Yes, I am

Routine day at the office as I was flipping through a thick pile of green folders and white papers when Dr. B walked in with his usual smirk of sarcasm. After the formal ethnic introductions and the complaints of the distance we had just finished traveling, he dared venture over the topic of religion.

“so are you very religious? ”

“yes, I am.”

“wait, are you very religious or very spiritual?”

“I am very religious”

“So you believe that I am going to go to hell?”

I looked up with a smile on my face…”yes, I believe you will go to hell”

Then with a look of surprise and disbelief, he uttered: “So why are you not trying to save me then? If I were to see a person trying to jump off a building and if I knew he was going to hit the floor and die, I would not care what the media said…what people said…I would be running to pull him back…and save him…I mean..why are you not trying to save me?…I just don’t understand…Well…you don’t even know my middle name or my favorite color..but that’s besides the point…”

I briefly assumed silence and then asked with a smile..”tell me your middle name and your favorite color.”

He laughed and shared with me his personal information at once to allow me to become his savior.

“Tell me what you would do in this case..doc. You walk into the room of a 73 year old male with blood pressure of 248 / 120..alert and oriented to person, place, and time….what is your plan of action? ”

“He is in hypertensive crisis. Send him to ER for observation after dispensing him antihypertensives”

“patient refuses both the medication and hospital..now what do you do? ”

“Well…” and he smiles and nods his head..”patient is alert and oriented enough to make his decision…I cannot do anything….”

“We have a crisis at hand Dr. B….what should I do?!” and we both laughed as I headed out the conference room to return the paperwork.

“Hey, have you ever had your IQ checked? ” The man is full of insinuations, but I took that one as a compliment for time’s sake.

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How to prepare ratatouille Bonheur with madness and chaos

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Cook time: a split second of a God willing epiphany

Preparation: Up to a lifetime

Madness is in the blood, chaos in the bones. Rattling is your poor life of sticks and stones. How far will you go? Far enough to please a soul around the corner, or even farther to satisfy your own? All this time, you thought you had known. Then came along a question: How to prepare ratatouille Bonheur with madness and chaos?

Tag! you’re it! Now your turn, to touch a troubled soul and find treasure in a loss. This is how you prepare ratatouille Bonheur with madness and chaos.

Smiles and Giggles

Aside

I was looking for something in a desert once, sipping on lemon water when I suddenly realized, the sun can be hot as hell! No soul in sight, but the heat made it feel crowded…suffocating. I was not particularly dieing I guess but was unaware that I am uncomfortable. Though I was quenching my thirst with the lemon water, as refreshing as ever.

Then I began to run out of the water and suddenly realized my skin was burning. How unsightly, I thought. And how uncomfortable, I felt. I must stop it. I have no water left to distract myself either. I have but no choice. As much as it pains, the burning skin if only I can explain… but also I must attend to my vanity.

Faulty Frugal

First day of clinical training and I thought I may have managed a lawsuit. I do not even have malpractice insurance yet!

Aside from the cold wind biting at my face early morning, the staff members at a chaotic hospital paining my other end was a crisp reminder that vacation is over. I have returned to the diseased and the disgruntled, and the patients are the least of my concern. I called in a morbidly obese sick guy who was having trouble talking after having a stroke some years ago. I saw that he is not dying, ordered an ECG for his occasional left sided chest pain, ordered some blood-work, and told him to return in a month to see me with the results or earlier if needed.

But I needed a pen. A pen to write that he has been having the unaddressed chest pain for the past few months. To write that his legs have become so weak that he has recently started using a cane. To make sure that we have in records that his blood sugar this morning was the usually uncontrolled 221. So I needed a pen. The pen that was likely given to the front desk in the office by a drug representative who must have also brought fancy lunch to discuss his product over. Thinking it was the right decision…in the absence of the desk-place owner, I went and reached for a red pen among other writing tools sitting in a jar. I quickly went back to tend to the patient in the room and began writing my note.

I discharged the patient shortly, no problem but returned to find what I thought could have been a practical joke on a newbie. I walked in and was regarded to as…”Suze me! You gotta aks fo da pen befo yah take it! N return it!” I thought I heard fingers snapping as I heard those words, though it could have simply been my nerves. I looked around to see if anyone else found this ridiculous…or if there was a cue for..”relax! we jus kiddin’..”.or if there was a lawyer nearby ready to hold anything I said against me. I instinctively apologized while grinding my teeth when I saw neither.

I should have given her the extra pen that I found in my jacket pocket as I slammed the red pen at her desk, but instead I took the fancy veggie sandwich from the break-room that the drug rep brought to enjoy on my way home.

Not only because I am distracted but also because…

It is about time you decided to suck on a Menthol Mr. hufferpuffercougher guy. I sincerely wish you well from across the table, but smoking your lungs as a waking ritual every single morning before a lardy breakfast will do you no good. How can I tell you smoke? That raspy, choking noise you make with each unreliable breath even after having cleared your throat a few seconds ago. That is how. So maybe you did quit, but I wish you had quit sooner than you did. And if you have not yet, I wish your google search of an unrelated subject pulls up a pungently blunt post by who you think to be an overtly rude blogger that reads: “dragging an oxygen tank everywhere few months after having half of your lung removed by a surgeon who was less bothered that day and cut perfectly around the 3cm deathball proliferating elsewhere in your chest as well. That is about the best you are looking at a few billion struggling breaths down the road”. I sincerely do wish you well.

Number Jumble

There is a fashionable old woman sitting right across from me, writing something from what  seems like a novel in her notepad. She has got dark brown hair covering the most of her forehead lines and even the unevenness of her pencilled brows. You would not be able to tell that one ends a little before the other or the same is a little more arched than the other, but I am staring. She even has the brightest of shades of red on her lips, drawing attention away from the deep smile lines she must have resented years ago. She may have accepted them now. Maybe. I know, I would have a hard time too. Her hair, pulled up into a bun compliments the keen look she wears with her glasses. I have tried that look, but it does not suit me as well as it does her. So fashionable.

I would say that’s about a thousand pages of a novel, and she’s at page…oh 556. And she herself, maybe 76. I have never written anything out of a novel into a notebook. Maybe in high school, but recently I have just read. Why is she still writing? So much from a single page, page 556. What is it in that book that she woke up this dreary morning, contrasted perfectly her burgundy collared shirt with the pale pink cardigan. Refined her sophistication with well fitted brown pants and matched them astutely with her inch-heeled brown shoes. Seated herself among five youngsters with their laptops in a room full of clicking and flipping. But she, still on 556. From her constant writing and unrelenting attention span though, I would trade my 326 for her 556. Any day. But not the 25 for the 76. Not a day.

Caution: you’re being watched

I am a people watcher. I like to sit with my favorite mug of hot coffee and a flavorless book illustrating how to fix people in a quiet study room. Instead, I just watch people when taking a break from tongue twisters and mind bogglers. I watch the ones inside the room, flipping through pages of something important frantically. The look on their faces tells me that it is due soon, and as usual, they are running out of time. I can relate. At their expense, I enjoy how they look deeply into their scattered pieces of documents, with their brows crooked behind their glasses and their backs wearing a terrible posture. Then, they straighten up and turn abruptly towards the ceiling and whisper what they have just read. Use their hands to count, place, act out, or perhaps .. hold up in surprise after having an epiphany.   Reminds me of that optical illusion that your friends find impressive enough to email you: stare at the center of the picture for 30 seconds then stare at a white wall. I saw Jesus. I wonder if anyone really listened to the noon church bell right now. I would have missed it if I were being a good student. I also pay attention to the poor ones out the window, chasing after the little devils that grow up to become responsible, civilized individuals. You know, the ones that vote for a better future and then join the facebook group “I Just Voted” or something. Poor souls out there, chasing the little monsters down the road of maturity. Going to be a long run. Oh wait, she caught the kid before they could cross. Oh the adamants now and not to mention the horrid broccoli for lunch. I wonder what would have happened if she was not on time. Empty parking lot, calm afternoon, naked tree branches. Thank goodness. People watching. The best part of it is that I do not look like a creep, and I would like to think from the looks that I get, I do a fair job of not acting like one either. Mind your opinions. I am simply a bystander. For now. Unless, of course, there is a zombie apocalypse.