Monday, October 28,
2002.
What
I'm being for Halloween: That guy at the end of the street who leaves
his
porch lights out and doesn't answer the door.
Corean movie-secret advisor: Tun
BEST SIGN EVER
Amy found that parking sign up there at a Flag store in a mall. They had one for just about every country in existence. Amy said she knew I'd get a kick out of that one. Amy relayed the conversation she had at the store to me.
AMY (at the Flag store): "Do you have any signs like that for Corea?"
STORE CLERK: "Uh, we do for South Korea. Not North Korea."
Amy was a little annoyed at the clerk. I mean, "Do I look North Korean?" she asked me. "And if I were, would I be at the Flag store asking for a parking sign?"
As if finding a space for your tank wasn't hard enough already (if you're in the military).
How about a bumper sticker for the North Korean leader (Kim Jong Il): "Honk if you have nukes."
A more appropriate sign for most of the civilians in North Korea would be "Will starve for food." Unfortunately.
I really love that sign. It's going on Sun Su's door.
THE COREAN PATIENT
Most of us live in at least two different worlds.
There's online (Neo) and real life (Mr. Anderson).
There's fantasy (I am Raiden, God of Thunder) and there's reality (I am ... lost).
For me there is also my work world (medicine) and my home world (Go Corean Tiger Go!).
It's rare that the two combine, or collide. I mean it's been a while since I was at the 7-Eleven, and the cashier said,
"You're eleven cents short."
To which I'd consider replying, "Eleven cents?!! I AM THE GOD OF THUNDER!!!!!"
instead of the slightly more acceptable, "Really? Huh. I guess I'll have to use my credit card."
Actually, sometimes it seems like the cashiers would prefer my first answer with the eleven cents.
I was at work when my different worlds collided though.
I was walking out of the nurses station when a friend near my own age, an oncology fellow, pulled me aside. I don't know what nickname to give him because I know he reads this. How do I know? Because he knows things about me I have never mentioned at work. He will tease me with faux anti-Corean remarks just to see if I tear off my shirt and give him The Foul King Ball Buster Suplex or not. Dude, don't make me get all Shiri on you. You wouldn't like me when I'm Shiri.
(Sorry, those are Corean movie titles. "The Foul King" is a Corean wrestling comedy. "Shiri" is a story about one bad-azz female Corean assassin. Tun, Anna, and Key know what I'm talking about.)
He also knows I'm trying to learn Corean at home. I've told maybe two people at work about this. And I've made sure they've both been "disappeared" ... of course.
I think I'll call him Dr. Bellows. Because his deep voice is the Indian equivalent of Barry White.
"Scott! I have someone I want you to talk to," he bellowed pulling my arm back to a hospital room I just passed.
"If this is about my last entry, I can explain," I felt compelled to say as I was dragged.
"My patient, she's Corean. Can you translate for me? She doesn't speak English."
By the way, Dr. Bellows is an oncology fellow. A cancer doctor.
I was surprised and proud that he had asked me. Then I said,
"I haven't really been studying it lately --," lately as in pre-baby, almost six months ago. I've been on Chapter Seven in my grandiosely-titled "Mastering Korean" book for seven months now.
His patient was in her forties; she looked more like my age though. She looked small and distracted, in the bed covers. Kind of like a young girl lost in the meaning of some pop heartthrob's cookie-cutter lyrics.
"Annyoung hasayo," I said and did the head nod.
She lit up immediately. Pulling her knees under her beneath the sheets. Smiling brightly.
"I can speak a little Corean," I tried to say. Although I might have said, "I make a tiny Corean person." I was nervous.
She nodded happily.
"I am half Corean," I said. Although I might have said, "There is half of a Corean person."
"Your mom is Corean? Does she live at your house?" she asked excitedly.
"Yes, my mom is Corean." I tried to also say "my mom lives nearby" but I am sure I said "she lives together with us" on accident. I left out the "my mom is crazy" part for aesthetic reasons.
She nodded contentedly.
"Ask if she is in any pain," Dr. Bellows urged.
"Where does your body hurt?" I said. Although I might have said, "Where is your daddy's body?" Damn those vowels. And consonants.
She nodded "no."
It would have been easier to understand her if I wasn't looking directly at her, just like when I listen to faceless voices on my language tapes. But I couldn't do that.
Despite my rusty attempts (rusty even at the first grade level, that is) to speak, she didn't get discouraged though. She seemed so excited to be talking to someone who even knew a few of the words she was saying. Too excited actually. She suddenly broke into a ten minute monologue in fast-speaking Corean, of which I was able to understand probably like ten percent at best. And mostly just the tenses of the verbs she was using and not the actual verbs themselves.
I would pick out the words I understood and repeat them thoughtfully at times in an attempt to slow her down and clue her in that I ... was a fool. I sounded like a Corean Homer Simpson,
"House? Hmm, house." (Or did she say "ten?")
When she laughed, I would laugh. When she paused and reflected quietly, I paused and nodded. I wasn't mocking her at all. I may not have understood all the words, but I understood her desire to communicate and have someone sympathize with her. I could read her eyes. Honestly, I was enthralled by her energy and enthusiasm. She didn't seem like she belonged in a hospital at all, in fact. And I didn't want to contain or cut off all that happiness by saying "I don't understand," which I actually do know how to say.
If I knew how to say, "Please speak slowly and only in two or three word sentences. Not counting subject/object modifiers since I probably won't hear them anyways," I would have.
After ten minutes of letting out her fears and hopes and joys and dreams to someone she mistakenly thought (or maybe didn't care) comprehended all of this, she stopped, seemingly grateful to have shared.
With my ears almost bleeding from trying to listen more intently than a blind sonar-driven superhero (Daredevil!), I turned to my friend, Dr. Bellows, and translated the ten minutes of her new non-stop dialog (that's actually a Corean sitcom title, "New Non-Stop") as,
"She said ... you are nice."
It was the last word in her monologue.
Away from her room, her two young doctors talked.
"Dude, I've never seen her so happy before. You really made her day. Really, man. That was great," Bellows patted me on the back and said everything I would want to hear. Like I said, he reads me. And therefore knows me a little too well.
I asked what she had, her reason for hospital admission.
"She's got mets to her spine, cord compression," Bellows dropped his smile, the way sad doctors do after leaving a patient's line of sight.
"Incontinence?" I asked reflexively.
"No."
"Paralyzed?"
"Not yet."
I don't see many Asian patients in my hospital. There was this old Chinese woman whom I learned few phrases for once (thanks Chris and Cyn). And there was the Japanese grandmother who spoke English so well that she preferred it. (She also warned me about those domineering Corean mother figures. We laughed about it.) Oh, and of course, there was the middle-aged Corean father and his very high-maintenance but stunningly maintained daughter (she had her own illness, the "Princess Syndrome").
But that's it. I've only taken care of three Asian patients in six years here.
And while I have seen and hands-on "pronounced" dozens of dead patients (mostly not my own), even been desensitized by it ("another dead guy?"), not one of them was Asian, much less Corean. I'm not "used to" seeing sick or dying Asian people, like my own relatives. Except in the movies, of course.
I certainly care for all my patients the same, but when he gave me her dismal prognosis, I felt like a medstudent again for a moment. New medstudents are funny. When they bend over to pick up a dropped pen, the contents of their loaded pockets sometimes comically spill out (Medical survival tip #37: Cover your pockets when bending). When they are confronted with their patient's inevitable and fastly approaching mortality, their hearts drop, like our smiles still do (Medical survival tip #38: Heartbreak is an occupational hazard, get used to it or at the very least, get out of sight).
I saw her a second time with the same results; she was still happy with my company that time as well. I was planning on bringing in my laptop with some Corean movies just to help her get through her very boring and isolated afternoons. Maybe that wrestling comedy, "The Foul King," where the underpaid underdog becomes the best wrestler in Corea! Nah, he still loses to his office supervisor at the end of that one. Maybe the action thriller, "Shiri," with the take-no-prisoners Le Corean Femme Nikita ... er, maybe not, she dies in the end.
A couple days later, the lady who so rapturously and incomprehensibly (due to my poor Corean skills) shared aspects of her life with me went home. They had gotten a REAL Corean translator for her along with other family members, and her final decision was, disappointingly, to not have a much recommended surgery, but to continue radiation. End of story.
Or, almost end of story. But I already know how this one ends anyways.
Afterwards, I went to see my one of my overweight congestive heart failure patients. Another red meat-eating salt-pouring chain-smoking once-invulnerable non-compliant male patient who finally realized this week that not only does he have a chance, but he still has a choice. Some people aren't so lucky. Your worlds may differ.
"Howzit goin' doc?"
"It's going okay," I smiled, happy to see him feeling better.
I was just glad he wasn't dying too.
I finally finished Chapter Seven in my language book this week.
THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT A TRACKER
I couldn't help but feel like a voyeur peeking at FRCooper's comments box as he and two other femmes were saying nice things about me ... as if I were too busy to backtrack to his site and follow the conversation. Only nice things were said too! (That doesn't happen all the time. Believe me.)
Jeez, the lengths of stalking I have to do to find a good word out there. Thank you :-)
