Apr28
Monthly Archives: April 2009
Apr28
GPS my way through life
Just went to Edison, NJ
Using a Zipcar
And a new GPS
First time I didn’t make a mistake
Taking I-78W instead of east
Wish I had a GPS for navigating my way
Through life.
Apr18
best friends
when i was 8
i met my best girlfriend
we were on the playground
with the black rubber mats
someone said, “do you know kris?”
i said, “no”
she had pigtails
i wore my hair down
we were in different classes
and a few friends in common
she used to annoy me in high school
because of her brutal honesty
but she always told me the truth
whether i liked it or not
mostly, back then, i didn’t
but i grew to appreciate it
as i grew older
never realized that you’re not restricted
to having only one best friend
met the next one in college
this one annoyed me too
which probably should have clued me in
that i had met another best friend again
washington square park
rubin hall
the brittany
loeb student center
alumni scholars
do you remember italy?
i wanted to knock you out
when you locked me in
i almost lost myself
when you left
peace, love and friendship, sm
Apr14
Baba
Most people call their father “Dad” or “Daddy” or “Pops”. In the tradition of most Bengalis, I call my father “Baba”, which translates into…father. There are other cultures that call their father “Baba” as well, for example, in Iran.
My father got sick recently. He’s been hospitalized for a pneumonia. My mom called me over the weekend panic stricken, that he was having severe chills, cough and a very high fever. Like most doctors, I try to keep my family out of the hospital, but I told her that she had to take him to the emergency room immediately.
I just came back from visiting my father at the hospital. I finished work and then drove to see him during the night visiting hours. He wasn’t expecting me, but I just popped in to the PCU (Progressive Care Unit). He look surprised and happy to see me. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, breathing faster than usual, hooked up to 2 liters of oxygen by nasal cannula. Right away, he started complaining that the food in the hospital was too sweet, that he didn’t like that they put ice in his water. He hadn’t had a bowel movement and he felt uncomfortable. “It’s not like home, where I can eat what I want, go where I want to, and make a nice cup of hot tea.” I looked around my dad’s hospital room, no different from the hospital where I trained. Two people to one room, barely enough room to squeeze two hospital beds let alone two people on top of it. The man residing next to my dad was a large Caucasian man. He was intently watching television and every once in a while you could hear him clear his throat. The curtain was drawn in between them so I doubt they had even seen each other yet.
I did what I do best, be a doctor. I checked the IV bags on the pole, Dextrose, Vancomycin. I checked his IV to make sure there was no surrounding cellulitis. I told him to try and walk around a little bit, drink fluids and to ask for some Milk of Magnesia if he needed it. My mind started wandering to trying to get my father out of the hospital as soon as possible.
My father looked at me and said, “Isn’t it too late for you to be here?” I was tired. I had just finished seeing patients at my office and I drove to see my father immediately after I was done. The last patient had shown up a half hour late, but I wasn’t in any mood to be accomodating. I said to my father, “Don’t worry Baba, it’s okay.” Little tears started welling up in the inner corners of my eyes, but I didn’t want my father to see that I was upset or worried. “You worry too much”, my father said in Bengali. Too late, my father already knew.
Next, my father started exchanging his conspiracy theories about how the hospital was out to get all his Medicare dollars and how it was in their interest to keep him there as long as possible. I didn’t bother answering back and saying that nobody cared about his Medicare dollars and everyone was too busy to really care how long he stays. The truth of the matter is most hospital administrators are always trying to get patients out of the hospital. I let my father relish in his conspiracy theories. It makes him happy.
Sitting across my father, daughter first, doctor second, I realized that the tides have changed. I remember when I was five years old and I had a rip-roaring fever and had to stay home from school. My father came home from work and immediately came to me, putting his cold hand on my hot forehead while I was lying on the couch. I remember thinking that my father was strong and protective. It makes me sad to think that this is changing and that I am now entering a world where I will have to watch out for my parents. I know I’m not the only one, some of my friends have expressed sadness about the very similar thing. Even now, as I wipe away a tear, it makes me feel sad, because I love my father so very much.
Apr13
Can you dance to the Sound of Music?
Apr8
Mere nam Latika
Apr8
Choices
Yes, there are two paths you can go by
But in the long run
Theres still time to change the road youre on.
And it makes me wonder.
-Led Zeppelin
Apr5
Giving without expectation
Recently I had lunch with one of my friends and we were having a discussion about being hurt in relationships. I told my friend that I was really tired of attracting people who didn’t know how to give back, especially when I was very loyal and giving to them. I wanted to cry, but I held back the tears and my friend said, “Soma, it’s because you’re such a nurturing person. People are automatically attracted to you because of that. Some men are unhealthy and don’t know how to give back.” I was surprised that he said that to me, especially because I tend to be guarded about my feelings at times, but I realized that he could read between the lines.
Today my sister and I spoke at great length. The past year has been difficult and we stopped having our three hour discussions about life and love, but today we had one of those philosophical discussions. I told her about how disillusioned I feel about people who have deeply hurt me and she told me that that we both need to learn to give without any expectation.
It’s difficult because you dream and hope that someone will be there for you when the going gets rough, and when they’re not, when you feel all alone in the world, it’s one of the worst feelings that I have felt. This is more so because I am an extremely giving person, to the point where I deplete myself into depression. But while I’m giving, I never carry the hope that the recipient will give back to me in the future, I do it willingly and it brings me joy. It’s only afterward, when I am feeling vulnerable, when I have lost something or feeling scared, that I have been sorely disappointed by people who don’t reciprocate. That’s where my expectations come into play.
Last year I needed a lifeline after someone betrayed me. But it was no where near the loss and devastation I felt ten years ago.
It’s going to be a struggle for me to do it. Giving without expectation.
Apr5
Why “Slumdog”?
Don’t read this if you haven’t seen it because it will have spoilers.
Slumdog Millionaire is the perfect combination of romance, drama and suspense. We grow with the three characters Salim, Jamal and Latika.
The story of Jamal and Latika transcends Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Jamal gets on the show because he hopes that Latika, his unrequited love, will be watching. She has been torn from him a few times, but he never gives up hope. Because of his courage and loyalty, we root for Jamal, not only for the 20 million rupees but that he can finally be with Latika.
To synopsize, love blossoms, love lost, love found at a cost, love sacrificed and love found once again.
Apr1
DisR-E-S-P-E-C-T
Oh where to begin?
I started off with a morning packed full with patients. My first patient at 8:30 AM was a young Indian guy who came to his appointment about ten minutes late. My secretary informed me that he was taking time to “fill out the paperwork because he’s too busy talking on his cellphone.” Already my pet peeve button has been pushed, but I am a professional, and I have to take the ebbs and flow of the idiosyncrasies of my patients as they come. So, already twenty minutes have been wasted and I now have only twenty minutes to see a patient, where normally it takes forty minutes. I introduce myself in the waiting room, “Hello, my name is Dr. Mandal, it’s nice to meet you.” The patient comes with me to the examination room and we begin. As I am talking to him about his medical history, the story of his acid reflux, his cell phone rings. To my amazement, he interrupts me mid-sentence and proceeds to speak with his friend Omar, albeit only a few seconds, but managing to interrupt my train of thought. I overlook this and proceed, but then we are interrupted again by that pesky vibrating sound and he interrupts me one more time. He says [to his girlfriend], I’m in the doctor’s office, yeah, okay, I actually have to go because I think she’s getting very upset.”
YOU THINK?!?!?
I tell him, while he’s on the phone, “You know, you’re very very disrespectful and I don’t appreciate you wasting my time.” He looks at me in disbelief like I’ve slapped him across the cheek and responds, “Well, I had to let my girlfriend know that I was here and how to get here.” I reply, “You know I don’t really care why but you’ve managed to interrupt me twice. You delayed this appointment by speaking on your cell phone and not listening to the instructions that my secretary provided you.” He again responds, “But I had to speak with my girlfriend.” I reiterate that it doesn’t matter to me the reasons behind the interruption and state, “If you can’t manage to come to this office and respect me then it’s probably best if we end this appointment now. You can pick up your co-pay at the secretary’s desk.” He doesn’t budge but looks like he’s just been hit by a car.
He hasn’t left the room so I proceed with the rest of the interview and examination. I am seething but I manage to remember that I am a doctor and it’s my job to provide the best medical care to my patients, even if they disrespect me, even if I don’t particularly like them. He tells me the complete story about his acid reflux and I decide to do some bloodwork and an electrocardiogram as part of the check-up. I instruct him to change into a gown and say that I will come back to the room in two-three minutes.
When I come back, he has changed into the gown, although the front of the gown is in the wrong place. That’s okay. My plan from here on is complete the exam without losing my temper even more. But then he says, “You know, you could have been nicer about the whole thing. I mean, if you felt that I was disrespecting you, you could have said it in a nicer way.”
I say, with my New York attitude in full form, “EXCUSE ME?!” I do what I always do when I get angry, I cock my head and look at him out of the corner of my eye, something that I realize my father does also. “Let me tell you something”, I say, all the while trying to remember to breathe deeply. “I don’t ask my patients to respect me, I demand it. And if you don’t know what that means, then it’s not my job to tell you nicely how to behave.” I can feel my pulse throbbing in my neck and my temples. “Out of the thousand odd patients that I have, you are the only person I have had to reprimand.” “I guess I’m special”, he retorts sarcastically. I retort, “You know buddy, this is New York. If you want to take your rudeness and waste other people’s time elsewhere, be my guest. But not in New York. Not in this office. And NOT ON MY TIME.” I continue, “Maybe you have never been told about your disrespectful behavior but I’m telling you now. If other people tolerate it, that’s their responsibility, but I will not.”
We finish with the physical exam and I draw his blood and do an EKG. Everything looks okay. I look him in the eye and tell him that his exam is normal but I will call him in a few days to let him know the results of his bloodwork. There’s no more drama or discussion about what just transpired between us. We bid each other farewell.
