I just got an email from a girl in my class saying, “I know we don’t know each other very well, but I really need to talk to you. Can you please call me? xxx-xxxx”
When I stepped into the stairwell a few minutes later and dialed her phone number, she was audibly gasping for breath and crying hysterically. I knew that this wasn’t a social call.
It turns out that The Dean I Hate just called her to let her know that because she failed a class last semester and is going to fail one this semester, she’s definitely going to be repeating a year—if she’s lucky. There’s a greater chance that she will be dismissed from the school altogether.
She gave me a lot of personal information that explained why things were so hard for her this year, but even without hearing her explanations, I get it. I know what it feels like to try your best, to hold your head high through the worst of things, to talk yourself into believing that everything is going to work out, and then to fail. But she knows that. You know that. The mutual friend who witnessed her being on the verge of a breakdown knows that.
“I just need someone to tell me that this going to be OK,” she kept repeating. “Is this going to be OK? Am I going to be OK?”
I know a lot of people who are trying to get into medical school read this blog. I’m sure that you must have wondered more than once how otherwise competent people who had good grades, high MCAT scores, and research and clinical experience, could get through the competitive application process only to fail.
The answer is that failure usually has very little to do with academic capabilities. Life is a wild ride of ups and downs that we can’t anticipate. People get sick. Family members die. Relationships fail. Sometimes the margin of error in medical school just isn’t enough to accommodate our emotional breakdowns. Sometimes we misjudge our ability to balance the less desirable aspects of our lives. Sometimes our best just isn't good enough.
No one who makes it this far has done so without difficulty. For every medical student who gets accepted, there have been risks, trials, and disappointments. Many other things worked out well for us, but there were also all-nighters, personal sacrifices, worries, and regrets.
But, we picked ourselves back up. We admitted our mistakes. We figured out how to make it work. We leaned on each other for support.
Whatever she did then, she will need to do again.
But yes, it’s going to be OK. It’s going to be perfectly fine, in fact. I told her that the fall semester is going to be hard. She’s going to be sad a lot and the emotional burden will be heavy. It’s going to be expensive and every time she sits through a lecture that she has already heard, her frustration will well just a little bit more. But, she needs to plead her case to the committee this summer and convince them to let her stay. If they say no, she needs to appeal to the Head of the Medical School. It’s going to be a struggle and it’s going to take work. But what worthwhile pursuit in life doesn’t require the same?
But yes, it’s going to be fine. She’s going to be OK. She will find the strength to do it. And looking back many years from now, it’s not going to matter.
It's what I told myself every day last semester. And, it was true.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Typical
I always said that I was going to avoid doing research in medical school. Yet, here I am working on a research poster. Good news, though! I spent the entire day editing a 10 page paper, going over references, and figuring out how to format all of this information into a poster, so that I could send it to the printer.
I had just found the last image that I wanted to add, when I got an email saying that I did the poster wrong.
So, by "good news," I obviously mean "bad news." And yet, I am all too familiar with this process. Research experiments go awry, get contaminated, or must be redone all the time. Then, statistics sometimes don't match up. The tables don't look right. There aren't enough references.
*sigh*
I love you, research. And by "I love you," I mean, I hate you.
(On the upside, thank goodness I got clarification of this before printing the poster! Yes?)
I had just found the last image that I wanted to add, when I got an email saying that I did the poster wrong.
So, by "good news," I obviously mean "bad news." And yet, I am all too familiar with this process. Research experiments go awry, get contaminated, or must be redone all the time. Then, statistics sometimes don't match up. The tables don't look right. There aren't enough references.
*sigh*
I love you, research. And by "I love you," I mean, I hate you.
(On the upside, thank goodness I got clarification of this before printing the poster! Yes?)
At Least I’m Not the Only One Who Gets Disrespected For Looking Young
After lunch yesterday, I rejoined G.I. Joe in the surgical suite, where his two fellows were already waiting. We sat for a while in the nurses' station, where the fellows reviewed their patients for G.I. Joe, and then explained things in simpler terms for me. Then, G.I. Joe and the fellows white-coated themselves and we took off to round in a very Scrubs-esque fashion.
As G.I. Joe herded his three ducklings through the floors of the hospital, his two fellows directed him most of the time, telling him patients' room numbers and joining in to talk to the patients’ families. I, of course, being the only medical student present, kept my mouth shut and followed behind obediently.
The last patient on rounds was a young, 30 year old woman with a chronic liver condition. She has been managing her illness well for the past 10 years, but due to an acute development, she is going to need surgery by the end of the week. She may also need a liver transplant.
As part of rounds, G.I. Joe stopped at Interventional Radiology to consult with them and then found the hospitalist whose service the patient had been assigned to. There was much discussion, review, and consultation with another University Hospital over the period of an hour. Then, once in the room, G.I. Joe stayed with this patient the longest of anyone. It was his first time meeting the patient’s parents, so after introducing himself, he gave a very thorough explanation of what the treatment plan was. Midway through the explanation, the hospitalist also joined us in the room.
After G.I. Joe had finished what was a very serious and solemn discussion, he said goodbye to the patient and told her parents that he’d be in touch. Surprisingly, the patient’s father reciprocated by reaching out to shake his hand and saying,
“Hey, thanks Pete.*”
G.I. Joe’s fellows could hardly contain their laughter long enough to get out of the room.
After all, the patient’s father called G.I. Joe by his first name. Not just by his first name either, but by a nickname of his first name. And, he said it as if G.I. Joe was one of his daughter’s friends, hanging out at the house and eating ice cream out of the freezer, not the consultant called in to make important decisions about his daughter’s life-saving care.
Granted, G.I. Joe is a fairly young doctor and all the nurses and fellows call him by his first name (I do not, because I am not stupid and would prefer not to fail my clinicals). In the hallway, though, his fellows couldn’t wait to start teasing him about what had happened and to point out other examples of people who have started calling him by his first name without prompting.
G.I. Joe just joined in the joking, commenting that at least the patient's father didn't try to pat him on the bum like a little league coach. When the hospitalist emerged from the room a few minutes later, she said something about power struggles and people who feel like they need to assert their position in life. Then, she started laughing too and pointed out that the patient’s father had never tried to call her by her first name.
Note to self: Don’t put first name on white coat.
*Peter is clearly not G.I.’s real first name. But, you know that.
As G.I. Joe herded his three ducklings through the floors of the hospital, his two fellows directed him most of the time, telling him patients' room numbers and joining in to talk to the patients’ families. I, of course, being the only medical student present, kept my mouth shut and followed behind obediently.
The last patient on rounds was a young, 30 year old woman with a chronic liver condition. She has been managing her illness well for the past 10 years, but due to an acute development, she is going to need surgery by the end of the week. She may also need a liver transplant.
As part of rounds, G.I. Joe stopped at Interventional Radiology to consult with them and then found the hospitalist whose service the patient had been assigned to. There was much discussion, review, and consultation with another University Hospital over the period of an hour. Then, once in the room, G.I. Joe stayed with this patient the longest of anyone. It was his first time meeting the patient’s parents, so after introducing himself, he gave a very thorough explanation of what the treatment plan was. Midway through the explanation, the hospitalist also joined us in the room.
After G.I. Joe had finished what was a very serious and solemn discussion, he said goodbye to the patient and told her parents that he’d be in touch. Surprisingly, the patient’s father reciprocated by reaching out to shake his hand and saying,
“Hey, thanks Pete.*”
G.I. Joe’s fellows could hardly contain their laughter long enough to get out of the room.
After all, the patient’s father called G.I. Joe by his first name. Not just by his first name either, but by a nickname of his first name. And, he said it as if G.I. Joe was one of his daughter’s friends, hanging out at the house and eating ice cream out of the freezer, not the consultant called in to make important decisions about his daughter’s life-saving care.
Granted, G.I. Joe is a fairly young doctor and all the nurses and fellows call him by his first name (I do not, because I am not stupid and would prefer not to fail my clinicals). In the hallway, though, his fellows couldn’t wait to start teasing him about what had happened and to point out other examples of people who have started calling him by his first name without prompting.
G.I. Joe just joined in the joking, commenting that at least the patient's father didn't try to pat him on the bum like a little league coach. When the hospitalist emerged from the room a few minutes later, she said something about power struggles and people who feel like they need to assert their position in life. Then, she started laughing too and pointed out that the patient’s father had never tried to call her by her first name.
Note to self: Don’t put first name on white coat.
*Peter is clearly not G.I.’s real first name. But, you know that.
An Accurate Description
I'm working on a research poster that I need to send to the printer in the next day or so. Since this is my first time printing a poster at the medical school, I just read through the guidelines for posters on the Printing Services website.
Wouldn't you know that their recommended font for posters is Minion Pro?
Ha!
If ever there was a title to describe medical students who use their free time to work on research posters, it would be Professional Minion! I am the lackey to residents, fellows, and attendings galore! Bring me your scut, one and all!
Oh, well. If you're going to be at the bottom of the totem pole, you might as well do it right!
Wouldn't you know that their recommended font for posters is Minion Pro?
Ha!
If ever there was a title to describe medical students who use their free time to work on research posters, it would be Professional Minion! I am the lackey to residents, fellows, and attendings galore! Bring me your scut, one and all!
Oh, well. If you're going to be at the bottom of the totem pole, you might as well do it right!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Resolved!
I figured that by this morning, I was safely removed enough from yesterday's anger to proofread my email and make sure that I had edited out the crazy, and just left the stern and truthful in its place. I got the following email response back:
Red Stethoscope,
I apologize for the confusion. I can see in the past that you have been responsible and have called to canel appointments. I will go ahead and remove the charge as I do see a block on Dr. T's schedule for that day at that time.
Thank you,
Student Health Services Administrator
Except...
Did you see this part: as I do see a block on Dr. T's schedule for that day at that time.
So bascially, there was some sort of emergency that warranted blocking out that time. Don't flatter me by being all, "you've been responsible in the past." Just admit to being wrong and making a mistake! Why is that so hard? Also, if the administrator could see that schedule block on the calendar, I'm sure that the receptionist and the doctor could too. And yet, they still chose to be obnoxious and to call me a liar. People are so grimy!
Unrelated, I'm sitting in the medical school library eating lunch (as per usual), but in 15 minutes, I get to go with G.I. Joe on rounds. Rounds! In the hospital! Like on Scrubs! I've been with him all morning and even though his partner enthusiastically invited me to come troll the food truck with them, I politely declined. (It was a carnivore food truck, and I don't eat beef and pork--the only two things that they serve.) Anyway, I digress. Rounds! In 15 minutes!
Red Stethoscope,
I apologize for the confusion. I can see in the past that you have been responsible and have called to canel appointments. I will go ahead and remove the charge as I do see a block on Dr. T's schedule for that day at that time.
Thank you,
Student Health Services Administrator
Except...
Did you see this part: as I do see a block on Dr. T's schedule for that day at that time.
So bascially, there was some sort of emergency that warranted blocking out that time. Don't flatter me by being all, "you've been responsible in the past." Just admit to being wrong and making a mistake! Why is that so hard? Also, if the administrator could see that schedule block on the calendar, I'm sure that the receptionist and the doctor could too. And yet, they still chose to be obnoxious and to call me a liar. People are so grimy!
Unrelated, I'm sitting in the medical school library eating lunch (as per usual), but in 15 minutes, I get to go with G.I. Joe on rounds. Rounds! In the hospital! Like on Scrubs! I've been with him all morning and even though his partner enthusiastically invited me to come troll the food truck with them, I politely declined. (It was a carnivore food truck, and I don't eat beef and pork--the only two things that they serve.) Anyway, I digress. Rounds! In 15 minutes!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Another Bitter Rant About Student Health Services, This Time Involving the Office Staff
Sometime in late February, I made an appointment with a psychiatrist at Student Health. As mentioned here and here, this is when I started feeling like the stress of a failed wedding, a repeated year of medical school, and my mother’s illness was finally starting to catch up with me. Not surprisingly, this is also when my course load lightened dramatically and we already know what happens when there aren't enough distractions in life.
Anyway, the psychiatrist gave me some PRN Klonopin, but let me tell you guys, benzodiazapienes do not agree with me. Instead of the soothing dullness I was hoping for, I felt…tipsy. My reflexes were slowed, I was overwhelmingly tired, and I couldn’t focus on the notes in front of me. On top of that, the Klonopin did not relieve my anxiety symptoms. I took it two more times just to make sure, and every time was the same: Sleepy McDrunk Face with zero relief of anxiety symptoms.
I reverted back to my usual way of coping: working out compulsively, listening to music, going for long drives, drinking hot tea, and going out with friends. I also set boundaries with my mother, stopped responding to Rich’s emails, and slowly, I started feeling better.
Two weeks after my initial visit in February, I had a follow-up appointment with the psychiatrist. I had planned to go so that I could tell her that Klonopin and I will never be friends, but the morning of my appointment, her secretary called to say that she was having a family emergency and that she needed to cancel my appointment. I kept getting calls for the next several weeks asking me to reschedule and I finally did last week.
Today, when I got to the office for my follow-up visit, I was promptly informed by the receptionist that there was an “alert” on my account. I asked what that meant and she sassily informed me that because I had missed my last appointment, my registration was going to be blocked.
I was a little stunned, first of all, because I didn’t miss the appointment. I got a voicemail saying that it was canceled. Second of all, since when is the penalty for a missed appointment the blocking of one’s registration?
I asked for clarification and the receptionist told me that the fee was $40 for a missed appointment, but since I didn’t pay it, my registration would be blocked. Again, what missed appointment? What fee? Was I supposed to know about this?
Whenever I have to deal with “customer service” issues, though, I try to be the nicest, sweetest person I can be, because I realize that I’m going to get further being nice than getting angry. So, in my calmest voice, I explained that I had gotten a call on the morning of my appointment saying that the doctor was having a family emergency and that she needed to cancel. So obviously, I didn't show up that day.
The receptionist checked the computer, then said,
“Well, she was here all day, so obviously you’re just being untruthful.”
This is the point, readers, in which I should mention that I look a lot younger than I am in real life. In most situations, this is awesome. I mean, who doesn’t like to be told that they have a baby face?
But, standing across from this power-hungry, annoyed receptionist who just accused me of being "untruthful" about a missed appointment at Student Health, I realized that she was probably thinking that I was some 18 year old punk who was trying to get out of the charge so that my parents wouldn’t see it on my student account and get mad at me. This is obviously not the case. Also, I don’t miss my doctor’s appointments, because like most of you, if I am even able to cram an appointment into my hectic schedule, I can't cancel it because the chance that I will have another one or two hour window is slim. More importantly, as a future doctor, I don’t like to waste people’s time. If I know that I really can’t keep an appointment, I just call the day before and say so, like a normal human being.
I spent the 10 minutes waiting for the doctor by toggling through my phone to find my call history of the day in question. Apparently, I was going to have to provide some sort of verifiable truth to these people, lest they think that I lie and make up stories to cover my tracks. Sure enough, my memory was right and there were two missed calls from Student Health that morning. Sadly, the voicemail was deleted long ago.
When I went in to see the doctor, I mentioned this fiasco to her, showed her my phone, and then, she looked in her own logs.
“Oh, well, it looks like I was in the office that day, so I guess you'll just have to pay.”
Umm…what? Since when does a doctor just assume that the mistake is due to the patient, and not to the office staff? I didn’t want to get smart with her, but she was looking at my phone with two missed calls from her office line. Am I really expected to call my cell phone service provider and have them dredge up my deleted voicemails (can they even do that?) just to prove that I’m not trying to skirt a $40 fee?
The incompetence of Student Health Services is appalling. If it’s not the doctors with questionable medical skills, it’s the receptionists who have way too much attitude for their position, or the nurse practitioners who don’t know how to fill out referral paperwork. Last year, I ended up paying $400 out of pocket, because the nurse practitioner who wrote me the referral to a specialist gave me the wrong paperwork and then didn’t chart what she did. Obviously, without a proper referral, I had to pay the whole cost of the visit and because she didn’t chart my reason for coming in to the office, there was no record to dispute it.
Seriously, someone shut these people these down already.
Also, I didn’t even need the stupid Klonopin. In fact, I didn’t need anything today. I was just trying to be a good patient and follow-up with my physician because that is what responsible medical students who want to keep their doctors updated do. Ironic, isn't it?
Anyway, the psychiatrist gave me some PRN Klonopin, but let me tell you guys, benzodiazapienes do not agree with me. Instead of the soothing dullness I was hoping for, I felt…tipsy. My reflexes were slowed, I was overwhelmingly tired, and I couldn’t focus on the notes in front of me. On top of that, the Klonopin did not relieve my anxiety symptoms. I took it two more times just to make sure, and every time was the same: Sleepy McDrunk Face with zero relief of anxiety symptoms.
I reverted back to my usual way of coping: working out compulsively, listening to music, going for long drives, drinking hot tea, and going out with friends. I also set boundaries with my mother, stopped responding to Rich’s emails, and slowly, I started feeling better.
Two weeks after my initial visit in February, I had a follow-up appointment with the psychiatrist. I had planned to go so that I could tell her that Klonopin and I will never be friends, but the morning of my appointment, her secretary called to say that she was having a family emergency and that she needed to cancel my appointment. I kept getting calls for the next several weeks asking me to reschedule and I finally did last week.
Today, when I got to the office for my follow-up visit, I was promptly informed by the receptionist that there was an “alert” on my account. I asked what that meant and she sassily informed me that because I had missed my last appointment, my registration was going to be blocked.
I was a little stunned, first of all, because I didn’t miss the appointment. I got a voicemail saying that it was canceled. Second of all, since when is the penalty for a missed appointment the blocking of one’s registration?
I asked for clarification and the receptionist told me that the fee was $40 for a missed appointment, but since I didn’t pay it, my registration would be blocked. Again, what missed appointment? What fee? Was I supposed to know about this?
Whenever I have to deal with “customer service” issues, though, I try to be the nicest, sweetest person I can be, because I realize that I’m going to get further being nice than getting angry. So, in my calmest voice, I explained that I had gotten a call on the morning of my appointment saying that the doctor was having a family emergency and that she needed to cancel. So obviously, I didn't show up that day.
The receptionist checked the computer, then said,
“Well, she was here all day, so obviously you’re just being untruthful.”
This is the point, readers, in which I should mention that I look a lot younger than I am in real life. In most situations, this is awesome. I mean, who doesn’t like to be told that they have a baby face?
But, standing across from this power-hungry, annoyed receptionist who just accused me of being "untruthful" about a missed appointment at Student Health, I realized that she was probably thinking that I was some 18 year old punk who was trying to get out of the charge so that my parents wouldn’t see it on my student account and get mad at me. This is obviously not the case. Also, I don’t miss my doctor’s appointments, because like most of you, if I am even able to cram an appointment into my hectic schedule, I can't cancel it because the chance that I will have another one or two hour window is slim. More importantly, as a future doctor, I don’t like to waste people’s time. If I know that I really can’t keep an appointment, I just call the day before and say so, like a normal human being.
I spent the 10 minutes waiting for the doctor by toggling through my phone to find my call history of the day in question. Apparently, I was going to have to provide some sort of verifiable truth to these people, lest they think that I lie and make up stories to cover my tracks. Sure enough, my memory was right and there were two missed calls from Student Health that morning. Sadly, the voicemail was deleted long ago.
When I went in to see the doctor, I mentioned this fiasco to her, showed her my phone, and then, she looked in her own logs.
“Oh, well, it looks like I was in the office that day, so I guess you'll just have to pay.”
Umm…what? Since when does a doctor just assume that the mistake is due to the patient, and not to the office staff? I didn’t want to get smart with her, but she was looking at my phone with two missed calls from her office line. Am I really expected to call my cell phone service provider and have them dredge up my deleted voicemails (can they even do that?) just to prove that I’m not trying to skirt a $40 fee?
The incompetence of Student Health Services is appalling. If it’s not the doctors with questionable medical skills, it’s the receptionists who have way too much attitude for their position, or the nurse practitioners who don’t know how to fill out referral paperwork. Last year, I ended up paying $400 out of pocket, because the nurse practitioner who wrote me the referral to a specialist gave me the wrong paperwork and then didn’t chart what she did. Obviously, without a proper referral, I had to pay the whole cost of the visit and because she didn’t chart my reason for coming in to the office, there was no record to dispute it.
Seriously, someone shut these people these down already.
Also, I didn’t even need the stupid Klonopin. In fact, I didn’t need anything today. I was just trying to be a good patient and follow-up with my physician because that is what responsible medical students who want to keep their doctors updated do. Ironic, isn't it?
Sunday, April 24, 2011
False Alarm (Kind Of)
OK, first of all, I didn’t mean to cause offense with the last entry. I wrote it really late at night, right before I went to bed. I was trying to post a quick Mystery Guy update before I let my anti-histamines lull me into a sweet, sweet unconsciousness, and whoops! FAIL. Sometimes it’s hard to discern what’s going to be offensive at 1:30 a.m. Anyway, thank you for the information, kind readers. Now, let’s carry on with our bad, cultured selves!
This morning, I woke up to find that Christine had CCed me on an email that she sent to Mystery Guy yesterday. She had told me his last name at dinner yesterday, but with the complete spelling now present, I took to my favorite stalker tool, Facebook. (Sorry Google, you have been replaced).
We have two mutual friends, and I was able to see Mystery Guy’s pictures and complete profile.
He is not the same guy from Andie’s baby shower—a.k.a. rude, “Free Masonry” guy. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I’ve never seen Mystery Guy before.
He is cute-ish, and from his silly poses, he appears to have a good sense of humor. (Win!) He is also from Florida, which automatically means that he’s going to be awesome. However, as we know, the universe hates me and no dating experience would be complete without some sort of social incest. Who could he possibly be connected to, you ask?
Wait for it…
In a bizarre twist of fate, it appears that Mystery Guy works at the same company with Neighbor Guy. This is noteworthy, because if you remember the correspondence that I used to post with Neighbor Guy, I’d often delete things that he was telling me about his work. He was unhappy with his job at the time, and was interviewing at other companies. Wouldn’t you know that the company who hired him a few months ago is the very one that Mystery Guy works for?
It gets better, though.
Even though this company has a large, national presence, it appears that Mystery Guy works in the same location, in the same department as Neighbor Guy. This means, of course, that there’s a good chance that he and Neighbor Guy work on the same projects. All I need to hear is that they also have lunch together every day and are after work BFFs. Maybe Mystery Guy already hangs out in my building with Neighbor Guy. If we end up getting together, that means that he can visit his girlfriend and his BFF in one shot! Score!
(Notice how I am not even shocked by these things anymore. How these cruel jokes from the universe can keep happening in a metropolitan area as large as Washington, DC, I have no idea.)
By the way, I hope that you all had a wonderful Easter--in whatever way you celebrate it (or don't celebrate it). Mine was spent in the sweet embrace of Zyrtec-D, in my bed napping, and in the company of three leftover pies from last night. So bascially, it was lovely.
This morning, I woke up to find that Christine had CCed me on an email that she sent to Mystery Guy yesterday. She had told me his last name at dinner yesterday, but with the complete spelling now present, I took to my favorite stalker tool, Facebook. (Sorry Google, you have been replaced).
We have two mutual friends, and I was able to see Mystery Guy’s pictures and complete profile.
He is not the same guy from Andie’s baby shower—a.k.a. rude, “Free Masonry” guy. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I’ve never seen Mystery Guy before.
He is cute-ish, and from his silly poses, he appears to have a good sense of humor. (Win!) He is also from Florida, which automatically means that he’s going to be awesome. However, as we know, the universe hates me and no dating experience would be complete without some sort of social incest. Who could he possibly be connected to, you ask?
Wait for it…
In a bizarre twist of fate, it appears that Mystery Guy works at the same company with Neighbor Guy. This is noteworthy, because if you remember the correspondence that I used to post with Neighbor Guy, I’d often delete things that he was telling me about his work. He was unhappy with his job at the time, and was interviewing at other companies. Wouldn’t you know that the company who hired him a few months ago is the very one that Mystery Guy works for?
It gets better, though.
Even though this company has a large, national presence, it appears that Mystery Guy works in the same location, in the same department as Neighbor Guy. This means, of course, that there’s a good chance that he and Neighbor Guy work on the same projects. All I need to hear is that they also have lunch together every day and are after work BFFs. Maybe Mystery Guy already hangs out in my building with Neighbor Guy. If we end up getting together, that means that he can visit his girlfriend and his BFF in one shot! Score!
(Notice how I am not even shocked by these things anymore. How these cruel jokes from the universe can keep happening in a metropolitan area as large as Washington, DC, I have no idea.)
By the way, I hope that you all had a wonderful Easter--in whatever way you celebrate it (or don't celebrate it). Mine was spent in the sweet embrace of Zyrtec-D, in my bed napping, and in the company of three leftover pies from last night. So bascially, it was lovely.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Instigators
Today, I stayed home from church because I’m still fighting my seasonal allergies, with a little bit of a cold, on the side. A couple of weeks ago, though, I had invited several people over to my house tonight for dinner and board games. I debated whether or not I should cancel, but after talking to Christine, I decided that I was definitely having allergy issues and was not contagious (my main concern about letting people come over if I am sick).
Well…
Church just let out and Christine called me to let me know that one of the overzealous women’s ministries leaders that I introduced her to last week came over to our group of friends looking for me.
She had a guy with her, and had brought him over with romantic intent.
I can’t imagine the scene of what transpired next, as Christine described our group of 10 friends—for which, all of the women are tall and blonde—emphatically declaring how I was such a great catch and that he was going to love me.
Then, they invited him over to my house for dinner tonight.
So first of all, this man gets accosted by a hoard of my friends, in lieu of a private introduction to me. (That’s not intimidating at all, right?) Then, said friends proceed to convince him to come to my apartment tonight, and they tell him that it will be totally fine. (Nothing like a runny nose and allergy eyes to scream, “Romance!”) Also, I am the only non-European woman in this group of friends. (What a fun surprise for you, mystery guy! I look nothing like my friends!)
Christine called to give me a heads up, because six of our friends that were on the fence about coming tonight are now definitely coming. (THANK YOU, CHRISTINE). And also, there is some guy who is totally hot and of whom they all approve, who may or may not make an appearance.
So, this is going to be an interesting experience. After I grill up some chicken and veggies, I’m just going to sit back and let the guy come to me. Literally. It's too bad that I can't give my friends rating cards to hold up at the end of the night. Oh, well. I suppose that's what text messaging is for anyway.
Well…
Church just let out and Christine called me to let me know that one of the overzealous women’s ministries leaders that I introduced her to last week came over to our group of friends looking for me.
She had a guy with her, and had brought him over with romantic intent.
I can’t imagine the scene of what transpired next, as Christine described our group of 10 friends—for which, all of the women are tall and blonde—emphatically declaring how I was such a great catch and that he was going to love me.
Then, they invited him over to my house for dinner tonight.
So first of all, this man gets accosted by a hoard of my friends, in lieu of a private introduction to me. (That’s not intimidating at all, right?) Then, said friends proceed to convince him to come to my apartment tonight, and they tell him that it will be totally fine. (Nothing like a runny nose and allergy eyes to scream, “Romance!”) Also, I am the only non-European woman in this group of friends. (What a fun surprise for you, mystery guy! I look nothing like my friends!)
Christine called to give me a heads up, because six of our friends that were on the fence about coming tonight are now definitely coming. (THANK YOU, CHRISTINE). And also, there is some guy who is totally hot and of whom they all approve, who may or may not make an appearance.
So, this is going to be an interesting experience. After I grill up some chicken and veggies, I’m just going to sit back and let the guy come to me. Literally. It's too bad that I can't give my friends rating cards to hold up at the end of the night. Oh, well. I suppose that's what text messaging is for anyway.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Didn’t Get into Medical School This Cycle? You Can Still Go to Medical School in Milan!
Disclosure: This post was sponsored by Vita-Salute San Raffaele International MD Program in Milan, Italy. Program information was provided; opinions are personal.
The first time I went to Italy was in April 2009. Rich and I had been dating for nearly a year, and going to Italy was his suggestion.
He had been to Italy several times before, but mainly to Rome, and southern Italy. It would also be his first time in Milan, but he had proclaimed it to be the perfect “home base” for our trip, which I would later agree with. Although our time in Italy was short, due to his demanding work schedule at the time, we took fabulous day trips to places like Venice and Lake Como. We did both the overpriced, romantic gondola ride in Venice and the off-the-beaten path wandering, through small cobble-stoned pathways and tucked away restaurants, in Bellagio. It was a fabulous trip. Mostly.
Our last night in Milan, we had what we’ll call The Great Italy Fight of 2009. I won’t go into specifics, because that’s not what this post is about, but let’s just say that after two hours of loud screaming that probably appalled our neighbors in our swanky, five-star hotel, I ended up storming out of the room--in the rain, by myself, only to discover that every eatery within walking distance was closed. When I returned to the room, Rich and I had both simmered down enough to take a cab to the Navigli, where we ate late-night pizza at a club/restaurant and talked about what had happened.
I had loved how modern and clean Milan was during the trip. Everyone seemed friendly and kind and even though I knew that I was in Italy, I kept feeling like I was in an immaculate northeastern US city, with beautiful and interesting architecture, the entire time I was there. Even though I didn’t speak Italian, I can’t remember ever having an issue with language barriers either. Almost everyone spoke English. After The Great Italy Fight of 2009, I silently brooded to myself that I would come back to Milan and do her right. I would window shop and eat my Milanese brioche for breakfast and give her the kind of happy memories she deserved.
Then, I read about the Vita-Salute San Raffaele International MD Program last week. My first thought was literally,
“Crap! How did I not know about this three years ago?”
Because, yes. I am not lying when I say that I may have considered not trying to fight for a coveted spot at a US medical school if I had gotten into this program.
First of all, Milan is a great city. If I thought that you were going to get shipped off to some distant, sketchy locale with subpar professors and classes, you know that I would tell you. In fact, I took a week to respond to San Raffaele about writing this, because I wanted to research them first and make sure that I wasn’t leading you astray.
As far as academics go, though, San Raffaele is well known worldwide for its excellence. Their focus is on international medicine, and they have healthcare centers in Brazil, India, Uganda, Poland, Chile, Israel, Mozambique and Algeria. If you are worried that you don’t speak the language, don’t worry, all classes and clinicals are taught in English. The International MD Program is trying to train a new kind of doctor: “someone who possesses the necessary human, cultural and professional abilities to actively participate in healthcare and share ideas in today’s globalized world,” in their own words.
For their facilities, you will have access to buildings of both Vita-Salute San Raffaele Institute and the San Raffaele Scientific Institute. These include skills labs for practical training, a library with more than 20,000 books and several thousand scientific e-publications and resources, as well as to the clinical and research laboratories of the San Raffaele Scientific Institute, http://bit.ly/scientificinstitute, the largest private research institute in Italy. The San Raffaele Scientific Institute has further expanded recently, with the inauguration of DIBIT, a scientific facility for basic, translational and clinical research. DIBIT is part of the largest biomedical science park in Italy, which includes the San Raffaele Hospital, Science Park Raf, created to support the foundation's development, and the Vita-Salute San Raffaele University.
And, if you’ve been having trouble with MCAT scores, the International MD program does not require MCAT scores. However, you must take their admissions test (information below).
More information and complete guidelines for admission are here:
http://www.medicine.unisr.it/upload/file/Guidelines%20on%20the%20Admission%20Process%281%29.pdf
San Raffaele has 64 places available for the 2011-2012 academic year. 32 are for EU citizens and 32 are for non-EU citizens (that’s us!).
The admissions test takes place next Friday, April 28, 2011 in the following locations:
Milan, (IT)
New York, (USA)
Kuala Lumpur, (Malaysia)
But, the application deadline is TODAY.
So, GO! NOW! Register here:
http://bit.ly/mdadmissions.
If you do get in, I expect my invitation to Milan and let me tell you, there will be no fighting. Instead, we will go to Santa Maria delle Grazie to see The Last Supper, we will tour Castle Sforza, and we will gorge ourselves on pasta, cappuccino, and physiology discussions. OK, probably not the last one, unless we’re on a train to Venice, in which case, I’ll consent to letting you pick the topic of discussion. But, not without gelato.
The first time I went to Italy was in April 2009. Rich and I had been dating for nearly a year, and going to Italy was his suggestion.
He had been to Italy several times before, but mainly to Rome, and southern Italy. It would also be his first time in Milan, but he had proclaimed it to be the perfect “home base” for our trip, which I would later agree with. Although our time in Italy was short, due to his demanding work schedule at the time, we took fabulous day trips to places like Venice and Lake Como. We did both the overpriced, romantic gondola ride in Venice and the off-the-beaten path wandering, through small cobble-stoned pathways and tucked away restaurants, in Bellagio. It was a fabulous trip. Mostly.
Our last night in Milan, we had what we’ll call The Great Italy Fight of 2009. I won’t go into specifics, because that’s not what this post is about, but let’s just say that after two hours of loud screaming that probably appalled our neighbors in our swanky, five-star hotel, I ended up storming out of the room--in the rain, by myself, only to discover that every eatery within walking distance was closed. When I returned to the room, Rich and I had both simmered down enough to take a cab to the Navigli, where we ate late-night pizza at a club/restaurant and talked about what had happened.
I had loved how modern and clean Milan was during the trip. Everyone seemed friendly and kind and even though I knew that I was in Italy, I kept feeling like I was in an immaculate northeastern US city, with beautiful and interesting architecture, the entire time I was there. Even though I didn’t speak Italian, I can’t remember ever having an issue with language barriers either. Almost everyone spoke English. After The Great Italy Fight of 2009, I silently brooded to myself that I would come back to Milan and do her right. I would window shop and eat my Milanese brioche for breakfast and give her the kind of happy memories she deserved.
Then, I read about the Vita-Salute San Raffaele International MD Program last week. My first thought was literally,
“Crap! How did I not know about this three years ago?”
Because, yes. I am not lying when I say that I may have considered not trying to fight for a coveted spot at a US medical school if I had gotten into this program.
First of all, Milan is a great city. If I thought that you were going to get shipped off to some distant, sketchy locale with subpar professors and classes, you know that I would tell you. In fact, I took a week to respond to San Raffaele about writing this, because I wanted to research them first and make sure that I wasn’t leading you astray.
As far as academics go, though, San Raffaele is well known worldwide for its excellence. Their focus is on international medicine, and they have healthcare centers in Brazil, India, Uganda, Poland, Chile, Israel, Mozambique and Algeria. If you are worried that you don’t speak the language, don’t worry, all classes and clinicals are taught in English. The International MD Program is trying to train a new kind of doctor: “someone who possesses the necessary human, cultural and professional abilities to actively participate in healthcare and share ideas in today’s globalized world,” in their own words.
For their facilities, you will have access to buildings of both Vita-Salute San Raffaele Institute and the San Raffaele Scientific Institute. These include skills labs for practical training, a library with more than 20,000 books and several thousand scientific e-publications and resources, as well as to the clinical and research laboratories of the San Raffaele Scientific Institute, http://bit.ly/scientificinstitute, the largest private research institute in Italy. The San Raffaele Scientific Institute has further expanded recently, with the inauguration of DIBIT, a scientific facility for basic, translational and clinical research. DIBIT is part of the largest biomedical science park in Italy, which includes the San Raffaele Hospital, Science Park Raf, created to support the foundation's development, and the Vita-Salute San Raffaele University.
And, if you’ve been having trouble with MCAT scores, the International MD program does not require MCAT scores. However, you must take their admissions test (information below).
More information and complete guidelines for admission are here:
http://www.medicine.unisr.it/upload/file/Guidelines%20on%20the%20Admission%20Process%281%29.pdf
San Raffaele has 64 places available for the 2011-2012 academic year. 32 are for EU citizens and 32 are for non-EU citizens (that’s us!).
The admissions test takes place next Friday, April 28, 2011 in the following locations:
Milan, (IT)
New York, (USA)
Kuala Lumpur, (Malaysia)
But, the application deadline is TODAY.
So, GO! NOW! Register here:
http://bit.ly/mdadmissions.
If you do get in, I expect my invitation to Milan and let me tell you, there will be no fighting. Instead, we will go to Santa Maria delle Grazie to see The Last Supper, we will tour Castle Sforza, and we will gorge ourselves on pasta, cappuccino, and physiology discussions. OK, probably not the last one, unless we’re on a train to Venice, in which case, I’ll consent to letting you pick the topic of discussion. But, not without gelato.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Holding Pattern
Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord. We live by faith, not by sight.
-1 Corinthians 5:1-5
There have been other times in my life that I have felt this way.
In January 2007, I was living with the nicest Italian girl, Milania, in Baltimore. I was a full-time writer/marketer for my magazine, was picking up shifts per diem at a local psychiatric hospital, and had just been offered my first book deal. I was advancing in my career and was relatively happy with the progress that I was making.
But, I wanted more.
My family is a huge proponent of education and it is just not acceptable, in their eyes, to not attend graduate school. With this in mind, I had applied to Master’s in Fine Arts programs. Milania was a graduate student and was about to finish her occupational therapy program and look for a full-time job. I was fairly certain that I was going to get into graduate school, so we both figured that we’d be parting ways soon. When our lease renewal arrived that January, we only signed for another six months, with this in mind.
My editor at the magazine had written me a sparkling recommendation letter for graduate school. And when he called me into his office a few months later to have “the talk” about my anticipated departure, with my marketing director present, I wasn't surprised. My editor adored me, though. There were laughs and hugs, and we agreed on good terms, that I’d be resigning that summer to start graduate school.
Then, two months later, the MFA rejection letters started pouring in. Everyone was stunned.
My editor said he didn't know what more I could have done; my mother told me that I was obviously overqualified; my roommate said that the timing must have been wrong. All of a sudden, though, I realized that in a few months, I'd have no job, no place to live, and no back up plan. I started panicking.
My life's aspiration was to attend medical school, but a combination of health problems and discouragement from the pre-medical advisors at my school had shattered that dream long ago. Being a writer had started out as being just a backup plan. Thankfully, it had worked out well up until that point, and I had been happy. But, was I doomed to be a columnist, with no chance of advancing to editor, for my whole life?
What do you do when your backup plan fails?
I started aggressively researching Ph.D. programs in Psychology—the backup plan to the backup plan. All of their deadlines for application had already passed, though. Even if they hadn’t, I hadn’t taken my GREs because the MFA programs I had applied to didn’t require them. My self-esteem had been so annihilated at the very prestigious research school where I went to college that I didn’t even dare look at post-baccalaureate pre-medical programs. Even though I had attended college on a full academic scholarship, I had been told so many times that I just “wasn’t medical school material” that I believed it.
Desperation drives us to new lows, though, so I hastily started researching post-baccalaureate programs. It was March, by this time, so most of the deadlines had already passed.
Obviously, a more pressing concern was making sure that I had a job, so when I asked my boss if he had replaced me yet, he didn't even try to conceal his glee. Not only had they not found a replacement, but they hadn't even started looking yet. It was as if my job had never been in jeopardy at all. My roommate also comforted me by declaring that she wanted to keep living together. But, she was tired of having to troll for street parking in the city at night and wanted me to move to a Baltimore suburb with her.
In the midst of all of this, the only post-baccalaureate program still accepting applications was in Washington, DC. Even though I lived in Baltimore, I figured that I could feasibly make the drive from where Milania and were moving. Realistically, I was pretty sure that I wouldn't get in anyway. As mentioned, I hadn't taken my GREs and the only thing I had working in my favor was the ability to write a decent admission essay. (Also see earlier statement about self-esteem being annihilated.)
Still, I wrote out my application quickly and decided to mail it the same day. On my way to the post office, though, a strange sense of urgency overtook me and I found myself driving towards I-95 instead. I texted my roommate to let her know that I hadn’t gone missing (a valid concern for two single women living in Baltimore) and she texted back that although I was crazy to drive 50 miles on a whim, I should go for it. On the way to DC, I called a high school friend who was working at the NIH in Bethesda, and he said to swing by and get him, because he wanted to go with me to hand-deliver my application.
When I got to the university, I asked a friendly girl on campus where the science buildings were. Even though it was after hours, the building whose name I had addressed my application to was unlocked. After finding the faculty mailboxes, my friend commented that it looked like the admission person’s mailbox hadn’t been checked in weeks.
“Let’s find his office and slide it under the door,” he suggested.
So, like stalkers in the chemistry building, we found the building’s directory, found the admission director's office and shoved the 8 ½” x 11 envelope into the door jamb. There was no way he’d even be able to open the door the next morning without touching my application.
(I should note that this same friend is now in an M.D./Ph.D. program at an extremely prestigious university and always wanted me to go to medical school too…not that you couldn’t surmise that from his role in this little escapade).
Two days after my impromptu trip to DC, I flew to California for a 10 day marketing trip. It was while I was in California that I received an email acceptance from the post-baccalaureate program, a mere six days after dropping off my application. To make things more interesting, they had accepted me for the summer session and classes were starting in two weeks. (The school had a rolling admissions policy, so they could have accepted me for a later semester, technically). I wouldn’t realize how miraculous this occurrence was until after starting my program, when the other students told me that it had taken them months to get accepted. More importantly, though, the director of the program was in his late 70’s and hated email. He never responded to my emails as a student and I still don’t know why he chose to email me my acceptance, instead of sending an acceptance package by mail, like he did for everyone else.
Since I was in California when I received the surprising news, I didn’t know how I’d register for classes in time, since post-baccalaureate students were required to meet with an advisor who registered for them. (I don’t know, this school had weird rules.) I called the university and explained my dilemma, as well as time constraints. The director of the program allowed me to register over the phone and waived the deposit usually required.
Overall, the acceptance was great news, if not surprising, and everything was falling into place! Except…remember how I had just gone back to my boss after resigning, and then asked for my job back? How could I possibly go back, within the span of a month, and resign a second time? I couldn’t. And thus began what we’ll call the "worst idea ever:" working full-time while also completing a post-baccalaureate program full-time.
After telling my boss about my acceptance, I assured him that I wouldn't leave. I kept working, including attending all of my scheduled marketing trips, and the night before classes started, I flew home late from Birmingham. The next morning, I left my apartment at 6:30 a.m., as part of the second worst idea ever: commuting from Baltimore to DC for class. The approximate time that it took me to drive each way was 2 ½ hours, because of traffic.
Somehow, the work/school combination didn't kill me and 10 weeks later, when my lease expired, Milania moved to the suburb she had been eyeing and I moved into a basement apartment 10 minutes outside of DC. Thankfully, because most of my work didn’t require me to be in the office, my bosses (editor and marketing director) allowed me to work from home and to schedule marketing trips when I had breaks from school. I also still kept some of my per diem shifts at the hospital, because I needed the money.
Unlike with my attempts at MFA programs, a year after starting my post-baccalaureate program, I took my MCATs, applied to medical school, went on eight of my nine interviews, and received three acceptances before withdrawing the remainder of my applications. “Not medical school material,” indeed. Don’t go to prestigious research universities, guys.
Before this unexpected turn of events in 2007, though, I remember feeling awful. I was so sure that the reason that things had gone so awry with my medical aspirations was because God wanted me to be a writer—which was fine. I was happy with doing that and I was making the appropriate decisions regarding that, but I felt unsatisfied. I used to pray every night, "God, I'll be a writer or do whatever I am supposed to do in life, but please take the desire to be a doctor away." When I didn’t get into the MFA program, that I was so sure was part of The Life Plan, I remember feeling like life was stuck on pause.
Suddenly, nothing was working out and I didn’t know why. I was discouraged, angry, and confused. Eventually, though, I started feeling a quiet fluttering in my heart—like some sort of indication that this was just the calm before the storm.
I remember telling my roommate, after being rejected from MFA programs and before looking into post-baccalaureate programs, that I just felt like something was going to happen. I didn’t know what it was or why or when it was going to happen, but in between periods of fear and anxiety about the future, I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. Fast.
When the post-baccalaureate acceptance came on the heels of signing back on with my job and suddenly needing to find a place to live in DC, while being a full-time student again for the first time in years, I was surprisingly ready. I had know that “it”—something I didn’t know or understand—was coming and I had been waiting for it.
I wish that I could explain the feeling more articulately, but I can’t. Jeremiah 33:3 says that when we call to God, He tells us “great and unsearchable things you [we] do not know.” Perhaps that feeling of something "great and unsearchable" is what I'm trying to describe, but there is a steady, confident feeling that something big, that will likely turn your life upside down, is coming.
When this happened in 2007, things were strangely quiet and annoyingly calm.
I tell you this, because I feel like I’m in a similar holding pattern right now. My frustration is centered on my research project, not graduate school, but the feeling is the same. No matter how many emails I send, I keep hitting dead ends. I can’t buy the rest of my plane tickets or submit my IRB paperwork or do anything else, because I need to have confirmation from my second host site. No matter how many new people I contact, though; no matter how many times I hit “send;” no matter how many times I refresh my university email account; the answer is just not coming.
And yet, I feel a calm, fluttering of my heart.
I don’t know what "it" is, or if it's even related to my project, but that feeling is back. Four years ago, I was terrified and annoyed by not knowing what was going to happen next. Right now, I kind of can’t wait.
-1 Corinthians 5:1-5
There have been other times in my life that I have felt this way.
In January 2007, I was living with the nicest Italian girl, Milania, in Baltimore. I was a full-time writer/marketer for my magazine, was picking up shifts per diem at a local psychiatric hospital, and had just been offered my first book deal. I was advancing in my career and was relatively happy with the progress that I was making.
But, I wanted more.
My family is a huge proponent of education and it is just not acceptable, in their eyes, to not attend graduate school. With this in mind, I had applied to Master’s in Fine Arts programs. Milania was a graduate student and was about to finish her occupational therapy program and look for a full-time job. I was fairly certain that I was going to get into graduate school, so we both figured that we’d be parting ways soon. When our lease renewal arrived that January, we only signed for another six months, with this in mind.
My editor at the magazine had written me a sparkling recommendation letter for graduate school. And when he called me into his office a few months later to have “the talk” about my anticipated departure, with my marketing director present, I wasn't surprised. My editor adored me, though. There were laughs and hugs, and we agreed on good terms, that I’d be resigning that summer to start graduate school.
Then, two months later, the MFA rejection letters started pouring in. Everyone was stunned.
My editor said he didn't know what more I could have done; my mother told me that I was obviously overqualified; my roommate said that the timing must have been wrong. All of a sudden, though, I realized that in a few months, I'd have no job, no place to live, and no back up plan. I started panicking.
My life's aspiration was to attend medical school, but a combination of health problems and discouragement from the pre-medical advisors at my school had shattered that dream long ago. Being a writer had started out as being just a backup plan. Thankfully, it had worked out well up until that point, and I had been happy. But, was I doomed to be a columnist, with no chance of advancing to editor, for my whole life?
What do you do when your backup plan fails?
I started aggressively researching Ph.D. programs in Psychology—the backup plan to the backup plan. All of their deadlines for application had already passed, though. Even if they hadn’t, I hadn’t taken my GREs because the MFA programs I had applied to didn’t require them. My self-esteem had been so annihilated at the very prestigious research school where I went to college that I didn’t even dare look at post-baccalaureate pre-medical programs. Even though I had attended college on a full academic scholarship, I had been told so many times that I just “wasn’t medical school material” that I believed it.
Desperation drives us to new lows, though, so I hastily started researching post-baccalaureate programs. It was March, by this time, so most of the deadlines had already passed.
Obviously, a more pressing concern was making sure that I had a job, so when I asked my boss if he had replaced me yet, he didn't even try to conceal his glee. Not only had they not found a replacement, but they hadn't even started looking yet. It was as if my job had never been in jeopardy at all. My roommate also comforted me by declaring that she wanted to keep living together. But, she was tired of having to troll for street parking in the city at night and wanted me to move to a Baltimore suburb with her.
In the midst of all of this, the only post-baccalaureate program still accepting applications was in Washington, DC. Even though I lived in Baltimore, I figured that I could feasibly make the drive from where Milania and were moving. Realistically, I was pretty sure that I wouldn't get in anyway. As mentioned, I hadn't taken my GREs and the only thing I had working in my favor was the ability to write a decent admission essay. (Also see earlier statement about self-esteem being annihilated.)
Still, I wrote out my application quickly and decided to mail it the same day. On my way to the post office, though, a strange sense of urgency overtook me and I found myself driving towards I-95 instead. I texted my roommate to let her know that I hadn’t gone missing (a valid concern for two single women living in Baltimore) and she texted back that although I was crazy to drive 50 miles on a whim, I should go for it. On the way to DC, I called a high school friend who was working at the NIH in Bethesda, and he said to swing by and get him, because he wanted to go with me to hand-deliver my application.
When I got to the university, I asked a friendly girl on campus where the science buildings were. Even though it was after hours, the building whose name I had addressed my application to was unlocked. After finding the faculty mailboxes, my friend commented that it looked like the admission person’s mailbox hadn’t been checked in weeks.
“Let’s find his office and slide it under the door,” he suggested.
So, like stalkers in the chemistry building, we found the building’s directory, found the admission director's office and shoved the 8 ½” x 11 envelope into the door jamb. There was no way he’d even be able to open the door the next morning without touching my application.
(I should note that this same friend is now in an M.D./Ph.D. program at an extremely prestigious university and always wanted me to go to medical school too…not that you couldn’t surmise that from his role in this little escapade).
Two days after my impromptu trip to DC, I flew to California for a 10 day marketing trip. It was while I was in California that I received an email acceptance from the post-baccalaureate program, a mere six days after dropping off my application. To make things more interesting, they had accepted me for the summer session and classes were starting in two weeks. (The school had a rolling admissions policy, so they could have accepted me for a later semester, technically). I wouldn’t realize how miraculous this occurrence was until after starting my program, when the other students told me that it had taken them months to get accepted. More importantly, though, the director of the program was in his late 70’s and hated email. He never responded to my emails as a student and I still don’t know why he chose to email me my acceptance, instead of sending an acceptance package by mail, like he did for everyone else.
Since I was in California when I received the surprising news, I didn’t know how I’d register for classes in time, since post-baccalaureate students were required to meet with an advisor who registered for them. (I don’t know, this school had weird rules.) I called the university and explained my dilemma, as well as time constraints. The director of the program allowed me to register over the phone and waived the deposit usually required.
Overall, the acceptance was great news, if not surprising, and everything was falling into place! Except…remember how I had just gone back to my boss after resigning, and then asked for my job back? How could I possibly go back, within the span of a month, and resign a second time? I couldn’t. And thus began what we’ll call the "worst idea ever:" working full-time while also completing a post-baccalaureate program full-time.
After telling my boss about my acceptance, I assured him that I wouldn't leave. I kept working, including attending all of my scheduled marketing trips, and the night before classes started, I flew home late from Birmingham. The next morning, I left my apartment at 6:30 a.m., as part of the second worst idea ever: commuting from Baltimore to DC for class. The approximate time that it took me to drive each way was 2 ½ hours, because of traffic.
Somehow, the work/school combination didn't kill me and 10 weeks later, when my lease expired, Milania moved to the suburb she had been eyeing and I moved into a basement apartment 10 minutes outside of DC. Thankfully, because most of my work didn’t require me to be in the office, my bosses (editor and marketing director) allowed me to work from home and to schedule marketing trips when I had breaks from school. I also still kept some of my per diem shifts at the hospital, because I needed the money.
Unlike with my attempts at MFA programs, a year after starting my post-baccalaureate program, I took my MCATs, applied to medical school, went on eight of my nine interviews, and received three acceptances before withdrawing the remainder of my applications. “Not medical school material,” indeed. Don’t go to prestigious research universities, guys.
Before this unexpected turn of events in 2007, though, I remember feeling awful. I was so sure that the reason that things had gone so awry with my medical aspirations was because God wanted me to be a writer—which was fine. I was happy with doing that and I was making the appropriate decisions regarding that, but I felt unsatisfied. I used to pray every night, "God, I'll be a writer or do whatever I am supposed to do in life, but please take the desire to be a doctor away." When I didn’t get into the MFA program, that I was so sure was part of The Life Plan, I remember feeling like life was stuck on pause.
Suddenly, nothing was working out and I didn’t know why. I was discouraged, angry, and confused. Eventually, though, I started feeling a quiet fluttering in my heart—like some sort of indication that this was just the calm before the storm.
I remember telling my roommate, after being rejected from MFA programs and before looking into post-baccalaureate programs, that I just felt like something was going to happen. I didn’t know what it was or why or when it was going to happen, but in between periods of fear and anxiety about the future, I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. Fast.
When the post-baccalaureate acceptance came on the heels of signing back on with my job and suddenly needing to find a place to live in DC, while being a full-time student again for the first time in years, I was surprisingly ready. I had know that “it”—something I didn’t know or understand—was coming and I had been waiting for it.
I wish that I could explain the feeling more articulately, but I can’t. Jeremiah 33:3 says that when we call to God, He tells us “great and unsearchable things you [we] do not know.” Perhaps that feeling of something "great and unsearchable" is what I'm trying to describe, but there is a steady, confident feeling that something big, that will likely turn your life upside down, is coming.
When this happened in 2007, things were strangely quiet and annoyingly calm.
I tell you this, because I feel like I’m in a similar holding pattern right now. My frustration is centered on my research project, not graduate school, but the feeling is the same. No matter how many emails I send, I keep hitting dead ends. I can’t buy the rest of my plane tickets or submit my IRB paperwork or do anything else, because I need to have confirmation from my second host site. No matter how many new people I contact, though; no matter how many times I hit “send;” no matter how many times I refresh my university email account; the answer is just not coming.
And yet, I feel a calm, fluttering of my heart.
I don’t know what "it" is, or if it's even related to my project, but that feeling is back. Four years ago, I was terrified and annoyed by not knowing what was going to happen next. Right now, I kind of can’t wait.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Speed Dating for the Elderly
Last Saturday night, I joined Christine, her sister, and some other ladies for dinner in Dupont Circle. Afterwards, we grabbed some cupcakes from a local bakery and headed back to Christine's apartment to watch Netflix and talk about men. You know, the typical Saturday night festivities when I'm not studying.
While discussing the DC dating prospects, Christine started teasing me about my once suggestion (Read: Before the date of death!) that she go out with Charlie.
"Yeah, Red just throws me her cast-offs," she told the other women. "Not that I mind," she clarified. "Go ahead and vet them out for me first!"
"OK, whatever, Christine!," I countered. "You're the one who said that you thought that Charlie was good-looking! I can still find out about his younger brother, you know."
Two years ago, Christine ended her last serious relationship. Since then, she's been cautious about re-entering the dating pool. She usually prefers to laugh about my dating (mis)adventures, but earlier this year, she asked me if I'd go speed dating with her.
Obviously, I said yes.
I love meeting new people and trying new things. Now that I am forced to spend 6-8 hours a day studying in solitude, my extroversion is usually so suppressed that it's a miracle I'm not accosting people on the street just to maintain human contact. This fact alone should make speed dating an interesting adventure. If nothing else, I should definitely come back with some fabulous blog fodder. And, you guys know how I love a good blog story.
I had forgotten about the speed dating thing, until I was leaving Christine's apartment on Saturday night.
"So, we're still on for speed dating, right?," she asked.
This week, I decided to do some research and find out exactly what DC has to offer. That's when I came across this:
The Generation X speed dating caught my eye, because Christine and I are definitely members of said generation! That would also make the other daters, what? Late 20's and early to mid-30's? Perfect!
Except... (Click on Image)
Did you notice that the age range on that session is 29-46? How is 46 in the same age bracket with 29? (To put this in perspective, my mother is pseudo-dating a 47 year old.) I was going to suggest that a 46 year old man could be my father, except he probably wouldn't be, unless he fathered me as a high school junior.
Crap.
I'm in the same age bracket with people approaching 50. How did this happen? More importantly, how did I never know that Generation X stretched that far upward?
I guess we'll still go to a speed dating event, but mid-40s are a little outside of my comfort zone. So, don't show up and that event and try to make it a DC bloggers dating party, because we won't be there. And, if you are in the "age-appropriate" bracket, my apologies for making you feel old. I just didn't realize that I was old too.
While discussing the DC dating prospects, Christine started teasing me about my once suggestion (Read: Before the date of death!) that she go out with Charlie.
"Yeah, Red just throws me her cast-offs," she told the other women. "Not that I mind," she clarified. "Go ahead and vet them out for me first!"
"OK, whatever, Christine!," I countered. "You're the one who said that you thought that Charlie was good-looking! I can still find out about his younger brother, you know."
Two years ago, Christine ended her last serious relationship. Since then, she's been cautious about re-entering the dating pool. She usually prefers to laugh about my dating (mis)adventures, but earlier this year, she asked me if I'd go speed dating with her.
Obviously, I said yes.
I love meeting new people and trying new things. Now that I am forced to spend 6-8 hours a day studying in solitude, my extroversion is usually so suppressed that it's a miracle I'm not accosting people on the street just to maintain human contact. This fact alone should make speed dating an interesting adventure. If nothing else, I should definitely come back with some fabulous blog fodder. And, you guys know how I love a good blog story.
I had forgotten about the speed dating thing, until I was leaving Christine's apartment on Saturday night.
"So, we're still on for speed dating, right?," she asked.
This week, I decided to do some research and find out exactly what DC has to offer. That's when I came across this:
The Generation X speed dating caught my eye, because Christine and I are definitely members of said generation! That would also make the other daters, what? Late 20's and early to mid-30's? Perfect!
Except... (Click on Image)
Did you notice that the age range on that session is 29-46? How is 46 in the same age bracket with 29? (To put this in perspective, my mother is pseudo-dating a 47 year old.) I was going to suggest that a 46 year old man could be my father, except he probably wouldn't be, unless he fathered me as a high school junior.
Crap.
I'm in the same age bracket with people approaching 50. How did this happen? More importantly, how did I never know that Generation X stretched that far upward?
I guess we'll still go to a speed dating event, but mid-40s are a little outside of my comfort zone. So, don't show up and that event and try to make it a DC bloggers dating party, because we won't be there. And, if you are in the "age-appropriate" bracket, my apologies for making you feel old. I just didn't realize that I was old too.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
This is the Last Time We Will Speak of This
First of all, thank you for all of those comments on the last post. I don’t usually respond to hate comments, because it’s futile, but I need my entertainment too! I’m glad that (most of) you have a sense of humor and are able to discern when I am joking. You guys are the awesome ones.
That being said, my response to that single Anonymous commenter has set off a chain reaction of other hate commenters. (All “Anonymous,” of course.) I don’t know if it’s the same person, or several people who have found that they are in good company or whatnot, but seriously, stop clogging up my Inbox, fools! I have better things to do with my time than compulsively refreshing my email and purging the comments.
Ordinarily, I would not even acknowledge such a ridiculous phenomenon, but in the past month alone, two of my favorite bloggers have stopped blogging because of hate comments. It’s par for the course, yes, but most bloggers introduce the world to their families, their profession, and their innermost thoughts. When someone judges that unfairly, or feels the need to deride the person for it, it is a violation.
I am writing this, because I would hate for any of you to ever stop blogging because of some random stranger on the internet “commenting” passive-aggressively to rile you up. So, let's begin.
If someone has ever told you that words don’t hurt, they are lying, because they do. And, I have spent a lot of time wondering what prompts people to leave hateful comments anyway. The anonymous haters are inevitably the ones that keep commenting, and keep coming back. In the past few days, I’ve even had a few people dig through my archives to find more posts to complain about. I find this behavior errant and bizarre.
I mean, if someone says or does something you dislike in real life, you intentionally avoid having to deal with that person. There are people whose company I so loathe that I’ve actually been known to start walking in the other direction, out of my way, if I see that our paths are unintentionally going to cross.
So why, I ask, do people not only take the time to be rude on blogs, but then keep coming back for more! If Facebook Depression is going to be a DSM-V diagnosis, I feel like "Paradoxical Personality Disorder" should be too. The description could be:
“Exhibiting traits of Antisocial and Narcissistic Personality disorder, those with Paradoxical Personality Disorder will intentionally seek out venues—usually public—in which to draw attention to themselves, usually by demeaning, threatening, or causing personal distress to others. Those afflicted with Paradoxical Personality Disorder tend to be socially isolated and lacking in the ability to decipher normal social cues. This drives them to seek out online venues, such as blogs, for personal interaction and socialization, and to leave negative, hurtful, or rude comments. Their sense of self is derived from the position they can create for themselves within the blog community. However, their attempts are misdirected, as they almost always fail to “break into” the overarching blog community and end up offending and ostracizing others as a result of their behavior.”
As someone who was, and still is, a writer who gets paid for her talents, I don’t need the validation of the "Anonymous" commenters on my blog. I don’t get paid for the words that I write here, but I do elsewhere. Also, my first book deal was offered to me as a result of writing a blog, just like this one. Notice that I emphasized first book deal, because I was offered a total of three book deals that year.
So, when “Anonymous” commenters come to this blog, spewing hate and putting me down personally and professionally, it sort of comes off like a developmentally delayed kindergartener with a Napolean complex picking a fight with an unassuming, albeit larger, fifth grader on the playground because they honestly believe that they are on the same level.
(I do not need to tell you that they are not.)
The only thing that I regret about having to write this blog under a pseudonym is that if I was writing with my real name, at least the haters would be buying my book (since they are seemingly obsessed with the detritus of my life). Then, I’d have an inflated royalty check to look forward to every spring (and to match my “inflated ego,” you know).
In the past, I have both been hurt enough to stop blogging and regretted the vulnerability I share on the internet. I have also passive-aggressively written posts addressed to “someone” who said “something” to me when I am upset, or just cried, moped, or screamed about it to my loved ones.
Eight years after starting my first blog, though, I now address the person directly in the comments (as you will see that I do from time to time), then laugh (usually), eventually delete it, and go to class, go to the hospital, eat dinner, or watch TV. You know, I move on with my life. If I had the traffic that Heather Armstrong does, I would probably start a “Monetizing the Hate” site as well, which is exactly what she did when the hate comments got to her a couple of years ago. She posted all of the irate comments, as well as her response, with a sickening amount of advertising, and then donated all of the money to charity.
If hateful comments have taught me nothing else, though, it is that there are people who we should all genuinely feel sorry for. Even though I might make snarky jokes about literacy in America, there are people who have serious reading comprehension problems. Also, some people have legitimate illnesses like Aspberger's Syndrome and are not able to decipher social cues. So, when I make jokes that 95% of you recognize immediately, some haters don’t understand. They believe that I sleep on a mattress composed of stacks of $100s and lull myself to sleep by looking at pictures of myself on the giant, mounted flatscreen on my wall. Then, they feel compelled to leave comments calling me “money-hungry,” “ignorant,” and “self-centered” because they truly don't get that I am just kidding.
Because these people have problems understanding the world around them, they spend their time seeking out others who threaten their sense of sense and in the case of blogging, vandalizing the personal thoughts of those who choose to share so openly. The irony is, of course, that I started writing this particular blog because within a span of three months, my engagement failed, my fiance chose to cut me out of his life, my medical school voted to have me repeat an entire year of medical school, and I had to sign for another $70K in medical school debt. If my life is the standard by which some people are judging themselves, perhaps the bar should be set a little higher.
I have chosen to disable Anonymous commenting on this blog, not because I am worried about dealing with the haters, but because I simply don’t have time to invest screening the comments, and making sure that nothing incendiary gets released into the blog universe. I’m not sure if this will work, but if it doesn’t, I’ll try doing something else to make my life easier.
My secondary purpose in writing this post was to let you know that if you see minor changes happening, all it means is that I’m taking care of business behind the scenes. There are several of you who comment with just your name, and I hope that you'll feel comfortable adding your email address or blog address now.
Since all that Anonymous posters want is more attention, I regret that I couldn't email this post to you all privately. If I had a choice, I'd silently purge their comments, lament about the ignorance, and concentrate on writing more fabulous dating stories to entertain you. Don't worry, though. This exactly what we’re going to do from this point forward.
And, because I like to practice what I preach up in dis blog, there is a new entry below. Rock on, readers! I heart (most of) you.
That being said, my response to that single Anonymous commenter has set off a chain reaction of other hate commenters. (All “Anonymous,” of course.) I don’t know if it’s the same person, or several people who have found that they are in good company or whatnot, but seriously, stop clogging up my Inbox, fools! I have better things to do with my time than compulsively refreshing my email and purging the comments.
Ordinarily, I would not even acknowledge such a ridiculous phenomenon, but in the past month alone, two of my favorite bloggers have stopped blogging because of hate comments. It’s par for the course, yes, but most bloggers introduce the world to their families, their profession, and their innermost thoughts. When someone judges that unfairly, or feels the need to deride the person for it, it is a violation.
I am writing this, because I would hate for any of you to ever stop blogging because of some random stranger on the internet “commenting” passive-aggressively to rile you up. So, let's begin.
If someone has ever told you that words don’t hurt, they are lying, because they do. And, I have spent a lot of time wondering what prompts people to leave hateful comments anyway. The anonymous haters are inevitably the ones that keep commenting, and keep coming back. In the past few days, I’ve even had a few people dig through my archives to find more posts to complain about. I find this behavior errant and bizarre.
I mean, if someone says or does something you dislike in real life, you intentionally avoid having to deal with that person. There are people whose company I so loathe that I’ve actually been known to start walking in the other direction, out of my way, if I see that our paths are unintentionally going to cross.
So why, I ask, do people not only take the time to be rude on blogs, but then keep coming back for more! If Facebook Depression is going to be a DSM-V diagnosis, I feel like "Paradoxical Personality Disorder" should be too. The description could be:
“Exhibiting traits of Antisocial and Narcissistic Personality disorder, those with Paradoxical Personality Disorder will intentionally seek out venues—usually public—in which to draw attention to themselves, usually by demeaning, threatening, or causing personal distress to others. Those afflicted with Paradoxical Personality Disorder tend to be socially isolated and lacking in the ability to decipher normal social cues. This drives them to seek out online venues, such as blogs, for personal interaction and socialization, and to leave negative, hurtful, or rude comments. Their sense of self is derived from the position they can create for themselves within the blog community. However, their attempts are misdirected, as they almost always fail to “break into” the overarching blog community and end up offending and ostracizing others as a result of their behavior.”
As someone who was, and still is, a writer who gets paid for her talents, I don’t need the validation of the "Anonymous" commenters on my blog. I don’t get paid for the words that I write here, but I do elsewhere. Also, my first book deal was offered to me as a result of writing a blog, just like this one. Notice that I emphasized first book deal, because I was offered a total of three book deals that year.
So, when “Anonymous” commenters come to this blog, spewing hate and putting me down personally and professionally, it sort of comes off like a developmentally delayed kindergartener with a Napolean complex picking a fight with an unassuming, albeit larger, fifth grader on the playground because they honestly believe that they are on the same level.
(I do not need to tell you that they are not.)
The only thing that I regret about having to write this blog under a pseudonym is that if I was writing with my real name, at least the haters would be buying my book (since they are seemingly obsessed with the detritus of my life). Then, I’d have an inflated royalty check to look forward to every spring (and to match my “inflated ego,” you know).
In the past, I have both been hurt enough to stop blogging and regretted the vulnerability I share on the internet. I have also passive-aggressively written posts addressed to “someone” who said “something” to me when I am upset, or just cried, moped, or screamed about it to my loved ones.
Eight years after starting my first blog, though, I now address the person directly in the comments (as you will see that I do from time to time), then laugh (usually), eventually delete it, and go to class, go to the hospital, eat dinner, or watch TV. You know, I move on with my life. If I had the traffic that Heather Armstrong does, I would probably start a “Monetizing the Hate” site as well, which is exactly what she did when the hate comments got to her a couple of years ago. She posted all of the irate comments, as well as her response, with a sickening amount of advertising, and then donated all of the money to charity.
If hateful comments have taught me nothing else, though, it is that there are people who we should all genuinely feel sorry for. Even though I might make snarky jokes about literacy in America, there are people who have serious reading comprehension problems. Also, some people have legitimate illnesses like Aspberger's Syndrome and are not able to decipher social cues. So, when I make jokes that 95% of you recognize immediately, some haters don’t understand. They believe that I sleep on a mattress composed of stacks of $100s and lull myself to sleep by looking at pictures of myself on the giant, mounted flatscreen on my wall. Then, they feel compelled to leave comments calling me “money-hungry,” “ignorant,” and “self-centered” because they truly don't get that I am just kidding.
Because these people have problems understanding the world around them, they spend their time seeking out others who threaten their sense of sense and in the case of blogging, vandalizing the personal thoughts of those who choose to share so openly. The irony is, of course, that I started writing this particular blog because within a span of three months, my engagement failed, my fiance chose to cut me out of his life, my medical school voted to have me repeat an entire year of medical school, and I had to sign for another $70K in medical school debt. If my life is the standard by which some people are judging themselves, perhaps the bar should be set a little higher.
I have chosen to disable Anonymous commenting on this blog, not because I am worried about dealing with the haters, but because I simply don’t have time to invest screening the comments, and making sure that nothing incendiary gets released into the blog universe. I’m not sure if this will work, but if it doesn’t, I’ll try doing something else to make my life easier.
My secondary purpose in writing this post was to let you know that if you see minor changes happening, all it means is that I’m taking care of business behind the scenes. There are several of you who comment with just your name, and I hope that you'll feel comfortable adding your email address or blog address now.
Since all that Anonymous posters want is more attention, I regret that I couldn't email this post to you all privately. If I had a choice, I'd silently purge their comments, lament about the ignorance, and concentrate on writing more fabulous dating stories to entertain you. Don't worry, though. This exactly what we’re going to do from this point forward.
And, because I like to practice what I preach up in dis blog, there is a new entry below. Rock on, readers! I heart (most of) you.
Welcome to the Party, Virginia
A month after the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin started blooming, the trees in my building’s parking lot have finally caught up! I can’t remember the blooms being so vibrant last year, but given that I was also taking a full course load and planning a wedding, there’s a chance I may not have ever been home during daylight hours to see them.
My apartment (visible in the picture below) is on the 11th floor, and my desk faces a large window in my bedroom. I have to say that seeing the stunning display of kaleidoscope colors in the fall and the soft, pillowy blooms of spring is one of the highlights of sitting at my desk everyday.
If Type I hypersensitivity reactions weren't the enemy, I'd probably be downstairs covertly building a tree house to live in right now.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
This is Why I Study at Home
I needed to be at school today, so there was no getting around it.
I plopped myself down in my spot on the third floor (quiet) computer lab, where I like to study so that I can alternatively indulge my medical school ADD by checking email every five minutes (not completely an exaggeration) or blog about crazy people or situations at my leisure.
Unfortunately, there are these annoying people at my medical school that we have to share the libary with. They are called public health students. I apologize in advance if you are a public health student at any school except my medical school. If you are studying where I am studying, I suggest that you watch your back, because if you are ever alone in a dark stairwell, I guarantee that there are at least 300 medical students waiting to cut you if given the chance.
The public health students just don't shut up. We get it that their program is easier and their work load is preciously small in comparison to ours, but the only thing more annoying than listening to them talk out loud about their online purchases is hearing them stress out about how their program is so hard and how they are so overwhelmed.
Ha! Right. They are overwhelmed.
Try being a candidate in an M.D. program, where your school thinks that you are tough enough to endure lecture for eight hours a day (as opposed to the usual four), start your clinicals a full two years early, and then study enough to pass your regular academic classes and Boards. Also, try doing that in a library facility that you have to share with the loudest, most obnoxious people ever.
I usually just put in my earplugs, but since I have my non-ear infection allergy issues right now, all I can do is throw dirty looks and try to ignore the, "Oh my god, my stats are off by like 0.1 and did you go to that thing on the Hill today? I totally should have gone. Was it by invite only? I'm just so stressed. This is so hard. Can you help me?"
BE QUIET, PUBLIC HEALTH STUDENTS. That is all.
I plopped myself down in my spot on the third floor (quiet) computer lab, where I like to study so that I can alternatively indulge my medical school ADD by checking email every five minutes (not completely an exaggeration) or blog about crazy people or situations at my leisure.
Unfortunately, there are these annoying people at my medical school that we have to share the libary with. They are called public health students. I apologize in advance if you are a public health student at any school except my medical school. If you are studying where I am studying, I suggest that you watch your back, because if you are ever alone in a dark stairwell, I guarantee that there are at least 300 medical students waiting to cut you if given the chance.
The public health students just don't shut up. We get it that their program is easier and their work load is preciously small in comparison to ours, but the only thing more annoying than listening to them talk out loud about their online purchases is hearing them stress out about how their program is so hard and how they are so overwhelmed.
Ha! Right. They are overwhelmed.
Try being a candidate in an M.D. program, where your school thinks that you are tough enough to endure lecture for eight hours a day (as opposed to the usual four), start your clinicals a full two years early, and then study enough to pass your regular academic classes and Boards. Also, try doing that in a library facility that you have to share with the loudest, most obnoxious people ever.
I usually just put in my earplugs, but since I have my non-ear infection allergy issues right now, all I can do is throw dirty looks and try to ignore the, "Oh my god, my stats are off by like 0.1 and did you go to that thing on the Hill today? I totally should have gone. Was it by invite only? I'm just so stressed. This is so hard. Can you help me?"
BE QUIET, PUBLIC HEALTH STUDENTS. That is all.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Advice to Self
Confession: I’ve been feeling really anxious these days.
I know that I claimed to have had a near panic attack at the beginning of March, but I was only joking and trying to describe what was a burgeoning anxiety that seems to be getting worse. I think that part of the problem is that, as part of the stipulations of MS-1 The Dejavu Version, I am only taking one class this semester. This is both a blessing and a curse, as I now have copious amounts of free time to keep up with The Real Housewives of New York, but also, I have way too much unstructured time to think about things.
Like, I think about the conversation I had with two friends and several strangers at dinner and think, “Was I funny or just obnoxious? Did they like me? I hope they didn’t think that Christine’s medical school friend is so weird.” Or, right before I go to bed, I’ll be focused on everything that I did not get done during the day, and suddenly be really angry with myself, because I should have gotten it done! Except, I was tired after the gym and then I ended up blog jogging for two hours, instead of working on my financial aid application.
For the past three nights, my own crazy thoughts have ripped me awake at 4:30 a.m., forcing me to try to analyze what I was thinking about, rationalize my way out of it, and then to fall back asleep. This pattern is annoying.
Today, when I was distracted again by something insignificant, I read this verse from Philippians 4:6:
"Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God."
I remembered the part about not being anxious for anything and presenting your requests to God, but I can't say that I remembered the thanksgiving part. I admit that I haven’t been giving thanks for the positive aspects of my life--which by the way, are plentiful.
Instead of just screeching a frantic, “God, help me!” all the time, my silent prayers should sound more like this,
Please help me to be able to focus on renal physiology so that I can learn it well, and thank you for the opportunity to study medicine.
Please help me to find another surgeon to work with in London and another researcher for my project, and thank you for letting me already have a mentor who has approved the project.
Please help me to know my role in my new friendships, and thank you for letting me have found such wonderful people to call friends.
I’ve written before about forgetting how hard it was to even get to this point. If the post-baccalaureate me--who was renting a basement to save money, picking up extra shifts at the hospital to pay for classes, studying for MCATs, and worrying about even getting into medical school--could see me now, she’d give me a firm slap across the face.
I mean, pull it together, self! You are in medical school now, you live in a clean apartment with natural light and no bugs (let me tell you, this is not to be underestimated), and you crushed the MCATs and are capable of acing any dinky medical school exam that you take! Also, you got a research study approved and someone, somewhere knows a surgeon in London who will help you with your summer project. Be patient.
Now, take a breath, be grateful for where you are in life, and carry on. (That was me talking to myself again, although feel free to take it personally, if you need to. And yes, I do actually feel better after having written this.)
I know that I claimed to have had a near panic attack at the beginning of March, but I was only joking and trying to describe what was a burgeoning anxiety that seems to be getting worse. I think that part of the problem is that, as part of the stipulations of MS-1 The Dejavu Version, I am only taking one class this semester. This is both a blessing and a curse, as I now have copious amounts of free time to keep up with The Real Housewives of New York, but also, I have way too much unstructured time to think about things.
Like, I think about the conversation I had with two friends and several strangers at dinner and think, “Was I funny or just obnoxious? Did they like me? I hope they didn’t think that Christine’s medical school friend is so weird.” Or, right before I go to bed, I’ll be focused on everything that I did not get done during the day, and suddenly be really angry with myself, because I should have gotten it done! Except, I was tired after the gym and then I ended up blog jogging for two hours, instead of working on my financial aid application.
For the past three nights, my own crazy thoughts have ripped me awake at 4:30 a.m., forcing me to try to analyze what I was thinking about, rationalize my way out of it, and then to fall back asleep. This pattern is annoying.
Today, when I was distracted again by something insignificant, I read this verse from Philippians 4:6:
"Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God."
I remembered the part about not being anxious for anything and presenting your requests to God, but I can't say that I remembered the thanksgiving part. I admit that I haven’t been giving thanks for the positive aspects of my life--which by the way, are plentiful.
Instead of just screeching a frantic, “God, help me!” all the time, my silent prayers should sound more like this,
Please help me to be able to focus on renal physiology so that I can learn it well, and thank you for the opportunity to study medicine.
Please help me to find another surgeon to work with in London and another researcher for my project, and thank you for letting me already have a mentor who has approved the project.
Please help me to know my role in my new friendships, and thank you for letting me have found such wonderful people to call friends.
I’ve written before about forgetting how hard it was to even get to this point. If the post-baccalaureate me--who was renting a basement to save money, picking up extra shifts at the hospital to pay for classes, studying for MCATs, and worrying about even getting into medical school--could see me now, she’d give me a firm slap across the face.
I mean, pull it together, self! You are in medical school now, you live in a clean apartment with natural light and no bugs (let me tell you, this is not to be underestimated), and you crushed the MCATs and are capable of acing any dinky medical school exam that you take! Also, you got a research study approved and someone, somewhere knows a surgeon in London who will help you with your summer project. Be patient.
Now, take a breath, be grateful for where you are in life, and carry on. (That was me talking to myself again, although feel free to take it personally, if you need to. And yes, I do actually feel better after having written this.)
Situation I Hope to Never Repeat: Counseling My Mother About Men
After the last blog entry in which I mentioned my mother’s emotional issues, I took some of your very saavy advice and started setting boundaries. We only talk twice a month or so these days, which leaves me feeling conflicted, but less stressed. After all, when I don’t talk to my mother, I feel guilty. When I do talk to her, I feel annoyed. It is a tenuous situation.
I hadn’t talked to her in over a week, so when she called this morning, I answered. She started by asking her typical series of ridiculous questions.
“Are you awake yet?” (It was 11 a.m. She does know that I am a medical student, right?)
“Do you have an exam tomorrow?” (Granted, that one was closer to reality. No, but good job picking up on the fact that I do have Monday exams a lot.)
I entertained her questions for a while, then asked how everything was with her. She answered with a statement that was clearly meant to provoke more interest.
“I’m fine. The only problem that I’ve been having is with this young man at church.”
My mother is a high school teacher, so when she uses phrases like “young man,” I presume that she is referencing some 15 year old punk in the Youth Sabbath School class.
But, no.
“Young man?,” I asked, following her lead.
“Jake.”
Of course she was talking about Jake.
Jake, by the way, is not a “young man.” Jake is a 47 year old divorcee with a seven year old son, who attends my mother’s church. They have been vaguely friendly, I suppose, but my mother’s and my definitions of flirtation vary markedly, so I’m not certain about the specifics of their relationship. I consider flirting to be a wink, nod, phone number, or teasing smack talk. Regarding Jake, however, my mother would tell me things like,
“He squeezed my hand when we were in the prayer circle yesterday.”
Is that how conservative Adventist people flirt? I know I was a relationship advice columnist, but middle-aged religious zealots were not my demographic, so I don’t know.
Being that my mother is in her early 60’s, she was trying to portray Jake as a snot-faced high school sophomore. In actuality, I know that she likes him and is probably just afraid of what people will think about them dating.
“What did Jake do?,” I tried to ask calmly.
“He’s serious.”
This would be the point, mind you, that had my sister been around, I would have been mouthing, “NOOO” and “WHY ME” and slowly inflicting self-harm, because I know exactly what that phrase means. In much the same way that my mother dismisses my casual dates as being “some man,” using the word, “serious” is the equivalent of telling your BFF that you guys are like totally going out and stuff and for realz, he loves me 4EVA.
I am not trained to counsel my mother these types of dating situations, and I don’t believe that any daughter should be. Still, I know that my mother has no one to talk to about these things, so I continued.
“Did he tell you that he was interested?,” I asked.
“Well, he got mad at me yesterday because I wouldn’t tell him how old I was. He was clearly frustrated and he left and told me he would call me this week.”
“Yes, but did he tell you that he was interested in dating you seriously?,” I continued.
“He wants to go out.”
“AND…?”
“He’s only 47.”
You guys, my mother is that annoying crazy woman that I strive so hard not to be in relationships.
I spent another 20 minutes explaining to my mother that just because Jake is younger than her, it doesn’t mean that he has unrealistic expectations of her. She mentioned something about how Jake would want her to learn to SCUBA dive (Umm…why would she think that?) and when she mentioned it to him, he replied, “What? I haven’t done that in 15 years!” Also, I pointed out the fact that they are both grown adults. If they both like each other, what do they have to lose?
She is old school, though, and apparently thinks that she needs to date someone older. I explained to her that doing that is probably going to deprive her of the fun, dating activities that she claims she wants to participate in. More importantly, an aging man is likely to have a lot of health problems and need her to be his caretaker. Although I did not mention this, the last thing I need is for her to marry someone elderly and then be stuck taking care of both of them.
(I don’t care if that statement sounded selfish, because I have a lot on my plate. It would be nice to be able to finish medical school, and find my own spouse for once, instead of constantly running down to Florida when my mother refuses to be adherent to her medication.)
I also talked to my mother about the importance of honesty in a relationship and counseled her about how she can’t keep secrets from a person that she is romantically interested in, because she is supposed to be emotionally closer to him than to other people in her life.
It was as if I was back in time, writing my relationship advice column, and telling the 16 year old girl that pulled me aside after a seminar that full disclosure is always the best policy and that if he doesn’t like you for who you are, then it's just an indication that he wasn’t good enough for you to begin with.
However, I am not talking to a 16 year old. And, the woman who wants to discuss these things is my mother, who has issues with co-dependency.
It’s so tragic that although my mother chooses to inflict this information on me, I can’t actually talk to her like a friend and say what would be most appropriate in this situation, like,
“Dude, you should try and hit that.”
Let's hope that she doesn't call asking for sexual advice next.
I hadn’t talked to her in over a week, so when she called this morning, I answered. She started by asking her typical series of ridiculous questions.
“Are you awake yet?” (It was 11 a.m. She does know that I am a medical student, right?)
“Do you have an exam tomorrow?” (Granted, that one was closer to reality. No, but good job picking up on the fact that I do have Monday exams a lot.)
I entertained her questions for a while, then asked how everything was with her. She answered with a statement that was clearly meant to provoke more interest.
“I’m fine. The only problem that I’ve been having is with this young man at church.”
My mother is a high school teacher, so when she uses phrases like “young man,” I presume that she is referencing some 15 year old punk in the Youth Sabbath School class.
But, no.
“Young man?,” I asked, following her lead.
“Jake.”
Of course she was talking about Jake.
Jake, by the way, is not a “young man.” Jake is a 47 year old divorcee with a seven year old son, who attends my mother’s church. They have been vaguely friendly, I suppose, but my mother’s and my definitions of flirtation vary markedly, so I’m not certain about the specifics of their relationship. I consider flirting to be a wink, nod, phone number, or teasing smack talk. Regarding Jake, however, my mother would tell me things like,
“He squeezed my hand when we were in the prayer circle yesterday.”
Is that how conservative Adventist people flirt? I know I was a relationship advice columnist, but middle-aged religious zealots were not my demographic, so I don’t know.
Being that my mother is in her early 60’s, she was trying to portray Jake as a snot-faced high school sophomore. In actuality, I know that she likes him and is probably just afraid of what people will think about them dating.
“What did Jake do?,” I tried to ask calmly.
“He’s serious.”
This would be the point, mind you, that had my sister been around, I would have been mouthing, “NOOO” and “WHY ME” and slowly inflicting self-harm, because I know exactly what that phrase means. In much the same way that my mother dismisses my casual dates as being “some man,” using the word, “serious” is the equivalent of telling your BFF that you guys are like totally going out and stuff and for realz, he loves me 4EVA.
I am not trained to counsel my mother these types of dating situations, and I don’t believe that any daughter should be. Still, I know that my mother has no one to talk to about these things, so I continued.
“Did he tell you that he was interested?,” I asked.
“Well, he got mad at me yesterday because I wouldn’t tell him how old I was. He was clearly frustrated and he left and told me he would call me this week.”
“Yes, but did he tell you that he was interested in dating you seriously?,” I continued.
“He wants to go out.”
“AND…?”
“He’s only 47.”
You guys, my mother is that annoying crazy woman that I strive so hard not to be in relationships.
I spent another 20 minutes explaining to my mother that just because Jake is younger than her, it doesn’t mean that he has unrealistic expectations of her. She mentioned something about how Jake would want her to learn to SCUBA dive (Umm…why would she think that?) and when she mentioned it to him, he replied, “What? I haven’t done that in 15 years!” Also, I pointed out the fact that they are both grown adults. If they both like each other, what do they have to lose?
She is old school, though, and apparently thinks that she needs to date someone older. I explained to her that doing that is probably going to deprive her of the fun, dating activities that she claims she wants to participate in. More importantly, an aging man is likely to have a lot of health problems and need her to be his caretaker. Although I did not mention this, the last thing I need is for her to marry someone elderly and then be stuck taking care of both of them.
(I don’t care if that statement sounded selfish, because I have a lot on my plate. It would be nice to be able to finish medical school, and find my own spouse for once, instead of constantly running down to Florida when my mother refuses to be adherent to her medication.)
I also talked to my mother about the importance of honesty in a relationship and counseled her about how she can’t keep secrets from a person that she is romantically interested in, because she is supposed to be emotionally closer to him than to other people in her life.
It was as if I was back in time, writing my relationship advice column, and telling the 16 year old girl that pulled me aside after a seminar that full disclosure is always the best policy and that if he doesn’t like you for who you are, then it's just an indication that he wasn’t good enough for you to begin with.
However, I am not talking to a 16 year old. And, the woman who wants to discuss these things is my mother, who has issues with co-dependency.
It’s so tragic that although my mother chooses to inflict this information on me, I can’t actually talk to her like a friend and say what would be most appropriate in this situation, like,
“Dude, you should try and hit that.”
Let's hope that she doesn't call asking for sexual advice next.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
My First Colonoscopy With GI Joe
My attending had already missed my last scheduled clinic day, so I was understandably annoyed when I walked into the nurse’s station at University Hospital on Monday morning to find that he was nowhere in sight. After confirming with a nurse that he wasn’t in the office that day (Awesome), I went to the medical school library and emailed him, letting him know that I had shown up and that by missing that day, I now had four scheduled clinic days to make up. Twice, he had not been in the GI clinic when I arrived, once I was sick, and once I was stressed about an exam and canceled.
Traditionally, the first and second year medical students are paired with primary care physicians, so that they can learn to practice their H&P skills. Last year, I was paired with a pediatrician who was in private practice in my town in Virginia. This year, though, I was paired with a gastroenterologist, who I will affectionately call "GI Joe," at University Hospital. Students who get assigned to specialists (me!) usually shadow their physicians when they have clinic days, but occasionally, they get to go into the OR and observe (score!).
Yesterday, GI Joe emailed me and said that I should meet him in the hospital endoscopy suite this morning, prompting a series of pertinent questions such as, “The what? Where is the hospital endoscopy suite? Should I wear scrubs?” If I was thinking ahead, I would have also asked if I had clearance to get into said hospital endoscopy suite, instead of just showing up this morning and discovering that I did not. Thankfully, a nurse passing by took pity on me, as I stood looking helpless and confused in front of the locked surgical suite, explaining my situation with my short white coat.
GI Joe was just finishing a procedure when a nurse led me into the room. GI Joe was more jovial than he usually is in clinic and he and his staff were making raucous jokes with each other.
For the first colonoscopy, I stood obediently to the rear of the room, observing from afar and only asking a question or two that I thought was absolutely relevant. The nursing staff seemed to like that I could keep up with their smack talk, though, and the anesthesiologist seemed flattered by the amount of interest I had in what she was doing. So, for the second colonoscopy, I garnered my confidence and sauntered right on up to the patient. I took my position directly next to GI Joe, and relegated one of the nurses to my former position in the back of the room.
The patient had had problems being sedated, though, and at one point during the procedure, she started moving her head and arms around. Worried that she was going to roll right off the gurney, I instinctively put my hands out to prevent her from falling. GI Joe put down the colonoscope and did the same thing in sync. While the anesthesiologist pushed more Propofol, I slowly pulled back from the patient. I mean, I didn’t know if I was even supposed to be that close to her, much less touching her while she was unconscious.
A few minutes later, when she moved again, one of the nurses said to me,
“Red Stethoscope! Move her shoulder back!,” as if I should have known to do this.
I immediately did as instructed, but as I was wondering if this was something I was supposed to know, GI Joe was asking me if I had gloves on (Umm…no...because I didn't know I could touch things) and I was blurting out,
“Should I have gloves on?”
The same nurse who told me to push the patient back onto the bed magically produced gloves that were hastily shoved in my direction and put on. Then, my gloved hands were back on the patient, as GI Joe joked about how the patient’s blanket could have had anything from urine, feces, or wasted Propofol on it, and that I needed to protect myself. The anesthesiologist glared at him for the last joke.
For the rest of the morning, I followed GI Joe around from procedure room to nurse’s station to recovery room and then back again. He explained the locations and severity of polyps to me, did biopsies, and made inappropriate jokes with his nurses. Outside of the procedure room, I knew to act as a trained lackey by following close behind. But, inside the procedure room, GI Joe’s iPod was blaring, a nurse was talking about her date, GI Joe was flirting with another nurse, the first nurse was pressing GI about his drinking habits, and the anesthesiologist was quietly charting. I did try to reciprocate the jokes, but I also stared with fascination at the monitor and asked if I could hold the specimen jar after GI Joe excised a 1.5 cm polyp (huge!). GI Joe seemed to approve of my interest, commenting to one of his nurses,
“I like that there’s a little excitement about doing colonoscopies.”
By the end of the morning, I had seen six colonoscopies and had more than one attending ask me why I was in the endoscopy suite, if I wasn’t on my GI rotation. (Dude, I don’t know why! I just follow instructions from GI Joe and he told me to come, and then he let me touch things when he was doing procedures. I am not responsible for being the baby medical student who infiltrated the system!)
Anyway, in two weeks I have a similar make-up day, but I will be in clinic for a full day, instead of a half day. GI Joe told me that I’ll be joining him to round on patients and then he said, "we’ll do procedures for the rest of the day." (“We!” Ha! I get to touch things, you guys!)
Also, considering that I nearly vomited when I had to look at my own eardrum yesterday, I think now is an appropriate time to mention that I do much better when I’m on the other side of the scope.
Traditionally, the first and second year medical students are paired with primary care physicians, so that they can learn to practice their H&P skills. Last year, I was paired with a pediatrician who was in private practice in my town in Virginia. This year, though, I was paired with a gastroenterologist, who I will affectionately call "GI Joe," at University Hospital. Students who get assigned to specialists (me!) usually shadow their physicians when they have clinic days, but occasionally, they get to go into the OR and observe (score!).
Yesterday, GI Joe emailed me and said that I should meet him in the hospital endoscopy suite this morning, prompting a series of pertinent questions such as, “The what? Where is the hospital endoscopy suite? Should I wear scrubs?” If I was thinking ahead, I would have also asked if I had clearance to get into said hospital endoscopy suite, instead of just showing up this morning and discovering that I did not. Thankfully, a nurse passing by took pity on me, as I stood looking helpless and confused in front of the locked surgical suite, explaining my situation with my short white coat.
GI Joe was just finishing a procedure when a nurse led me into the room. GI Joe was more jovial than he usually is in clinic and he and his staff were making raucous jokes with each other.
For the first colonoscopy, I stood obediently to the rear of the room, observing from afar and only asking a question or two that I thought was absolutely relevant. The nursing staff seemed to like that I could keep up with their smack talk, though, and the anesthesiologist seemed flattered by the amount of interest I had in what she was doing. So, for the second colonoscopy, I garnered my confidence and sauntered right on up to the patient. I took my position directly next to GI Joe, and relegated one of the nurses to my former position in the back of the room.
The patient had had problems being sedated, though, and at one point during the procedure, she started moving her head and arms around. Worried that she was going to roll right off the gurney, I instinctively put my hands out to prevent her from falling. GI Joe put down the colonoscope and did the same thing in sync. While the anesthesiologist pushed more Propofol, I slowly pulled back from the patient. I mean, I didn’t know if I was even supposed to be that close to her, much less touching her while she was unconscious.
A few minutes later, when she moved again, one of the nurses said to me,
“Red Stethoscope! Move her shoulder back!,” as if I should have known to do this.
I immediately did as instructed, but as I was wondering if this was something I was supposed to know, GI Joe was asking me if I had gloves on (Umm…no...because I didn't know I could touch things) and I was blurting out,
“Should I have gloves on?”
The same nurse who told me to push the patient back onto the bed magically produced gloves that were hastily shoved in my direction and put on. Then, my gloved hands were back on the patient, as GI Joe joked about how the patient’s blanket could have had anything from urine, feces, or wasted Propofol on it, and that I needed to protect myself. The anesthesiologist glared at him for the last joke.
For the rest of the morning, I followed GI Joe around from procedure room to nurse’s station to recovery room and then back again. He explained the locations and severity of polyps to me, did biopsies, and made inappropriate jokes with his nurses. Outside of the procedure room, I knew to act as a trained lackey by following close behind. But, inside the procedure room, GI Joe’s iPod was blaring, a nurse was talking about her date, GI Joe was flirting with another nurse, the first nurse was pressing GI about his drinking habits, and the anesthesiologist was quietly charting. I did try to reciprocate the jokes, but I also stared with fascination at the monitor and asked if I could hold the specimen jar after GI Joe excised a 1.5 cm polyp (huge!). GI Joe seemed to approve of my interest, commenting to one of his nurses,
“I like that there’s a little excitement about doing colonoscopies.”
By the end of the morning, I had seen six colonoscopies and had more than one attending ask me why I was in the endoscopy suite, if I wasn’t on my GI rotation. (Dude, I don’t know why! I just follow instructions from GI Joe and he told me to come, and then he let me touch things when he was doing procedures. I am not responsible for being the baby medical student who infiltrated the system!)
Anyway, in two weeks I have a similar make-up day, but I will be in clinic for a full day, instead of a half day. GI Joe told me that I’ll be joining him to round on patients and then he said, "we’ll do procedures for the rest of the day." (“We!” Ha! I get to touch things, you guys!)
Also, considering that I nearly vomited when I had to look at my own eardrum yesterday, I think now is an appropriate time to mention that I do much better when I’m on the other side of the scope.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Squeamish, But Healthy!
I know he was doing it because he thought that I would think it was cool. And, in theory, it should have been. But, staring at my own eardrum projected on the mounted flatscreen in front of me was…nauseating.
I thought about closing my eyes, but in his enthusiasm, my ENT at University Hospital was pointing out landmarks to me, “The stapes is between 12 and 4, and the incus is the yellowish spot you see adjacent to it. Wow! You can see your chorda tympani. It’s the stringy thing you see between 12 and 3. Your ear drum is nice and translucent.”
I make jokes about how if I could look into my own eye with an ophthalmoscope, I would do it, but it has been confirmed that this is simply not true. I can look at other people’s anatomy all day long, but apparently not my own.
Anyway, after successfully holding down my lunch, the ENT told me what you good people of the internet had already suggested: He thinks that my ear issues are nothing more than some aggressive allergies and he wants me to take a decongestant for two weeks and follow-up. He doesn't think I have otitis media or that I should be on an antibiotic.
So basically, instead of wasting time and money next time, I’m coming straight to you, future (and current) healthcare providers of the internet. You guys are smart.
I thought about closing my eyes, but in his enthusiasm, my ENT at University Hospital was pointing out landmarks to me, “The stapes is between 12 and 4, and the incus is the yellowish spot you see adjacent to it. Wow! You can see your chorda tympani. It’s the stringy thing you see between 12 and 3. Your ear drum is nice and translucent.”
I make jokes about how if I could look into my own eye with an ophthalmoscope, I would do it, but it has been confirmed that this is simply not true. I can look at other people’s anatomy all day long, but apparently not my own.
Anyway, after successfully holding down my lunch, the ENT told me what you good people of the internet had already suggested: He thinks that my ear issues are nothing more than some aggressive allergies and he wants me to take a decongestant for two weeks and follow-up. He doesn't think I have otitis media or that I should be on an antibiotic.
So basically, instead of wasting time and money next time, I’m coming straight to you, future (and current) healthcare providers of the internet. You guys are smart.
At Least I Didn't Ask Him to Pay My Rent
I admit it. It was me who started the casual email thing with Rich.
After we broke up, it was something that I needed. I have a problem cutting people out of my life and although I never wanted to be friends or even acquaintances, I did like knowing that Rich was alive. I realize that this is a controversial confession.
For the past eight months, we have exchanged mutual pleasantries, as well as non-pleasantries, such as who is going to pay for the engagement ring renewal insurance. I didn’t need the running commentary about his life coming from my family, per se, but the occasional emails let me know that he was alive and doing well. I needed that.
Unlike any of the other exes I talk about here, though, Rich was selfish. He treated me badly and I don’t believe that he ever really loved me. We weren't friends outside of our relationship and whatever emotional investment I had in the relationship has faded. I no longer want to see his name in my Inbox.
Except, it’s there. A lot. Once a week lately.
He’ll email me interesting articles he finds, or email to ask about how my classes are going. Two weeks ago, he emailed to ask where I was going for Spring Break. (This suggests, of course, that he Google-stalked my school’s academic schedule to ascertain when Spring Break was happening.) Last week, he emailed me a link that I didn't read or respond to. Today, he emailed me to say that his company had a surplus of binders and asked if I wanted any for school.
I used to reply to even the most personal questions that Rich was asking, because putting forth the effort to conceal the details of my life was futile and suggested that I was worried about him knowing what I was doing. I’m not. Even if I was, Rich and I live on the same street in Virginia and his aunt is married to my uncle. It’s foolish to think that he wouldn’t know what’s going on in my life if he really wanted to.
For the past couple of months, though, our email communication has consisted of him initiating and me responding. I don’t reciprocate his questions by asking where he is traveling or what is going on with work anymore, because I don’t care. I'm over it. I don't want to be exchanging Facebook messages with him ten years after we have been broken up.
Aside from just ignoring his messages (which doesn't seem to be working), though, I don't know how to end this friendly chit-chat. Do I just send an email saying, “Listen, this whole emailing through the grief thing was helpful, but now that I know that you’re going to survive this unscathed, I don’t want to see your name in my Inbox anymore?” As mentioned, our families are very close and I have to tread with caution, since every action is being recorded and analyzed by the FNN (Family News Network).
Before you answer that question, you should know that as I was writing this, two different friends walked past me in the medical school library and wanted to know what I was blogging about. One of them, my friend Denise, commented,
"Yep. They never know what they've lost until it's gone. Ryan (her ex-boyfriend) has been emailing me a lot too, but I can't stop talking to him, because I need to borrow money. I'm going to ask him for $1000, because I don't want to apply for an emergency loan to pay my May rent."
Ha!
I laughed out loud, shattering the silence of the third floor, because that, my friends, is called working the situation to one's advantage. Make no mistake that I am in no way advocating using your exes for money, and when it comes to Rich, there is a lot that I would do before asking him for financial help. Still, Denise's sassy, unapologetic attitude about this situation cracked me up.
So, aside from telling Rich that I only want to talk to him if he's offering to pay my rent, what should I say? What, if anything, have you said to end communication with your exes?
After we broke up, it was something that I needed. I have a problem cutting people out of my life and although I never wanted to be friends or even acquaintances, I did like knowing that Rich was alive. I realize that this is a controversial confession.
For the past eight months, we have exchanged mutual pleasantries, as well as non-pleasantries, such as who is going to pay for the engagement ring renewal insurance. I didn’t need the running commentary about his life coming from my family, per se, but the occasional emails let me know that he was alive and doing well. I needed that.
Unlike any of the other exes I talk about here, though, Rich was selfish. He treated me badly and I don’t believe that he ever really loved me. We weren't friends outside of our relationship and whatever emotional investment I had in the relationship has faded. I no longer want to see his name in my Inbox.
Except, it’s there. A lot. Once a week lately.
He’ll email me interesting articles he finds, or email to ask about how my classes are going. Two weeks ago, he emailed to ask where I was going for Spring Break. (This suggests, of course, that he Google-stalked my school’s academic schedule to ascertain when Spring Break was happening.) Last week, he emailed me a link that I didn't read or respond to. Today, he emailed me to say that his company had a surplus of binders and asked if I wanted any for school.
I used to reply to even the most personal questions that Rich was asking, because putting forth the effort to conceal the details of my life was futile and suggested that I was worried about him knowing what I was doing. I’m not. Even if I was, Rich and I live on the same street in Virginia and his aunt is married to my uncle. It’s foolish to think that he wouldn’t know what’s going on in my life if he really wanted to.
For the past couple of months, though, our email communication has consisted of him initiating and me responding. I don’t reciprocate his questions by asking where he is traveling or what is going on with work anymore, because I don’t care. I'm over it. I don't want to be exchanging Facebook messages with him ten years after we have been broken up.
Aside from just ignoring his messages (which doesn't seem to be working), though, I don't know how to end this friendly chit-chat. Do I just send an email saying, “Listen, this whole emailing through the grief thing was helpful, but now that I know that you’re going to survive this unscathed, I don’t want to see your name in my Inbox anymore?” As mentioned, our families are very close and I have to tread with caution, since every action is being recorded and analyzed by the FNN (Family News Network).
Before you answer that question, you should know that as I was writing this, two different friends walked past me in the medical school library and wanted to know what I was blogging about. One of them, my friend Denise, commented,
"Yep. They never know what they've lost until it's gone. Ryan (her ex-boyfriend) has been emailing me a lot too, but I can't stop talking to him, because I need to borrow money. I'm going to ask him for $1000, because I don't want to apply for an emergency loan to pay my May rent."
Ha!
I laughed out loud, shattering the silence of the third floor, because that, my friends, is called working the situation to one's advantage. Make no mistake that I am in no way advocating using your exes for money, and when it comes to Rich, there is a lot that I would do before asking him for financial help. Still, Denise's sassy, unapologetic attitude about this situation cracked me up.
So, aside from telling Rich that I only want to talk to him if he's offering to pay my rent, what should I say? What, if anything, have you said to end communication with your exes?
Monday, April 4, 2011
This is How Antibiotic Resistance Gets Started
It’s amazing how this blog started as “Tales of Medical School and Dating,” and has now evolved into a story-telling forum for crazy church people I meet trying to sell me Amway and/or pictures of my friend’s baby! Anyway, sorry to disappoint again, but the most interesting thing I have going on is that I’m partially deaf in my right ear.
I know, you are enthralled now.
I’ve been having ear pain, accompanied by difficulty in clearing my Eustacian tube, drainage, and hearing loss in my right ear for…oh, a month and a half? I self-treated with a decongestant for a while, but things didn’t improve. I wasn’t running a fever, though, so I didn’t bother to follow-up. See, I have the opposite of Medical Student Syndrome. Instead of developing worsening hypochondriasis as medical school progresses, I just assume that if I’m not bleeding, febrile, or paralyzed, I’m good to go. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
Rarr!
Anyway, I finally went to Student Health two weeks ago (dun dun DUN!), since I have the university health insurance and am mandated to do so. I got to see an M.D. this time, but she didn’t prove to be that much of a step up from the nurse practitioners whom I hate. She said that aside from some dulling of my tympanic membrane, I didn't have any visible signs of otitis media. So, she went with otitis externa as a diagnosis (Umm…OK?) and prescribed an antibiotic drop for 10 days. I took it against my better judgment, and things did not improve. So, I went back today.
I saw a different doctor and while taking my history, she commented, “Hmm…that doesn’t sound like an outer ear infection” (Yeah, no kidding, Sherlock). But, she wasn’t sure what it could be either. She did not believe it was a middle ear infection, but she gave me more antibiotics—this time oral, just in case.
I almost offered to make a differential for her—Perforated ear drum? Swollen adenoids? Paralysis of the tensor veli palatini? I mean, come on, do better than just handing me antibiotics! Attempt a guess! Go for it! I know they teach you these skills in medical school, because I am a medical student myself!
Instead of just blindly pumping my body full of macrolides this time, though, I got a referral to University Hospital’s ENT service before I left. I hate running to a specialist just because I don’t trust the primary care doctor, but seriously, these people don’t know what they’re doing. The worst part of this whole situation is that I’m a big fan of primary medicine and think that primary care physicians have the potential to be awesome. However, while they work on that whole being awesome thing, I'm slowly going deaf.
I know, you are enthralled now.
I’ve been having ear pain, accompanied by difficulty in clearing my Eustacian tube, drainage, and hearing loss in my right ear for…oh, a month and a half? I self-treated with a decongestant for a while, but things didn’t improve. I wasn’t running a fever, though, so I didn’t bother to follow-up. See, I have the opposite of Medical Student Syndrome. Instead of developing worsening hypochondriasis as medical school progresses, I just assume that if I’m not bleeding, febrile, or paralyzed, I’m good to go. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
Rarr!
Anyway, I finally went to Student Health two weeks ago (dun dun DUN!), since I have the university health insurance and am mandated to do so. I got to see an M.D. this time, but she didn’t prove to be that much of a step up from the nurse practitioners whom I hate. She said that aside from some dulling of my tympanic membrane, I didn't have any visible signs of otitis media. So, she went with otitis externa as a diagnosis (Umm…OK?) and prescribed an antibiotic drop for 10 days. I took it against my better judgment, and things did not improve. So, I went back today.
I saw a different doctor and while taking my history, she commented, “Hmm…that doesn’t sound like an outer ear infection” (Yeah, no kidding, Sherlock). But, she wasn’t sure what it could be either. She did not believe it was a middle ear infection, but she gave me more antibiotics—this time oral, just in case.
I almost offered to make a differential for her—Perforated ear drum? Swollen adenoids? Paralysis of the tensor veli palatini? I mean, come on, do better than just handing me antibiotics! Attempt a guess! Go for it! I know they teach you these skills in medical school, because I am a medical student myself!
Instead of just blindly pumping my body full of macrolides this time, though, I got a referral to University Hospital’s ENT service before I left. I hate running to a specialist just because I don’t trust the primary care doctor, but seriously, these people don’t know what they’re doing. The worst part of this whole situation is that I’m a big fan of primary medicine and think that primary care physicians have the potential to be awesome. However, while they work on that whole being awesome thing, I'm slowly going deaf.
Friday, April 1, 2011
A Cute Baby! That I Got to Hold!
This post has relevance to nothing, except the fact that my friend Andie had her third child two and a half weeks ago and I got to go visit him today. (Yay!) As you already know, I am obsessed with babies (but not as obsessed as my medical school friend, Rachel, who admitted that she and her husband have been buying baby clothes for their future offspring for years).
Anyway, I do not believe that most newborns are cute. In fact, most aren’t. They are red and wrinkled and have acne and reflux. Some have misshapen heads from the delivery. It’s not their fault, really. The transition to life outside the womb is rough.
But, take a look at this baby:
He is definitely an exception to the rule. Also, I am wholly unbiased, and my views have nothing to do with the fact that my friend is his mother.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go deal with my biological clock, because the noise it is making right now is DEAFENING.
Anyway, I do not believe that most newborns are cute. In fact, most aren’t. They are red and wrinkled and have acne and reflux. Some have misshapen heads from the delivery. It’s not their fault, really. The transition to life outside the womb is rough.
But, take a look at this baby:
He is definitely an exception to the rule. Also, I am wholly unbiased, and my views have nothing to do with the fact that my friend is his mother.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go deal with my biological clock, because the noise it is making right now is DEAFENING.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)