for his granddaughter. Soon enough, the goat became the girl's mother. Whenever the girl would cry, the goat would come over to the child and lay down allowing the girl to suckle. People in the village worried about the child because the milk was neither warm nor as good as a human mother's milk. But the girl adjusted well to the milk and hasn't been sick once.





Her grandfather bought a plastic nipple for better feeding.




Since the girl needed to be fed three to four times a day, the goat and the girl developed a mother- daughter relationship quickly. Whenever the girl cried, the goat would come by and its presence would calm the girl. Similarly, when it came time for the girl to learn how to walk, the goat would walk very slowly and allow her to hold on its back.



This is a story of a girl who has a goat for a mother.

13.5 hr plane ride to Osaka, Japan

I am currently on a thirteen hour flight to Osaka, Japan-- in the smallest international plane known to man. It is RIDICULOUSLY tiny. I swear the coach seats would not have been able to accommodate a slightly overweight grown man. I’m already hunched over trying to type this—so you get the picture. Anyways, I figure my mom couldn’t really get me on an “asian” airline, e.g. Eva Air, China Air, Korean Air, or Singapore Air flight from Detroit, Mi so I had to fly Northwest. Northwest doesn’t even have personal monitors on its international flights. I thought that those babies were the standard protocol after 2005 or something. I was all stoked about watching “Bolt” or some other new film for free on the flight too.

Anyways, I keep feeling these kicks coming from behind me. Being EC, I turn around and attempt to use my best grown- up voice to ask the kid to cease and desist. But surprisingly enough, it’s not a kid. It’s an elderly Japanese man. I don’t have the heart at all to tell him to stop. I am just so soft for senior citizens. (He might not be a citizen because there are about a gajillion alien residents and visitors on this flight. It’s definitely a sea of black hair in Coach). My M2 expert opinion says that the patient has Restless Leg Syndrome.

AK and OMP tell me that I am silly for thinking that I will get a deep vein thrombosis and a subsequent, pulmonary embolism from this 17 hour flight. For those of you in the happy world outside of medicine, a deep vein thrombosis is a clot that forms in your deep veins (usually in your legs) due to staying in one position for too long. The lack of movement results in stasis and subsequent clotting of your blood. And all of a sudden, the clot from your legs may travel to your lungs. In your lungs, the clot can get stuck on block off one of your vessesls. With the blockage, blood cannot become oxygenated and you, my friend, can get a stroke or an MI or something wonderful like that. Granted, I am not sixty eight years old and have not been stuck in bed for more than 48 hours, but I am still flexing my calves and quads to make sure that I don’t keel over at the fresh age of 23. I think my fear of a pullmonary emobolism is more of the fear of stasis. I cannot sit still for more than four hours. Even the red light, green light game in elementary school had me fidgeting like crazy. And anyone, I mean anyone that I study with, can vouch for my hyperactivity during studying. I like to spin highlighters, play with ear plugs, stand and study, sit and study, and walk around the halls with sheets of paper. It really is a blessing I am not in a office job. I think I would live in fear of a pulmonary embolism every day.

Speaking of blood clotting and hemostasis, I have a huge bruise on my arm. Not giganic, but deep. It is around 4 cm in diameter and is dark purple in the center with blue-green edges. It’s smack dab in the middle of my left arm—so its location makes it seem like somebody tried to grab me in an inappropriate manner. I mean it. If I saw my bruise on some girl during a physical exam, I would IMMEDIATELY ask, “Do you feel safe and comfortable at home? How about at work?”

I don’t remember getting it, but I am pretty sure it’s from Sniffles McGee. McGee and I just met yesterday at the gym, but just one run-in with him gave me such a beating. I just hope the bruise wasn’t too obvious at OS last night. It would have been capital A-W-K-W-A-R-D for me to walk around a bar with a huge bruise on my arm, looking all beaten and blue.

In case you haven’t figured it out, Sniffles McGee is a rock climbing route that I’m trying out. I must have hit my arm against the wall a dozen or so times last night. It was pretty bad. I think I look like a big sea cow shimmying up a beach at 2 cm/ hour when I try to climb. I know that all my friends disagree, but until you catch me on film, I refuse to believe that I look like a competent climber.