Imagine your kid has a curious soul with a great deal of spur-of-the-moment ideas - as yours probably are. Many a kid will come up with activities beyond our comfort zone. An example is bringing a frog, a hamster, a goldfish, a dog, a cat and three kittens to your sister's wedding. At first glance it sounds silly, suited only to a weirdo's world. Not so. My daughter and I read about this idea in a children's book the other day.
Let's see how this idea ends up in Judith Kerr's When Willy Went to the Wedding. In this entertaining story, Willy didn't want his pets to miss his sister's wedding. No sooner did he finish the question "Shall I bring my pets to the wedding?" than Willy heard an intimidating "No." And there were not one, not two, but three big "No."
"No," said Willy's father.
"No,' said Willy's mother.
"No," said Willy's grown-up sister.
The best part of this story is how another grown-up - the bride who was going to marry Willy's sister - answered Willy. "Better not, old chap," said the bride. "Your pets might not like it." I love his tone. My daughter and I read the story for the umpteenth time, each time marvelling at the bride's way of saying no. A graceful way of saying no that most grown-ups have forgotten.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Wrong
Teachers are supposed to prepare lectures with meticulous attention to details and rules. Students should be told right from wrong. Well, that's the theory, anyway. Teaching medicine is a different story. It's not that simple. Although we can find protocols and guidelines (and even treat them as the Ten Commandments chiseled in sapphire), many of them don't work in real life.
Impractical rules aside, doctors are more often wrong than right. Well, surprise, surprise. In the lecture hall (or examination hall), our own sense of rightness runs deep, and our students' faith in our rightness is as fixed as the delusion of schizophrenic patients. In short, doctors can be wrong when we think we're right. That's the first lesson I told my summer students who saw patients with me this month.
Why should the students, then, follow me who can't even tell right from wrong? In a sense, that's the blind following the blind. Quite true. Still, it's somewhat better than being blind without realizing one's blindness. My lesson for them is about being wrong: about how doctors can be wrong, and how we cope when we're wrong.
Full disclosure: I just made a mistake after I demonstrated to my students how I diagnosed pericardial effusion in a patient with breast cancer last week. Oh, that's a serious condition when a big sac of fluid encases the heart. As the sac of fluid fills, it hugs the heart harder and harder, like a boa constrictor. The result can be calamitous because the heart can't beat - you can only save your patient's life by sticking a needle and then a catheter to drain out the fluid. I was glad my students were around to see how I did that maneuver.
And everything seemed to be going great until next morning, when I found out that my catheter had been pushed in far too deep.
I'd punctured my patient's heart wall. My heart sank, and so did my patient's.
Impractical rules aside, doctors are more often wrong than right. Well, surprise, surprise. In the lecture hall (or examination hall), our own sense of rightness runs deep, and our students' faith in our rightness is as fixed as the delusion of schizophrenic patients. In short, doctors can be wrong when we think we're right. That's the first lesson I told my summer students who saw patients with me this month.
Why should the students, then, follow me who can't even tell right from wrong? In a sense, that's the blind following the blind. Quite true. Still, it's somewhat better than being blind without realizing one's blindness. My lesson for them is about being wrong: about how doctors can be wrong, and how we cope when we're wrong.
Full disclosure: I just made a mistake after I demonstrated to my students how I diagnosed pericardial effusion in a patient with breast cancer last week. Oh, that's a serious condition when a big sac of fluid encases the heart. As the sac of fluid fills, it hugs the heart harder and harder, like a boa constrictor. The result can be calamitous because the heart can't beat - you can only save your patient's life by sticking a needle and then a catheter to drain out the fluid. I was glad my students were around to see how I did that maneuver.
And everything seemed to be going great until next morning, when I found out that my catheter had been pushed in far too deep.
I'd punctured my patient's heart wall. My heart sank, and so did my patient's.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
Trumpet
The British novelist C.S. Lewis once described the value of a book this way: "No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally - and often far more - worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond."
With a single sentence he moves us to another level of reading, and to a new experience of reading.
To learn why a book should be read and reread for everyone who is aging (that's all of us), I've been combining my daughter's story book and my PowerPoint presentation (when I speak to adults, of course). Let me offer an example. The other day, I was invited to speak on the topic of informed consent in an annual signature event of my organization. My first few slides come from Mo Willems' book Listen to My Trumpet! In this wonderful picture book, Mo Willems describes how Piggie invites Gerald (Elephant buddy) to listen to his new trumpet, agog with enthusiasm.
When you go through the story, you get the buzz of excitement. What is the song about? What notes are being played with the new instrument?
But there comes a point (and I think of it as somewhat common in life) when things don't happen the way you were hoping they would happen. The musical notes are utterly incomprehensible to Gerald's ears.
"Bluuurrrk!" (Oh dear, you might ask, what is this song?)
"Gr-ark, qu-ark!
Gr-ark! (How so?)
Blap-zap-Blap-Blonk."
"So? What do you think of my trumpet?" Piggie is eager to ask for opinion by the time he has finished his masterpiece.
"Um … Your trumpet is –"
"Yes?"
"Your trumpet is LOUD," Gerald replies.
"And … ?"
"You, uh, hold your trumpet very well." Well, that's what Gerald can come up with after lots of hum and haw.
"And … !?"
Sometimes we have something important to say, something that we know "deep down in our bones" is true, and yet find it difficult to say. But at what cost? Gerald's discomfort may come from his worry about hurting Piggie. Here's how Gerald discloses his feeling: "So, I will tell you the truth. Your trumpet is loud and shiny and you hold it well - But ... that was not music. Sorry"
Who is more surprised after listening to Gerald's reaction? (Hey, Spoiler Alert!) Not Piggie, of course.
"Gerald," replied Piggie, "You think I am trying to make music? I am trying to speak Elephant! I want to sound like you."
Ohhhhhh. The relevation came suddenly. Elephant doesn't know what Piggie wants him to listen; elephant doesn't know what to tell his friend Piggie; Piggie wants to know something Elephant dare not to tell.
Well, looking at how the two of them misunderstand each other, they're pretty like how doctors and patients interact. Doctors want to inform patients, and yet don't really know what to tell. Replace the character Piggie by patient, and then Elephant by doctor in the relevation, and you'll know what I mean in my lecture.
With a single sentence he moves us to another level of reading, and to a new experience of reading.
To learn why a book should be read and reread for everyone who is aging (that's all of us), I've been combining my daughter's story book and my PowerPoint presentation (when I speak to adults, of course). Let me offer an example. The other day, I was invited to speak on the topic of informed consent in an annual signature event of my organization. My first few slides come from Mo Willems' book Listen to My Trumpet! In this wonderful picture book, Mo Willems describes how Piggie invites Gerald (Elephant buddy) to listen to his new trumpet, agog with enthusiasm.
When you go through the story, you get the buzz of excitement. What is the song about? What notes are being played with the new instrument?
But there comes a point (and I think of it as somewhat common in life) when things don't happen the way you were hoping they would happen. The musical notes are utterly incomprehensible to Gerald's ears.
"Bluuurrrk!" (Oh dear, you might ask, what is this song?)
"Gr-ark, qu-ark!
Gr-ark! (How so?)
Blap-zap-Blap-Blonk."
"So? What do you think of my trumpet?" Piggie is eager to ask for opinion by the time he has finished his masterpiece.
"Um … Your trumpet is –"
"Yes?"
"Your trumpet is LOUD," Gerald replies.
"And … ?"
"You, uh, hold your trumpet very well." Well, that's what Gerald can come up with after lots of hum and haw.
"And … !?"
Sometimes we have something important to say, something that we know "deep down in our bones" is true, and yet find it difficult to say. But at what cost? Gerald's discomfort may come from his worry about hurting Piggie. Here's how Gerald discloses his feeling: "So, I will tell you the truth. Your trumpet is loud and shiny and you hold it well - But ... that was not music. Sorry"
Who is more surprised after listening to Gerald's reaction? (Hey, Spoiler Alert!) Not Piggie, of course.
"Gerald," replied Piggie, "You think I am trying to make music? I am trying to speak Elephant! I want to sound like you."
Ohhhhhh. The relevation came suddenly. Elephant doesn't know what Piggie wants him to listen; elephant doesn't know what to tell his friend Piggie; Piggie wants to know something Elephant dare not to tell.
Well, looking at how the two of them misunderstand each other, they're pretty like how doctors and patients interact. Doctors want to inform patients, and yet don't really know what to tell. Replace the character Piggie by patient, and then Elephant by doctor in the relevation, and you'll know what I mean in my lecture.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Try Everything
"Close but not too close" is the motto for our children's development.
This is what I learned after reading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way for Parents. I bought this book at the Art Gallery of New South Wales last month.
There is hardly a greater gift to us than finding a book with a theme of cultivating a child's creativity. Now that I look back through my way of upbringing my daughter, I realise that I might have intervened too much, inserting my own buried dreams into her path. I wish I could say I follow the wisdom of Julia Cameron. Stated simply, our job is to clear a path for them to discover their own means of self-expression.
As parents, it falls to us to encourage and praise the child's efforts - and not much else. The child does the rest.
What could be better for Jasmine, we thought, than a "creativity corner" in our home? That's what we did. A corner with assorted items for inspiration - toilet-paper rolls, glue, tapes, beads, boxes, yarn ... And so, she makes her (almost) daily pilgrimage to that corner to begin her projects. As I write this, she has just created a smartphone keyboard out of used cardboard, with the confident smile of Steve Jobs on her face. "Objets d'art," I told her.
This is what I learned after reading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way for Parents. I bought this book at the Art Gallery of New South Wales last month.
There is hardly a greater gift to us than finding a book with a theme of cultivating a child's creativity. Now that I look back through my way of upbringing my daughter, I realise that I might have intervened too much, inserting my own buried dreams into her path. I wish I could say I follow the wisdom of Julia Cameron. Stated simply, our job is to clear a path for them to discover their own means of self-expression.
As parents, it falls to us to encourage and praise the child's efforts - and not much else. The child does the rest.
What could be better for Jasmine, we thought, than a "creativity corner" in our home? That's what we did. A corner with assorted items for inspiration - toilet-paper rolls, glue, tapes, beads, boxes, yarn ... And so, she makes her (almost) daily pilgrimage to that corner to begin her projects. As I write this, she has just created a smartphone keyboard out of used cardboard, with the confident smile of Steve Jobs on her face. "Objets d'art," I told her.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Book
Robin Sharma, author of The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, once wrote, "Never go anywhere without a book under you arm."
How true. So many of us spend time idling on commute time and standing in line. As a matter of fact, the U.S. News and World Report reported that, over the course of our lifetime, we will spend five years standing in line. I repeat, five years in a lifetime.
Is idling a must? Not necessarily. Is the waiting a waste of time? Probably not. Is it an opportunity to take a break? Who knows? But one thing is certain: I enjoy reading at the same time of waiting in line. I cannot tell you how many books I have finished on the road, and how many of them I wouldn't have been able to cover if I confine my reading habit to that in a study or library.
To this day I keep the habit of carrying a book wherever I go. In the words of John Dryden, "We first make our habits and then our habits make us."
How true. So many of us spend time idling on commute time and standing in line. As a matter of fact, the U.S. News and World Report reported that, over the course of our lifetime, we will spend five years standing in line. I repeat, five years in a lifetime.
Is idling a must? Not necessarily. Is the waiting a waste of time? Probably not. Is it an opportunity to take a break? Who knows? But one thing is certain: I enjoy reading at the same time of waiting in line. I cannot tell you how many books I have finished on the road, and how many of them I wouldn't have been able to cover if I confine my reading habit to that in a study or library.
To this day I keep the habit of carrying a book wherever I go. In the words of John Dryden, "We first make our habits and then our habits make us."
Monday, April 4, 2016
Upstairs
The most acclaimed teaching of Daniel J. Siegel is about mindfulness. I bought his book The Whole-Brain Child in Melbourne nearly half year ago, and read about children's ability to stop and think instead of hurting someone with their words.
In more straightforward lingo: our primitive downstairs brain is less sophisticated than the upstairs brain, but there is nothing wrong with using the downstairs brain and feeling upset. At times, of course, we need the upstairs brain to tame the downstairs tantrum. Upstairs brain is the yang to the downstairs brain's yin. According to Siegel, a well-integrated brain circuit means a timely flipping the lid from downstairs to upstairs brain, even in small children. Tonight, I noticed something magical happening to this flip in my six-year-old child.
Jasmine needed a haircut. The trouble, for novice like my wife, is that what is meant to be a trim can turn into a scream (in front of the mirror). My daughter's new hairstyle didn't quite turn out as she was expecting. Yup, it has a Japanese name “age-otori” - the feeling of looking worse after a haircut. We could see her downstairs brain running amok. "Ah, I'm afraid my classmates won't recognize me when the new school term starts tomorrow."
"Huh?"
"Seriously, mum, I don't want to go to school like this."
Long silence.
I thought my wife couldn't have been more upset. I felt the need to give my daughter's new haircut a compliment, the voice inside telling me to do something - and quick. I took a good look at my daughter's hair. Her face turned white, and through tears of frustration, she said, "I'm so sorry, mum, and I shouldn't be that rude. I'm as much as I hate myself, making you feel bad. Sorry, mum."
All this happened before I could step in. I realized that my daughter had already switched to her upstairs brain. Her reaction is, to my eye, an incredible leap forward, and upstairs.
In more straightforward lingo: our primitive downstairs brain is less sophisticated than the upstairs brain, but there is nothing wrong with using the downstairs brain and feeling upset. At times, of course, we need the upstairs brain to tame the downstairs tantrum. Upstairs brain is the yang to the downstairs brain's yin. According to Siegel, a well-integrated brain circuit means a timely flipping the lid from downstairs to upstairs brain, even in small children. Tonight, I noticed something magical happening to this flip in my six-year-old child.
Jasmine needed a haircut. The trouble, for novice like my wife, is that what is meant to be a trim can turn into a scream (in front of the mirror). My daughter's new hairstyle didn't quite turn out as she was expecting. Yup, it has a Japanese name “age-otori” - the feeling of looking worse after a haircut. We could see her downstairs brain running amok. "Ah, I'm afraid my classmates won't recognize me when the new school term starts tomorrow."
"Huh?"
"Seriously, mum, I don't want to go to school like this."
Long silence.
I thought my wife couldn't have been more upset. I felt the need to give my daughter's new haircut a compliment, the voice inside telling me to do something - and quick. I took a good look at my daughter's hair. Her face turned white, and through tears of frustration, she said, "I'm so sorry, mum, and I shouldn't be that rude. I'm as much as I hate myself, making you feel bad. Sorry, mum."
All this happened before I could step in. I realized that my daughter had already switched to her upstairs brain. Her reaction is, to my eye, an incredible leap forward, and upstairs.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Birds of a Feather
The headache of finding travel buddies is exemplified by the title of an article published in the Lonely Planet: How to travel with friends (and not want to kill them).
When it comes to travel companions, the surest thing you can say is that they're as difficult to find as kidney donors. Well, you will need good matching to avoid rejection.
In case you're wondering whether full-match travel buddy exists on this planet, the answer is that we just connected one during our Sydney visit. Going on holiday on our own - three of us in a nuclear family - worked well during our first half of the trip, but there's no denying that we love the second part more. It's all about meeting Jasmine's old best friend and her sister. They knew each other in primary school, and then her friend's family moved to Malaysia. In an attempt to meet again, we planned the Sydney trip.
Everything went well. The kids met, chatted about this and that, playing till the cows come home - oh, and did I mention their parents were as tired as dead cows by then? When I say "play," I mean playing wildly. And when I say "playing wildly," I don't mean any wild idea - I mean those wildly crazy ideas like forward roll gymnastics exercise, anywhere and anytime, on the road.
The children preferred to shoehorn three of them into the back seat of our car. They snuggled up at night even it's not the comfiest way to sleep in the same bed. It looked as if they had to grab every minute before it's time to bid farewell. During the week together, there wasn't a single day when I didn't hear their clapping game "A Sailor Went to Sea." Ditto for their heartwarming laughter. And their parents' laughter, too.
The holy grail for travel buddies, I think, is being able to find kids with similar temperaments - and similar parents.
When it comes to travel companions, the surest thing you can say is that they're as difficult to find as kidney donors. Well, you will need good matching to avoid rejection.
In case you're wondering whether full-match travel buddy exists on this planet, the answer is that we just connected one during our Sydney visit. Going on holiday on our own - three of us in a nuclear family - worked well during our first half of the trip, but there's no denying that we love the second part more. It's all about meeting Jasmine's old best friend and her sister. They knew each other in primary school, and then her friend's family moved to Malaysia. In an attempt to meet again, we planned the Sydney trip.
Everything went well. The kids met, chatted about this and that, playing till the cows come home - oh, and did I mention their parents were as tired as dead cows by then? When I say "play," I mean playing wildly. And when I say "playing wildly," I don't mean any wild idea - I mean those wildly crazy ideas like forward roll gymnastics exercise, anywhere and anytime, on the road.
The children preferred to shoehorn three of them into the back seat of our car. They snuggled up at night even it's not the comfiest way to sleep in the same bed. It looked as if they had to grab every minute before it's time to bid farewell. During the week together, there wasn't a single day when I didn't hear their clapping game "A Sailor Went to Sea." Ditto for their heartwarming laughter. And their parents' laughter, too.
The holy grail for travel buddies, I think, is being able to find kids with similar temperaments - and similar parents.
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