February 2013 marks my 10th year of being in Australia. If there is anything I've learnt in the last 10 years, it is that I am a product manufactured in Malaysia, assembled in Australia.
Living abroad hasn't been easy. But I was young, 18, and ready to take on the world. I wanted to fly-- as far away from home as possible. No family, no friends, and no sense of direction nor awareness of the scorching cruelty of Australian summers, I got lost at the corner of King William Street and North Terrace on my first day in Adelaide, trying desperately to find a cure for my hunger at 2.30 in the afternoon. With time and persistence, I discovered a sandwich bar eventually. My first taste of chicken and avocado in between 2 slices of white bread made me want to throw up. Unbeknownst to me at that time, my experience at the sandwich bar was the metaphorical example of how I would lead my life throughout my early 20s-- making accidental discoveries of myself through trial and error. By now I realised that I am the sum of all the people I have known, all the books I have read, all the joys and sorrows I have encountered, and all the cities I have traveled to.
In the last 10 years, I have lived at 8 different places across 2 different states-- you'd think I'd be a pro at moving houses by now, yet I still shudder at the thought of relocating. In the last decade, I have marveled at Medicine, cried over Medicine, cursed Medicine, lost sleep over Medicine... yet I have not conquered Medicine-- the very discipline I set out to study. Sometimes I feel like a failure, a fluke, a phony, someone who is better off huddling under the covers and writing anonymous blog posts on the macroscopic study of human behaviour. Like yesterday, when I realised I've always been too nice to other people at my own expense. I allowed others to tread all over my insufferable silence, and I allowed myself to wallow in self-doubt. When I walked into a door because the hallway was dark and I couldn't see a thing and I wrongfully assumed that the door would be open (as it always was, but now I know better), I burst into tears, not because it was painful, but because it hurt. On the inside. Other times, I feel strong and confident that I could take on the world. Like today, when I managed to intubate someone over 100kg without having a sore arm afterwards, or putting in an arterial line successfully after only having been taught how to do it last week, or convincing the surgical team that a palliative end colostomy and a tumour debulking surgery for a debilitated, elderly gentleman who was septic, who had widespread metastases, and who had severe valvular stenosis, is not the best idea because there would be no significant improvement in his mortality nor his quality of life post-operatively. This poor man was dying, so let him die in peace and in dignity, not on the operating table where it would be messy, with hemorrhage and necrotic tissue and fecal material spilling all over his abdomen. I am only human, after all.
As of February 2013, I have resided in Australia the same number of years as I have resided in Kuala Lumpur. Part of me still clings to my Malaysian-ness (for instance, switching to Manglish when I'm talking to my intern from Selangor), but a larger part of me is ingrained into the Australian culture (for instance, unknowingly using words like "arvo" or "ambos" or "Macca's" when conversing with my parents through Facetime). Much as I love Malaysia, I sense that I've detached myself from its culture over the years. I felt uneasy and estranged when I went home this time last year. It's a strange and scary feeling, a sense of foreignness that I didn't think I would encounter in my homeland. It made me question why I went home in the first place, and this is the thing that terrified me most-- if I am a stranger to my own country, what am I, then, in another country?
In the last 10 years, I have lived at 8 different places across 2 different states-- you'd think I'd be a pro at moving houses by now, yet I still shudder at the thought of relocating. In the last decade, I have marveled at Medicine, cried over Medicine, cursed Medicine, lost sleep over Medicine... yet I have not conquered Medicine-- the very discipline I set out to study. Sometimes I feel like a failure, a fluke, a phony, someone who is better off huddling under the covers and writing anonymous blog posts on the macroscopic study of human behaviour. Like yesterday, when I realised I've always been too nice to other people at my own expense. I allowed others to tread all over my insufferable silence, and I allowed myself to wallow in self-doubt. When I walked into a door because the hallway was dark and I couldn't see a thing and I wrongfully assumed that the door would be open (as it always was, but now I know better), I burst into tears, not because it was painful, but because it hurt. On the inside. Other times, I feel strong and confident that I could take on the world. Like today, when I managed to intubate someone over 100kg without having a sore arm afterwards, or putting in an arterial line successfully after only having been taught how to do it last week, or convincing the surgical team that a palliative end colostomy and a tumour debulking surgery for a debilitated, elderly gentleman who was septic, who had widespread metastases, and who had severe valvular stenosis, is not the best idea because there would be no significant improvement in his mortality nor his quality of life post-operatively. This poor man was dying, so let him die in peace and in dignity, not on the operating table where it would be messy, with hemorrhage and necrotic tissue and fecal material spilling all over his abdomen. I am only human, after all.
As of February 2013, I have resided in Australia the same number of years as I have resided in Kuala Lumpur. Part of me still clings to my Malaysian-ness (for instance, switching to Manglish when I'm talking to my intern from Selangor), but a larger part of me is ingrained into the Australian culture (for instance, unknowingly using words like "arvo" or "ambos" or "Macca's" when conversing with my parents through Facetime). Much as I love Malaysia, I sense that I've detached myself from its culture over the years. I felt uneasy and estranged when I went home this time last year. It's a strange and scary feeling, a sense of foreignness that I didn't think I would encounter in my homeland. It made me question why I went home in the first place, and this is the thing that terrified me most-- if I am a stranger to my own country, what am I, then, in another country?
4 comments:
Darling, fear not- your country will always be around (unless WWIII happens or meteor hits or some other unexpected event happens) for you to rediscover- whenever you're ready. As to what you are in another country, well, me thinks you've become a part of that country, and that country you. What or how you call it, doesn't really matter does it? :) Know this though- whether or not you feel detached from the country, you have family and friends here who still love you nonetheless, and love knows no boundaries. xoxo.
taleanski: if there was a "Like" button for comments, i would've liked it a thousand times :D
i'm so glad to have found your blog again. (bookmarking it this time round!)
you write beautifully. please keep blogging :)
oh hello kai!! thanks for making ur presence known! :)
Post a Comment