Just in case inquiring minds want to know

The Mighty Ducks: Where Are They Now?

Because you know I did.

Knucklepuck!

"Death and All His Friends"

When I was younger, I had an overwhelming sense of fear over the prospect of death.

Possibly a bit too morbid, I am aware, for a 9 or 10 year old mentality, but I can grasp at a handful of distinct memories where I would wake up from terror nightmares of imagining what death would be like. At that age, I had no way of having any real depth perception as to what death entailed other than the image of what I saw in movies or TV (probably some episode of McGyver to blame for my fugitive imagination, no doubt).

I can vaguely recall the recurrence of these sleepless nights always beginning with me lying in bed, trying to be utterly still with my mind wandering off slowly. Once I could hear only the bugs outside my bedroom window chirping and buzzing softly, I found myself wondering if this is what death would be like. Don't ask me why, because for the life of me, I have no idea why I would have ever imagined something like this - but I do remember feeling a lot of fear. A lot of angst. I guess I had learned early on through my surgeries and physical therapy as a kid that the preparation for the experience seemed to make the experience itself less upsetting, less frightening. I wanted to know what death was like so I'd be ready.

So I'd lie in self-absorbed solitude for what seemed like forever (which means 3 minutes - tops) until I would suddenly realize that I hadn't been breathing that whole time and would scare the bejeebus out of myself once I gasped for air.

Long story short, none of my meager exploits into the minute life cycle of pre-mortem ever led to any acquiescence about death (with no surprise).

I recently realized that now, even as I delve deeper into my studies to what will eventually (and hopefully) become a career in medicine, I still have no idea what I think death is really like and whether to fear it or accept it for myself. But what I do know is that I fear death for everyone else on this planet. I fear the death of my parents (from either family), I fear the death of my sisters, my brothers, my neighbors, that guy that price checked my Mac & Cheese at the grocery store, the woman who held open the door for me today at REI...

because as I enter these trepid waters of medicine, I take on that responsibility. I am excited, anxious and cautious with a little bit of scared-shitless thrown in there. I know I can do it - deep within the recesses of my brain are all the necessary neurons to succeed. But I would be lying to all of you if I didn't admit that every now and again a little doubt is thrown my way. Maybe it's a bad grade here, a four-hour study session that ends with me killing more brain cells than enhancing...so I know those are the times I need to step back, take a deep breath, and realize that I can do whatever I put my mind to as long as my heart and perseverance is in on the same goal.

I promise to myself to keep writing in this thing - no matter how ominous it might seem. I believe that writing will always be my trusted compass. For whenever I fall off the broken path, once I sit down to write, I allow myself to bare my soul without ever really realizing it.

You may never understand why

It's 6 AM and New Year's Eve and if you asked me to tell you how I was feeling right now - I know I wouldn't be able to. I never thought that I would ever be surrounded with so much love in my life and still feel so uncertain about everything to the point where it was harder to sleep at night.

I keep wondering if it's worth me getting upset over this. Wasn't it a loss in the first place? What if you woke up and the thing you thought you had always lost... might not be lost after all? Does that mean that even if you go through all the effort of searching for it - that if it goes lost again...everything is back where it was? And I remain the same?

Somehow, no matter how many times I might try to tell myself that you can't feel loss over something already lost...that I inevitably will. Because initially, isn't it always 'hope' that we feel anyway? 'Hope' that we could find that missing piece to our puzzle...and then when the hope disappears, it isn't necessarily the actual piece that we're missing. I think I'd start to miss the feeling of hope that it was ever there in the first place.

I am a step away from possibly knowing everything...or maybe even having more questions than I know what to do with. How do you differentiate between the questions of a 6-year old and the logical questions of a 23-year old? You can't, I guess. There is probably little difference of importance in my mind between: "Whose nose do I have?" and "Were you economically in hardship when you made that decision 23 years ago?"

Who knows what is going to happen on Friday. I am not even sure if I have an idealistic pan out of how I would want it to go because it hasn't crossed my mind.

But one thing is for sure...please don't ask me how...I have missed you.

My Coming to America

When I was around 10 or 11 years old, I used to feel really uncomfortable and uneasy when it came to my friends and the conversation of birthdays. I'm not sure if your peers at that age were anything like mine, but it became some one's novelty idea to state not only their date of birth but the exact time stamp as well. You would be in the middle of 5th grade English class, and it'd be Mary Sue's birthday and when asked if it was, indeed, her birthday, Mary Sue would reply: "Yes! But my Mom says I wasn't born until 1:45 pm exactly!"

At that age, the fact that I couldn't give you the exact time of my birth unsettled me in some way. I don't know if I can dig that far back into my past to precisely explain to you why I felt the way that I did, and I'm not even sure that if you could talk to the 10-year old me that I would be able to explain it any better. I just did.

I felt embarrassed, and overwhelmed with just how embarrassed I felt over some minute detail that in the grand scheme of things, held little to no consequence if not to just be some sentimental value to throw into the pages of a baby book. But God, no matter how lame you might have tried to twist it to be, I would have wanted nothing more than to tell you what time I was born.

When I think back at the significance of my feelings as a kid, I guess I could self-analyze and tell you that this obsession and immense feeling of hurt/embarrassment that came with not knowing the time of day I was brought into this world would probably stem from the deeper-rooted problem of just not knowing anything. It could be, but I can't exactly be sure. Perhaps you could just chalk it up to pure peer pressure and peer anxiety of wanting to fit in. I guess maybe essentially that's all my adoption issues were - this identity confusion and overwhelming sense of wanting to find a place to belong. Who knows. (I sure as hell don't, even after all these years.)

Today, though, today is my redemption. Today would eventually become the counter-attack for my self-esteem during the early years when I would battle with my adoption demons over what made me feel more "whole". And as I grew older, and into my now early twenties, I have been able to remember this day with a tainted bittersweetness. The kind of bittersweetness you feel when speaking of a loved one: can't live with it, can't live without it.

Today is my "Gotcha' Day". The day that I arrived off the plane from South Korea into BWI at around 11:45 pm at night. The flight was long and I was actually part of a group of seven or eight children that were being flown into the airport from Korea with my parents being one of the adoptive couples. I hear stories, and I see pictures - a picture of my tiny, frail premature body being carried off the plane by one of my mother's closest friends - another picture of an anonymous Korean woman standing at the edge of the airflight gate, looking on with tears in her eyes. I had later learned that this woman was one of the young Korean women who volunteer to be "baby escorts" or pseudo-mothers for at least the long journey over to America. This was my "birth", so to speak. This was my coming into my life as an Asian-American. As the person that I am now.

At the peak of my teen angst years, I looked at this day with disdain. In my eyes, I was brought here against my will, I had no say in the matter - and it especially hit me harder whenever my parents would say things like, "We didn't bring you here to screw up your life." or "We adopted you to save you. You wouldn't have survived at all in that orphanage."

Nowadays, it's just a day. A day to remember, of course, but just a day nonetheless. Without it, I probably wouldn't be here writing in this blog, in this chair, thinking about how my Spanish midterm is due by midnight tonight. With it, I have faced a lot of turmoil, identity confusion, frustration and hurt. But I wouldn't be me without all of those things.

So maybe, just maybe, I'll break out the vodka and orange juice tonight to celebrate. And more than likely, I might even throw on "Coming to America" to heighten the celebration festivities. =)

Dreamin'

"My soul, is as open as the sky.

Often time, it's just as blue.

People tell me, I need to keep on dreamin'.

That's just what I'm gonna do."

-Amos Lee, "Dreamin'"

"So that is the xA," the man said as I stepped out of the white "Suburu Outback-mini me" and closed the driver's side door.

"What do you think?" I could hear my mother's voice from the other side of the car.

"I love it. It fits me perfectly," I said. Perfectly, except for one thing.

I had no idea how I was going to bring it up. I didn't even really want to. And the whole car buying experience was always something that I dreaded. It had this intimidating "Meet-The-Parents" feel to it and I would have rather not been bothered with it. But at the same time, I always viewed it as this right of passage event that would help mold the future for yourself - like a Quince party or a Bar Mitzvah. This whole ordeal would certainly mold my future, alright. I didn't realize how freakin' nervous I had become.

"So, you like the car. Is there anything else I can help you with? Any more questions?" the guy looked like he was sweltering in his blue denim Toyota/Scion shirt.

"Well, actually," I started. Where was my voice? Where did it go? I was clinging to my purse for lack of anything better to fumble with. Let's start this thing over.

"Actually, I was wondering about your mobility program. I read on the website that you have a Mobility Financial program and I was wondering more about it," and then here comes the part that made me choke up, "The MVA recently put a restriction on my license, and since I have a slight physical disability (lump in my throat enlarges) they have recommended that I get a left foot accelerator placed on the car. So I wanted to see how much I could get in financing, and how much this car would cost to get a better feel of my financial situation."

There, it was said. "Slight physical disability"

"I actually don't know too much about that, to be honest with you," he said.

Gee, well that makes two of us, Mister.

Basically, it comes down to this:

One left foot accelerator (parts alone) : $357 - $545

Labor: $500 - $1000 (I am guessing, only because I have to go to a "special" auto shop that puts on adaptive equipment)

My pride: Priceless

I know this sounds a bit silly. To be 21 and talking of pride, especially knowing that I am not the pioneer in driving adaptive equipment...and even moreso knowing how much adaptive equipment my brother is going to need later down the road.

But just for a second, let me humor myself. Back at GS Hospital, with the lady sitting there next to me, after we played "Finish-The-Picture" and "One-Of-These-Things-Is-Not-Like-The-Other" with black and white pictures, she made her diagnosis.

"I think maybe...you would need some...hand controls," she said in a way that made her sound like she was pulling this wonderful trick out of her big black bag of adaptive equipment magic.

I was stunned (for lack of a better word). It just...killed me to the core.

"No, I don't think I need hand controls," I somehow found my voice and tried my best to make it a "don't - F -with - me" tone, "I think I would do much better with a left foot accelerator. I have heard that they make those, don't they?"

"Hm, that is a very good suggestion. I never thought of that." Yeah, I'm sure you didn't...you know with all the concrete impressions of me you've created being a mentally-retarded and incompetent person based on what's written on medical records.

I made sure to watch as she wrote "left foot accelerator" on the paperwork she was faxing to the MVA.

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When I was four years old, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. A doctor and the girl without the leg braces.

I told my mother that when I got older, I never wanted to feel plastic and velcro around my legs again, never wanted to wear large body casts, and use a walker or canes anymore.

"Mommy, when I get older I will wear any shoes that I want to wear!" I used to cry every morning while putting on the big orthopedic shoes that were two sixes too big in order to fit over the plastic leg braces.

The doctors told me at a very early age (possibly because I complained so much to them) that the outcome of me never wearing braces again was slim to none. I had horrible balance when I walked without them. My right leg had become the anchor that weighed down my childish energy and tied me back from running as fast as I felt that I could. The muscles along my right calf and hamstrings were tight and stiff, and left me walking around much like the spooky Frankenstein at Halloween...with heavy feet and a heavy heart.

I refused to let that get to me though. I kept telling myself that it was okay to dream - to believe that no matter what people said, I'd learn how to walk without leg braces if it was the last thing I did.

Five years later, I proved them all wrong.

"It's a risky situation," Dr. S warned me, pressing his glasses into his face even further, the way he does when he is contemplating something very serious, "you could either come out of this tibia rotation surgery with full mobility... or extremely limited mobility. I won't know until I go in there and see everything for myself."

"I really want to do this," I said, nodding my head for what seemed like the upteenth time. I was nine. I didn't know what color socks I wanted to wear in the morning or which new Barbie I wanted for Christmas but I knew this. I knew I wanted to walk without braces.

Five or so hours later, I emerged in full out pain. I think it was the worst pain I had ever experienced to this day. I felt like my right leg was being ripped from its socket, and twisted and stabbed at with a knife. But when I looked down, all I saw was a huge white body cast from my waist all the way down to my toes.

It would take a year after my recovery from surgery before I learned how to walk all over again. I started crawling at four weeks post surgery...which basically meant that I would creep on my arms and my hands like a soldier in the line of enemy fire, the rest of my body immobilized to lay flat.

I kept the dream alive though. Every stumble, every fall, every time I wanted to give up, I remembered that I had promised myself that I would walk without braces...walk without any sort of help at all.

I think of my first day of getting my first "real" pair of shoes as a rebirthing. I can never forget how the tears felt running down my face as I slipped on my very first black patent leather shoes and felt the soles against my skin. No thick and heavy plastic in between, no velcro straps cutting into my skin. It was me, my feet, and my shoes. I spent the entire day in the basement of my parents' house, tapping against the hard floor to hear the sounds, to feel the movement and to bask in the dream that I had made a reality.

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So I'll keep dreaming...and I know one day soon, I'll be driving...and I can't wait to prove them all wrong again.