I only remember one event from my very first road trip.
My parents were heading West: Our journey started in suburban Virginia and ended in Southern California. We (apparently) piled into the family car—a red Chevy Nova, I think—and rambled along the interstates to the Golden State.
My only memory of that trip is the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. Sometimes I’m not even sure if it’s really a memory of mine—though I do recall gazing up at the thing; my parents told me later that I had asked if it was part of an arch for McDonald’s—or something my mind concocted from the stories my parents told about the trip.
In retrospect, our family took a lot of road trips. California houses many travelling gems:
I recall the cold spray of the ocean against my face during a cloudy, windy day in Monterey Bay; I had picked up several smooth pebbles from Pebble Beach. I wasn’t that impressed with the Lone Cypress; it was just a tree on a rock. What was the big deal?
We weaved our way through Sequoia National Park; the gigantic redwood and sequoia trees loomed overhead, blotting out the crystal light of the sun.
My parents insisted on touring Hearst Castle. We lingered by an ornately tiled pool; the garish decorations and opulent markers of wealth bored me. At the time, I thought my parents were envious of the castle; now, I think they were simply marvelling at the excess.
The fondest road trip memories I have, however, are from our visits to Yosemite National Park. Our bicycles were crammed into the rear of the van, occasionally clanging against each other during turns. My parents packed hard-boiled eggs, ramen noodles, and bananas for snacks. My dad purchased a small, green kerosene stove from a local swap meet and could hardly wait to create soups with the random ingredients we packed. He also recorded road trip music: Beethoven’s symphonies poured out of the stereo speakers as he drove along the winding roads.
On a few occasions, my mom and I asked that he stopped the car so we could barf.
Then there were the weekend trips to Las Vegas, where the flat desert seemed to stretch on forever in every direction as far as the eye could see. Scraggly cacti lifted their spiny arms to the sky with prayers for rain and the occasional tumbleweed ambled across the road. My parents were never interested in the world’s largest thermometer. The thing is huge.
I was relegated to the back seat and, unless I was nauseated, I enjoyed the freedom of the road. I still associate Beethoven’s symphonies with Yosemite National Park; I came to eagerly expect the stunning orchestral arrangements as we settled deeper into the tree-lined mountains. I loved stumbling out of the car, inhaling deeply, and witnessing the glory of El Capitan and Yosemite Valley. I even came to appreciate eating hard-boiled eggs at the rest stops.
Tomorrow, I leave for a road trip that has absolutely nothing to do with relocation. Technically, I have tackled a solo road trip in the past—when I moved from Northern California to Seattle, I zipped along Interstate 5 with my then iPod my only companion. Though it was a leisurely drive, I did not explore the surrounding regions (but let me tell you, the views are stunning from Redwood City, California, to Seattle, Washington)—I just had to get from point A to point B.
I fully intend to indulge in some of the distractions along the Cascade Loop. I already have four waterfalls, a chocolate factory, a fruit-and-nut factory, and a garden on my itinerary. I’m trying to avoid a minute-by-minute plan; part of the fun of solo travelling is doing whatever, whenever. People keep telling me that my eyes will pop out of my head in disbelief when I get to the North Cascades—I can hardly wait.
Wish me safe and joyous travels. God willing, I should post something here by Wednesday night to indicate my safe return.
(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)
17 Jun 2007 | 7 comments.
#19: The High Diving Board.
The moment I stepped off of the platform, I closed my eyes as tightly as possible. Only when my body reassumed its buoyancy was I able to open my eyes and hastily swim to the surface.
I did not enjoy jumping off of the high dive platform. Ascending the ladder was a lonely experience; standing alone atop the platform confirmed my isolation. The voices of the other kids below were distant murmurs; the cool air bristled against my wet skin, causing eruptions of goosebumps on my arms and legs. The rectangular pool below, brimming with dark blue, wavy water, was not particularly inviting. The instructors, shielding their eyes from the Southern Californian sun, looked up at me and waited for me to release myself to gravity.
My toes crept up to the edge of the concrete platform and I looked down at the surrounding pool complex. I wasn’t worried about physical pain from impact with the water, nor was I concerned about drowning.
I was afraid of the concrete.
If I didn’t jump far out away from the platform, I believed my head would slam against it (a la Greg Louganis) and crack open. Blood, brains, and body would splash into the water and, surely, my last experience in life would consist of unbearable pain.
If I jumped too far out from the platform, I believed that I would miss the water entirely and land on the concrete surrounding the pool. My bones would shatter and I would immediately become a heap of dust—though I would undoubtedly experience unbearable pain.
Before gingerly launching myself, I inhaled quickly and deeply—it could be last breath I would ever take—to ensure that my lungs were inflated with enough oxygen to allow me to reach the surface of the pool. In the air, my body was rigid: My arms, legs, toes, and fingers were all completely straight and pointing at the water; my shoulders were hunched up by my ears. I was a dart; my hair, flying away from my face, became the feathers that trailed behind me as I sliced through space.
Time passed—when would I hit the water? when could I open my eyes? what if I overjumped? what if my head had already hit the platform and I was actually already dead? what if—
My pointed toes carved an opening in the cool water and only when I felt my body beginning to rise did I realize that I was still alive. Quickly opening my eyes, I saw the hazy glow of sunlight overhead filtering past the bubbles that marked my entrance into the pool. The rushing sounds of the wind were replaced by the lethargic warblings of the moving water.
There was no blood, there was no pain.
I swallowed a large gasp of air upon breaking the surface—not because my body needed air, but because my mind demanded confirmation that I was still alive.
(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)
16 Jun 2007 | Comments?
#18: Only Doesn’t Mean Lonely.
Sibling relationships fascinate me. And I exaggerate not when I use the word “fascinate”.
Some people speak of their siblings with affection and admiration: “My sister is my best friend.” Other people speak of their siblings with shame and annoyance: “My brother… is a selfish jerk. I can’t believe I’m related to him.” And still others simply never speak of their siblings.
“He’s great,” I recently commented to a girlfriend about a mutual colleague. “I don’t know what it’s like to have a big brother, but I imagine that it’s like the relationship he and I have.”
She started to laugh, clearly at me. “He doesn’t act like a big brother,” she said. “Big brothers pin you down and try to burp in your face when you’re a kid, and then they make fun of you for the rest of your life.”
Another girlfriend, a new mother, shared, “My family had two kids and my husband’s family had two kids. I’d like my child to have a brother or sister; it just seems right. That probably sounds weird to you, since you don’t have any siblings.”
I shrugged—I have no concept of what it means to grow up with someone who is around your age, but isn’t your friend. Furthermore, this person is related to you, but isn’t a parent. What is that like?
The stereotype of the only child persists: “Wow—you’re an only child? You don’t seem like an only child.”
“What do you mean?” I reply. It’s meant as a compliment—I think.
“I don’t know—you don’t seem spoiled. You’re nice and you share stuff.”
It’s not that onlies are completely self-absorbed; we’re just really skilled at entertaining ourselves—we learn to be independent at an early age because, frankly, parents can be pretty boring people and who else could we hang out with? As school kids, we probably seemed aloof and serious—this isn’t because we’re pretentious, it’s because we learned our behavior from our parents. It’s anecdotal, but most of my “only” friends (myself included) consistently report that they got along better with adults than with kids during grade school. We can’t cause the same kind of trouble at home that my sibling-ed friends reminisce about: If a vase is shattered (how cliche) or there is a ding in the car, the identity of the culprit is obvious. (”I didn’t do it; MOM did it!”) Around the dinner table, we can’t tell or hear silly jokes; we can’t generate create insults about how one’s face resembles a brussel sprout; we can’t compete with another youth for attention or admiration.
In fact, sometimes we wish the attention could be diverted elsewhere.
Maybe onlies are more socially stunted as a result of our lack of siblings, but there are also plenty of people with siblings who are overly earnest, serious, or socially inept. Some of the most charming people I know are onlies; maybe it goes back to our abilities to entertain ourselves—like everyone else, we use what charisma we have to titrate the frequency and intensity of our social interactions and, sometimes, we do revert to the stereotype and we just want to be alone.
I used to think that all onlies were introverts, but I now know I’m wrong. I was projecting.
When I was younger, I often wished for a sibling—older or younger, just because the company was appealing. These days, that wish has languished; I don’t think I’d be who I am if I had siblings.
But that doesn’t stop me from listening in wonder when people talk about how much they love/hate/despise/adore their siblings. I’ll never get it.
(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)
| 10 comments.
#17: Pagers.
My first pager was a small contraption that alerted me when the mainframe computer of A Large Computer Company had gone offline. As a member of an elite team of programmers, I was expected to help troubleshoot and solve the problem immediately.
(No, not really.)
My first pager was a small contraption that was no larger than a matchbook. People were impressed with its small dimensions and, during my entire tenure in medical school, frequently commented on its tiny size.
Within the initial two weeks of my first rotation (general surgery), a surgery attending shared a tale of how he accidentally dropped his pager into the toilet. I purchased a “leash” for my pager shortly thereafter; it featured a small loop that connected to the pager and a claw clip on the other end that easily grasped the waist of my pants. The chrome-colored links were about the size of sunflower seeds.
There were a few occasions when I inadvertently knocked my tiny pager out of its plastic sleeve and it dangled against my thigh like a listless yo-yo. This never happened while I was in the bathroom. Regardless, because of the leash, I do not have any stories about my pager falling into the toilet.
One of the first pages I ever received was from my surgery intern. He had explained pager terminology to us medical students:
“The first four numbers make up the phone number you call back. The numbers after the asterisk are the last four digits of the pager number of the person who is paging you. That way, you can tell who it is. If the numbers ‘911′ appear anywhere after the first four numbers, that means it is an emergency and you need to call the number right away.”
He paused to ensure we understood this. We nodded silently.
“If the numbers ‘616161′ and on and on follow the phone number, that means we’re going to the cafeteria to eat.”
He saw the confused expressions on our faces.
“See, the numbers ‘61′ look like ‘GI’ on the pager and ‘GI’ means ‘eat’, right? So ‘eat eat eat…’”
Our confusion disappeared.
“And,” he concluded, “the numbers ‘143′ mean ‘I love you’.”
So back to “one of the first pages I ever received”: It was a slow afternoon; I was alone on the ward, probably trying to be useful. My pager suddenly began to buzz against my hip and, upon inspection, it read
4232*911*911*911
It was probably my second week as a third-year medical student. I distinctly recall thinking, Why would anyone page me if there is an emergency?
I immediately walked into the surgery team room—I was literally outside of the office—to call the number back. Inside the room was the intern and one of the residents; the intern smirked at me and said, “Did you get paged?”
“Yeah—it says ‘911′—did you get paged—?”
“Oh, that was just us… we just wanted to scare you and make you think something really bad was happening.”
I probably looked at them blankly. This is what doctors do…?
My second pager was a black contraption that was a little smaller than a business card (but not nearly as thin). When I gingerly removed it from the white cardboard box, I was suddenly brimming with apprehension. It was three days before Day One of my internship and I realized—with some horror—that this thing would be attached to me for 344 days a year for four consecutive years! This electronic leash would wake me up, interrupt my meals, intrude upon my bodily functions, distract me from the tasks at hand, and allow many, many people to share potentially really alarming news with me.
“How many ring tones does it have?”
I finally opted for the silent, vibrate option—it is annoying to hear a pager go on… and on… and on… and, really, no one needs to know that I am being paged except for me.
I immediately attached my pager leash to it.
My second pager stopped working two months into my internship. I was on call at the county hospital and my senior resident was trying to get a hold of me to let me know that it was my turn to admit a patient. I obviously didn’t answer her pages. My senior resident got annoyed with me. I think she then called the various wards, asking the nurses if they had seen me. She finally called the operator to deliver an overhead page:
“DR. MARIA, PLEASE CALL EXTENSION 2754… DR. MARIA, PLEASE CALL EXTENSION 2754…”
Yikes.
After she and I realized that my pager was not working (and after she forgave what seemed to be my complete lack of responsibility), I hurried to the Communications Office—a windowless dungeon where the hospital operators roost—and asked if I could obtain a working pager?
The operator who had issued the imperative over the hospital loudspeaker that I call extension 2754 smiled at me and kindly said, “Of course!” She plucked an older-looking pager from a cardboard box, attached a printer label on it, and handed it to me.
Thus, my third (and current) pager is a grey contraption that is a little smaller than a business card, though not nearly as thin, but is slightly larger than my second pager. I had to purchase a different leash for it, as the loop of my previous leash was too large for this pager. My current leash is longer than my previous leash and the links, which are thin and about the size of large salt crystals, resemble brushed pewter. The screen of the pager has several longitudinal scratches from the numerous times I have slid the pager in and out of its holster—sometimes calmly, sometimes in frantic, annoyed haste.
The pager is heavy enough that, say, if I threw it against the wall in frustration and anger, it would leave an impression.
I still keep the pager on vibrate mode, unless I have the opportunity to sleep—then I elect for the single beep plus vibrate option. It only takes a single beep to jolt me awake. The buzzing of the pager, either against my skin or against the surface of a table, confirms that the page isn’t a figment of my imagination—I need to wake up to call someone back.
Sometimes, I will feel my pager vibrating and when my right hand reaches down to turn it off—
—I realize that I’m not even wearing it.
(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)
13 Jun 2007 | 6 comments.
#16: Schizophrenia.
The man is old enough to be my father.
He dresses well—and I don’t mean in that glossy Esquire Magazine sort of way. His clothes are simple and understated: Jeans, polo shirt, and leather jacket. Khakis, cotton shirt with buttons over a tee shirt, and a windbreaker. His hands, with those neatly trimmed nails, reveal his age.
When he smiles, his cheeks squish up against his eyes. He looks like he’s squinting. His smile is big and toothy and bright—it’s like his mouth is a sun-lit window and his cheeks are heavy curtains that have been drawn apart.
“How have you been?” I ask. He flashes that illuminating smile at me and holds it steady like a flashlight beam.
“Good, good! Good!” he answers. “Sun is out… weather is good… air smells good… good!”
He starts to laugh. I can’t help but smile back at him.
“What have you been doing?”
“Oh, same thing. Eating… sleeping… sleeping good! No problems with sleep! Smoking. Smoking.” He begins to mimic the motion of smoking, taking a drag from the invisible cigarette poised between his fingers. “Same thing, same thing all the time.”
He knows the questions I must ask; I know the answers he provides. We run through the script and neither one of us misses a line.
“I think about my family,” he says, the light disappearing entirely from his face. He only frowns this way when he thinks about his family. They literally ran away from him. He wonders where his wife took his children. He wishes that he could see them again—what does his son look like now? how is his daughter doing in school? does his wife think about him?
“I know,” I reply, wishing that things were different. Although we can never be sure, the clinical history we have pieced together suggests that shortly after the manifestation of his symptoms, his family abandoned him. Maybe something else happened—maybe he threatened them? maybe he destroyed something and frightened them? maybe he had threatened himself? That’s not the way he tells the story, though.
He now avoids people—not to the point that he isolates himself in his studio apartment with the balcony from where he smokes his pack of cigarettes a day. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that he ignores people.
“Why?” I ask him.
His face hardens and his eyes focus on the square of carpet in the far corner.
“Because people are not good to me. I walk along the street and the people who use drugs—drug users, people who drink alcohol, lots of alcohol—they ask me for money, but they never give me money. They say they want money for food, but then they go buy alcohol and drugs. At night, they drink alcohol and are loud, yelling. They don’t buy food, they buy alcohol and drugs.”
His sister had been encouraging him to join the local church.
“Why not?” I ask him.
“Because they ask too many questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“I go to church and they ask, What is your name? What is your age? What is your work?”
He pauses—not for dramatic effect, but because the pause reflects his answer: Nothing.
“They ask, Where do you work? Where is your family?”
He pauses again. Sadness softens his features.
“Are you married? How many kids? How come they are not with you?”
He stops, his right thumb tracing the border of his lower lip. He doesn’t cry—not because he’s holding tears back; his eyes are completely dry. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t remember how—his family left him a long time ago. I don’t ask him. The moment isn’t there.
We sit together in silence.
“That’s why I don’t like people,” he finally says. “Being alone is better.”
Suddenly, he smiles at me, big, bright, and toothy. He’s squinting at the brightness of his own smile.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, unable to look at the sun of his face.
(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)
12 Jun 2007 | 4 comments.