Things that shouldn't be said

I need someone to take care of me, there I said it. I came back from a long day at work, deriving energy from what's left of my last meal almost 20 hours ago. Last night I passed out on the couch after iftar, having drank half a cup of water with my iftar, only to wake up after suhoor this morning. I was extremely tired all day, only to come back and realize I had to prepare my own iftaar. Allah ye7fa'6ch ya mama, I never realized what a daunting duty cooking was. There's a difference between cooking for pleasure and cooking as a means to feeding oneself, the latter is not enjoyable.
I decided that I'd order a take-out, half way through deciding what I'd order, I slept, this time on my bed, and woke-up 5 minutes before iftar. I ended up eating a tuna sandwich! I felt so sorry for myself, living alone with no one to take care of you should be a person's nightmare. And self-pity brings out the drama queen in me, I couldn't help but think what if I got sick, then what? I've been having palpitations for a few weeks now, very brief episodes associated with dizziness, I brushed it off as anxiety, but the hypochondriac in me is asking what if it was something else? What if I have an arrhythmia and one day have a syncopal event, who's going to give a collateral history? Am I being over-dramatic?
The independent person in me hates this clingy pathetic thoughts I am having. The feminist in me hates the fact that every time I go grocery shopping I think to myself that I need a man in my life, to at least help me carry the grocery bags. The doctor in me hates that I am neglecting my health and waiting for someone else to notice my ailments and ask me to go see a doctor. I am not happy trying to make each me happy.
Is this whole experience worth the heart ache it comes with? I still don't have an answer for that.

Things to do before 30

Three years ago, during exam time in medical school, when your mind wanders and becomes creative instead of studying,  I started making a list of things I wanted to do before I turned 30. Today, as I was packing to go back home, I found my coveted Moleskine, it's the last written journal standing, the one that survived being chucked during a cathartic phase. It has a list of 42 things I wanted to do before I turned 30. I don't remember why I brought it with me to Toronto, but I am assuming I wanted to make the most out of this soul-searching journey and reaching my  full potential as a person.
Too bad I only found it 2 days before my return back home, on the plus side though, a) it made me blog again and b) this is the longest vacation I will take in 3 years, a full month of being home, after living alone for 3 months for the first time in my life away from my family and friends, I could be ticking off some items off that list.
The list of 42 things is still very much true, I managed to accomplish 8 things so far. In order to tick one more off, (#41. Write, blog more), I am dusting off my keyboard and typing those words, in hopes of getting my rusty neurons to fire.

Memory Lane

It's been a year and a half since I graduated. I am a few weeks away from moving to a different continent to pursue my post-graduate education, all alone. There are still days where I miss university and dorm life. I miss my claustrophobic room, I miss lounging in the common room. I miss my college, my homebase, the library, my reserved bench on the first floor where I sat and studied for countless hours.
What I miss most is how easy things were; company was as easy as talking your roommate or knocking on your neighbor's door or just sitting in the living room and striking a conversation with whoever walks in. I miss how uncomplicated friendship was; it's not easy to pretend when you have seen each other at your best and your worst, we have seen each other sick and fat and thin and first thing in the morning brushing teeth.
I miss those random 3 am philosophical conversations about life, and love and being an adult. And I miss that crazy laughter, the one that leaves you rolling on the floor crying until your stomach hurts and you have to gasp for air, the byproduct of too much coffee and too little sleep.
I miss the fact that solitude meant just going for a walk around campus.
I miss knowing that no matter how crappy things were, at the end of the week you will head back home to your family, throw all your worries and just relax. Home was a getaway. I miss having a getaway.
I miss having an entourage, I miss knowing wherever I go I will find a familiar face.
I know retrospectively things always seem better than they actually were. I had my struggles then, I have my struggles now, it's part of being an adult. I just wish I could go back to my 18 year old self and give her some of my new found wisdom.

Forgive me Father for I haven't blogged.

I don't know how long it has been since I last blogged. Despite the therapeutic benefits of blogging, I keep finding excuses not to write, perhaps I don't want to reflect on my growth or regression, perhaps I don't want to implore my feelings or face my insecurities, perhaps Twitter killed Blogger.

The resurrection of this blog came with the escalation of my insomnia. I can consciously suppress my anxieties and stresses during the day, but night fall and the quietening of my senses heightens my subconscious mind. It takes over, flooding me with worries and I can't distract myself. Even when I manage to fall asleep, it escapes through to my dreams, reminding me that I can run but I can't hide. And I know the only way to battle this insomnia and restlessness is to put my worries out there, acknowledge them, my own version of a dream catcher.

So what is worrying me the most? Death, perhaps. I deal with sickness every day. I see sick people, that's what I do for a living. I dream of my patients all the time, I dream of them crashing on my watch, I dream I can't do anything about it, but I know this is normal, well I hope it is, I hope it means I care about them enough to dream about trying to save them. That's not the issue. Sickness I can handle, death on the other hand, I can't. I was trained to heal people, not to see them die. Perhaps medical school skipped over the dying part, they teach us how to break bad news, but they never taught us how to deal with death, how to come to terms with it, how to acknowledge mortality and our own limits as doctors.

There's nothing as heartbreaking as putting your stethoscope on a person's chest, and not hearing a heart beat, not hearing that whooshing sound of air travelling in and out of lungs, opening their eyes to see a fixed dilated pupil, to pronouncing someone dead.

Yet I feel so callous and heartless, I move on from pronouncing someone dead, to grabbing a quick bite or laughing about something, or making plans for the weekend, as if I haven't witnessed something so life altering for someone, a parent, a sibling, an offspring, an irreplaceable loss.

Of course it is important to distant my self, it is easier to think of them as patients, as "the pulmonary embolism" or "the decompensated liver disease", but when that same numbness and indifference dictates how I feel about the death of a close relative, then I start questioning my own humanity.

I know intellectualization is my defence mechanism, but I wish I could take a moment to feel sad, to cry a little, to remind myself that I couldn't have done anything more, to remind myself that it's okay to grieve.

My baby turned six =)

It was a hot Sunday afternoon in an apartment in London city. There was loud relentless crying coming from the stuffy living room, a scared child amidst more scared adults. What was going on? What's wrong with her? Another child stood near the door, thinking she was to blame, she started crying too. I came down, the heat intolerable, nose stuffed with tissue paper, feeling drowsy and tired. Will anyone make her stop?

That’s how it all started. That was the beginning. That’s where the story starts.

Things all went downhill from there. The unexplained crying, the regression, the tantrums. When the glimmer from her eyes disappeared, we all became worried.

She was a happy child. An adorable two and a half years old girl. Chubby with the tiniest teeth, a front tooth chipped just a little bit, courtesy of her mischievousness. She was a fast learner, she knew her ABCs and Arabic alphabets by the time she was two, 1-10 in two languages, around the same time. Every time we passed a billboard or a shop she would read the letters out loud. She even saw letters in dollops of cream and bits of food. She never spoke as such, but she knew a lot of words.

Then she slowly started forgetting what she had learned. Little by little she started becoming different. She became aloof. The twinkle from her eyes gone. She lied in bed for hours staring at the ceiling, laughing to herself. We knew when she had one of her days when she would sit and stare into nothingness, her eyes blank, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning, never responding to her name. In hindsight, there were signs we failed to notice. Sometimes when she wanted something she would guide our hand to it. She watched a certain cartoon over and over again, and if it stopped she would throw a tantrum. She didn't always maintain eye contact. If her routine was broken in any way she would become very upset. Every time her cousin came around she would cry and cry until she would throw up. Were we supposed to pick them up earlier coming from a medical background? How could’ve we know that this was not just a deviation from normal. But she looked so normal? But she’s our baby?

The time from when the possibility of her diagnosis hit us and the time her diagnosis was confirmed was excruciating. The MRI, the EEG, the neurologist, the psychologist, the psychiatrist, the mutawaa, the whole family. The denials. The frustration. The books. The different opinions. The tension. The prayers. The grief. And the whole thing all over again.

Have we accepted her diagnosis? Yes we have. Have we come to terms with it? No we haven’t. Despite the prognosis, we all still have hope that she will grow out of it some day. She is improving, and for that we are grateful. She attends the best special education school here. She attended extensive speech therapy. She is slowly but surely becoming more independent and verbalizing her needs. She is already very manipulative and knows how to get away with her naughtiness. And she gives the best hugs and kisses. Despite everything we love her. I can't imagine loving anyone as much as I love her, not even my own. She’s still my most precious neice, my princess. She will always be.

اللهم رب الناس اذهب البأس اشفها انت الشافى شفاء لايغادر سقما

Quarter-life crisis

Yet again I find myself at a point in time where I resent my life. I find no meaning in my day, no passion or drive.


Have I hit quarter life crisis already?

I spent more than 21 years of my 25 years on this planet as a student. Kindergarten, elementary school, preparatory school, high school and the infamous seven years of med school. Exactly ten days after my last exam I started my internship. To say that I didn't get enough rest is an understatement; I hardly caught my breath before I dived into my new job, my first job. A few months into my internship, I find myself studying, half-heartedly trying to at least, for some board exam, so I secure a place in the residency program of my choice. One question that keeps posing itself over and over again is why? Why am I doing this? Why do I always find myself in this meaningless rat race?

The other day my dentist asked if I was always this serious, and the question just opened a flood of regrets, disappointments, bitterness and missed opportunities.

Besides the fact that I am a doctor, what do I have to show for the past 25 years of my life? When I am old and wrinkly, what gripping stories will I be able to share?

The first seven years of my adult life were lived in a sheltered academic life, surrounded by people in the same boat, an entourage of geeks. It set a tone to my life, and now I see myself clashing with reality. Life outside of a hospital is hard. Being in a social gathering is hard. Non-medical lingo is hard. I can't recommunicate with my non-medical friends. I don't have any medical friends where I live. I can't help but isolate myself. I have no hobbies. I have no social life. I don't even have "crazy" university moments to reminisce. And I am still not past the last terrorizing month of med-school to rewind to the good bits.

I can't help but feel sorry for my wasted youth. For not expanding my horizons. For exhausting my brain and not using my body. For not experimenting. For seeing these years pass me by.

I don't know what I want anymore. I am not making sense to myself anymore. I am not sure of anything anymore. All this negativity is making me resent being a doctor already. The passion for medicine is abating, the drive to thrive diminishing and I hate myself for feeling this way about the only thing I am good at, being a doctor.

قال رسول الله صلى الله عليه و سلم:
"رأيت قوما من أمتي على منابر من نور، يمرون على الصراط كالبرق الخاطف، نورهم تشخص منه الأبصار، لا هم بالأنبياء، و لا هم بالصديقين، و لا هم بالشهداء، إنهم قوم تقضى على أيديهم حوائج الناس."
صدق رسول الله صلى الله عليه و سلم.
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Goodbye

"You died in my arms. You died in my arms! You freakin' died and then you left instructions that I was not allowed to save your life. You wanna know what I am scared of? I am scared of everything! I'm scared to move. I'm scared to breathe. I'm scared to touch you. I can't lose you. I won't survive. And that's your fault. You made me love you. You made me let you in and then you freakin' die in my arms!"
Awwww @ Karev, Grey's anatomy S06E02
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"The mud clings to my shoes, muffling my footsteps, and I wipe off only a bit. It leaves a greasy residue on my fingers, but I'm in no hurry to rinse away the rich organic sediment trapped under my fingernails. It's the antithesis of my studies, an immersion in a life of the mind that encourages withdrawal from all that is physical. Surrounded by the library's marble walls, carefully modulated temperatures, and fluorescent lights, I don't know whether it is midwinter or midsummer outside, midnight or dawn. This vacuum can breed a certain arrogance: it suggests that we, with our superior intellects, have managed to transcend the dictates of the material world. The cemetery mud reminds me otherwise. This sediment- formed in part, almost certainly, from the decomposed remains of america's great intellectuals buried on the hillsides- is evidence of inescapable grounding in a natural order still beyond human control."
A place for all seasons- christine delucia
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حدثنا محمد بن عبد الله بن نمير حدثنا أبي حدثنا الأعمش عن أبي صالح عن أبي هريرة قال قال رسول الله صلى الله عليه وسلم : (قاربوا وسددوا واعلموا أنه لن ينجو أحد منكم بعمله قالوا يا رسول الله ولا أنت قال ولا أنا إلا أن يتغمدني الله برحمة منه وفضل).
و بكى صلى الله عليه وسلم: (لو آخذني الله و ابن مريم بما كسبت هاتين) يديه، (لعذبنا عذابا شديدا).

رواه بخاري و مسلم.
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