soopastryheart

My mother, bless her heart, isn’t so much a hypochondriac as she is drama queen. If she feels a little heartburn, she will furrow her brows and inform me that’s she’s overdue for a mammogram. If her joints hurt, she’ll ask me the symptoms of osteoporosis. If her eyes are feeling particularly dry, there must be an underlying, pernicious cause. A headache is never just a headache, but a foreshadowing of darker and scarier things. Everything is grave and super serious and really, it’s a miracle she’s alive.

It takes every bit of me to fight the temptation to roll my eyes at her each time she predicts a new ailment, but I do my best to restrict sarcasm and rationalize: she’s had too much spicy food and she rarely uses her reading glasses, causing her to squint while reading the paper. Also, she is 54 and has to be tricked into exercising.

On more than one occasion, she has accused me of being too skeptical or dismissive. And she may be right. But if having worked in hospitals throughout college has taught me anything (other than that security should almost always be present when dealing with crack addicts with large lacerations), it’s that people can be fanatically paranoid when it comes to their health. A paper cut is no laughing matter. A cough should definitely set off some alarms. And everything is a sign of cancer.

Collective hysteria was worst when it came to health-scare fads. I can’t even begin to tell you the crazies who came in during the initial H1N1 scare. It didn’t matter if there were only one or two cases in the entire state, or the fact that the regular flu took more annual victims… her kid got coughed on at recess, damn it, now make sure he doesn’t turn into bacon! Clinics were overwhelmed of families with parents who had yet to teach their kids to wash hands and not lick things. We went through rounds of these of-the-moment health scares; spinach recalls, salmonella outbreaks (and by outbreak, I mean one unfortunate soul from a frugally-catered office party), with almost never finding a true victim.

For the general public and healthcare professionals alike, the human body can be quite the mystery. The only difference between these two groups though, is that the latter have the facilities and means to find a way to answer some questions. My fellow pre-med classmates and I could converse fluently knowing that we shared a background of general knowledge. But then the business or humanities majors couldn’t tell the difference between the trachea and esophagus – and if college-educated folks were this limited to basic anatomy, what about the rest of the population? How much more terrifying (once in high school gym, this kid worried he had strained his ovaries during power squats) was it for them?

But when it comes to health, it’s easy to judge and ridicule when yours is on good terms. However, it’s even easier to jump the bandwagon when it’s not. Our minds are quick to walk in to a dark alley of what-if’s, unable to find our steps back into the lighted streets of rationality. We’ve all read stories about the man or woman who went in for back pains and never came back out. Or, stories about a man or woman who went in for a yearly physical to catch an otherwise deadly disease before it became lethal (i.e. syphilis). Stories like this come aplenty, feeding our preexisting neurosis, all but physically pushing us to jump to conclusions at the first sign of a symptom. What many of us fail to realize is that the stress we place on ourselves worrying about these potential dangers plays a major component to our health. You may have an ulcer, but it’s made worse by the fact you are thinking it’s worse than that.

For every valetudinarian, there’s always a skeptic, someone who plays down the actual malady because it doesn’t seem like a necessary reason for a hospital trip. Once, my roommate was violently ill for an entire day – literally crapping blood every other hour, and suffering unforgiving stomach pains. After 24 hours of agony, we drove to the hospital where she was diagnosed with a case of E.coli. To her defense, she wasn’t recreationally licking toilet seats – she worked in a lab that handled, among other bodily goods, poop. She had a legitimate, hospital-requiring need – and yet, she waited as long as she could before she sought medical attention.

Like many parents, mine have always had high aspirations of their kids becoming physicians (to cover all the bases, my parents wanted a surgeon and a dentist, which meant one of us had a free pass). Sure there’s the bragging-rights (I’m convinced my dad will be one of those people with a “my kid’s a cardiologist” bumpersticker), but more importantly, free health services (on speed dial, no less). Fortunately for my parents, I was always more than a little interested in medicine, so I didn’t resist their suggestion (except that brief period in my young life where I desperately wanted to pursue a pop-music career). But as much as they have praised doctors, I never understood their constant reluctances to avoid them. My dad once fell off the roof and landed on the hot tub, subsequently dislocating his shoulder. He waited a week until he finally got it looked at. I have scheduled, canceled, and rescheduled my mom’s appointments with the optometrist for over a year now. A few days before each appointment, her eyesight is miraculously better, and the services are no longer needed. A few days after that, she’s “practically blind.”

On rare occasions where my parents found themselves in absolute need of authoritative care, I have accompanied them to a wide range of awkward and often humiliating specialties: gynecologists, urologists, colonoscopies, and questions about sexual activity (Oh. My. God.). I would sit in the room, always facing the wall, my back to whatever body part was being examined, and dutifully translate languages as calmly as I could (easy to do now, not so much when I was eleven). Don’t get me wrong here – I’m perfectly fine with naked body parts – I’ve seen plenty of penises and vaginas (err, I mean in a clinical setting). Blood does not make me squeamish in the tiniest bit (my roommate and I used to watch surgeries on TLC during dinner). But it’s a whole different story when it’s your mother or father’s urethra you’re talking so candidly to the doctor about.

I always advocate preventive care as being better (and cheaper) than treatment, and though I have yet to receive my MD-club card, I’d say all physicians would agree. But active prevention takes diligence –healthy diets, consistent exercise, and regular checkups. Sounds easy enough, but for those without health insurance or the funds to do so, a single routine visit is the difference in paying the utility bills on time. When you compare all the other necessities, health maintenance will always take a backseat. We tap into our “I’m not even sick, so why should I bother?” mentality, or convince ourselves that it’ll go away on its own.

I think part of the reason (and the problem) some people can be hesitant to visit the good ol’ doctor while others are trigger-happy is because it just seems like too much work. What’s covered by insurance? What isn’t? Well, what if you don’t have any at all? There seems to be so many different channels you must barrel through before you get your answers, and even then it’s murky at best. And it’s never just the doctor who’s holding your life in her/his hands… it’s also the coordinators, the interns, even the operator. You call the main office to be greeted by a snooty and clueless receptionist who puts you on hold. You’re then transferred to no less than three different divisions, ultimately landing at a voice mail of so and so, who is currently away from his desk or assisting other customers. Often times, you are left at the mercy of those without the medical degree but with power and control regardless.

I’ve been frustrated and inspired by both sides medical bureaucracy. I’ve witnessed some pretty epic blowouts between desperate and weary patients at the hospital, arguing with the health care representative with stacks of paperwork in their hands. It didn’t take much eavesdropping to understand what the frustration was about (or to take a side). When I go to have a prescription filled and the bill ends up being higher than expected (even with the insurance), I know I’m almost never going to get a satisfactory answer from either the pharmacy nor insurance company. Sometimes, the diplomacy of healthcare is enough to scare whatever disease out of your body.

But like I said, I’ve also been really appreciative of those who understand the significance of their jobs as something more than just answering phones and looking up policy. I recently had to schedule a blood test for both my parents, something that should have been fairly uncomplicated (with a doctor’s request). But because of one complication after another, it took almost three hours to get everything straightened out. I spoke to the coordinator of the schedule, an efficacious woman who remained patient, resourceful, and personable during each of my seven calls. Experience taught me that when someone in management tells you that they will call you “as soon as they can”, it meant hours, if not days. But she returned my calls before I could begin to stress out, even calling to confirm she received the fax I had sent. She did not know me, and she did not know or question whether or not this blood test was urgent. Still, she handled it as efficiently and professionally as it could have possibly been, and for that, Mary in scheduling, I was truly grateful.

And that’s the scariest part about healthcare, isn’t it? You’re almost completely dependent on the word and work of those who are otherwise strangers, believing in their expertise and efficiency. You have to trust that the doctor you’re speaking to is more than competent, that the labs didn’t screw up the test results, that it really is a mild case of food poisoning and nothing more serious. A blood test isn’t just a blood test when an entire family with a history of high cholesterol is concerned – it’s not just results or answers, but a remedy to enormous emotional (and often times, physical) exhaustion. Squeezing in appointments, fast-tracking applications, or looking for discounts or exceptions aren’t just favors you’re doing for the person on the other end – they’re the things people depend on. They’re the differences between whether or not an annual breast or prostate exam occurs, and whether a rash gets treated or left to “hopefully go away on its own”.

The human body is an enigma, a temperamental and stubborn blob of questions, concerns, and fears. And with the seemingly endless ways we can intentionally or unintentionally screw it up, the last thing you want to worry about is whether or not you can fix it when it’s broken. It doesn’t matter if you’re an overprotective parent, a 54-year-old melodramatic Korean woman, or a resilient tough guy – fear (of either needles or the bill), hesitation, and inconvenience should never be reasons to avoid the doctor when you think you need the consult. However, acceptable reasons include irrationality – use your brain: you probably don’t have polio.

Probably.

Ki, Honie, and I got real lucky in that my dad has always been a music aficionado. And for a man who forgets if he’s checked the mail or not on a daily basis, he can recollect his favorite music with impressive detail: the year a song was a hit, the most popular bands, the most obscure one-hit-wonders. After reciting the lyrics of a song he hasn’t heard in twenty years, he can spit out the singer in a Eureka moment. He’s told us about his first introduction to American music, hearing Patti Page and The Platters on a tiny radio, falling in love with it immediately. As a young man, he spent every spare cent he could mangle up to buy records, compassing a collection that if he had kept today, could make any vintage-loving hipster jealous.

He not only listened to the music, but lived within the times; dressed like a Beatle (shaggy bowl-cut and all), grew a fro during the days of ABBA and donned a matching, all-denim bell-bottom suit with the BeeGees (yes, there’s photographic evidence). There was a long period in his life where his hair touched his shoulders and a mustache that could give Freddie Mercury’s a run for his money. There’s an old passport photo where he was channeling his inner Lionel Richie so devoutly, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if it accidentally caught on fire.

There’s an entire photo album chronicling the changes in popular music, evidenced by the ever-adaptive, correlating fashion choices. And even when we’re pulling our faces at his suede-collar jackets and busy face palming at his copies of Michael Bolton and Wham!, he looks over them fondly, without a morsel of regret or shame. I’ve asked him what his most embarrassing CD is and he only frowned, saying, “I don’t own any of those. I’ve never owned bad music.”

I’ve researched and revisited my roots; the days when CCR, Earth, Wind & Fire, and James Taylor were on constant rotation. With my dad as the DJ, Ki and I grew up appreciating the Everly Brothers, the Mamas and the Papas, Glen Campbell, the Eagles, even Rod Stewart. It’s because of my dad and his eclectic taste that Honie knows who Chubby Checker or Three Dog Night or Carly Simon is. Variety is the reason Honie knows the words to “Waterloo” and “Tennessee Waltz” just as well as “Party in the USA” and “Use Somebody.” Do you know how many 12-year-olds know who Ann Margaret is?

Stashed somewhere are a small collection of my own CD’s, some I hope never see the light of day (I kid you not, there’s a copy of Aqua somewhere in this house). I’ll tell you right now that I was thirteen when boyband fever took over the world, and I was not immune to their All-American looks, provocative choreography, and songs about never breaking my heart. Yes, I screamed and jumped like a rabid moron at the concerts, and spent a lot of time plotting out the details of the chance meeting where I’d become their muse (because boybands were sensitive, and looked past the training bra, braces, and glasses that took up half my face).

When they started to lose their appeal (nothing shatters the illusion more than when the boys have five o’clock shadows, lose their cornrows, and trade in their matching jumpsuits for sensible loafers), I entered the consciously-aware and painfully ironic stage of my life, listening to an assload of punk rock while looking like a page out of the J. Crew catalog. I had the welcome-to-the-OC-biatch emo phase (let’s just say, there was a lot of Dashboard Confessional happening in my life) for the better part of my late high school years. I dipped my toes in the Lilith Fair crowd, and had a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it stint with techno. I dabbled in country, experimented with indie rock, and was really, really into Notorious B.I.G. for a good long while (you haven’t seen gangster until you hear a 90-lb Asian girl spit out “Big Poppa” in her Abercrombies).

I don’t know where and when it happened, but somewhere along all the different wigs I tried on, I realized I didn’t have to stick with just one. I could combine Dixie Chicks, The Temptations, and Jay-Z into one playlist. Tchaikovsky and the soundtrack to Hairspray didn’t have to avoid each other. Listening to a lot of Damien Rice and Ray Lamontagne didn’t have to have a greater reason than being good study music. Mos Def could be just as poetic as Debussy, Lady Gaga was made for getting ready for a night out, and on a rainy afternoon at a coffee shop, they didn’t call it Norah Jones-ing for nothing. Sometimes, Rage Against the Machine blaring in your ears is just what you need for that last quarter-mile uphill. Jackson 5 is age-proof, and it’s almost never a bad time for Otis Redding.

So as painful as it is to admit that I have a Chumbawumba CD stashed somewhere, I’m glad it is, to remind me of who I was, and how far I’ve evolved. Those posters that I can’t bring myself to throw away are a reminder of a time when I didn’t feel any restrictions, when daydreams never seemed like a waste of time. There are things you outgrow, like Rainbow Brite, tweezer-happy eyebrows, and Cosmopolitan (to my credit, I never once took those Make-Yourself-Irresistible articles seriously), but you keep them with you, tucked away on the top shelf for whenever you feel like traveling down nostalgia lane. There was a time I rocked the lowest of low-riding jeans (I’m talking how-are-you-wearing-underwear low) to school dances, where I would do my best to get my groove-thang on to Ginuwine and Nelly. Songs by Jodeci and Savage Garden became anthems for those precocious enough to have boyfriends and girlfriends, while the rest of us patiently waited our turns for when we could – however briefly- understand the meaning of “Truly, Madly, Deeply”, the best way a 14-year-old knew how.

If my dad’s collection is any proof at all, music can transcend genres, cohabit peacefully and beautifully. Music should be celebrated with the memories it’s associated with, not oppressed by the fear of embarrassment. And if my dad is unashamed of his Styx collection, who am I to be hiding my copy of Big Willie Style? To my dad and to me, music is like a scar (but without the skin deformation); they are reminders of the moments and stages of our lives that may or may not have been monumental, but exceptional in their contributions to our character. They may cause momentary discomfort and embarrassment, but they let you reminisce about a time when you were just as bit careless as you were carefree, a time when looking back now, weren’t nearly as bad as you thought them to be.

That’s why I hold my tongue when Honie mentions Drake or Owl City or some homeless-looking chick who spells her name with a $. She will build her own musical repertoire, one that will cause her to cringe at a point in her life. She will collect and trade the tracks in her life as often as required by her burgeoning personality. She’ll be influenced by her friends, her rebellion, and her permanent role as a daddy’s girl. And like my dad’s classical collection, there will be a multitude of volumes, versions, and special editions.

When it comes to the soundtrack of our lives, we’re constantly adding and deleting. But we need to do it without a sense of irony, without contemplation, without apology, without pretentiousness, without anyone’s approval but our own. We’re entitled to that – to add a little disco, a little rock, a little power ballad whenever we see fit. Just get jiggy wit it.

Na-na-na-na-na-nana-na.

I finished a book the other day, and after that last page, I couldn’t help but notice how noticeably different the book looked than when it first reached my hands.

I like buying my books slightly used. I don’t like them highlighted or written on, but thanks to places like half.com, I can buy them “like new” or “very good”, and in just the condition I like them best. I like knowing that another set of eyes have read (or attempted to) the words I’m about to absorb, that another person chose this book out of countless others for one reason or another.

The thing is though, a book’s condition rapidly deteriorates once in my possession. In my first year at college, when I naively bought my books from the UW Bookstore brand spanking new (and at full price), I realized very quickly that my 220-dollar chemistry book was no less informative than a used 150 dollar one. I would write in the margins, highlight passage after passage with different-colored fluorescent markers, and spill various caffeinated beverages on its glossy pages. After a particularly frustrating and stressful night (coinciding with midterms, surprisingly enough), they would get hurled across the room, bruising the wall, and leaving the pages hanging on for dear life along the seams.

This book I just finished is no different. The pages are curled upward, and the front cover refuses to lay parallel to the rest of the body. The corners of pages are creased in various sizes of triangles, and if I shake the book, I know that a rain of popsicle sticks, ticket stubs, and a Costco card will come pouring out (I’m an opportunistic bookmarker, using whatever is within reaching distance). Some of these pages may be speckled with smeared chocolate flakes, or dimpled by occasional teardrops, all providing evidence that those pages were indeed read. They were laughed and coughed over with a mouthful of PJ&J, cried over in silence, fawned over with deep respect and admiration, frowned and occasionally gagged over. My books will provide proof that they have lived and suffered with me.

Anyway, before I throw this latest one onto the pile stacked against the wall, I decide to search for other works by the author. I open Amazon and there, taking center stage smack dab in the middle of the home page is an ad for Kindle, apparently the #1 Bestselling Product On Amazon. I’ve heard of this, but know very little, so I click the accommodating link. It’s a sharp-looking thing, isn’t it? It’s clean, looks relatively simple to use, and can hold up to 1,500 books. Holy crap, imagine all the money I could have saved on shipping.

I’m reading over the details, and find myself being more and more lured into this thing. It’s masterfully flirting with me, and like a girl buzzed off wine at the bar, I’m responding, finding it more attractive with the slightest wink and nudge.

And just when I think that I’m about to sneak the Kindle my number on a paper napkin, a voice (Morgan Freeman’s?) reminds me of all the good times with my paper backs and hard covers, and I suddenly feel cheap and guilty. Sure, the Kindle is sexy in the modern, new world way, and I’m all for anything that promotes reading, but can it offer me all the other non-literary services an actual book can offer? Can I throw it at a boyfriend’s head during a heated argument? If I curl up with a Kindle in bed, how high are the chances that I roll over it with my big, fat head and crack its pretty little face? If I tip my water bottle on the pages of a book, I can lay it flat for a day or two until it dries curled and rumpled, but will a Kindle be as forgiving? And what about that universal, connected feeling I get from having a slightly used book delivered to me?

I have no doubt that a gadget like the Kindle is the future; a future where libraries are obsolete and Barnes and Noble will merely become Starbucks cafeterias. And I am not entirely eliminating the possibility of having one of my own some day (I just envisioned my entire Don Delillo collection shaking and wetting their pants). But for now, I will risk paper cuts and questionable stains if it means I can hear the whistling of pages turning. Sometimes when I’m writing, I purposefully stack a pile of my favorites around me like a fort, because I am convinced that they are sending me inspirational vibes. How will Kindle offer me that?

My dad doesn’t know how to turn on a computer. We’ve programmed his cell phone with an address book and speed dial, but he doesn’t use them. He gets impatient when customer service via email doesn’t respond fast enough (anything longer than the time it takes for water to boil). He has no idea what texting is and still buys CDs. He prefers face-to-face meetings to conferences over the phone, and voice message machines to inboxes. And while the world “archaic” comes to mind when describing my dad, there’s something undeniably simple in his old-school approach.

Nowadays, you have maintain and advance with technology if you want to keep your head above the water. Anything less than cable internet will become intolerable. If it’s not an iPhone or a BlackBerry, it’s not a cell phone. If you don’t have a Facebook, you don’t exist. And if you don’t know what eBay or Craigslist is, well, you can go ahead and kill yourself now.

I remember a few years ago when a friend of a friend told me that a friend of a friend got dumped by her boyfriend of three years through an email. We discussed how disgusting, tactless, and just plain unbelievable it was. Just a few years ago, answering your phone at the dinner table would have been equivalent to burping, farting, and picking your teeth (at the same time). Now, it’s normal to be hired and fired through the send button. And why go through the perils of dating when your soul mate is just three clicks away? Why get to know your coworkers over a few awkward drinks when an online photo album let’s you do it…pants-free, no less?

How could we possibly have anything to talk about when through your Twitter, I already know how often your dog goes to the bathroom and that you’re allergic to pine nuts and idiots? If I can find everything from song lyrics to man-and-porcupine porn on the internet, why can’t I locate a single store in the mall that actually has change in its register? And in a time where I can order groceries, customize a wife, and diagnose myself of a rare kidney disorder online, why can’t USPS locate my fucking boxes? (Sorry, I really just can’t let that one go).

Annoying friends used to mean they were mooching off your lunch or arguing over what movie to see. Now it’s updating statuses too frequently and not replying to email/ texts within an hour or two. Thanks to my friend list, I can’t hide the fact that I’m friends with your worst enemy, or delete and ignore an ex without looking immature and bitter. It’s easy to stalk your friend’s hot friends without feeling guilty or creepy, because hey, he’s the one who posted all those photos from his Vegas trip. You’re angry because I didn’t call you about the party? Well maybe you should have checked your wall or inbox. Still mad? Well fine, go ahead and post that picture of me eating that hot dog, I’m just going to subscribe you to every erectile dysfunction newsletter out there.

Now, suddenly I’m not only aware, but also overtly cautious about which albums I do make public, and how much I curse in my Tweets. I can’t just say, “ah, hell with it” anymore without sounding ignorant and careless to future interviewers.

But there have been so much about our technology-based world that I’ve really benefited from (besides Ashton Kutcher’s whereabouts). I’m thankful I can craft and manipulate emails to make myself sound somewhat intelligible, where impromptu voice mails can make me sound like a donkey suddenly feeling the effects of a tranquilizer dart. I can ignore petulant phone calls and blame the service provider, and the de-tag button has become one of my closest allies. And if I can avoid the entire customer service center at Wal-Mart for as long as I live, I will wear a “I Love the Internetz” bumper sticker on my ass.

I love that I can order my JBrands at 30% off online, but I don’t mind going to Nordstroms or Barneys where the sales assistant can bring me the next size over in a matter of minutes. Sometimes I like asking for a recommendation from the Blockbuster employee with the hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a shampoo bottle in weeks. Some of the best conversations of post-modernism I’ve ever had weren’t in that god-forsaken English class, but with total strangers in the used book store on the Ave. The most memorable moments can’t be bottled in random, one-sentenced insider jokes along my Facebook wall, but probably captured in the album titled “Dude, Where’s My Respirator?” If I tried really, really, really hard, I’m sure I could compose something along the lines of a sentimental email, or send you plenty of “You’ll Get ‘Em Next Time” flowers or “There’s Better (and Bigger!) Fish in the Sea” boxes of Godivas, but sometimes, nothing can top a tight-squeezed hug and a fifth of tequila.

What I’m trying to say is that, there are plenty of things out there that are meant to improve our lives, but not everything needs to be. Sure, a Kindle is efficient when I need to carry seventeen books with me on vacation, but I still like getting a “very good-used” book in the mail and finding the previous owner’s receipt for anal beads squished in the pages. I want to be able to control what I say in an email to a future employer, but I want my real-life conversations with my real-life friends to be uncensored (for the most part). I want to be able to see facial expressions, not emoticons. I want to be able to interpret the tone of your voice, and throw a book accordingly.

A text message can’t give me that.

8. Fake modesty doesn’t make you humble, or considerate. It makes you an asshole.

7. 14-hours a day in a car for a week while you travel cross country can make you have psychopathic thoughts, delusional conversations, and some serious soul-crippling realizations. You also learn that belting out the soundtrack to Hairspray (off-key no less) loses its novelty within the first song, and that if you really listen to the rap songs of your youth, you’d be appalled by the actual lyrics. You discover that middle America offers a whole lot of nothing, and that there are just as many billboards for porn warehouses as there are cow fields. You can also come dangerously close to killing your passengers, no matter how much you love them, especially around the 13^thhour.

6. Sam Worthington. You had me at hybrid cyborg.

5. Just cause it’s there doesn’t mean you have to eat it. I’m looking at you, can of frosting.

4. And you, leftover Halloween candy.

3. It’s easy to worry about being a good friend, especially in a moment of heartbreak and need. You choose your words carefully, and question everything that does manage to leave your mouth. You can wish you were more eloquent, or more effective in alleviating the pain. But when there’s little that can be done or said, the best you can do is make sure you’re there when they need you.

2. Why is James Franco on General Hospital?

1. A small probability is better than zero probability. Life is short.