Multichotomy

My college essay

Nearly 12 years ago, I wrote the following essay and submitted it as part of my college application.   After spending four years on my bachelor’s degree and seven years on my M.D. and Ph.D., I am finally ready to begin working on this promise.  I’ve felt guilty for the past several years for taking so long to finish school, but my mother has supported me 100%.  I know that in the end, I’ll be able to help many more people than if I had taken a shorter route.  If I ever do anything good for anyone, please thank my mother.     

…

Prompt: What is one of your dreams, and how did it originate?

My whole life, I have lived in apartment buildings.  In fact, I have lived in seven of them. At a young age, I became used to moving frequently.  As I grew older, I began to realize how hard these transitions were for my mother.  She and my father separated before I can remember, and my father vanished from our lives.  My mother has done the best she can to provide for my two sisters and me.  She works multiple jobs while, at the same time, caring for her family as both a mother and a father.  I have never encountered anyone who works as hard as my mother does for her children, but no matter how hard she works, she never can make more than ends meet.  Any money she saves, she eventually spends on her children.  My mother always puts her children before herself.  She has put her dreams on hold in order to help her children achieve their own.  One of my dreams (I am reluctant to call it a dream because I am sure it will become a reality) is to one day buy my mother a home of her own. 

Living in apartments, landlords control much of our lives.  The same pattern always evolves.  My mother tries to live in one place as long as she can, but when the rent is raised too high, we move.  In one case, we were forced to move before my mother could find another place for us to live.  We lived in a shelter for a while.  I was only six at the time, and I actually enjoyed living in the shelter.  It brought my family closer together.  I did not realize the hardships it caused my mother.  She hated living there.  She hated not being able to provide for her children.  When we finally found a place to live, my mother promised that we would not move again for a long time.  She worked as hard as she could but was unable to keep that promise.  We moved again a year and a half later.    

No one was upset with my mother for breaking her promise.  The apartment she found was wonderful.  It is the nicest place we have ever lived.  The apartment we live in now lacks in comparison.  We each had our own bedroom, we were allowed to have a dog, and we even had a backyard.  For a while, it began to feel like a real home.  We lived in this dream apartment for only three years.  When we moved, I resented my mother for making me leave the one “normal home” I had ever had.  I did not realize how hurtful I was towards her.  Not once did she make me feel like I was being selfish, but I was.  I now understand that she loved that apartment more than I did.  Leaving it behind, my mother felt like she was losing her last opportunity to settle down.  Since then, we have moved twice.  The apartment we live in now is dark and cramped.  We have lived here for four years now, and to some extent, it has begun to feel like a home.  I know my mother wants to move, but she would never say anything.  

Though she is by no means soft spoken, my mother rarely speaks about her own wants and needs.  She is too busy worrying about the wants and needs of her children.  However, when she does talk about her longings, she always mentions owning a home of her own. She sometimes says to her friends, “You see this one?” referring to me, “He’s the one who’s gonna make it.  But when he does, he’s gonna buy his mother a house.  Isn’t that right, Shoa?”  I always nod with a smile.  My mother makes these comments jokingly, but I take her words seriously. I have many dreams of my own, but I also have a dream for my mother.  She has been continuously weakened by the sacrifices she makes for her children.  Still, she keeps pushing on.  For giving me more than I could ever ask for, I want to give her the one thing she has ever asked for.  I am going to buy my mother a house, so that she can finally settle down.  

In defense of cosmetic surgery (sort of)

I think it’s time for a good old fashion rant.  Let’s hope I don’t get myself in trouble…

In the last few days, a series of images appeared on the internet, each depicting a 2013 Miss Korea pageant contestant.  The images are displayed in a comparative fashion, tagged with such captions as, “Are these all the same person?”  Social media sites have been flooded with posts of the photos along with words of shock and disgust.  A clear message of judgement echoes through Facebook and Twitter.  Some comments are as simple as “Ew,” or “lol koreans.”

I take issue with this self righteous outcry for two reasons.  The first is simple, the latter somewhat complex.

The simple reason is that these girls do not look that much alike!  Yes, they are thin, young, Asian women.  Yes, they have practiced smiles, thick eyebrows, and dark eye makeup.  None of those features are the result of surgery.  Admittedly, they share the same jaw lines and thin nasal bridges, the result of mandibuloplasty and rhinoplasty.  But if you allow more than a glance, you’ll notice some have pointed noses, others round.  Some have prominent nasolabial folds, others flattened. Etc, etc.  How many, though, have taken the time to examine the faces for their individuality?  Instead, we quickly scan the images already wanting to see similarity, eager to join the bandwagon of judgement.

And that brings me to the second issue.      

The rapid explosion of mob mentality is disturbing.  I’m sure many out there simply want to express the sentiment that we should question a culture that so strongly encourages conformity.  We should discourage social pressures that drive women to extreme measures for the sake of aesthetics.  Yet, I’ve seen very little thoughtful discussion.  Rather, nameless internet users have rallied together to judge and mock these girls whom none of us know.   We as a society have become desperately hungry for moral authority, and yet, we lack the contemplation, introspection, and reflection that is fundamental to moral character.  

If we are to judge those girls, let us also judge ourselves.  We’re fine with people piercing their ears and dyeing their hair.  Tattoos and colored contact lenses are a rising fad.  Wrinkle creams and teeth whitening are a must.  We yearn for assimilation through fashion, music tastes, and food preferences (it was all about cupcakes for a while, but I guess now it’s macarons).  We are just as guilty of conformity and vanity.

Some may rebut that the above examples are benign.  Taking your daughter to have her ears pierced is far less extreme than changing the shape of a nose.  But in America, we’ve embraced elective medical procedures as well.  ~55 % or male infants are circumcised.  And how many kids undergo multiple orthodontic procedures for that perfect smile?  You may think that braces are only used for health reasons.  In reality, orthodontists assess the need for intervention based on a definition of  dental health that includes “social acceptability” (their words, not mine).  Others use more flowery language to describe dental health as, “the absence of negative impacts of oral conditions on social life and a positive sense of dentofacial self-confidence.”  When we feel our childrens’ smiles may be socially unacceptable, it is perfectly within our cultural norms to perform arch expansions and tooth extractions.  

I’m not saying that we should deny our children braces, and I have no intention of promoting cosmetic surgery.  I’m just worried that we have become exceedingly quick to judge others while remaining thoroughly reluctant to judge ourselves.  Are we really so comfortable ridiculing people whose stories we have not heard, whose culture we are not a part of, whose names we don’t even know?

You are here, and it is now

It’s Saturday morning. Or Sunday. It could be any day. 

A stranger, full of life, sits in your passenger seat. She inspires you. The windows are rolled down, hiding from the playful winds that taunt your hair. The indifferent sun slowly burns your skin; you’re unaware. As you inhale deeply, the aroma of coffee is confused by the scent of perfume.

The ocean dances on the horizon, and the perfect song comes on.

It’s the sort of day that merely serves as an extension to the night before. Unplanned and yet expected. A day composed of experiences rather than events. Each second is fleeting until you allow yourself to notice its passing. Moments like this one are the substrates of dreams. They are like those deeply realistic illusions that you either cling to or run from as the dream slips away. But you are not dreaming.

Within the vastness of time, a single day is infinitesimal. Of the billions of people milling and seething across the globe, you are but one. In the grand scheme of things, this moment may as well never have happened.  

But right here, right now, the grand scheme is irrelevant.

The Value of Dedication

Do something wonderful.  People may imitate it.
~Dr. Schweitzer

What is the most important book you’ve ever read?  Can you name one that has impacted your life more than any other?  Until recently, I could not.  The problem was not one of indecision or lack of options.  I simply couldn’t remember the name of the book.  It was the story I read as a child that first steered me towards a career in medicine.  I remember first picking it up and holding it in my hands.  I’ve always remembered the cover vividly.  But I could never remember the title.  Finally, thanks to the omniscience of the internet, I’ve tracked down that unnamed story.      

One day in third grade, my teacher arrived with a stack of books.  They were biographies written for children.  Each one was about an important figure in history.  Our assignment was to choose one and do a presentation for the class.  Immediately, I eyed the book with Albert Einstein on the cover.  I didn’t really know what Albert Einstein did or why he was important, but I knew he was smart.  Maybe even the smartest person ever.  

I rushed to get in line to choose a book.  I was hopeful; there were only a few kids ahead of me.  The first chose George Washington.  Respectable.  The next chose Thomas Edison.  The light bulb guy.  Whatever.  My stomach sank as the girl in front of me picked up the Albert Einstein book.  I was left deflated.  I pawed through a pile of titles with names and faces that meant nothing to me.  As a childish effort to console myself, I chose the one other book with the name “Albert” on the cover.  It was “The Value of Dedication: The Story of Albert Schweitzer.”  I had no clue who he was.

Before third grade, I was an overactive, imaginative kid with no real focus.  I got into a lot of  trouble.  Like many kids, I wanted to be a doctor.  I also wanted to be a scientist, an astronaut, a spy, a ninja, a robot.  The list goes on.  I wanted to be everything that my family was not: educated, respected, important.  By the time I was eight, I had already lived in four different apartments and had been homeless once.  I was used to being teased.  I was a cunning liar, able to deceive my friends about where my father was or where I lived.  Whatever I might say about my future was really no different than the claims I made about my past and present: pure fantasy.    
 
The story of Albert Schweitzer resonated with me.  I may have been an immature nine year old boy, but I was familiar with the concept of disparities.  I had first hand experience.  I considered Martin Luther King Jr. a hero.  I had a poster of him on my wall.  We had books about him at home.  But to a child, MLK is almost magical.  He changed the world with his speeches that no one else could give.  It was like he had a superpower.  To me, Schweitzer presented something different.  Schweitzer addressed disparities through his profession.  Through his everyday work.  Simple, quiet, persistence.  He was not special.  He was an ordinary physician.  He was tangible.  He presented a portrait of a man I could become.    

After reading the story of Albert Schweitzer, for the first time, I envisioned a future for myself that was not just fantasy.  For my presentation, I dressed up as Schweitzer and shared my (his) dream with the class - a dream for a world where we are all brothers and sisters, where compassion drives our work, where we universally care for those most in need.  At the age of nine, I decided I would become a physician.  Twenty years later, I’ve finally arrived.  Not at my goal.  Rather, at my starting point.  Still carrying that dream and unwavering dedication.    

Hospital Life

Every day, I listen to people’s hearts.

I mean that in the literal sense.  I listen to the sounds that their hearts make.  Sounds that are made as blood and flesh meet. Sounds that repeat over and over and over and over again throughout one’s life.  You’re making these sounds right now.

Every day, I look into people’s eyes.  It’s not awkward or uncomfortable. They stare back at me.  I watch as their eyes perform stereotypical responses, independent of their conscious will.  I marvel at the physiology. Photons collide with proteins embedded in cell membranes.  Light energy is converted into mechanical energy.  Channels open. Ions rush down electrochemical gradients.  A chain reaction begins.

Every day, people tell me stories.  Stories about their day, their week, their month, their year.  Stories about their life.  I hear happy stories and sad stories.  I’m told about families and friends, failures and triumphs.  Every day, people share their fears with me.

Every day, people tell me their most intimate secrets.

Every day, I encounter questions I cannot answer.  Every day, I find the answers to some of these questions.  Other questions I know I will never be able to answer.  I think about those questions a lot.  Every day, I learn. Every day, I teach.

Every day, I see life.  Some days, I see death.  I’m deeply affected by both. I don’t think this will ever change.

Every day, I see kindness.  Every day, I see resilience and determination. I see the full spectrum of human emotion.  I see the heights of our intelligence, and I see the inevitable limits.  Every day, I’m reminded that we are all more alike than we are different.

Every day, I’m inspired.

Every day, I’m thankful.