First year medical students

All these were taken by Gino Gomez, our selfless class photographer. It's a shame, really, that someone who takes the great pictures can't be seen in them.

Right after the first neuro exam.



How the class typically looks like after the lecturer finishes.



Our seating arrangement is permanent. I sit near the aisle, second row, quite a strategic spot, but one that's unfit for sleep.

Uniforms and brains

The thing with medicine is this—everything is crammed. You practically finish a book's worth of information into a week-long lecture, and there are exams weekly.

I'm glad my class—Labing-apat, walang katapat!—has a way of making things easier to handle. A group of four people are assigned to take down notes for a given lecture, encode these in a template sheet, and reproduce them for the 160 of us. Because of time pressure, most of us refer to these transcriptions (or trans, as we lovingly call them) to study, only referring to the books for the topics we don't quite grasp yet.

I'm also thankful for classmates who've gladly explained anatomy to me. I had a hard time with it, and I felt, at one point, that I was the dumbest in class. But God provided friends who've painstakingly answered my questions, explaining to me which artery goes where—among others.

Yesterday marked the first day of wearing white uniforms, as well as our first major exam. It was a surreal experience, walking around with the outfit (and I really hope someone posts those class pictures soon). I was exhausted after the neuro exam, partly because I hardly slept the night before. But then again, so did all of us. So, how was it? It was, to put it mildly, a beating.

But it was a joy to have finished my first major long exam in med. If I should pass it, it will be because of the overwhelming grace of the Lord, who is the "strength of my heart and my portion forever" (Psalm 73:26).

We've barely touched the tip of the iceberg that is med school, but we're all thrilled to see what's next.

No sound

I'm relieved to know I'm not the only one. When I installed the latest Ubuntu version on my Compaq Presario CQ40, I later found out that my sound card wasn't recognized—in which case I had a silent laptop. Ironic, when you think of it, because the owner­ can get unbelievably noisy.

Naturally I searched the forums, and it was a comfort to know that I wasn't the only one suffering from acute laptop speaker deafness. Misery loves company, they say. Apparently, I had to do some configurations. The kind people in the forums have posted numerous tips, but some of them were rather too technical for me.

So imagine the thrill I felt when I learned about this tutorial. It didn't work at first because I forgot a fundamental rule: after tweaking the computer and finding out nothing works yet, a restart may do wonders. And restart I did, and, for the first time, I'm hearing my laptop speak.

I knew this couldn't have been genetic.

Firsts

A day of firsts: wearing scrubs and handling a preserved brain. Everyone was giddy, taking pictures here and there. As for me, I'm barely hanging when it comes to anatomy. The brain is one huge wonderland. The Lord just amazes me—for making a complex brain, and then giving it to us.

So it's real...what they say about med school

That you can only read and study so much because there are just so many materials and new knowledge to process.

Thank you, Lord

I have a new laptop.

On bed rest

I'm on bed rest. For the past three days, I've nursed fever, itchy throat, and joint pains. These are typical flu-like symptoms, so this morning, I went to the University Health Service to have a check-up.

It turned out pretty well; the doctor didn't find enough symptoms to suspect swine flu. He prescribed paracetamol for my fever and Vitamin C to boost my immune system. (This is interesting because just last year, I wrote an article for the college paper that an overwhelming number of studies indicate that Vitamin C does nothing to help someone's recovery).

On top of that, the doctor advised me to rest for the day. This is what partly irritated me--not that I'm sick, but that I'll be missing class. The prospect of lying in bed, waiting for the next five hours to take my pill, and doing absolutely nothing, when I could have voiced my heart out in the class discussions, was too painful.

But as I lie cozily in bed, waiting for the medicine to take its toll, I'm reminded that everything happens for a reason. I also realize I have many things to be thankful for. My parents have been texting me to ask for updates as to how I'm doing. My classmates have asked me if I could make it to the exam tomorrow.

If it's so easy for me to thank the Lord for good health, why can't I do the same during times of infirmity? After all, He intends the best for me. I know something good will come out of this.

Summer reading list

I've had plenty of time during the break, much of which I've spent catching up on my reading. These are the books I've finished recently:

1. Going Public With Your Faith by William Carr Peel and Walt Larimore. Locally published by OMF Literature, the book stresses the importance of being witnesses of Christ in the workplace. The authors argue that effective evangelism can be accomplished by daily living for Christ at work. It exposes the pervading scenario of Christians living dual, often irreconcilable lives (1) at work and (2) in church.

The main idea is that, as working people, our ministry is our work. The book progresses by showing the general steps of effective evangelism. I'm glad to say, however, that the authors didn't miss out, but in fact stressed, that genuine conversion is solely God's work. The gospel presented is also Biblical and is not watered down.

While most, if not all, of the examples in the book are for American readers, the principles are the same. This book has personally been a great encouragement to me, and I highly recommend it. (Thanks for the book, Maridel!)

2. Night by Elie Wiesel. It's a tragic personal account of a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp. As a young Jewish boy, Elie Wiesel was forced to work in the camp with his father. During those darkest moments of history, he witnessed the death of his family and the loss of his innocence. Many times in the book, he struggled with the existence of God. If God did exist, why did He allow this much suffering?



He wrote:

"This day I had ceased to plead. I was no longer capable of lamentation. On the contrary, I felt very strong. I was the accuser, God the accused. My eyes were open and I was alone—terribly alone in a world without God and without man. Without love or mercy. I had ceased to be anything but ashes . . . ."

This is among the saddest books I've read thus far. Don't read this when you're depressed.

3. Fatelessness by Imre Kertész. It's also about a young boy, this time a Hungarian Jew, who was also detained in several German concentration camps: in Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and Zeitz. The account is masterfully written by this Nobel laureate—a bit detached and more detailed than Night, but nevertheless just as powerful. It ends with perplexing questions brought about by a man's struggle to explain why some things happen in this world:

"Why did they not wish to acknowledge that if there is such a thing as fate, then freedom is not possible? If, on the other hand—I swept on, more and more astonished with myself, steadily warming to the past—if there is such a thing as freedom, then there is no fate—and I paused, but only long enough to catch my breath—that is to say, then we ourselves are fate . . . ."

4. Saturday by Ian McEwan. This is the first of McEwan's novels that I've read, and I couldn't put it down. It's a fictional account of the life of a neurosurgeon (of all professions!) on one fateful Saturday. I'm amazed at the author's ingenious skill at telling many stories, beginning with the smallest of details, then telling a different story altogether, without being detached from the original one. He does this with unparalleled fluidity.



The book is also well-researched, full of medical jargon that will excite soon-to-be doctors, a major reason why I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's very . . . inspiring.

5. Black by Ted Dekker. This is the first book in the trilogy (Black, Red, and White). A man lives in two different realities. When he sleeps in our world, he dreams of being in another world—a paradise established in the future. But he isn't just dreaming: his dream is actually another reality. When he sleeps in that reality, he is transported into the present reality; so, in effect, he never really gets to sleep. The twist is when he learns of a virus that's about to be released on earth that would wipe out the entire human race. He realizes that the two realities do have a connection, and so he does everything to stop that virus from being released.



It's exciting to read because there are many Christian undertones: the story of creation, the sovereignty of God, and the believer's delight in his/her Maker. The novel's main character also grew up in Manila, so expect to read of allusions to Philippine culture and living. The book is fast-paced and incredibly funny. Ted Dekker is a creative story-teller.

6. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel by Susanna Clarke. Adjudged as Time Magazine's Book of the Year in 2004, the book is a story of two magicians (from whose names the title was derived) who resurrected magic in England. The book is thick but nevertheless full of interesting characters, my favorite of which is John Uskglass, the Raven King. Don't forget to read the footnotes because they're funny. Clarke has woven quite a story here, with interconnected characters and ingenious magical applications.

Seeking medical attention in a local health center

I went to a local health center in Quezon City for a school assignment. The instructions were: dress simply, pretend you're a patient, and seek medical help.

The queue was rather long, the place already crowded even before the clinic opened. But, having come from UP, where people line up for days to pay for tuition, I was not to be discouraged. After asking further directions, I was instructed to go to another clinic, and upon arriving, I got a number. I should be called in a few moments, said the nurse.

I talked with people beside me. A lady was bitten by a dog on her finger. This was the second time she was getting anti-rabies injections. A teen, accompanied by his worried mother, was also bitten by a dog. Knowing something about rabies, after having been harassed by wretched dogs myself (thrice, I tell you!), I asked them if these supposedly rabid canines showed weird behavior. They were intently listening, and I sensed in them a need for some assurance that things will be well in the end.

It then occurred to me that somehow, I was in the wrong line again. The people around me were getting anti-rabies shots, and what was my supposed complaint?

A small, inconspicuous wart in my index finger.

On hindsight, I should've dressed like this and sought psychiatric help.

Week 7 (Rain)

Prelude to medicine

Nothing prepares you for med school—or so my friends say. Regardless of what undergrad course you took, you won’t have it easy. It’s clearly a new chapter in life, coupled with dramatic changes so that life is never the same again.

I’ve finally moved in to my new apartment, about three blocks from the College of Medicine. Not exactly a stone’s throw away, but enough to save me jeepney fare. I’m rooming with Monch, a friend and blockmate from MBB, and he’s about three years younger—about the same age as Sean—but a thousand times bigger. Imagine that: Timon and Pumbaa. I’m still waiting for Kuya Don to hand in his study table; otherwise, we’re pretty much settled.

I did write about handing Slowpoke, my trusted desktop, to my kid brother. Which means, of course, that I won’t have internet in the new place. There’s wisdom in that, I guess. During my undergrad, I’ve spent a significant amount of time in front of the internet, not for academic purposes but, mostly, for leisurely pursuits. That time could’ve been spent on reading the Bible, studying, or finishing a good book.

That means that the blog entries will be sparse. I won’t be able to immediately respond to the emails. And that’s rather unfortunate, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to take.

Yesterday was the orientation. In the morning, we were briefed on the curriculum, rules, and policies. After what seemed like an overwhelming session—with all the scared, excited reactions of some parents who attended—we were treated to a sumptuous lunch of curry and barbecue.

We were toured along the UP Manila campus, about a fraction of the Diliman’s size with a decimated amount of vegetation. But it was fun. I also got the chance to meet my groupmates, hailing from different UP campuses. They were mostly biology majors, with some polite kids from the Intarmed program.

So far, I’ve had a rich experience. But, as Kuya Dennis told me, “Enjoy it while it lasts.” O, may the Lord see me through. Clearly I can't do this without Him.

Excuses for not bringing a pasalubong

Pasalubong is a Filipino idea. When you go somewhere far, your friends expect you to bring something from the place you've been to--a beaded necklace, a carved granite stone, a big box full of chocolates, or anything else for that matter. This practice accomplishes two things: (1) it proves that you did go somewhere far, and (2) it shows your affection for those you had left behind because, well, when you bought that wood carving of a man in a barrel, you were thinking of the people you love.

I remember Dr. Laura David of the Marine Science Institute who said that this practice has its roots on our being an archipelago. When people hopped from one island to the next, they had to bring a proof that they've been to this or that place. Somewhere along the course of history, the concept of pasalubong has been thoroughly ingrained in our culture so much so that people, no matter how poor they are, would do their best to bring something back.

My problem is, whenever my friends hear I'm going home to the province, it is inevitable--as sure as the sun rises from the east and sets on the west--that at least one of them would ask for a pasalubong.

What do I say without sounding indifferent? My province isn't known for anything, except for two small-time bombs that exploded some five years ago, which people from Manila mistake for the Nagasaki bombing. I can't bring a pineapple because it tastes like all the pineapples of the world. I can't bring an I've-been-to-Koronadal t-shirt because, well, it's not so different from all other I've-been-to shirts: they're all made of cotton.

But I can bring myself, and if you're a true friend, that should be enough.

Week 6 (Meditation)

Week 5 (Tricycle)

Much needed rest

I'm leaving for Koronadal tomorrow. I could've opted to stay here, but I wanted to have some retreat, just before med school starts on June. I want to finish begin reading Wayne Grudem's Systematic Theology, an excellent book to guide any growing Christian. I also want to spend more time meditating on the Bible. Ah, what rest!

That means blog upates are going to be sparse, save for the weekly diptychs I've programmed to be posted on the following two weeks.

I'm bringing my heavy desktop computer back home, so I'll be carrying a lot of boxes. Imagine how I'll fare. May my bones be strong and my muscles be sufficient to carry all the load.

The photo shows a plant right outside of the Matiwasay apartment where my brother lives. He and his housemates are leaving tomorrow for another place. I'll miss this cozy, little house.

Week 4 (Eating out)

Singing the Lupang Hinirang

I feel sorry for Martin Nievera. Considered one of this country's finest, he represented the country by singing the national anthem during Manny Pacquiao's momentous bout against Ricky Hatton. The match was well-publicized, and everybody looked forward to seeing it with unmatched anticipation.

He rendered the Philippine national anthem with a melody and arrangement so characteristic of him: you wouldn't mistake anyone else singing it.

But what should have been a matter of national pride turned into blatant criticisms of sorts. The National Historical Institute (NHI) pointed out that he did not sing Lupang Hinirang properly: it's a march and should be sung that way. Martin also ended with a higher, prolonged note. If you've been watching the news, you'll see the performance repeated time and again.

If not for this and the accusations that other singers in the past had faced, the public would not have been made aware of the existing law called RA 8491 (The Flag and Heraldic Code) which states that the national anthem must be sung according to the original specifications put forth by Julian Felipe, the composer.

Now charges are being pushed against Martin. The NHI has asked him to issue a public apology, but the singer refused, saying he meant no disrespect. Some lawmakers also expressed concern in amending the existing law: artists must be given some artistic freedom.

Clearly a violation has been committed, and a public apology seems more reasonable than a court hearing. But it makes no sense that the reactions towards the situation have been rather over-the-top. Why this fuss?

I say this in light of all the other violations that have been committed that did and still do not merit the proper punishment. For instance, were charges ever pressed and pursued against politicians who exceeded the television-time allotment during the campaign period of last elections? Why don't we hear protests of sorts against leaders who use public funds to make posters with their faces blown-up, bigger than the congratulatory messages they're supposed to give?

Martin's case must be treated with grace. It's best to move on—there are bigger issues to pursue. At least our singers now know better. Otherwise, by exaggerating the issue, we look as if, after more than a hundred years of independence, we still have insecurities about our national identity.

Innocence, memories, and the will to remember

When Agz Chaves handed me the book, she confessed she had a hard time deciding whether to give it or keep it to herself. It's that good, she claimed. I could imagine how painful it is to part ways with a book one dearly loves. Touched by the gesture, I promised to read it as soon as possible.

The book is Spies by Michael Frayn. Stephen Wheatley, the main character, recalls the past as he visits his former home where he grew up during the World War II:

Everything is as it was, I discover when I reach my destination, and everything has changed.

As he walks along old familiar paths, he recalls that life-changing summer when his best-friend, Keith Hayward, "calmly and quietly [dropped] the bombshell": mere six words that would set the story in motion.

From then on, both of them—Stephen and Keith—would engage in boyish activities, pretending to be spies, watching other people's heads. This is where the book gets its title.



The story's pretty simple, actually, but how Michael Frayn wrote it makes it a cut above the rest. A key to the success is that the author was able to intersperse the thoughts of the young Stephen Wheatley with that of the old one. The story would've been less potent had Frayn chosen to simply narrate what happened. The old Stephen's words capture what I mean:

"It's so difficult to remember what order things occurred in—but if you can't remember that, then it's impossible to work out which led to which, and what the connection was. What I remember when I examine my memory carefully isn't narrative at all. It's a collection of vivid particulars. Certain words spoken, certain objects glimpsed."

The novel also deals with youth and adulthood, the implications of war, and the worth—or futility, however you may see it—of remembering the past, knowing that one cannot alter it anyway.

I enjoyed reading the book, and I can't thank Agz enough for this gift.

Week 3 (Pole)

Across America

While I've always loved traveling, I haven't come to a point in my life when I just needed to go somewhere else. I didn't realize people with those tendencies do exist until I read On the Road by Jack Kerouac.

On the Road is largely based on the experiences of the author himself, together with his friends, who journeyed across mid-century America (late 1940s). It's written in a style Kerouac calls spontaneous prose, an interesting way of telling a story, especially when used to recall the ordeals and experiences of a traveler.

The story is told from the viewpoint of Sal Paradise, a writer recently divorced, who wants to travel back and forth mainland America. But the story doesn't revolve around his story but from Dean Moriarty's. One could call Dean crazy and downright irresponsible, but he is someone who doesn't care about anything else but to relish life and find meaning in it.

The book is probably the best way to illustration the new beat generation. The characters in the novel are into drugs, alcohol, sex, and jazz. In their travels they look for means to satisfy themselves.



I must say I had a hard time relating to them. For one, the longest land trip I've ever taken was from Manila to Cagayan Valley, and that only took 12 hours. Here, they journey for days, driving a broken car, and taking hitchhikers who have money to contribute to their gas fund. Not only that, but in the book, they sound overly hedonistic, rushing after the fleeting treasures of this life.

I like Kerouac's writing style. It's simple, straight-to-the-point, and hits one's emotions like a sharp-shooter. The reader may get confused with the geography which is an essential part of the novel, so one may need a copy of the US map to fully appreciate the story.

I confess I got bored during the middle of it, but the ending was just marvelous. The last few chapters, their travels to Mexico City, sealed the book for me.

One good thing this book taught me is that these people, lost in their lusts, need to be reached. It's not in drugs, money, or alcohol where real satisfaction lies—it is in Christ. Unless they are pointed to Him, they will necessarily travel the road to find anything that they think will satisfy them.

And sadly, that road may be the wide one.

. . . .

These past weeks have been light compared to the hurly-burly of academic life escalating to graduation. But now that the rush is over, I'm in the calm of the storm, with the temptation for idleness at the eye of it.

So, instead of lying around, doing nothing, I'm catching up on my reading. There's a sense to it. My back-log has been unprecedented. People have gifted me with books, I've bought some books myself, and they're piled up all over the place. I never seemed to muster the effort to read all of them—until now. I realize that I'd probably never get to read them once school starts again. But we'll see.

I try to discipline myself to write a short review after finishing a book. As with studying, writing about a book is one way I can commit the things I've gleaned and learned into my functional memory. I've done some here, but often, I'd procrastinate, until such time when I'd forget what the book was about because I had just finished a new one.