I was reading a short medical review about memory problems in older people. There are, I suppose, good tips for doctors who often come across patients with memory loss.
The article teaches us to ask if the forgetful patient is paying his bills. Does he forget his way and get lost? A quick assessment of the severity of cognitive impairment, I was told, should include orientation to place, recall of three items and general knowledge such as news headlines. And something like that.
"Oops, are they talking about me?" I read with trepidation as I went over the list of questions. "It certainly has happened to me recently." A week ago, I found an insurance payment notice in my bag and simply couldn't remember if I had settled the bill. And then, I lost my way when I traveled on the train to Tsim Sha Tsui. Alas, I forgot the news of opening new rail line. By the time I realized my failing to change train at the new interchange station, I had been sent back on the same train – all the way to my place of departure.
I was in for yet another surprise when I quickly finished that wonderful checklist. If the doctor has the chance to see his patient in his own house, they said, it’s worth looking at the state of his fridge – is it empty or full of decaying food? "Good gracious! How on earth do they know everything about my fridge?" I was dumbfounded. Before the arrival of my baby I took efforts to clean up my home last weekend. And, ah - I found, inside my fridge, zillions of foodstuff already expired.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Wasabi
There are only two kinds of people in this world: those who believe that the earth revolves around the sun and those who act as if their babies are the centre of the universe.
Having said that, I find myself morphing inevitably from the former into someone who will monopolize conversations with boring baby topics. Simply put, "baby talk" is similar to wasabi: a little at the right time feels good, but we often overdo it. Oh, yeah, isn't this a normal reaction of becoming a father-to-be? My friends start to say that I have changed, and they're right. I have become more interested in childcare, nursery necessities, parenting, and so on.
Again, the point here is not to discourage us from seeing the world differently. There's plenty to learn how to share our joy and yet without boring the friends, in particular those without kids. It would be hard for a new parent not to talk about his or her newcomer. Still, it would be even harder for us to look from another angle before we're in other people's shoes. That's why I had never thought of freeing our mom-to-be doctors from the action-packed duty of admitting patients from the emergency department in the middle of the night. Nope – not until my wife's becoming pregnant.
Having said that, I find myself morphing inevitably from the former into someone who will monopolize conversations with boring baby topics. Simply put, "baby talk" is similar to wasabi: a little at the right time feels good, but we often overdo it. Oh, yeah, isn't this a normal reaction of becoming a father-to-be? My friends start to say that I have changed, and they're right. I have become more interested in childcare, nursery necessities, parenting, and so on.
Again, the point here is not to discourage us from seeing the world differently. There's plenty to learn how to share our joy and yet without boring the friends, in particular those without kids. It would be hard for a new parent not to talk about his or her newcomer. Still, it would be even harder for us to look from another angle before we're in other people's shoes. That's why I had never thought of freeing our mom-to-be doctors from the action-packed duty of admitting patients from the emergency department in the middle of the night. Nope – not until my wife's becoming pregnant.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Conformist
Not long ago, my wife and I had a dinner in a Chinese restaurant. It wasn't a particularly big one, but it served great dishes. But when I caught my wife's eye, I could see she was feeling tired. Then I started to notice that we were sitting beneath a noisy television, and right next to a busy corridor. You can't think of better way to make people throw a fit. Plus an epileptic fit - if you happen to be sensitive to the flicker of the television.
I wondered what prevented me from protesting when I was led to the table. Was it courtesy? An absent-minded faux pas?
I don't think either answer quite fits.
Looking back, it seems now that I have been shaped by my childhood history of making peace. If everyone has a narrative, mine is a tale to conform. Ever since my childhood, I've found it more disturbing to say "no" than to face the real threats to my well-being. Or as Robert Fulghum puts it, "All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten." And I have learned to say yes since I was a little boy. Which means being an easy-going buddy, an amicable student, a peacemaking brother, and on and on and on.
Being a profound believer in the I-do-so-because-I-had-been-taught-so myth, I have occasionally ruminated on whether I am clinging to a romanticized version of the past.
I wondered what prevented me from protesting when I was led to the table. Was it courtesy? An absent-minded faux pas?
I don't think either answer quite fits.
Looking back, it seems now that I have been shaped by my childhood history of making peace. If everyone has a narrative, mine is a tale to conform. Ever since my childhood, I've found it more disturbing to say "no" than to face the real threats to my well-being. Or as Robert Fulghum puts it, "All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten." And I have learned to say yes since I was a little boy. Which means being an easy-going buddy, an amicable student, a peacemaking brother, and on and on and on.
Being a profound believer in the I-do-so-because-I-had-been-taught-so myth, I have occasionally ruminated on whether I am clinging to a romanticized version of the past.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Summer
Thank God for the air-conditioning. Summer nearly does me in every year. You can feel it. Chocolate melts in your bag before reaching your mouth. The shirt simply sticks to your skin with sweat, and the temperature is unforgiving.
It's no accident that schools break at the summer time. This idea of summer break is not new, but certainly not to be taken for granted. For those of you interested in the history of education, children in the old days attended school year-round, with as many as 48 weeks of study a year. It wasn't until the 1840s (when educational reformers decided that overstimulating young minds could lead to nervous breakdown or insanity) did summer vacation come into existence.
This is just the beginning of the story, not the end. Everything changes. These days, we want our kids to rest less, not more. If you don't believe me, read those bitter laments about short school calendar in the United States (with an average of 180 days) when compared with 243 days a year in Japan. Go and ask the kids here how packed their summer class timetables are. Mind you, it's hot, and don't faint when you hear their answers.
It's no accident that schools break at the summer time. This idea of summer break is not new, but certainly not to be taken for granted. For those of you interested in the history of education, children in the old days attended school year-round, with as many as 48 weeks of study a year. It wasn't until the 1840s (when educational reformers decided that overstimulating young minds could lead to nervous breakdown or insanity) did summer vacation come into existence.
This is just the beginning of the story, not the end. Everything changes. These days, we want our kids to rest less, not more. If you don't believe me, read those bitter laments about short school calendar in the United States (with an average of 180 days) when compared with 243 days a year in Japan. Go and ask the kids here how packed their summer class timetables are. Mind you, it's hot, and don't faint when you hear their answers.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Silver Spoon Kid
Being born into not-so-wealthy family, as I mentioned before, doesn't mean a nightmare. How many times have you heard, "Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves"? This curse is often heard, and its origins are probably buried in those rich-kids-gone-bad tales. Nobody would deny that growing up amid affluence can easily backfire.
Before I tell you what I mean by backfire, let me explain what I don't mean. I would not go so far as to say that the son of a less privileged family learns a good deal about finance management. No. I don't remember any financial education. As a kid or teenager, I was [insert the word am here] woefully ignorant about finance. I had no idea of a paycheck, and I didn't have my personal piggy bank. My knowledge about money can be summed up in a single word. Zilch. "Something that's hard earned," I thought.
So let me go further. From my vantage point, one of the most important lessons from my upbringing is the down-to-earth spending habit. Here's how. I wasn't born to be a spender. My parents never gave me regular pocket money or set up an allowance for me. Although I knew nothing about investing, my dad and mum didn't impose strict rules on how each and every penny was spent. Every time I needed money (often, I didn't) when I was a kid, I simply took whatever I wanted from their purse or wallet. They seldom asked where the money was going and why, and I am glad to this day. My chest swelled with pride, as would my mother's, to know that how much my parents trust me.
Before I tell you what I mean by backfire, let me explain what I don't mean. I would not go so far as to say that the son of a less privileged family learns a good deal about finance management. No. I don't remember any financial education. As a kid or teenager, I was [insert the word am here] woefully ignorant about finance. I had no idea of a paycheck, and I didn't have my personal piggy bank. My knowledge about money can be summed up in a single word. Zilch. "Something that's hard earned," I thought.
So let me go further. From my vantage point, one of the most important lessons from my upbringing is the down-to-earth spending habit. Here's how. I wasn't born to be a spender. My parents never gave me regular pocket money or set up an allowance for me. Although I knew nothing about investing, my dad and mum didn't impose strict rules on how each and every penny was spent. Every time I needed money (often, I didn't) when I was a kid, I simply took whatever I wanted from their purse or wallet. They seldom asked where the money was going and why, and I am glad to this day. My chest swelled with pride, as would my mother's, to know that how much my parents trust me.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Toys
My wife and I seldom pay attention to the roving exhibitions in shopping arcades. This said, I admit there are good ones around. The other day, for example, we were walking home when we saw an exhibition about local toys from the days of yore. It's hard to walk away without staying behind to go over the sweet memories of long-ago toys.
Years passed. Five. Ten. And decades. Some childhood memories – in particular, with our toys – are engraved in a way we know will never fade. Absurd as the image is, it's often a small toy that lasts the longest in our closet of memory. It might take the form of a used chess set (as what we hear from Amy Tan's Rules of the Game) with dog-eared instruction book, and missing pieces of black pawn and white knight. The weird truth is that most children have their own way of having joy.
I didn't come from a rich family, but I never complain about being brought up in a public housing estate. One of my toys was the door key of my dad. By the end of the day, my father came home and couldn't wait to see us; he held out his bunch of keys a long way down the corridor. Clang, clang, clang. Wait! My brother, sister and I would then listen carefully to the sounds of footsteps and the clanging of keys, trying our best to be the first one in the family to call out loud "Papa." Bingo!
Years passed. Five. Ten. And decades. Some childhood memories – in particular, with our toys – are engraved in a way we know will never fade. Absurd as the image is, it's often a small toy that lasts the longest in our closet of memory. It might take the form of a used chess set (as what we hear from Amy Tan's Rules of the Game) with dog-eared instruction book, and missing pieces of black pawn and white knight. The weird truth is that most children have their own way of having joy.
I didn't come from a rich family, but I never complain about being brought up in a public housing estate. One of my toys was the door key of my dad. By the end of the day, my father came home and couldn't wait to see us; he held out his bunch of keys a long way down the corridor. Clang, clang, clang. Wait! My brother, sister and I would then listen carefully to the sounds of footsteps and the clanging of keys, trying our best to be the first one in the family to call out loud "Papa." Bingo!
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