April 19, 2011 § 3 Comments
For FABRIC, a pan-African celebration of a show that was held on Friday, eleven of my classmates and I put in six weeks worth of practice to perform a Raas dance in front of the Harvard Med classes of 2014 and 2015 during the latter’s revisit weekend. Raas is a traditional folk dance tracing back to the state of Gujarat in India, and is performed in the spring and fall to celebrate the festivals of Holi and Navratri. My friend A and I were partnered for a critical point in the routine where after a few lines of contredanse and a fast paced body roll in mid air, I would have to plunk my dandiya sticks on the floor and let A flip me backwards, all within less than four seconds of beats.
In six full weeks of practice, A and I had succeeded at this step about 1.5 times. I use the .5 because we ran into the situation of being able to do the flip, but with an added element of torsion mid air, such that I would land behind A’s elbow. We never could explain that one. There were other contributing factors to our ineptitude. Like the fact that A was left-handed and wanted to practice flipping me with his dominant arm, but which was in the opposite direction of the rest of the team. Or that I sustained an injury in the beginning of April for which I had to refrain from full-bodied movements for about ten days.
Throughout the whole thing, as our two dance coordinators and I grew slightly more agitated with each passing day, A stayed exceedingly calm about it. “It’s all mental,” he would tell me, before miming throwing me off the stage. “We’ll get it right on the day of the performance, trust me,” he’d say, then aggressively knock my dandiya sticks out of my hands. (Yes I am just as aware as you that A is a total bully).
During our first dress rehearsal, A dropped me on the floor and I let out a strangled scream that freaked out a good number of our spectators, who laughed at me later. During our second dress rehearsal, we managed half a flip, for I landed on my feet but also in the fetal position. “We’re almost there,” he said, poking his temples with a stick. “We’ll find a time to practice before the show tomorrow,” I said. He nodded in his usual agreeable way, which usually translated to a suuuuree, but I’m not even sure what we’re talking about la la la la.
Predictably enough, I was reading some patient-doctor conflict-of-interest papers in a lounge the next day (well that’s not the predictable part, I hope. ugh poor grammar), when A walked up to me and pulled up a swivel chair. This was three hours before the start of the show. “There you are!” I said. “So I’ve been thinking about practicing the flip,” he said, “and decided against it.” I stared at him and he looked back happily. “You’ve decided that? Oh good,” I said. “Course! IT’S GONNA BE GREAT. CAN’T WAIT. POETIC JUSTIC!” he shouted, completely nonsensically. I pinched the bridge of my nose, but by the time I opened my eyes again, he was gone.
Soon, much too soon, it was showtime. We were the penultimate act, before our entire class was to come together to sing to Dynamite for the finale. “We got this,” he whispered conspiratorially. I punched his stomach. “Not now, woman!” he complained. The music started and there was nothing more I could do to express my displeasure. A minute and a half later, A and I found ourselves face-to-face. I was beaming at him; the momentum and the adrenaline rush were overwhelming. Surprisingly enough, his smile was strained. His eyebrows lifted comfortingly, like, okay Sam, I actually mean it. We are going to do this. Not a moment later, we were past the body roll, and I threw down my sticks, and it felt like my stomach had dropped a million miles. I jumped to attention to his left, he crouched down and pushed his arms out on either side of me. I counted to three and jumped, and lost track of what was happening in the vertigo of the flip. But then I opened my eyes and saw myself land on my feet. Perfectly. No wobbling. For the first time ever. I looked at A, and he looked just as astonished as I. Meanwhile the rest of my team was already leaping towards two straight lines in the center of the stage, so A and I hopped to it.
We had done it. I am still marveling at it as I type up this post. In the locker rooms later, A and I hugged fiercely and he demanded a blog post from me. “I deserve one,” he shouted. “It’s all mental! Didn’t I say it all along? It’s all mental!” In my euphoria, I would have agreed to anything.
It was amazing how it worked out. I could blame sheer luck, or the adrenaline, or the pressure of a few hundred spectators looking at us. Or I could give in and agree that it was all in our minds, this whole time.
Today, two friends and I found a small quiet room in our dorm, laid out cushions on the floor, and meditated for half an hour, concentrating on nothing but our postures and our breathing. My friends had done this many times before, but it was my first, so we concluded our session by debriefing on the experience.
“There’s been research that shows that meditation is more effective than opioids for relieving pain.”
“If I were waiting for a friend and he was running late, I’d take those five ‘wasted’ minutes as an opportunity to meditate.”
“That was only half an hour? Felt much, much longer.”
The three of us were cross-legged on the floor, looking at each other with such calmness and sobriety as I have rarely seen in medical school. Outside, the weather was gloomy and rain pelted the tennis courts. The lights overhead flickered on and off with every movement, but we were still for so long that they had powered off.
What both dancing and meditating ask of you is to focus, really focus, on one task and believe in it with all your heart.
Was it Emerson who said, “Tis curious that we only believe as deep as we live”?
Then it was the poetess, Mary Oliver, who answered thus:
Mist in the Morning, Nothing Around Me but Sand and Roses
Was I lost? No question.
Did I know where I was? Not at all.
Had I ever been happier in my life? Never.
April 13, 2011 § 1 Comment
I was taking the shuttle from Cambridge to the Longwood Medical Area yesterday afternoon with some of my classmates when my friend P started telling me about his ongoing research in a basic science lab, one that he started at as an undergrad.
“Is your work related to a specialty you might be interested in?” I asked.
“No, I’m just really interested in this stuff,” he said. “Some of the things that we’re learning in class, like the hematopoietic stem cells in the bone marrow for instance, are the kinds of things we study in lab. Did you know that red blood cells aren’t actually formed in the bone marrow, but rather in the aorta? The bone marrow is just where they end up right before their final maturation. And that’s the step that is clinically relevant too, of course.”
I was so impressed. “Damn,” I said. “You just took it to a whole new level.”
He laughed. “It’s where I invest my time.”
“10,000 hours?” I asked, referring to Malcolm Gladwell’s now oft-quoted argument that 10,000 hours of practice are necessary for mastering any skill set.
“Probably!” he said, chuckling. “Yeah I guess I meet the criteria for that.”
“What are we talking about?” interjected another friend, PK. “FABRIC?”
FABRIC is Harvard’s variety show celebrating the pan-African diaspora that the first years put on for prospective students during their revisit weekend. The show’s set for Friday.
P and I started laughing uncontrollably. “No,” I said, with emphasis. “We are not talking about putting in 10,000 hours for FABRIC.”
But it wasn’t a completely ludicrous joke. Our event organizers had already emailed the class earlier in the week, informing us that our lives this week would be in the service of FABRIC and FABRIC alone. This is the week we really embrace Pass/Fail, the email had read. Understand that your organizers are basically medical school dropouts this week. Try not to tempt your friends with fun study nights in TMEC and postpone those wicked parties and romantic dates until after the show.
My dance team was already planning on meeting for roughly 12-15 hours for practice this week. Earlier in the school year, during our Epidemiology block, my class had Focused Exercises built into our curriculum. In the course of that month, the class transitioned to calling them Forced Exercises. There was a great sense of deja-vu as I plugged the times and dates for dance rehearsal into my iCal, the blocks eating up entire evenings at a time.
Yet, even though there’s a sense of insanity during practice, during rehearsal, I know that it’ll feel like it was worth it when we rock the stage on Friday. P, who’s working on a publication in lab, will feel it when he gets published in Nature or something.
Recently on a sunny Saturday, ten of my classmates gathered at the Arts@29 Garden learning space in Cambridge to spend eight hours together sketching a model under the tutelage of an instructor who had come all the way from Montreal for this purpose. I had approached the day with great apprehension and a slight sense of guilt for the fact that I was investing all this time in learning how to draw when I had other, perhaps more important commitments like Immunology, for instance. Yet, at the close of the day, when we lined a series of portraits on the wall, etched with eraser from sheets scrubbed with charcoal, I had a sense of bewilderment and awe at the fact that my classmates and I had actually produced art this sophisticated in one day. I could only imagine how far some of us could go if we kept at it, practicing every single day.
“Yeah, there’s no such thing as innate talent,” P said sagely. “People who say that someone’s born with it are really only saying that that someone has been doing it all his life.”
Preach it, P.
April 10, 2011 § 1 Comment
I went to a symposium on medicine and arts at the Sackler Museum in Cambridge today, which marks my fifth day in a museum in the past two weeks. I’ll write more later about why I’ve become such a gallery groupie… in medical school. It was such a full day: dramatic readings of Sophocles’ Phloctetes and Women of Trachis, a tremendous narrative medicine workshop with Dr. Suzanne Koven, lunch at the Harvard Faculty Club, then an hour-long poetry reading by Dr. Rafael Campo. I left after that to spend the rest of the afternoon in Lamont Library with my Immunology notes for company.
We talked a great deal about pain most throughout the day. Coming off of a particularly emotionally draining week, I felt each discourse resonate and reify in my consciousness, building a solid element that I could grapple with. I had been thinking about pain quite a bit lately, and its role in the human psyche. Whether pain is worth it. Whether pain carries a sense of nobility or just plain degradation. Whether pain brings about clarity through an expansion of our experience or by blotting out everything inessential. But rather than present a grand conclusion about life and its tenuousness, I’ll offer three perspectives instead. (italics my own)
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there was
A time when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
“I see no reason or need for my doctor to love me – nor would I expect him to suffer with me… I just wish he would brood on my situation for perhaps five minutes, that he would give me his whole mind just once, be bonded with me for a brief space, survey my soul as well as my flesh, to get at my illness, for each man is ill in his own way.”
For once in your life just let it go.
-Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking
April 7, 2011 § 1 Comment
I spent the summer that I graduated from high school in Westchester County, NY at home, and got so bored that I got up one day, took the train down to the city and enrolled in a real estate course. I’m not even kidding. It was only a week long course, offered by NYREI, and I thought that it would be cool to be able to talk urban planning and the merits of brownstones over high-rises at fancy cocktail parties. For one full week, I sat through lectures and guest speeches by various brokers who drilled one concept into our minds: the importance of location, location, location.
It’s a trite, tired expression, but as I’m realizing, true even in medicine. At Harvard, we learn regular medicine, and then we learn social medicine (led by none other than Paul Farmer). In the former, we learn that a cell’s survival rate in the face of ischemia can be on the order of four minutes if it’s a neuron, to four hours if it’s a skeletal muscle cell. In the latter, we learn that a newborn’s life expectancy can differ by more than forty years, depending on whether he is born in Japan (82 yrs) or Swaziland (39 yrs). Absurd.
In pathology, we are asked to locate a right upper lobe infiltrate on a chest x-ray. In radiology, we are asked specifically to locate an opacity suggestive of a right upper lobe infiltrate. In first year, we are asked to locate bright yellow arrows on the film. I’m pretty good at this last one.
In an elective that I’m taking where I follow a patient longitudinally over the course of the year, I’ve been learning that even clinic locations can matter. Depending on whether Mr. C goes to his primary care clinic or his HIV clinic, both of which are manned by the same physician, he can expect different services. Depending on whether he’s seen at the BIDMC or the Fenway Community Health Center, he can expect different kinds of social support services, different lengths of clinic visits, different tests and different check ups.
Things are coming to a head around Longwood, as my class decides whether to grow up and enter the real world of apartments and houses, or stay another year in our dorm across the street from the medical school quad. Finally, one conversation about location that I can tackle!
April 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
After six years of being apart, I went back to visit India this past summer, and experienced an out-of-body experience for four continuous weeks. It was like the title of this week’s Desperate Housewives episode: Everything’s Different, Nothing’s Changed. My old city, Hyderabad, seemed bigger, but easier to wrap my mind around. The streets seemed busier and grimier, but more natural than I expected them to feel. I screamed a couple times when the driver took a left turn as easily we we take right turns at home, but quickly adapted. When I went to visit my old house, I walked past the same tiered gardens that had always stood, but the trees felt thinner and the shrubs felt smaller. Or was I taller? I ended the nostalgic tour with a visit to my old school, and as I walked through the great hallways feeling the shroud of time and distance making my visit insensible, I came across this poster that a seventh grade student had made and attached to one of the massive bulletin boards dotting the walls of the space:
My first reaction was to laugh. My second reaction was to pull out my camera and snap a picture. My third was to take a step back and reread the essay in its entirety.
The essay, Instant Inspiration, at first glance, feels ridiculous. “Strength of character! Successful career! Magnetic personality! Commanding presence! – such words are fascinating indeed!” the author writes. “Many aspire to possess these qualities and even try to imbue them in their personality.”
But look past the hyperbolic language and terrible grammar for a moment.
“The mediocres who aspire to raise themselves to glorius heights should strive to bring out their potential and should struggle hard to overcome the shortcoming of their personality,” she (no boy can have such beautiful handwriting) writes. “The aspiring souls should drive this truth deep into their minds – that all the strength and spirit are within themselves.”
To contextualize this, Indian schools are built on a structure of competition and pure meritocracy where students will fight tooth and nail to get to the next step. Also, the student was probably commissioned by a teacher to make this poster.
Yet, here’s another piece, recently published (and spellchecked) in the New York Post:
“I think the desire to live a meaningful life is universal. To some people, it’s working toward a goal. To others, it’s enjoying every minute of every day. So what does it really mean to live life to the fullest? Maybe striving to win a Nobel Prize and going skydiving are just two sides of the same coin. To me, it’s not about achievement or self-gratification. It’s about knowing that you’ve pushed yourself, body and mind, to the limits of your own potential. You feel it when you’re sprinting, and when the piano piece you’ve practiced for hours finally comes to life beneath your fingertips. You feel it when you encounter a life-changing idea, and when you do something on your own that you never thought you could. If I died tomorrow, I would die feeling I’ve lived my whole life at 110 percent.”
No prizes for guessing who the author is – Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld. (Harvard ’15!)
No matter what you think about her Tiger Mother’s thesis, Sophia’s perspective is untouchable. And I like it. I like knowing that no matter how many miles apart, no matter the language familiar to our hearts, no matter the opportunities presented to us, there are things about the human condition that remain universal.
Yeah, I like that I went back to India, feeling like an anthropologist, only to find that everything was different, but nothing had really changed.
April 5, 2011 § 1 Comment
I need to write a disclaimer before I begin this post. This musing is going to be about my NYC trip again, now nearly a month in the past. I’d rather not cast this observation as one reflecting in contrast, the relative dullness of my present life, as that is wholly untrue. There are a million stories from medical school that need to be told, and I’ll save those for another day. Instead, NYC contains multitudes, and that is enough.
It started on my BOLT bus ride from Boston’s South Station to NYC’s Time Square. I was sitting towards the back, in a window seat. The passenger list was pretty meager; indeed, from my vantage point, it looked for a bit as though we were going to have low occupancy and that I would get both seats to myself. A few minutes before takeoff, however, a large group of twenty Indian boys suddenly climbed in. From what I could tell, they were a college dance troupe that was heading to NYC for a local competition. They quickly filled in all of the remaining gaps in the bus. I have heard this idea before and support it fully, that people fill seats like electrons fill orbitals. Both adhere to Hund’s principle, or that both will occupy all available empty seats and empty orbitals first, before a second person/electron will look around, and seeing no other options, will decide to sit next to you. (This analogy is part of my ongoing quest to uphold science literacy in life).
So anyways, that happened, and I soon found a tall, serious looking Indian boy taking a seat next to me. He smiled, I smiled, and we didn’t say anything else. The bus took off, and I pulled from my bag, a copy of Norbert Elias’s The Loneliness of Dying. The book was on my reading list for an elective that I’m taking at Harvard where we discuss the role of philosophy, literature and religion in medicine (amazing). The bus ride was so relaxing. This was my first trip to NYC from Boston, and I had thought that the four-hour ride was going to be so difficult to sit through. But really, time felt immaterial as I sat there in the twelfth row. The New England countryside blitzed past my view in a blur of quaint transience, and the skies overhead were grey and soothing. I kept at Elias for twenty minutes at a time, before needing to put the book down and rest my head on the window, content to stare ahead and just be.
It was an hour and a half later when I finally lifted my chin and looked to my left, to see the cute Indian boy looking at me with a distraught expression. I stared at him for a moment in confusion. He looked seriously troubled.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
He looked surprised. Then his eyes flicked to my book, so mine followed. I stared at the title for a moment longer before looking back at him and blurting out, “Oh I’m not dying!”
It felt so preposterous that I was more amused than anything. There was nothing about me besides the choice of reading material that would suggest anything but health and vitality.
My friend L and I later caught an off-Broadway production of Avenue Q that weekend.
I cannot remember a time I laughed harder in recent memory, but remember being especially struck by the closing song, For Now.
Why does everything have to be so hard? says Princeton.
Maybe you’ll never find your purpose, says Gary Coleman.
But then – I don’t know why I’m even alive! says Princeton.
The puppet cast then breaks into song. You’ll be faced with problems of all shapes and sizes, they tell Princeton, and you’re going to have to make a few compromises, but only for now. The refrain, for now, is repeated for a variety of situations: health, employment, joy, discomfort, friendship – for now. Sex, hair, George Bush – for now. Each time you smile, it’s only for now. Life may be scary, but it’s only temporary, ba-dum ba-dum, everything in life is only for now.
I came out of the theater feeling like something momentous, full of solemn gravity, or as much as a puppet show can really muster up, had just been delivered.
It’s an exhilarating thought. To think that the stressors affecting my life right now, all of the drama surrounding life and love, young romances, long nights studying for pathology, the new boots and new scarves I bought over the weekend, the occasional fights that I have with my friends, and the relationships I build with my mentors, that all of these various things that I spend time thinking and writing about are all temporary and ever-shifting is both gravid, and exciting.
So perhaps the boy in the bus wasn’t completely off-base after all. Perhaps it wasn’t such a farfetched thought that the young twenty-something girl next to him who alternated reading with quiet contemplation could potentially be dealing with something terminal. We’re all here, living in the moment. In the blink of an eye, the world can change.
And isn’t that just the craziest thing?
April 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
The thought struck me on Friday when a few of my girlfriends and I got dinner at this classy French-Indian restaurant, Mantra, near the Theater district. As the daughter of parents who strongly believe in supporting the economy via patronizing every Indian restaurant in every city in every state in the United States of America, I consider myself an expert. I know what to expect, from the red and gold drapery and the tapestries of peacocks or buxom, scantily dressed women, to the obligatory “and would you like that spicy, medium or mild?” questions and the areca nut mouth freshener on the way out.
Here’s what I didn’t expect. I didn’t expect to be ordering Malai Kofta and naan under lasered mirrors and halogen lights. I didn’t expect to find a Naan bar crafted out of a former’s bank teller’s cage. I didn’t expect to go to the women’s restroom and discover that the doors on the toilet stalls were in fact, two-way mirrors. No, I didn’t really expect to find an Indian restaurant whose interior looked like a space that could negotiate the line between a nightclub and a modern art gallery.
I’ve been thinking a bit about art lately, of aesthetics and culture in general. When I was in NYC with my college friends a few weeks ago, I realized that I had developed Asperger’s when talking to people outside of the med school context. Though it wasn’t as though my curriculum always made it impossible to keep up with cinema, art and literature (I try to make sure of the exact opposite, when I can), I felt parched for culture in conversation. My stories stemmed from medical school, my analogies were of anatomy, my jokes reeked of G-protein receptors and pancreatic enzymes. It sucked.
Then as my girls and I were seated by a panel of Italian marble at Mantra, my friend G looked at the speckled and splayed pattern on the wall and said, “This reminds me of the colloid-filled follicles of the thyroid gland.” We laughed, and I shook my head, knowing that this was one metaphor that would never make it into mainstream expression. I knew that I’d never see such a comparison in Ian McEwan or Yann Martel.
But then I began to wonder why that thought was so wild.
Why is it that being scientifically literate isn’t given any credit in discussions of what it means to be cultured? Why don’t people read the New England Journal of Medicine as often as they read The New Yorker? Why not invoke the arterial thrombosis of gangrene instead of the stark palettes of Ad Reinhardt when looking at curtains for the home?
Recently, I visited a friend’s dorm room and recognized a Mark Rothko print on her wall, one of his classic color fields.
I’ll describe these rectangular blocks of color, hovering in a column against an undefined background as bringing to mind a strip of melana, the dried occult blood of stool, then the dead black color of necrosis, gallbladder-green, and the burnt orange of hemochromatosis. For the beige, however, I’ll defer to the stylings of James Franco. “The building is beige, but the shadows make it shadow-color.”