Of Rainbows and Unicorns

So a big two weeks for America… legalizing same sex marriage ... Woo Hoo, America! Congratulations on being the 21^st country to follow in suit. Though, I do find it rather ironic that a country who has a recorded history of accumulating the most number of Olympic medals to date has settled for the 21^st spot on what has now become a “trending public matter”. And yet, as with all America’s menial achievements we celebrate this with what I can only imagine to be an imagery of flower garlands, cotton candy, parade’s and all things fluff. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing menial about the legalization of same-sex marriage. I’m just done with America’s approach to it. America, beams with puffy chested Johnny Bravo like “pride” about being the most liberal-est country in the world, and yet has always, maintained a somewhat  “oh it’s complicated” stance on same-sex marriages. And now, when it finally is not “as complicated” as it used to be, cutesy little lines like “love is love” are vomited over the realm of social media, to tug at our heartstrings, yeah, from the same heart that radiated in Care-Bear like empathy at the recent emergence of Caitlyn Jenner.

In the meantime, Denmark, the country to first legalize same-sex marriage (I think), must seem rather amused by all the noise. I imagine them saying, “Love has always been love, fuckers… what is intrinsically so hard to understand about that?” Okay, so it’s not like the Danes to curse, that is more, me.

In all honesty, I can’t be arsed about America’s recent move to legalize same-sex marriage. I mean, okay, good for them and all, no really – one step forward for them, and I’m sure they’ll also assume it’s a giant leap for mankind. But I had a think, and then I took some time to reflect about it, because thinking is different from reflecting, and I asked -  what does this mean to us Malaysians, and what impact will  it have on us?

And in all honesty, after a long hard think and a little bit more reflecting, the truth is, I feel that it means NOTHING! We would be more affected by our football team’s embarrassing performance against a struggling nation like Palestine then we would the social rights of the LGBT community.  We would be  more invested in the triviality of click-bait articles that promise videos of kittens ‘guaranteed to make us cry’ then be inclined to click on a lengthy LGBT related article.

The sad reality is that America’s “historic” and ‘groundbreaking’ decision to legalize same-sex marriage will have little effect on us. And whilst I was humbled and felt all warm and fuzzy inside by the bright spectrum of colours my Facebook news feed turned that day, the Malaysian cynic in me couldn’t help but ask… if it all actually really meant anything? 

Yes, 90% of my facebook friends support the legalization of same-sex marriage,  this is no surprise as I consistently remove people from my friends list who appear remotely racist, sexist or sometimes just downright stupid. But how does all this positive support translate into change? It doesn’t. To rephrase and quote Malaysian Gay Activist, Pang Khee Teik, “we cannot assume that USA's victory is the natural trajectory for LGBT struggles elsewhere”. This comment is taken out of its original context, but I felt that it is on point.

In America, despite the landmark decision, there are still queer and trans folks who struggle every single day for the right to define themselves, to access gender-appropriate healthcare and to live without harassment by other people, the police or the government. Many queer and trans people live – and lived – in our prison and jails, in our homeless shelters, in run-down houses and apartment buildings, and on the corners of every major city. (source: Chelsea E Manning, http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jun/26/same-sex-marriage-equality-all-lgbt-people-our-movement-chelsea-manning?CMP=share_btn_fb

In Malaysia, this struggle is real, not just for the LGBT community but for any minority group.

I know it seems like it’s all very jaded and pessimistic…. But understand that it comes from realizing the harsh reality of how far we are as a nation from having even basic human rights. We are nowhere near any form of equality, be it racial, social or political – let alone gender. And don’t even get me started on the whole freedom of expression bit or rather the lack of it. It is unfortunate, but the cynic in me has given up on imagining an equal world for the LGBT community here in Malaysia. It is sad but in this hazy town, the smog is so thick, that we are so far away from seeing any rainbows.

Nevertheless, it’s not all doom and gloom, and here’s actually the story that I want to share, it is the main reason for which I am writing this. About a week ago, my younger brother, Ben, like many others, changed his profile picture using Facebook’s ingenious (but sneaky), Celebrate Pride app. I don’t think it was coincidental that he had chosen a picture of me in it. So, I jokingly commented that I would always be the “rainbow” in the family. And more than his gesture of solidarity in changing his profile picture, it was his reply that got me (see picture below). Ghetto slang aside, his comment was simple, it was genuine, it was sweet and it was honest. He was proud.

My family has always accepted me for who I am and whoever I’ve wanted to be. And the thing about acceptance is that it inspires hope. And according to Desmond Tutu and I think this guy kinda knows what his talking about, “Hope is being able to see light despite all the darkness”. 

So despite this dark hole that our nation has gravely dug itself into, we can choose to be the little rays of light that shine through. And to be that light we need to start with acceptance – your family, your friend, your neighbor, your colleague, your classmate – start removing those religious blindfolds and cultural /custom bound shackles - and start accepting people for who they are.

We need to stop our incessant need to put people into boxes, unless of course, they are assholes, then they should be put in a box and shipped away. But seriously, we need to go beyond clicktivism and rainbow filtered profile pictures and actually start instilling change by starting to accept people, no matter the colour, race, religion or gender. Be less ignorant, be informed, be more open to understanding someone and their background, and try to learn or ask even. Otherwise there’s always Google.

My family has always been the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Their acceptance has defined pretty much who I am today, and inspired me to believe that I can be whoever I want to be.  So I guess, I felt it was important to impart my little epiphany of hope and acceptance - that while we are nowhere close to seeing policies that will grant minorities basic equal rights, we could at least start making this place a little more livable and tolerable for each other. 

Unless, of course, you’re an asshole, nobody needs to tolerate an asshole.

Of Catholic Guilt

So with all the drama of being sick and admitted to hospital, and when I say drama it's mostly because I am very drama (an aspect of myself I attribute to my Indian roots) especially when sick, so anyway, with all the (emphasis on the word) drama of being in the hospital, I said out loud through labored breaths that as soon as I could breathe again and was healthy, I would start going to church again. Of course, at that point I was heavily drugged but there were also about ten people around me and out of the ten, one of them was my grandmother and everyone who knows my grandmother knows that she is only the head advisor to the papacy in Rome, so really, this was a classic Becky-shooting-self-in-the-foot moment and there was no getting out of this one.

But seriously, I did figure that it was about time I started going to church again. See, it's not like I had forgotten God and was completely derailed from the path of eternal salvation (still not too sure what that is), I just stopped going to church because at some point I began to realize that the only reason I was doing it was because it became part of my Sunday routine and because that's what everyone else did. I didn't truly make an effort to want or even understand why I went to church every Sunday. And at mass itself, most of the time I didn't understand the significance of half the things that were going on. Quite honestly, I still don't.

Let's go back a little though. Now, I was born, original sin and all, into a good Catholic family. And as with all traditionally catholic (yet another oxymoron, I know) families, I was baptized in church at only a few weeks old, ergo, ridding me of original sin and fully equipping me with catholic guilt (as I say this I whip myself three times, I kid). I grew up, a typical, good, wholesome (yes, I laugh too), Catholic girl, well for the most part of it, at least. I went to catechism classes on Sunday mornings, said the Rosary with the family ever night, wore a dress to Mass on Sundays (the most Catholic I will ever be), and as a teenager was the president and I kid you not, of the 'Young Catholic Students' society (ah, good ol' YCS), where we organized very catholic youth rallies and camps and praise and worship sessions and in all naivety believed in sex after marriage. Radical, I know.

Anyway, I guess at some point you grow up, and such childlike innocence and unquestionable belief is replaced with adult-like skepticism, cynicism and well, reality. You find that, love, sunshine and happiness don't really make the world go round, otherwise Yugoslavia would still exist (okay, maybe not the best example, but still).

In addition, the Catholic faith has never made it easy for itself anyway, I mean, with it's stand on contraception and it's strong condemnation (such a Catholic word) of certain lifestyles. So, I found myself not being in sync with my birth religion anymore. Thus, I decided that until I fully understand my faith it made no sense for me to go to church and so I became the occasional Catholic. I'd go to church on the occasion's, you know, Christmas, Easter, Good Friday, Holy Thursday and Ash Wednesday.

Anyway, come last Sunday, through the 'very subtle' joint efforts of my family and friends it was ensured that I attended evening Mass. You got to appreciate the Catholics for their considerate evening Mass service, catered to the needs of the Saturday night drinkers. So, naturally, we arrive late, but I've always thought God doesn't mind tardiness so much, it's the Catholics that do.

We walk in, make the customary Sign of the Cross by dipping our hands in Holy Water and proceed to stand at the back, not outside but inside (I hear there's a whole different type of catholic judging for those who stand outside and at the back). At this point, I'm comfortable with our chosen location, it's inside, so it's cool because there are fans, and being at the back meant I was out of view of the pious Catholics. This location was also good because I haven't been to church in a while, so I'm not so familiar with the order and procedure of things anymore, you know, when to genuflect (another very Catholic word),when to stand, when to kneel and so on. Just at this point, the reading of the Gospel ends and (it is disrespectful to walk around during the gospel but anyway), just as I am adjusting the weight from my right leg to my left, as to commence 'cool'-standing-in-church-stance, dear Fifi Jane then decides we should sit. Disaster.

First of all, we were rather late, second Fifi Jane decides on a pew about 15 rows from the back, and this to me is like 'we might as well sit at the alter!' , and then we also kind of salah budget the space on the pew - we estimated for two, but as we turned around our troop of three other friends had followed behind us. So now there were five of us trying to shuffle our bums along trying to make space for each other. Anyway, by the time we were done with this embarrassing commotion, and had composed ourselves it was time to recite the 'I believe' which is not the 'I believe' anymore and has been changed to something else, I believe (pun distastefully intended).

Good thing is, I survived the rest of the service without further embarrassment. This, I maintained by kneeling or standing half a second after everyone else so it didn't look like I was unsure about what I was doing. I did however come away with a couple of thoughts, as I always do.

Okay first, the music by the two and a half piece band was horrendous. Aside from the songs being sung at a painfully slow pace, it sounded like Willie Nelson and Kenny Rogers had a huge disagreement and decided to do their own thing which was to sing miserably while outpacing the other.. Like seriously, they sounded a bit like unhappy drunks. I've always thought songs of praise should be sung happily and enthusiastically. Like if you read the bible and the book of Psalms you'd get an imagery of people prancing around, tapping their makeshift tambourines but most importantly, essentially happy, whilst singing praise to God. I understand that these people volunteer, and good on them, but if you're going to sound forced and absolutely unhappy whilst singing a hymn of praise, then it just ain't working out, just don't sing. Instead, we could read out the hymn enthusiastically.

Then there's good old Father Volle. Bless him, a sweet old, French priest who has served the parish for as long as he can remember and I promise to go for confession after this, but ever since I can remember, I've never been able to understand a word of what Father Volle says. To be fair, his speech has improved tremendously over the years but still not so clear. Although, as I write this I feel that Catholic guilt gnawing at me (whip! whip! whip!) and feel terrible, he really is a sweet man, just very old and very French, that's all.

Then there are the wardens. Ah, the wardens. They take it upon themselves to be the KGB of God and the parish, assassinating anyone who's phone beeps or is caught chatting, with their killer looks and supersonic stares. Oh, and don't even think of lining up for communion if you're not Catholic and don't even dare think of stealing the host (sacramental bread), because they see everything.

But the thing that really struck me - and not in a flash of lightning, spiritual reawakening, type of way, but in a hmmm, that's rather strange type of way - was the choice of this one hymn called 'The Canticle of the Sun'. Now, this hymn was written by St. Francis of Asisi and according to the ever convenient-yet-highly-unreliable-but-still-useful-Wikipedia, it says that :

The Canticle of the Sun in its praise of God thanks Him for such creations as "Brother Fire" and "Sister Water". It is an affirmation of Francis' personal theology as he often referred to animals as brothers and sisters to Mankind, rejected material accumulation and sensual comforts in favor of "Lady Poverty".

So, last Sunday I had to sing this hymn, that had the words "Brother Fire", "Sister Water" and "Lady Poverty" in it! With a straight face. Is it just me, or does anyone else agree that St. Francis of Asisi was a bit of a hippie? And so, I looked around and wondered if everyone in the congregation absolutely understood what they were singing, or were they just singing because it was projected on the big screen and it's something you 'just do' every Sunday.

I then remembered the experience of attending Mass said in Melanau, in Dalat, a remote but beautifully tranquil village by the river, a two hour boat ride from Sibu, Sarawak (google Church by the River). To begin with, a woman was elected by the priest to give the sermon that even included a slide presentation. It was not so much her talking at or to the congregation rather it was more a sharing from her and how she related to that day's gospel reading. They also had both boy and girl alter servers that wore traditional type Melanau costumes - you must understand that the alter servers err... movement here, has always been heavily biased and dominated by the male gender (as with most aspects of Catholicism) and as a kid I'd always thought it'd be cool to be an alter server, so to me this was a big deal. More impressively though, they sang hymns composed in Melanau that absolutely made sense in relation to their everyday livelihood - hymns included thanking God for good crops, and to help the farmers and keep them safe, etc.

It was absolutely fascinating, how a group of people, considered a minority, from a remote village somewhere deep in Sarawak, whom depended on the land for their livelihood, practiced such a modern, adaptable and culturally enriched version of the same faith.

St. Francis of Asisi composed "The Canticle of the Sun" in 1224, and you know, that's what Mass on Sunday evening felt like, like we were stuck in 1224. Actually, that's what the Catholic faith feels like sometimes, like it has been eternally stuck in 1224. The only time I've seen the church adapt was earlier this year, when Chinese New Year fell on the same day as Ash Wednesday, and because it was "bad luck", Ash Wednesday was considerately moved to a Friday.

I guess, after all that, my one sentiment is that it'd be nice if the Catholic faith weren't so, well, how would you say... old school and a bit more logical and applicable to today's world. (Ah, already I hear your thoughts of 'but that is faith, you have to believe...'). Well , the one thing I've always understood about religion is that, it hardly is logical. Oh, but look at me, back to church for one day and already I've got so much to say. Oh dear, whatever will those wardens think. Whip! Whip! Whip!

Of Blogging and then Blobbing

So here's the thing, I guess we've established from the first post that I was never a fan of this blogging business. I mean, for one, I hardly visit blogs unless they are absolutely insightful or provide useful information to a future undertaking like traveling for example, and then there's the fact that I can barely understand the concept of it, this blogging. Are we, people of today, so insecure that there is this need to establish some sort of prominent social networking capital and self-reassurance? Is there really a need to upload and unload tonnes of mindless thoughts on one's daily activities i.e brushing teeth, doing the laundry, having a coffee - "Today, after doing the laundry I burnt my tongue while drinking coffee and it hurt when I brushed my teeth later..." oooh, and then the, wait for it... "LOL!" Oh God, then there are the numerous photos from every angle of the said burnt-then-roughly-brushed-tongue. Do people actually think that, what they have to write is important enough for society to read? That if we were deprived of such information it may gravely alter the course of our future? Well, apparently so.

Don't get me wrong, I have no issue with bloggers / blogs and personally don't care about what one chooses to write in a blog / on a blog (?), the beauty of the internet is in being able to select what you want to read, these are all just questions that get in the way of me fully understanding the concept as to why people blog, that and I'm also a bit of a batu api . My take (and I have a lot of takes on a lot of things) on blogging is, well, it's stalking made easy. "As usual, today I went for my daily morning run at the park near my house, not the one with the longish grass, but the other one." Or, "This Saturday, I can't wait to go to Zouk for some lame-ass watch event. This is the outfit I plan to wear." (insert 10 photos of outfit from 10 different angles) oooh, and wait for it... "LOL!!"

Me? Well, I'm just bored. Simply because I've got a whole lot of time on my hands and am still under house arrest. So since I can't go out and talk to a whole lot of friends about the whole lot of things that I see and hear (mostly on TV), I shall invade their cyberspace with my musings. Also, I was surprisingly taken aback by all the compliments of my first post (yes, yes, all three of them) - and the thing about me is that, and I say this in all humble unabashed shamelessness (an oxymoron, I know), I absolutely love recognition and compliments. So, if I realize that there is a market out there, that is being deprived of my deep insight (of nothingness, mostly) then it is only right that I put amends to it.

But don't get carried away or used to it even. I reckon once my semester break is over and my time of house arrest is fully served thereby meaning my social life has been fully restored and I have resumed talking to people like a normal person, this blogging thing will probably phase out.

Anyway, if for some reason you are still reading this (you, like me must be really bored) and plan to still read on (seriously?) here are a few things you should know. The first, I suck as a writer. Actually, that's about the most important thing to know, but if we must break it down then here's why - I have no real direction when I write, my vocab is limited and I am absolutely dependent on spell check and the auto correct mechanism (in fact, I think it's the best invention since the remote control, genius!), also, I can't decide if I spell in American English (although, I sometimes think American's don't speak English, neither do Australians, but that's a different thing altogether) or British English, I am absolutely long winded and can ramble on (like so), I take forever to get to the point (like so), I get side tracked a lot and forget what the initial point was (like so) and I over utilize the use of oxymoron's. In short, I reckon I would be every editor's nightmare. So, you can consider that from here on, you have been warned. And I guess it will remain that mine is not so much a blog but more a blob, for that would be an appropriate word to represent my trail of thought or whatever it is that goes on in my head, all just a big, blob.

Oh look, funny that, I have just written a lengthy, whole lot of nothing about a whole lot of nothing. If you look closely, you'll see 10 invisible photos of, oh well, nothing. Don't say I didn't warn ya'... oh, and wait for it... LOL!!!

My Ode to Asthma

So, I don't usually blog, well I tried once, and failed miserably. In fact, chances are, after this post, I may not blog again. I also find the word 'blog' odd, but perhaps that is because it sounds like 'blob', and 'to blob' would be odd. Nevertheless, in these past two weeks there have been a few things I've needed to get off my chest, so to speak.

Warning, it is long, (which is why I don't write often), so pace yourself.

Written : Tuesday, 20 July 2010.

Exactly one week ago, on this day, I was lying in a hospital bed, with a mask strapped to my head inhaling all sorts of steroids and thinking the worse. This time last week, it felt like my lungs had decided, “You’re on your own mate, we outta' here!” Yes, I can be quite drama sometimes. But for those who didn’t already know, I was admitted in hospital last Tuesday for a really bad asthma attack. The first, in 16 years. Yep, as a child I was rather scraggly and sickly and was diagnosed with asthma at the age of seven or eight (my mum remembers such details, me not so much). The doc then recommended swimming, of which I did and it really helped. I then, apparently, became a pretty good athlete and developed a decent set of lungs.

But I reckon all that running around in the sun, in high school, training and stuff, probably had a long term effect on my brain cells (or the lack thereof) because for some apparent reason after high school I started smoking. Yeah, no, eight years later, I too am thinking, not so clever.

Anyway, eight years later, through a combination of smoking and a whole lot of other ‘stressful’ things that I put my lungs through - lack of sleep (exams, assignments, incompetent group mates, intolerable lecturers and the world cup), then falling ill and playing futsal at a dusty-incomplete / half built-pieces of-steel-and-open-bags-of cement-lying-around-yet-endorsed-by-FAM court – my lungs, like an angsty rebellious teenager, ran upstairs and slammed the door on me.

Anyway long story short, I was in and out of the hospital from Friday till Monday, where they administered steroids through inhalation and injections but breathing was still a difficulty. Finally on Tuesday, after walking from the front of the house to the back, I felt tired. Imagine, me, who can play futsal for 6 hours straight, feeling out of breath after walking such a short stretch??!! So at this point I told grandma that it was best we go to hospital.

See the thing is, in the days before that, every time I went to the hospital a different doctor had attended to me, and they all gave me a pat on the back, told me I’d be okay and sent me on my way. Thankfully, on Tuesday the doctor on duty was the same as the one who attended to me on Friday and so he recommend admission and called for the Chest Specialist. Of course, it all sounds very straight forward and I make it sound like I strolled in ‘coolly’ and said “Okay, look, I can’t breathe, now what’s the problem and how can we sort it out?”. In actual fact I was a big baby, and was scared shitless. Like, I even remember saying to my mum at some point, “Mama, I’m scared”.

To begin with, I’ve never been a fan of hospitals, and can’t think of many who are, but hospitals have always kinda unnerved me and I’ve never fancied spending prolonged hours at a hospital. But, I realized the scary thing about hospitals is not so much the funky smell of sanitation and old people, nor the notorious mortuary ghost stories (ok, maybe a little), it isn't even the sounds that resonate from beyond the drawn curtain, or the ghastly hospital gowns (oh, the gowns!) - At that point, I realized that what scared me the most was the sickening feeling of absolute helplessness where your only option is to place all your trust (as well as life) in the hands of a stranger who you pray (and dear God, do you pray) has got himself / herself a good medical education (Ireland and India, can... Romania a bit dodge).

I guess, I’d relate it to my dad’s fear of flying – being 30,000 feet off the ground and having no control whatsoever over the course of the next few hours – and for someone who is always in control you could understand how that can be a scary thing. And so that’s how it was, last week, I felt like I was suspended 30,000 feet off the ground and had no idea what was going to happen next. No seriously, I had all these ill thoughts, of pneumonia, bronchitis, H1N1 and worse still, lung cancer (it's like all those images off the cigarette packets had a delayed but eventual mortifying effect). I mean I had never felt like that before, I remembered my asthma attacks when I was young and it was nothing like this, this time my chest actually felt like it was going to cave-in on me, no seriously, drama aside, mama actually had to massage my chest so it wouldn’t hurt so much when I breathe.

Alas, it was nothing too serious, although it certainly was a serious enough asthma attack. My stay at the hospital was an experience (although I reckon more for everyone else than for me). Seeing that the last time I had been admitted I was two or three (again, my mum remembers these things with innate accuracy), this meant that technically, I had no experience or the basic survival instinct that would prepare me for hospital admission. Apparently, humour (or my brand of it at least ) is not quite recommended for a patient, or at least that's the impression I got from the nurse who chose to ignore my quip on where the mini-bar was and if my room was in the smoking section of the ward. Geez, so much for Patch Adams.

So Fifi Jane, took the first night shift, and Mama took the second night shift. By the second night, the single (because all the other nurses were friendly and she probably is single hence the following attribute) grumpy, night shift nurse, told me that it wasn’t advisable for guest to stay. So I asked a much friendlier nurse the next morning what this meant and she said that stay over rule for guest applied to patients who are either confused or are children.... I stared at her blankly... She obviously couldn’t tell that I was both, childlike and confused!

Anyway, I braved the next few days on my own, although it was not too difficult a task. I had heaps of magazines, books, a laptop and broadband, a portable DVD player that you could also play old school Nintendo games on, yeah, you know the type, SUPER MARIO anybody? Although, when recovering from an upper respiratory track infection it's not such a good idea to play heart racing, 'breath-holding', intense, World-1 Level-2 Super Mario (don't laugh, I take my Super Mario very seriously!).

Friends ensured I was spoilt (rotten), especially for food, I only ate two of the hospital meals (hah hah!), there was a constant provision and variety of my favorite food, much to my approval. Plus, I was never short of good company. In fact, almost every afternoon my siblings and friends made themselves very comfortable on my hospital bed and there would usually be at least three or four of us bunked on that one small bed.

I was allowed to leave on Saturday and have been at home recuperating since. Which means I've had a lot of time alone with my thoughts (never a good thing). But yeah, I guess I've had a lot of time to think about things, this experience and all. Mostly, I think I've realized that you go through life thinking you're invincible, you know, unbeatable, and then you're just not. It truly is a significantly humbling thing, especially for a person with an ego the size of mine, sca-ry. I guess everything becomes a bit more real.

I also realize (and this is not a recent epiphany or anything just that this experience has further emphasized it), that even with all it's dysfunctional quirks, I have THE most amazing family - especially a Mama and grandma that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world! And the most unbelievable set of friends! I ain't no Mother Teresa, so why and how I have such great friends will eternally be beyond me (as with a lot of other things, but yeah).

To Fifi Jane & Badam, Teacher Stephanie, Eels, Cathy Chin and Joelah Charles thanks for just knowing what to do for a poor pavem patient. Much, much love to all those who visited - Dr. Anu (for being all doctor-y and helping me through the panic attack), Mell Saw (for taking half a day off to come see, or so I would like to think), Primus (for bringing balloons to an asthma patient), Ho Sze Ken (for the Angelina Jolie tabloid magazines), Katrina (for the fruit basket and for thinking asthma turns you into a frail, 93-year-old), Husband and Dex (for the fried rice and hokkien mee), Kerry-Ann and Angela (for coming half a day late, but visiting nevertheless), Rachel & Joseph and Uncle Matthew and Aunty Margie for the lovely company. Oh, and Toto and Dr. Alan Peter, I really appreciate all the medical advice and concern. And to everyone else for all their kind wishes and warm thoughts.

And as with all life experience's, I've learnt a few things : -

1) I have many doctor friend's (never a bad thing).
2) I now understand why the insurance industry is one of the most profitable industries in the world (note : It is however, 18 spots behind Pharmaceuticals and Medical Products & Equipment).
3) I now understand why I should buy insurance
4) Nursing is a highly respected profession and all nurses should receive a Medal of Honor, especially the ones who had to tend to the patient in front of me.
5) At Assunta Hospital, you don't have to wear those ghastly hospital gowns unless you require surgery.
6) When you are an asthma patient, regardless of whether you can run a marathon, swim across the English Channel AND complete the Tour de France... Do Not Smoke! ;-)