Wouldn't it be nice for a doctor to take an occasional break and learn something new? Perhaps.
That's exactly what I've been doing these two days.
A course on leadership. Inside a classroom chock full of books to borrow and read. I am learning a little more each day. Some materials are a bit complicated for dimwit like me, I must say. One might be tempted to say that I am exaggerating. I am not. When our teacher showed me the four quadrants of DiSC leadership style, I found myself as lost as Dori from Finding Nemo.
Luckily, I felt more confident after reading another book TouchPoints by the CEO of Campbell Soup Company. Douglas Conant uses a simpler schema: the tough-minded approach (tackling task head-on) and the tender-hearted approach (where people come first). I quickly figured out my style (tender-hearted) and my not-so-strong style.
If there was one great lesson learned from the leadership style theory, it was this: I am not to lower the volume where I'm strong but to dial up in the area where I'm less comfortable.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Sunday, March 19, 2017
Ash
"Now I am (one ... two ... three ... four) five years old!"
This is Alex's story I read with Jasmine on Sunday afternoon. My daughter loves reading story books; it's our favorite thing to do together.
"For my birthday I am having a police party. I am really excited - my daddy was a policeman!"
Let me explain: Alex used past tense since his daddy died when he was three. A true story.
If you're looking for a children's book about cremation and burial in age-appropriate language, you should try What Happened to Daddy's Body? That's a book Jasmine just couldn't put down even we were going to pick up her buddy for a play date.
I'd just told Jasmine my attending a thanksgiving ceremony for deceased organ donors in the morning, but this topic is easier to talk than that of a wooden box holding Alex's daddy, being taken down by a special lift into the cellar of the crematorium. How a body doesn't work any more after death. Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't feel anything any more.
When Alex knew that the box called coffin will be put into a very, very hot machine for burning the dead body, he asked her mum, "And it doesn't hurt because the dead body can't feel anything any more?"
By the end of the story, my daughter learned more about ashes, and how Alex took his dad's ashes to spread in a garden, mixed with soil, helping the tree to grow. And that, if you ask me about the most important lesson, it's okay to be sad, but it's okay to be happy, too.
This is Alex's story I read with Jasmine on Sunday afternoon. My daughter loves reading story books; it's our favorite thing to do together.
"For my birthday I am having a police party. I am really excited - my daddy was a policeman!"
Let me explain: Alex used past tense since his daddy died when he was three. A true story.
If you're looking for a children's book about cremation and burial in age-appropriate language, you should try What Happened to Daddy's Body? That's a book Jasmine just couldn't put down even we were going to pick up her buddy for a play date.
I'd just told Jasmine my attending a thanksgiving ceremony for deceased organ donors in the morning, but this topic is easier to talk than that of a wooden box holding Alex's daddy, being taken down by a special lift into the cellar of the crematorium. How a body doesn't work any more after death. Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't feel anything any more.
When Alex knew that the box called coffin will be put into a very, very hot machine for burning the dead body, he asked her mum, "And it doesn't hurt because the dead body can't feel anything any more?"
By the end of the story, my daughter learned more about ashes, and how Alex took his dad's ashes to spread in a garden, mixed with soil, helping the tree to grow. And that, if you ask me about the most important lesson, it's okay to be sad, but it's okay to be happy, too.
Saturday, March 18, 2017
Pride
Final year examination of our medical students is around the corner. Easy? I don't think so. Tension? Absolutely.
Ask most teachers the first rule to pass oral examination and they'll likely cite the credo "not to argue with your examiners." I told my students the same advice. "Follow the cue or you'll be killed."
That's one of the reasons most doctors tend to lionise senior during ward round. As a senior myself, I have a confession to make. Even if we don't realise it, we often mix up our authority as the almighty examiner and that of a doctor. My junior, for instance, didn't agree with my diagnosis the other day, and I could sense the way I get offended when an examination candidate sets out to defend his own diagnosis. Arguing with an examiner equipped with a model answer is tantamount to suicide. Sounds like a dictator, right? And, of course, the line between defending the truth and confronting the boss is blurry. But one thing is clear, I may not know better than a junior doctor when there isn't model answer at hand in real patient care.
So yes, it's much more difficult for a senior to be humble than a junior to speak up. This is especially true in hierarchical animals' case. Which doctors are, in a way that magnifies the pecking order. Whether we like to admit it or not, we need younger doctors to tell us we're wrong at times.
"Never argue with stupid people, they will drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience." That's a quote I wish my junior won't say behind my back.
Ask most teachers the first rule to pass oral examination and they'll likely cite the credo "not to argue with your examiners." I told my students the same advice. "Follow the cue or you'll be killed."
That's one of the reasons most doctors tend to lionise senior during ward round. As a senior myself, I have a confession to make. Even if we don't realise it, we often mix up our authority as the almighty examiner and that of a doctor. My junior, for instance, didn't agree with my diagnosis the other day, and I could sense the way I get offended when an examination candidate sets out to defend his own diagnosis. Arguing with an examiner equipped with a model answer is tantamount to suicide. Sounds like a dictator, right? And, of course, the line between defending the truth and confronting the boss is blurry. But one thing is clear, I may not know better than a junior doctor when there isn't model answer at hand in real patient care.
So yes, it's much more difficult for a senior to be humble than a junior to speak up. This is especially true in hierarchical animals' case. Which doctors are, in a way that magnifies the pecking order. Whether we like to admit it or not, we need younger doctors to tell us we're wrong at times.
"Never argue with stupid people, they will drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience." That's a quote I wish my junior won't say behind my back.
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
Birds
Jennifer Ackerman was right to call birds "the genius." Not only do birds and humans have relatively large brains but both have brain size that correlates with juvenile period.
Most bird species, as I learned from Ackerman's The Genius of Birds, are altricial and their brains - like ours - grow a great deal after birth. In other words, nest sitters end up with bigger brains than nest quitters. Tempting as it may be to compare birds with human, Ackerman reminded us not to be accused of anthropomorphizing, interpreting the behavior of a bird as if it were a human clothed in feathers.
Still, I love the idea that birds and humans have a lot in common - emotional, analytic, creative, spatial, to name a few. Let me offer an example from the book. Genome sequencing of forty-eight species of birds has identified a set of more than fifty genes that flick on and off in the brains of both humans and songbirds in regions dealing with imitating sounds, speaking, and singing.
As I read the book, I kept drawing parallels between birds and my daughter. Yeah, the fact that birds play a lot seems to be good news. And more so for the suggestion by zoologist that it's only clever birds that are capable of complex play activities. My daughter would be delighted to hear that play both requires intelligence and nurtures it.
To back up the ornithologists' finding that sleep plays a role in song learning for young birds, I have to say that this is true for Jasmine, too. Once upon a time - just last week really - my daughter was practicing the song of Disney animated movie Moana "How Far I'll Go." An attractive song, in lyrics or in melody. Ask 10 serious followers of Angela Duckworth what best characterizes grit, you'll probably get 10 different answers. Ask 10 animated movie fans how Moana ignites children's grit, and you might get just one: their persistent efforts to pick up the songs and remember the lines. Clearly, my girl practices the song for more times than I can count.
After sleep, she was still singing, this time pianissimo, "Every turn I take, every trail I track. Every path I make, every road leads back. To the place I know, where I cannot go. Where I long to be."
Oh oh oh, oh, oh oh oh oh.
Most bird species, as I learned from Ackerman's The Genius of Birds, are altricial and their brains - like ours - grow a great deal after birth. In other words, nest sitters end up with bigger brains than nest quitters. Tempting as it may be to compare birds with human, Ackerman reminded us not to be accused of anthropomorphizing, interpreting the behavior of a bird as if it were a human clothed in feathers.
Still, I love the idea that birds and humans have a lot in common - emotional, analytic, creative, spatial, to name a few. Let me offer an example from the book. Genome sequencing of forty-eight species of birds has identified a set of more than fifty genes that flick on and off in the brains of both humans and songbirds in regions dealing with imitating sounds, speaking, and singing.
As I read the book, I kept drawing parallels between birds and my daughter. Yeah, the fact that birds play a lot seems to be good news. And more so for the suggestion by zoologist that it's only clever birds that are capable of complex play activities. My daughter would be delighted to hear that play both requires intelligence and nurtures it.
To back up the ornithologists' finding that sleep plays a role in song learning for young birds, I have to say that this is true for Jasmine, too. Once upon a time - just last week really - my daughter was practicing the song of Disney animated movie Moana "How Far I'll Go." An attractive song, in lyrics or in melody. Ask 10 serious followers of Angela Duckworth what best characterizes grit, you'll probably get 10 different answers. Ask 10 animated movie fans how Moana ignites children's grit, and you might get just one: their persistent efforts to pick up the songs and remember the lines. Clearly, my girl practices the song for more times than I can count.
Oh oh oh, oh, oh oh oh oh.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Lesson
"Raising a girl takes two parents: A mom to show her how to be a woman. A dad to encourage her to be fearless."
That's what I've learned from Harry H. Harrison Jr. I think he's right. I am not as touchy-feely as my wife, who has been truly amazing at giving our daughter pillow talk. I have absolutely no such magic power to guide my child - zilch, zip, nada!
You probably want to know my way of sharing with Jasmine. Well, there is a part of me that believes that reading could be a gift for her, and a salvation for me. And this simply works for us. So I'd sit next to my daughter and read, weaving life lessons together with those stories.
This morning, we read about an African girl named Mariama who takes a long journey by car, by train, and an iron bird, to study in a new school. A whole new experience with kids nearly "as white as the African moon that shone over the village where she used to live." Story, or narrative, or whatever you want to call it is our bedrock of learning. We began to talk about the challenge of boarding school, and she wondered if she could cope.
Then another piece of reading tonight gave her even more thinking: Pomelo Begins to Grow (if you haven't read it, it's adorable and funny). I can't tell you how many giggles we had musing over the story of a tiny pink elephant Pomelo facing the challenges of growing big, growing up, growing strong, and growing old. Pomelo, like all young children, doesn't seem to be aware of his growth. Instead of realising his getting bigger, the elephant goes long stretches of time trying to figure out the reason his favourite dandelion is getting unusually small.
I'm sure nothing would ever be a better way to learn about growth.
That's what I've learned from Harry H. Harrison Jr. I think he's right. I am not as touchy-feely as my wife, who has been truly amazing at giving our daughter pillow talk. I have absolutely no such magic power to guide my child - zilch, zip, nada!
You probably want to know my way of sharing with Jasmine. Well, there is a part of me that believes that reading could be a gift for her, and a salvation for me. And this simply works for us. So I'd sit next to my daughter and read, weaving life lessons together with those stories.
This morning, we read about an African girl named Mariama who takes a long journey by car, by train, and an iron bird, to study in a new school. A whole new experience with kids nearly "as white as the African moon that shone over the village where she used to live." Story, or narrative, or whatever you want to call it is our bedrock of learning. We began to talk about the challenge of boarding school, and she wondered if she could cope.
Then another piece of reading tonight gave her even more thinking: Pomelo Begins to Grow (if you haven't read it, it's adorable and funny). I can't tell you how many giggles we had musing over the story of a tiny pink elephant Pomelo facing the challenges of growing big, growing up, growing strong, and growing old. Pomelo, like all young children, doesn't seem to be aware of his growth. Instead of realising his getting bigger, the elephant goes long stretches of time trying to figure out the reason his favourite dandelion is getting unusually small.
I'm sure nothing would ever be a better way to learn about growth.
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