I’m still studying for my medical boards recertification which is in three weeks.  I’m re-reviewing material I’ve mostly forgotten since the beginning of the year, like spent spells in a wizard’s repertoire.  [Warning!  Nerd alert!  Geek overload!]  Per 1st edition Dungeon & Dragon rules, one has to memorize that stuff over and over again.  It gets easier with time and experience though (a Staff of the Magi wouldn’t hurt either).

It’s taking its toll on my constitution.  Lately, I wake up with medical facts bouncing around in my head from the night before.   Sometimes I can’t sleep and my heart races [intermittent fast heart rate, hypertension, flushing = pheochromocytoma].   This afternoon my throat was on fire.  [Reflux -> Barrett's esophagus -> esophageal cancer.]  That’s what I get for eating after a midnight shift and crashing.  [High grade esophagus dysplasia = needs esophagectomy.]  My head was pounding too.  The differential diagnosis includes:

1) too little sleep,

2) too much stress,

3) too much studying,

4) too much caffeine or

5) not enough caffeine.

Coming down with a cough too.  [Dry cough + aches + bad X-ray + pharyngitis = mycoplasma or chamydophila.]  Yesterday I woke up just in time to pick the kids up at school.

My eyes were sore from lack of sleep [eye pain = optic neuritis = sign of early multiple sclerosis], but I spied Sun Su walking down the school steps.  He seemed so much older with his bag slung over his shoulder.  [Winged scapula = thoracic nerve injury.]  Little Ooseung followed at his side, her chin up to face a world slightly bigger than she is.  [Inability to look down = progressive supranuclear palsy.]

I acquiesced to their request to go on the playground.  Brain and body were too fatigued to resist.  My mood has become dark with the number of times I’ve had to tell them, “No, I can’t, I have to study,” these past couple months.  Supreme knowledge is a demanding, vengeful, and costly pursuit, isn’t it, Raistlin?  ["Gold" skin and pupils + psychiatric illness + weakened heart and liver = Wilson's Disease.]

Musical notes drifted strangely through the breezy air as my son led the trek to the playground.  [Auditory hallucinations = schizophrenia or stroke in temporal lobe.]  An afterschool child was playing on a mounted tube instrument like a novice bard.  Sun Su precariously climbed to the top of the monkey bar dome and smiled at me.

“Careful,” I said.  [Traumatic hyperextension of neck = Hangman's fracture, C-2 vertebra = death.]

Ooseung eyed the sandbox next to us, but then she ran over to the swings instead.  I was relieved.  [Sandbox = animal feces = tapeworm, intestinal parasite.]

“Look, Baby, a squirrel!”  Sun Su scouted, pointing at nothing that I could see.  [Rabies = rare in squirrels.]

“YAAAAAHHH!!  SQUIRRRRRELLL!!” she yelled out with berserker rage as she chased it down for dear life.

I shadowed my party of halflings into the woodlands behind the school.  “Adventure!” Sun Su exclaimed as he rangerly maneuvered around branches and slippery slopes.  Hmm, I didn’t teach him that word.  Treasure abounded – a bottle cap, a Baskin Robbins cup, a rotting apple with ants, a basketball, and a box of Cheez-its.

Our little leader scavenged two sticks strong enough to break other sticks among the fallen branches and trees.  He gave the big one to his little sister and engaged a sapling tree in swordplay, stopping only to point out another squirrel.  “SQUIRRELL!!  A BIG ONE!  A BIG ONE!!”  Ooseung went on the rampage again.  While ducking branches with soft earth underfoot, I felt a cool kiss on the cheek from what must have been a wind fairy.  I remembered these half-real, half-imaginary worlds from childhood.

Then I heard the sound of a child crying, not mine.  He was standing alone against the back wall of the school farther away.

“Do you know that kid?” I asked Sun Su.

“No.  Don’t go,” he cautioned.

I walked a little closer, but stayed a fair distance away so as not to scare the boy, “Hey!  Are you okay?  Are you lost?”

He stopped and looked at me.  “No.  I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” I yelled back, before he disappeared around the corner.

“Let’s see what’s going on over there,” I told my young ranger and tiny barbarian.

We walked down a natural tunnel with webby school windows on one side and overarching trees on the other.  (Of course my iPhone batteries were dead at this point – hence, no pics here.)

“I hear voices,” I said.  Ooseung gripped my hand.  I looked around the corner.

It was another playground filled with more kids and several moms.  The crying boy was there too, playing, no hint of crying.  I suspect he was probably sent to The Wall in the first place by his mom (or a teacher) for misbehaving on the playground.  I forgot they used to do that back in elementary school.

“Appah, there’s no more squirrels!  UHNG!” Ooseung made her usual angry grunt.

“They’re probably all hiding from a little girl with a giant voice who says YAHHH!”

My little girl giggled,

“I just wanted to pet their soft fur.”

“Ready to go home?”

“Yeah,” then she boomed out, “SUN SU, WE’RE GOING !!”  Just like her ummah.  Sun Su emerged from his woods exploration with a disappointed sigh,

“Aww, do we have to?”

Back to reality and my spell books.

[Stimulation of oxytocin and vasopressin, psychological attachment, warmth = LOVE.]

I really didn’t like the color of my shiny new car back in 2004.  I wanted green but that would take months, the salesman said, and I was impatient.   The lot only had silver, black, or red.  The world needed another black or red car like it needed another term with G.W. Bush, so I took the silver (and Bush still got reelected).

I got used to the color because I loved the car.  The distinctive shark fin side vents (Tiburon means “shark”).  The feel of the engine.  How low it felt.  The glove-like fit of the interior.  And most importantly, she was Corean, because back then I wasn’t happy with my color either.  Being half-Corean wasn’t good enough.

As soon as the car became mine, “it” became a “she” in my mind.  This female anthropomorphism is common with males, for a few reasons I suspect.  A car is like your perfect girlfriend.  She’s curvy and fast, reliable but fun.  Others might covet her, but she’ll never cheat.  Your insecurities are safe with her behind all that flash and armor.  Of course, sometimes she can be temperamental and require some maintenance, but other times she can take you away from everything, at least for a while.

Owning a Tiburon felt like being part of a small, private (but affordable) club.  When I’d see another shark car on the road, which was rare, I’d check out the other driver, barely resisting the thumbs-up.  I’d wonder if they got their Tib because it was Corean or because it looked cool.  Being accepted into the Corean club isn’t nearly as simple though.  I’ve made many dear Corean friends but I’ve had my share of haters and snide pricks.  The haters seemed to be in the minority, but all the dings and dents in the armor make you weary.

I remember being excited about this new Asian-American promoted movie, with an all Asian-American cast.  I forget the title, but the Asian girl was with this asshole half-Asian guy, he’d force her to have sex, he’d cheat on her, and just be a smug asshole.  Eventually she gets with the kinder Asian male friend who’s loved her all along.  I just remember being sent for a loop.  I was offended, hurt, embarrassed, by the subtext of having a half-Asian guy be the cheating, rapist boyfriend in an otherwise ALL-Asian movie.  I mean it was “GO ASIANS — but fuck you half-Asian guys, we don’t want you!”   Not the first time I got that message, but the first time it hit me quite so hard.  Something changed.  Gears grinded.  Ding.

A few blizzards ago, the Michigan black ice caught me less mindful than usual.  I spun out on an icy on-ramp, trying to regain control for a full 360 degrees before bumping into the freeway wall.  Everything got banged up, except for me.  I ended up facing the same direction, and continued driving to work after five seconds of disbelief.

After that, my Tiburon wasn’t the same.  She was irritable, ran too loud, sometimes started sluggishly.  I didn’t mind though, because even if she was a little marred, her heart, her engine, was just fine.  As far as I was concerned, the only thing she – or more like, we – lost was a little vanity, but that simply made her stronger, right?  Another scratch?  We love scars.  Someone bumped their door into mine?  What, was that supposed to hurt?

Eventually though, I suppose all of those things add up.  My Corean road warrioress showed signs of weariness just as my own Corean spirit waned.  Her engine rumbled louder.  Her wheels were malaligned despite trips to the service center.  A headlight burned out.  She was locking me out more often, culminating in an alarm-fest when I tried to touch her, like any embarrassing public argument in a parking lot.  A week later, a tire went flat, graciously after I dropped the kids off at Corean Bible School.  If that wasn’t a sign….

The new car buying experience at the Hyundai dealer was different this time.  Instead of a pushy little salesman, we got a pleasant saleswoman with pushed-out breasts.  Good female energy.  Cousin Kevin was there for negotiation support but in the end, the saleswoman’s boobs did more pushing than we did.

KEVIN:  “Every time I see her I want to give her a dollar.”

ME:  “I want to swipe a credit card between them.”

Seeing the new Genesis made me feel like the day I got my Tiburon.  Hopeful and excited all over again.  A little wiser this time, though, tougher but less invulnerable.  They even had the color I wanted six years ago.  Only this time, it was the color of renewal.

When I traded in my old Tib, the appraiser offered, “One thousand dollars.  It’s really not in sellable, workable, or repairable condition.  That’s the best we can do.”

That was a thousand more than my wife expected, but I was still mildly offended.  We’d been through a lot.  We just got banged up a little with the experience, maybe a little off track.

I signed the papers but kept something else.  “Congratulations, you are now an owner.”

I was excited about my new Corean comeback car.  Felt her engine purring with my heart.  We’re on a new journey.  We don’t need armor because we’ll have spirit.   You’re not a warrior anymore.  You’re a princess.   A fucking fast princess.

I’ll be more careful with the dents this time too.

A car is like a perfect girlfriend, after the break-up, you’re left with good memories and appreciation (despite what the appraiser says).

As I walked toward the door, the appraiser added, “That’s a pretty car.”

Yes, she is.

A week ago.  The day started out nice.  Sun Su and Ooseung were playing with the other neighborhood kids while I sat in the driveway studying review books.

“Tell me I’m fat,” Billy the Bully said to my six-year old girl.

“What?” she looked at him funny.

“Just tell me I’m fat, Ooseung.”

“… You’re fat?”

“I know you are but what am I,” Billy rode off laughing on his bike.  Ooseung ignored it as if he were speaking a foreign language.

Billy’s always been the neighborhood bully, in size and demeanor, ever since he was five (he’s ten now).  I figured maybe his parents had taught him a new defense to use at school, in case he was picked on by the older kids, and he was just practicing it.  My little girl didn’t seem to be bothered either way.

No harm, no foul.

The kids had wandered over to the neighborhood dog, a playful orange retriever.  Billy was showing them how to “shake hands” with the dog.  It was the first time Sun Su saw a dog raise his paw like that, and his laughter was the loudest.  It was music to my ears since he rarely laughs like that.

“You laugh loud,” Billy said.  “Look I’m Sun Su, HAR HAR HAR HAR!  HAR HAR HAR HAR!”

He repeated this three more times.

The other younger kids including Sun Su laughed along, not quite realizing what I realized as my blood began to boil.  I remembered myself as a boy, laughing at the big kids’ jokes at the bus stop because I thought they liked me too.  They all made fun of me for laughing too much.  So I stopped, for many many years.  The things we never forget.  In comics, this is how supervillains are born.

Maybe this was Billy’s misguided way of making friends.  Maybe my own childhood bitterness was clouding my perception.  Honestly though, I just didn’t have the heart to stop my sweet boy’s laughter and tell him he was being teased.

That was strike one.

I looked up from my studies occasionally to see the kids riding their bikes around the island in the center of the cul-de-sac.  Sun Su zipped up and down the sidewalk with joy, occasionally slowing down for one of the littler boys to catch up.

“Sun Su, you’re so cool,” Billy said riding behind him, “You’re so cooool!”

My attention perked up to see where this was going.  Maybe he was trying to make up for teasing him earlier, I squinted.

“You’re cool, aren’t you, Sun Su?” Billy kept asking him.

“I don’t know,” Sun Su answered.

“Say you’re cool then.”

Eventually Sun Su innocently replied, “I’m a little cold right now.”

Cracked me up.

“Sun Su’s COOL everybody!”

Something about Billy’s tone didn’t seem right.

Then I heard another one of the kids explain the opposites game they were playing, “If you say you’re a JERK, then you are really COOL.  If you say someone’s COOL, then that means they’re really a JERK.”

“Sun Su’s such a coooool guy,” Billy said again.

Strike two.

Sun Su just rode away from Billy.  One thing I admire about him is that he doesn’t feel the need to follow Billy or other kids.   I loosened my grip on the lawn chair and let things pass for the moment, while still keeping my eye on them.

Billy’s gaze continued to follow Sun Su as he rode up closer to him.  It wasn’t an inviting or smiling gaze.  It was more calculating and quiet.  Then Billy swooped in so close that he ran Sun Su off the street and he crashed.

Strike three.

“GODDAMMIT!!!”  I shouted, as the spine of my book cracked on the concrete.

I could see Sun Su was already getting back on his bike, but that didn’t change anything at this point.  I marched right up to Billy’s excuse-popping face.

“You fucker, Billy!  I saw what you did!”

“It was an accident.  I didn’t even touch–”

“You lying little shit!  I saw you make him crash!  I’ve been watching you all day!”

“No.  I–”

“I know you were teasing him with your fucking opposites game – you’re so COOL, Billy!  I heard you making fun of his laugh!  Is that supposed to be funny?  AM I FUCKING LAUGHING?!!”

I half expected other fathers to rush out of their houses and attack the raging lunatic in the street (me).  I couldn’t blame them for trying, but right or wrong, and I was probably wrong, I was ready for them.  For everyone.  I had never been so mad.

I walked back to my lawn chair undisturbed, the pounding of my heart could have killed a small animal up close.  I picked up my bent-up review book, and pretended to read like nothing just happened.  I looked up, still seething.  Billy was already inside his house.  My sweet Sun Su rode his bike in slow autistic circles, ignoring the calls of his friends, and my heart sank.  Either he was frightened by the area effect of my rage, or he realized, from what I said, that Billy had been making fun of him all day long.  I went inside the house to remove my darkness from his light.

“I kind of went crazy on Billy,” I began telling Amy, still upset.  Our little girl perched next to her.

“I would have got him for teaching them the word ‘jerk,’” she said.  Then there was a knock at the door.

Ooseung checked and reported in pretend spy-mode, “It’s Billy’s parents!”

“Don’t get mad,” Amy said as she chased me to the door, “Don’t get mad.”

Billy’s mom.

“Hi.  Billy’s kind of rattled.  I just want to find out what happened,” she said.

I took some deep breaths, “Sorry, I’m still … pretty emotional about the whole thing,” and started explaining.  She took it surprisingly well.  It’s got to be hard not taking your child’s side, but he’s been on the wrong side so many times before, they almost assume it.  She slyly reminded me that even though Billy looks 12-14 years old because of his size and attitude, he’s still just ten.  And with great parental effort, he has gotten better this year, which I absolutely agreed with, except when it came to my kids.  She admitted it has been a challenge with him though, especially with a house full of teenaged daughters too.

“I’m sorry.  I… uh… overreacted.”

“No, I understand.  It’s your child.  Billy needs to get rattled like this.  Maybe he’ll change.  If he acts like that again, go ahead and overreact.”

Later, Sun Su came inside.  He had been having fun with friends again.  He seemed fine.  I came up behind him and gave him a gentle over-under hug and didn’t let go.  He put his little hand over mine.

That evening.

“Appah, what does deluxe mean?” he pointed to my new Batman and Robin graphic novel.

“It means special.  This a hard cover special deluxe edition Batman and Robin.”

“Robin looks different,” he noted on the cover.

“In this storyline, the original Batman is dead, and Nightwing, that long-haired guy, becomes the new Batman.  This new Robin is just a kid, but he’s really angry and messed up.  Batman is the nice one this time, and he tries to teach Robin how to be patient and good and not kill all the badguys.  It’s kind of funny,” I chuckled, then thought better of it.

“Appah.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s play chess.”

“Okay.”

“You need to go to sleep, sir,” I said laying down next to my 7-year old son.

“Appah, what did you do when you were eleven?”

“Eleven?  I guess I was in … sixth grade?  Don’t tell anyone, but I used to sell Jolly Ranchers in school.”

“Oh, the red and the grape ones?”

“All of them.  I made some money too, but then I got in trouble.  Don’t sell stuff at school.”

“What else did you do?”

“When I was a teenager, I worked at McDonald’s.”

“Were you up front?”

“No, mostly the girls did that.  The boys worked grill in back cooking the boogers – burgers.”

“Haha!  You said boogers.”

“They practically were.  It was hard work.  Greasy, hot, sweaty, standing there all day pressing burgers,” I omitted the grease burns, “The people were fun though.  Most of us were teenagers.”

Or underpriviledged misfits in one way or another.  The others included a psychotic ex-marine and a likely serial killer.

“What else did you do?”

“When I was in college, I worked in a science lab.  Growing bacteria in little dishes.  It was really boring.”

“What’s a bacteria?  I forgot.”

“They’re the tiniest little animals that live everywhere but you can only see them with a microscope.”

“Then what did you do?”

“One summer, I was a waiter in a fancy Greek restaurant for about two weeks.  Maybe less.”

“Why so short?”

“The manager was really mean to everyone.  Sometimes when people are mean to you, you have to be mean back.  When I quit, I took off my bowtie, and whipped it at his fat belly.  It bounced off.   The whole kitchen just stared.”

“…,” Sun Su was quiet for two long seconds.  Uh oh, what’s the moral to this one again?

Then he started to giggle.  Then laugh.  Then really laugh.  It got to the point where he was trying not to laugh because he was laughing so much.  Then he’d take a breath and think about it again and start all over.  It was so genuine and uncontrollable, that I did the same.

Fifteen minutes of that.   He’d never laughed so much before.   One time he laughed almost as much, but I can’t remember what it was anymore.

Eventually, we got a hold of ourselves and he said,

“Did you want to be a waiter?”

“No.  I just did that to make money.  I wanted to be a comic book artist.”

“Why’d you become a doctor?”

“Well, lots of reasons, I liked learning and science (and respect and revenge against all the fucks who would never again look down on us), but mostly, my mom really wanted me to.  We didn’t have much money (or respect) and it was kind of my job to take care of us all someday.”

“But you were just a kid.”

“… Well.”  (I’m glad it was dark.)

“Maybe you were a big kid.”

“But now, we have a nice house, and a nice car, and you don’t have to worry so much about money.  You and Ooseung can be whatever you want to be.  Something you like.”

“I want to be a writer and illustrator.”

“You do?  That is very cool.  I think you’ll be good at that.”

The next night, after I tucked him in, I heard giggling from his bedroom again.  All those jobs were worth it to hear that.

Oh Lord, how long has it been?  (Don’t worry, I didn’t convert to theism in my time off, just an expression.)  Since Christmas and it’s February already?  I seriously thought I was on an update roll in December too.  Pfft.

Well, that’s just pathetic but I can assure you, I’m not done with this journal yet.  There’s always so much I want to write but so little time or prioritization, at least.

Working at the hospital takes up a lot of that time and energy, more than I signed up for, in fact.  There’s never enough people to cover the shifts adequately, so I end up doing extra 4-hour blocks here, then a couple 9-hour blocks there, et cetera.  At least I have a job in this economy I guess.

The time away from the kids bothers me the most.  The later hours mean more missed homework time through bedtime.  I am so not the workaholic dad who just wants to bring the bacon home and let the family do the rest.  At their ages now, the kids are still listening, so I feel I have to do some guiding.  Which means being there and doing things with them.  You have to let go of the bowstring eventually, but until they’re old enough (to stop listening), I’m keeping that arrow on target.

I also quit Brazilian jiu jitsu several months ago because there just weren’t enough hours in the day anymore.  That was a tough call.  I wasn’t a star or anything, but it made me feel the strongest and leanest I’ve ever been.  I miss the struggle and the drama of a good ground match; the physical domination through intellectual guile and muscular memory.  I meant to write more about my jiu jitsu matches, saving them up in my head, but again… time.

So, I’ve been working hard to keep a regular exercise regimen going, mostly at home.  It’s going  well.  A lot of the exercises are carried over from jiu jitsu (basically, the core muscles) in order to keep myself physically primed for a return someday.  Ironically, I’ve actually gained muscle mass after quitting jiu jitsu because I’m not constantly breaking it down in practice anymore.  Or maybe that’s just fat.

The biggest kick to the balls though has been having to study for my medicine board exams again.  They passed a new rule shortly before I graduated requiring all future (internal medicine) doctors to retest every ten years to keep their board certification.  It has a 26% fail rate – from people who passed it the first time and have been doctoring 4 REALZ for the past ten years.  All those arcane, academic rat facts just go out the window when you have real people to take care of.  A lot has changed too.  The Big Test is in October, which deceptively seems far enough, but having studied for it once already, less than 9 months of study for me would be self-defeating.

I just finished the nephrology section, relearning diseases with appealing names like: FSGS, MPGN, PIGN, PSGN, RPGN.  I’m not kidding, those are the actual names.  The long versions are more apnea-inducing.  Makes you almost miss the days of Lady Windemere’s Disease, or Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, or my favorite – THE CONSUMPTION.  Now that’s a name.  Even “stroke” was creatively named for the way it cuts down people like trees in the prime of their life.  At least that’s how one poet described it.  Now it’s called a CVA or the public relations failure, “brain attack.”

Well, I’ve rambled too long for internet 2.0 attention spans.  I could save and trim it down but then it would just go into my draft folder with fourteen other partially-written entries that got lost in time.

That’s me these days.  Can’t believe it’s almost Valentines Day.  Seems like I was just writing about Christmas.  Oh, right.

So, since you’ve made it this far, tell me what’s going on with you?