Lam is better when he emphasizes the inherent strength of his material. He is himself an emergency physician and thus brings to mind Somerset Maugham, William Carlos Williams and Chekhov—the first a former medical student and the others doctors for the whole of their literary careers. But Lam's work fits better among that of nonfiction writers like Jerome Groopman, Sherwin Nuland and Atul Gawande. He writes what is sometimes called "documentary fiction," providing an insider's view of his field, replete with the stark juxtapositions—notably the privilege of the treater with the powerlessness of the treated—and the moral hazards that characterize the profession. Some of the best stories in Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures read like journalistic dispatches from the medical front lines, with careful psychological characterization added. As such, Lam's book represents a promising demonstration of fiction's unique power: to bring the news that stays news, in Ezra Pound's formulation, and to allow the reader to see through the eyes of those who experience events firsthand.
—The New York Times
Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures: Stories
Narrated by Christopher Lane
Vincent LamUnabridged — 8 hours, 18 minutes
Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures: Stories
Narrated by Christopher Lane
Vincent LamUnabridged — 8 hours, 18 minutes
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Overview
Through the eyes of Fitz, Ming, Chen, and Sri, Vincent Lam finds conflict - and humanity - in the most surprising moments. Together these doctors test the boundaries of intimacy as they cope with exam pressure, weigh moral dilemmas as they dissect cadavers, confront police who assault their patients, and treat schizophrenics with pathologies similar to their own.
Winner of the 2006 Giller Prize for fiction - the only debut work ever to have won the prestigious literary prize - Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures looks with rigorous honesty at the lives of doctors and their patients and illuminates a deeper understanding of the fears, choices, and temptations that face us all.
“Vincent Lam's book is amazing, beautiful, and painful. I cannot believe that a writer can emerge, so fully-formed and incisive, with his first book. This guy is a star.” - Sherman Alexie, bestselling author of The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven and Flight
Editorial Reviews
In this collection, Lam deftly illuminates the line physician and patient must walk together—hope and health on one side, cynicism and sickness on the other. We see in cold light what is at risk when the balance slips too far in either direction. In the end, Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures asks how much of death's burden should rest on the shoulders of those we ask to fight against it.
—The Washington Post
Lam's Giller Prize-winning debut, a veritable cornucopia of interesting characters, voices and effects, presents a formidable burden for a single reader. Through the four main sleep-deprived characters, we wind our way through med school and beyond. Lane sculpts a precise and colorful aural identity for every character, regardless of their significance. A master of capturing nuances in vocal personality, he ranges from a strong, stiff Chinese-American accent to a lisping, muttering paranoid schizophrenic in a heartbeat, and nothing seems forced. At one point, a doctor speaking to a patient in "German-accented Hindi influenced English he learned in Bombay" seems like an narrator's bar bet or a challenge from the author. But Lane pulls it off perfectly, with grace and pluck. Occasionally, Lane's conjuring is amped up with unnecessary special effects (a hollow distortion when dialogue is heard over the phone) that would be distracting if both the author and the reader were anything less than solid and riveting. The combination of Lane and Lam is a winning one, a performance not to be missed. Simultaneous release with the Weinstein Books hardcover (Reviews, June 25). (Sept.)
Copyright 2007 Reed Business InformationThis collection of linked stories revolves around four young multicultural Canadian medical students-Fitz, Ming, Chen, and Sri-as they attempt to balance their lives with the taxing demands of classes and residency in a highly charged emergency room. They deal with patients' ailments, from hiccups to a fatal heart attack in a massage parlor; in this case, the doctor, when talking with the family, has to find a "balance of professing humanity without invading privacy." Some stories ramble along with little action-one features the romance between Fitz and Ming, their breakup, and her eventual marriage to Doctor Chen-but most are action packed and insightful, including a psychological thriller about a patient who believes he has been poisoned by the neighbor who's secretly in love with him and another tale about an outbreak of SARS in the hospital that forces Fitz and Chen to come to terms with the possibility of their own deaths. Written in a straightforward manner and including a helpful glossary of medical terms, this is a good addition to every fiction collection.
—David A. Berona
A searing, perfectly paced set of linked stories that explores the careers and relationships of four Toronto doctors. Ming, Chen, Fitzgerald and Sri are young physicians whose lives intertwine both casually and intimately as they navigate the painstaking (and often painful) road to becoming physicians. We first meet Ming and Fitzgerald in Ottawa as they are studying for their pre-med exams and cautiously entering a relationship doomed by Ming's career-obsessed immigrant parents, the ghosts of abuse by her older cousin and, above all, the knowledge that Ming will be accepted to medical school and Fitzgerald will not. He does follow her, eventually, but not before she has linked herself with a more appropriate boyfriend, her lab partner, Chen. The tension between the characters pales, though, when they graduate and begin their careers. Each must face situations that test their abilities, their integrity and their strength. A paranoid mental patient, for example, who is obsessed with his neighbor and also convinced that she is trying to poison him, causes Sri to momentarily doubt his own sanity. And Fitzgerald wonders how to care, both physically and mentally, for a hostile patient brought to the hospital in shackles by unsympathetic police officers. When Sri is diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the tables turn on him, and his role as a life-saver ironically becomes futile when he cannot save his own. The stories culminate in a health crisis of a much larger scale, when Fitzgerald contracts the SARS virus from a patient, and then passes it to Chen, who examines him. The two wait in quarantine, once romantic rivals, now reliant on one another, and suddenly their profession seems to be at oncepointless and more important than ever. Tender insight into the fascinating emotional and social implications of a career that is, inherently, so much more than a job. Agent: Anne McDermid/Anne McDermid and Associates Ltd.
The short stories in this collection follow four students into their medical careers. As is revealed in the first story, about pre-med student Ming’s rejection of her study partner, the emphasis is on personal stories that show the pressures in the doctors' lives. Christopher Lane chronicles those pressures with a dry wit. His narration leaves room for serious turns, as well, as he relates patients' problems and two doctors' battles with SARS. The characters aren't always likable, but Lane and the author make them relatable as they make tough choices. The stories feel authentic in their introspection, which is not surprising since Lam himself is an emergency physician. J.A.S. © AudioFile 2008, Portland, Maine
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940171584429 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Brilliance Audio |
| Publication date: | 09/04/2007 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
How to Get into Medical School, Part I
Desperate stragglers arrived late for the molecular biology final examination, their feet wet from tramping through snowbanks and their faces damp from running. Some still wore coats, and rummaged in the pockets for pens. Entering the exam hall, a borrowed gymnasium, from the whipping chaos of the snowstorm was to be faced with a void. Eyeglasses fogged, xenon lamps burned their blue-tinged light, and the air was calm with its perpetual fragrance of old paint. The lamps buzzed, and their constant static was like a sheet pulled out from under the snowstorm, though low enough that the noise vanished quickly. Invigilators led latecomers to vacant seats among the hundreds of desks, each evenly spaced at the University of Ottawa’s minimum requisite distance.
The invigilators allowed them to sit the exam but, toward the end of the allotted period, ignored their pleas for extra time on account of the storm. Ming, who had finished early, centred her closed exam booklet in front of her. Fitzgerald was still hunched over his paper. She didn’t want to wait outside for him, preferring it to be very coincidental that she would leave the room at the same time he did. Hopefully he would suggest they go for lunch together. If he did not ask, she would be forced to, perhaps using a little joke. Ming tended to stumble over humour. She could ask what he planned to do this afternoon – was that the kind of thing people said? On scrap paper, she wrote several possible ways to phrase the question, and in doing so almost failed to notice when Fitzgerald stood up, handed in his exam, and left the room. She expected to rush after him, but hestood outside the exam hall.
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.
Shortly after they arrived at the Thai-Laotian café half a block from campus, Ming said deliberately, “Fitz, I simply wanted to wish you the best in your future endeavours. You are obviously intelligent, and I’m sure you will be a great success.”
The restaurant was overly warm, and Fitz struggled out of his coat, wrestled his sweater over his head, leaving his hair in a wild, electrified state. He ran his hands over his head, and instead of smoothing his hair this resulted in random clumps jutting straight up.
“Same to you,” he said, smiling at her almost excitedly.
She watched him scan the bar menu. When she asked for water, he followed suit. She liked that.
She said, “Also, thank you for explaining the Krebs cycle to me.”
“Any time,” said Fitz.
“I feel guilty that I haven’t been completely open,” said Ming. She considered her prepared phrases and selected one, saying, “It didn’t seem like the right time in the middle of exams.”
“Nothing in real life makes sense during exams,” said Fitzgerald. He tilted in the chair but kept a straight back. Ming reassured herself that he had also been anticipating “a talk,” and so–she concluded with an administrative type of resolution–it was appropriate that she had raised the topic of “them.”
She leaned forward and almost whispered, “This is awkward, but I have strong emotional suspicions. Such suspicions are not quite the same as emotions. I’m sure you can understand that distinction. I have this inkling that you have an interest in me.” She didn’t blurt it out, instead forced herself to pace these phrases. “The thing of it is that I can’t have a romantic relationship with you. Not that I want to.” Now she was off the path of her rehearsed lines. “Not that I wouldn’t want to, because there’s no specific reason that I wouldn’t, but I– Well, what I’m trying to say is that even though I don’t especially want to, if I did, then I couldn’t.” The waiter brought shrimp chips and peanut sauce. “So that’s that.”
“All right,” said Fitzgerald.
“I should have told you earlier, when I first got that feeling.”
“You’ve given the issue some thought.”
“Not much. I just wanted to clarify.”
Fitz picked up a shrimp chip by its edge, dipped it in the peanut sauce with red pepper flakes, and crunched. His face became sweaty and bloomed red as he chewed, then coughed. He grasped the water glass and took a quick gulp.
Ming said, “Are you upset?”
He coughed to his right side, and had difficulty stopping. He reminded himself to sit up straight while coughing, realized that he wasn’t covering his mouth, covered his mouth, was embarrassed that his fair skin burned hot and red, wondered in a panicky blur if this redness would be seen to portray most keenly his injured emotional state, his physical vulnerability in choking, his Anglocentric intolerance to chili, his embarrassment at not initially covering his mouth, his obvious infatuation with Ming, or–worst of all–could be interpreted as a feeble attempt to mask or distract from his discomfort at her pre-emptive romantic rejection.
Ming was grateful for this interlude, for she had now entirely forgotten her rehearsed stock of diplomatically distant but consoling though slightly superior phrases.
“Hot sauce. I’m fine,” he gasped, coughing.
There was a long restaurant pause, in which Ming was aware of the other diners talking, although she could not perceive what their conversations were about.
She said, “I’ve embarrassed us both.”
“I’m glad you mentioned it.”
“So you are interested,” she said. “Or you were interested until a moment ago. Is that why you’re glad that I mentioned it?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? What you’ve just said has made it irrelevant. Or, it would be irrelevant if it were previously relevant, but I’m glad you brought up your feelings,” said Fitzgerald. He picked up the menu.
“Don’t feel obliged to tell me whether I needed to say what I just said.”
“It was great to study together. You’ve got a great handle on . . . on mitochondria.”
The waiter came. Ming felt unable to read the menu, and pointed at a lunch item in the middle of the page. She got up to use the bathroom, and wondered in the mirror why she had not worn lipstick – not taken a minute this morning to look good. Then, she reminded herself that she should have actually taken measures to appear unattractive. Nonetheless, Ming examined her purse for lipstick, finding only extra pens and a crumpled exam schedule. When she returned, they smiled politely at each other for a little while. They ate, and the noodles fell persistently from Fitzgerald’s chopsticks onto the plate, resisting consumption. Ming asked if he wanted a fork, and he refused. After a while, as Fitzgerald’s pad thai continued to slither from his grasp, Ming caught the waiter’s eye, who noticed Fitzgerald’s barely eaten plate and brought a fork without Ming having to ask.
Fitzgerald ate with the fork, and craved a beer.
“We’re great study partners,” said Ming, still holding her chopsticks. “I want to clarify that it’s not because of you.” She had to get into medical school this year, and therefore couldn’t allow distraction. Her family, she said, was modern in what they wanted for her education, and old-fashioned in what they imagined for her husband. They would disapprove of Fitzgerald, a non-Chinese. They would be upset with Ming, and she couldn’t take these risks while she prepared to apply for medical school. The delicate nature of this goal, upon which one must be crucially focused, superseded everything else, Ming reminded Fitzgerald. He stopped eating while she talked. She looked down, stabbed her chopsticks into the noodles, and twisted them around.
He asked, “What about you?”
“What do you mean, me?” she said.
“Telling me this. Did you feel . . . interested?”
“I thought you might be.”
“You might say that I’ve noticed you, but I accept the situation. Priorities.” The imperative of medical school applications carried the unassailable weight of a religious edict.
“Very well,” she said, as if they had clarified a business arrangement.
The bill came. Fitzgerald tried to pay and Ming protested. He said that she could get the bill next time and she insisted that they should share.
From the Hardcover edition.
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