On The Descendants.

I love this movie, The Descendants.

Yes, yes. You probably haven't heard about it, to some it won't even be rental worthy. George Clooney is in it; that girl from Teenage Mom.  Its not an action film or a chick flick. Very Sideways and About Schmidt-like. I watched this the first time when I was with in LA with my mom and again in Boston with this guy I didn't want to watch anything romantic with/knew I can't wait until the DVD came out.

I find this the most appropriate for today. Father's Day, Hawai'i, a parent passing.. I realized the reason I loved it was because even when a parent or a person passes away, the film reminds you it doesn't necessarily clean their slate. Yes, it is easier to "let bygones be bygones" but the thing is that there are actual consequences to the choices that those who had passed away made. They just don't go away after they die. We, the living, have to work through their choices even when they are gone.

For example. My father. Now, I am not saying that my entrance to this world is a mistake, per se. But I wonder. Does my father living a certain life that may not have been parallel to what he may have wanted, take away the credibility of my existence? Yes, yes. Heavy. But my point is that I was searching for a long time if I was meant to be here. Not this, what is my purpose in the world kind of thing but more of, if me being here was an "oopsie" then is there a deliberate reason or telos of why I am here. The only way I can justify this is that dads, moms - parents are fallible. Just like their children.  There is no miraculous shift when one becomes a parent that makes them impervious to mistakes. They are human beings. They lie, they cheat, they lack confidence. But their mistakes are not necessarily their regrets. Nonetheless, I wanted him to explain himself. I wanted to know the truth, give him the third degree. I hated that any information I would get from him, to understand him, was always secondary. From what he wrote, from people's stories, from everything else but his own voice. Side note, there is a quick taping that my cousin has, from an interview he had with my grandmother on a tape. His voice is so soothing. Eloquent. Anyways, I guess the beauty of not being able to speak to him now is that there is no additional info infiltrating in, I can just work with the facts I do have and mobilize it to an idea of him in the present. Makes it easier to juggle. Not fun but easier.

People tell me he loved sitting outside at caffes, spending hours at museums, knew plants scientific names. Unfortunately, my image of him as a father is faint. I'd pretend that he would have enjoyed my presence, my conversations, my thoughts... my hugs, as his daughter. I hate that I am limited to any tangible experience with him. But back to the movie. There is this last scene where it ties in so well with my father's narrative. I would picture myself in the waters of Hawai'i, giving peace to him just like in the last scene. Nonetheless, let the records show, it was my choice to not have gone. I did not want that to be my last image of him. I hope he's not mad at me for not going. But if I could explain to him about that day, it would be: I'm sorry Dad that I couldn't have been 'there' for you. Both when you were here and when you were not. I was limited and fallible in what I knew and what I was wiling to accept in my life at the time. I know you wish you were with me here, too. I love you. Happy Father's Day.

On What I Want To Be When I Grow Up.

My father died when I was seven years old. I was told that the cause of death was pneumonia and that was the end of the story or so I thought. It was not until years later after my first semester in college that I discovered a key element to his story. Pneumonia was only secondary to his primary cause of death, AIDS. This single but most important detail cascaded a number of questions. How did my father contract HIV? Why was my mother involved with him? How was it that I am here and healthy?

Uncertain on how to proceed from this, I spent most of my undergraduate career participating in a multitude of student organizations, volunteering in community projects, and even studying abroad in hopes to find rhyme or reason to my familial circumstance. Though personal inquiries of my father were still left unanswered, I found a temporary but resonating resolve through these acts of service. Whether it was building homes in Tijuana or producing a fashion show to fund student scholarships, I relished opportunities to extend my energy and ideas with others towards a larger, more productive goal. Utilizing my talents to create something tangible, while also formulating this interconnectedness with people developed this zeal within. By my senior year, I received the prestigious Senior Oceanids Award for my involvement in community service.

Motivated by this means of charity, I decided to work at Pomerado Hospital in order to make use of my skills in a new medium that is patient care.Working with patients learning to walk again after surgery; teaching a patient how to hold a spoon after a stroke - these simple tasks illustrated for me the subtle but relentless ways our bodies work towards healing itself every day. I saw firsthand the power that comes from a mobile body. Mobility produces functionality; functionality begets autonomy and without this, quality of life is greatly compromised. I realized thereafter that I wanted a life devoted towards enhancing the condition and quality of one’s life was in the role of a physician. 

Moving to Boston, working at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, volunteering at Massachusetts General Hospital and ultimately, enrolling in the MA in Medical Sciences program at BUSM; all were substantial to my professional and personal growth. However, none was more meaningful or impressionable to me than my time at AIDS Action Committee as a hotlines counselor. People called with general questions of HIV/STD transmission, while others spoke of scenarios of some possible exposure to a sexually transmitted infection. More often than not, calls were less concerned with physical ailments and more so for support as a caller waits for her test results or another discovers he is HIV infected. I became accustomed to consoling others through my words and realized that despite the information I could provide, it was my approach on how I spoke to them that made our conversations most productive. I had to assess what their main concern was, understand the expectations of that caller, and then fulfill those needs exclusively through dialogue. I would imagine each caller as a patient; probing for some solution to a certain, health-compromising predicament, and my voice was the only means of treatment. In the past, my ideas and my hands created the environment conducive towards helping others. This time, however, it was my aptitude to audibly observe the needs of another that produced a positive outcome. What was difficult about these anonymous callers was that for that brief moment I was on the phone with them, I would imagine that I was speaking to my father. This was the closest I have worked directly with the community my father was a part of, and with each case I would catch myself saying the words I wish I could have said to him. Saying the words like, your diagnosis does not make you who you are. Viruses are not bias upon your sexual preference. You are not alone, and you are surrounded by those that love you and care for your health.

Looking back on college, I questioned the reasons why my father died the way that he did. I realized now that my attempts to rationalize his death does not, unfortunately, change the outcome. It was in his lack of presence that I discovered my purpose in service, in the medium of patient care, and now in hopes, in the role of a physician. My father is my constant reminder of how valuable a life is, and how unfortunate it is when that life is compromised or shortened in such inopportune ways. My uncle, a physician for decades, told me that the eyes and ears of a clinician were the tools that direct accurate diagnoses and ultimately, better treatment of care. Understanding these details of the human body is imperative to become a doctor but the ability to mobilize this information in an advantageous way for the patient, using those skills of keen observation and effective communication, are as equally important if not more to become an influential caretaker. I want to use my talents to prolong, enhance, or at minimum withhold pain from a life through my words and actions. I am conscientious in cultivating these skills -- seeing, hearing, speaking truth -- and practice their mastery every day, so that I may be the physician I know I can become.

N.b.  A draft to my personal statement. Copy this, and I will kill you. Love, elle

On Death.

My friend's friend passed away at the shooting in Oakland this past week. Completely by coincidence, the gunshot was never intended for her. She was there at wrong time, wrong place. He was an evil person. The shooter, and I don't usually like to judge another person as "evil" per se but there was no good intention that came from his actions. No reason, none at all. How is that another person is able to choose when another person is to live or not? How do you kill someone point blank? How do you pull a trigger, hear the sound of that gunshot - and be okay, even functional afterwards? Knowing that you had injured another's life. How? What led you to the point of murder? It doesn't makes sense.

Does this man not know the the grief, the ramifications of his actions? Does anyone, when holding a gun knows the responsibility and power that comes with it? People are mourning because of you. Parents are childless, families are planning funerals, friends are grieving - all of which are trying to find something tangible to keep that memory of that person close. That person they loved. They can't see or smell or talk to the person they love, because of you. Fucker. You stole that from them. You are not entitled to make such a selfish choice. And yet, you did.  

I know this isn't the first time someone came on a campus or public grounds and just started shooting. But isn't that thought depressing? That in our crazy universe, public shootings have become a norm. Ridiculous. This passed week, there were also shootings in Brazil and France. This passed week. Call it whatever it is, me being naive. Not understanding that certain people just die - but here's the thing. I get that I swear I do. I have experienced unfortunately too many deaths at a very young, young age. But there was no justice, no honor  - only pain and hatred when those lives were lost this week. 

My grandfather died from a syringe. Do you remember the Angel of Death* - the nurse who would inject lethal poison to euthanize terminal patients? He killed many, many people. And the stuff he would inject these patients with had a certain half-life that was difficult to trace, meaning only within in a specific time period can it be found in the bodies. My grandfather was of these few people. They exhumed his body, performed who knows what on him, and found proof. Yes, he was gravely ill. And yes, I wonder if my grandfather requested it. But still.. Still. 

A life is entered in this world not by choice. And yes, we can argue that there is family planning and conscious (or not so conscious) acts of making babies. We ya'll know that after we 'do the deed' typically a baby, a life is produced. We can decide that, totally. But that moment of conception is not necessarily our choice. And so, death should be the same. No? Is it because with death, there is often pain. So, we should have the ability to choose when this is to happen? I'm layering two very separate causes of death. But is it one in the same? 

So, with that all said, now you see why I want to practice medicine. I want that same "power" that the man who had that gun had. With the obvious exception. I want to rebuttal against his evil acts with medical know-how. I want to be a master of the body, to be a genius in healing another. I want to preserve a life that would be defied the opportunity of a natural death. I want to fight against death caused by the hands of another. I want to preserve, sustain, enhance a life. I want others not to grieve but to enjoy the people they love, that much longer. I want to be the hands that allows people to be with their loves ones, that much longer. I'll do whatever I can, to do just that. 

* http://articles.latimes.com/2001/jan/10/news/mn-10551

On Losing Someone.

Today, my best friend's ninang had passed away this morning. It is ridiculously surreal on how fast a life can be taken away. She was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer just shy of about 6 weeks ago. The family thought that, if anything, they would at least have the holidays together this year. To think, that this is no longer feasible must be overwhelmingly painful. Even though holidays may be tedious and sometimes a burden, I can't imagine how it must feel for them to want just that hour with her, that day, that moment to create just one more memory.

Funny thing, though there is nothing funny about death, is that I've been thinking about death lately. Or rather, my thoughts have been towards those that have passed away in my life. My mother recently came back from Hawaii, a place where there are strong ties with my father and his passing. I have actually been thinking about him more, simply because I'm back in school again (after a number of years) and there are so many questions I'd want to ask him. My father was a professor, and I would love to have a conversation with him, extracting any words of wisdom, listening to his own voice. I miss him today as in any other day that I think of him. Mourning is all relative.

The one unique thing about when you loose someone, though, is that their impression on you never leaves. It's like a perfume that just lingers on you the whole day.  For all the good and the bad, what they meant to you when they were alive and when they were not, changes how you perceive the world ongoing. I am who I am because my father is not here. One thing that has come out of losing my father is that, I worry sometimes that I can loose anyone at any one point. I think people can leave, can die, can just go anywhere, at any one point. Call it as you will, though the word co-dependeny makes me nauseous nor would I ever admit this to myself. But I just think, if it can happen with my father, with my friend's godmother, it can happen to anyone. You just don't know.

Now, I don't suggest clamping your claws to every person that you love and care for, thinking that at any time they could die or leave you, that in itself is a serious problem. (Something I'm figuring out, rather unfortunately). But I do suggest for those that have have loved ones that are alive and well, to not take any moment for granted. Live every moment, consciously, with them. Okay, enough with the cliches. Back to studying, I'd like to think that's what my father would say to me right about now.

My prayers are with the San Buenaventura family tonight. I am so sorry for your loss.