The 'Great' Physician

I am chasing my tail these days, I feel I may get my legs entangled and tripped myself off life’s pavement. Then I imagine myself sitting dazed on the hard ground as I watched the stars wheezing past me. After clearing off a list to-do tasks, I inevitably find myself facing another long list of tasks and errands to run. Coupled with the insanity of work, relocation of office and rental place, I can hardly have time for a breather to prepare myself for the upcoming US trip two days later. Maintaining my sanity and optimism everyday amidst the insanity of life was never a breeze but an arduous task. Surviving every day is an ongoing challenge.

I decided to head to the general practitioner today for some medicine as a precautionary measure, in case I need them on the trip. I intend to visit the clinic located near my old house where I used to stay. About the doctor, anyone who does not appreciate him will think he is weird.

He is petite, in his fifties I reckon. Scarcely eight stone, skinny and his head barely the size of the rugby ball. He wore a pair of gold rimmed spectacles that is dramatically oversized and precariously hanging from the tip of his small nose, making you feel the urge to adjust it for him. The moment you sat opposite to him, his eyes will stare at you blankly, waiting for you to speak your mind. This is how he handles all his customers; his behavior is awkward in contrast to the average doctors’ approach to a patient. In normal cases, doctors will initiate the conversation and express concern about your illness. He does not. He will sit and literally look at you, waiting earnestly for you to speak. People who do not know him will think he is mute. If you get use to his style, you will knock his door, greet him, sit down and immediately fire off your symptoms. This is what a typical type A person like me does, in order to avoid any awkward or embarrassing moments of silence. If I paused to search for words and find ourselves looking at each other, my last weapon is to smile silly. It definitely pose a feat to any patient who does not know him. I imagine the patient and doctor staring at each other.

His clinic is simple, downright plain and dull and looks like an aged old hospital room in the eighties. A greyish fan hanging from the ceiling, chairs that form a line just like what you see in a colonial hospital. No tint of technology is present as the receptionist handle records using primitive paper and pen. Two short cabinets for records storage and shelves with countable packs of medicine are all this clinic has. Non glamorized image of the eighties. If I had with me a radio playing oldies or retro music, anyone will be disillusioned to believe that they are back to the past. In the doctor’s room, things have not been simpler. You can count with your ten fingers the instruments he had, all laid out neatly on the table. I used to stare at the table with wonderment. Yes, I am not appalled, but amazed at this doctor’s works. He charged 16 dollars for almost every consultation and prescription I have five years ago. Five years later and now, he charged 18 dollars. If you think this is low cost strategy in marketing terms, I absolutely have no doubts about it. In fact, I felt he is doing charitable work. His works speak humanity, love.

I found out that he attended the same church as I am when I discovered him sitting in the front row during last Sunday’s sermon. Now when coming to singing hymns, our church goers are a spontaneous and joyous lot, we resemble a collective choir when we sing in spirit, joyfully clapping widely and raising our voices and occasionally, our hands in exuberance. In between singing the hymns, I stole some glances to observe his actions. He can hardly sing or utter a word or open his mouth. The distance between his hands as he clapped looks like a pathetic five centimeters apart. He seems slow in his action. He holds a bible so old that the pages are yellow. He looks restricted in his movements that invite numerous sympathetic looks from people who sit around him. No one knew he is a doctor. Nevertheless, he was in his Sunday best. Once I saw him drove an old tattered car.

I wonder how he sustains his practitioner work. Somehow or rather, after a tired day’s work and hogging around to complete my errands, I need a little inspiration. I decided to ask him a question I had on my mind while walking towards the clinic today. I wonder how he survive and correlate his works to God’s works.

I knocked on the door as usual when my turn comes. In a militant way, I sat down, look at him and started my impromptu script of the symptoms I have. With a greeting to start off with,

Me : Hi doctor, I saw you at the church the other day! {He hardly smile but I learnt that the mention of church will lit him up}
Doctor : ....(Chuckled) {It is AN achievement to see him even smile}

Me : I am going for a US trip, so can you prescribe some sleeping pills for me for the flight in case I have a jet lag and do you have the 5 mg or 10 mg type. Also I have been having sore throat lately.
Doctor : ………..(looked at me)

Me : So you have the 5 mg type? I will take the smaller capacity ones. I need ten of them. For sore throat, what prescription will you be providing? Antibiotics?
Doctor :……….lozenges. {He don’t usually encourage antibiotics}

Me : Okay, but I think I need antibiotics.
Doctor: …………(looked at me, then proceed to take down notes)

Me : Doctor, uh..how do you think god sustain you in your works?
Doctor:………….(He looked a little stunned and confused by my question)

Me: Hmnnn..I mean, how do you think God helps you in your work, you know, it is so competitive in this industry. {Actually I mean to say, with the way he is running the clinic like a charitable house charging patients low cost , how the hell can he manage to survive for years given the important focus on first impression and presentation as some of the pertinent factors for business going concern and revenue. The clinic and his demeanor hardly conveys}
Doctor: {This time I manage to get two words from him}…..you mean?

Me: {I swallow hard and summarized everything I have asked, trying to be as polite as I can} I mean what is your belief in God that he will help you?
Doctor: Ah.. (chuckle again) {This chuckle and expression is a breakthrough}
Doctor: Well…………………Because I believe GOD is the PROVIDER!

Me: { I persist to ask again, fumbling for words in too conscious an attempt} You mean? {I sound like him before, this is obviously a silly question..}
Doctor: WELL, I mean GOD IS GOOD! No DOUBT about it! {I stared at him, not expecting such an abrupt answer}

Me: Ohh..true.!!{I actually know these facts but facts coming from a man of few words like him seems magical enough to inspire me for that awkward moment}

Suddenly satisfied by his answers. I stood up thanking him before I leave, feeling utterly proud that I have asked him the question. Before I reached for the door knob, I turn again.

Me: Doctor, I will get the 5mg medicine I want right?
Doctor : …………….. (He looked at me and nodded. This time he is back to his solemn self again}

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To me, he seems noble and ‘great’ in his own contribution. A good man who is admirable by his determination to do good works although he does not communicate or publicised his intentions.
Isn't that God want us to do?

After I paid for the medicine, I decided next time when I return again, I will ask him more.

Of childhood days I remember

My family was very poor then. But we were happy.

My mum sewed for a living to support us. She often worked late till midnight most of the days, alternating between two commercial sewing machines in the kitchen industriously. The humming sound generated from the machines was part of my bedtime lullaby that often lulled me to sleep while I am a kid.

I remembered enjoying the moments talking to my mum as I stood tiptoe by her side, my shoulders barely touching the top of the sewing machine, watching in awe and captivated by her finger work as she painstakingly put together the pieces of cloth, running them nimbly through the needle; weaving and threading the fabric into beautiful dresses. My fingers works like bear paws and fumbled with the needle, so I was never successfully in claiming any of her wonderful sewing skills.

Most of my dresses were sewed by my mum. I recalled having one with pleated yellow hems, a sailor moon collar and a little smart tie which become my favorite. Another of my pet dress would be a white lacy print dress with ribbons tied to the back that made me look like a little angel. In times like this, the dresses that I had back then would have considered ‘exclusive’ by classification given they were hand-sewed and specially tailored. Indeniably, they were my treasured posessions.

The day often starts with the raw materials delivered in a van and I would diligently accompany my mom downstairs to help her drag the bags up to our house.

Our kitchen was a place for every flurry activity. The bags of fabric are emptied to the floor as my mom rummaged through them, teaching my brother and me how to snip off excessive threads with scissors. My brother and I helped out wherever we can in between our studies. We were careful not to mix up the pieces as each represent different parts of a dress and would line them up in heaps like mole hills from one end of the kitchen to the entrance for easy identification. The trail sometimes extends to the living room depending on the delivery, which normally account for about one hundred dresses by batch based on the factory demand.

Naïve and young, my brother and I would leap across the mole hills of cloth, manuveuring between tiny spaces and stealing fun amidst the hard work for play. We would race each other across the kitchen, hugging the kitchen cabinets and walls as we giggled and chuckled when we knocked things over. Occasionally, we would compete against each other for the fastest person to complete the thread snipping. Other times, we would get into a frenzy trying to find a missing piece, furrowing our brows as we counted and check the heaps of fabric all over again. And when we finally found the missing puzzle, we squealed with delight.

Sometimes, my cherub little cousin would come over for stay and we formed the monstrous jumble of three, often not paying heed to my mum’s pea-hen like quarks to discipline us when we got too rowdy. My tomboy-like cousin love to get into a sparring pillow fight with my brother, howling with joy if she won victoriously and got him sprawling on the ground or his face pressed against the wall with a bolster. Naturally, I and my brother were the better assistants to mum, with my mischievous cousin, occasionally trying to copy our work but fumbled with her scissors even though I knew that she was earnest to help. That was how adorable she is.

At the end of the day, we are rewarded with plain sugared crackers and cups of hot cocoa to dip in. The only tea time treats that we can afford to have in those days. But boy, although the tea treat was simple, it remained today our favorite tea special talk as my cousin and I reminisce the nostalgic days together whenever she is back from New York for vacation.

A Refreshing Perspective

Relocating to another office, viewing rental places and getting ready for a work trip to Salt Lake City, Utah had me going in a circuitous busyness recently.
In the midst of a list of to-dos and schedules that I have packed myself into commitment during this period of changes and transition, I still manage to carve out a little time to the library for some books, this time I thought Christian reading is what I need. Right on the tall towering shelves, I chanced upon Philip Yancey’s 'Soul Survivor' and fell in love with it instantly as I laid hands on it.

I have progressed to the stage whereby finding books to read depend intuitively on the “feel” and “visual” senses I have on the book, of knowing that it is the right book to start with and that there is hardly a need to force myself to go beyond the “tenth” page in self denial.

Philip Yancey wrote in rhetoric expressions about being a follower of CS Lewis’s writings who in turn discovered G.K Chesterton that inspired him and eventually provide both authors motivating exemplification in writing their own works.

In his book, Philip wrote about the incessant joy in words , writing and returning to God:

“Their words sustained me, a lifeline of faith in a sea of turmoil and doubt. I became a writer. I have said, in large part because I realized the power of words in my own life, words that could sail across time and an ocean and quietly, gently work a transformation of healing and hope. More time would pass before I fully returned to faith, but at least I had models of what life-enhancing will look like. “

I felt a monotonous tone often in my life recently with joy suppressed that many a time this feeling manifest in my dreams recently in recurring themes. I hate the dullness and ordinariness of everything. The tight, restrained and repressing feeling gained in intensity each day like a general greyness that draped over my life. Worst, it is general and not spectacular. I think I am seeking something I can control. Writing becomes inadvertently my vent and creative outlet for release in a purposeful way.

I realised writing has become an essential tool for my self gratification. I know I can remain true to myself and exercise free will in my thoughts. Indeed a perfect way for me to keep my idealism burning and my energy flow going. You know it when this desire emanates from your heart, small and steady, dissipating and to let it out, expressions in writing becomes an inevitable part to act on this desire, it feeds and expresses the soul. How exuberating this way. On the contrary, it saddens me that we often keep our random thoughts floating in the mind and leaving it slowly dissipating into thin air. Eventually, we find ourselves living a conscious life with the treasures and true richness of thoughts subconsciously drowned in icy depth of our being.

This refreshing perspective and its actualization towards writing fills me with embullience. Just being able to uncover the richness of it brings joy, agreed?