The Value of Compassion, Part 1

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Even though I often infuriated my mother when I was little, she tended to  bring me along if she wanted medical attention.  Due to the lack of care when she gave birth to the twins, she had many health issues.  Hospitals and clinics in those days were not the friendliest of places for a village lady.  I guess she brought me along for "borrowed" courage.  There were very few Malay staff members and being insulted and screamed at were the norm?  It made me seeth inside and I promised myself that one day I would become a compassionate doctor, especially to the Malay village folks.


After my matriculation, I started medical school.  I ended up missing the first month of school.  My ulcers acted up and I was hospitalised.  I blacked out in biology class.  The tutor, a giant sturdy lady, carried me to the clinic.  I probably was allergic to the formaldehyde in the dissection specimen?  The chemistry tutor was mad at me because my goggles kept slipping off.  I told him I had no nasal bridge.  Certainly not the best start to medical school.  I limped along the first year and barely made it through.  Bad marks were not in my history and I was devastated.


I was given a very fat lady for human anatomy class.  She died in her late thirties.  She had a very sweet face.  I could not eat for days after every anatomy class.  Could not sleep either.  It was as if her soul was talking to me. Talking about her love for her kids? Her narcissistic husband? Seeking comfort in food? 


My weight was 44kg and it was sliding down further.  I knew that I had to leave medicine.  Felt like I failed my mission, that I was a total failure, and completely isolated from everyone.  I felt chaotic and nothing made sense.  I had to attend tuition given by a tutor hired by Colombo Plan (my scholarship agency).  No one had bothered to ask if I needed tuition.   I had no trouble understanding academic content, I just had no idea how to proceed with my life.  In the end, the tutor suggested to Colombo Plan that I see a psychiatrist.  All she did was give me one drug after another, all causing devastating reactions: developed vertigo, became nauseous and dizzy, and suffered extreme fatigue.  No one offered the time and space to be a sincere witness to my utter confusion.


I was ready to give up.  I wasn't one of those lucky people who grew up with routine prayers.  I knew how to pray, but it was not a routine that gave me solace.  I could read the Qur'an but it was not a habit that could bring serenity.  As I was growing up, the ustaz and ustazah did not strike me as particularly loving or compassionate.  One tiny light was the Bismillahirrahmanirrahim. In the name of Allah, the All-Merciful, the Most Compassionate.  Even when I was little, it gave me comfort.  When I felt no one loved me, I knew, deep down that Allah did


I am sharing this part about me at 19.  I am feeling sad for all those labeled as “young people of little faith (iman)”.  I am telling you iman cannot be manufactured on the spot.  It has to be built over years.  Some of us are not lucky enough to have loving people help us develop it when we were children


Jordan Peterson, a Canadian clinical psychologist, feels that a person can become suicidal when faced with overwhelming complexity:



https://youtu.be/56FAsJDMih0


Peterson talks about the balancing act between chaos and order.  When order is overly emphasized, life will tend to be rigid and stuck.  On the other hand, when all routines and conventions are abandoned, chaos will reign.  There need to be enough routines and order to provide framework and structure; while fluidity and curiosity are also needed to lead to discovery and invention.


Jordan B. Peterson (2018), 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos  



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