The Spirit of Adventure

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I’ve wished upon a shooting star only once in my life. It was my first sighting. August 2001. 

I knew at that exact moment what it was. No big burst of light, the way a firework’s tail drizzles down, each fainter and fainter. No sparkly tail, like the designs of a sparkler, little pops of light along the center of exuberance.  No magnificent splendor.  It was merely a streak of white light, hardly half an inch long in the vast royal blue sky, brightened by the speckles of stars and the waning crescent.  Not even a second passed. It was quick, it was over, but it was there. I took the chance. I knew what I wanted, and I made the wish fast.  Who knew when its magic was going to run out?

I wanted, no needed to see him. My grandpa. It had only been a few days, but the days were excruciatingly slow, the seconds dragged on endlessly, each tick of the clock an eternity. His warm, gentle face. The softness of his features, especially his eyes, the way they twinkled when he smiled.  The kind that would instantly spread to all.  Pure goodness radiated from him. All those little things he did. He watched us. He was there for us. Where was he now?

But I could make it better. I would make it better.

Excitedly, I told my uncle, “I made a wish. I wished he was alive.”

He half turned in my direction, laughed, and shrugged it off. It could never happen.  What a waste of a wish, he said.  He was worried though, his eyes showed it, as he searched my face, evaluating the firmness of the foothold I possessed in reality.

“Well, I know it’s not possible, but still, I wish…”

His shoulders dropped, tension eased. “Yeah…but it could never happen,” he repeated, forcing a chuckle as he walked into the distance, trying to convince himself rather than me.

“You never know though,” the thought flickered through my mind, as I glanced once more into the direction of the illumination, marveling at the sense of emptiness it now possessed.  “Yeah, it could happen.”

It didn’t happen. There was no bad dream. No miracle time machine. No nothing.

So stupid. So dumb. So senseless. So shameful. So naïve.  So…just so.  How could I think like this?  Cast away a wish, a silly dream onto a piece of falling rock. How could I ever think this?  Believe that he’d be back, just like that.

But worst of all, he was gone.  Plain and simple. Gone.

A few months later, I was finally ready to move on. Unwind. Unleash it all.  The anger, frustration, sorrow, emptiness, pour out every secret emotion I had since harbored. My victim: a blank, white sheet of paper.

I sat, pen and paper in hand, letting the memories flood back.  Tears trickling down as I lived in the moment I wrote.  Re-living each scene.  Seeing it once more. I wrote. The unfairness of it all. The resemblance each family member shared with him, and his morals and lessons, forever there, and his stories, to be passed on from one generation to the next, and his life, to be remembered by all, and his passion, always an inspiration, and as long as I kept writing these down, he would be there, the memories emblazoned with life, and…and…and it clicked.

I haven’t stopped writing since.

It took me two months to write this. The art of loss is a really sucky process. I thought I was going to fall asleep, but instead, here I am: 2 AM and my ramblings.

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After two years of treatment, the oncologist gave us a timeline: 2-3 months. When given the option of a potential life-prolonging treatment requiring hospitalizations, blood draws, and many risks or the comforts of hospice care, my grandpa, a military man, a former commander in the Vietnamese army, governor of a province, leader of his people, of his family, my grandpa did not hesitate for a moment to choose the path he knows: he chose to fight.

Some days were better than others. There was a constant rotation of us for clinic visits and hospitalizations to monitor his status, and besides his chaotic family with that one student nurse who was sometimes a little too nosy, he was an ideal patient. He called only when he needed, took all of his medications, ate his meals, and best of all, sat unflinchingly calm as nurse after nurse tried to get IVs started on his overused veins. Of course, behind closed curtains, my family also helped my grandpa to the bathroom the other 10 times nature would call during a shift, fluffed pillows, rearranging them and adjusting the bedframe until things were just right. He was never alone, each family member spending the night and trading off before heading to work the next morning, or in my case, walking across the street to start the quarter of my new doctorate program.

The days remain a blur, but somewhere along the way, I took and passed the NCLEX. And so, the student nurse became a nurse after all.

Sometime later, my grandpa got an infection. It quickly became sepsis. My family scared at the thought of the worst, while I watched rationally, numbly, as the team carried out the very same protocol I had presented on just one month prior, new guidelines and all. I breathed a sigh of relief when my grandpa, still slightly dazed from a nap, asked us to fluff his pillows once again. I’m telling you: he knew how to fight.

But like him, the cancerous cells his body created were strong. Too strong. I will never forget the anguish on his face as he recognized the betrayal by his own body.

It was a weird change, from the fast paced life of treatment, with almost daily appointments to those summer hospice days, where daily appointments turned into daily naps. I would spend my days off from class with my grandparents, still fluffing my grandpa’s pillows, but also cooking pancakes, and eating far more pizza, fried chicken, and McDonald’s than my body needed, which was also, coincidentally, the perfect amount for him. My family chatted and laughed, watching football games, as my grandpa resumed his role, watching, listening in. It wasn’t always easy, but there was never a shortage of family, of laughter, of bickering, or love, and my grandpa bathed in this warmth. Throughout it all, my favorite moments was when he would shave. In the hospital, I brought him his razor and from then on, those moments were mine and his alone. Every other day. He was a military man, after all.

We never spoke much. It’s not in our nature. In the end, leukemia took my grandpa, but it also created space for a deep connection to him I never knew was missing. One day, as I was leaving, he turned to me and said simply, “thank you” and I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

I don’t always hand write my notes. Some anti-inflammatory drugs from pharm this past quarter.

I know, I know, there are so many articles about the movie already, but I cannot, for the life of me, get this off my mind.

Unpopular opinion: I hated the book.

I can get over the story line. It’s a romantic comedy, after all. But the characters were shallow, uncomplicated, with dialogue that was just as boring, making for a wholly uninteresting book that told me about the glitz and glamour of a crazy rich life, instead of showing it to me. On Goodreads I gave it a 3 out of 5, because at least it was an attempt to get audiences to understand the richness of Asian culture, the diversity of our past, present, future, and how they intertwine so intricately to make each individual the way we are today. Again, I emphasize the word “attempt”.

Then there’s the movie. I am cautiously optimistic. The cast is phenomenal, and how can I pass up the opportunity to support fellow Asians in a Hollywood where we are so drastically underrepresented? Okay, yeah, I get it: representation matters. Supporting one another matters. I go into the theater with this in mind, “it’s going to be good,” I say to myself.

I laugh so hard that I start crying. I can’t tell if it’s because the dialogue is smart and funny, the characters have more than one-dimension, or if it’s because of this overwhelming sense of pride I feel staring at the faces on the screen before me. I didn’t know until that moment, laughing at the song that I had, just the week before, been laughing and singing with my grandma (我要你的爱), how powerful it is to have faces like mine, like hers, on the big screen. I knew it, but to feel it. You guys, it’s indescribable. Chinese that isn’t broken or butchered. Subtitles that I could choose to ignore. Actors whose faces looked so much like the girl I knew in college, my friend’s aunt, that I had to look up both on Facebook that night to see if they were secretly famous (they’re not). My heart is swelling, as are the tears in my eyes.

I grew up listening to these songs. I grew up hearing those words. I grew up eating those foods. They are not foreign and exotic; to me, they are home.

I feel such an immense level of pride in the diversity of the movie, defining what counts as “Asian” is not and has never been an easy task. I am so excited for the avenues and dialogues this movie will open up. I cannot wait for all cultures of the world to feel a semblance of this overwhelming joy I feel right now, and I cannot wait to do my part in uplifting their spirits in the way that this movie lifted mine.

Alright, I could go on and on.

Long story short: book sucks, go watch the movie. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

And it hasn’t been as wild of a ride as I originally thought it was going to be. I had it easy—for me, the school part really wasn’t bad at all. But life has a way of getting you down. Here I am, going to the hospital yet one more time for one more family member, and again, this one’s not looking so good.

This post was originally a lot more depressing than I wanted it to be. But I don’t want to describe my sad, sad life, mostly because my life isn’t all that sad. This is simply a reminder to you and to self of something my classmate told me when she was also having a tough time: that this program, like so many others, is a marathon. Already in this past year (past six months, really) I have had more ups and downs (unrelated to, but complicated by school) than in any of my years prior. But I am a young, able-bodied person with many years to go, in school and in life. Four years is a long time for a lot of things to go well, and a long time for challenges to come our way.

Now, I have never run a marathon (mostly because I would die after about 3 minutes, or at least feel like I was dying), but I imagine that the road is not always smooth, that gusts of wind may knock you off your feet, that exhaustion leaves you gasping for air, that pain, the physical gnawing kind, the emotional, heart-wrenching kind, keeps you wondering if the end is worth it. And this is when you slow down, breathe deeply, and remember, the end may not be near, but it gets closer with each step, with each stride. It isn’t easy, but remind yourself of your blessings, surround yourself with people/dogs/cats/birds/hamsters who will cheer for your every inch of progress, and know that you are worth it.

I am still learning to take my own advice and it’s so much easier said than done. Maybe one day I’ll get it on this metaphorical level. Who knows, maybe even on a literal level (probably not).

As the goddess SZA says, “I AM BIGGER THAN MY ADVERSITY. DOWN NINE TIMES BUT I GET UP TEN.”

You are bigger than your adversity. Don’t let anyone, not even yourself, knock you down.

Made a thing for my clinical group. VAP Care Bundle review. 

A friend in my cohort recently wrote a post about her experience and observations of millennials in the dating world. Here, she posits that millennials are often unsuccessful with relationships because there is just too much out there--that social media paints pictures of lives that are better, adventures that are grander, and relationships that are pure bliss. So, when things are not perfect, it feels like it’s time to move on to something or someone who is.

And I agree. There will always be someone out there who is better looking, better at a, b, x, and everything in between. But that doesn’t mean they are the one for you.

I write this today (instead of a post on burn-out that I was originally going to pen), because tomorrow marks eight years with my partner. Unlike many other classmates, we have not ended in tragedy or marriage (as Kayla puts it), and I’m hoping neither will happen for a very long time. We will probably post things on social media, people will say, “aww” and some will think “relationship goals.” But I will tell you now: we are not your goals.

My issue with this phrase is that a photo, with a snapshot of one moment of happiness does not define our relationship. Instead, it negates all of the work, the tears, and unhappiness that have strained our relationship throughout the years. We’ve almost split several times, but what keeps us together is our willingness to work on our own faults. I think that while everyone recognizes that relationships take work, what many people have a hard time accepting are their own roles in the tension--recognizing our complicity, how and why to address it, and then actively working to improve this aspect of ourselves. I will be the first to admit that it’s fucking hard to let people know I was wrong, because I just like being right. This is amplified 100-fold in the heat of an argument with my partner. Something about the fact that it’s him makes it so much harder to say, “I'm sorry”. But the thing is, I have a lot to be sorry for. I complain a lot, I leave a trail of hair everywhere I go, there are days when I just don’t want to talk to human beings, I don’t like to express emotions, among so many others. He has his own faults. Some days I just want to scream at his extroverted ass, because we went to Target to pick up one thing, but we’ve been standing by the exit for 30 minutes now and WHY DO YOU HAVE TO KEEP TALKING TO THAT ONE PERSON YOU BARELY KNEW FROM SO MANY YEARS AGO??

Anyways...we have so many issues that we are constantly working through, but we do it together. Even if you somehow know all of the challenges we’ve faced and overcome, we should not be your goals. I wish for everyone and their partner your own struggles to work through and your own roundabout solutions that may or may not work. Because this is how you grow together. To face these challenges head on, albeit with slight trepidation. And, at the end, to come out stronger, no matter the outcome.

And for those interested in greener grass: it’s out there. I’m not going to kid myself by thinking I’m the most beautiful or most interesting person in the world (I just keep thinking about how flawless Lupita Nyong'o is--she has more grace in her pinky finger than I do my entire being). I’m okay with this. But just because the grass is greener doesn’t mean it’s the right type of grass to graze. You just have to know when your grass needs a little water and a lot of care or when it’s dead beyond repair.