It Doesn't Mean A Thing

Seriously, it doesn't matter.



It doesn’t matter if you were Malay, Indian or Chinese or Kadazandusun, we all bleed red.

It doesn’t matter if you were as charming as Megan Fox or just better-looking than Shrek, age catches up with us all and death will soon beckon.

It doesn’t matter if you had millions of ill-gotten gains stashed away in a Swiss bank or just some meager loose change in your jeans pocket, we brought nothing into this world and can bring nothing out of it.

It doesn’t matter if you were born with so-called royal blood or raised without education in the slums, no human should be immune from valid criticisms and the rightful course of law.

It doesn’t matter if you were an avid follower of the sarcasm in South Park or a long-time Star Wars loyalist, Indiana Jones 4 sucked big time and will leave a bitter, disappointing aftertaste.

It doesn’t matter if you were a pious Seventh Day Adventist or just a really likeable liberalist-atheist, bak kut teh tastes damn good and that’s final.

It doesn’t matter if you were an extreme skateboarder or a bed-bound cripple, you are pretty screwed if that Russian house officer did not replace your foreskin after inserting a urinary catheter.

It doesn’t matter if you adore animals and hate the Jews, grief hurts and cuts very deeply indeed.

It doesn’t matter if you were a born loser in love or the lame winner of Akademi Fantasia, cats are cats and to them you are just human.

It doesn’t matter if you were an anonymous blogger with an open identity or a loudmouth politician with deep, dark secrets, the truth will prevail sooner or later.

It doesn’t matter if you were the son of a former racist prime minister or a dead Mongolian beauty blown into shreds, the Lord God will judge us all.

It doesn’t matter if you were a closet pedophile serving the Catholic Pope or a reluctant jihadist stranded in the tumultuous Middle East, Jesus loves you and I am trying to too.


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A Time To Speak Up

After a hiatus of almost three months, I think the time is ripe to put reflections into words once again.

Keeping silent and refraining from expressing one's thoughts isn't easy, but thousands of Malaysians are effortlessly doing it so every day.

Of the many issues close to my heart, the on-going Sabah state health crisis is particularly outstanding.

It isn't easy watching simple folks receive substandard healthcare while UMNO/BN politicians reap shameless unspeakable wealth from the sufferings of the ones who placed them in power in the first place. Read more!

A Time To Rest

A Time For Everything

To every thing there is a season,and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
A time to be born, and a time to die,
A time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted,
A time to kill and a time to heal,
A time to break down and a time to build up,
A time to weep and a time to laugh,
A time to mourn, and a time to dance,
A time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together,
A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
A time to get and a time to lose,
A time to keep and a time to cast away,
A time to rend and a time to sew,
A time to keep silence and a time to speak,
A time to love and a time to hate,
A time of war and a time of peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 Read more!

Too Busy

So much is happening around us.

Yet I'm too busy to write, what more to respond to the sweeping criticisms.

I guess the critics are disappointed, that I refrain from engaging in a brainless verbal spat.

So if you would excuse me now, I have a job to do...

God bless, all of you.




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Thank You Series: To Mother

My Mother in Heaven,

It has been so long since you left us it’s hard to believe the numbers on the calendar.

I never really got to say thank you, never really got to say sorry. I had so many chances to do so while you were still around but somehow never did so. Like so many others, I never knew what I had till it’s gone forever.

I was never the person you really wished me to be. Yet I know somehow that you loved me unconditionally. Thank you.

You were always worried about Brother’s well being after you’re gone. I hope you’re more comforted right now. I think I’ve finally learnt to be the brother you wanted me to be to him. It was not an easy task and it is still not easy, and I think he’d say the same about me. Nevertheless, I think I can confidently say that I’ve finally learnt to accept him just as he is and love him as heaven’s very special child. Thank you for giving me this brother. Thank you for taking care of him for as long as you could. I will never understand how you did all that from a wheelchair but you did. You are great, greater than the world would ever give one credit for. Thank you for being a great mother.

Thank you for reading me all those timeless Ladybird story books that always seem to end happily ever after. I can go through life without reading music or Shakespeare. I cannot however, fathom what life I might have without those precious Ladybird moments. I would not have appreciated the humor in Shrek if it were not for Puss-in-Boots and Rapunzel and the gullible Gingerbreadman. Even more than that, I would not go on to read Time Magazine, Newsweek and the Readers’ Digest if you had not set an early firm foundation. Thank you for a lifetime of literacy and interest in reading.

I still don't understand why the Big Bad Wolf did not just gobble up Little Red Riding Hood's grandma though.

Thank you for your wonderful cooking. I only had the honor to six years of your culinary skills before you were stricken with a debilitating illness. In that period, I never demonstrated much appreciation and gratitude for all your efforts in the smoky, sooty kitchen with a leaking, rusted zinc roof. I was always griping and demanding for something else, not knowing that I will one day lose forever the faintest aroma of your cooking. Back then, you always reminded me that the children in the African countries go to bed on most nights hungry and thirsty.

I never saw the wisdom in your words back then. I do so now. Your words are ingrained in my mind forever.

Thank you for never and not even once sending me to bed in hunger and thirst. I am earning enough now to buy myself the food I need, yet nothing substitutes the ones you prepare. I am looking forward to the day we can have a great family dinner up in heaven. For that, I thank you beforehand.

My dearest Mother, I do very much wish you were here right now. There is still so much more that I can learn from you. There’s just so much I need to know more about – from daily household chores and mundane errands to social etiquettes and principles of living. More importantly albeit selfishly, I wish you were here right now so I can right all the wrongs I’ve committed in my foolishness and shortsightedness. Some might say that life is only about the here and now, but I know for sure that you are reading this right now. Thank you for taking time to read and hear. You were always the most patient listener of all.

I regret that we never had a proper goodbye. It will be a guilt and a burden that I’ll carry to my own grave. In the meantime, memories of you and us as a young budding family will sustain me till I too breathe my last and hopefully, join you in the sweet by and by.

Thank you for all the wonderful memories. Read more!

Thank You Series: To Father

My dearest father,

Thank you. I know I don't say it often enough or show that I do.

Deep inside however, I am forever grateful to the good Lord for making you my father.

As you might readily concede, it is anything but easy to father someone like me – one so naturally rebellious and yet so much like you.

I'm sorry that I do not see eye-to-eye with you in so many things. You have been right and proven to be correct on so many though not all occasions. Thank you for not pulling the 'I-told-you-so' stunt. Thank you for accepting me, your prodigal son time and time again.

I am what I am today because I had you. Thank you for educating me since young. Thank you for putting me through all those ABCs and 123s sessions from kindergarten and beyond. Thank you for caning me all those times I tried to be a stinking little brat, and thank you for knowing when to stop. I can't remember at what age you stopped employing the whip but I do know it takes great wisdom to know when to spare the rod.

Thank you for putting me through university and for taking care of my feline baby those five years i was away. Her death was a very abrupt and unanticipated departure, but thank you for being there and caring for her while i was speeding back on the highway. Thank you for giving me the chance to cradle her to her last breath.

Thank you for stopping smoking. You never did reveal why you ever quit nicotine but I’m sure it was not easy giving up on a thirty-year-old habit and lifestyle. It took you great willpower to do so but you pulled through very successfully indeed. I am proud to have a father with such great willpower, the same spirit of perseverance that spared you a possible lifetime of poverty back in the villages.

Thank you for permitting me to adopt and keep so many animal friends over the years. I leant to love animals from the National Geographic Specials you used to record in the now kaput VCR. I know fully well that the definition for a ‘pet’ in your dictionary never did include the biting iguana, the common ground skink, hairy caterpillars, venomous centipedes and an overweight toad but hey, you had your share of pet crickets and six oscar fishes. In this life I have many regrets, but sharing my life with animals of all shapes and sizes is not one of them.

Thank you for teaching us how to live a simple life. We’ve learnt early enough that success is not equal to flashy worldly possessions and greatness is not measured by one’s empty boasts. Still, if I had more money, I’d buy you a car better than the current one. Your 20-year-old Proton looks as if it has advanced squamous cell skin cancer and is indeed an ideal candidate for palliative care. Anyway, I’m still saving - we’re still saving. Give us some time, ok?

You are mostly a man of few words and many talents. I’m glad bullshitting was not one of them, lest I ended up like the lying liars so prevalent in the medical fraternity. For that, I thank you.

Thank you for taking care of Brother. If I were to elaborate on this, I’d run into a few pages long, and I’m not sure if you have such patience.

Above all, thank you for taking care of Mother all those years she was ill. Through it all, you’ve demonstrated true love and loyalty and stayed true to your marriage vows. Times were difficult and the circumstances were challenging. I’m proud that we made it through as a family. Your deeds and action spoke much louder than any spoken words. Suffice to say, you rose to the occasion and kept us as a family.

Thank you for everything. Read more!

Chris Rice: Sometimes Love

Is our world spinning backwards?
What has brought about this change?
Can’t you see that people aren’t the same?

I wish I were dreamin’,
And could wake up from my sleep,
And find us all the way we used to be...

Cause the love that used to be is dying,
Is anybody even trying?
And I don’t know how, I don’t know why.
But somethin’ in my soul is crying,

Sometimes love has to drive a nail into its own hand
Sometimes love has to drive a nail into its own hand

One pair of hands broke some bread and washed some feet,
Opened eyes and soothed an angry sea,
Belong to a man who could see our deepest need,
And showed us love the way it has to be,

Cause He knew the price that love requires,
And He laid down His own desires...
He stretched out His hands to save His friends,
And said "no other love is higher"
(so listen to me now singin’)

Sometimes love has to drive a nail into its own hand
Sometimes love has to drive a nail into its own hand

Love can change us, love can make a way
Only Jesus' love can change us, love can make a way

Sometimes love has to drive a nail into its own hand
Sometimes love has to drive a nail into its own hand Read more!

Plumb: God-Shaped Hole

Plumb: God-Shaped Hole

Every point of view has another angle,
And every angle has its merit,
But all comes down to faith,
That's the way I see it,

You can say that love is not divine and
You can say that life is not eternal,
All we have is Now,
But I don't believe it.

There's a God-shaped hole in all of us,
And a restless soul is searching,
There's a God-shaped hole in all of us,
And it's a void only He can fill,

Does the world seem gray with empty longing,
Wearing every shade of cynic,
And do you ever feel that,
There is something missing?

That's my point of view.

Note: You can listen to the song here. Read more!

Ban, Band, Bandits.

Kuala Lumpur PAS Youth Chief, one Kamarulzaman Mohamad alleged that Avril Lavinge’s scheduled concert on August 29th is an insult to the ‘Merdeka freedom fighters’. Not too long ago, the same Pas group played a crucial role in the eventual cancellation of a concert by Indonesian dangdut sensation Inul Daratista from performing in Kuala Lumpur.



Ban, Band, Bandits


Much has happened over the last 24 hours.

The Beijing Olympics opened to a literally explosive start with 10,500 athletes from 204 nations participating in 302 events in 28 sports over the next 16 days.

The price of crude oil as at 9:51 AM EDT, 2008.08.09 hovered at USD 115.15 per barrel compared to its previous all time high at USD 147.27 on July 11, 2008.

A forum on the legal issues in conversion to Islam was stopped short for fear that a gang of 300 protesters from GPMS, PAS and Perkida would turn rowdy. Members of the organizing committee were jeered with taunts of “babi”, “pengkhianat” and “balik China” as they were exiting the venue of the forum.
Back at the Olympic Games, an American man was killed and a lady injured when the assailant, a Chinese citizen stabbed the victims while they were attending the games. The assailant later leaped to his death.
After their apparent success in denying the process of democracy and freedom of speech and religious rights, PAS has quickly moved on to their next item on their to-do list of anti-West agendas.

Kuala Lumpur PAS Youth Chief, one Kamarulzaman Mohamad alleged that Avril Lavinge’s scheduled concert on August 29th is an insult to the ‘Merdeka freedom fighters’. Not too long ago, the same Pas group played a crucial role in the eventual cancellation of a concert by Indonesian dangdut sensation Inul Daratista from performing in Kuala Lumpur.

At the centre of all this is a deeply entrenched and hopelessly blind opposition to anything Western and white.

Indeed, many western countries are pretty screwed up by what people deem as the decay of moral values in their society. Incredulous same-sex marriages, recalcitrant gay church leaders, legalized marijuana use are no longer news in the western continents. The list goes on, from the absurd to the downright unthinkable.
One thing the Western community is definitely not doing is inundating themselves with drunken hatred.

And that is exactly why countries like Australia, Britian and the US of A are making progress while Malaysia is regressing.

The westerners do not waste time observing and protesting the unconventional attire of veiled Muslim ladies sauntering freely along their streets. They spend hours and weeks and years understanding and researching the new angiogenesis inhibitors cancer drugs and giving them names like bevacizumab and ranibizumab.

The white people do not squander their God-given limbs yielding placards and wielding keris to taunt diligent immigrants flourishing in their land. They train tirelessly and rigorously on the tracks and on the filed and in the pool, coupling scientific principles into sports and create world records in swimming and athletics through the likes of Micheal Phelps and Tyson Gay.

The gwailos know better than to riot and run amok over never-ending, never resolving issues like religion and culture and Middle East politics. They gather opposing parties with contending views and produce movies like Munich and Syriana and make handsome profits out of them which they use later to make more of such lucrative projects.

The mat sallehs comprehend that heterogenecity and pluralism is inevitable in an ever shrinking world that leaves little room for a false sense of racial supremacy and religious domination. For this reason, Asians in the entertainment industry like John Cho, Kal Penn and Russell Peters are having a field day inflicting wicked humor on white people and dismissing racial stereotyping at the same time.
Back in Malaysia, the PAS politicians are still preaching about protecting our local people from the evils of the West.

Epidemiological common sense assumes that a substantial number of these PAS loudmouths are currently on some form of antihypertensive and antidiabetic treatment. These PAS fanatics are beneficiaries of the Western community and the latter’s endless quest for safer drugs and novel treatments.
Malaysians need not thank the West and kiss their feet. At the same time, Malaysians and in particular Malays shouldn’t be so hypocritical and self-righteous too.
After all, our nation is pretty screwed up too.









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Mad Season

I love this country but I will not fly the Malaysian flag come Independence Day.



Mad Season

It’s the month of August and I haven’t written anything for the last ten days, not even in draft form. I find no inspiration in the month of August every year.

The reason is simple. It’s the month when the nation of Malaysia will celebrate her independence from the British 52 years ago on August 31st 1957.

On that historical date, the reign of the white men as colonial masters ended and Malaysia was accorded the liberty to pursue her own destiny.

Colonization ended but feudalism persisted, and the latter is still very much pervasive in the Malaysian community.

Anyway, the silly season has begun. It’s the season to demonstrate patriotism in ways and means that are outright irrelevant and absolutely nonsensical, like 2007’s stitching the longest and most unusable flag on earth.

Before long, the BN politicians will be calling upon all Malaysians to fly the Jalur Gemilang if Malaysians truly love the nation.

Many will inexorably heed the call and do as they were told by their feudal masters, oblivious to the fact that their hard-earned ringgit are falling effortlessly into the pockets of cronies and friends of the ruling party. These folks will proudly fly a solitary Malaysian flag on the top of their car, usually just next or behind the radio antenna.

Perhaps they really love the country and feel that the only way to do so is by flying a mini flag wherever they go. They are probably totally inundated by the half-century UMNO axiom that to love one’s country is to fly the national flag during the month of independence.

I beg to differ.

I love this country but I will not fly the Malaysian flag come Independence Day.

It is hypocrisy to demonstrate patriotism just because Independence Day is around the corner. It’s no different from a Christian who behaves like an angel on the Sabbath when one is in church but transforms into the real ugly self for the remaining six days of the week.

Patriotism is a lifestyle and not an act. In our small ways, we bring out the patriot in us in the work and tasks we perform every day.

Among others, loving the nation means one will not steal from the tax payers by engaging in shady deals through dubious means to enrich oneself. If flag-flying Malaysians can see this with common sense, they’d realise that the current Malaysian government are made up of a gang of lying liars.

In that light, the city hall worker who earns a paltry sum every month sweeping the filthy roads of Kuala Lumpur has more virtue and love for the country than the loud-mouth, tough-talking politician who live off the honest earnings of the people.

The way I see it, the humble, hunch-backed hospital attendant has done more for the nation and her citizens than the deceitful, callous and careless brain surgeon.

It’s just an opinion, but my envy for a Dato’ cum director of multiple listed companies speaking with that fake overseas accent pales in comparison to the friendly, petite lady selling tropical fruits at a makeshift roadside stall. The latter at least, retires to bed every night with a clear conscience knowing one has made an honest living.

In fact just to stretch the limits, perhaps the many uneducated and unskilled and unregistered Filipino immigrants laboring under the scorching sun daily have contributed more to the nation’s progress that the thousands of over-pampered, overfed and overpaid government bureaucrats.

Perhaps we should make these diligent migrant workers honorary Malaysians by virtue of their brute strength and sheer determination. Similarly, perhaps we should suspend the citizenship of those civil servants who regularly take daily two-hour breaks for breakfast, brunch and then lunch.

Let’s not fly the flag for independence day anymore.

Let’s just do our jobs well for starters.

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If Rectums Could Talk

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post. Read more!

Wishlist 2008

Things I Have:
1. An ageing Proton Saga
2. Nokia 3310
3. One heck of a stupid racist government
4. Holes in my pockets
5. A big, big mouth and a restless soul
6. Cockroaches in my kitchen
7. A DNR (Do not resuscitate) card signed and laminated
8. Fleeting thoughts and recurrent dreams
9. Repetitive stress injury and irritable bowel syndrome, I think
10. Much undeserved blessing in life

Things I Wish I Have:
1. A speedboat named Butter
2. High-end skateboards and a matching ramp
3. Loaded shotgun with unlimited ammunition
4. A winning lottery ticket
5. Crude oil reserve under my home
6. A time-travelling contraption
7. More hours in a day
8. Training weights and a proper gym set
9. Photographic memory but for the right stuff
10. Freedom of speech and freedom after speech

Things I Truly Need:
1. A feline companion with patience infinite
2. A plane ticket back home
3. Nasonex intranasal spray
4. Urgent haircut by a barber with no cataracts
5. Job offer from GlaxoSmithKline or any sympathetic drug company
6. Guy friends as back in university
7. Life insurance for RM 1 million
8. Immense willpower
9. A chance to make things right with Mother
10. Conversations with the Father, Son and Holy Ghost Read more!

"To Do" List

Things I Am Doing:
1. Hurting my loved ones
2. Fattening my animal friends
3. Laboring for money
4. Dreaming in oblivion
5. Reading with no gains
6. Wasting my youth
7. Waiting for lighting
8. Procrastinating the inevitable
9. Living in denial
10. Writing for no cause

Things I Fancy Doing:
1. Riding the waves
2. Fishing in deep sea
3. Skateboarding in X games
4. Diving in the Amazon river
5. Establish a nocturnal township
6. Go on a spending spree
7. Start myself on a course of Ritalin
8. Save the leatherback
9. Kick some asses, so many of them
10. Retire at 30

Things I Should Be Doing:
1. Pray thankfully
2. Write and call Brother
3. Buy a new car for Father
4. Study intensively
5. Exercise like I used to
6. Practise writing legibly
7. The laundry, the trash and the bills too
8. Learn Photoshop, Hokkien and the art of hypocrisy
9. Stop blogging
10. Go home Read more!

Quiet Thoughts From A Restless Soul

Here is the beginning of my post.



Quiet Thoughts From A Restless Soul

I used to think that one’s career and activities would make the person. That was many years ago of course.

I joined the Christian church at age eight and thought that I would immediately become a better person by default. That didn’t happen of course and I remained detestable and utterly repulsive until I was truly convicted of my transgressions ten years later on a lonely, quiet night in the solitude of that place called home. In the meantime, I was searching for something to form my desired identity in the walk of life.

I joined the boy scouts in secondary school and stood in attention as I recited the scouts’ honor every Saturday morning, foolishly believing that a weekly pledge would better my character and personality. I had the Ten Scouting Laws at the tip of my fingers, reminding myself to live out those ideals and lofty values in daily life. Little did I know that boy scouts are among the most sneaky and cunning characters around. The adventures and activities were enjoyable and educational. The camaraderie was refreshing and priceless. It came at a price though – my studies tumbled and I learnt many new and colorful terms that come in especially useful in times of conflicts and arguments. I attained King Scout-ship eventually but my character was far from the ideal boy scout that Lord Baden Powell wrote about. So much for Scout Laws and Pledges.

I entered medical school with more aims than just being a doctor five years later. I reckoned that the heavy demands and high expectations of the community upon a doctor might somehow force me to adopt a more honorable lifestyle and commendable worldview. I was mistaken and blatantly naïve for the umpteenth time of course. My first two months in medical school were all about kowtowing to ‘super seniors’ with an overinflated self-ego and a deplorable character to match. The medical fraternity it seems are stocked with variable personalities – drunkards, sex addicts, arrogant morons and self-centered prodigies. Not uncommonly, these traits co-exist within the same person simultaneously.

I wonder where I am getting with this article. I suppose my point is this – one’s career and position in life does not make one’s character.

One can be a doctor and a bull-shitting jerk at the same time. At least one consultant surgeon I know personifies this. One can be a evangelistic priest and a compulsive paedophile and do so while maintaining a clear conscience. One can be a committed father and a regular patron of paid sex with no apologies in between. One can be a religious teacher in waist-length tudung and still appear at a shady clinic seeking an abortion for a child conceived in an illicit affair with a fellow religious figure with goatie and skull cap. And of course, one can be a corrupted deputy prime minister and a masked murderer with no regrets or remorse.

More important than formal education and choosing the right companions are one’s experiences and events from the cradle to the grave.

I am what I am today because of what I have been through, which isn’t much compared to the Karen refugees of Burma and the Sudanese children under siege from the Arab janjaweeds.

I doubt I will be emphatic to the devastated mother of a special child if I did not grow up with Brother with Down Syndrome.

I doubt I can understand the daily struggles of a lady paralysed from the neck down had I not watched my own mother battling a crippling disease for ten years.

I doubt I can accept the stress and frustration of the family caring for a stroke patient if Grandfather is still around and up and walking.

It seems callous and cold and heartless, but I am grateful to God for the bitter experiences and hurtful events in my life.





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Sleepless, as usual

Heaven bent to take my hand,
And lead me through the fire,
Be the long awaited answer,
To a long and painful fight...

Sarah Mclachlan’s Fallen plays softly in the background. Her ghostly voice and a matching rhythm complements the prevailing pensive mood hovering above me. The gloomy lyrics are mostly drowned out by the ageing ceiling fan pleading for repairs in a decible more squeaky than ever.

I sat for two hours in semi-darkness tonight, staring blankly at a glaring computer screen, distracted occasionally by the faint sound of an overfed rodent doing his routine workout on his undersized hamster wheel.

I am both apathetic and impatient.

I’m waiting for the day Malaysia gets a new ruling party, one that is different from the corrupted, racist, bigoted federal government we have right now. The Sabah People’s Progressive Party (SAPP) is scheduled to make a groundbreaking announcement by morning. Is this the beginning of a new era for Malaysia or is this another one of those false alarms?

Actually, it doesn’t really matter that much. Regardless of whoever is in power, I know fully well that there will be no radical transformation for the land called Malaysia. The social inequality and religious dominance will remain, if not in one form at least in another. PAS Youth will still make silly unrealistic statements and the DAP will still be opposing fervently. Singapore will still lure the local professionals and Malaysia will remain the greatest supplier of trained and skilful personnel.

Whatever happens, whatever does not, I will not lose sight of the people (and animal friends) that matter to me.

In the end, as Lilo and Stitch put it, family sticks together.

“"This is my family…. It's little, and broken, but still good." Stitch, 2002

Read more!

Doing A Mahathir, An Abdullah And A Ling Liong Sik Too.

Doing a Mahathir, an Abdullah and a Ling Liong Sik too.

I spent a great deal of the last seven days revisiting this blog like a restless soul wandering aimlessly in a familiar realm it has just departed from.

Maybe I am just too bored running my hamster wheel that’s life but the truth is, I am not. I have far too many events unfolding in my life every day in order to be bored. A patient bleeding from a slash wound in the neck can’t be boring, can it? Neither can that chap from Tuaran with severe facial injuries whose head is more swollen than an overinflated rugby ball. Life is interesting as it is with sleepless busy nights and unpredictable wake-up calls.

Perhaps I am just yet another desperate attention seeker longing for compliments, praises and words of adoration. This isn’t likely either because I seem to receive a lot of unwanted attention – attention as unwanted as the Malaysian citizen that I am and have turned out to be. My head of department spoke to me yesterday. Apparently he too reads this web log after being alerted about it by the other heads of departments. The Ministry of Health is supposedly monitoring the contents of this web log regularly and is more than determined to nab the author in view of the non-subservient nature of the articles. Our brief little chat shall remain confidential but suffice to say, the Ministry of Health is sorely mistaken if it thinks that all heads of departments are blind fools kow-towing humbly to weak leadership.

I do not have too much time on my hands either. I never seem to have enough minutes in a day. I am seemingly always rushing to and fro and back and beyond. Managing a web log is really an activity I can ill-afford at this juncture in life. Essentially though, it’s really a question of will and interest. It took me three days to complete “Doctors Prescribe, Pharmacists Dispense, Patients Suffer” and three weeks to pay my RM 12 water bill. The ageless adage ‘when there’s a will, there’s a way’ holds much wisdom. It can be extrapolated beyond my struggle between the duties of a government doctor and a blogger with an exaggerated sense of self-importance. For example, with adequate political will, the Malaysian Ministry of Health can transform Malaysian healthcare for the better. Instead, they are obsessed with clamping down on a non-submissive blog read by fewer than 300 people per day.

I guess I am just another loud mouth that refuses to be silenced by an authoritarian regime. I was brought up by a mother who advocated courage and resilience in the face of adversities. I guess childhood traits and lessons learnt while growing up do not fade away that easily. Someone has to expose the racist policies in education and healthcare profession. Someone needs to tell the stories of impoverished and forgotten Sabahans and the tangible consequences of Project IC/Project Mahathir. Someone has to be around to deny those corrupted, coward politicians a seamless night sleep. Someone’s gonna do it but it’s not going to be Guiness Stout’s Adam King, Joseph Pairin Kitingan or Liow Tong Lai.

It’s decided then. I am doing a Mahathir, an Abdullah and a Ling Liong Sik too. If Mahathir was allowed to un-resign after tearfully announcing his resignation on national television back in 2002, I too accord myself such a privilege. If Abdullah Ahmad Badawi can get away with blantant lies after lies with black and white press evidence, I too shall cite changing circumstances as the reason for my flip-flop decisions. I am not an MCA fan, but the former head honcho who is currently the Tun Ling Liong Sik feigns resignations and withdrawals the best among all Malaysians.

I am officially retracting my ‘Farewell and Goodbye” and bidding you all Hello and Good Morning.

Let’s kick some asses together. Read more!

Farewell and God Bless

A Parting Message

This Is My Story (2) will be the last posting on unwantedcitizen.blogspot.com.

This web log has outlived its usefulness. It may still have many unfulfilled goals and unexpressed messages but one knows when it is time to leave something behind and move on. It has been a defining period of soul-searching and self-examination.

Amidst the supportive words and uninhibited dissent, this web log has been anything but a futile project.

If you were inspired or repelled, touched or unmoved, encouraged or angered, the credit falls back to you and none to me. I am just another soul walking the earth and watching the sky, expressing my thoughts as truthfully as I can among the oceans of millions.

There will be no more updates regardless of any personal and world events, save for any residual unmoderated comments over the next few days.

I will continue to write if only to myself. Maybe one day, I might compile my articles into a book or two.

I bid you all goodbye and thank you all for your patience and attention. Thank you for bearing with my outrageous eccentricity.

We may cross paths somewhere in SS2 Murni or drive past each other along the PLUS highway. I may be next to you singing a Hillsong in Damansara Utama Methodist Church (DUMC) or roaring for DAP in the next election campaign. When all else fails, we’ll meet in heaven, in the sweet by and by.

Until then, I offer you peace and reconciliation.

The Lord bless thee, and keep thee,
The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee,
The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace,
(Numbers 6:23-26, King James Bible) Read more!

For One More Day

Memories are intangible and ethereal, but memories will remain the only entity we can effectively hold on to after life, after death, and in life after death.



For One More Day With My Girl

September 1991 was a season of despair and destitute. Mother’s illness had once again relapsed, not that she ever recovered from the previous relapsed at all. Disease progression is perhaps a more apt term, but it implies a step forward when in fact the person has suffered yet another setback in life. Mother was already bed-ridden by now after four years of multiple sclerosis and frequent focal seizures. She was losing the use of her right arm as well. While previously she was still able to read the newspapers independently, she now required help turning the pages of paper and the cover of a plastic container.

It was a weather that matched my emotions when I found my Girl that rainy, gloomy Saturday evening. I was a little kid cycling rigorously on my way to church.

The high-pitched cries of an unwanted kitten broke through the forceful whistling winds that fateful evening. An arrogant storm was about to make its way into the neighbourhood and had appointed the winds to be its loyal messenger. Girl was perched at the top of a typical smoldering rubbish pile one can find all over the city. She was tiny, so tiny that despite her shrieks for attention, it took some time before I finally noticed her. Her umbilical cord was still attached, mostly dried and ready to fall of anytime. She could not have been more than a week old.

To whoever that left her in the center of burning garbage, she was herself regarded as trash and merely one of the many litters of kittens abandoned and left for dead all over the country every hour of the day.

To me, she was an angel manifested in a very eccentric form, or at least that was what she turned out to be eventually.

Father was the least happy to receive her presence at home. He never welcomed anything we brought back anyway, but somehow he’ll end up warming up to them and being a responsible caretaker.

Like a human kid, Girl grew up fast, so fast sometimes I wonder where all the years went.

She was feeding from a milk bottle one month and chomping down fried fish the next. She was a curious innocent feline amazed by all and sundry, exploring all nooks and corners as though they held priceless treasures with handsome rewards. She was pretty and flirtatious and an instant hit with the neighbourhood tabbies. She caught lizards and cockroaches, birds and beetles, but the idea of catching a rodent somehow never appealed to her. She basked in the sunshine and camouflaged in the dark, waiting stealthily to pounce on any passing human feet. She was gentle and neurotic, nosy and nonchalant, hungry and fussy. It made her all the more extraordinary and vibrant.

In silent observation and hushed understanding, my Girl bore witness to all that the family went through.

Through it all, she was there.

She was there when her teenage father started grappling with peer pressure. While I was bothered myself trying to buy that Converse skateboard shoes and a torn blue jeans to match, Girl kept her calm, patiently waiting for the day I’d returned to her again.

She was there when Mother passed away and hung around throughout the final rites and funeral service. While all of the family was downstairs hanging to each other for strength and comfort, she grieved alone in my sister’s bedroom. Lying whole day in silent contemplation she appeared briefly for a quick snack, said hi and withdrew to her little corner till I was ready to share some time with her. A silent companion is sometimes the best counselor in times of loss and mourning. My Girl rose to the occasion and fitted perfectly well into that role.

She was there when I stacked up my STPM textbooks and wondered worriedly how I would ever be able to score straight As. I closed my eyes those long dreary nights and mumbled an impromptu, unrehearsed prayer to heaven. I opened my eyes and more often than note, Girl was there with a smug kitty look upon her face. Much to my disgust and irritation back then, Girl emulated what other cats have practiced for centuries and generations – she leaped onto my table and nested upon my books at the first opportunity. It was usually when I was just beginning my start of a very long night. She was demanding her share of my attention after Brother had received his. I would like to lie and claimed that I welcomed her with open arms each time she pulled that stunt but the truth is there were just too many times when I chased her away and vented my anger at her. If I had known then what I do now, I would have reacted very differently.

She was there on the day I came home with my STPM results and when the acceptance letter from University Malaya arrived. I gave her a warm, strangling hug, and picked up a day of rhinitis in return. I d moved on in life soon after. On semester breaks and long holiday weekends, I returned home whenever possible to find my Girl curled up like a yarn ball on my sister’s bed in a state of surreal tranquility and a tinge of pensive contemplation. We spent those balmy lazy days lying idly next to each other, saying little but in full comprehension of our unspoken thoughts and appreciation of the times that have been.

We had come a long way since the days of torn jeans, dyed hair and stupid skateboard sneakers. We had passed that period of peer pressure and adverse circumstances. My Girl and I had reached a more secure chapter of life where we can just enjoy each other’s company, if only for a moment. I groomed her shiny coat and rubbed her rounded contented belly. I smile to myself at the thought of how far we had come in life, thanking her for placing her trust and belief in me all those years I was wandering in search of acceptance and friendship. I was totally oblivious to the fact that I already had a faithful companion in my life all those times.

I detected the lump in Girl’s belly during one of those fine, happy moments. I gazed into her green, idyllic crystal eyes and found myself in a state of disbelief and denial. It was as if she had known it all along. Girl looked away in an apparent attempt to avoid any further discussion of the cancer growing within her. She inched her way from me and headed for my sister’s bedroom again. The sun upon her cast a forlorn figure as she shied away for the rest of the afternoon.

Visits to the vet did not help. As sure as I was that Girl had a malignant growth waiting to make its presence felt, there was nothing a medical student could do to convince the so-called professionals of the suspected diagnosis.

I returned to university for my final examinations. It was the final hurdle in a medical student’s life but not necessarily the most important in one’s lifetime. Father’s call came at 8.00 pm that January 10th. Girl had fallen really ill and had become worse despite all the veterinarian’s medications.

I rushed back at 140 km/hr, reaching home to find my Girl too weak to cry but not too ill to recognize. She was a pale picture of the bouncy bundle of energy she used to be. It was too late to heal but not to late to love. I held her frail body close to mine and in between tears and sobs whispered words of affirmation and promises of a reunion. There was no sparkle in her eyes that night, no flamboyant wagging tail, no pompous display of a cat’s beauty.

Yet at that point, in that moment, her immense beauty was embalmed in loving memory forevermore.

Girl died at 4 a.m. Cradled in my arms like the baby she once was, it took a while to digest the fact that I had spent fourteen years with her. A sense of loss and grief set in slowly, as real and as strong as the day I lost my mother. Only this time, I was grieving alone as the rest of the world passed by making snide remarks over what they deemed an unjustified reaction to the loss of a cat.

People will always be people. To them, Girl was a cat. Period.

To me, Girl was a cat that was given a shot at life and entrusted with the task of teaching a young boy how to live his.

Through it all, she waited. She waited for me to play rope and strings with her, and I’ve always wondered whether I was entertaining her or the other way around. She waited for me to grow up and understand that life really wasn’t that complicated. She waited for me to be done with my seemingly endlessly hectic life and to realize that the sweetest moments in life are not necessarily times when we conquered the world. She waited for me to see beauty in the sight of two friends lying close to each other. She waited for the day I’d discover pleasure in the rough licks of a feline’s tongue. And yes, she waited for me to return in time to send her off on an eternal voyage.

For one more day and one more hour, there is nothing I wouldn’t give up. Just one more game and one more stroke of her back, one more meow and one more hiss, one more claw and one more bite, just one more day of cat fur rhinitis.

Epilogue

We take life for granted. We take the people around us for granted, thinking that they’ll be around for eternity. We take our parents for granted, assuming they’ll never grow old and age with time. We take our spouses for granted, preferring to work and earn and waiting for that elusive day to finally enjoy the fruits of our labor. We think family sticks around and will be around forever and ever, until the day sickness and mishaps seize them from us. We take our animal friends for granted, making them wait for a time as when it is convenient for us to pat, feed and talk to them.

Grief is a potent human emotion. Grief does not permit anyone to pass by without changing a part of the person. Despite the vain attempt of psychoanalysts to categorise and stage grief, it remains a complex passage in anyone’s life that one emerges seeing the world in a different light and angle. Humans grieve and so do animals. Humans grieve over animals and vice versa.

Some people say I should forget and move on. Can’t I move on without forgetting? I refuse to forget and insist on moving on at the same time. We don’t live in an oasis with eternal sunshine of a spotless mind.

Memories are intangible and ethereal, but memories will remain the only entity we can effectively hold on to after life, after death, and in life after death.


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Patience, Patients

Too many a time, the role of a patient conjures images of a wasted and bent little old lady struggling to take her steps due to the incessant pain of severe osteoarthritis. Patients are humans and humans are mortals capable of much unthinkable and downright mind-boggling train of thoughts.



Patience, Patients

The internet is a blessing for souls like me who are no scholars in etymology.

The term ‘doctor’ originated way back in 1303 and was originally used to refer to religious teachers and advisers to denote a person capable of providing lawful teachings and right the wrongs in society. It wasn’t until almost 40 years later in 1377 when healing men (and women, if there were any back then) were also referred to as ‘doctors’.

As early as 1320, someone who ‘bears or endures without complaint’ is considered to be patient. It is regarded as a virtue, an admirable quality to be quiet in one’s despair. The origin of the term ‘patient’ in reference to someone who is ill and in need of a doctor’s services is less well-defined.

It’s quite an irony then that patients are referred to as patients because if they were really patient, then they would not be complaining about their suffering but endure it in silence. Maybe the term ‘patient’ as a noun was employed to remind doctors seeing ill persons to be patient in their conduct and mannerism and endure their patients’ idiosyncrasies in silence and solitude.

It can be so easy, so effortless and even fun in fact to go on a doctor-bashing spree just as how political analysts and foreign commentators and blog owners appear to be so merciless and unruly in their condemnation of those in the political thrones.

Let’s do something different for a change. Let’s go on a patient-bashing spree. After all, we are all patients at one time or another and will become ill come a certain point of our lives.

The Stupid Patient
A 22-year-old Chinese guy came knocking insanely on the clinic’s door. He created a small commotion at the counter, demanding the clinic nurse for immediate medical attention. I checked out the chaos unfolding within my earshot. He was a chap with fair skin, hardly a pimple scar on his cheeks. His hair took on a golden-blond hue and towards the scalp, revealed the underlying original black hair. His royal yellow Timberland tee shirt had droplets of blood scattered all over. His right elbow was held flexed in place by his left hand. Blood was dripping from his right hand onto the clinic floor, but not without staining his oversized khakis hanging an inch or two below his pelvic bone. There were multiple cuts on his fingers, each wound oozing a constant but small amount of blood.

“Hi Doc. Good evening, how are you?” he bid me in perfect, accented English upon my appearance.

“Obviously better than you,” I replied. If he can be so cheerful and casual with all the blood that was trickling away, he was in no dire emergency or drunk or most probably both.

I said him down to dress his wounds. In the government hospitals, it’s usually a nurse’s job, but when one is doing locum, everything falls into the locum doctor’s purview. I could see that he has had previous injuries before. He had lost all shape and contour of his knuckles over his middle, ring and little fingers of the same hand.

The young man clarified that he celebrated a futsal goal three weeks ago. In his jubilation and ectasy, he had punched the turf with all his might and soul. His right hand had remained swollen and numb ever since then but he was so sure that it would recover he didn’t see a doctor for it. That night when he came rushing into the clinic, he had punched the glass mirror in his bedroom out of sheer frustration over what he though was an underprivileged life. Ah Beng had also taken a few drinks before he decided to vent his anger at his mirror, and I am not referring to Vico but Vodka.

The patient was formerly a law student, sent on a family scholarship to a high end university in the United States. He was happy there, or so he thought – so much so that every hour is a happy hour to booze and get laid. It wasn’t exactly breaking news or the greatest surprise of the century that he failed to make the cut in his annual exams. That, it seemed was why he was furious and mad about life.

I completed the dressing and advised him to get an x-ray done for his futsal injuries, knowing pretty well it might not make a difference. He had fractured metacarpal bones from his joyous celebration over a goal that didn’t change the world. By now, it was too late for any orthopaedic intervention. He just might have lost the use of three of his five fingers forever.

These are patients that I deem really stoopid with a capital S. Stupid because they think they were smart. Stupid because they do dumb things that bring harm to themselves. Stupid because they will never learn and will do it again. Stupid because they are spoiled, ungrateful brats with a mirror as their worldview. Lastly, stupid because they take much pride in doing the things they do and thinking the doctor is actually interested to hear their story and impressed by their fitting rage.

Patients are allowed even expected to be ignorant about their conditions and illnesses. It is exactly a doctor’s job to educate and teach patients about disease prevention and treatment. A doctor can never however, bring change to stoopid patients like the aforementioned Ah Beng.

The Know-It-All Patient
It is commonplace for doctors to ask patients “What’s wrong?” when we see one. It’s certainly better than asking the patient what brought him/her to the hospital to which the right answer would be a car or an ambulance.

When asked “what’s wrong”, most folks would just go on to describe their cough, cold, sore throat, pain and headache. The more cheeky ones would reply that if they knew what was wrong, they wouldn’t have come to see a doctor in the first place. Such replies usually trigger a chuckle or a natural smile unless the doctor is depressed or simply devoid of any sense of humor.

Then there are those who would jump in right into their supposed diagnosis and start demanding some state-of-the-art treatment, even when such modalities are not yet available or proven in clinical trials. These are usually the Engrish-speaking, educated urban folks who just might have a friend or two who happen to be a doctor too.

Such patients are usually the most unrewarding to treat.

They are obstinate and so full of themselves that any additional education is practically impossible. They are convinced that the fungal infection is eczema and proceed to treat themselves to a course of steroids. I applaud them when they turn up with a severe and generalised fungal dermatophytoses. They are certain that their blood pressure is high only because they just walked two metres from their seat into the clinic, although the records say that their blood pressure has been high for almost three years now.

Mr Know-it-all even recruits medical jargon like adenocarcinoma, myocardial infarction and benign nodular hyperplasia of the prostate.

Among all patients, these really stretch a doctor’s patience to its limits.

The Fake Patient
There are times when I feel like giving up on studying and further training out of frustration and a pinch of desperation and settle for general practice. Don’t get me wrong, general practice and family medicine is truly noble and rewarding in its own right. It’s just that not everyone can practice family medicine. Those who dislike gynaecology and paediatrics like me for instance, will never make an effective family physician.

At times when I feel like resigning and opening up my own humble clinic, there will always be some angels sent from heaven in the disguise of patients.

A young man saunters into the clinic and requests medical attention. He wears a Manchester United cap with a matching red jersey. His blue jeans looked neatly pressed, held firmly in place by a Harley Davidson leather belt. The ends of his jeans spread out in a bell-bottom cover over his leather boots.

Hardly the painting of an ill person…

He makes himself comfortable, raising one leg across the other as he rattles off his presenting complaint. His symptoms were vague like lethargy and headache. His story was inconsistent, flip-flopping between duration from two weeks to two days. His descriptions were nonsensical and did not match any specific disease category. He had normal temperature but claims to have a high fever.

The truth emerges when he is asked about his occupation. He is a university student on a Yayasan Sabah scholarship in his final year of accountancy. He has skipped one class too many and is barred from his final examinations. He is a fake patient, just like the cop looking for a medical certificate to avoid tomorrow’s major drug bust or that young executive suffering from a hangover on Monday mornings.

It remains to be seen whether these are angels disguised as patients or the other way around.

Their existence will never cease while their desperate ways of obtaining a doctor’s letter will always evolve. They waste their employers’ money and betray the trust of that state scholarship. They add to the doctor’s coffers and subtract the available consultation time available for other patients.

Fake patients have no respect for themselves or the intellectual value of the medications they are prescribed, most of which end up untouched.

Regardless, fake patients do an excellent task in keeping me determined not to pursue general practice as a long term career. If that’s the only good they do, then they are doing it pretty well.

The Serve-You-Right Patient
The pot-bellied, bespectacled Chinese man moved with a swagger as he slowly marched into the consultation room. His collared t-shirt was tugged neatly into his three-quarter khakis and a piece of folded paper was mounted under his right armpit. He took a seat and explained he wished to enquire about being a hepatitis B carrier.

I was curious. I asked for the report just as he was about to unfold the laboratory results for me.

The father of two and grandfather of three had hepatitis B all right. The only thing is that he was not a mere carrier of the virus but one with the disease and all its possible complications. He also had syphilis which he most probably contracted from the Filipino ‘guest relations officer’ at the karaoke he regularly frequents.

There is one thing peculiar about Kota Kinabalu whenever I think about karaokes, which is not too often, if at all. Entertainment outlets like karaokes and pubs and discos easily outnumber mobile phone outlets. In a land so endowed with the beauty of nature, it’s amazing why anyone would opt for karaokes and clubs for enjoyment.

I explained in detail the possible complication of chronic hepatitis B and syphilis and the need for further tests to exclude other sexually transmitted diseases. He nodded in comprehension but declined further investigation and treatment. He was comfortable with his lifestyle and has no intention of turning over a new leaf.

Patient’s autonomy, right? So be it then.

This Chinaman has chosen to spread his viruses around and one day die from it. The law does not provide doctors with the power to overrule patients’ decisions and choices. He may and may not contract HIV one day, but he’ll die a horrible death nonetheless from complications of hepatitis B.

His family might remember his as a loyal father and a reliable provider, and maybe blame the doctors for failing to save the patriarch of the family.

Someone somewhere, a doctor seated in a clinic knows better.


Disclaimer
This is not an article to belittle patients and their rights in modern medicine. Too many a time, the role of a patient conjures images of a wasted and bent little old lady struggling to take her steps due to the incessant pain of severe osteoarthritis. Patients are humans and humans are mortals capable of much unthinkable and downright mind-boggling train of thoughts. There are many more types of patients that really test one’s patience.

To write any more is to test your patience.

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Sleeping Away, Slipping Away

Perhaps there is some genetic link and heritage to both insomnia and a nocturnal circadian rhythm.

Deep inside, I know there is more that meets the eyes, not unlike the Transformers.


Sleeping Away, Slipping Away

I’ve been working like a dog the last two weeks, barely getting 2 hours of sleep per day. My schedule of work and locum slots this month amount to an average of 18 hours per day. It still leaves me with a theoretical six hours of sleep but the fact is we all have biological needs and physiological functions to fulfill some of which might take a big chunk of your daily life.

A low requirement of sleep is an advantage in the medical profession. I sometimes pity the doctors who had had an easy pathway to their medical careers. They are not used to sleepless nights and end up I fatique and depression. My colleagues ask me why I don’t appear exhausted despite my lack of sleep. Most exclaimed surprise that I was on call the night before but still appeared energetic. I shrug and say that’s just my body.

My father has been a self-diagnosed insomniac for as long as I can remember. He falls asleep only with the aid of midazolam and wakes up just in time to greet the newspaper vendor and catch the daily news.

Unlike him though, I have ceased trying to resist my nocturnal system and instead embrace it to my advantage.

People impress upon me that the early bird catches the worm and that many successful personalities adopt an ‘early to bed, early to rise’ approach in life. Most ‘longevity experts’ advocate adequate sleep and a regular sleep-wake pattern in order to live till a hundred years old.

Well, worms are not my delicacy and I don’t fancy living to an overripe old age in time to witness Tanah Melayu becoming Taliban-land a hundred years from now. Unless researchers can find the Methuselah gene and couple it to the Fountain of Youth, thank you very much - I’m pretty comfortable with a nocturnal lifestyle even if it means I’ll die a little younger.

Perhaps there is some genetic link and heritage to both insomnia and a nocturnal circadian rhythm.

Deep inside, I know there is more that meets the eyes, not unlike the Transformers.

I may have had nocturnal roots engrained within my system since childhood, but I nevertheless slept to my contentment back then.

I started surviving on two hours of sleep back when I was sitting for the pre-university/STPM examinations.

It was sometime around May/June of Upper Six, that time of the year when the local universities announce their student intake for the year. My Malay peers who went through Matriculation were to enter university a year earlier, while us non-Malays in secondary school outfits were still fighting one another for our share of the varsity racial quota limits.

Lest and before anyone accuses me and other nons of being kiasu and competitive, essentially STPM was just that – an intra-ethnic survival of the fittest. This is one salient feature about the New Economic Policy (NEP) that many folks don’t point out. It pits Malays against Malays, Indians against Indians and Chinese against Chinese, instead of providing for a clean contest that rewards meritocracy without regard to race and religion.

It really doesn’t matter how well one performs objectively, all that mattered at the end of the day was how one fared in comparison to another person of the same ethnicity. This bitter fact of Malaysian life did not hinder us STPM students from helping one another though. I received loads of help from my studying partners and ultimately we all fared pretty well in the examinations.

Burning the midnight oil was not the trigger of my nocturnal state though. Most STPM students studied real diligently, except for some who was lost to cloud nine from day one of school. On my side, knowing that the NEP cloud was hovering above me at all times may have driven me to strive harder, but it certainly did not deprive me of sufficient sleep. Sleeping was very much an option still.

I was shouldering multiple positions in school because we required our extracurricular activities to propel us ahead of the others with similar academic credentials. I was determined to enter medical school, not any medical school but the Medical Faculty of University Malaya. My teachers told me to drop the idea, aim lower and even something else apart from medicine. They meant well I suppose, considering the fact that no head prefects in the preceding few years have ever came close to achieving a decent score in STPM. I appreciated their apparent belligerence and belittling of my hopes and dreams for it made me even more determined to prove them wrong.

Naysayers should never be brushed aside and ignored. They play an omnipotent role in one’s life. Ultimately, it’s our response to critics and skeptics that truly matter. We can ignore them and proceed at our own momentum. If one is has an intrinsic high level of motivation, one will do just fine, like my sister. If one is a lazybone with inherently great inertia and low drive, one ends up paying a high price for ignoring antagonism, like Abdullah Ahmad Badawi. One can also pay too much heed to cynics and end up dispirited and downcast, like Britney Spears and half of the Hollywood neigbourhood. That too is not desirable. I don’t know how and why but I’ve always liked the idea of proving detractors wrong which must not be misconstrued as discrediting every dissenting view.

That was a side track from the main topic, if there were any to begin with in the first place.

In summary, high school activities were not how I came to survive on minimal night sleep though.

Both my sisters were away from home pursuing further education during my STPM year. Essentially, only my brother and I were left in the family home. He has been at home for most of his life in fact. Don’t ask me to elaborate in detail why he was not sent to a special school for children with Down syndrome.

Suffice to say, there were multiple, intertwining factors. The UMNO/BN government did not offer decent special education to begin with. Back in 1996, I checked out this special school called Sekolah Semangat Maju literally translated as the ‘school of progressive spirit’. The windows were broken, the doors were rotting and the teachers in tudung were yelling at the top of their voices. It was an atmosphere of regression and the teachers were anything but spirited. That was then. Things may have changed a little for the better now but ultimately, the fact remains that special education in Malaysia is a farce compared to other nations, and I am not talking about Burma and Zimbabwe.

Brother was lonely. He could have well been lonely his whole life, but I’m sure he was happy and at least contented when Mother was still around to talk and listen to him. They kept each other company. Hers was a body weakened by multiple sclerosis but Mother remained strong in mind and was determined not to neglect her special child from heaven. Brother was lacking in cognition but abundant in character and he too has resolved not to be inhibited by an extra chromosome.

I don’t think I was a responsible brother all those years Mother was around. Truth be told, I was lousy. I came to this realization when I was left all alone with Brother at home. I had to learn everything about him from scratch as though I never knew him all those years we were growing up under the same roof.

We talked. We talked a lot those two years of STPM. Actually, Brother talked mostly while I did the listening. Mother had taught him well enough while she was still around and able to. She must have done an excellent job in that because Brother seemed to have endless to talk about. In between recounts of the latest episode of Kindred Spirit and a daily reminder of whose birthday was coming up soon, Brother spoke of his endless hopes and dreams. From his down-to-earth desire to have Hawaiian chicken pizza the coming Sunday evening to the far-fetched even absurd ambition of being the next new character on Kindred Spirit, the hours spent with Brother turned to weeks and months.

So while other students spent their time at home reading Chemistry and doing Mathematics, I was getting to know a brother I already had my whole life.

We usually spoke till way past midnight, after the mandatory drive around town and a game of modified racquetball in my bedroom. After supper at around 1 a.m and a drink of Daisy Hi-Low milk, my routine-obsessed Brother retires to bed.

I’m left with five hours before school the next morning, where I’ll spend one third of my time out of class chasing after Malay guys smoking in the school toilet and catching Chinese brats playing truant at the nearby snooker outlet. The dark-rings around my eyes suggested an all-out studying orgy, but only God knows that I have had less than two hours of Biology/Chemistry/Maths.

That is how I came to survive on two hours of sleep every night. The STPM examination paved the course. A racist system placed me at the starting line and a tall ambition blew the starting whistle. My brother kept me on the course, alongside my silent prayers to Jesus.

It’s 6.30 am now. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the grass is green and you might still be sleeping. Now if you’d excuse me, I think I need to sleep too.


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