Two Years Ago

After he died, I never shed a single tear. I went silent all around the house, be my hyper self at school. Those who knew, knew. Those who didn't, I held back my tongue.

Answered some questions about his death ("Dehydration," I shrugged.) and nodded my thanks for the condolences I received. Choked on my tongue whenever everything seemed to remind me of him (Kak Syafaf suggested we go to a park soon and I was brimming with the idea of taking him along when I remembered he was no longer around). My eyes watered in front of some, but that was all.

People didn't love him like I did, and I understand they didn't see my sadness as something serious. That didn't mean I was comfortable.

They talked so casually of him, laughed and made jokes about him at my expense. I was silent. I knew the root of all evil is not talking, but I couldn't bring myself to tell them I was hurt. I couldn't deal with the aftermath of their stricken face, apologizing repetitively and gushing with sympathy. It was too awkward for me.

He was never my pet. I was never his mom. He was my roommate whom I talked to on occasion and regarded as a younger brother. He amused me sometimes and gave meaning to coming back to my room.

"Yuuno!" I greeted him elatedly as I slowly slammed open the door, in case he was behind it.

It was a relationship of shared smiles, secret glances, and simple moments. One-sided, of course.

We didn't talk much. But he was there. Whatever happened, be it bad or catastrophe, he was there. He was, literally, a stable presence in my life.

A week after he died, I cleaned his pen. Wet-tissued the whole pen floor and wiped his water and food tray. Arranged all the pebbles I brought home from Bahariya and emptied the sand onto his water tray.

Stared at his usual lying spot, hands on my hip. Then it dawned on me that he was gone. Gone.

Forever. Never coming back.

I'll never get to see him appreciating the gifts I brought back for him. I'll never get the chance to be kind to him, to feel his cold shell on my palm and to frown at him for peeing on the carpet. Never get the chance to fuss over him, to glare people for putting him on his back, to be amused at him sleep-walking.

Never get the chance to talk about him lovingly. To lose to him in our who-live-longer competition.

I cried.

---

P/S: This was written on this date two years ago, a week after Yuuno died. I still hold him in content.

Owed Nothing

In a twisted sense, I learn where most people simply don't.

For example, take this quote from Firefly's latest fiction.

"A shinobi is owed nothing for his duty," Itachi cut in, keeping his eyes on the footpath. "I did what I had to do for the village. I did it because I care for Konoha."

From this scene, what I can apply on my own life is that as a lowly servant to Almighty Allah, I do as He pleases despite the hardship that I may encounter. I do what I have to do for Allah. I do it because I love my God and this religion.

Birds of Same Feather

The amount of writing I do is inversely proportionate to the actual talking I do. I suppose I'm not the only one doing this.

Today, (I mean just now; the whole day I was pretending to study under Farah Nur's Fist of Tebigong) I went through this kid's blog and I find her very interesting. She wrote in classy English and her writings are something I can relate to, and that's what kept me reading through her past posts as well.

I wouldn't link to her, though. It's not that I'm keeping things to myself but if I do let on who she is, you'll probably think I have ulterior motives.

Like courting. Haha.

I have an exam tomorrow, aptly named Ophthalmology End Round Exam. I'm a little freaked out by my ability to still be slacking about despite haven't reach Farahain's state of "mengulang-ngulang".

We're going to have slides, clinical examination and technique on patient and two oral examiners. Please pray for me?

Love.

They Will Make Me Look 60 Before I Even Hit 30

While your mind are churning thinking of an alternative and you see someone you know walking the same road towards you, you should craft a smile, wave a hi and strike up whatever typical conversation as she passes.

Because you shouldn't let your craps affect other people's day. Problems are part of life and although I would gladly help you with yours, mine should not be yours.

Thus you will see a higher occurrence of massaging the bridge of the nose (that part between the two eyes) or silently face-palming.

Forehead pain is also commonly caused by tension headaches due to stress or muscle tightness in the neck, jaw or scalp. Other causes of forehead pain include eye strain and withdrawal from substances such as caffeine or alcohol

I have all three causes in my history. Great.

---

The other day my second cousin Imran shared a Female Phrases Dictionary picture on his Facebook and I agree with it and would like to make an addition.

When a female says "great", it usually comes with an underlying growl as well as actually means "God knows I love you (insert your name here) but you're driving me crazy."

You may say that females are complicated creatures, but I'd say the reason why they say one thing and mean another is because of what I rationalized in the first part of this post.

Just let her suffer silently, thrust her a few verses from the Quran, analyze your own self and mend your mistake if any and she'll be fine. A bar of Kinder Bueno wouldn't hurt.

---

A study I made based on colleagues of mine found that most females love chocolate, but the few who doesn't love Kinder Bueno.

So guys, to be safe, always give a girl Kinder Bueno unless you know her favourite chocolate. Plus Kinder Bueno is a product of Ferraro, an Italian confectioner and it isn't in the boycott list.

They also come in a two separate sticks per packaging and if she's nice, she'll share.

Epiphany

I know what the problem is.

When I said I could admire without wanting to possess, I meant I harboured a feeling of wanting to possess. But when I had it, I lose that sentiment; that interest that kept me pursuing in the first place and started to neglect it. It also happens when I felt like I almost had it.

Like playing a game. When you've won Pokemon for the hundredth time, you'd stop playing it.

It's terrifying. It's a subclinical sign of not being grateful of what I have. I risk Allah taking it back and only then will regret seeps in.

No wonder she called me Christina Yang. I'm good at detecting flaws but their emotional implications are totally lost to me.

How To Save A Line

Mr. Haisam drove the car jerkily and speeding for that rare five-meter distance in the traffic jam of Tahrir.

You can call him road crazy, which I bet was what Ustazah Jihad thought as she shook her head and told him to slow down (it was her car) but I reckon it takes excellent car control and keen observation of the road to pull that stunt.

---

Supposedly we had Ammu Zinhoum to help us out with registering our landline but after several procrastinations on his side, he told us to deal with the landlord himself, who told us he'd do it for LE1000.

Telecom is currently having an offer till the end of March of a total of LE100 for new line registration.

That landlord, my friend, is plain crazy. I'd swear at him (I forgot what the bloke's name was) if not the fact that I shouldn't swear.

And that was how we had Ustazah Jihad from Markaz Arobi to help us out and we went to Central Babul Lu' near Costa Tahrir today to register the landline for our house.

Enough said, she's very patient with me. I bothered her and Ustaz Mahmoud enough to warrant a throw down the Nile.

---

At the central today everything went smoothly, alhamdulillah.

1- We showed up
2- Showed the 'Contract' counter our documents (rent contract plus the person whose name was on it, which is me and my passport; two months of electric bill; a copy of my passport, visa and the contract)
3- A few bureaucratic chit chats
4- Paid LE22
5- Waited. We should be done in a few minutes.
6- Ustazah wanted to take us to TE Data after this to register our own Internet.

The lady behind the counter asked for any landline number of our same building neighbour, so we bothered Kak Milah for it. Passed Ammu Esab's number which started with 253 to the counter and she told us,

"You got the wrong central. You have to register your line at Central Rouda."

LADY (屮ﾟДﾟ)屮 Y U NO SAY THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE??!!

Today is Farahnur's birthday

and I haven't wished her yet. But let's do a real special post on Haru for her.

:))

Worldview

There is always more than one perspective for a single event and it is how you interpret and deal with that event that defines what kind of character you have and the type of person you are.

For example, say that we have a partner who rationally refused to change her mind regarding an issue despite multiple attempts made to, all proved to be in vain.

Most people will call her "a stubborn mule" but some other may take her as a "practical person, resolute and set in her ways".

Your call whether to be the typical pessimist in the society or an optimist who sees the good in whatever that is God throw your way.

Similarly, "it's not what's inside you that defines who you are but it is your action."

On a lighter note, sometimes people confess things or send me emails I know what it's about but I don't want to go through and consequently be damned with the knowledge of knowing it in the first place. Some may call me "denial", but I'd like to think myself as simply "selective of the reality I accept".

We live in a free country world.

Make People Happy and Don't Multiply

I lost an admirable weight while stranded in ARMA during the evacuation period of 2011, all of us did thus prompting the Malaysian in Jeddah to fatten us up. They gave us breakfast, lunch and dinner plus the never-ending instant noodle, Nasi Yaman and Al-Beik Fried Chicken.

They gave us Nasi Yaman one each one day and the girls sat on their bed eating our food in the room except me on the floor. One of us said, "Sepatutnya dua orang boleh kongsi satu nasi ni."

"Eh," I begged to differ. My one portion is 1/4 of one serving of the Nasi Yaman. "Kalau ada empat orang Atiqah baru boleh habis satu nasi ni."

"Jangan!" The girls cried in horror. "We don't need more Atiqah!"

"One is more than enough. No, one is already out of hand!"

"Outrageous!"

"We don't need you to multiply.."

Here The Patients Go, They Gotta Rock

My dad always told me to learn from our patients because "they are your best teachers."

Not only to learn medicine, but learn to become a better person yourself. You never know if you live that long to learn everything one at a time.

"How can patients teach us to become a better person?" you may ask. This brings us to my next point that I shall start with rambling off a story (as always).

---

We have several doctors teaching our clinical sessions and the most notable of them are Dr. Y, Dr. M and Dr. B.

Suffice to say that Dr. Y and Dr. M are very helpful and kind to us sometimes-clueless-but-nevertheless-budding doctors, as oppose to Dr. B who reminds me of Alex O'Laughlin playing Steve McGarrett in both his smoking good looks and the infinite psychotic arrogance (read: cool and annoyying).

But when it comes to interacting with patients (in front of us, at least), Dr. B has the friendliest attitude compared to his other two colleagues. He was smiley and shoulder-patting and our 50-year-old patient Haj Ibrahim* who had BPH and retinal detachment was happy with him.

Come to think of it, his good mood probably came from kantoi-ing us during the case presentation.. Dude is such a narcissist.

Dr. Y and Dr. M sometimes used harsh tones when instructing the patients and you can hear murmurs among the classmates disapproving of such. Mind you, most of our patients are geriatrics and you're supposed to treat them with the respect and kindness old people -if not another human being- deserve.

But there's also the thing with Egyptians; they have a higher tolerant to harshness than us Malays so who am I to judge? A punch good enough to send you knocking on the sideway for the Egyptian is the equivalent to a friendly pinch on the cheek for us Malays.

---

Prof. Dr. Omar Elzawahry gave us the lecture of Errors of Refraction and also this piece of wisdom.

"Not all surgery are good. Some are devised to bring the doctor money. Don't do this. Or you're not a good Muslim. #smiles

You have to be honest. Don't do to a patient what you won't do to yourself, or your kids or your mother. Treat you're patient like your immediate family member."

---

*This was my second case and I will never forget this incident ever. Dr. B sort of poured salt on the gaping wound of my ego and argh I'm intellectually dying as I wrote this. At least he made me study harder, I'll give him credit for that and despite the apparent complaint, it pains me to admit that I really Thank You God for him as one of my lecturer.

#ihavebigegotoo

Explaining Prophet Yaakob's Vision

I am sure all of you Quran-memorizing lot will remember the story of Prophet Yaakob who regained his vision after putting his son Prophet Yusof's shirt on his eye. Today Dr. Omar Elzawahry gave us a probable explanation to this.

A normal eye has the diopteric power of 60 diopter; 42D from the cornea and 18D from the crystalline lens. A high myopic patient with abnormally long eye may reach the eye power of 80D and he won't be able to see.

With age, the zonules (that's the thing holding the lens properly in place behind the pupil) will be weak and its hold on the lens could be loosened by any method, leading to subluxation or dislocation of the lens into the vitroues.

In the past, shirts were not made by "fine Egyptian cotton" but they were probably made by heavy wools and tough leathers. Those kind of heaviness, when impacted on an already loosely-held lens will cause it to be dislocated.

When that happens, the eye will lose the 18D contributed by the lens and the high myopic eye will now be 62D (80 minus 18) which is around the power of a normal eye.

Vision regained.

"You shouldn't even be dissing in the first place."

There was a joke I read ages ago in Reader's Digest about a group of school children on a visit to a Native American museum and their Native American guide was telling them about the native mother-tongue.

One child asked about curse words in the native language. The guide told them no they don't have curse words in the native language.

"So what do you say when you dropped your hammer and it hit your toe?" The child asked.

"That," the guide smirked, "is when we use your language (English)."

---

The other day I saw this syeikh preaching online and he said that we all know the last word for us Muslim to say before we pass on to the next life would be our syahadah: La ilaha illallah, Muhammadun rosulullah. It might be fluently said now, but how about at the verge of dying?

So if your first verbal reflex during the impact of a tragedy would be "Shit" or the F bomb or whatever, how do you expect your verbal reflex during dying (is there a bigger tragedy than this?) would be our syahadah?

8th Feb - Hiking Up to Albayzin

We walked into the alley and it forked into a left and right turn. The right one seemed to be going uphill; the best bet for us if we want to be on the right track to Albayzin. As the one ahead, I waited for everyone at the junction before turning the corner.

There was a man in dark hair and dark clothing pacing nearby. He eyed us for a moment and I felt chilled, perhaps we should kept going hurriedly?

He paced nearer and greeted in his deep voice, "Assalamualaikum."

I smiled happily and greeted back. "Waalaikumussalam." Here's a brother, yay!

"Where are you from?"

"We're from Malaysia."

"Are you going to Albayzin, see the mosque?"

"Si," I nodded and gestured, "Go here, right?"

"Si. Todo recto."

"Okay, todo recto." That means go straight.

He hesitated and continued the rest in Spanish word by word. "Ir a la dezquita."

"Okay.." I mumbled, paying attention.

"Subir la escalares," he motioned with his fingers to walk upwards. I've seen enough signboards to know escalares means stairs. And then he smiled. "Ask for Mirador San Nicolas."

"Mirador San Nicolas," I parroted. "Okay. Straight, left, stairs." I smiled. "Muchas gracias."

"De nada," he nodded and resumed waiting quietly by the street. We girls continued our journey. I was pitifully hiding a giddy grin.

"Muslim lady in hijab is easily recognizable. I like it best when we meet people by the road and give salam to each other," I smiled to Umair walking closest to me.

Felt so loved, don't you agree? Walk anywhere on this earth and meet different people and despite differing in races and nationalities, the one thing that makes us family is our one and only faith in Allah.

"He's got the sujud mark on his forehead," Umair piped out.

"Yup. He's very handsome." The giddy grin broke out.

"Yes." Umair was using her tone reserved for apprehending a sengal me. "And he's got the sujud mark on his forehead as well."

"I said he's handsome after considering every aspect." Most importantly he had the decency to greet a fellow Muslim when he recognizes one. He was also older and easy on the eye- I slapped myself.

We climbed the steps with happy thoughts.

Lucky

When I told anyone about anything, it's more of an obligation of sharing with the due person, a habit perhaps. It's based on the fact that I trust the other party.

Definitely I wasn't out to make anyone worry of my dangerous habits (if present) nor was I intending to spike anyone's blood pressure. I love you too much to intentionally do that, but in my moments of stupidity, I fear I might and I am sorry for that.

I don't want help unless I say so, I never want counseling unless I ask for, and I certainly don't need nagging or threats of being told off; the last which is a total turn-off and could lead to trust shutdown. A person in my shoe would have wanted understanding; a cool

"I know how tough life in a foreign land. Just take care. Luv u always." 

"ok la tu. but jgn la jadi rurouni soram2"

"hish budak ni" #jeling

"omg" #rotan

But I understand your reason for your reaction and immediately jumping to the worst case scenario (concussion, permanent hearing lost, intracranial hemorrhage, etc; all of which alhamdulillah I don't have) and I really am sorry for being a worry. You can call me a blithering idiot but please give me some credit and trust me to learn from my mistakes.

I know the glaring problem here is that I am much too cocky. Acknowledging is the first step in the endless effort to change, so bear with me. I'll try to shut up and take it all, be grateful I have people who love me and care for my sanity/safety.

In the mean time, I will adhere to "What they don't know won't hurt them" or be a very good girl (read: stay put and be domestic) but I won't promise anything other then I will take care of myself.

PD James

It passed a point where I no longer ask what you would say or expect anything to be said, because I think I know what you would say anyway, and the fact that I shouldn't even be asking what you would say in the first place. It's legally wrong.

So here I am, having a conversation with myself where I am assured of a witty companion. Hehe.

Don't worry about me, I haven't gone insane yet. I read in a psychological journal that it was okay monologuing as long as I'm not hearing another voices along. Or maybe it was something I picked up from Bruce Willis's The Sixth Sense.

There's also that tinge of hope that something like this would have happened, but it's too far of a long shot and despite having entertained the idea when I needed company, I feel content with where I am right now and the status I hold.

She said sadly, "I suppose I did know what you'd say, and I should have been able to explain it to her myself. I'm sorry I came. It was a wrong decision."

She had got to her feet and, rising, he came towards her. He said, "I can't be sorry for any decision you make which brings you to me."

Emma and AD in The Private Patient, page 388

---

I have recently taken up reading paperback fictions, PD James's The Private Patient being my current read in between diving into my daily obligations. Other quotes I find illuminating of the human nature are:

"Hatred doesn't die but it loses some of its power. It's like an infection in the blood, never completely lost, liable to flare up unexpectedly but its fever becoming less debilitating, less acutely painful with the passing years. I'm left with regret and a lasting sadness."

Candace Westhall to Commander Adam Dalgliesh, page 336

"Now I know the truth insofar it can be known, and I think I understand why she did it. Or is that too arrogant a claim?"

"To know the truth and to understand it? Yes, with respect, Commander, I think it is. An arrogance and, perhaps, an impertinence. How we scrap around in the lives of the famous dead, like squawking chickens pecking at every piece of gossip and scandal."

Commander AD and Phillip Kershaw, page 466

Severe Lapse of Judgment or Total Lack Of It

We went to the labour room because Dr. Rana was already in the Ophthalmology surgery room and couldn't see us. I was standing beside the attending doctor who encouraged the mother to be excellent and push. Baby wouldn't come out.

Farah was behind the attached door from the very beginning and I saw her sliding down and sat crouching on the floor. Two nurses stood beside her, engaging her in conversation.

Blood everywhere, body fluids and all that. Why didn't I even flinch?

Ten minutes have passed. The doctor gave her an LA and then only I flinched, instinctively clutching my lower abdomen defensively when the mother emitted another shriek. He made a tear and asked the mother to push harder.

Baby safe, placenta fished out and the doctor readied himself for suturing.

A doctor in brown sweater under his protective gown leaned into me slightly and asked, "What stage of labour is she in?"

Oh my God oral question. I grinned. "Sorry doctor, I'm a fourth year student. Haven't taken O&G yet."

He nodded. "Okay."

"So what's the answer?" I could be a good oral examiner, haha.

"Fourth stage, when the placenta is already out during the first hour of labour."

"How many stages are there?"

"Four. Though some author wrote three."

He turned to the attending and advised him on something about suturing perpendicular to the tissues. He turned back to me and regained his earlier role.

"When the fetus was out, what stage was it?"

"Erm, three?" I took a wild guess.

"Two." He corrected.

"Oh."

He instructed the attending something and Farah called me to see the twin babies of the Caesarian mother next door. They weren't identical neither in sex nor size and there was two doctors attending to the babies.

After that I went back to the room to ask the specialist what was the third stage of labour, but he was gone.

I didn't even get to thank him.

---

We were the only two in the lounge and Farah was already stowing her scrubs into her backpack. I was still deciding whether to take the shirt off first or to pull the pants out first since all my clothing are underneath the scrubs when the male doctor attending to the twins came in and passed us to get to his book.

I stalled, expecting him to be on his way then. He took a seat next to us. Now how should I undress? I could hear some Gen 5 seniors laughing at my medical-student over-enthusiasm if I walk home in my scrubs.

Still standing in front of him, I turned around and pulled my pants off. Folded it and stashing it into my backpack, all the while talking to Farah.

Farah asked the doctor. "Excuse me doctor, are you a specialist?"

"No, I'm an intern," he looked up from his book and answered her. Of course, no specialist will be reading a Medical Guide something, right?

"Obs or paed?" I asked, already betting on the latter.

"I'm in the resuscitation team for paediatric," he rather reluctantly looked at me. Sorry, carry on studying then.

I decided to wear the scrub shirt on and we exited the lounge after thanking the intern. Walking out, suddenly an epiphany struck and I clutched Farah's arm and said in horror, "Oh God I just pulled my pants off in front of a doctor!"

She laughed. "He was shocked. I saw his eyes bulging before he went staring at his book."

Carbacide

It was Farah's belated birthday, but I ate the cake.

Yours truly is swearing off carbohydrate for a month.

Costa's version was rather dry and Pait bakes better Betty Crochet premixed chocolate moist cake than this. Thank God I asked for a scoop of ice-cream on top of it and for my less sweet than usual Latte Frap to wash the cake down. I would also have liked the molten-ness to be the equivalent of a flowing lava.

For the price of the Molten Cake including the scoop of vanilla ice-cream, I could have got a Doc's Kitchen Blueberry Cheesecake. I should visit them kittens and persuade Head Chef Syaimaa' to include Molten Cake in their menu.

So far Four Seasons Hotel's Molten Cupcake fares the best, although I have yet to taste what Chilli's has to offer.

And Kiwi's Concarne is my new favourite pasta on the menu.

This Is Why I Won't Wear My Glasses

First round for Year 4 medical studies was Forensics and Toxicology where we had this cool, Maui t-shirt wearing, American-accented lecturer who reminded me of Adam Levine minus the leather jacket. He taught us twice; introduction (which I didn't attend due to haven't arrived in Egypt yet) and Toxicology of CNS Stimulants.

Sauntering in front of the class teaching using his markers and the whiteboard only, he looked cool enough to start a gig right then.

---

Second round was Community Medicine and I realized we have an Egyptian colleague who gave out this Danny O'Donoghue vibe that I experienced series of tachypnea even with my eyes off him. It didn't help that The Script was the main bulk in my playlist nowadays and one day, he walked in with For The First Time playing in my ears.

I died.

And being the forever stalking me, I knew enough about him to know he wasn't in the same department during our Ophthalmology round, so expect excellent focus this time around.

---

Third round which is Ophthalmology started and we had our clinical session after the lecture. In came a lecturer who uncannily resembled Jensen Ackles playing Dean Winchester.

Deep-seated voice, American-accent, similar facial features which translated to being a fine male specimen and the rugged handsomeness. Also he was in a hurry thus exuding a badass aura.

The class was small, so I had to work hard not to appear too eager laser-sharp focusing on the session by rotating between ogling looking at the doctor, staring at the whiteboard and scribbling my notes. I went home that day and wrote on my Facebook about the doctor, and my dad commented and reminded me to put my heart and focus where they should be.

Which is obviously not on ogling men.

The doctor didn't teach my clinical class after that, thanks to God. But I did saw him a couple of times on the hallway and saw he forwent shaving, which made him looked utterly smoking.

---

Maybe it was a game of spotting the familiarities or just a case of social study, but I like observing people and make character assessment within the limited interactions we have. Sort of like sharpening whatever skills required; observational, judgement, deduction, what else?

Despite not liking people in general. I am not expecting a warm smile of acknowledgment or a hand in friendship and would probably blanch out in awkwardness should I be handed with such kindness. I could admire without wanting to possess; a character I am rather proud of and a lovechild of my years of insensitivity and ignoring people in my path.

Probably not a healthy habit. The title is what I will do the next time I'm in class.

Melle is A Busy Girl

Aunty: Melle. Bila free?
Melle: Entah. Rasa-rasa tak pernah free. Everyday ada la kelas tambahan/taekwan do.

Melle is a 12 year-old sitting for UPSR this year. On the other hand, her medical-student sister is free enough to explore and pursue different things everyday.

Either I am well-balanced in my daily schedule or I'm completely throwing said schedule to the wind. The latter is most probably.

I am not studying hard enough.

A few days back I stopped by Kak Panna's and Kak Rem advised us to enjoy and have as much fun as we can with our fourth year schedule because "once you're in fifth and sixth year, the schedule will be too packed to do anything else."

Fun for me is learning and exploring new territories and fun can only flow from an activity once it makes you remember of Allah while doing it. If you forget Allah even for one millisecond, the whole thing will be pointless because He is the reason you're here, still breathing and taking up space in this world. You don't please Him, you get nothing.