A Better Term

So many great personalities have written on writing before me. They are so great and numerous in number that I cannot seem to think of a single name. Well, I can. Actually I remember reading Stephen King's On Writing about 5 years ago. That's actually the only book I've ever read about Stephen King, and it was pretty damn good. Made me want to read more by him, but I still have not. I hear he has a new book out or something...

Anyhow, I digress. Back to the main point.

Writing.

Tonight, I had a sudden, unavoidable urge to write. And it came from emotion. Emotion is a weird thing. Of course as we all know, emotion is something that you feel, that doesn't always make sense. Sometimes, emotion cannot be described with words and it makes you confused because you don't exactly know what you feel.

Maybe this is why I like to write. I like to write because it literally makes things black and white, concrete. You can see writing, read writing, process it and interpret it to make sense out of it. With emotion, you cannot always. Well, maybe one of you weirdos out there reading this can, but I can't.

I like to write when I'm mad (for the lack of a better term), when I'm sad (for the lack of a better term), or when I feel something for which there is a lack of a better term. Simple, ain't it?

I'm not being particularly elusive, incisive, erudite or even concise, but you know what? This ain't Dr. Aarons's 4000 level english class in composition (damn that was a good class).

I just felt like writing for a little bit.

On Driving Home at Night

After a very busy, seemingly endless ER shift tonight, I was left irritable and cranky from not having had my dinner and not having a chance to relieve myself all evening. I stepped out of the hospital and faced the black night. I noticed beads of drizzle landing softly on the tops of cars parallel parked along the curb, and there were patches of damp pavement, in some cases adorned with flattened cockroaches that probably got in the way of someone's footsteps.

The trees were swaying with life, and I remembered this Indian comic book I used to read in which the village fool thinks that proof of life in trees is how they sway in the wind.

Somehow the night can be incredibly calming. I expected to have an irritable and cranky ride home that would surpass my irritable and cranky shift, but instead it made me feel better.

I ignored the smell of latex gloves that lingered on my fingertips and began to reminisce on my way home, such as my first drive to Hughes Spaulding: I was with my parents and we wanted to see how long it would take me to get to work from my apartment. I passed the apartments on my right that got damaged in the tornado - just a few days earlier one of my patient's mother's came to my clinic wearing a "I survived the Atlanta tornado" t-shirt. She had been 10 months pregnant when the tornado hit and now her child was 7 months old and almost crawling. I passed the blinking red light along the train tracks of the MARTA train, which reminded me of nothing in particular, but was a part of my daily route that never failed to draw my attention. I passed the one spot on my route during which the trees seem to reach for the sky a bit more, and they seem to feel a little bit more dense and lush than the trees on other parts of the route. I crossed the train tracks that always jostle the tires of my Civic. And then I arrived home.

There was nothing special or unusual about my thoughts tonight, but I loved how observing these familiar sights in the middle of the night, without anyone else passing me on the street, made me more observant, more appreciative. Even though it was 3:45 in the morning, the night heightened my senses.

This also reminded me of the Robert Frost poem "Acquainted with the Night," and how differently I felt tonight than the lonely, isolated speaker does in that poem. It was reciting that poem in class, along with the rest of the class, and appreciating the intonation and consonance that led me to love words and become an English major in college, one of the best decisions of my life. Yes, tonight, I became more acquainted with the night on my drive home, but it gave me a sense of peace.

Study all day? Imp-possible!!!

Lately, I've felt that extra tug by the little imp known as "Medicine." Lemme tell you about her. She's someone I've known for a few years. She allured me with promises of never ending challenges, the mix of emphathy and evidence-based scientific thought, personalism and of course, job security. It's a love-hate relationship with her. There are moments when all I throw myself into a relationship with - sometimes willingly, sometimes unwillingly - and there are MANY times when it feels so good to keep my distance.

I'm now studying for my step 3 exam, and I'm experiencing deja-vu... it takes me back to medical school, where I was able to study all day, every day. I was proud on those days when my "study stamina" would reach unprecented heights and I seemed to break new records with each passing day that brought me closer to that exam.

Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating a little, but still I do remember those marathon days. I remember one day, studying on the 3rd floor of Baylor around 10 or 11 at night, and all of a sudden I hear one of my classmates running down the hall yelling, "We're learning! We're LEARNING!"

So now I'm studying for the step 3, and I have as much stamina as a sloth.

It feels like torture.

I mean, really, why should I have to know that ankylosing spondylitis is associated with HLA 27 or that multiple myeloma can cause a hyperviscosity syndrome. I'm a third year pediatric resident! Why can't I watch Dancing with the Stars in peace without feeling the imp's tug?

Guilty Gas Guzzler?

I pulled into the QuikTrip and found myself at least 10 cars away from an available gas pump. Although it was nightime, there was a neon glare all around me. The night was red from tailights, and it was dusky from the smell of gasoline.

I remember loving the smell of gasoline as a little girl, and being amazed, as I got older, to learn that some couldn't stand the odor.

After about 20 minutes of waiting in line - which I'm not complaining about given the news reports of hour long wait times - I approached the pump, unlike I had ever approached it before. The anticipation fo the smell of gasoline, that cheap thrill of odor anticipation that honestly has nothing to do with an addiction (I swear!), was, for the first time, clouded with guilt.

Why am I not finding more ways to conserve gas? Do I really need to fill up my car? Why not fill it to half a tank instead of a full tank? Is there any way I can utilize public transportation more?

Amidst a gas shortage, it appears that everyone, including myself, is not making any effort to conserve. I always thought it was a situation like this that would finally make us, as a society, more conscious about energy consumption, but it has not. And it will clearly take more. More, as in to completely run out of gas.

Maybe this is because we simply do not have good options. Our options are to 1) stay at home all the time 2) take public transportation, and of course, not all parts of Decatur/Atlanta have easy or even safe access to public transportation 3) ride a bike or 4) carpool.

I like all of these choices. Why can't we all just try and choose one? It's easy for me to say that I'm a resident and that because of my lifestyle and work hours, that I can't make any of these choices. But then, I guess all of us can come up with excuses. Maybe I'll work on choosing #4. I'll let you know how it goes. These are my very simple thoughts...

Hurricane Ike

The eyewall of Ike is pushing through, and I'm sitting in a hotel room in Washington DC. I think that when you're in a situation that's competely helpless, you try and exert as much control as you can. For me, right now, this takes the form of spending $11 to access WiFi and doing frantic searches on the internet to check the windspeeds of my parents home. And blogging.

Right now, the eye is passing over Galveston and Stephanie Abrams is speaking in front of stationery palm trees. I can barely see them moving.

I'm scared. My parents are out, which saves me a lot of worry, but I am thinking of my home. I love Houston. It's my home and it has brought me so much good in my life.

I don't even know what else to say. I think it's amazing that nature has created such an amazing storm called a Hurricane, that has so much power and fury, that humans, with all intellect and technology, is reduced to a mere four limbed creature that has to flee.

I can't believe this storm has hit where I am from. I have been somewhat fascinated by powerful weather all my life. At one point in high school, I wanted to be a meteorologist - I got 100's on countless Earth Science tests in high school (wasn't really that hard of a class though!). I grew up one of those really erally weird kids who liked to watch the weather channel. I've watched these weather dudes from all part of the country, report from the center of these storms. And now they're in my home and I'm feeling lost.

I would like to take a moment to recognize my former Baylor classmates, who are now residents, who are taking indefinitely long calls in the hospital until the storm passes, and to recognize those who will be relieving those who are riding out the storm in the hospital.

Devi's back, back again...

It's one of those things where reality becomes real when you see it right in front of you. Or smell it right in front of you, for that matter. I'm in India right now, and i arrived last night around 1 AM. I smelled India (it's a very distinctive dusty ancient smell like nothing else! maybe there's a little poo mixed in there too...) and saw it at the same time, and then it hit me that I was back only a short 2.5 years after my last visit.

Last time I went to India more out of necessity than for any particular reason. At that time, I knew I was going to be starting residency and it was practical for me to use the glorious 4th year med student vacation time to go. It was a great trip! I travelled to so many places and spent time with family.

Now I'm here to learn about medicine in India. I have no idea what to expect from Swarna Jayanti Samudaik Hospital in Mathura, India. It's a small hospital with a smaller pediatric ward in a small town. We'll see what happens...

From what I can tell I should have internet access at the hospital, so keep checking my blog for updates! I know I haven't written in ages... I hope to find my muse in India.

Ice Cream

My quiet steps quickened as I approached the Children's Center. There was hardly anyone around at 8:30 in the morning. I waved good morning to the securty guard and resumed my quest to find the gastroenterology clinic where I was scheduled to appear. I straightened my white coat and headed for Clinic 1, where a blond haired lady was sitting in front of an empty waiting room. She saw me approaching and looked at me in disapproval. In response that I can now label only as snooty, I fastened the top button of my white coat and adjusted my stethoscope that was hanging around my neck. Without hesitation and without any need of approval, I entered through the door that led to the patient rooms with only a side glance at the clerk.

Once I was through the door, I realized I had no idea where the heck I was. I made a circle with my steps, trying to locate who might be a GI attending. No one. I retraced my steps back to the front of the clinic, where the gatekeeper of all that is shit and farting was still sitting (no offense to all you GI lovers out there).

"Excuse me, but where is the GI clinic?" I asked.

"Oh, there is no GI clinic today," said she.

In that moment, I was taken back to my childhood. I was three years old, and my father was buying me ice cream at Disney World in Orlando.

Later in the day, I went to Piedmont park and laid in the grass enjoying the bright blue sky. I forgot how blue the sky can be.

To Fry A Dosa

I'm seven years old and it's a dry, summer morning in Bangalore, India. I hear the vegetable vendor on the streets, waking me up with his daily cries of fresh produce. I rub my eyes as my blurred sight slowly begins to sharpen, but it's my sense of smell that more quickly returns. It's the scent of my grandmother frying dosas.

I see her figure in front of the stove in the small kitchen. She turns around, smiles and says, "Good morning!" I notice that she hasn't yet put on her dentures as her lips softly curve inward. Minutes later, she brings me a stainless steel plate with a small dosa, some pickle and chutney. She makes the dosas very small, only about 5 inches in diameter, specially made for me.

I finish one, and she brings me another, freshly made, and one more after that.

Years later, after my grandmother is gone, I will realize how much this woman amazed and continues to amaze me, with her tiny frame, grey hair, and soft fingers. I couldn't imagine that this woman had once fled her home country of Burma during World War II and spent months hiding in the jungles before arriving in India by foot.

I remember today, as I prepare dosa batter on my own for the first time, that Ajee was the only one to make me those mini-dosas. It's not typically how dosas are made. In restaurants, I have ordered countless numbers of dosas, mostly large, crisped to perfection. They are sculptures, the way they extend beyond the limitations of a dinner plate and induce mouth-watering sighs from hungry customers. Even at my mother's house, we fry the dosas to the edges of the frying pan.

But I'll never forget my grandmother's small dosas that she used to make for me. They were soft, almost scorching hot, and of course, so tasty! I haven't seen her in many years, but I'm really missing her right now. I think maybe if she was still alive, I would write her a letter and ask her for her recipe. Instead I will give my mother a call. She has, by default, inherited all the habits of my grandmother. And maybe if I try, they can be passed along to me.

The Visit

I didn't even know anything had happened. I was at Yasmin's watching Clerks, and saw flashes of light from behind her burgundy drapes that cover her large window.

"Oh, how pretty," Yasmin said, and we opened the drapes to get a view of the pretty spring thunderstorm.

The storm passed rather quickly and in our area in Decatur, we didn't even get any hail.

I drove home later that night, after the rain had stopped. As I was walking from my car to my apartment, I noticed a man standing outside of his apartment talking on his cell phone. "Yeah, I have a few large bay windows in the apartment, but everything is pretty safe," he said. I was confused. Are we going to get some severe weather? I thought, but didn't spend too much time thinking about it and went to sleep pretty easily. Unlike some of my fellow Atlantans that night...

I woke up the next morning and found endlless news coverage on the tornado that ripped through downtown Atlanta. I couldn't believe it. The strangest thing for me was seeing amazing pictures of building and houses destroyed, knowing that these areas are located only 10 miles west of where I live.

The extent of what happened really hit me yesterday morning when I drove to Grady where I was on call in the nursery. I had trouble getting to work initially - many roads were blocked off. I was surrounded by downed trees and powerlines. Large oak trees were snapped in half. It looked like somone had literally taken a bit out of some of the brick buildings. Debris was scattered everywhere, including some dangling fro powerlines. A buildboard on the corner of I75/85 and Edgewood looked like someone placed it in a paper shredder. On Dekalb Ave, to my left, I saw the Cotton Mill Lofts - the top floor was completely gone on one side. Further along Edgewood at an intersection, I realized a traffic light that once directed traffic had likely been completely blown away. A glance upward - multiple windows were blown out from tall landmark skyscrapers - the Equitable building, the Sun Trust building, the Westin Tower. At Grady itself, the back windows where the cafeteria is had been blown out and were covered.

Only the work of a Tornado.

Mine is a passive story. I had not realized that 130 mph circular winds had literally changed lives until the morning after, and it was not until 2 morning after the visit, when I heard the stories of my fellow residents - stories that could have easily been my own.

A dear friend of mine, was on call at Hughes Spaulding, the children's hopsital across the street from Grady. She was working at the walk-in clinic, which is part of the ER. She barely realized that there was a storm, when all of a sudden, one of the entrances blew open and she said debris was flying everywhere within the halls of the hospital. Suddenly, it was chaos, and there was a mad rush to get all the families and patients downstairs to the basement.

Another friend was on call at the NICU and was literally putting in an umbilical line in a premature baby that had just been born. He would later say that the procedure note was a colorful one. While he was scrubbed in, he got a page that he was not intially going to answer. It was his wife, who had jumped in the bathtub when the tornado hit their neighborhood. He rushed home that night to find that his front door had been blown off.

Only a few stories from that night. There are many more of people who have lost their homes. And there are the pseudo-famous Atlanta Tornado '08 stories. One is of a 3 month old puppy that survived for 2 days in the Cotton Mill lofts and was recently found alive. Another is of a white carriage horse that was pulling a carriage and took off as the winds picked up - images caught by city video surveillance.

I can say that when there is a natural disaster that hits so close to home, there is this natural tendency by those who were spared to try and understand what happened, because the situation could have easily been that it was my roof, my call night, my front door... or even my life. And the fact that it wasn't, means that I can only read and hear the stories, send prayers and well wishes, and offer any assistance that I can.

Finding some peace

It's been months since I've written, but I find help at this unlikely hour- the fog envelops me like a cloud with a soft, warm embrace. Beyond the fog is unknown- a distant light illuminating endlessly from an unknown origin. Smudged parallel lines marking the supposed sharp edges of residence. Black shadows, darkened even more so by the white, dusty fog. I am secure and feel more at peace, not being able to see beyond my home. I see myself, and who I am, separated from the place of work where I morph into a being without lines, without an origin, without and end. Here, the fog protects, makes me reflect, makes me smile, and I feel comfort.

It is thick and cunning, like Eliot's cat, and I've made an unlikely alliance with a treacherous piece of weather. The quiet massages my muscles, and I sigh a bit easier, feel less lonely, feel happy to be myself, like this, at home protected by white auras of color.

Half Mile Mark

Happy New Year to everyone. May everyone experience a year filled with prosperity, joy and tartar free dental visits. On another note, I'm halfway done with residency. I just have to do what I've just done over again, then I'm done. That kind of rhymes... like in a hip-hop sort of way. Gosh, I'm talented.

On another note, I saw stars in a Houston sky tonight. That was kind of nice. In a starry, starry night sort of way, if you know what I mean.