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ackim04
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Interests: music, writing, dancing, running, ultimate frisbee, learning bits and pieces of languages, finding balance
Expertise: sleeping, laughing and humming involuntarily. . . hopefully cutting and suturing, soon
Occupation: sheep shearer extraordinaire
Industry: surgery
Message: message me
Member Since:
5/17/2004
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| making memories Just finished a scrapbook-making saga  
  for a good friend  I made here this year who's leaving soon for California. Weird, because up till last July, I was for all intents and purposes, a California girl (and not just in the assumptions of my college and med school classmates  ). It struck me, as we had a goodbye party for her tonight and shared stories of silly things she'd said and done and ways in which she'd blessed us, that certain people are so active
 
  in making memories. I wouldn't have suggested making such a thing for everyone--even among my closest friends. Some people don't inspire such warmth, humor and affection, not because they're less loveable, but because they show it less. Reminded me, of the pang of homesickness I felt for SF when my baby sis told me she'd been there for a wedding last weekend. I've never lived there, mind you, but my three week stint in Northern Cal made me feel like I owned the city, even though I was in San Francisco, itself, for less than two weeks of it. But the incredible hospitality of my street-wise, city-loving friend, Helena in opening up her place 
and sharing her only key with me allowed me to see the city as a native. I jogged down Haight, explored Golden Gate Park by foot, got gypped by paying for a carwash to save a bit of money on gas, accidently ran a toll because I didn't realize I was in a FASTRAK-only lane, parallel-parked between two cars on a steep hill by literally nudging my bumper under that of a much larger truck, and didn't stall once. I ate in some amazing places, drank some great wine, enjoyed the company of new and old friends and revisited many of the beautiful,    
 
picturesque sights that make SF what it is. Made tons of memories that will not leave me soon. And am glad to be a memory-maker. Not that I care so much about how I'm perceived. It just gives me so much joy to connect with others, experience and delight in beauty and share it all with you  . | | |
| Project-ing—a fine balance(An old entry that I've been meaning to edit more, but realize I cannot make perfect nor wise through editing. And therefore I share its imperfections for the sake of stirring conversation. . . ) Snow was falling fluffy, but fast, lit orange by the streetlights outside the hospital room window. It was late and though I was tired, I was glad for the dim lighting of the room. L’s somber face barely hid her broken heart and spirit, her helplessness and hopelessness permeating the room. We had brought her baby guitar and my sister strummed as I sang sad songs from a Peter, Paul and Mary record we’d listened to as children. As we stood to go, the palpable sadness became even heavier and I found myself struggling to ask: “Can I pray for you?” Five simple words that I was afraid to utter for fear of what they might convey—either that I was being opportunistic in her sadness, trying to inject a sunny, happy God into her life or that I was offering her a false and shamanistic solution to depression. L, in her gentle way, closed her small mouth with a teary half-smile and nodded yes. My worries kept me from saying all—that I hoped she might know God more. That I knew God had a plan for her, far greater than what she could see around her at this point, for healing beyond what mere medicine might offer. And yet, that I knew God’s timing was different from our own. My hand was probably trembling when I laid it on her shoulder. Somehow, though, she knew I wasn’t faking or being pushy. I know, because my sister told me how thankful L was that I wanted to pray for her. “She likes that you have real faith and it’s not gimmicky.” L knew. And her observation hit the nail on the head as to why I was afraid to even ask to pray for her. Donald Miller puts it this way: “Nobody will listen to you unless they sense that you like them. . . . When I am talking to somebody there are always two conversations going on. The first is on the surface; it is about politics or music or whatever it is our mouths are saying. The other is beneath the surface, on the level of the heart, and my heart is either communicating that I like the person I am talking to or I don’t. God wants both conversations to be true.” Blue Like Jazz L has had a hard life, far more difficult than I can readily understand. I don’t know what it is to be physically mistreated by my family or to have any sort of doubt about the love my parents have for me. I don’t know what it is to rely on alcohol for solace or on the opinions and love of others for my self-worth. I don’t know what it is like to live with bodily pain that prevents me from doing the most ordinary things to take care of myself. But I can understand longing when I see it. I understand what it is to want to be known and loved and to do the same for others. I know what it feels like to feel alone, as though I have no one with whom I can share my thoughts or perspective. And I know what it feels like to feel hopeless, even if for only a moment. Funnily enough, those are the exact emotions I was going through at the time I accepted Christ into my heart. And it’s funny how worried I become when it comes to sharing about that part of my life sometimes. I worry that I’m making that person a project, even though I have the best of intentions. It is a dangerous trap to fall into. . . and at the same time, it is dangerous to be too worried about project-ing, because the intentions of helping draw someone closer to Christ are secondary. Hopefully, the secondary conversation, the one that says we like that person, for real, comes through. And we should not be paralyzed by fear in situations where we can act in ways that demonstrate love. It’s a tricky thing, balancing love and project-ing, wisdom and action. But there is a fine line, and the only way to truly delineate it is to keep trying. Take the risk, because it is well worth it. But please check your heart before you open your mouth. . . Since, then, we know what it is to fear the Lord, we try to persuade men. . . . So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. . . . All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling he world to himself in Christ, not counting men’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God. God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. 2 Cor 5:11, 16, 18-20. | | |
| not one or the other. . . being a Christian physicianI'm making this entry, a vision statement of sorts that was posted elsewhere, do double duty: I entered medical school with a strong sense of calling. Despite what I now recognize as good credentials, I had a tough time with applications and ended up applying twice, only to get in at the last possible moment after one of the latest-possible interviews. It was because of these pitfalls and my undeniable enjoyment of my medical school coursework that I felt my calling confirmed. Early on, I sought out fellowship at school and one resultant blessing was my attendance at a city-wide Christian Medical Dental Association (CMDA) meeting involving the trustees of the organization. It was here that I heard Al Weir, a Christian hematologist-oncologist, verbalize a sense that I was already beginning to have—that one of my goals ought to be to live as a Christian doctor, not just a Christian who happened to be a doctor or vice versa. I took this message to heart, studying with all my power to be able to serve my future patients well and socializing with my classmates with every opportunity. I became involved in the Christian fellowship and also in student government. I had realized, in my year off, however, how sheltered and “God-girl”-like I had become in college. I tried to shed a simplistic goody-two shoes image as I tried to learn some of the culture necessary to be in the world, but be not of it. As part of the leadership for our medical school fellowship, I helped to invite Harold Adolph, a career missionary surgeon, to speak at our school. Getting to know him changed my outlook on my future completely. He showed horrifying and amazing photos of unusual pathology not seen in the US because of the availability of healthcare. 
He blew my mind with the statistic that one out of ten Africans would see a doctor in their lifetime. And he reinforced a principle introduced to me on an urban mission experience in college: many of the good things we want to do but think we ought put off due to a lack of resources or perfect timing are built up by habit. We must make it a practice, early on, to serve in missions or make the necessary sacrifices. Otherwise, we may go through life thinking, “Oh yeah—I’ll go on missions once I have the money to go for a long time.” That time, if sought only by waiting for it, will never come. Instead, the criteria we think are set for going will be subsumed by the changes in our circumstances and the ongoing rat race in which we find ourselves locked. As part of an effort to stay missions-minded and inspired by Dr. Adolph, I went to Ghana on short-term missions as a fourth year student. I loved the people, especially the children,    and found myself challenged by unexpected obstacles as I saw firsthand that it is impossible to be fair with a drop in the bucket when surrounded by an ocean of need. 
And yet, the point of going was not lost. My most memorable patient there was Emilia. Everyone noticed her, standing silently, un-interactively, stubbornly, in the middle of the room, surrounded by people, yet so clearly alone. She resisted her mother’s every effort to engage her, refusing to enter into any dialogue she was invited into. I remember trying to look into her face, and how she persistently looked down or away. For most who came to see us, we had something to give—Tylenol, antibiotics, antacids, bandages, toothbrushes, or even “bum goo” (our fond nickname for Preparation H). But for Emilia, there was absolutely nothing we could offer. I could sense that her mom was frustrated by her refusal to even allow me to examine her, and I wished I could speak in Ewe to express to her the sympathy I felt. “Tell her that her child has a condition that is difficult to treat, even in the States.” My translator Ben nodded and waited for me to finish. “There are no medicines to help this. The best thing for the child is to show her love—and this will be hard. It will require a kind of love that we, as humans, are not able to give. It is the love that God showed us through the death of His son on the cross, a love that knows all of our darkness and disobedience, yet redeems them and forgives us.” Of course, in retrospect, my thoughts are far clearer and more eloquent than they were at the time. I am not sure how much I actually conveyed to her. I felt so inadequate to fight off even the least of the obstacles facing mother and child, for I knew that even the deepest and most passionate of maternal love may be lessened and embittered by a child’s failure to acknowledge it. And this mother, according to her registration form, was an idol worshipper. Feeling somewhat afraid to ask, as though I were being opportunistic, and yet compelled to do so by a fear of how the child might turn out without knowing such love, and a fear of how hellish this woman’s life would be without a strength greater than her own, I pressed on. 
“Ben, can you ask her if she knows about God and His love for us?” Still feeling shy, I wasn’t sure how to speak my own desire for her to know this God and accept the love He had shown us through the death of His son. So I don’t remember how much I said and how much I left up to Ben. I think that in the end, I merely asked him to ask if we could pray for her, and then for the child. I do remember trying to be careful about asking to pray for the child, because I knew that some of our Ghanaian volunteers probably thought the child was possessed by Satan. It filled me with unspeakable joy when Ben told me that the mom wanted to accept Christ right then, so he led her through a prayer confessing her need for and acceptance of Christ as her savior, and then I prayed for her. We again tried to call Emilia over, but she again refused, toying with the straps of her faded yellow dress. So Ben and I went to her, standing next to her with our hands held over her as though she were emanating a force field—she would not allow us to touch her. With a closing amen, Ben and I returned to our seats, and while he gave the mom some final instructions, I looked at Emilia. Surprisingly, she briefly met my gaze. We bade her mother farewell and God’s blessings, and then the most amazing thing happened. When her mother stood up and called her name, Emilia came at once, taking her mother’s arm. And so they left, just as they had come—mother leading child—but with the distance between them miraculously bridged. God works wonders in the field of medicine, in various ways and in various situations. As a surgeon with a passion for what she does, I feel truly blessed to be able to see Him at work on almost a daily basis and be privy to some of the most heart- and life-wrenching conversations that center around the most invasive interventions imaginable. It has also been my privilege to befriend many co-residents and discuss our various visions, hopes and disappointments in our chosen fields. It is my desire and my vision to help my colleagues and those I someday mentor to see these blessings in a field sometimes seen as devoid of true compassion, humility and deep thought. It is my hope that part of this mission of mine will extend overseas and that I might be able to bring these same colleagues with me to see the nations and their need, to cultivate life-long desires and habits. I want to be a transformer, even as I continue to be transformed, to find balance and be even more rooted in my identity in Christ as I live fully in the world, but am not of it. 
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| Curiosity may yet be the end of me :PEver wish your oh-so-profound thoughts could simply walk out of your head and onto paper by themselves? It's such a struggle to even find the time to sit down and pen them all. . . and in the mean time, they get lost in the synapses somewhere. And do you ever talk out loud to God in your car? I find myself doing that a lot these days. Can I just say that I do know that the pot shouldn't be asking the potter why she was made this way. . . but I can't help asking that sometimes. That and why we do we like what we like or do what we do, and why we are the way we are. . . yeesh. Angst. Would've thought I'd grown past that by now. But clearly, have not. Cannot say much more without incriminating myself. Cryptic am I. And wonder how look I good . RS, if you ever look at Xanga, please don't kill me for that  . I'm not being mean--I'm not. I just have to commemorate your problems with words with two "o"'s . Not that it really matters--after all, you once thought P.Diddy was a vampire slayer  . Despite a brief lapse into remembering some stunningly silly conversations, I cannot clear my mind completely. Too bad I think too much. And p.s., dear readers, do nice girls finish last? Or is just the nice guys? P.P.S. My apologies. Angst is not fun to read. It's just been awhile and I have not the time at present to share my more shareable thoughts. And thus I excuse my excursion into self-centered monologue. . . | | |
| can't do it allfor a can-do person, the most devastating confession of all. and so liberating. now i just have to figure out how to tell all five of my bosses to back off while i get my act together and try to do something productive instead of spinning my wheels in futility while the projects multiply. . . and this was supposed to be a time of rest. . .  | | |
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