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       Hullo. I'm Dani.

           I mostly write poetry and devour milk tea.
           The rest of the time, I'm slaving through medical school. 
           Also, I have a bunny. 

           Nothing shmancy.
More about me here

Annual Anniversary of Being

28/1/2016

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Every year on the date mother went into labor to bring me into this world, I pretend to be wiser than I am and write myself a letter for the year to come. 

If that seems weird, you should meet me in person. I'm just peachy. =]
Picture

​As much as I'd love to gift myself this, it's a transatlantic plane ride away. Oh well, this letter will suffice...

Dear Dani,

     Congratulations: you are now (or soon will be) legally authorised to procure your own alcohol from establishments all around the world despite the fact that you have no idea how to drink alcohol nor do you have the desire to learn this far down the line. 
     You will no longer be a dependent in any sane country. Courts will no longer process your emancipation request because you are emancipated. You are an independent human being capable of caring for herself… Theoretically… 
     It’s terrifying—growing up, growing old, growing… As is every significant occurrence in your ephemeral existence. Everything important makes you afraid because you only get one shot at this lifetime. It is human to feel fear when each step you take closes doors behind you and opens doors before you. It is our primal instinct to be afraid as we step into the unknown, and each day feels more and more like foreign territory when both societal expectation and your own expectation weighs on your shoulders.
     This year, Dani, be brave. Expectation can go mind its own business. This year, Dani, grow. Upward. Sideward. (Do not, however, develop diabetes or obesity. This is not the kind of growing we aspire towards.)
     This year, Dani, grow the way you were meant to. Trees need not be told to spread their roots toward the river, or stretch their branches toward the sun. Gravitate towards your Axis. Pray to your God. Go at your own pace.
     You’ve already started: despite the fact that everyone else expects you to be independent—though your friends and colleagues are probably paying their dues by now, you are in medical school fighting through hell to give more to strangers who will one day be dear patients and friends.  
     Congratulations: you have survived thus far. The road is yours for the taking, but don’t you dare choose the easy way out. You once wrote your dreams down on a piece of paper and swore you’d get them done within your lifetime—and so I shall reiterate what you once wrote: 
          What if we became everything we said we’d be? Wouldn’t that be grand?
     Go further: seek God, pray, go places, meet people, write stories, read books, study hard, learn all you can, and never you mind what anyone else has to say about you. 
     You have much to be thankful for—good health, family, friends, a functioning brain. These are all blessings that may be taken from you at any moment. Remember Jake Bailey:
          None of us get out of life alive, so be gallant, be great, be gracious and be grateful
          for the opportunities that you have. 


Yours truly,
Dani

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(Playing) Dr House

22/1/2016

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Note: Satirical. While spacing out in class sometime this week, I wondered what my thought process would look like when coming up with a differential diagnosis. Did my neuronal personas have whiteboards? Names? Completely unproductive side conversations? Probably. 
Picture
“Our patient,” a greying Dr H said, doning his century old white coat as the clerk whispered didn’t they phase out those old things? as softly as she could muster. “Has hypertension, excessive acne, and asthma. What is wrong with him?”

Bespectacled Jace raised his sorry excuse of a hand even if he didn’t need to. “He’s lonely and can’t get a date. Probably depressed.”

“… Wrong… On all accounts. His wife has been here since dawn. You, Anson,”  Dr H nodded at his most promising clerk yet. 

“Autoimmune? Lupus?” if he means it as a joke, Dr H wasn't buying it. He wrinkled his brow and sighed. 

Dr H’s wrinkles pressed further into his skin. How disappointing. “Anyone else?”

Jawn again—“Thyroid problem? Increased T3 and T4 could cause hypertension and cystic acne.”

“Thyroid hormone levels are normal,” Dr H nodded. “But good try. You deserve a pat on the back from yourself.” 

Anson shoved his glasses up his nose bridge. “How old is he? Could be environmental. Toxic air, toxic food, toxic twenty-first century lifestyle.”

“This isn’t helping your lupus case, you idiot. It’s never lupus.”

“Corticosteroids,” Kale said. Dr H never took her name seriously, and usually took her answers less seriously than her name.

Today, however, Kale’s answer was “acceptable.” He asks her to go on.

“Primary asthma,” Kale began, staring down at her smart phone, “leading to chronic intake of corticosteroids. Hypertension could be drug-induced due to sodium and fluid retention. Increased sebum production from overactive glands (also induced by steroids) can cause the acne.”

“You googled that!” Anson complained. 
​
Kale shrugged. “You didn’t.”
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obviously doing a terrible job at feigning normal medical student behaviour

20/1/2016

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The gist of it: I've been trying to keep focused on the work at hand, but since I am here blogging versus actually popping open my textbooks, I am failing miserably at being a medical student. 

So, without further pitiful ado, here's a short poem that reflects my perpetually distracted state.
I need to stop
Wasting time

Checking my phone 
For long forgotten fingerprints
When I’d wiped it clean
​Several times over. 
I sincerely hope wherever you wander, you are doing a much better job at living than I am. 

​Adieu.
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