“If I can tailor my advice to UMMP students, one of the most important things you should do is prepare for your anatomy and physiology lab sessions. Otherwise, you could not maximise the benefits from the sessions. If you don’t have time to go through the lecture notes before the sessions, I suggest watching videos on YouTube. They’re usually more concise, and cover everything in a shorter period of time. It’s the most important thing ever; otherwise you’re just wasting your time going to the sessions because you will not understand anything. So make sure to read first!” Prashwin Singh A/L Tejpal Singh MBBS 21/26 What are some non-typical study tips you swear by? What is your favourite way to unwind after a long day of studying? “If I'm tired, then definitely a long nap would be nice, but if I'm not, then probably playing badminton or just simply walk around the nature would be nice.” Justin Khor Lheng How MBBS 21/26 “Set goal(s) during each study session and reward yourself after achieving them - it can be anything from having your favourite snacks to going out and having fun with your friends!” Ang Ern Ling MBBS 21/26 DEAN'S L ISTERS’ TIPS & GUIDES
CCRREEAATTIIVVEE CCOORRNNEERR
WILDFLOWER BY FELICIA LEE ROU SHAN “We will grow like a wildflower, happy and without worry, for I knew that, wherever we go, we grow.”
《等一个真正的春天》 一只大雁在等 等一个真正的春天 它沐浴着冬日的暖阳 匆匆地收拾着行囊 大雁啊大雁 为何相信那短暂的温暖 不是一份欺骗的偶然 几只大雁在等 等一个真正的春天 它们飞向了冬日的暖阳 匆匆地回到了北方 那里有他们的一切幻想 温柔的家乡 习惯的食粮 大雁啊大雁 为何不问那向往的蓝天白云 背后是否藏着厌恶无知的 暴雪 一群大雁在等 等一个真正的春天 等他们僵死在雪地里的身体 发出 给其他大雁的 警告 等一个真正的春天 BY FOO JIA MIN “This poem uses the imagery of geese awaiting spring’s arrival to represent humans’ pursuit of beauty. Yet, just as the geese are deceived by the short-lived warmth of winter sun, humans are easily fooled by the beautiful façade that cloaks the truth. This cautionary tale reminds us to ponder deeply and not be beguiled by falsehood.”
ATHENS, 430 B.C. i. I had never seen the likes of the first patients who crawled up the steps to the sanctuary, at least not in my twenty-one years of life. Their foreheads and eyes burned with fever, their bodies weak and dry from bloody flux. After mere days, masses of pustules erupted on their skin, eventually blistering into disfiguring ulcers. We were in the midst of a raging war with Sparta, had been under siege for a year now. Our small Asclepeia, the healing sanctuary in the shadow of the mighty Acropolis, had been founded by a well-meaning noble to stem the mighty tide of illness that had swept over Athens. The building was constructed of the finest marble, with plenty of room for fresh air & sunlight to enter. But all of its finery, its ideas of rebirth and rejuvenation, now seemed like a mockery in the face of this curse. “We must pray to Apollo Acesos, the Great Physician. Surely his healing power flows in this place,” I said to the man I was attending to, handing him the bowl of willow-bark tea to relieve his pain. He had been here for five days, but his condition was rapidly deteriorating. I knew not what else I could do to comfort him, as none of our books contained anything regarding this affliction. We had tried all the medicinal herbs we could — aconite, myrtle, wormwood, mandrake — but nothing had prevailed. Antheia nodded in agreement. She was the only other woman working in the sanctuary, and was like a sister to me. She wrapped a fresh bandage around his leg, her dark eyes wide in concern. “Pray? Pah!” He spat at my feet, before downing the tea in a single gulp. The smell of vinegar from his wound-dressings was strong, but the smell of rotting flesh underneath was unmistakable. “The gods are dead, girl. Dead, or else they have abandoned us all. They... they favour those Spartan dogs, do you hear?” While I had been taught that disease itself did not come from heavenly realms, I swallowed and nodded in understanding. It was not too long ago that our great leader Pericles had died, and all his sons with him, striking fear through every Athenian’s heart. The war that we were once so confident we would win, we were now losing at an alarming rate. This rising tide of sickness was drowning us all — men, women and children, regardless of age, social status or piety to the gods. The man died a few days later, crying for his mother. We burned his body quickly, as more like him were arriving. People clamoured to be healed, arriving in droves for accommodation in our blessed sanctuary. I was hopeful that we could save more. Indeed, we all believed we would eventually be able to contend with this disease, with our increasing knowledge and experience. But we were ignorant of its deadly nature: the next person perished in the same way, as did the next. Even those we managed to save, barely looked human in the end — covered in weeping sores, struck blind by the gods, gone delirious from their own pain and misery. Yet so many died alone in the streets, no one willing to care for them in fear of catching the illness next. Over the next few weeks, I was lucky enough to be afflicted with a milder form of the disease. I was heavily scarred, but did not fall sick again, and was able to continue caring for others. Epidēmos, I wrote in my notes day by day, as droves of patients threw themselves on our floors. Upon the people, an epidemic. EPIDĒMOS BY WONG ZHU SHI “The year is 430 B.C. A new, deadly disease is burning its way through the great city of Athens. Young Ianthe is working with her fellow healers in the sanctuary to contend with it, but will their efforts be enough?”
ii. I wish with all my soul that I could say our conditions improved, that the nation was healed, that we emerged victorious from our struggle with the Spartans. But under relentless pressure from the enemy, the people crowded further inland. Our city walls, once standing proud and strong, had now become a trap from which there was no escape. My heart ached for those we had to turn away — there was simply not enough room to treat them all. In those days, we were under a death sentence. Patients well enough to stand would line up to sacrifice their prize cattle day by day, in hopes the gods would have mercy on us now. Smoke rose in columns towards the sky, from our gilded altar. But the blood of all the goats and bulls in the world could not save them from their skin splitting open into deep, festering wounds, as they choked on their own vomit. People became indifferent to the rule of law, of caring for others. Some shoved themselves to the front of the sanctuary crowds, trampling weaker others in their way. Others offered us vast sums of money they had recently inherited from their dead relatives, in an effort to be treated first. They hardly expected to live long, honourable lives, anyhow. What was the use of keeping all their possessions with them? The Asclepeia became a place of misery, of relentless chanting and prayers — a bleak mirror of the city it stood in. The number of corpses grew day by day. Funeral pyres burned at every street corner, turning the night sky blood-red. Even the flies and maggots stayed away, as if they too knew we were cursed. One by one, my fellow healers died around me, some from the lethal disease, some from pure exhaustion. Antheia found that she had been afflicted; she hanged herself from a cedar tree behind the sanctuary, in an effort to escape the indignity of a death like the others. I found her at dawn, and buried her quietly, but had no curses for what some might see as selfishness or cowardice. I remember feeling my heart pounding in my chest, as the tears dried on my cheeks. For the first time, I knew with certainty that the gods were against us.
iii. After a year, the epidēmos seemed to subside. Fewer people came in search of healing, all the hope crushed out of them a long time ago. Even the air still had a sickening stillness to it. Most of the Spartans had retreated from the land, not wanting to risk contact with our diseased, fallen city. But not all, as I found while cleaning the temple steps the following summer. “You, girl. What is your name?” The leader of the band of soldiers pointed at me. His voice was rough, with a thick foreign accent. “They call me Ianthe, my lord.” I pulled my shawl over my head and kneeled, averting my eyes. The image of corpses being kicked into mass graves flashed in my mind, making me shudder. Apollo, O Great Healer, I gazed up at the marble figure beside me, my tongue dry in my mouth. I have done all I can for my city and its people. Have mercy on your servant, do not let me fall into the hands of those who would seek to harm me. The statue looked back down at me, its empty eyes cold. All of a sudden, I felt very small. Was it not indeed an oracle who had predicted that Apollo favoured Sparta? I knew I was being superstitious, but the dread in my stomach had paralysed my thoughts. There was a moment of tension, as the soldiers conferred amongst themselves. I counted ten of them. Surely they did not intend to kill me? “Rise, my daughter.” The leader turned, and his tone changed to one of gruff respect. “Ianthe Asclepiadeia.” Of Asclepius. A professional title, reserved only for men whose fathers had been doctors, and their fathers before them. I was surprised at the respect they had for me, a young, unmarried woman from a city they had conquered. I raised my head, slowly getting to my feet. “Thank you, my lord.” “It is truly remarkable that you have survived your affliction. Now you will teach our healers your ways.” He motioned for me to follow him. “We will give you a new home, a new sanctuary. Our nation needs gifted — blessed people like yourself, to grow and prosper.” I knew they were the enemies of my city. But I had no part in this war, or any of its politics. The gods may have abandoned Athens, but in the end, my highest allegiance was to my calling as a healer, no matter who I served. I nodded, holding the pouch of herbs I carried with me. I murmured the words of the solemn oath I had taken, into the chilling emptiness of the sanctuary: May I gain forever reputation among all men for my life and for my art. “Very well. I have much to teach you.”
CONVICTION BY SHAZA ALYSSA BINTI SHAHRONI “I never really noticed that I had to decide To play someone’s game, or live my own life And now I do; I wanna move Out of the black, into the blue”
LEARN ABOUT RMP! BY KOH ZI YI “The resting membrane potential (RMP) of a cell is defined as the difference in electrical potential across the plasma membrane when the cell is not stimulated or when the cell is in a state of relaxation. In some excitable cells, action potentials are generated by voltage-gated ion channels in the plasma membrane. Let’s learn about some examples of mechanism which uses RMP today!”
LION DANCE BY HOR YE HONG “The Lion Dance is a staple of Chinese New Year celebrations, said to bring luck and fortune to those who witness its graceful enactments. This is my way of upholding an age old tradition.”
I CAN (D)O LAH! BY NAYLEE IZZATI BINTI ZAMRI “This illustration shows a pre-clinical medical student tentatively inserting a cannula into a model arm. With a mixture of nerves and determination, she embarks on a journey of learning and growth. This experience marks the beginning of her medical career, reminding her that practice and time will enhance her skills.”
CHINI BY HUDA DINI AQILAH BINTI AZIZI REDZA “Pahang's folklore of the guardian dragon in Tasik Chini.”
WOMAN IN RED BY GUNN WEI XUE “This is an art study off an image to train brush techniques and observational skills. Used varied brush types to give different textures. Snuck in some violet and greens around the eyes. Desaturated colours where bright lights hit.”
Your hands tremble as they rest in mine. You say, "Love…" You stop, stall with a sigh as you mull over the words in your mind again. You try again, "Dear…" This time, you can't continue because my vision blurs. My cheeks redden. My face swells with warmth. "Oh lovely child, my daughter, what is wrong?" I would rip my mouth open to tell you the truth but the words dissipate into gasps as the first of my tears land on your wrinkly hands; hands that have soothed my furrowed eyebrows into peaceful sleep, my unruly hair into neat braids. I shake my head, and lower my eyes. Your gaze - brimming with delicate sympathy I have seen being poured into others as if you are limitless - is piercing me like an arrow, a clean shot through my heart. "Oh, my sweet child. I only wish for you to be a good doctor. Do your work for God." Nevermind that I would never truly know what it means to be good. It's easier if you had said safe, or kind, or fun, even. Good. Oh, nevermind that I find myself curled up on my praying mat - so lost, so vindictive that I cower like a child as I pray. I hug the holy book as if I want it embedded in me; keep me rooted - please God, keep me clean. God. I kiss your forehead - as you have done to me for years and years, every drowsy morning before I carry your hopes and half-dashed dreams into classrooms, labs, workshops. ENOUGH BY NUR AMIRAH SALWANA BINTI ABDUL WAHIB “The exchange between two women, bounded by blood and the heartwrenching reality hidden behind their words.“
Oh, mother. Since when have I become the pillar and you, the tired soul leaning for strength? Since when have I stopped crying into your hugs and wipe your damp cheeks, instead? You tell me that I'm a great listener; it's a strength of mine that'll make me a good (there it is, again) doctor. You convinced me - as if it's fact, though I never hear that from another's tongue. But mother - how is it then that I do not know of the loneliness reverbing through your voice at the other end of the phone? How is it that you lie to me so easily ('I'm fine', clockwork) - as if I'm a child, naively hanging onto every word you say! "I'll try." I spit out the words through sniffles and wet, chortling sobs. Your smile shakes at the corners of your lips - do you realize that, mother? Can you tell me what it means? "That is enough. You are enough." I do not deserve your gentle soul. Your soothing touch settles this ache residing in my chest into something tame, fuzzy. How I wish I have that magic in me, as well. I look at you and see how strong a person can be, how selfless; patient. You say I inherit your looks the most out of us five. How I wish I was bequeathed your lively spirit instead - that teethgritting perseverance of yours. I'm 22 this year, mother. I have spent a little more of two decades in this earth. Yet, this 22 years old daughter of yours is holding back tears over her own words; words that I wish you feel with every hug, kiss - the simple touch of our hands holding onto each other, before you shy away and blame the sweat on your palm. Let me be enough, if not for the world - then for you, mother.
HIGHL IGHTS OF THE YEAR
OF THE YEAR
STAGE 1
S S ST T TA A AG G GE E E 2 2 2
SSTTAAGGEE 33..11
STAGE 3.2
S S ST T TA A AG G GE E E 3 3 3. . .3 3 3
Ahmad Ikhwan bin Mohd Azali “No longer a fake doctor” Family medicine Ammar Hariz bin Ahmad Razmy “What's meant for me, will never miss me” Anaesthesiology / Psychiatry Anisha Gill A/P Awtar Singh Azalea binti Muhammad Yusof Chee Sher Weyne Kenneth Loh Jia Juin Darren Yap Weng Hong Eileen Chin Siew Man Ho Ming Hui Koshni A/P Ravi Kwong Yi Vern Liew Chao Jie
Liew Wei Lun Lim Zhan Foong Mayghen Selvanayagam Mohammad Haikal Bin Kushahrin Sadikin Muhammad Akmal Bin Ahmad Hatim Muhammad Faris Naim Bin Asmunni Nandhinee A/P Nadarajah Naven A/L Mahalingam Nazlin Adlina Binti Mohd Mahyudin Ngio Hua Yi Noor Elyna Binti Mohd Abdul Latif Nornatasya Binti Mohammad Rosli
Soh Keng Ying Nur Azri Azira Binti Johari Nur Syakira Binti Omar Ong Wei Ting Phoon Leon Rabiatul Adawiyah Binti Rashdi Santia K.Lingam Sharini A/P Sekaran Naven A/L Mahalingam Tan Chai Xian Tan Peek Shi Tharvhind A/L Surendran
Ungku Eisya Ereena Binti Ungku Mohd Shahrin Yeoh Xiao Qing Ong Wei Ting Phoon Leon Rabiatul Adawiyah Binti Rashdi Santia K.Lingam Sharini A/P Sekaran Naven A/L Mahalingam Soh Keng Ying Tan Chai Xian Tan Peek Shi Tharvhind A/L Surendran
WARMEST THANKS TO ALEEYA NATASYA BINTI SHAHRUL IMRAN NURUL ‘AISYAH LUTFAH BINTI MOHAMAD BEKARI NURUL HUSNA BINTI MUHAMMAD AMIRUL CHANG ALI HYDAR BIN HAFIZI TANG YI LE HOR YE HONG RAY SHUQREE BIN SHAJARATUDDUR TEH HUI MIN PACEMAKER TEAM PACEMAKER'S ADVISOR ASSOCIATE PROF. DR. MUHAMMAD FAZRIL MOHAMAD RAZIF ARTICLE WRITERS HWONG JIN LOK NATALIE ENG PRIYANKA A/P SEKARAN ANNABELLE JU ZHEN YI JEFFREY TEE WEI YANG LIM YEE EN OWEN WOO TSEN WEN KHOR LYNETTE MUHAMMAD AZAD BIN MOHD PAUZI TAN WEI ZHEN AMANDA LEONG AWANGKU HAZIQ FADLI BIN AWANGKU MASPARBU NUR NABIHAH BINTI MOHAMAD ZAINI GANGA RUBINI A/P G.SANGAL RAHUL RAJ SURAJ TAN MIN YEN DEAN'S LISTERS’ TIPS & GUIDES CONTRIBUTORS JOEL IMBERT NESAN A/L DANNY NESAN TEE RAY XIANG PON XHAO JUAN CHING WOON HIN JUSTIN KHOR LHENG HOW PRASHWIN SINGH A/L TEJPAL SINGH ANG ERN LING INTERVIEW DR. ADRIANA TAN CREATIVE CORNER CONTRIBUTORS FELICIA LEE ROU SHAN FOO JIA MIN WONG ZHU SHI SHAZA ALYSSA BINTI SHAHRONI KOH ZI YI HOR YE HONG NAYLEE IZZATI BINTI ZAMRI HUDA DINI AQILAH BINTI AZIZI REDZA GUNN WEI XUE NUR AMIRAH SALWANA BINTI ABDUL WAHIB HIGHLIGHTS OF THE YEAR CONTRIBUTORS FELICIA LEE ROU SHAN FOO JIA MIN WONG ZHU SHI SHAZA ALYSSA BINTI SHAHRONI KOH ZI YI HOR YE HONG NAYLEE IZZATI BINTI ZAMRI HUDA DINI AQILAH BINTI AZIZI REDZA GUNN WEI XUE NUR AMIRAH SALWANA BINTI ABDUL WAHIB