Name

Try this. Rewrite the sentence "the flower in the window" as "the geranium in the window."

The name geranium immediately gives us the scene by the window - red petals, green circular leaves, all straining toward sunlight. This is what I've learnt from Natalie Goldberg after reading her classic Writing Down the Bones. Don't say "fruit," Natalie reminds us, and tell what kind of fruit - "It is a pomegranate."

Give things the dignity of names, to paraphrase Natalie Goldberg. And that's pretty wise.

These are words from the heart as much as the head, and as such offer precious insights into the world other than that of writers. About ten years ago I decided I had to remember people's names after reading How to Win Friends and Influence People. While I have trouble with memory as I get old, I subscribe to Dale Carnegie's theory that names are the sweetest and most important sound in any language. In fact, we could offer dozens, indeed hundreds, of examples in which remembering names gains good will.

Okay. Take the example of a busy medical ward. An on-call intern came to my ward last night when one of my patients developed pancreas complication after a procedure to look for stones in his bile ducts. A complication in the pancreas is no joke; it means an injury to the patient's digestive system. If the injury gets free rein, it can literally digest or eat away the pancreas. Many of us, understandably, freaked out after receiving the high enzyme laboratory level. Nine times out of ten, the nurses or doctor would call the intern "Hey, houseman, that's bed 10 with amylase level over 6000." But this wasn't the case. Our nurse called her by name, Katrina, instead of "houseman."

I didn't know how the nurses recalled our intern's name, but I certainly felt the appreciation of Katrina.

Consult Guys

As a practicing physician, I understand the temptation to skip the medical literature. A sick patient comes in and we're so focused on the things that might help him, as what we'd been taught in medical school, that we don't think of looking at anything else. Except those maxims portrayed as the golden rule by our senior.

The sicker the patient, the greater the temptation to skip the reality check. It's a temptation that can sometimes prove wrong. My classmate's dad came in two weeks ago with crushing chest pain. In the middle of the night. I was on call and told myself that was a serious heart attack after looking at those berserk zigzag lines of his electrocardiogram. And a heart rate slower than 40 per minute. This means a blocked blood vessel depriving my patient's heart muscle of oxygen supply. One of the most dreadful consequences of deoxygenated heart muscle is muscle death, if not patient's death.

Quick, I reminded myself, to bring back oxygen to his precarious heart by clot buster medication. And extra oxygen, most of us would say. Why not? President Eisenhower was even placed in an oxygen tank when he had an heart attack more than sixty years ago. We don't use oxygen tank nowadays; my previous textbook Clinical Medicine by Kumar and Clark suggested oxygen at 60% administered by face mask for several hours. This is not a new idea. And neither is it a correct idea. With time, we are learning the harmful effect of (too much) oxygen. This is a recent topic in the journal Annals of Internal Medicine . The title of this video teaching feature is Consult Guys, by which it refers to two old guys (think about the white-haired consultant in authoritative white coats) discussing the updated science of medicine.

The way those two consultants address the questions and debunk those because-I-said-so myths can powerfully remind myself not to let my brain get sclerotic with age, sticking with dogma without doubt. Even my hair isn't getting grey, I am old enough to get a job promotion to be the consult guy. That's why I have to read and keep myself updated.

Gratitude

I was drawn to Gratitude the minute I came across the book at an airport bookstore in New Zealand.

That's a small collection of essays published shortly before the death of Dr. Oliver Sacks. The first time I read his writing was long ago (when my senior neurologist bought me The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat). Nearly twenty years passed, and finally Dr Sacks told his readers the melanoma in his right eye had metastasized and occupied a third of his liver. Then his brain. And everywhere.

The topic of incurable cancer is always complicated. Oliver Sacks dealt with his death in a simple and neat way. The first essay "Mercury" was written days before his eightieth birthday. Mercury was referred to its atomic number in the periodic table - eighty - the exact number of his age by then. Next year, he received a birthday gift of thallium, element 81. Followed by lead (yes, number 82) another year later. I also knew, though, that bismuth's atomic number is 83, that he wished to get bismuth and couldn't.

All he could do was feel grateful for his own path, live his own life, and die his own death. And he did.

Star

Tidying up my higgledy-piggledy desk has given me the athlete's satisfaction of breaking a world record at the Olympic games. Now, if you ask me, what has been going on in my mind is that I secretly wish to receive a pat on the back from my wife.

Which I'll admit can be as natural as a firefighter who expects appreciation after cleaning the tons of wreckage at the World Trade Center (and yes, my desk wasn't that much better).

I'm not alone in nagging the spouse to give me more praise. Ditto for Gretchen Rubin. I'm glad to have read her chapter on giving up gold stars. Upon reflection, Gretchen admits that it would be nice to dole out gold stars although we should not do work for the sake of earning gold stars.

And I wouldn't say my affectionate wife doesn't appreciate my effort if there isn't a gold medal around my neck. Plus, she was too busy. My wife had left for work before my daughter woke up this morning. While we were getting ready for school, I showed Jasmine my clean desk. Without a word my daughter went straight to clean her own desk. Oh well, I couldn't believe it. Who'd have thought that decluttering could bring such joy, such reward? Part of me understood the importance of daddy's setting good example. And part of me wanted to hand a gold star to Gretchen Rubin.

Project

Gretchen Rubin starts with a confession about her closet in her book The Happiness Project. "I've never been very good at folding, so messy, lopsided towers of shirts and sweaters jammed the shelves," says the author of self-help bestseller. "I had to muscle my way into a mass of wool and cotton to pull anything out."

The Happiness Project, for the not-so-happy readers, is a monthly action plan guide to change the life. And to those who feel happy, this book can remind us we aren't as happy as we should be. That means an extra serving of happiness.

Once I'd finished the chapter on closet clutter, I went straight to my messy desk tonight. Next I told myself to follow Gretchen's tips and set aside one bag for throwaways. As I dived in and started weeding, I made a mental note of Gretchen's classification to size up the clutter: nostalgic clutter (relics I clung to from my old days), conservation clutter (instruction manuals I've kept because they're useful - even though they're useless to me), freebie clutter (gifts and giveaways that I didn't use), aspirational clutter (things that I owned but only aspired to use, such as calligraphy guide).

I don't know how much time I'd spent in clearing out my desk (not my drawers, if I'm to be honest), but you can take my word for it that there aren't many projects as happy as removing an eyesore.

I know, because I try.

Joke

Summer is still with us but my daughter's summer holiday is over. Her school starts today.

To get ready for her new school term, Jasmine was excited to prepare her box of sharpened pencils, buy glue sticks and file folders. I didn't do much but thought it's a good idea to borrow The Funniest Back to School Joke Book Ever from the public library.

With a few laugh-out-loud jokes up my sleeves, I can make the trip to school bus station more fun for everyone. Humours and entertainment aside, the book has reminded my daughter at least some school stuff in a not-so-serious way. For mathematics, we learn why six is afraid of seven (because seven ate nine). In terms of English, we find out which part of English boxers are best at (and that's punch-uation). As for science, we are taught the noisiest part of our body - our ear drum.

But, if your kid study in a less laissez faire school than my daughter's, you won't have to follow my example. Your kid probably has a pile of book reports and summer holiday assignments to occupy the summer. My daughter has none. That's good news. How often do we hear that children love summer holiday assignments? Few activities are as nerve-racking as summer homework, which usually ends up in a battlefield - between the kids and their parents. Giving our children homework throughout the year, including summer holiday, is the same as charging our smartphone full all the time: it causes the battery lifespan shorter, not longer.

If you don't believe me, here's a story about a son who complained about it, "Dad, I'm tired of doing homework."

"Now, son, hard work never killed anyone."

"I know," replied his son seriously, "but I don't want to be the first."

Work

What to Expect the First Year is one of the most helpful baby guides. After my friend's giving birth last month, I tried to buy one, but no dice, until I found the third edition on the last day of my New Zealand trip.

I knew I couldn't tell the difference between the second and third editions. I picked up the six-hundred-something-page book, rummaging through the chapters, and reminded myself the days when my daughter didn't sleep through the night. The sleep cycle consists of wake, calm the baby, doze, wake, calm the baby, try a bottle of milk, rinse, wake, another bottle, rinse. Repeat. To get an idea of what this cycle looks like, you may go and ask any bleary-eyed medical intern how a pager behaves like a baby. Wake, tame the pager, doze, wake, calm the patient, try a cup of coffee, another pager alarm, wake, another cup of coffee. Repeat. All parents and new doctors go through this sort of chaotic sleep-wake cycle.

I'm not an expert on parenting, but I've been calling myself a master of pager. During these years of hospital work, I might not be the first to arrive or the last to leave my hospital, but I have a work ethic of keeping the pager with me all the time. Seven days a week. Just imagine a clingy child who wraps his legs around his parent's as tight as a gecko, and you'll know how my pager sticks with me. That said, a pager doesn't work when the owner travels out of town. It's the only time when I don't bring my pager with me. That means a holiday for my pager. A word of caution: holiday doesn't apply to an e-mail box. Well, I used to let it be. Sometimes I came back from holiday to find a flooding mailbox. And by "sometimes" I mean "almost every time." By "flooding" I mean "quota exceeded." Truth be told, such scene change from vacation to a morning swamped with work plus mails-to-be replied makes you go bonkers. Yes, you clinically go mad. I tried this myself. More than once.

This year, I found a simple solution: Make peace with my hospital mailbox and configure my personal smartphone to read the mails. That means 24/7 fingertip access to my workplace mails. I know what you're thinking, but checking the e-mails to leave my in-basket empty (even during my vacation) is obviously more effective than getting mad. That's the philosophy of Pike Place Fish market: There is always a choice about the way you do your work, even if there is not a choice about the work itself.

Let Go

Imagine bringing your children to possibly the world's most scenically diverse island, with stunning lake views and lovely lodgings. Everything is perfect until your kid starts to worry and whisper, "Mum and dad, when will we have to check out?"

Unfortunately, neither kids nor grown-ups are immune to the end-of-the-holiday worries. My daughter just asked me the same question last night.

For those of you who have children and when it's close to the end of summer holiday, this should be pretty familiar. If you don't have kids, well, think about Garfield and his famous Monday blues - and dare I say, yours too.

I'm glad to have read the Search Inside Yourself chapter on letting go near the end of my New Zealand holiday. Wilting flowers do not cause suffering, as Chade-Meng Tan reminds us; it is the unrealistic desire that flowers not wilt that causes suffering.

Let go. Check out. I told myself.