The Last Straw

I read with interest the story about JetBlue Flight attendant Steven Slater recently. Slater flipped out over a fight with an agitated traveller whom hit him on the head while he was trying to calm her down (I'm sure not his first encounter with crazed air travellers) on Aug 9, cursing over the intercom before grabbing some beer from the plane's galley and making a grand exit down the emergency slide at Kennedy Airport.

I'm sure many of us have thought of doing the same (well not the exact way Slater did) and just walking out but we hold back for many reasons.
When the cubicle starts to feel more like a prison than a calling?
When the bossiest boss has a smile that was just too smug? When the piddling wage seemed not to be worth the aggravation?

Defying the rules, telling people off and walking off a job is not usually a launching pad for public admiration and acclaim.
I believe only a handful of people have fulfilled Slater's fantasy in such grand fashion: leaving his job via the plane's emergency chute, with a beer in hand.

Slater's last words on the loudspeaker: "Those of you who have shown dignity and respect these last 20 years, thanks for a great ride".

I'm sure Slater's sudden exit has rekindled memories of workers' liberation as well as sparked wishful excitement amongst workers who have long fantasised of choosing pride over pay.

What's going on with Slater now: the poor guy is now facing felony charges as prosecutors said Slater's actions could have been deadly if ground crew workers had been hit by the emergency slide, which deploys with a force of 1,360kg per sq/in.
I say it was worth the consequences.

Celebrate Life?

There's been a whole load of things on my mind recently.
Today, a stranger taught me a valuable lesson through her words.
In today's newspaper, I came across a story about Regina Brett, a famed journalist and a cancer survivor. Her words were on her views on life and how she survived cancer.

What struck me most of the one-page article was the following:

A lot of us hit bumps on the road of life.
We make mistakes we wish we can take back.
We wish to go back to the very moment to change things (I know I for one wishes that)
We worry that our lives aren't perfect, that we're somehow not doing what we should be.
We look at other people and feel we've failed in some way.

Brett in her article, reminds me that the truth is that it's OK to have a messy life and get things wrong.
It's OK to go after something and fail to achieve it.
And we shouldn't be afraid of not being perfect or fear the failure we encounter.

Instead, we should embrace the life we have and live every moment to the full as though it's your moment on stage, in the spotlight.
But this is easier said then actually getting it done.
Sometimes it takes people a lifetime to find and hold on to happiness.

What's your Talent?

The past month or so, I've been reading this amazing book which ironically I did not buy for myself. I actually got this book as a gift for someone dear whom I thought needed some good motivation. I did not get the opportunity to give her this gift before she left for her studies so I kept the book and decided I would read it to see whether it was any good (especially as a gift for a dear friend).
Fate would have it...the book seemed like it was meant for me more than anything. It gave me the kind of 'reminders' I have since forgotten in my life. I needed to be reminded how to look at life again in different perspectives in order for things to work in my favour.

This book is now my Lesson(s) of the Day.

Today is about Talent. What is your talent? And how much have you done to capitalized on it?
I always wish I had talent in music and especially art which I love so much. But of course I don't.
This book reminds me that 'Talent' doesn't have to mean you paint a masterpiece.

Caring genuinely for people is a talent some people have & other wish they could have. Teaching is a talent. Making people around you feel welcome is a talent. Being able to solve a problem is a talent. Being a good parent is a talent.

We should never measure our abilities against others. Do what you can do. Accept what talents you have. Fulfillment should come from developing your gifts, not wishing for someone else's.

So what's your talent?

Watch your thoughts

I've been very disturbed recently with some 'thoughts' i should not be focusing on...I'm trying hard to get these thoughts outta my mind but it's not working out too well. Last night before sleeping, I was reading, which is my night routine. I came across a passage which was ironically meant for me.

"If there's something in your life you don't want, stop worrying about it and stop talking about it!
The energy you put into it keeps it alive.
Withdraw your energy and it goes away".

I need to put my energy into something else soon. Until I truly let go of something emotionally, only then it will evaporate completely.

A Little Miracle

I have so much readings to complete in relations to work, however I'm more interesting in reading other unrelated yet more interesting articles. I wonder why? Need a boost.
Reader's Digest has some of the most inspirational stories I've read.


A Little Miracle

It was March 3, 2001, and as a fourth-year medical student I had just started my obstetrics rotation in a rundown, sparsely equipped government hospital in Manila. My co-clerks and I referred to the hospital as a "baby factory." During a 24-hour period, it was not unusual for the staff to attend to the birth of 180 babies.

This particular day, which was also my 25th birthday, marked my first ever shift working in a delivery room. I felt ill-prepared for the coming onslaught of women giving birth. I felt inexperienced, and half the time I was praying that I wouldn't drop the slippery infant as he came out to the world.

I soon got the hang of things. During deliveries, I would encourage the mothers by saying "Push, Mummy, so we can see if your baby is a girl or a boy!" In this hospital, women often saw a doctor for the first time on the day they were about to give birth. Finding out the sex of the infant was usually enough motivation for them to push with all their might.

Around 10 p.m. - 15 hours into my shift - a patient was brought to my delivery table. She was in her late 20s, fair-skinned and with long straight hair. It was her second pregnancy, and she was weeping softly. The woman had come to the emergency room because she had not felt her baby kicking for several days. She had a brown foul-smelling discharge that reeked of death, and doctors could not detect a heartbeat using a Doppler ultrasound. The baby, she was told, was dead.

It was my job to deliver the stillborn infant. I wondered why this poor woman wasn't given a Caesarean to ease her suffering, but I assumed that, since this was a busy hospital, no operating theatres were available. Besides, the obstetric resident told me that it would an "easy delivery" because the baby was dead and the mother had given birth before. She said I should have the baby out in less than 30 minutes.

For the first time that night, I was silent. How could I convince this woman to push, just so she could deliver her dead child into the world?

After almost an hour, the resident returned and asked me why it was taking so long. I whispered that I could feel the infant's head, but the mother just wasn't pushing enough. I asked if I could speed up the delivery by doing an episiotomy, a small incision to enlarge the birth canal. She nodded her approval.

I quickly made the incision and felt the baby pop into my hands. He was a lovely little boy, weighing about three kilos. As was normal practice, I placed the infant on a sterile sheet I had draped over the mother's abdomen. She looked at her dead son, then turned her head away. I was quiet the whole time. There are simply no words to say to a woman who has just given birth to a dead infant.

As I started to suture the incision I had made, I heard a small cough. I looked up at the baby, who was still on the mother's belly. Then I heard the loveliest and loudest sound in my life. He was screaming his lungs out! All I could say was, "Mummy, your baby is alive!" over and over again. Her soft cries turned into convulsive happy tears. "Doctor, thank you for bringing my child to life," she said repeatedly.

It was the most memorable birthday I ever had. Nothing compares to that magical moment when I experienced the wonderful miracle of birth and learned first-hand that doctors are not gods. By all accounts, the infant should have been dead. It was then I realised that if I were to make a mistake as a doctor, this was the kind I would not mind making - to be proven wrong by a patient who turns out to be alive when I thought he was dead.

I never found out what happened to that woman and her baby after they were discharged. But I will never forget them. They made me believe that miracles do happen.