HALLOWEEN!

Here is my GaGalicious outfit I wore for Halloween! My boss made a bow in my hair out of my own hair and I didn't need to wear my ugly wig! It was so cool! My boyfriend dressed like Hannibal Lector. Here are pix of us! 

 

         

G.S.

If it falls on your lot to be a street sweeper,

sweep streets like Michelangelo painted pictures,

like Shakespeare wrote poetry,

like Beethoven composed music;

sweep streets so well that all the host of Heaven and Earth will have to pause and say,

"Here lived a great sweeper, who swept his job well".

- Martin Luther King, Jr.

They are revered in public, but sometimes jokingly reviled behind the closed doors of medicine. They have a cocky air about them, only because an extra, maybe even seemingly unecessary dose of confidence is necessary for the very thing they were born to do. They can be rough, brash, and demanding, because of what systems, people and the world-at-large demand of them.

General Surgeons. They're one of a kind.

So I've been in denial. Until lately, I didn't realise how much I enjoy Surgery, far more than any other internal medical specialty. Because of its crazy lifestyle (think 630am to 7pm working hours and 36-hour calls once or twice a week), its seemingly bad reputation and the persuasion of others for me to try something a little more "female-friendly", I had sought my solace elsewhere, exploring Obstetrics, Ophthalmology, Orthopedics and other surgical specialties offering friendlier working hours.

Then came SIP. It's the Surgery Internship Programme, where they work you, as they say, "like a dog" to prepare you for the gruelling life of a house officer/junior doctor right after graduation.

It was then that I found out, that after rotating through all the different specialties, my heart beats in a different way in General Surgery.

I guess sometimes, you only realise how much you love something when you see how much you are willing to give up for its sake. It can be quite scary, especially if you have been in denial for a long time.

Before entering medicine, I never knew surgeons worked 7 days a week. I never knew of such things called Calls, which are 30-over-hour marathon workshifts where one works from 6 or 7am in the morning till 2pm the next day, with hardly a wink of rest in between. It involves continually seeing new patients being admitted, interviewing them, examining them, speaking to family, ordering lab tests, taking blood, preparing them for operations and if you're senior enough, actually doing the operation itself. I never knew they were bad-tempered not so much because they're unreasonable but because anybody sleeping those number of hours would be a little cranky too. I never knew surgeons had to operate through the night, that sometimes, they don't sleep for more than 30 or 40 over hours.

Last night was one such night. It was Saturday. We started work at 6am. Today is Sunday, we ended work around 2pm. On call, my team and I went without any sleep between the 2 days. There were not one, not two but three open laparotomies through the night. A laparotomy is an operation where the tummy is barbarically opened up and one's guts are all dug out to explore and repair the abnormalities.

Someone had suffered multiple stab wounds from assault. The knife pierced his liver, his lung and his diaphragm. The operation was brutal. The scar was a huge crucifix emblazoned across his chest and abdomen. The main surgeon, together with my seniors, deftly and swiftly rummaged through the mass of injured organs to stop the vicious bleeding. When the operation was over, I caught a glimpse of the patient's face. It was bruised, haggard. He looked thirty or forty.

Outside, a wailing family of almost twenty members burst into hysteria when my senior broke the news to them that even after a heroic rescue effort by the team, the patient collapsed just minutes after the harrowing surgery. The patient didn't make it. He was only 19.

More surgeries through the night kept the surgical team awake. My senior, Dr. N, did not have dinner perhaps till 3am in the morning. Dr. D and Dr. U slept for 20 minutes during the night. They are very senior already, they could have gone into private practice. Still they choose to slog it out because of their passions, because of their desire to train better and because of a fiery desire to pursue excellence in a field they could call their own. They laugh and joke and talk in the operating theatre not because they take their work lightly, but because the tension is so high that they have no choice but to do so.

At 5.30am in the morning, as I held a surgical retractor for the surgical wound of a patient who had to have her almost-burst appendix removed, and I realised that I had slept only for 20 minutes since 6am the previous day and had been running around seeing patients with my seniors, running in and out of operating theatre with them, and that I was dead tired but happy, happier than when I had far easier hours and yet the days seemed like eternity in other specialties, that I realised that it's really, really true when they say your passion can and will take you further than you ever thought possible. People always ask how we manage to stay awake in those hours of the night- it is God's grace and something I believe called Conviction and Passion.

Passion is what keeps you up at 4am in the morning when every fibre of your body is screaming for rest. It is what keeps your legs running to the next patient because you know it is an impending emergency. It is what keeps you asking your seniors questions without fear of ridicule. Passion, is what makes you want to excel, and do the littlest thing well. A consuming love for God, then, can enable one to desire to pusue excellence not only in work, but in relationships and life too.


"Last's night call was normal, Wai Jia. Welcome to GS (General Surgery)," said my senior doctor.

I asked the surgeons what made them give up so much of their lives, their evenings with their wives, their weekends with their kids, their energy, and all they said was, there was nothing else they would rather do. General surgery saves lives. It is direct. It requires teamwork. It is exciting. It is bloody, gory and in-your-face. But it is also tiring, does not pay as well as other more comfortable, more glamorous subspecialties, and it is downright demanding. There're a lot of jokes made about surgeons in the medical fraternity, even more about female ones. We jokingly say they're narrow-minded, that all they think about is cutting people up. We joke that it is a field predominantly owned by testosterone-filled males who're stuck-up, impatient and grumpy. The female surgeons must be odd, single or childless, or all the above.

I suppose, there is a grain of truth in each of the statements. With such working hours, one feels chronically tired and yet pumped up, all the time. When I saw my seniors doctors seeing patients on a Sunday morning after an entire night of non-stop surgical emergencies in the operating theatre, and took in that this was what they did on a normal basis, I began to respect them in a different way altogether. Say what you want, but this, is a superhuman job. Imagine going in and out of surgery in the middle of the night dealing with wailing families when the last wink you had was more than a day ago, and the last meal you had was more than ten hours ago.

What can you do? It's life and death for someone else.

My question for myself is, is the sacrifice worth it? If I were male and single all my life, my answer would most definitely be a resounding yes. But life poses its realities.

Is it wrong to want to settle down and have a normal life where I still have time to cook and paint and serve at church? Yet, isn't it also wrong to settle for a job I don't enjoy simply because of the better hours? I'll be upfront- I don't enjoy Family Medicine (aka GP work) or anything without an element of surgery. Yet, is the sacrifice to pursue this passion worth it? 7 days a week. Patients fall ill on Sundays too.

Right now... I've not met anyone to sweep me off my feet, and if that doesn't happen, do I then pursue surgery? But why should I even need to wait? But if I don't, would I then regret it? Ten years down the road, all alone while my friends have all married, with eyebags and a sleep deficit so huge it would take a hundred years to rouse me from slumber, would I look back and hate myself for my guts. Or would I look back in anguish and regret my sacrificial decision after marrying someone who turned out to be a scum of a man. I hate scums.

A senior told me this week, that for a woman to be a surgeon and to have a family life, a very unique set of circumstances must befall her. I suppose, very few men would tolerate that sort of lifestyle, fewer would tolerate a spouse with a higher salary, possibly a higher status. It is not impossible. But how, without her family and spouse feeling neglected, I do not know.

I don't know what it is about me that enjoys challenge so much, and I don't mean it in a good way. To quote my folks, "Why do you have to choose such difficult options? Why surgery, not family medicine? Why triathlon, not just simple running? Why liking to travel to developing countries to visit the poor, not just community service here?"

I don't know. It must be the adrenaline that my mini-me craves for.

God, what would you have me to do? Give me wisdom and give me strength.

And I know it's crazy for me to say this- that I'm really glad that I didn't apply for any specialty or residency programme this year because I suspected this would happen. I suspected that somewhere down the line, in the most unexpected of places, at 5am in the morning when I'm sleep deprived and hungry and dehydrated and shivering in the operating theatre holding a retractor for a surgeon, I would discover what made my heart leap, what gave me grit and what gave me enough stout to say I liked something enough to miss a comfortable life because fulfillment is an elusive word which has no reason.

I'm still not sure what kind of doctor I will be. I'm not even sure what kind of woman I will be. I'm not sure if I will still enjoy surgery after feeling chronically tired and grumpy from long working hours and a lack of sleep. But I know one thing for sure-

-that for now, I really like General Surgery. And that scares and excites me, still.

Vocation is the place where your deep gladness meets the world's deep need.

- Frederick Buechner

Warrior Princess.

When they told me you had left, I didn't cry. I only felt like the news I had been half-expecting was now here. I felt a little guilty, even, because we were all praying that somehow, God would reverse this bad dream and make you all better again. And you didn't. I somehow felt defeated, lost.

But I think you never did. I think you never allowed yourself to.

Yours, was the most beautiful funeral I'd ever been to. I just want you to know that. You're a very special brave little girl to us all, and I just want you to know what a champion you've been. We were at your funeral, but it didn't feel like we were mourning as much as we were celebrating your short life with us.

There were balloons. There were lots and lots of Balloons! And Colourful! Flowers! Everywhere! Snow white, Winnie the Pooh, Beauty and the Beast... and castles and sprinkles and shiny things everywhere. Your daddy came up to say how death... did not win, even though it may seem like it did. Your two best friends, 7 and 12 years old respectively, came up to share a minute's worth of who you were to them. One of them, like you, was from my Sunday School class. I was so proud of her. Just like how I was and still am proud of you that even when the tumour took you away, you refused to let it win.

When it paralysed your right hand, you wrote with your left. When you could not walk straight, you used a handrail. When you could not swallow and they had to put a tube through your nose into your stomach, you joked that you looked like a little mouse. And when they shaved your hair for the brain biopsy and it totally shattered you and drove you crazy and made you cry ( I would, too), you said it was okay. You coped courageously. Your family triumped. You drew a cross on a piece of paper, you said God was good, in spite of your illness. You lived life bravely, till the very end.

How could death have won? Surely, it only produced the circumstance to which your courage shone through, the way stars do in the dark.

I don't know why I cried when we sang at your funeral. After all, I should know, you're a in a better place, a place where you had always wanted to go anyway. But I guess I cried still, because... I miss you.

When we went to see you in the coffin, it gripped me to see the medal I gave you folded neatly next to your body. It was the medal my overseas friend (who had liver cancer when he was 11 and then went on to do an Iron Man event later in life) had mailed to me to encourage you with. It gripped me also to see a stack of heart-shaped cards at your feet- they were they art and craft letters which I had taught my sunday school children to make, for a friend they wanted to encourage. Some of them made them for you.

And if anything, I guess I just want to say I miss you. Thank you for living life in a way that would not let death triumph. Thank you for living in a way that puts life in all of us my dear.

Love you. You're our brave little warrior princess.

Jesus said to her,

"I am the resurrection and the life.

He who believes in me will live, even though he dies;

and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.

Do you believe this?"

-John 11

Awkward Silence.

It is Day 4 of my surgical internship.

Says the medical officer to me as we await the senior consultant to review a patient,

"So you want to do General Surgery eh?"

"It's possible. I like it. I've always liked it."

"Oh I see. So you don't want to get married OR have kids."

Then there was this awkward silence and I could hear a pin fall. Or was it something that broke?

:(

New Hair Pic

Here's a pic of my new hair... I am almost used to it I think!

So today I went shopping and bought tons of stuff! I got a shirt and a pair of pants and 2 scarves, 4 pairs of boots, some nail polish and a sweater! Wow! And I come home only to realize that I bought a pair of boots with 2 right feet! Only me!

Vids!

Here's some vids I like and thought I'd share!

Willow Smith - Whip My Hair


Rihanna - Only Girl In The World


Down With Webster - Whoa Is Me


Kelly Rowland - Commander


Janet Jackson  - Make Me


Nicki Minaj - Check It Out

M.B.B.S

It's my last week of study break before I start gearing up for the merciless final exams in March.

It's called the MBBS. Bachelors of Medicine and Surgery.

So I thought it'd be nice to bring Grandpa Zhou out for dinner. Tomorrow is when I start my surgical internship. From here on, life will mean early (I mean 5ish to 6am kind of early) mornings and possibly 14-hour work-days, followed by studying for my finals in and through the nights... every night... not to mention the 36-hour sleepless calls at hospital once a week for the next one month. From here on, there will be no looking back. There'll be no more long endless cycling rides, no more flute playing, no more frivolous time to waste. There is only one goal- to be a good doctor and do the best for my finals.

5 years of work in 5 months. That's a lot of work. And I just realised why sometimes, doctors marry doctors, or why the medical community can be pretty insular. Who else understands with such great clarity and empathy of what "busy" means, and what "I'm tired" means. "Busy" means not having had more than 5 hours of sleep for months, perhaps not having a single off day for weeks. "I'm tired" means I spent the night taking blood for an endless list of patients, answering calls of sometimes unhelpful nurses and responding to belligerent superiors... instead of sleeping, like everyone should be. It means 36-hours of on-your-feet serving and a home to go to later where you only want to sleep in. To someone else, not replying an email or a text message may just be plain rude, or show an inability to prioritise one's time; to someone who understands, it means you nearly crashed trying to finish your work to be a responsible healthcare professional. How do we tell you we still love you when we don't spend time with you? How is it possible to study all day?

The M.B.B.S is a jealous thing.

From tomorrow, life will be different. January and February will be crazy. As my senior told me today: Eat. Pray. Study. That will be all. Is it worth it? Yes. Absolutely. Other people don't understand how serious we are when we mean we study all day. What is all day? If you're in medical school, you'll probably understand- it's probably what you did some time back to get here.

Wake up at 6am. Study till noon. Eat. Study till dinner. Eat. Pray. Sleep.

I wanted to take Grandpa Zhou out before this season started.

4 friends or rather, 2 couples joined us. Ronald and Ethel is a couple I met through my Creative Writing community- Ronald, a law student, was inspired by Uncle Tay's story and his community work in Social Justice and hence is excited about a project he has to inspire youth to reach out to the elderly in our society who fall through the cracks.

Glorijoy is my junior in medical school. She and her boyfriend, SJ, have a real heart for people, and SJ is one who donated all his Chinese New Year red packet money from his relatives to Grandpa Zhou's medical fees for a year.

I've been living near this famous restaurant all my life and never tried it before!

I should have taken a photo of the gorgeous food

before we starting eating...

but this tells you how good it was!

"Grandpa Zhou, remember today! You're in a Mercedez!"

Haha, I realise Grandpa Zhou doesn't smile in photos.

Ron & Ethel, myself & Grandpa Zhou, Glori & SJ

All right, here goes. MBBS, here I come.

And to the rest of the world, thank you for understanding our lack of sociability for the next few months or so. We still love you and life, and we'll be back in April.

But for now, toodles!

Back.

"Today, today I lost.

But tomorrow, tomorrow'll be a better day.

Tomorrow, I'll be back."

-Dr Lee Kim En from National Neuroscience Institute, on rough days.

It's supposed to be my two-week study break. It's supposed to be a time of refreshment and restoration before my 1-month slavedriving surgical internship with 15-hour workdays and 36-hour calls begin next week, before we go all out for our final exams in March. But it was not to be.

"It's no wonder you're emotionally wrung out," said Jn, "It's just been one blow after another. Take some time off by yourself."

Jn is the therapist I still see from time to time, not because I'm still ill, but because I've chosen to follow-up with the team regularly even as my second book about my journey to recovery from depression and anorexia prepares for its launch. We've decided to use this time to work on some underlying deep-seated issues.

It was on Sunday when I was beginning to feel defeated, and the day seemed to unfold seamlessly into Tuesday and Wednesday before I saw Jn and had decided it was enough.

Sunday was a day of reflection and melancholy. Somehow, a part of me began to be acutely aware of how important Community is to us. Some part of me thinks my classmate, and many others in their final years of university, passed away due to lack of belonging in a Community. When I watched the video that day, what struck me was that the man found joy not merely through his achievements because that can be empty, but through finding himself in a community of people who supported his endeavours. It made me think about the initiatives I've been spearheading in the student body regarding raising awareness of and strengthening mental health support in the medical community. It made me recall, that at the time I was ill, I didn't have much of a community in school as well. It made me reflect, that though church, friends, professional help all played a role, the primary reason for my speedy recovery might just have been my finding a Community through my cycling and triathlon group.

Monday. For some reason, I couldn't get over the fact that you had signed up for the half-iron man, because I kept feeling like it was just the beginning of my losing a friend to the sport. Monday. I got a text-message from a lady in charge of student affairs at school, Ms Y, saying that she needed me to return to school because she had misplaced my photograph for an award submission and would like a photographer to retake a photo.

Tuesday. I woke up with a heavy heart- how could Miss Y have misplaced it? She had requested a stack of supporting documents which I had painstakingly collated a month ago- the deadline was this friday, what happened? Why was only the photograph lost? Didn't you ask me to pass them all to Ms S at X hospital so you would pick it up from her?

Tuesday. We decided to train together with another friend. I made the effort to accommodate to your timing and venue because I knew you needed to train. It was at a somewhat dangerous time, but I assumed that because we'd be in a small group, we'd be riding more safely. You assured me we would be going at an easy pace. But you were late, as usual, and as we rode, the two of you sped off into the distance, leaving me behind. There were many cars. You beat one amber light, without looking behind for me or waiting for me after. There were so many cars. I told myself it was okay, that perhaps, you were too focused. But that stabbed me- I felt this was just the beginning of training taking you away. Wasn't training in a group about Community? Wasn't it about looking out for one another and enjoying one another's company and encouragement?

Then you beat another amber light. That was enough, and I turned back. I rode all the way home by myself. Ele was with me, her trunk all curled up- she sat heavy on my bike and wept.

It didn't take long before you two discovered I was gone. I didn't pick up your call. I only text messaged to say that after being left behind at two amber lights, it didn't feel like my presence mattered. I think the two of you felt terrible, and very sorry. I don't know why it broke me so much to be left behind.

I cried a lot that day. Something deep in me just set off. The straw which broke the camel's back, however, was when after an hour's journey back to school after a tiring day, I found out that Ms Y had "misplaced" not only the photograph, but all the supporting documents which I had painstakingly collated and submitted for an award the school had nominated me for. She was very chirpy, apologetic in an unapologetic way. She hadn't realised that much time, effort, money and resources had been put into preparing those documents for her on time, which was a month ago.

"I'm so sorry," she said chirpily, " let me search for it now." Wait a minute, I thought, weren't you supposed to make a search for it before troubling me to make a special trip down? I waited for half an hour outside her office before she came out smiling, "I'm sorry I can't find it. I'm sure we'll find it tomorrow. But anyway, at least we have your photograph." She waved her digital camera at me.

I was appalled.

When I talked to Jn about this, I remember sharing with her my utter sense of loss at the traffic light, and the sense of betrayal. Why was it so profound? It's just two lights, woman. It's not like you can't take care of yourself. Suddenly I felt the entire sport was tainted. I didn't want to do it anymore. Suddenly, I saw the pride and competition and self-seeking and wanted to abandon everything and everyone associated with it.

Then the revelation came.

In psychology, one school of thought suggests that we tend to find ourselves drawn to relationships that help us to recreate the fallen aspects of our relationships with our parents in an attempt to "make things right". But because we are used to the old, dysfunctional interactional patterns of the past, we bring them forward to friends or partners, and into our future relationships. For a large part of my life, abandonment has been a huge issue. During certain significantly tumultuous periods in my childhood, I had felt abandoned by the predominant male figure in my life whom I deeply loved. As a result, my mind is primed for abandonment, because it what my subconscious expects.

"You look for people who give you the same stability as your childhood male figure did. But you often say or do things which erect barriers to protect yourself from being abandoned. Yet, your longing for community and approval is still there, and so this creates an inner conflict. So you reach out and backpedal constantly, and your mind constantly primes itself to prove that you will be abandoned because it's the only way it can perceive relationships. It's like a sensor for abandonment. And because of your fear of abandonment, you also sometimes abandon other people first."

Spot on. It explained many things- the profoundness of my hurt at being left behind, my neediness at times, and also, my fear of being in a relationship. My subconscious simply awaits the final moment where it can validate its expectation of being abandoned, again.

But God has a funny way of teaching us things. Sometimes, the process can be so hard. But as long as we look out for the lessons along the way, it is worth it. It is always worth it.

I learnt, that in order to progress, I must overcome this. I had told myself I would allow myself to get into a relationship after graduation, and I suppose, now till then would be a good time to prepare myself for a healthy one. I have to at least try. Try to stop pushing people away and put a stopwatch on how long they'll take before they leave me.

Wednesday was very interesting. I forgave my two cycling buddies and reframed my thoughts towards my Community. And in the afternoon, I had to meet a friend at X hospital. I was still deeply troubled by the "lost" documents. God, were you trying to teach me that I need not "earn" your love? Is this the same lesson you taught me through my injury? That I don't need an award to be validated or affirmed? I couldn't stop wondering, How did everything get lost? Didn't Ms Y ask me to pass them all to Ms S at X hospital so she would pick it up from her?

Ms Y from the university had told me the day before, " I hid it so well I forgot where it is."

I sensed something very, very fishy.

Suddenly it struck me, that I was in X hospital. And out of the kind of tenacious curiosity sometimes possessed by medical students, I decided to call Ms S to find out how my package got "lost".

Lo and behold, I learnt, that the package had never left X hospital. A month ago, Ms Y had told them not to mail it out yet. And along the way, she must have forgotten. " I hid it so well I forgot where it is" suddenly became embarrassingly humourous, at my expense.

Many phonecalls and emails later, I made my discovery quite plain and the staff at the university were both apologetic and sheepish for their lack of transparency, professionalism and honesty. I won't lie to you- I was angry. This had cost me a lot of time and energy. The forms had taken me hours to fill, the essays, days to write- during my busy internship period where I was hurried to submit them. I could not be certain if all my time would be wasted. There was no doubt about my appallment at the way things were handled, and how no effort was made to trace the documents when I had asked Ms Y repeatedly.

But I learnt a few things, and that was good enough for me. One, always to make a copy of any documents one submits; two, curiosity kills a cat but can sometimes tell you how another cat died too; three, it takes a lot patience, grace and compassion to deal with such situations in a godly manner. It would have been quite amusing to see myself kick up a fuss over a nomination. I decided against it. But I requested for a channel to give feedback to, and that my case be taken over by another staff, with a third party overseeing the procedure.

Through the past 4 days, I also saw God's hand with me, through my pain and agony. He wanted to show me, how I needed to work through the issues of abandonment in my life, how I needed to overcome it to build healthier relationships with people around me. He taught me forgiveness and humility, when I apologised to my 2 friends as well for turning back abruptly. He taught me resilience in dealing with terrible administrative glitches and the grace to rise above it. I felt God being with me- my friend at X hospital was supposed to meet me on Friday- if he had not changed the date to yesterday, I would not have been there and would not have got to the bottom of the Mystery of the Missing Package. (You can say that if God were really with me then this would not have happened in the first place, but I am biased- God is good, and I only found my package because I was there at the right place and right time.)

In the busyness of coordinating plans regarding mental health support in the student body, I have also been tired out. Last night, I also arranged for 4 friends and myself to take Grandpa Zhou out for dinner. When I got home, I got a loooong email from Ms Y trying to explain herself.

"It's no wonder you're emotionally wrung out," said Jn.

One of my mentors, Dr Lee Kim En from National Neuroscience Institute and a firm believer in the goodness of God once told us, "Some days are so bad that they make you feel defeated. It makes you feel like giving up. But tell yourself, 'Today, today I lost. But tomorrow, tomorrow'll be a better day. Tomorrow, I'll be back.' God's mercies are new every morning."

So I'm going to deliver my package personally to the school, give my feedback as graciously and matter-of-factly as I can, and just trust in God that things'll turn out all right. After all, He already knows about the outcome of the nomination. Perhaps, this may just be a journey of faith for me to understand that I do not need to earn His approval, that He is in control, that His plans cannot be foiled.

And I won't abandon triathlon. I will try to love more fearlessly, more securely. I will work with Jn on that, I promise.

For the past 4 days, I lost. But today, today, I'm back.

"Because of God's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness."

-Lamentations 3:22-23

Proton Inspira - Dare to call inspiration?

Not too long ago, I used to know a friend who was never really good in remembering stuff for exams, thus he was always doomed to fail because as we all know, exams are mostly about regurgitating facts that you have easily memorised in your head days and months before the day of the exam.

If there was anything, my friend never really could study hard like the other people who would score in exams. He NEEDED to do something about it or continue to be a failure and forever be unattractive to girls due to his undermined intellectual ability. So he found another approach to avoid failure.

HE STUDIES SMART!!

What he would do, is write small pieces of notes and bring them inside the exam hall.

He mastered the art of copying that none of the invigilators could even catch him till today.

He would even go to the extent of writing answers onto his own body parts. Nobody even knew about it.

He even pondered with the idea of other ways of copying if he had boobs. Sadly, he did not have one.

As a result, results came out and he not only passed but came out tops in his class. Nobody really knew how he did it, but still congratulated him for his hard work.

What i'm trying to say here gentlemen,

Nobody really bothers how you did it, its the results at the end of the day that matters. Yes, there will be people who would be biased against what he did, but should he continue to be a failure had he not copied?

And this my fellow readers, is what I see in the newly launched proton inspira 2010.



Proton Inspira is a copy of the Mitsubishi Lancer and that is a FACT!!!!

This is a spyshot of the proton inspira of what you will expect real soon.

 And this is the mitsubishi lancer. See the similarities??

What they've managed to do was just like my old friend that i used to know. What proton has done is copy everything from the mitsubishi lancer and changed a few things from the rims to the steering wheel, front bumber, and probably the suspensions a little.

By changing these few things, they have managed to alter the looks of the mitsubishi lancer to make it look like their own.


And this my friends, its just damn SMART!!

When I say smart here, i'm saying it just like how my old friend did it. Instead of dooming for failure, they have managed to do what it takes to become a success and that is...

COPY!!!

Nevermind that they would be called copy cat for the rest of their lives.

Nevermind that they would be called a bitch by girls as they are normally termed for copying.

Nevermind that they would be an unimaginative company in the next few years.

NEVERMIND!!Because at the end of the day, proton will need to do whatever it takes to become a success again just like other automotive makers in the country has done.

Lets not forget that, Myvi from perodua was also a copy based on the second generation Daihatsu Sirion/Boon and Toyota Passo

Naza forte is also a copy from ummm KIA...

 

All in all, this new Proton Inspira is going to cost RM79,888 and it will come with 2 years of free servicing.

So is the proton inspira fit for its name??Nope. Definitely not an inspiration since its a copy. The public would have been much happier if its called proton kuching. Pronounced correctly and it would mean "Ka-Ching", for money money money!!! Its sad to know that they even dare to call it an inspiration as it reflects how backward Malaysia is that we cannot even find a person out of 28 million people, talented enough to design a car.

All i know is, i'm going to see alot more modified Proton Inspira in the future that would look like mitsubishi evo lancers with huge exhausts that is loud enough to tear buildings down and attract young pretty college girls.

WAY to go PROTON!!!

NEW hair

So at work (I work at a hair salon) my boss asked me to cut his hair so I did and he was happy. Then he says he wants to cut my hair so I'm a bit worried because I don't want to touch my hair. So he says he wants to change my whole hair and style and I'm freaking out and I don't want but he does it anyway. He cut my hair and gave me full bangs.. I'm still trying to get used to it. I have had side bangs for a few years and I am not used to a straight bang. I like a full bang but I didn't really like it for me but anyways what's done is done.... I have bangs now and I totally look like GaGa lol! I will put pix eventually!

Tixxx!!!

Got my Lady GaGa tixx in the mail a week or two ago
and forgot to post a pic! Can't wait until April 25th woooo!!!
It will be my 3rd time seeing GaGa!

70.3

“I’m afraid,” you said.

“Me too,” I replied. And I was more relieved that you said so first. I’m not sure if I would have the courage to bring it up otherwise.

The day you told me over the phone you had signed up for the 70.3mile half IronMan event, I was excited for you. It was a huge endeavour of faith. For a moment, we were giddy with joy. But I never told you about my mixed feelings. So when you said you were afraid of what it might do to you, of how the training might change you, shift your heart and pull your focus away from God and the things that mattered in life, I felt like a dam I never knew existed in me give way.

This morning, I cried a lot at church. The tears really surprised me. And I asked myself why.

I guess all this while, I never realized how our friendship had grown. When I first saw you, I thought you were another one of those quiet macho guys whom I'd have to think quite hard to start a conversation with. For one, I thought you were much older. I didn’t even know you then, but you decided to chip in with the rest to buy me my bike Faith, when you learnt that I'd given away my bike money to a deaf girl's hearing operation. It was then I found out you were funny, and you could make fun of yourself and your Mickey-mouse ears. But the thing that set you apart from the rest, was how you considered God in everything you did. I liked the fact you did everything to the best of your ability and yet had fun doing it. The other Big boys would be squeezing air out of their lungs trying to keep up, while you cruised breezily, ahead of the pack, with a funny tune in your head. You never showed off, never tried too hard. You just enjoyed what you did and were naturally good at it.

After our rides, you’d come over to swim and it became a habit for us to talk about our lives and God. Perhaps that was the most important part of the workout- reflecting, taking stock of life and putting the pieces together. And then I got injured. And I thought I would lose you all and be forgotten because I couldn’t ride for 6 months. I put on weight. It was a difficult time for me.

But you didn’t stop coming. You still came to swim after riding-that was the only exercise I could do pain-free. And we didn’t stop talking. I let you in because you were like a brother, and that made you safe for me to let in into my fortress fenced with barbed wire. Sometimes, we had lunch. That gave me a lot of encouragement when I felt isolated from the rest of our group, and I willed myself to recover. But when I did, I was afraid to ride again because of my guilt and anxiety.

“Triathlon is a tainted sport,” I said bitterly, “There’s just so much pride and competition and self-indulgence.”

“No!” You insisted. “Triathlon is beautiful!” And you said it with such exuberance I could see myself running on a mountaintop above a starry sea.

And that moment changed me because I saw that it was. It is. Triathlon is beautiful. That made me remember why I started in the first place. Triathlon is beautiful because it is difficult. It is beautiful because there is beauty in overcoming, beauty in enduring, and beauty in completion. Most importantly, it is beautiful for me because of the friends I made and the lessons I learnt along the way, about life, and about God. Triathlon helped me recover- it is what God used to save my life.

We started together. We were supposed to do the half event and full Olympic distance together. Eventually, I knew we would try for the half IronMan. But I got injured, so we attended the race we were both supposed to complete. I took your photos. You suffered a bad abrasion. But we were both happy- you, for completing the race, and I, for learning to let go.

Now you’re way ahead of me. I’m happy for you. You got a spanking new bike at a great price. It was awesome. You were still, mostly, the same. You never boasted, and you got faster.

Then you told me, after signing up for this big race, that you were afraid of losing yourself in the sport, and I became afraid too. Because I’ve seen so many people lose themselves in the sport that I’m afraid of losing you, too. Their whole lives become enamoured with the glamour of the sport, revolve around it. There is carnal sense of pride when it comes to training, and it can be so time-consuming that it takes parts of you away, slowly, insidiously, without you knowing it. I should know- I lost myself before.

I’ve seen what the sport can do to people. It starts off as a healthy endeavour, but the seemingly supportive encouragement from the crowd makes it easy for one to mistake pride for freedom, makes it easy for one to lose oneself in the fray of best timings, latest wheelsets and fanciest bike models. Granted, these are all topics for conversation in a common hobby, but when does it go overboard?

I have been guilty. I have cancelled appointments and rearranged meetings just so I could fit my training in. Training, insidiously, became of such high priority. The scariest thing was that I could still reason how I was still faithful to my ministry at church, how I was still serving God faithfully, still close to Him. It was only after I got injured, that I saw how much of life I had missed, how much training had taken away from me.

And maybe I’m feeling sad and I’m recounting all of this because I’m expecting the worst, that I might lose you. I guess I’m just afraid that I might lose you to the thing we both thought was beautiful, and then I would lose you both, forever.

I’m just afraid, of how the sport could take away you from you, and me, too.

This is selfish, but I don’t want to lose another friend.

Once, I was not afraid. I held the sport in high regard and I plunged into it, head first. Once, triathlon was only glorious and beautiful- it epitomized perseverence, discipline and sportsmanship. But I learnt painfully, that some kinds of nobility come at a price, and sometimes, not that which everyone can pay for. And perhaps, part of me is also envious, that God allowed you, but not me to go the distance. Perhaps, part of me is still grieving that you are doing all the races I had wanted to do, too. And perhaps, the greatest grief came in knowing that all my sadness was but a glimpse into God’s grief when I made that mistake of allowing my focus to shift, if only for a while, if only for a bit.

And I'm afraid it may happen to you, too. Did He feel like He was losing me, too? Did You hurt that much for me, God?

He did not let me pay that obscene price.

I know how it is. There is the gruelling training programme to follow, work at school to keep up with, there is tiredness and a conflicting sense of discipline, and then there are friendships and family ties to maintain. Not everything goes smoothly. People-ties take time. I only just learnt, that how we honour the sport is how we honour God and the people in our lives. But I have skipped dinner with my parents before just so I could clock another training session. I have postponed appointments before just so I could finish a run. They were always understanding. But that was besides the point. This morning you said you replied to me late because you had to sleep early to go for a run- was that the beginning? I don't know. I'm afraid.

We talked about the Iron Man in London before. That’s a 1.9km swim, 180km bike ride and a 42.2km run. If you do go for it, would you be too busy for lunch? Would you become like the rest?

I passed you my heart rate monitor. I hated that contraption because it sucked out all the joy of triathlon for me. It’s use is to help one ensure one exercises within a certain heart rate zone, for maximal training efficiency. I bought that when I started getting serious, when everyone kept giving me their advice, kept pushing me this way and that. Maybe the insecure part of me needed approval. I got one cheaply. You were there when I got it. Now it’s yours, but I pray it never brings you the kind of misery it brought me.

There is hope. You confessed your fear before I did. And because of that, I think we can pray, that it will not take you away, that triathlon will always remain beautiful for us. Still, I must be prepared, that this could change our friendship forever, and I could lose you.

So I pray this for you, that in all you do, may God always be first in your life. May the sport develop you into a better person, push you into seeking God more fervently and passionately. May you never forget what triathlon means to the both of us, and may you always swim, bike and run with joy and freedom.

And someday, I hope to do a race again, too.

Triathlon is beautiful.

"Whenever I am afraid,
I will trust in You.
In God (I will praise His word),
In God I have put my trust;
I will not fear.
What can flesh do to me?"
-Psalm 56:3

Mirinda Carfrae, winner of the Women's 2010 KONA IronMan running towards the finish

Starfish.

I was half expecting her not to show up.

After all, people had been telling me over and over, “You can’t save the world.”

It made me think of the Starfish story our teachers used to tell us in school, about a little boy who would pick up stranded starfish every day and throw them back into the sea one by one. An old man scolded him and asked what difference his foolish actions made, to which the little boy replied as he threw back yet another starfish into the sea, "It makes a difference to this one."

Maybe she wouldn’t show up. Maybe, just like what everyone else was telling me, I was a fool for trying to help, and perhaps, even a fool for entertaining her, believing her story. Silly me.

Two days ago, while I was doing some reading at Starbucks, M, a 20-year old patient I had met some months ago called me. “You got twenty dollars to lend me? I need it. No money for transport.”

Later, after a tussle of words, she texted me, “You got church on Friday? I free. I want to go. Want to mit?”

I remember the day I first saw her at the hospital. Her skin was black and flaking, her hair was falling out and she looked like an old lady from afar. Her eczema was so bad that not a square inch of skin was spared. Her entire body was covered in dry, thick scales which peeled off her skin like old paint off an old tin roof.

Born in the Philippines, M was brought to Singapore, and adopted by an elderly Singaporean woman, who died on her 14th birthday after they had had a tiff. Her foster mother had gone out to buy a cake for her, and on turning back to pick up a key-chain made by M which she had dropped, got hit by a car. She died immediately. Since then, M started to work and live independently.

“Sure,” I said, “We can meet. Can I introduce you to my friend? From Social Service unit of my church. If you want a bit more help, she can help. Meet you at 3pm at the train station, okay?”

You can’t save the world. You’ll just get hurt. Don’t waste your time. See, that’s why you don’t have a boyfriend, you spend your time on all these people who waste your time. Go out, have some fun.

But there she was, standing there, drinking bubble tea from the shop nearby and a piece of Old Chang Kee chicken. “My first meal of the day. Need the sugar, no choice.”

Her hair had grown back a little but her skin was still dark, patchy and scaly. She looked grimy from head to toe, especially in her off-shoulder blouse and shorts. Now I understood why she got fired, because “Boss say customer see me also get scared. Kena sack lor.” Even the taxi driver and fruit stallholder seemed taken aback when they saw her.

The social worker and M talked for a long time. I sat there, with my back slumped- someone had told me to be prepared, that perhaps, all this was a hoax. Had I been stupid enough to believe her?

“Can I have your identity card?” said the social worker.

And there it said-Country of Origin: Philippines. Date of Birth: 1990.

She wasn’t lying. Even though her skin made her look 60, and the pains and reality of life made her sound as if she was 40, she was truly only 20. Younger than me and eking out a living for herself, living in a temporary shelter because she had the courage to stick by her promise she made to me the last time, “Ok, Wai Jia, I promise to leave the boy I am staying with. I promise to pray to God for a new lease of life.”

“Now,” said the social worker, “I just need to ask some personal questions about your expenditure if you don’t mind. How much do you spend on food daily?”

“Three dollars.”

“What?” I interrupted, “Three dollars for a meal you mean? She’s asking how much you spend a day on food.”

“Three dollars. I have one meal a day now. Can’t afford to spend more than that.”

I slumped back in my chair. Three dollars a day. Three dollars can’t buy a soy latte from Starbucks.

After taking a detailed history from her, the social worker disappeared. “I’ll see what I can do.”

So M and I talked. Or rather, she talked incessantly and I listened. Hers, was the obvious verbose one-sided conversation of someone who had not had heartfelt conversation for a long time. “Sorry I tok so much. At the shelter there, no one tok to me. Only got a lot of other sad people crying there, always I comfort them, tell them life not so bad la, can go on one. Sometimes I very bored, I tok to the Telly-Tubby my foster mother gave me when I was a kid. I still keep leh, so long already, one eye come out already. Purple colour one. The other colours so ugly. Last time you hit the tummy of the Telly Tubby it can say ‘I love you!’, budden now, cannot, so old already, so I tok to it lor. No one else to tok to. Sometimes I think I crazy already.”

The social worker returned, with forty dollars topped up in M’s transportation card.

I sat there, slightly stunned, fingering her pink identity card. She was real. Her story was consistent. Hers, was a genuine case.

M limped out of church. Her lower back was aching due to a urinary infection she had because of long hours at her old work place. She had just got a course of antibiotics from her doctor yesterday. As we left church, I stood amazed. I felt encouraged, I felt God’s presence as He walked with us out of the building. God had honoured me as I had honoured Him.

It made me think about all the things the other people had said, that she could’ve been a fake, that she might not show up, that there’re too many people in the world to help.

But she was real. She showed up. She asked for twenty, but got forty. She wanted my help, but got a social service unit to follow up with her. She said all the other medical social services at hospital and governmental community services had given up on her, but this one didn’t. She showed up. She is not a fake, and her life was certainly not “just another life”.

It was worth it. That two hours or so of my time was worth it. Every life is worth it. Just like how mine was worth it to God, that He had sent people to help me in my times of desperation.

As we walked out, I bought her a simple takeaway dinner, and as we passed a fruit shop, she casually looked at a watermelon. “Want one?” I asked.

“Ver long never eat already. So long.”

And as she bit into the long sliver of juicy goodness, she exclaimed in child-like amazement, “It’s sweet! It’s sweet!” as if she had not expected it to be so, just as how she had not expected her life to be so, too. Her moments of child-likeness betrayed the old-ness and tragic maturity she displayed most of the time, reminding me that in spite of all her hardships, she was all but 20.

As we parted, she said for the first time, “Thanks ah.”

And though I was tired, it made me happy to know my arms were sore for good reason, from throwing starfish back into the sea. After all, I was once a starfish, too.

"Since you are precious and honored in my sight,

and because I love you,

I will give men in exchange for you,

and people in exchange for your life."
-Isaiah 43:4

"But God demonstrates his own love for us in this:

While we were still sinners, He died for us."
-Romans 5:8

Crossing the road.

"Zhou yeye (Grandpa Zhou)," I called, then promptly sat down next to him. "Nihao (hello). Are you free this Wednesday?"

"Oh, Wednesday, I've to collect bread from the Community Centre. How about another day?"

"Huh. No no, this is a special day, you can collect bread another day. Aren't you TERRIFIED OF BREAD?" I asked, in mock drama.

"Ya, but the guy in charge of food distribution specially saves my portion for me. He tells me that every week, he puts my portion aside just for me."

Thus is the extent of Grandpa Zhou's consideration for others, and his loyalty. He keeps his word.

"Okay, on Wednesday, meet me here in the evening. We're going out for dinner!"

"Where to?"

"Anywhere you like!"

"Haha, I'll eat anything you eat. Just us?"

"No, I've invited 3 friends. 2 are a couple, of which the boy is the one who gave away all his New Year Day red packet money for your medical fees this whole year, and the other boy is someone who loves to help people too."

"I like to eat simple food. Very simple, because I have high cholesterol. Just bittergourd, or beansprouts, or fish soup. Simple food will do."

Bittergourd and beansprouts. Just the kind of food my father grew up eating. He used to tell us jokingly, it is a poor man's type of food, the cheapest one finds in the market.

"Okay, Grandpa Zhou, I've got to go, I bought milk and it'll go bad if I don't put it in the fridge soon."

"Oh, Wai Jia, look at this."

And he hands me a huge platter of sushi in a tray, with raw salmon and eel and egg and roe and the kind of topping I would never order because of its price. It was easily a twenty dollar platter.

" Yang ren (A Caucasian man) came and gave this to me. What is this? I don't eat raw fish, so here you go."

"It's sushi, Grandpa Zhou. This is good stuff! Haha, I don't eat raw fish either!"

The kindness of the Caucasian man touched me deeply even though I didn't see him. Yet, it was also a humbling reminder of the importance of connecting with the people we hope to bless. It reminded me, that to truly help, we must connect deeply enough to know the heart of the other person. (Grandpa Zhou doesn't eat raw fish!) This time, however, the language barrier must have been an issue and so I smiled at his kindness, this unknown man.

So Grandpa Zhou took all the sushi with cooked toppings, like egg and eel (I didn't tell him that was my favorite one!) and I took the loot home.

Before I left, he said to me, "Wai Jia, do you know what a bel-lor-ke is?"

"A bel-lor-ke?"

I thought it was some kind of animal.

"Oh!! You mean a BLOG!" I said in an epiphanous tone. "A blog! Yea, of course, I write one. It's like an online diary. I write about you, you know that right?"

"Yea. People know about me through your blog! Just some days ago, a girl called me Zhou yeye from behind, and I knew the voice wasn't yours. I asked her how she knew me, and she said she read your blog! Her name is Q, do you know her?"

"Haha, I don't! This is so funny! You're famous! A superstar!"

We burst out laughing.

It is always like this. Our conversations always start off with him showing me the receipts of his medical appointments, with us sharing a bit about our week, with a bit of food sometimes, with someone stopping to stare and overhear our conversation, and finally, prayer-usually me asking for some.

"Thank you for praying for my leg, Grandpa Zhou. I'm all healed. I went riding last night, I went so fast!"

"No pain at all?"

"Yup."

He nodded. He removed his cap and touched his bald head. I laughed, and so did he. "So shiny!" he cried, "I'll wear a cap on Wednesday for your friends okay? It's too shiny!"

We laughed some more.

"Grandpa Zhou, can you pray for me?"

"Of course."

"I am troubled by many things. I met someone lately. God made it very clear to me to go on a humanitarian weekend trip with him. But my folks say no. Too dangerous."

"Where to?"

"Manila."

"Oh dear. Ya, very dangerous. I concur. They just had the shooting incident there! Didn't you read?"

"I know, Grandpa Zhou. Everyone's been telling me how dangerous it is. But where is safety when there are needs? Often it's because of an unstable government and instability that results in children and people suffering. Where there is stability and ease to help, there won't be a real need for help. God has called me to this. Just like He called me to Nepal and all those other places that I went where there were earthquakes and political uprisings. This is not different. They said no before, but relented far later on. They don't seem relenting this time though. I want to respect them, but I am almost 24 and this is my calling. Therein lies the dilemma. "

"It's dangerous."

"I know. Precisely why the children are living in dumpsites and no one wants to go to that place. Precisely why they need help. Medical help. Cycling is dangerous. CROSSING THE ROAD is dangerous. It doesn't mean we don't do these things."

He sighed.

"Wai Jia... In this world..."

I cut him short. I was a little... angry, "I know, in this world, there're too many people to help right? I know. But those who are presented to us, we must. "

I was still a little overwhelmed by the course of things of late. All that helping- working on A Taste of Rainbow to reach out to people suffering from depression, working with students and the Deanery to come up with better mental health support for my faculty after my classmate passed away unexpectedly, M (an ex-patient) calling me up for twenty dollars, and the children of Manila whom my new-found photographer friend told me about. Just please, take a look at his album for one moment. I thought about my friend who told me I was foolish, that I ought to just sleep and wake up realising that I can't save this world.

I was a little angry. A little.

Grandpa Zhou was silent. He wrenched his fingers. I knew what he was thinking. It is dangerous. But God has given her signs to go. She is always taking risks to help people. But she has a point, it is those people whom others need to risk to help who are in dire need. I think she shouldn't help so many people. But... she helped me.

It was all over his face. It was in his coarse, wringing hands.

"Okay, " he relented. "I'll pray for you."

He never only says it. He always prays on the spot, aloud, unlike people who say I'll-pray-for-you as a nicey way to end a conversation.

"Dear Father in Heaven, please let Wai Jia go to Manila because she wants to help the people there. It is very dangerous, the situation there is very messy but I pray that you will protect her. Please help her help the children. Please make a way."

I had tea with Mr Ho, my ex-teacher whom Kitesong is dedicated to that afternoon. I shared with him my passion, my dilemma, because every significant event which happened in my life which was worthwhile pursuing came with resistance from authority. They said no to Nepal, no to Kitesong, no to Rainbow- and I understand. They were foolish requests. But I am foolish girl sold to this cause and I would rather die on the field than sit here sleeping every night thinking about children picking up trash to eat while I buy a soy latte from Starbucks. I cannot stand it.

My friend once commented that I am scary when I'm chasing the Big Boys on my bike. Well, it's because when I'm riding with the Big Boys, all that energy to keep up at 40kmph comes from the frustration of seeing the injustices of this world. It's pure injustice, and I hate it.

Mr Ho sent me home on his BMW motorbike. He was a little worried I wouldn't be used to the ride. What he didn't know was that I love motorbikes, with the wind in my hair and the crazy times in Nepal and Kalimantan I would ride pillion over the dirty roads and through small alleys.

"You're a natural," he said, a bit surprised.

I had asked him about Manila. "I need to be my own person, Mr Ho. And besides, isn't riding a motorbike when you've a wife and 2 kids dangerous?"

"Yea, it comes with risks. Knowing the risks helps you to be more astute and to deal with them. You've got to take other people's advice, but at the end, it's you who has to make your own choice. And suffer the consequences if need be."

I thought about the stack of letters I had determined myself to write to different people because I don't know when I'll leave. I might die on the road one day, or in the mission field. Somehow I never imagine myself dying in my sleep- it is always a dramatic, bloodsplattering, tragic end. And I want people to know that it was a good life. I enjoyed it and will enjoy afterlife even more. And to please put lots of rainbow-coloured balloons during my funeral with Coldplay and David Crowder playing in the background, and yes, to please publish whatever that was in the process of being published, ha.

"Okay, thanks Grandpa Zhou. Wait here for me on Wednesday, okay? You're a superstar, we'll get a car to fetch you. We'll have something simple and something nice."

"Okay."

And I scuttle off across the busy road, back to my home. Because they're roads we need to cross in life.

" So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything, and followed Him"

-Luke 5:11

Respect.

I heard about her during a running clinic I had attended yesterday. Everyone present had an old injury and were hoping to learn pain-free running. I ran alongside a Canadian triathlete going for a training course with KONA 2010 Champion Mirinda Carfrae. "Chrissie didn't compete this year," she told me.

"Who's Chrissie?" I said, ignorantly.

The KONA IronMan World Championships just ended. The IronMan consists of a 1.9km swim, a 180km bike ride, and a full 42.2km marathon back-to-back-to-back. This year, all-time favourite, nine-time IronMan race winner, and three-time KONA champion Chrissie Wellington didn't compete. She fell ill.

Thinking about the amount of time, passion and dedication invested in her hobby, sport and career, I can hardly begin to imagine the amount of anguish, disappointment and grief she must have felt on waking up only days before the event, the event she had trained and aimed for all year round, which her friends, family, supporters and nation had supported her to not only complete, but win.

A headache and a bad throat comes in forefront of a background of endless hours of gruelling training over the past year. What does one do? All that brutal training all gone down the drain. Or has it?

In life, the unexpected often happens. You plan for further studies but your mum falls prey to cancer. You plan a trip but an earthquake happens there. Life is foiler of our best made plans.

Have you ever had to let go of something you thought you couldn't? Or do you see these "foiled" moments as opportunities for growth and self-reflection?

She didn't compete. And for that, for her response to not competing, she has earnt my respect. In that decision, she has brought glory to the sport. She set an example for others, budding athletes and professionals, as well as normal people like us, to love and respect our body and to honour the sport.

For all that triathlon represented-her life and career and heart and soul, she didn't let it possess her. Instead, in view of circumstances, she let it go. She had amazing strength, but more importantly, beautiful, beautiful courage. She had the maturity, courage and humility to say, not this year. She understood what it meant- the letting go of something she had pressed on so hard for, with the risk of disppointing many who had placed their hopes and invested themselves in her. In spite of all that pressure, she said no.

I have seen many, many people go on race day with an illness or injury, because they couldn't let it go. To me, that is dishonouring the sport. Triathlon teaches us to respect our body, there is no other way to finish a triathlon- I should know. There are still a few more races I'd like to do which I have yet to complete.

When people talk about "loving their bodies" or "loving themselves", they tend to mean the external appearance. After all, how many times have you heard people hating their thighs, or their hair or their legs. I am guilty. But your loving your body also means its inside bits, not just the soul or the spirit, but the ligaments, the arteries, the muscles- everything unseen.

Riding at 40kmph again taught me the importance of respecting one's body. The Big boys did 3 loops down the coast. I did 2. And that was enough. I went home and finished studying what I had set out to study that day. That is honouring the sport. It is giving it its proper time and place in our lives.

And in doing that, we honour God.

In the previous video, in spite of how inspiring it all was, I was disturbed when the man said he was "happy" only when he had finished those races. I like to believe that the happiness came more from the journey of understanding himself and loving his community than from its achievements. Reading this about honouring one's body and one's sport was, to say the least, inspiring.

I still wake up some days wishing I had better legs, that I could run or swim or bike better, that my hair wasn't so dry and I was leaner, but more importantly, I've come to enjoy steak and the occasional burger every once in a while, and learn the importance of loving and respecting my body, inside and out. It means being able to push it, to allow some indulgence, and being able to say no, and to let go.

2011 will be a new race year.

"For you created my inmost being,

You knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

Your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you

When I was made in the secret place.

When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

Your eyes saw my unformed body.

All the days ordained for me,

Were written in your book, before one of them came to be..

How precious to me are your thoughts, O God!

How vast is the sum of them!

Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.

When I awake, I am still with you.

- Psalm 139: 13-18