6 September 2020
[Above photo: 80 + 2/365 yo at my favorite Shan restaurant with 5/6 of my students.]
I actually turned 80 on Tuesday. Quite a feat, although the day passed painlessly. I’ve lived as long as an elephant or one of those wise, ancient turtles. It is hard to believe since men in my family pop off early: my father at 55yo, my grandfather in his 40’s, my dear brother at 42yo. Since boys identify with their fathers to some degree, I was convinced that I’d live only his life span. George Engel, who formulated the BioPsychoSocial model of illness while at the University of Rochester, wrote an interesting (to me) paper about the same issue: imagining he’d only live as long as his father, who died early.
We had a rehearsal of the AACAP presentation Thursday morning. Professor Tin Oo and I did our Introductions by Zoom but the two students and I did our presentations live in class. The students each used PowerPoint presentations and were poised and effective. I had to correct one, later in private, when she said she wanted to work with children because “they are so cute and simple.” I suggested she say, “Because I thought they were so cute and simple.” They are incredibly complex, in Bio, in Psycho, and in Social.
My presentation was a bit of a disaster. I was reading from a paper I’d written and simultaneously trying to show photos on a projector. I hadn’t fully thought it out and the coordination was too much for me—rubbing my stomach, patting my head, humming from the Bach B minor Mass, and dancing an Irish jig simultaneously. That is what a rehearsal is for—public humiliation. Just kidding! I’ve now figured out a system, rather intricate but simple to operate, so I’ll appear natural and relaxed as I present. I just have to practice. The AACAP on-line trainer said all actors and actresses practice their lines while walking, getting it into “muscle memory”.
It recalled my working on a presentation in med school. I was in the deserted garden courtyard adjacent to the hospital dining room. Somehow, trying to recall all I wanted to say, I found myself pacing up and down on top of a concrete bench. Little did I know that behind those reflective plate glass windows ate several classmates and my brilliant junior cardiology faculty—who I admired a lot. His father was a butcher and he drove an E-Jaguar. Once he got tenure at Columbia Medical School he had a tuxedo tailor-made and got season orchestra seats at the Metropolitan Opera. Afterwards he asked me, jokingly, if I had pebbles in my mouth—the great Greek orator, Demosthenes, apparently practiced with them.
Somehow my students got wind of my birth date. I had invited them to lunch, as I do once per month or so, at the little Shan place near University of Medicine 1. I love it as the food is consistent and very tasty and the inside is quiet and rustic, like in a village. The students brought a cake, china, and coffee in thermoses. The cake, like many here is a sponge cake with yellow frosting and grated cheese—“Grated cheese?”—on top. It is a taste jolt but an interesting one. Someone mentioned cheesecake, but it’s not the same. 9 candles, giving me an extra 10 years. And they all sang and clapped. So sweet. I figure I’m good until 116, since I bought an ostrich-skin belt in the Indian market in Durban and the proprietress said it would last 40 years.
My bathroom sink has been slow since I moved in. It has gotten slower, despite pouring hot water down it to dissolve whatever I might. Fed up, I finally called the owner, who sent his guy over in 15 minutes. 15 minutes later he handed me a mass of hair wrapped around 10 little juice-squeeze straws. What could be the purpose of putting those down, I wonder, except to dam it up? It now flows like the Mississippi!
The Covid-19 count is rising in Myanmar, mostly in Rakhine but also in Yangon, so I have increased my caution. I am available in my apartment by Zoom. My students run the clinic with only two of them present at a time for social distancing. They are wearing Level 2 protection: masks, gloves, face shields, and gowns. Psychiatry is stigmatized enough already, I think. For us to appear as hazmats could be scary for a child.
A woman brought her 11yo son in, complaining that he wasn’t “masculine” enough. Last week we discussed a paper, and I lectured, on Gender Dysphoria, so the students felt adequately prepared to do an assessment and suggest to the mother that her son did, in fact, feel male and so was masculine enough. We may have some work to do with the family.
Poor Mafia Don! [Never thought I’d say that!] He’s like a sugar cube dropped into a cup of hot tea, melting and rotting away before our eyes, the entire façade, the mask dropping off. Will his hair? The Atlantic article revealing his contempt for [everyone, living or dead] has taken off like crazy. Such a powerful projection. Joe just must remain steady, welcoming, and thoughtful. Trump has nothing to run on except stirring the pot and hoping it will confuse and polarize people. I begin to have more faith in Americans, as many who are not Dems for one reason or another are able to see through his farce.
Oh Happy Day! Remember the Edwin Hawkins singers? That was a brilliant piece of gospel.
A Psychiatrist in Myanmar 