polychromatic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
polychromatic) wrote2019-01-15 08:21 pm
polychromatic) wrote2019-01-15 08:21 pm
chinese food and chinese dads
Alas, the cough persists! Although I have regained a croaky version of my regular voice - enough to make an attempt at being back to work now that I can feasibly hold a conversation and be heard over the phone. All these years my philosophy with work has been "if you show up and they send you home, then you probably need a sick day." And so, in the five years since I have embarked on this career, I have gone to work with a minor concussion, a nasty cat bite that required IV antibiotics, any number of raging headaches and stomach cramps, as well as your run-of-the-mill cold, flu, and gastrointestinal disasters. Well, joke's on me! It turns out that having a voice is kind of vital to my carrying out my veterinarian duties! So I texted my amazing bosses that my inability to speak may impede my effectiveness as a veterinarian and they arranged to cover my shift so I could take one of these fabled "sick days".
But I am no layabout! My parents raised me to show up and fulfill whatever duty is expected of me, sick days be damned!
(Except for that one time my dad told me to stay home and take a mental health break back when I had a job where sick days weren't just an impossible dream. My dad really loves me, you see, but we'll cover that later).
(Also my mom always gets very upset on my behalf when I explain to her why I can't just call in a sick day whenever I'm not well, on account of there not really being "last-minute substitute veterinarian"" system in place and our patients need to be seen and the hospital needs an income to pay all the staff, etc etc. Because she also really loves me. So, basically my parents were probably only tough on the concept of "sick days" when I was a child and they thought I might be faking it. But I digress.)
So with great confidence, I texted the head receptionist yesterday that although I would sound hoarser than chain-smoker, I was definitely going to be at work today. I walked in with a smile and croaked out a hello to the reception team this morning and assured them I was just fine.
.... that illusion lasted all of ten minutes, when a particularly bad coughing fit had me sprinting for the one bathroom located in the reception area. I emerged with my surgical face mask firmly in place (leaning hard into that Asian stereotype) and watery eyes, and their sympathetic looks told me that there was no way they could even politely pretend to ignore all the retching noises they'd been forced to listen to. Our head receptionist (one of the partners of the clinic) didn't miss a beat. "Let's take a look at your day and see what we can do," she said, like this wasn't going to throw a massive wrench in the day to be able to offer less appointments when we are usually booked solid with a waiting list of irate clients. But she blocked off the few emergency spots I had left and called a number of clients to try and get them in earlier so I could come home and collapse in a heap while my loyal cat continues to throw me irritated looks when a coughing fit interrupts her twenty-third catnap of the day.
The whole day everyone was lovely and sympathetic to me. One of the technicians kept bringing me cups of "throat-soothe" tea, everyone tried to minimize how much I had to speak and checked in on me. My clients almost uniformly thanked me for seeing them and tacked on a "I really hope you feel better soon!" And one of my bosses finished her procedures early and offered to cover my late afternoon appointments because she wanted me home to rest and recover.
These are the times when I pinch myself and think "I still can't believe I work here. I don't deserve it!"
Of course there are the less pleasant occurrences, like the man who arrived screaming about his dog getting into a cocaine pipe and refusing our urgent advice to take the dog to the emergency clinic. Or our phone provider being down and only some calls getting through, which many clients reacted to by flooding the receptionists with rude e-mails. But that kind of thing would happen at any veterinary clinic. Also I really believe everyone should be forced to work a customer service job once in their life so that they might deign to remember that there are human beings on the other end who are honestly trying their best to make things work.
----------------------------------------
My being sick has also been another reminder about just how wonderful my parents really are. The older I get, the more I'm exposed to the various dysfunctional relationships that can exist within families. And I won't pretend those same dysfunctions don't exist in my relationships with some of my extended family. But my parents and I? We are totally solid.
(Oh god, please let me not have jinxed it.)
I live close but not too close to my parents - enough that it's easy enough to drop by, but only if you really feel like it. So upon hearing that I was sick, they came on five different occasions between the two of them to ensure I had some kind of nutrition, or to drop off various nutraceuticals or health-boosting gadgets. They checked in with me frequently to track my progress and my dad probably would have been by to cook every meal for me if I had asked. He's never been the kind of person to be very demonstrative with affection, but the one way he does it is through his cooking. When he made me a massive pot of soup filled with healthy ingredients that he'd chopped up into small pieces to make it easier to swallow,that was his way of telling me how much he loves me.
So of course when I watched Ang Lee's Eat Drink Man Woman last night on a whim, I was a bit verklempt. Because that's my dad. He's not a professional chef by any means, though many of my early memories have me sitting in the back kitchen of some kind of fast food or restaurant joint he used to work at. But he loves to cook for people, loves to watch them eat his food and see the enjoyment on their faces. I still joke about the time he came to visit me in Australia for two weeks and how my housemates were sadder than I was when he left because they'd gotten used to him cooking three hot meals and various snacks throughout the day for us and our friends. Cooking is how he communicates to us that he cares, and it's not unusual for him to call me and say in Cantonese "Have you eaten yet?", because that's how he checks up on me.
My dad is also frustratingly like the father character in the movie in that all his recipes are in his head. Many a time I asked him to give me a recipe while I was in Australia, craving some of that home-cooked taste, and every time I had to throw in the towel because his instructions were almost impossible to follow and he'd usually end with "I don't have a recipe, I just know." Unfortunately I do not have an innate talent for cooking or admittedly any kind of inclination to spend a ton of time in the kitchen. One Christmas my parents (but really my dad) asked me to buy them a sous vide, and I asked for some recipes of the staple dishes I grew up with in exchange. I have yet to receive anything more than a list of ingredients ("That's basically a recipe!" my mom insists) despite all the badgering, and part of me is terrified that if I don't get them, that's a huge chunk of my childhood - of my parents - lost. Every once in awhile I resolve to sit in the kitchen with him and take notes and try to quantify things in a way he never has in cooking, because I know my limits.
I wouldn't say that I see our relationship reflected exactly in the way the father and the middle daughter interacted in the movie, but there was certainly a rocky period between us when his own complicated relationship with his mother was breaking down and my life was very much in limbo, living at home with a decent, steady job but no great career options . But as I've gotten older and more settled about my own place in life and (crucially, I think) moved out, our relationship has only improved. I'm also much more aware now that he is getting older, and the idea that one day he may not be around is something I can't even consider at this time. So now we argue about who shovels when it snows (I usually win and am rewarded with a meal), or who will carry a heavy suitcase up the stairs (he usually wins, it's a matter of pride). And when he asks me to come over for dinner, I rarely say no anymore because now I can recognize the meaning behind it.
But I am no layabout! My parents raised me to show up and fulfill whatever duty is expected of me, sick days be damned!
(Except for that one time my dad told me to stay home and take a mental health break back when I had a job where sick days weren't just an impossible dream. My dad really loves me, you see, but we'll cover that later).
(Also my mom always gets very upset on my behalf when I explain to her why I can't just call in a sick day whenever I'm not well, on account of there not really being "last-minute substitute veterinarian"" system in place and our patients need to be seen and the hospital needs an income to pay all the staff, etc etc. Because she also really loves me. So, basically my parents were probably only tough on the concept of "sick days" when I was a child and they thought I might be faking it. But I digress.)
So with great confidence, I texted the head receptionist yesterday that although I would sound hoarser than chain-smoker, I was definitely going to be at work today. I walked in with a smile and croaked out a hello to the reception team this morning and assured them I was just fine.
.... that illusion lasted all of ten minutes, when a particularly bad coughing fit had me sprinting for the one bathroom located in the reception area. I emerged with my surgical face mask firmly in place (leaning hard into that Asian stereotype) and watery eyes, and their sympathetic looks told me that there was no way they could even politely pretend to ignore all the retching noises they'd been forced to listen to. Our head receptionist (one of the partners of the clinic) didn't miss a beat. "Let's take a look at your day and see what we can do," she said, like this wasn't going to throw a massive wrench in the day to be able to offer less appointments when we are usually booked solid with a waiting list of irate clients. But she blocked off the few emergency spots I had left and called a number of clients to try and get them in earlier so I could come home and collapse in a heap while my loyal cat continues to throw me irritated looks when a coughing fit interrupts her twenty-third catnap of the day.
The whole day everyone was lovely and sympathetic to me. One of the technicians kept bringing me cups of "throat-soothe" tea, everyone tried to minimize how much I had to speak and checked in on me. My clients almost uniformly thanked me for seeing them and tacked on a "I really hope you feel better soon!" And one of my bosses finished her procedures early and offered to cover my late afternoon appointments because she wanted me home to rest and recover.
These are the times when I pinch myself and think "I still can't believe I work here. I don't deserve it!"
Of course there are the less pleasant occurrences, like the man who arrived screaming about his dog getting into a cocaine pipe and refusing our urgent advice to take the dog to the emergency clinic. Or our phone provider being down and only some calls getting through, which many clients reacted to by flooding the receptionists with rude e-mails. But that kind of thing would happen at any veterinary clinic. Also I really believe everyone should be forced to work a customer service job once in their life so that they might deign to remember that there are human beings on the other end who are honestly trying their best to make things work.
----------------------------------------
My being sick has also been another reminder about just how wonderful my parents really are. The older I get, the more I'm exposed to the various dysfunctional relationships that can exist within families. And I won't pretend those same dysfunctions don't exist in my relationships with some of my extended family. But my parents and I? We are totally solid.
(Oh god, please let me not have jinxed it.)
I live close but not too close to my parents - enough that it's easy enough to drop by, but only if you really feel like it. So upon hearing that I was sick, they came on five different occasions between the two of them to ensure I had some kind of nutrition, or to drop off various nutraceuticals or health-boosting gadgets. They checked in with me frequently to track my progress and my dad probably would have been by to cook every meal for me if I had asked. He's never been the kind of person to be very demonstrative with affection, but the one way he does it is through his cooking. When he made me a massive pot of soup filled with healthy ingredients that he'd chopped up into small pieces to make it easier to swallow,that was his way of telling me how much he loves me.
So of course when I watched Ang Lee's Eat Drink Man Woman last night on a whim, I was a bit verklempt. Because that's my dad. He's not a professional chef by any means, though many of my early memories have me sitting in the back kitchen of some kind of fast food or restaurant joint he used to work at. But he loves to cook for people, loves to watch them eat his food and see the enjoyment on their faces. I still joke about the time he came to visit me in Australia for two weeks and how my housemates were sadder than I was when he left because they'd gotten used to him cooking three hot meals and various snacks throughout the day for us and our friends. Cooking is how he communicates to us that he cares, and it's not unusual for him to call me and say in Cantonese "Have you eaten yet?", because that's how he checks up on me.
My dad is also frustratingly like the father character in the movie in that all his recipes are in his head. Many a time I asked him to give me a recipe while I was in Australia, craving some of that home-cooked taste, and every time I had to throw in the towel because his instructions were almost impossible to follow and he'd usually end with "I don't have a recipe, I just know." Unfortunately I do not have an innate talent for cooking or admittedly any kind of inclination to spend a ton of time in the kitchen. One Christmas my parents (but really my dad) asked me to buy them a sous vide, and I asked for some recipes of the staple dishes I grew up with in exchange. I have yet to receive anything more than a list of ingredients ("That's basically a recipe!" my mom insists) despite all the badgering, and part of me is terrified that if I don't get them, that's a huge chunk of my childhood - of my parents - lost. Every once in awhile I resolve to sit in the kitchen with him and take notes and try to quantify things in a way he never has in cooking, because I know my limits.
I wouldn't say that I see our relationship reflected exactly in the way the father and the middle daughter interacted in the movie, but there was certainly a rocky period between us when his own complicated relationship with his mother was breaking down and my life was very much in limbo, living at home with a decent, steady job but no great career options . But as I've gotten older and more settled about my own place in life and (crucially, I think) moved out, our relationship has only improved. I'm also much more aware now that he is getting older, and the idea that one day he may not be around is something I can't even consider at this time. So now we argue about who shovels when it snows (I usually win and am rewarded with a meal), or who will carry a heavy suitcase up the stairs (he usually wins, it's a matter of pride). And when he asks me to come over for dinner, I rarely say no anymore because now I can recognize the meaning behind it.