The litmus test for good health care

Once when I was a senior resident, I had an intern who was taking real shitty care of one of his patients. He couldn't have cared less about this patient. His notes were sloppy. His management poor. I was cleaning up all kinds of loose ends. Finally, I confronted him.

He hated the patient. He thought that the patient was manipulative and mean-spirited. To say his care for her was dispassionate would be a compliment compared to the job he was actually doing. But hating a patient doesn't give you the right to do a shit job.

"Yes, she's a bitch, but she is someone's mother. And if you took this kind of care of my mother, I would sue you out of spite. And my mother makes this lady look like Mother Teresa."

There are two tests that are quite useful when caring for patients. It becomes very easy to forget that we are treating people and not diseases, because all we see are the diseases, and it's hard to get to know the people. So it's helpful to ask yourself two questions when you feel a little lost in the storm:

(1) Is this the care I would want for my parents? (2) Would my parents be proud of me if they could see what I'm doing?

If you can answer yes to both questions, then you're doing alright. If not, it's time to take a step back.

Worth its weight

While I was going through my safety deposit box, I looked through all the gold I have. It's not much (please don't rob me): a few coins, some jewelry. It's all 24 karat. The reason why is because all my gold comes from my parents. Now, a lot of Asians are obsessed with 24k gold, but my parents are war survivors.

For those of you without Asian parents, gold comes in a variety of purities. 24k gold is the most pure gold available. My parents have never bought anything 14k, with the explanation that it is worthless, fake. And to understand why, you should understand that my parents lived through war. My friends talk about their parents growing up in post-war America, in suburbs or on farms. My parents grew up in a war zone. My parents' stories of their youth involve starving and refugee camps and bombs and explosions.

And so my parents have an acute awareness of the value of things. Paper money is only paper. Credit cards are just plastic. Banks are only buildings. But a can of spam can feed a family for a week, and gold is always valuable. No matter where you are in the world, no matter what the circumstances, someone always is willing to trade for gold.

And it seems strange to me that other people don't grow up with this kind of wisdom. Sometimes, I wonder how much of what I do is influenced by tidbits of knowledge like this.

Other people's stories

I tried once to get my mom to see "The Joy Luck Club" but she refused. She didn't want to see a movie about made up stories, when she had her own story that she'd lived. Every now and then, she'd tell us a little bit about her childhood, almost by accident. She'd tell us about her life during the war, how her family ate nothing but squash for weeks and were grateful, or how her aunt was killed by shrapnel while walking across the street holding my mother's hand. Most of these stories stay hidden, memories of a darker time best forgotten.

My father has no stories. He was telling me about his life growing up, and it's a collection of stories about uncles and cousins and grandparents and friends, but never about himself. None of it is witnessed or experienced. None of it is substantial. It's more rumor than history. And so it's hard to take my father's stories seriously, because it reads like fiction.

And I think this difference is what cuts at me sometimes, because it's advice without even experience behind it, and what is that worth?

Loved

My family visited for Thanksgiving, and my GI system has forgotten what it's like to eat nothing but Asian food. I'm gassy and my stomach is a mix of hungry and bloated. I haven't slept in my own bed in days, and I haven't had a moment of privacy except in the hospital of all places.

Still, I miss them now that they've left. I'm not a very communal person. I'm very hermit-like. So it's not my thing to hang out with random people. But family, family loves you, and it's always bearable to have family present. Family does little things like make your bed with hospital corners, or vaccuum, or make you dinner after a tough day in the hospital.

Family listens to your troubles and is always rooting for you. It feels nice to feel loved. There really is no substitute for that. My mom wants me to date and get a girlfriend, but I reserve the right still to be picky, because it's quite a wonderful thing, to be loved, and I don't want to waste that.