Here’s a riddle for you…what sound do you get when you cross an active garbage disposal with a shot glass?
The sound you get…and I quote, is “Whir…whir…clink…clink…CRUNCH….” followed by silence.
Yes, folks…I was minding my own business and washing dishes. The sink was starting to get a little clogged so I flipped the switch to the disposal and that was the sound that arose from the mysterious depths of my sink. Though I am not overly familiar with garbage disposals and how they work, I am at least knowledgeable enough to know that they don’t normally make that sound. Frowning, I turned off the switch and turned to Chris, who was also in the kitchen.
I think we both said, “Uh oh” simultaneously, but I can’t be absolutely sure.
After making sure that the switch was in the “off” position, Chris gingerly reached his hand down into the disposal (are you cringing yet…? I know I was!) to find whatever item had begun the wild rumpus. While he was doing this, I was sitting in the corner with my hands over my eyes, absolutely certain that in some freak twist of fate, that the disposal would turn itself back on and munch on Chris’s hand.
I looked up in time to see him pull out a chunk of glass. I was baffled, because I’d already washed the two glasses that were in the sink. I wondered whether one of our smaller table glasses had somehow mysteriously bent the laws of physics enough to fit down the disposal inlet. After grabbing one and twisting and turning it, I was able to conclude that it probably wasn’t one of our small glasses.
To make a long story short, in a very tense and terse 30 minutes that involved a lot of glaring, grunting, and “ewwww” noises, Chris unscrewed the disposal apparatus and began to pull out pieces of glass with a pair of pliers (his hands were too big…and let’s face it; I was NOT going to put my hands down that thing!) to ascertain that one of his shot glasses had fallen into the disposal. Oops.
By the way, I can’t stress enough just how disgusting the innards of a disposal are, for those of you that are unaware. I deal with deceased people, a myriad of unpleasant smells, and parts of people every day so you’d think that nothing would faze me. Clearly, this is not the case because I nearly vomited when I saw the disposal. I’m not sure whether it’s a testament to the grossness of the disposal or to just how immune I have become to my job, but I can honestly say that I would much rather perform an autopsy than clean the disposal ever again. And I wasn’t even the one with my hand in there. *shudders*
Anyway, I wish I could say our problems were solved by Chris and his magic pliers, but alas! It appears that the garbage disposal is, for the time, rather unusable. Chris wants to tackle it again tomorrow. I want to call a plumber. Mars and Venus are going to go head-to- head over a garbage disposal.
Somehow, I think I’ll win.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Cinderella's Shoes
I’ve taken up running again. To be fair, I’m not currently and never have been much of a runner. I’m definitely not one of those hard-core runners you see on the streets. You know, the ones in the SERIOUS running gear, even down to the waist belt with multiple slots for trivial little things like water bottles – the ones that run every day, no matter what. Rain, sun, sleet, snow…nothing stops the SERIOUS runner.
No, I am definitely not one of them. I am an indoor-running kind of gal…the one that *gasp* prefers running on the treadmill to running out-of-doors. I am the kind of runner that likes even, modulated room temperatures, a distinct lack of flying insects, a readily available sink faucet, and the upstairs bathroom. I am the kind of runner that cannot, even to save herself, modulate a running pace outside – I need the treadmill because it forces me to keep a steady pace. I need to be able to listen to music unencumbered by obnoxious ear-buds or sweaty headphones. I will never run in a marathon, and if I’m being completely honest, I don’t even have desire to run in a half-marathon. No, folks, a SERIOUS runner I am not.
Be that as it may, even a not-so-serious runner needs the proper equipment. I am not of those people that can just pick out any old pair of running shoes and go about my merry business (apparently, there are many things I am not). What I am is a relatively flat-arched, significant overpronator with history of surgery on both feet. It means that when my running shoes are not exactly right (or when the exactly right shoes are old and worn down), running causes me significant pain. As a result, I was professionally fitted for running shoes while I was in southern California…and they were fantastic. I was pain-free. I felt that I could exercise for days (although, clearly, I did not).
A few weeks ago, I revved up the motor on my trusty treadmill, laced up my shoes, and began to jog. No more than 3 minutes into my journey, the old, ugly pain began to rear its head. The unthinkable had occurred – my Brooks Adrenaline shoes (yes, I am name dropping, because they are A-M-A-Z-I-N-G) had given up the ghost. I pushed through the pain for a couple weeks - or at least until payday – before hitting up the local running store.
I walked in and made a bee-line for the Wall O’ Shoes, where I spied the Brooks Adrenaline. The salesman walked over to me, asked how he could help, and I immediately pointed to my shoes. “I’ll take the Brooks Adrenalines” said I.
“I am not sure they are the appropriate shoe for you,” said he.
WHAT?
Somehow, I found myself seated across from this man, inches from my precious Adrenalines, explaining that I was re-entering the running world and needed to replace my running shoes.
“What shoes are you currently wearing?”
“The Brooks Adrenaline 8.”
“Oh. It’s been awhile for you, hasn’t it? We’re now on the Adrenaline 10. And anyway, why do you think that the Brooks Adrenaline is what you should be running in?”
“Because I run in them and they work well for me. Oh – and I was already fitted for shoes in California, and the Brooks are what I was recommended.”
“Well, be that as it may, I never sell shoes to someone unless I’m 100% happy with how they fit. I must observe the body mechanics and the alignment and the ------ (lots of other factors that I, a mere running peon, am not familiar with).”
(Excuse me, but this is not the Project Runway ® of shoes, sir. The only thing you need to observe is my credit card as I pay for the shoes that I want. You know, the ones that actually work for me…)
As he was the only salesman in the store, and this was the only running store in the vicinity in which I had a hope of getting my Brooks, I was doomed.
So I sat through a lengthy session in which he told me many things that I already knew – from my previous fitting: that I overpronate significantly (and more on my left foot), that my feet are different sizes (one is an 8 and one is a 7…inconvenient, trust me), that my heel widths are different from foot to foot, and that my arches are pretty flat. I tried on many, many pairs of very uncomfortable shoes and a variety of equally uncomfortable inserts while the salesman tried desperately to find a shoe that he was happy with. At this juncture, may I add that we were both frustrated, but for different reasons – he had no clue what shoe I needed so had to go back to the drawing board repeatedly, and I knew exactly what shoe I needed but had to keep trying on pair after pair of stupid shoes.
Finally, he came back with just two pairs of shoes in his hand. He looked at me with an air of defeat and said, “You’re really hard to fit. If neither of these pairs works for you, I’m not sure what we’ll wind up doing.” So, like Cinderella, I dutifully squeezed my feet into the first pair of white running slippers with inserts…which really didn’t work at all.
“Sir, they rub against the top of my foot, and the insert feels like a hard knob underneath the ball of my foot. I don’t like these. I don’t like them at all.”
“Ok. Here’s the last pair of shoes that I think might work…I only have them in an 8. I don’t know if they’ll work or not.” (Said with an air of desperation and a facial expression close to tears)
I slipped my foot into the last pair, stood up, and walked – and somewhere along the way, the magic happened. They didn’t rub anywhere. They didn’t slide or slip. They didn’t pinch. My overpronation was corrected, my body mechanics and alignment and goodness knows what else were corrected.
The salesman was happy. I was happy.
“Sir, I like these shoes. They are stupendous. I will take them.”
He looked like he’d just won the Golden Ticket into the Willy Wonka factory.
At the register, I handed him my credit card and he rung up and boxed my new pair of shoes, exclaiming all the way that I had been “…challenging, but we mastered the challenge!” Apparently, he felt like a million bucks. Good for him.
As I walked out of the store nearly 2 hours after I had entered, with my new shoes tucked firmly under my armpit, I looked down at the box and nearly laughed…ok, I did laugh (the maniacal laughter that comes only after extreme frustration) but managed to hold it in until I was safely in my car.
There, wrapped in tissue paper, were the Holy Grail of shoes…the very shoes that had cost everyone 2 hours of time and frustration to find. Cinderella had finally found her slipper…
The Brooks Adrenaline 10.
I hate to use this phrase almost as much as I hate to hear it, but…TOLD YOU SO, Mr. Salesman…TOLD YOU SO!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Histotechnologist Day
Apparently, this year was the first annual histotechnology day nationwide. There were a lot of lab-related celebrations and happenings (scavenger hunts, potlucks, gifts, etc) to celebrate...and seriously, our histology department deserves some celebrating. They are pretty amazing. Apparently, they also made and submitted a video for some contest as part of the festivities - and the video won! So here's the video - with a variety of our staff, transcriptionists, attendings, and residents. Thankfully, I do NOT appear in this video - trust me, you don't want to see this white gal shake her tail feathers! It's a little corny, but I think it shows that we have a pretty fun department.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Explaining Medicine
It’s hard to explain medical school to other people, but I’m going to try. Trust me, I realize that what I say below is not going to sound like much. But bear with me here.
First Year:
During the first couple of weeks, you are just excited to be there. You are that brand-new 2 month old puppy that gets so excited that they piddle all over the rug while jumping up and down. Everything is new, everything is exciting, everything is rosy. You went to college, you studied hard there – what’s the big deal?
Everything.
You study “hard” for the first round of tests. You take the tests, feel worried, but get over it. The scores come out and you cry hysterically for the entire weekend wondering where you went so wrong. You’ve never received less than an 88% on ANYTHING before – and an 88% made you pretty darn upset. Where in the hell did this 69 come from? You pass the tests, barely, and wonder what you need to do to make it better. So you wake up every morning at 6:00am and quickly preview your notes before lectures begin at 8:00am sharp. You sit in lecture from 8:00-3:00pm, and then enjoy some sort of laboratory or group session from 3:00-5:00pm. When 5:00pm comes around, you run back to whatever hole you crawled out of earlier that morning. Armed with your books, your notes, and your highlighters, you find a quiet place and study until 11:00pm. You take a quick shower and go to bed, where you stare at the ceiling for at least an hour, wondering what information you missed. The weekends come and go – and the only reason you get excited about them is because it means you can sleep in until 9:00am and can get in at least 10 hours of uninterrupted studying each day. Test week comes roughly once a month. There are usually no fewer than 4 tests, and upwards of 6 (if you count lab practicals as well) for the week. Sometimes there are multiple tests each day. There is so much information to know, so much information to forget. The human body is so incredibly complex. Every minute is spent studying because, for once in your life, everything you are learning is relevant – is useful – and it you don’t learn something, it could make you a poor doctor later on. 11:00pm becomes ridiculously early to go to bed when there is so much to know. Anatomy, physiology, evidence-based medicine, physical diagnosis, biochemistry, histology…it all blurs together. You find yourself alone in a study room at 12:30 am with your microscope and set of study slides and feel like you’ve finally “arrived” when you can draw a slide from the set at random, place it on the stage, and know exactly what you are looking at. It’s like Christmas, only better, when you realize that you might not fail your histology practical after all. Medicine has lost its sheen. There is no rosy glow. You just want to get through. If you entered medical school in a long-term (and likely, long-distance relationship), it ends. You’ll watch married classmates get divorced. You learn to be careful with your relationships – if a person is really, really important to you, don’t get into a relationship with them – nothing kills important relationships quite like medicine.
The academic year ends. You get a 6 week vacation. {Or, in my case, I got bilateral foot surgery during vacation and could not walk. I spent my 6 weeks of freedom watching marathons of “The Flavor of Love” in a chair in the living room}.
Second Year:
A new year starts, and you are not excited about it. You watch the new, incoming first year medical students and almost laugh out loud at their enthusiasm. You wonder how long it will take before they break. You go back to the daily grind of studying, only the courses are slightly different: more biochemistry, pathology, biostatistics, preventive medicine, pharmacology/toxicology, microbiology, neuroscience, etc fills your mind. You keep the same fast-paced hours of studying, but feel more pressure because you understand that at the end of this year, the game changes. You are required to take Step 1 of the United States Medical Licensing Exam (USMLE). The test will test you on everything you did (or didn’t) learn from years 1 and 2. It is a big deal. The score you get on your Step 1 will, in part, determine what kind of residency you are eligible to apply for in the coming years. If you don’t want to get relegated to family medicine, you’d better study and you’d better study hard**. The courses are harder, things begin to integrate in ways you could never have imagined, and you worry that you will forget everything when it really matters. You study for your academic tests but also have to review your 1st year material for Step 1. You become a sleep-walking zombie in the spring. You look forward to the beginning of your 3rd year because it means clerkships – you’ll work in the hospital. You’ll have more free time! Life will be better!
The year ends. You take Step 1. You enjoy 2 weeks of summer vacation before starting the next year. **Disclaimer: There are many people who choose to go into Family Medicine and had exemplary scores. But if you want to be an ENT surgeon and score poorly on the Step 1, you may be in big trouble.
Year 3:
Clerkships are finally here. From now on, you will be placed with a selected group of your classmates that are on the same rotation schedule as you. You will not see much of the classmates that are not on your selected rotation track. In varying orders, you will spend months on OB/GYN, psychiatry, surgery (general and subspecialty), family medicine, neurology, pediatrics, and internal medicine. You enter a world of waking up before the sun rises and going to bed long after the sun has set. You violate the 80 hour work week policy over and over again – but shh! If you tell anyone, it’s YOU (and not the system) that will be in trouble – and if you have to log your hours every week, it will only add more work for you. Your short white coat grows grubby and ink-stained and there is no amount of Chlorox that can take the stains away. The pockets in your coat begin to tear from the weight of all your pocket books and papers and pens and pagers. In fact, you want desperately to burn the stupid white coat because it’s a symbol of your incompetence and imprisonment. You’d also like to throw your pager into the depths of the ocean where its ear-piercing screams will never again wake you. You learn that it is entirely possible to live on a 1 hour power nap while you are on call – and that you can, indeed, nap comfortably on the floor in the student lounge when all of the available gurneys in the call rooms are occupied. You learn the subtle nuances of disease and you learn how to treat the patient AND their disease. You find that not all patients are grateful. In fact, the grateful patient is a distinct and vanishing minority. You find that your male patients will grope you and make lewd, sexist remarks while you are bending over and listening through your stethoscope. You will find that pediatric patients have distinct tells that warn you to get out of the way before they turn their head – if you don’t, you will find vomit dripping down your already dirty white coat and onto your favorite pair of comfortable shoes. Of course, you learn this AFTER the fact. You also learn that no amount of hand hygiene and face mask wearing will prevent your pediatric patients from giving you pink eye, viral colds, and bacterial pneumonia. You also learn that you CAN work while in the throes of pneumonia. You learn that there are certain specialties where the male attendings and residents remain quite sexist, and they cut you out of good learning opportunities because they believe that you should be raising children instead of learning medicine. You will have residents who tell you wrong information so that you look stupid and they look good when questioned by the attending – and over time, you become good at ferreting out the lies that people (patients and otherwise) tell you. Nurses will yell at you for no better reason than that you are lower on the food chain than they are, and everyone knows that shit flows downstream. You have some attendings that live to make you cry – and you will, at some point, spend time in the floor bathroom crying helplessly at 3:00am. You will help save lives and you will watch, helplessly, as lives are permanently changed or ended. You will hold hands and learn what it means to make the hard decisions that nobody ever wants to make. You still take tests at the end of every rotation and are still scored against your classmates. And, oh yes, you take the USMLE Step 2 (which covers everything you were supposed to learn from every rotation you completed) before being promoted to the 4th and final year of medical school. Step 2 scores are almost equally important for residency. Again, you don’t want to screw it up.
Year 4:
Somewhat the same as year 3, only in different ways. You spend more time in elective rotations, doing the things that YOU want to be doing – often geared more toward the kind of specialty that you are hoping to enter. [I spent 12 blissful weeks in pathology]. Your schedule eases, because you have the opportunity to take easier rotations (like child psychiatry, which you take not out of interest but more because you’ll only have to work from 8:00-11:00am). You get a couple months worth of vacation time to spend exactly as you want it (I chose to use it for residency interviewing purposes). You choose and apply for a residency specialty (like pathology!). You spend weeks criss-crossing the country interviewing. You grow to hate ALL airlines, although you score some serious frequent flier miles. You loathe your interview suit. You smile until your cheeks hurt and answer the same questions all day. You eat horrible airplane food, horrible airport food, and horrible hotel food. You want nothing more than to just sleep at home in your own bed – after awhile, even the Hilton turns sour. You spent thousands of dollars that you don’t really have - some people will wind up taking out an additional personal loan to cover interviewing expenses. Depending on your specialty, you make need upwards of 15 interviews to secure a spot. It’s a costly, time-consuming, exhausting process. At the end, you rank all the places you interviewed in order of how much you want to go there, and all the places that you interviewed rank you against all the other people they interviewed. You send in your lists, and your fate hands in the hands of a computer algorithm that “matches” you. Hopefully. There are people that do not match, and then have to scramble for a position, ANY position [it’s not uncommon to find a hopeful ENT surgery candidate scramble into a pediatrics slot]. You wait for over a month to find out your fate…not only IF you matched to a program, but WHERE you matched. If you’re lucky, you’ll get one of your top 3 choices. If you are unlucky, you might get your last choice. It’s a crap-shoot. After match, it’s all downhill. You finish your rotations and find yourself in the middle of the pomp and circumstance of graduation. Suddenly, the graduation tent on the lawn is for YO. It’s YOUR name in the program and on the degree and YOUR turn to walk that stage. You enter the stage as a medical student and in the span of the 30 seconds it takes you to cross the stage, you exit a doctor. Seconds ago, you had no responsibility and incompetence was the expected medium – and now, things matter. A lot. It’s overwhelming. The game has changed.
Medical school is hard. It’s hard in ways that nothing can adequately convey. There are a lot of sleepless nights. There is a lot of crying and frustration. It is four years feeling utterly inadequate, helpless, and miserable. You will make decisions and question them later. There are many times where the end-product of medicine is not worth the sacrifice. You lose time, sleep, tears, and relationships in pursuit of the elusive M.D. And once you’ve finally arrived, once you have those little letters after your name, it’s hard to balance life and medicine. You spend more time trying to integrate your life into medicine when in reality, you should be integrating medicine into your life. Medicine is frustrating because people are frustrating. People can be belligerent, ignorant, cruel, unappreciative, selfish, intolerant, and unrealistic – they often are. But people can also be grateful and humbling and once in awhile, they help you remember why you got into the business in the first place. Medicine is all consuming, because it has to be. It’s hard because it has to be. But once in awhile, when you realize that something you did has made a difference, it’s hard not to be humbled and awed by what those sleepless, tear filled nights helped you to achieve.
First Year:
During the first couple of weeks, you are just excited to be there. You are that brand-new 2 month old puppy that gets so excited that they piddle all over the rug while jumping up and down. Everything is new, everything is exciting, everything is rosy. You went to college, you studied hard there – what’s the big deal?
Everything.
You study “hard” for the first round of tests. You take the tests, feel worried, but get over it. The scores come out and you cry hysterically for the entire weekend wondering where you went so wrong. You’ve never received less than an 88% on ANYTHING before – and an 88% made you pretty darn upset. Where in the hell did this 69 come from? You pass the tests, barely, and wonder what you need to do to make it better. So you wake up every morning at 6:00am and quickly preview your notes before lectures begin at 8:00am sharp. You sit in lecture from 8:00-3:00pm, and then enjoy some sort of laboratory or group session from 3:00-5:00pm. When 5:00pm comes around, you run back to whatever hole you crawled out of earlier that morning. Armed with your books, your notes, and your highlighters, you find a quiet place and study until 11:00pm. You take a quick shower and go to bed, where you stare at the ceiling for at least an hour, wondering what information you missed. The weekends come and go – and the only reason you get excited about them is because it means you can sleep in until 9:00am and can get in at least 10 hours of uninterrupted studying each day. Test week comes roughly once a month. There are usually no fewer than 4 tests, and upwards of 6 (if you count lab practicals as well) for the week. Sometimes there are multiple tests each day. There is so much information to know, so much information to forget. The human body is so incredibly complex. Every minute is spent studying because, for once in your life, everything you are learning is relevant – is useful – and it you don’t learn something, it could make you a poor doctor later on. 11:00pm becomes ridiculously early to go to bed when there is so much to know. Anatomy, physiology, evidence-based medicine, physical diagnosis, biochemistry, histology…it all blurs together. You find yourself alone in a study room at 12:30 am with your microscope and set of study slides and feel like you’ve finally “arrived” when you can draw a slide from the set at random, place it on the stage, and know exactly what you are looking at. It’s like Christmas, only better, when you realize that you might not fail your histology practical after all. Medicine has lost its sheen. There is no rosy glow. You just want to get through. If you entered medical school in a long-term (and likely, long-distance relationship), it ends. You’ll watch married classmates get divorced. You learn to be careful with your relationships – if a person is really, really important to you, don’t get into a relationship with them – nothing kills important relationships quite like medicine.
The academic year ends. You get a 6 week vacation. {Or, in my case, I got bilateral foot surgery during vacation and could not walk. I spent my 6 weeks of freedom watching marathons of “The Flavor of Love” in a chair in the living room}.
Second Year:
A new year starts, and you are not excited about it. You watch the new, incoming first year medical students and almost laugh out loud at their enthusiasm. You wonder how long it will take before they break. You go back to the daily grind of studying, only the courses are slightly different: more biochemistry, pathology, biostatistics, preventive medicine, pharmacology/toxicology, microbiology, neuroscience, etc fills your mind. You keep the same fast-paced hours of studying, but feel more pressure because you understand that at the end of this year, the game changes. You are required to take Step 1 of the United States Medical Licensing Exam (USMLE). The test will test you on everything you did (or didn’t) learn from years 1 and 2. It is a big deal. The score you get on your Step 1 will, in part, determine what kind of residency you are eligible to apply for in the coming years. If you don’t want to get relegated to family medicine, you’d better study and you’d better study hard**. The courses are harder, things begin to integrate in ways you could never have imagined, and you worry that you will forget everything when it really matters. You study for your academic tests but also have to review your 1st year material for Step 1. You become a sleep-walking zombie in the spring. You look forward to the beginning of your 3rd year because it means clerkships – you’ll work in the hospital. You’ll have more free time! Life will be better!
The year ends. You take Step 1. You enjoy 2 weeks of summer vacation before starting the next year. **Disclaimer: There are many people who choose to go into Family Medicine and had exemplary scores. But if you want to be an ENT surgeon and score poorly on the Step 1, you may be in big trouble.
Year 3:
Clerkships are finally here. From now on, you will be placed with a selected group of your classmates that are on the same rotation schedule as you. You will not see much of the classmates that are not on your selected rotation track. In varying orders, you will spend months on OB/GYN, psychiatry, surgery (general and subspecialty), family medicine, neurology, pediatrics, and internal medicine. You enter a world of waking up before the sun rises and going to bed long after the sun has set. You violate the 80 hour work week policy over and over again – but shh! If you tell anyone, it’s YOU (and not the system) that will be in trouble – and if you have to log your hours every week, it will only add more work for you. Your short white coat grows grubby and ink-stained and there is no amount of Chlorox that can take the stains away. The pockets in your coat begin to tear from the weight of all your pocket books and papers and pens and pagers. In fact, you want desperately to burn the stupid white coat because it’s a symbol of your incompetence and imprisonment. You’d also like to throw your pager into the depths of the ocean where its ear-piercing screams will never again wake you. You learn that it is entirely possible to live on a 1 hour power nap while you are on call – and that you can, indeed, nap comfortably on the floor in the student lounge when all of the available gurneys in the call rooms are occupied. You learn the subtle nuances of disease and you learn how to treat the patient AND their disease. You find that not all patients are grateful. In fact, the grateful patient is a distinct and vanishing minority. You find that your male patients will grope you and make lewd, sexist remarks while you are bending over and listening through your stethoscope. You will find that pediatric patients have distinct tells that warn you to get out of the way before they turn their head – if you don’t, you will find vomit dripping down your already dirty white coat and onto your favorite pair of comfortable shoes. Of course, you learn this AFTER the fact. You also learn that no amount of hand hygiene and face mask wearing will prevent your pediatric patients from giving you pink eye, viral colds, and bacterial pneumonia. You also learn that you CAN work while in the throes of pneumonia. You learn that there are certain specialties where the male attendings and residents remain quite sexist, and they cut you out of good learning opportunities because they believe that you should be raising children instead of learning medicine. You will have residents who tell you wrong information so that you look stupid and they look good when questioned by the attending – and over time, you become good at ferreting out the lies that people (patients and otherwise) tell you. Nurses will yell at you for no better reason than that you are lower on the food chain than they are, and everyone knows that shit flows downstream. You have some attendings that live to make you cry – and you will, at some point, spend time in the floor bathroom crying helplessly at 3:00am. You will help save lives and you will watch, helplessly, as lives are permanently changed or ended. You will hold hands and learn what it means to make the hard decisions that nobody ever wants to make. You still take tests at the end of every rotation and are still scored against your classmates. And, oh yes, you take the USMLE Step 2 (which covers everything you were supposed to learn from every rotation you completed) before being promoted to the 4th and final year of medical school. Step 2 scores are almost equally important for residency. Again, you don’t want to screw it up.
Year 4:
Somewhat the same as year 3, only in different ways. You spend more time in elective rotations, doing the things that YOU want to be doing – often geared more toward the kind of specialty that you are hoping to enter. [I spent 12 blissful weeks in pathology]. Your schedule eases, because you have the opportunity to take easier rotations (like child psychiatry, which you take not out of interest but more because you’ll only have to work from 8:00-11:00am). You get a couple months worth of vacation time to spend exactly as you want it (I chose to use it for residency interviewing purposes). You choose and apply for a residency specialty (like pathology!). You spend weeks criss-crossing the country interviewing. You grow to hate ALL airlines, although you score some serious frequent flier miles. You loathe your interview suit. You smile until your cheeks hurt and answer the same questions all day. You eat horrible airplane food, horrible airport food, and horrible hotel food. You want nothing more than to just sleep at home in your own bed – after awhile, even the Hilton turns sour. You spent thousands of dollars that you don’t really have - some people will wind up taking out an additional personal loan to cover interviewing expenses. Depending on your specialty, you make need upwards of 15 interviews to secure a spot. It’s a costly, time-consuming, exhausting process. At the end, you rank all the places you interviewed in order of how much you want to go there, and all the places that you interviewed rank you against all the other people they interviewed. You send in your lists, and your fate hands in the hands of a computer algorithm that “matches” you. Hopefully. There are people that do not match, and then have to scramble for a position, ANY position [it’s not uncommon to find a hopeful ENT surgery candidate scramble into a pediatrics slot]. You wait for over a month to find out your fate…not only IF you matched to a program, but WHERE you matched. If you’re lucky, you’ll get one of your top 3 choices. If you are unlucky, you might get your last choice. It’s a crap-shoot. After match, it’s all downhill. You finish your rotations and find yourself in the middle of the pomp and circumstance of graduation. Suddenly, the graduation tent on the lawn is for YO. It’s YOUR name in the program and on the degree and YOUR turn to walk that stage. You enter the stage as a medical student and in the span of the 30 seconds it takes you to cross the stage, you exit a doctor. Seconds ago, you had no responsibility and incompetence was the expected medium – and now, things matter. A lot. It’s overwhelming. The game has changed.
Medical school is hard. It’s hard in ways that nothing can adequately convey. There are a lot of sleepless nights. There is a lot of crying and frustration. It is four years feeling utterly inadequate, helpless, and miserable. You will make decisions and question them later. There are many times where the end-product of medicine is not worth the sacrifice. You lose time, sleep, tears, and relationships in pursuit of the elusive M.D. And once you’ve finally arrived, once you have those little letters after your name, it’s hard to balance life and medicine. You spend more time trying to integrate your life into medicine when in reality, you should be integrating medicine into your life. Medicine is frustrating because people are frustrating. People can be belligerent, ignorant, cruel, unappreciative, selfish, intolerant, and unrealistic – they often are. But people can also be grateful and humbling and once in awhile, they help you remember why you got into the business in the first place. Medicine is all consuming, because it has to be. It’s hard because it has to be. But once in awhile, when you realize that something you did has made a difference, it’s hard not to be humbled and awed by what those sleepless, tear filled nights helped you to achieve.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Truth about Medicine
It moves so very fast - people tell you that, but when it's 3am and you're still madly trying to learn the nuances of the urea cycle, fast is not the operative word when describing the movement of time. There's nothing fast about time when one is trying to decipher the mystery of respiratory physiology (of which, to this day, I still possess startingly little knowledge). Time ticks by oh, so very, very slowly when you are sweltering underneath gown and knee-length protective booties and mask while waiting for a young, pregnant woman to push out her first child after opting for that epidural. Minutes tick away like mud through a waterspout when you realize that you still have a full 18 hours of in-house call left before you can go home and sleep. The months spent away on the interview trail seem never-ending as you toss and turn in yet another unfamiliar bed, wishing desperately for the peace and comfort that home brings. Despite all of this, it moves so very fast. In the blink of an eye, the graduation tents have been set up and as you walk by, you realize that your moment under those tents has finally arrived. You realize that the only difference between a short white coat and a long white coat is a matter of days.
It has been a very long, hard four years; in the end, what I have found is that the truth behind medicine depends on the person and what they are willing to see and do, but most importantly, the truth depends on who they are willing to be.
In truth,
I've forgotten more information than most people will ever have a chance to learn and yet somehow retained just enough information that I am considered educated.
I've explored places in the human body that I'm not certain man was ever meant to see.
I've been the keeper of hundreds of secrets big and small and I've tattled when I judged it to be important.
I've been lied to by many who think I do not know when they are lying - and oh, how wrong they are!
I've lied to many under the "for their own good" principle.
I've both alleviated and caused pain to more people than I care to recount.
I've been the harbinger of bad news as often as I've been the bearer of joy.
I've been the comedian to patients as they lay sick in bed on their birthday and I've been a source of deep comfort in the times where I have prayed with anxious, scared patients.
I've seen Death and am no longer scared by its prospects because I have also seen that Life is not always worth immeasurable costs.
I've seen human beings at their smallest, meanest moments - but I have also witnessed the beauty of humanity as it was intended to be.
I've seen unspeakable tragedy - but I have also beheld wondrous miracles.
But really, at the heart of the matter is that I've had the privilege of caring for people, even when they do not care for themselves; even when they curse me for all I do, I have cared deeply.
It's been a very tough four years and I have a feeling that medicine will always be tough, that there will always be situations that challenge me.
But you know what the biggest truth I have learned in these four years is? How glad I am to be finished and moving on to the next adventure.
It has been a very long, hard four years; in the end, what I have found is that the truth behind medicine depends on the person and what they are willing to see and do, but most importantly, the truth depends on who they are willing to be.
In truth,
I've forgotten more information than most people will ever have a chance to learn and yet somehow retained just enough information that I am considered educated.
I've explored places in the human body that I'm not certain man was ever meant to see.
I've been the keeper of hundreds of secrets big and small and I've tattled when I judged it to be important.
I've been lied to by many who think I do not know when they are lying - and oh, how wrong they are!
I've lied to many under the "for their own good" principle.
I've both alleviated and caused pain to more people than I care to recount.
I've been the harbinger of bad news as often as I've been the bearer of joy.
I've been the comedian to patients as they lay sick in bed on their birthday and I've been a source of deep comfort in the times where I have prayed with anxious, scared patients.
I've seen Death and am no longer scared by its prospects because I have also seen that Life is not always worth immeasurable costs.
I've seen human beings at their smallest, meanest moments - but I have also witnessed the beauty of humanity as it was intended to be.
I've seen unspeakable tragedy - but I have also beheld wondrous miracles.
But really, at the heart of the matter is that I've had the privilege of caring for people, even when they do not care for themselves; even when they curse me for all I do, I have cared deeply.
It's been a very tough four years and I have a feeling that medicine will always be tough, that there will always be situations that challenge me.
But you know what the biggest truth I have learned in these four years is? How glad I am to be finished and moving on to the next adventure.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I Don't Understand
There are some days when nothing in life seems fair, and there are a lot of things I will never understand.
There's a small child with NAT. Non-Accidental Trauma. Child abuse. We don't know exactly what happened, but this latest insult caused a massive stroke. Given that there is not a whole lot of healthy tissue left (according to the MRI), I think it's a good bet that even a mildly normal childhood will be out of the question.
There's a small child who was admitted for ataxia. The ataxia wasn't really ataxia at all - there was a reactive arthritis and the hip hurt too badly for the patient to walk. Urinalysis indicates some sort of nasty infection. It's looking very much like sexual abuse with resultant Gonorrhea/Chlamydia infection.
There's another small child who apparently (don't ask me how) wandered out into the middle of one of the busy freeways and was smashed. I don't honestly know all the details, but I know that they were in bad enough shape that they were being operated on by surgery on the ICU floor. Nurses stood around outside the room, shaking their heads.
Family members sit there and cry when bad things happen. They moan. Sometimes, they scream in agony. They cry out, "Where was God?" or "Why did He let this happen?" Sometimes, I can understand that question - and during the instances where I understand the anguish, I find I have no good answer for that question. I know that He is always there, that He never leaves us even when we feel forsaken. Sometimes it's hard to verbalize that - harder than it should be, anyway.
But the situations above? Those were preventable. It wasn't strangers that abused those children or let them wander into the freeway. The perpetrators were the people who should have loved and cared for these young lives more than anyone else on this planet. Somehow, these perpetrators have the audacity to ask, "Where was God?"
But it's not, "Where was God?" God was where He's always been - right here, right now. He never left. He was standing right there, crying and holding your child after they were abused/molested/hit by cars on the freeway. He never, not for one minute, let them go. So the question, then, is not "where was God?" but "where were YOU?" Why did YOU raise your hand against them? Why did YOU let go of their little hand and let them dash out of your front yard?
Where were YOU?
There's a small child with NAT. Non-Accidental Trauma. Child abuse. We don't know exactly what happened, but this latest insult caused a massive stroke. Given that there is not a whole lot of healthy tissue left (according to the MRI), I think it's a good bet that even a mildly normal childhood will be out of the question.
There's a small child who was admitted for ataxia. The ataxia wasn't really ataxia at all - there was a reactive arthritis and the hip hurt too badly for the patient to walk. Urinalysis indicates some sort of nasty infection. It's looking very much like sexual abuse with resultant Gonorrhea/Chlamydia infection.
There's another small child who apparently (don't ask me how) wandered out into the middle of one of the busy freeways and was smashed. I don't honestly know all the details, but I know that they were in bad enough shape that they were being operated on by surgery on the ICU floor. Nurses stood around outside the room, shaking their heads.
Family members sit there and cry when bad things happen. They moan. Sometimes, they scream in agony. They cry out, "Where was God?" or "Why did He let this happen?" Sometimes, I can understand that question - and during the instances where I understand the anguish, I find I have no good answer for that question. I know that He is always there, that He never leaves us even when we feel forsaken. Sometimes it's hard to verbalize that - harder than it should be, anyway.
But the situations above? Those were preventable. It wasn't strangers that abused those children or let them wander into the freeway. The perpetrators were the people who should have loved and cared for these young lives more than anyone else on this planet. Somehow, these perpetrators have the audacity to ask, "Where was God?"
But it's not, "Where was God?" God was where He's always been - right here, right now. He never left. He was standing right there, crying and holding your child after they were abused/molested/hit by cars on the freeway. He never, not for one minute, let them go. So the question, then, is not "where was God?" but "where were YOU?" Why did YOU raise your hand against them? Why did YOU let go of their little hand and let them dash out of your front yard?
Where were YOU?
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Valentine's Surprise
I rolled over in bed today as I was rudely awakened by my cell phone ringing. I smiled, because today is Valentine's Day and I anticipated that it was Chris calling to wish me a good morning, etc, etc, etc.
But alas! It was the U.S. Bank fraud department bringing me tidings that inspired some less-than-lovey feelings within my bosom.
At first I thought they were calling to verify the plane ticket that I had recently purchased from Expedia. It turns out that they didn't care about that - what they cared about were numerous OTHER purchases that had taken place on my unsuspecting debit card within the last couple of days.
I didn't get the full listing of charges ( I don't think, anyway)...I just got enough to verify that it wasn't me making the charges. Among the charges?
-People Finder
-Friend Finder
-Plenty of Fish in the Sea (and other personals websites)
*These next couple just kill me*
-The American Red Cross
-American Cancer Society
I'm sure that there are other charges as well. The real kicker is that this is the SECOND time that this has happened to me. I have lived in 3 states. I have used my debit cards over the internet in all states. And yet somehow, my number has been taken TWICE in CALIFORNIA, providing me with yet another reason to hate this g-d forsaken state.
The first time it happened, nearly $900 was charged to PORN websites. That's right. I was curious at the web addresses, so I took a look and then was promptly sorry I did, because the porn was not even your garden-variety porn. I don't watch porn at all, but if I did I'm 100% sure that I would not be watching porn that includes orgies full of women and animals. I'm also pretty sure that PETA would have been outraged at the flicks, but that's just an assumption.
Now, the person that has taken my number appears to be a lonely do-gooder. Or they WOULD be do-gooder if they had donated to the Red Cross and Cancer Society with their own money. They got it right and wrong in a twisted sort of way.
Call me crazy, but when you steal someone's debit card number, donating to the Red Cross becomes just as bad as donating to the making of bestiality porno flicks when it's on someone else's dime.
But alas! It was the U.S. Bank fraud department bringing me tidings that inspired some less-than-lovey feelings within my bosom.
At first I thought they were calling to verify the plane ticket that I had recently purchased from Expedia. It turns out that they didn't care about that - what they cared about were numerous OTHER purchases that had taken place on my unsuspecting debit card within the last couple of days.
I didn't get the full listing of charges ( I don't think, anyway)...I just got enough to verify that it wasn't me making the charges. Among the charges?
-People Finder
-Friend Finder
-Plenty of Fish in the Sea (and other personals websites)
*These next couple just kill me*
-The American Red Cross
-American Cancer Society
I'm sure that there are other charges as well. The real kicker is that this is the SECOND time that this has happened to me. I have lived in 3 states. I have used my debit cards over the internet in all states. And yet somehow, my number has been taken TWICE in CALIFORNIA, providing me with yet another reason to hate this g-d forsaken state.
The first time it happened, nearly $900 was charged to PORN websites. That's right. I was curious at the web addresses, so I took a look and then was promptly sorry I did, because the porn was not even your garden-variety porn. I don't watch porn at all, but if I did I'm 100% sure that I would not be watching porn that includes orgies full of women and animals. I'm also pretty sure that PETA would have been outraged at the flicks, but that's just an assumption.
Now, the person that has taken my number appears to be a lonely do-gooder. Or they WOULD be do-gooder if they had donated to the Red Cross and Cancer Society with their own money. They got it right and wrong in a twisted sort of way.
Call me crazy, but when you steal someone's debit card number, donating to the Red Cross becomes just as bad as donating to the making of bestiality porno flicks when it's on someone else's dime.
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