The Exit Interview

Last night, Eduardo had to cancel.  It turns out that when he got home from work (I presume by taxi), he found that his brother had taken the car and thus, he was stranded.  He sounded annoyed at his brother when he talked to me, and was profuse in his apologies.

Of course, I had no problem with Eduardo canceling.  He had called me earlier in the day, set a time (9 p.m.) and given me the date plan.  He also called and apologized as soon as he knew that it wasn’t going to happen.  Take note, men of the internet!  The problems don’t arise until you make plans, and then don’t show up!  Or call! Or apologize!

As it turns out, my younger cousin had gone out with friends last night, so I had an available vehicle at home.  I could have offered to pick Eduardo up if I really wanted to, but I didn’t really want to.

This morning, I had to be at the hospital early to check up on patients and to have my exit interview with the hospital director.  In Spanish.  Going out with Eduardo wouldn’t have prevented me from doing any of that, but it would have kept me up late. 

Since I speak English when I’m at my aunt and uncle’s house, I decided that it would be best to check on my patients first, before going to the Director’s office, in order to get my brain into Spanish mode.  I was especially nervous about my interview, though, and couldn’t even form coherent sentences.  It didn’t help that I felt like Jacob could potentially appear at any moment, to see me butchering my Spanish, and saying nonsensical things to patients.

Thankfully, it occurred to me during my first patient visit that I only see Jacob in the evenings.  This meant that he was probably in surgery during the day, and that it was unlikely that I'd run into him in the salas.

On my second to last patient visit, though, I heard his voice.

“Hey there,” he said, appearing from nowhere, exactly as I had feared.

“Oh, hey,” I responded shakily in English, before turning back to my patient to say goodbye in Spanish.

“What are you doing?,” he asked.  “Did you just make him sign something?,” he asked, walking over to the patient’s bedside, and peering over my shoulder at the consent form that the patient had just signed.

Suddenly self-conscious, I pulled the consent form off of my clipboard and shoved it into the binder where the other study materials are.

“I like to do things the legal way too,” I said, referencing our conversation last night, in which he told me that there are two ways to get a residency in this country:  a legal way and an illegal way.  (He did it the legal way.)

“No one’s going to check on that stuff,” he said, confirming the fact that he knows nothing about IRBs or US research studies.

He was friendly, but seemed nervous.  He kept asking me what I was doing and how “things went.”  As per my earlier thoughts on this, I didn’t know what he was referring to.  Did he mean how did things go with my follow-up patients?  Or, with my plans last night?  Was this conversation business or personal? 

I eventually figured out that he wanted to know about both.  So, while he (again) peered over my shoulder looking at my patient list, he explained which patients were going to be discharged and why.  He pointed at the abdomen of the patient whose bed we were standing in front of, and explained that he had had a prostatectomy and wouldn’t be discharged for another few days.  In comparison, he mentioned that another patient of mine would be discharged today, because he had only had a bilateral hydrocele that was easily drained.  

“Do you know what a hydrocele is?,” he asked, unintentionally pimping me.

Then, we were suddenly talking about our personal lives—the fact that I didn’t go out last night after all and that I don’t mind driving here, and do it everyday.  I suppose that there was nowhere else that we could have gone to talk, but let me tell you, having a personal conversation at the bedside of a patient is not romantic.  

McDreamy and Meredith might make these conversations look flirtacious and suggestive, but they’re not.  They’re just bizarre.  When you look away from the eyes of your beloved, your gaze is wont to fall on things like…bloody catheter bags and IV drips.  Also, with Jacob standing at the patient’s bed foot, and me standing at his side, the patient couldn’t help but hear everything that we were saying to each other (although, we were speaking in English).  Considering the nature of the salas, it was uncomfortable having a personal conversation right out in the open.

Eventually, Jacob and I parted ways—I went to check on my patients; he went to go do something surgical. 

An hour later, I was waiting outside of the Hospital Director’s office.  As per usual, I had to wait forever, but when I did finally see him, I managed to (sort of) explain my findings and thank him for my time here.  He also thanked me for coming and then, he asked,

“Will you be back again?”

“No,” I said sadly.  “This was my last time.”

(At least for a while.)

Why Do All The Exciting Things Happen When I’m About to Leave?

So, that handsome surgical resident’s name is Jacob.

 

I know this because today, when our paths crossed again, he started asking me questions about the nature of my study (summer project) and why I did it (resume-building to get a good residency part of my program in the US).  Somehow, in the conversation, I mentioned that this was my second pass through the DR this summer and that I was leaving soon.

“Oh, well we’ll talk again before you leave,” he said.

“I’m actually leaving next Tuesday,” I said, touching his elbow to communicate my empathy that he probably won’t see me before then.

“Maybe we can get together before then.”

“Sure,” I said.

He was about to start a procedure and was actually holding a needle in front of me during this conversation. When the other surgeon assisting him arrived, he started to turn towards the patient.

Eduardo had also just called (Oh yes, he did, internet), so I had my cell phone out.  Ordinarily, I would have let the “Sure” stand, knowing full well that date planning requires phone numbers and that we might not see each other again in the hospital, much less outside of it.  Being in another country, with a limited amount of time, makes you do out of the ordinary things, though.

I turned around.

“Actually,” I started. “I have my phone out right now.”

He was already prepping the patient, so he started dictating a number that I entered quickly as he talked.  I was about to ask him if I should call him Dr. Garcia, the only name I know him by, when he said,

“And my name is Jacob.”

This, my friends, is precisely why I don’t date other medical students or doctors.  I mean, when does the hierarchy end?  If we go out, is it understood that Jacob is still my superior?  On the floors, do I call him Jacob or Dr. Garcia?  Do we talk about what we did last night, or the progress of our patients, when we’re together?

I left the sala, thinking of when should be the appropriate time to call.  I’m going out with Eduardo tonight and tomorrow night is Sabbath.  Eduardo and I have plans again Saturday afternoon, so should I call Jacob tomorrow during the day?  When he’s working?  My mind was thinking about these nonsensical things, when Jacob appeared in front of me in the hallway.

“Did you call me?,” he asked, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Was I supposed to call him?  Did he remember my first name to enter it?  How would he have known that it was me calling, if I had called immediately?

“Sorry, I was in the middle of a procedure,” he continued.

Umm…yes, Dr. Garcia.  I noticed.  I may be a mere medical student, but I saw the huge syringe, sterile gloves, and face mask when you dictated your number to me.

“What’s your number?,” he asked, with phone in hand.

“Umm…I’m not sure,” I said, avoiding eye contact. “It’s a family cell phone and we all just switched phones.”

It was the truth, but it made me sound like an idiot.  I’ve been using my aunt’s cell phone, whose number I have yet to memorize.  Since my family is usually the one calling me (not the other way around), I didn’t ask what the number was.  Besides, the only men calling me right now are BFF with each other and my cousin, so they have their ways or figuring out the correct number to call.

Before I could make myself appear to be even more incompetent, his phone was ringing.

“I’m calling you now,” I said.

“OK, I got it,” he replied. 

And, just like that, he was off again, as surgical residents usually are.

Since residents here work as much as the ones in the US, it will be interesting to see what, if anything, happens with Jacob.  I mean, does he even get time off?  Since he’s always at the hospital when I am, I doubt it.  Even if he does get time off, does he want to relinquish his precious sleep time for an American medical student whom he’s never going to see again? 

Perhaps we can have a romantic meal of hospital food in the Habitacion Internado (Resident Overnight Room) when he’s on call.  Then, we’ll hold hands as we briskly walk the hallways of the hospital, rounding on our mutual patients, and I’ll try to make myself scarce when he gets paged, so that I don’t get yelled at for being that annoying medical student.

Oh, internet.  The possibilies.  They are endless.

Editor's Note:  As I was posting this, Jacob called.  As expected, he's leaving the hospital around 10 p.m. tonight, has to report back at 5 a.m., and is on-call tomorrow night.  He talked to me for a long time (so long, in fact, that I had to start writing my aunt notes so that she knew who I was talking to), but basically, he said that he'll see me tomorrow in the hospital.  Aww...we really can round on patients together.  Just like I joked about in this blog entry.

Pictures!

I've failed you, internet!  I don't know what I've been doing all day at the hospital, when I could have been editing photos.  Fine.  I know what I've been doing, but it involves going to Pediatrics and holding babies in my off-time (WHAT?  You already know that I'm obsessed with babies.  You are not surprised by this.)  Anyway, I digress.  Here are pictures for you (apologies for the lack of cohesion)!

1. Pelo Malo ("Bad Hair")- I usually alternate between wearing my hair straight or curly (a girl likes to have options, you know).  Because it takes a lot of hair product to make my hair hold a curl, though, I've been leaving it naturally straight almost the entire summer.  

Last week, I decided to mousse up my hair and wear it curly.  

When I walked out of my room, my aunt said to me, "What happened to your hair?"  I was a little surprised by her reaction, so I said, "Oh, umm...nothing.  I just made it curly today."

Her response?

"Oh.  Because it looks very bushy."

Bushy?  Like a small, woodland creature could live in it?  I didn't curl my hair again after that day.

2.  Visible Tan Lines-  You already know about my obsession with working out, so it surprises no one that last Sunday, I went for a run on an incredibly rainy day.  I waited until the rain had stopped, even though it was still dreary and cloudy out.  I managed to get an hour long run in, during the single two hour break in the rain during the day.  When I got home, I saw this:

You will note that I got roughly the same degree of tanning by running outside, in the rain, for an hour as I did while beaching in Puerto Plata, St. Vincent, and Barbados for weeks.  Don't forget to wear sunblock on cloudy days!

3.  What They Don't Know Won't Hurt Them-  Remember how my aunt forbid me to buy street food here?  Well, last week when I was at a different hospital with The Surgeon, he told me to go and wait for him to finish consultations, because there wasn't space in the consultation area to watch.  I had a choice of the waiting room or the cafeteria, so obviously, I went to the cafeteria and bought myself this deliciousness.  It's not that healthy, probiotic stuff either (which I actually do really like, though).  It's the real, yummy, sweet stuff, but with fresh fruit in it.  Delicious!  (Also, food from a hospital doesn't count as "street food," right?)

4.  La Iglesia (The Church)-  The church that I've been attending with my uncle, which is in the "mission" (poor area of town).  This is one of the six churches that he pastors, and where the Church family also attends services.

5.  Chen Chen- A coarse corn meal that is cooked to have the consistency as rice, and eaten in the same way during a meal.  The day that I learned about chen chen, I also learned about concon (the crispy part of the rice that sticks to the pot, if you make it Dominican style with oil) and toto (Dominican slang word for the vag, so you didn't learn about it here).

What I'm Doing When I'm Not Dating Crazy Dominican Men

I recognized her immediately, as I approached the entrance outside of the ER.  At the entrance of every area of the hospital, there is a metal gate with a security guard, but usually I walk right past them without getting stopped, because I’m wearing my white coat.  Today, though, I couldn’t enter because of the crowd that was stopped in front of me.

“No puedo pasar” ("I can't pass"), she said.

Her boyfriend is waiting for surgery sometime this week and as a young, adoring girlfriend, she’s at his bedside every night.

“Y por que?” (“Why?”), I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders, in the universal sign for “I don’t know.”  Following her lead of body language, I grabbed her arm and while pushing through the crowd, yelled above the noise to the security guard,

“Ella esta conmigo!” (“She’s with me!”)

The gate was opened enough for us to walk through, but at the next entrance, we were stopped again.  Much to my chagrin, there was a policia who closed the gate in my face.

“Do you work here?,” he asked, glancing at the embroidered symbol on my white coat.

Surprisingly, I was flooded with indignation.  Although he was completely entitled to be asking that question, this is the first time in roughly 8 weeks of working in this hospital that I’ve been stopped.  Also, did he not see me here for the 6-8 hours a day that I’m walking the halls finding patients, talking to family members, and filling out study materials at nurses’ stations?  I know that I don’t attend one of the schools that the other medical students do, but I also wasn’t above walking into the Hospital Director’s office (in the same hallway where we were standing), and having him personally escort me upstairs.  Before it got to that, though, I heard myself yelling,

“Soy una cirujana en el segundo piso!” (“I’m a surgeon on the second floor!”)

Now that I'm used to people calling me "doctora," I'd be lying if I said that I didn't say it with conviction.

“Y ella?” (“And her?”), he asked.

“La familia de mi paciente!”  (“The family of my patient!”)

In actuality, calling my study participants “my patients” is a bit of a stretch, as was calling the girlfriend of a thug from the barrio his “family.”  Oh, right.  And, I guess it’s slightly incorrect to refer to myself as a “surgeon.”  

Regardless, after a dubious second glance at the name on my white coat, the policia pulled the gate open and motioned us through.

Things are different here, though, and I’ve gotten used to the system.  When I first got here, I wrote about the discomfort of having people call me “doctora,” but now I get it.  Once you put on that white coat, things change. 

In the US, you’d better know your place and not deceive anyone, lest your resident/attending/professor  chew you out (or your hospital get sued).  Here, though, medical students are “doctors” on the floors.  Not only do the patients and nurses refer to me as such, but now when I hear, “Doctora! Doctora!,” my head turns involuntarily, with the understanding that people are talking to me.

Unfortunately, having a title doesn’t always mean that you have the power to match. 

Today, when I was following up with a patient, I noticed that his catheter bag was full (like, really, scary full) and that his urine was bloody (although, this might have been normal for whatever surgery he had…I’m not sure).  He was also in a lot of pain and I was wondering why no one had changed the bag yet. As per usual, there were no nurses to be found, but I saw his (real) doctor.

The surgical resident in question speaks English fluently and is so good-looking that he actually makes me self-conscious when I talk to him.  It didn’t help that when I was teaching a patient a deep breathing exercise yesterday, he pulled up a folding chair and plopped himself down right beside me.  Since the surgeons never deign to sit in the salas with the patients, much less right next to the bed where the families sit, I think he was just doing it to be nosy.  We’ve been mildly flirtacious with one another and yesterday, after inadvertently ending up with all of his patients on my list for the study (and thus running into him at almost every bedside), he said to me,

“Why do you keep stealing all my patients?”

“Because you have all the good ones,” I answered, not able to think of anything more clever to say.

So, when I saw him in the sala today, I made the mistake of thinking that it was totally OK to ask him about the patient’s catheter bag.

You know where this story is going.

“I'm going to have the nurses change it in 20 minutes.  I have to write an order.  Don’t worry about it.”

It wasn't what he said, but rather, the tone of condescension with which he said it.  I wanted to say, “Maybe I should worry about it, since bloody urine is about to overflow onto his bed or the floor.”

Instead, when my patient’s vecino (neighbor) stopped me a second time to point out the bag, I said that the doctor would write an order and that I was sorry that I couldn’t do more.

*sigh*

On the upside, my language skills have progressed beyond “That Stupid American,” and I am dangerously close to, “Whoa, I Almost Understood What She Said.” 

In fact, when I was trying to find the list of surgical patients for tomorrow, the nurse that I am friendly with in the recovery room didn’t have it.  My next stop for looking for this list is to go to the salas, but the nurses there didn’t have it either.  I went to the sala de enfermeras (Nurses Lounge) outside of the quirofanos (surgical suites), which is usually a last resort.  Shockingly, they didn’t have it either.

They sent me to find an anesthesiologist, which led to me skulkily walking through hallways I had never seen before, and being told by three anesthesiologists to go to the anesthesiology clinic.  When I got there, one of the anesthesiologists who had told me to go to the clinic was waiting for me.  He asked where I had been (Listen, only one of us actually knew where this damn anesthesiology clinic was and it was not me.  Also, you could have offered to walk me there, if you were the one getting me the list, Random Anesthesiologist Guy.)

I could barely understand the Anesthesiologist’s accent, which of course, made me look stupid, so I kept asking him questions to divert attention away from myself.  However, I got the list! 

When I had the patients’ names in hand, I went back to the salas to find them.  This led to many a nurse being impressed that I had tracked down the coveted list (props!) and my nurse friends in the women’s sala asked me to write them out a list, since no one had given them one.

For once, I finally felt like I “got” it and was able to manage the tangled web of a public hospital enough to get what I needed.  Also, look who befriended the nurses!  Don’t kid yourselves, medical students.  The nurses are your friends—no matter what country you’re in.

I think the handsome surgical resident even forgave me for being bold enough to tell him to do his job. Then again, how could he not?  Everyone loves a barely lingual American medical student, who is deceptively adept at tracking down the surgical list, and lies about her position in the hospital to sneak adoring girlfriends past the policia.

Snoozing, And Losing

“I was just going to call you,” he said. “I was just waiting another 30 minutes, for you to get done with your patients.”

It was about 6:30 p.m., and while I waited for my last patient of the day to check-in, I decided that I should call Alvaro back. After hearing my cousin’s explanation, I figured that regardless of his behavior, one of the two of us should be an adult and make good on the promise to return a call.

As we talked, Alvaro offered a similar explanation as my cousin’s, as well as a moderate apology. Then, he asked if I was free for the night.

Of course, the appropriate response would have been to say no and that he could try again later in the week. Knowing that Alvaro has been working insane hours because of a big project, though (supposedly the reason he also fell asleep on Saturday night), and that Monday night is one of my easier nights, I agreed to meet him for dinner.

“OK, great. Call me when you’re leaving the hospital,” he said.

When I got into the car a half hour later, I did call him, but I couldn’t hear him and I lost reception. When he didn’t call back, I remembered that he had called from a different phone number on Sunday and had told me to use that one. So, I drove home and 30 minutes later, I called his other phone.

“I just got home,” I said.

“From last night?,” he responded. “That was a long time.”

I didn’t understand why Alvaro was making corny jokes with me. I had just talked to him and he knew that I was leaving the hospital.

“So, what are you doing tonight?,” he asked.

Again, didn’t we just have this conversation? I wanted to say, “I’m going out with you, moron.”  But, he continued.

“Are you staying at your aunt and uncle’s house? I can come and get you, but unfortunately, we have to hang around the steakhouse tonight.”

“Why would we have to do that?,” I asked, further confused by this conversation.

“Oh, because you know that my parents own the restaurant and I’m managing it tonight.”

You guys, Alvaro is a businessman. His parents don’t own a steakhouse. The friend of my cousin whose parents do own a steakhouse is Eduardo. The BFF of Alvaro. Whom I made out with on his birthday night and who basically shoved Alvaro out of his way when we walked into his parent’s restaurant last week.

When I realized what had happened, it was too late. Eduardo was on his way to pick me up for a date, when Alvaro was expecting me for dinner.

I flew down the stairs into the kitchen, where my aunt and uncle were making dinner.

“What do I do? WHAT DO I DO!,” I started shrieking.

My aunt could hardly understand what was happening, based on my hysteria, but after I managed to explain that I had called the wrong well-educated, bilingual Dominican man and accidentally set up a date with a man whom I didn’t even know had my phone number (he apparently asked my cousin for it on Saturday night), she managed to say,

“OK, go back upstairs and tell Alvaro what happened!”

Racing back up the stairs again, I called Alvaro and feigned composure.

“Hey, what’s going on?," I asked.

“You tell me,” he said tersely. “I thought that you were leaving the hospital. It’s 7:30 p.m. now.”

I was shocked that a man who stood me up was now bold enough to be giving me attitude because I didn’t call him early enough. I gave him a brief explanation of the mixup, but as I was talking, the realization hit me.

If it was Eduardo who called me on Sunday with a casual, “Hey, are you at the hospital?,” that means that Alvaro never called. After standing me up and admitting that he didn’t do much of anything on Sunday, he hadn’t even had the decency to pick up the phone and apologize.

Suddenly, I had no compassion.  Alvaro didn't deserve the benefit of the doubt, much less a second chance.

“Sorry, but I guess I’m going to Eduardo’s parents’ restaurant tonight,” I said, shortly.

“Oh, do you want me to pick you up?,” he asked.

Clearly, he was thinking that my meeting with Eduardo was of the platonic nature and that he, being the best friend of said restaurant owner, was invited.

“Umm…no. Eduardo is on his way over now,” I said. “But, if you want to get together sometime later this week, give me a call,” I said flatly, before hanging up.

When I got downstairs, I only had five minutes to sit down and (calmly) explain to my aunt and uncle what had happened, before Eduardo was calling to say that he was outside. As I locked the front door behind me, my uncle called after me,

“Make sure you get into the car with the right one!”

--

At the restaurant, Eduardo and I ordered dinner and sat at his regular table. Things were definitely date-like, as Eduardo talked to me about music, the arts, and his education. At one point, he even recited a Shakespearean monologue to me…after he mentioned his fluency in three languages.

Eventually, though, two of the regulars—Luis and Lynn—joined us at our table. When Lynn discovered that I am studying medicine in DC, her face lit up. Not only has she lived in the same part of town where my medical school is, but she has intimate connections with the consulate of the country where my parents are from.

It was late when Luis and Lynn sat down, so before I knew it, we were the only ones in the restaurant.  Eduardo and I had finished dinner hours ago, so he asked,

“Are you sure that you don’t want a drink or something?”

I had felt sort of awkward just sitting there, while Luis and Lynn nursed their drinks, but I hadn’t wanted to ask Eduardo to go to the bar.

“That would be great, but I didn’t know if you were ready to close up,” I said to Eduardo.

When Eduardo headed to the bar to get me a drink, Luis said to me,

“Don’t worry, you’re with the owner. The kitchen doesn’t close until he says it does. Besides, he really likes you.”

Luis and Lynn also really liked me, which is how I ended up agreeing to go for a drive through the mountains with them on Sabbath.  Our drive will ultimately culminate with dinner at their favorite German restaurant in San Cristobal.  Since I have potential connections to the consulate whom they are friends with, he is supposed to come too.

So, after a Saturday night of USMLE studying, the carefree summer continues.  I now have out-of-town weekend plans with Eduardo and his awesome friends and I dare say that if Alvaro decides to call back this week (which he probably won’t), he's going to have some stiff competition.

What Happened, According to My Cousin

Occasionally, I'll be hit with a bout of exhaustion so extreme that I find myself falling asleep at 8:00 p.m.  Last night was one of those nights.

I fully intended to wait up until after midnight, to ask my cousin what I should do about Alvaro. With that plan out of the question, though, I had to catch him this morning, as he was getting ready for work.

While he slathered gel into his hair, with the bathroom door open, I poked my head in.

"I need advice," I started.  "What do you think that I should do about Alvaro?"

"Well, he called me last night," he said.  "He said that he fell asleep on Saturday around 5 p.m. and never woke up, until Sunday morning.  I was texting him all Saturday night too," he continued.  "When he didn't respond, I figured that he was busy...with you."

My cousin looked up from the sink and made eye contact with me in the mirror, waiting for a response.

"Well, he called last night, but I told him that I was busy, because I figured that he might just be asking me out from obligation."

I followed my cousin into his bedroom, and continued to talk as he packed his laptop bag for work.  He assured me that what happened was not Alvaro intentionally blowing me off and even added, "That [falling asleep] has actually happened to me before too."

I still maintain, though, that it was a little weird that Alvaro didn't even acknowledge what happened when he called yesterday.  I mean, if that's the real story, isn't it normal to say,

"I'm so sorry!  You won't believe what happened to me last night!"

Maybe that's just me.

As he was walking out the door, my cousin turned to me and said,

"I was with Eduardo on Saturday night, by the way."  He paused, to pick up his laptop bag.  "He asked where you were," he added with a smirk.

I didn't think of it at the time, but I should have asked if my cousin's response was, "She's out with Alvaro."  Because that, my friends, would have been an interesting story to hear.

The Pity Date

When Alvaro called, I was with a patient.

I didn't recognize the number that he was calling from, but I suspected that it might be him.  Since I'm using a family cell phone, though, I didn't want to risk ignoring an important call.  I answered.

"Are you at work?," he asked.

He knew that I was.  After all, yesterday when he asked about my schedule, I told him that I'd be free for the night (Saturday night) and for most of today.  I told him that I was going into the hospital around 5 p.m.

He called at 5:24 p.m.

Alvaro didn't say anything about what happened last night, but instead, asked what my schedule was like this week.

Umm...why?  Is he planning on standing me up a second time?

I didn't answer him, and instead, told him that I couldn't talk and would call him back later.  Before I hung up, he also added that I should call him at the phone number that he had used to call me.

Again, why?  What happened to his cell phone?

I'm not really sure why Alvaro called, or why the first thing he wanted to know was what day he could take me out this week.  I can't be sure, but I suspect that this might be an obligatory pity date that he's trying to plan.  I slept in this morning, so I didn't hear when my cousin (Alvaro's friend) left for work, but I'm positive that my aunt must have stopped him and said,

"Seriously, what's wrong with your friends!  That douchebag, Alvaro, stood your cousin up last night!"

OK, fine.  My aunt wouldn't use the word, "douchebag," but I'm pretty sure that she told my cousin that Alvaro was a no-show last night.

Still, I might have to wait up tonight to ask my cousin whether or not he said something to Alvaro (I hope not).  I'd rather just have an explanation about why he asked me out and then didn't show up, than a pity date to placate my cousin and maintain the friendship.

Also, could all the normal men please step forward?  Because I'm over dealing with this type of drama.

The Cardinal Rule of Dating

“So, how was your date last night?”

I had just sat down at the breakfast table, and I was anticipating this.  My aunt had already asked what happened after she went to bed (Nothing—I read about embryology and Alvaro never called).  When my uncle sat down at the table five minutes later, he wanted to be filled in too.  After all, I’m the only one of their “children” who divulges juicy dating stories.

“I got stood up,” I told my uncle.  “I don’t know what happened, but he never called.”

“Well, this is where you made your first mistake,” he started.  “You should never have called him.  When you called him, it made you look…” 

He paused, while looking for the correct English words.

“…too interested.”

It was the cardinal rule of dating:  Don’t call the guy.  Wait for him to call you.

Obviously, I know this already and in the US, I wouldn’t have called.  It’s the guy’s job to plan the date, make the arrangements, and pick you up—at least for the first few dates. 

Here, though, I’m sharing vehicles with my cousins and being dependent on them for transportation on the weekend.  I called him, not because I was offering to do any date planning for Alvaro, but because I wanted to know what the plan was.  I was trying to avoid precisely what happened last night—sitting at home alone on a summer night in the DR.  When I hadn’t heard from him by 8:15 p.m., though, I should have just gotten in the car with one of my cousins and told him that he had to meet us wherever we were. 

But, this is also Alvaro that we are talking about.  I had already gone out with him once and I had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t even answer his phone, much less stand me up.

It has been noted now that what happened last night is quite possibly due more to the breaching the universal truth of dating, than to Dominican culture.  How ironic, though, that I can only seem to find two extremes here:  overly affectionate love interests like Joey or Manuel or guys who stand me up like Richard or Alvaro.   

Next time, I’m letting Grandpa Manuel take me out for drinks.  Not only will I not get carded, but I’m pretty certain that a man offering me a marriage proposal after a single conversation would be delighted to answer his phone.

How I Ended Up Studying for the USMLE in Club Clothes

I think I just got stood up Alvaro.  This would be the same Alvaro, of course, whose praises I was singing a mere two days ago.

I don't know what happened, but when I talked to him around 4 p.m. today, he asked what I was doing later.  I said nothing, and he said, "OK, well I'm leaving work now and I need to go home, but how about later this afternoon or early evening, we go out?"  I said that this sounded good and he said he'd call in a couple of hours.

I went to take a nap, picked at some dinner at home around 7 p.m., and when I hadn't heard from Alvaro by 8:15 p.m., I called and left a voicemail.  I was cheerful and friendly and asked what the plan for tonight was.  He never called back.  

As you all know, I never know how much communication is too much, so I waited until minutes to 10 p.m. to call back again.  This time, I didn't leave a message.  He also didn't call back.

I try really hard to think the best of people, but this is the second time that this has happened in the DR.  Other than one missed encounter with Charlie in January, I've never been stood up in my life.  Is there some unspoken rule here that it's totally fine to ask a girl out and then not answer your phone for the rest of the night?  I don't get it.

Also, thank you Dominican men, for making me look like a reject in front of my family.  I could have tagged along with one of my cousins tonight and been making out with strangers in a club at this very moment, but I wanted to go out with Alvaro.  Now, my aunt just walked into my room and said something about me having bad luck with men (Yes, apparently, I do have bad luck here).

On the upside, I did prudently pack my USMLE Step 1 review book, so I have plenty to keep me occupied on this particular Saturday night.  (So yes, I'm studying for Step 1 on a Saturday night in the DR, after getting stood up.  Not quite as exciting as the first time around, huh?)  Also, I guess this means that my ambitious plans to continue seeing Alvaro for the rest of my time here are over.  

Dating a Grandfather (Not My Own)

When I met him on Thursday, I didn’t catch his relation to the Church family.  For all that I knew, he was just some friend who happened to be there for the mid-day meal. 

Having non-family members show up for meals is fairly common (and encouraged) here, so I cheek-kissed him and said hello—like I do for everyone else I meet at their home.  Then, like usual, I went about my business of following Sister Church around the kitchen or accepting some homemade juice or sitting outside and working on my study materials.

Today, when I sat down at lunch, though, he took the seat next to me.

“I’m going to sit next to Red,” he announced to the table.

All of this was sweet and kind and I wasn’t surprised when he started talking to me after lunch too.  People are friendly in this country.  Knowing this, my uncle had left me at the Church’s house while he went to go collect the tithe money from his churches and to visit people.  So, while the (way) older folks sat outside talking, the Church’s 40 year old daughter, Rosie, and this stranger, named Manuel, sat inside talking to me.

Manuel was very obviously older than me, and when I asked his age, he said that he was 67.  During casual conversation, he also revealed that he has a daughter, son, and un nieto (one grandchild).  He was asking me all sorts of questions about my medical school and family too, and he was very patient as I had to translate in my head before responding. 

When he asked how long I was going to be here and when I was going to return, he said that he was sad to see me going.  He asked if I would come back and then, he offered to pay for my plane ticket.

This was my first warning signal.

I sensed ulterior motives, but since Rosie was right there, I figured that he really couldn’t be propositioning me right in front of her.  Right?  So, I started explaining something about how I don’t get vacation again after this summer.  He was unphased.  His next question was if I would come back after medical school.  This led to a tangent about how the excessive student loans I have in the US will prevent me from ever living abroad, since I won’t be able to pay back loans in US dollars by living in another country.

Then, that’s when Manuel started telling me that he was only at the Church’s house because he was hoping to run into me again.  He's Sister Church's brother and according to him, he came into the city (from his home in a town called La Romana) to see a doctor on Thursday.  I was at the Church’s house (as per usual everyday, when I need a break from the hospital) and he asked them who I was.  They said that I was the pastor’s niece and he asked when I would be back.  They told him that I come to work at the hospital everyday, so he decided to stay in the city so that he could see me again. 

(Umm, eww.  Creepy.  Weird.  Stalkerish.)

When we first sat down at lunch today, I remember him asking my uncle rather forcefully why he hadn’t brought me to work yesterday.  The question seemed out of place and nosy at the time, but my uncle politely said something about me not having patients on Fridays.

Now, I understood why he was asking.

Manuel claimed that after the disappointment of not seeing me yesterday, he was about to leave to head home.  Then, “una angelita del cielo” (“a little angel from heaven”) walked in the door with her uncle. 

“I would marry you,” he told me.  “If it wasn’t for the distance and the fact that you’re still studying.”

Eww, gross!  Thanks for the marriage proposal, but who said that I would marry him? He’s 67!  67.

Out of politeness, I didn’t comment on his statements about willing to buy me a ticket back or wanting to take me to La Romana.  But, when he brought up the obstacles to “casarse” (“getting married”) again, I said,

“Pues, hay otras cosas tambien.” (“Well, there are other things too.”)

“Que?” (“What?”), he asked. “La edad?” (“The [his] age?”)

The rational part of me wanted to scream,

“Claro que si, idiota!” (“Of course, idiot!”), but the kind part of me answered with a simple, “Si” (“Yes”).

Thankfully, as if on cue, my uncle returned from what he was doing and saved me from having to explain that I’m looking for someone younger, who lives in the same country, and whom I’ve talked to for more than an hour.  What is most disturbing, perhaps, is that he brought up the idea of a relationship, taking me to La Romana, and buying me a ticket back right in front of Rosie—like it was totally normal for a 67 year old man to be hitting on a 28 year old woman.

I didn’t tell my uncle about the exchange (since being a 60 year old man himself, he’s in favor of such relationships), but when I told my aunt, she couldn’t stop laughing.

“Well, you’re getting a lot of stories out of this trip,” she told me.

Indeed, internet. Indeed.

A Good Doctor

“Eres mi enfermera?” (“Are you my nurse?”), he asked with a grin on his face.

“No. Soy tu doctora.” (“No, I’m your doctor.")

He gave me a once over before replying incredulously, again, “Tu?” (“You?”)

A few minutes earlier, The Surgeon had asked me if I wanted to scrub into surgery with him.  Of course, the answer was yes, so here I was, waiting with the patient while The Surgeon went to go do preparatory surgical kind of things.

The patient was probably 19 or 20 and since The Surgeon is a reconstructive hand surgeon, the patient was completely fine with the exception of his crushed hand.  He clutched the hand to his body and when I asked what had happened to him, he gave me an answer that I didn’t understand.

I was hoping that I’d feel some sort of joyous fascination with surgery, but surprisingly, the whole thing was kind of anti-climactic.  Perhaps because I already watch G.I. Joe do outpatient procedures with general anesthesia all the time, there was nothing unexpected about the milky white vials of Propofol (which were not used, incidentally).  And, of course, now that I’ve dissected two (Count them, TWO!) human bodies in medical school, there wasn’t much difference, except for the continuous stream of blood.  I actually feel more “medical” (slash nauseated) when I have to watch The Surgeon follow-up with surgical patients who have pusy, stinking wounds.  (And yes, I realize that a finger reconstruction is not say, open heart surgery.)

Anyway, I’m still having mixed feelings about what to do regarding medical school, but thank you for all of your kind comments and emails.  If I could transfer between first and second year, I’d be looking into that option, but I’m pretty much stuck for another year.  I would walk away from all of this easily, though, if it wasn’t for my patients.

The surgical patient yesterday thought that I was a joke (because obviously, I am when it comes to surgery), but things were different earlier in the day, when I was following up on a patient that I had seen on Tuesday night.  She was in a ton of pain when I was on the ward, but there were no doctors around.  As is fairly common, her daughter practically jumped at me when I walked in the room, begging for pain medication.  Obviously, 1. I am not a doctor, 2. I can’t write orders for medication, and 3. I am not a doctor.  Unfortunately, that doesn’t really matter in this country.  It’s very hard to explain to patients why someone wearing a white coat can’t help them.

I stayed with her for a while, rubbing her arm, and when the nurse came, I called her over.  (The nurse did give her something intravenously.)  The following day, I pushed the patient to complete the study, even though she was still in a lot of pain.  She was going to get discharged and I needed to follow-up before then.

I hate coercing patients into finishing their questionnaires when they’re not feeling well, but for the sake of the study, I’ve been pressing on.  Much to my surprise, the last thing that she did was to smile at me, and to say,

“Tu eres una buena doctora.” (“You’re a good doctor.”)

Obviously, being a “good” doctor is more than holding a patient’s hand when they’re in pain or being willing to sit on the bed of a public hospital without flinching, but every time I hear someone say, “Tu eres una buena doctora,” it pulls at my heart a little bit.

The one thing that I want to be at the end of all of this is a good doctor, but sometimes the obstacles and the circumstances make it seem like it will never be worth it.  After everything that has happened in the past year, I don’t know if I can be a good student, much less a good doctor.  I’m not sure if I can focus and give my all this next year, when I am certain that I’m being set-up to fail.  And, if I can’t return to medical school this fall with a clear conscience, how am I ever going to make it beyond that?

My Favorite Policia and Other People to Look Out for Me

It was as I walking out of the Sala de Hombres (Men’s Ward) that I saw him. 

He was standing in the flirty hallway, where he had first asked for my number in June.  This time, though, Joey was in his policia uniform.

He saw me, so obviously, I couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t.

“Red,” he said, remembering my name. “Como estas?” (“How are you?”)

“Estoy bien” (“I’m well”), I replied.  “Yo fui a los Estados Unidos, pero volvió aqui en Sabado” (I went to the United States, but I returned here on Saturday.”)

He was grinning from ear to ear, and wasted no time in getting to the point of the conversation.

“Es tu numero de celular el mismo?” (“Is your cell phone number the same?”), he asked.

It is the same, but it’s going to change in two days, because my family is playing musical phones at the moment.  I told him as much, but before I could catch myself, I was blurting out,

“Pero…tengo un novio aqui, se llama Alvaro.” (“But…I have a boyfriend here, named Alvaro.”)

GAH!  I claimed Alvaro, who is only a very sweet friend of my cousin’s, as my boyfriend to avoid the possibility of having my favorite, overly interested policia call me again.  (Or worse, call the phone that will be in my AUNT’S possession in two days.)

 

“No hay una problema” (“No problem”), Joey responded, smiling kindly.  (Let’s hope he meant it.)

Then, in much the same manner as I before, I scurried off to the women’s sala, saying little else, and leaving Joey at his post in the hallway.

For the rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t help thinking about how my life has become a circus.  Granted, I'm grateful to have distractions from a certain stressful medical school situation, but first the dinner with Alvaro and Eduardo last night and now, after not seeing him at work once since our text message exchange, Joey has returned?  What's been happening lately is just hilarious.

Tonight, though, I was forced to go back to the hospital around 7 p.m., because the surgical list wasn’t ready earlier this afternoon.  I rounded on my female patients until about 9 p.m., but as I was about to enter the men's ward, I knew that it wasn’t the best idea.

The hospital that I work at is in one of the most dangerous barrios in the city.  We treat the poor and uninsured and the type of patients present are the reason that policias like Joey are employed full-time to guard the salas.  Still, I lived in Baltimore for six years.  I’m usually unphased as I walk through the ghetto during the day, dodging motorcycles, ambulances, and fruit carts.

Walking around on the men’s ward during the day, though, can make me uncomfortable.  Depending on the patients present, some men will yell suggestive things or flirt with me when I’m trying to conduct my study seriously. 

Going onto the men’s ward alone, at night, while wearing a dress (as opposed to slacks) just seemed like I was asking for trouble.  I secretly thought, “Man, I wish Joey was still working tonight.”

As I rounded the corner into the flirty hallway, I was shocked to see four policias congregating in the hallway.  Joey was one of them.

His legs were propped up on a chair in front of him and like a fly to the light, I was right in front of him, delightedly asking questions.

“Why are you still here?”  “How long is your shift?”

Apparently, the policia work 24 hour shifts (Umm..seriously?  And why did I never notice this before?) and Joey is on duty until 9 a.m. tomorrow.

I know that he was stalkerish and way too serious at end of our communication, but one thing that I know for sure is that Joey would never let anything happen to me in the sala.  With the knowledge that he was sitting right outside (probably keeping a close eye on me through the windows for non-security reasons), I found the patient I was looking for, taught him the deep breathing technique, and took my time with the rest of my study.

I considered asking Joey to walk me to my car after I finished, but as it turns out, the policia had rotated posts while I was finishing up with a patient and Joey was somewhere else in the hospital.

Earlier in the day, I was thinking that God has to have a sense of humor with all of these chance encounters. But tonight, I was also sure that God is looking out for me.  My aunt and uncle were really worried about me being in the barrio alone so late at night and obviously, I was too.  If I hadn’t seen Joey guarding the sala tonight, I probably would have just skipped seeing my patient and gone home for safety reasons.  As I was getting into my car (parked in front of the Church family’s house), I didn’t expect that any of them were sitting outside like usual.  There was a power outage, though, so it was pitch black and impossible to see anything.  Out of courtesy, I shouted a, “Buenas noches!” into the darkness. 

Much to my surprise, a chorus of, “Y tu tambien!” and “Igual!” echoed back at me.  They were waiting too, to make sure that I made it to the car safely.

Why You Shouldn’t Make Out With Strangers in Foreign Countries

My aunt was on the phone with my cousin Maria, when Alvaro called my cell phone to let me know that he was on his way, and then, that he was in front of the house.  I didn’t get to explain that I was going to go out with him tonight, so all that I got out to my aunt was a hasty,

“Umm, can I have a key?  I’m going to grab something to eat with Alvaro.”

My aunt had to put down the phone to get her key and in the shuffle, all that she could ask was,

“Wait…who are you going with?”

She knows Alvaro as my cousin’s friend and you know him as the one who gave me the Good Luck Elephant and had to carry one of my suitcases upstairs on Saturday night.

But…

Alvaro is sweet and kind.  We have a lot of things in common and he’s the kind of guy that you want to sit around and talk to for hours about nothing in particular.  He’s got the dark hair (and facial hair) that I love and he has beautiful, light brown eyes.  He’s adorable in the novio sort of way, not the short-term, make out on the beach kind of way.  

When we were at my cousin’s boss’ apartment on Saturday night, he asked for my number and put it into his Blackberry.  Since I’ve been out of the country for a month, though, I made a mistake in the cell phone number that I gave him.  So, last night, I called my cousin at work.

“Can you give me Alvaro’s phone number?,” I asked.

“Hmm…why do you want Alvaro’s phone number?,” he asked mischievously.

“You know why,” I responded flatly.

Tonight, I called Alvaro around 7 p.m., when I was leaving the hospital.  He was still at work, but said that he would call within the next hour.  Unlike Richard, he actually did call.  And, he asked if I wanted to go eat dinner with him.  So, within minutes, I was showering, changing, answering his call, and asking my aunt for a key.

Unfortunately, the universe hates me.

I should not have been surprised when we walked into the restaurant where four other people were seated at a table and recognized someone. 

“This is Red…,” Alvaro started to introduce me.

“I know Red,” Eduardo said tersely, in English, before very nearly pushing Alvaro out of his way.

“I thought that you went home,” Eduardo said to me.

“My professor sent me back.”

Alvaro had told me that he was going to hang out with his “cousins,” but I had no idea that the men he was referencing were actually Eduardo and his brother.  Eduardo would be the very same Eduardo, of course, with whom I stayed out until 5:30 a.m. dancing.  What I failed to mention, Internet, was that when Eduardo leaned in to kiss me that night, I let him.  And thus began a night of making out with my cousin’s friend in a Dominican club on a Saturday night.  Let’s just refer to this summer at The Summer of Bad Ideas and Poor Decision-Making.

I ordered a drink, and Alvaro and I took our seats at the opposite end of the table.  As Alvaro started to tell Eduardo things about me, Eduardo interrupted him.

“I know.  Red and I talked a lot on the night of my birthday.”

Haha…right.  We “talked.”  If that’s what you want to call it.

I was hoping that Eduardo was too drunk to remember all of the details of his birthday night, but I’m guessing that he wasn’t.  And, let’s face it, there were abundant pictures to fill in the details.

Eduardo disappeared from the table and when he returned, he spent most of his time toggling on his Blackberry.  Thankfully, one of the two girls at the table became my fast friend and distracted me from the awkwardness of the situation…just in time for Alvaro to tell me that we were sitting in Eduardo’s parents’ restaurant.

Of course we were.

When the girls left, Eduardo took one of their places next to me, and I found myself sitting sandwiched between two best friends.  One I made out with a month ago on his birthday and the other, I really like in a non-make out, long-term relationship kind of way.  (In fact, I wouldn’t have even written about Alvaro here just yet, but obviously, this is a ridiculous story and I have to share.)

I made very sure to not send any inappropriate signals to either of them, alternatively talking to my left (Eduardo) and then, to my right (Alvaro).  When Alvaro gently touched my knee and I turned to him and said softly,“Que paso?” (“What happened?”), the appropriate response to his, “Nothing, your dress is just pretty,” should have been something flirty.  Instead, I just smiled and said, “Thanks.”

I hope that this situation just seemed more awkward to me than it actually was, but at one point, I couldn’t help smiling about the irony of the situation.  Wasn’t it just last fall that I found out that Derrick, the guy from the dating website, was BFF with Charlie, who happened to work with Mike, the third cousin of my ex-fiance, Rich?

How could such a tragic thing happen again, in another country, with non-Adventist people?

*sigh*

At the end of the night, I gave both men a Latin cheek kiss and that was it.  One took care of the bill (because his parents own the restaurant) and I left with the other (because he’s the one I came with).  

My lesson has been learned.  Don’t expect to have non-committal makeout sessions, even in foreign countries, because there will be consequences.  Especially if you are me.

The Good Luck Elephant

The trip down here was hard.

Following a meeting at my medical school on Thursday, I felt mind-numbed.  Something that I cannot talk about here happened, but it was bad.  It was really, really bad.

So, on Thursday night, I found myself texting everyone from medical school classmates to Neighbor Guy, searching for a friend to accompany me to a bar.  Me.  The good Adventist girl, who doesn’t even drink (unless it’s in a Dominican club with my cousins, which DOES NOT COUNT, in case you are wondering).  When I got no takers, I ended up sitting on my couch drinking leftover wine from Rajiv’s cooking adventure, while Neighbor Guy talked to me about non-medical career options and offered to pull strings with his contacts. 

Like I said, what’s happening is something really, really bad.

On Saturday night, when my plane landed in a country a world away, my mind was still at home.  I didn’t clear customs until after midnight, and I was exhausted from mentally wrestling with my fate all day. 

From the airport, though, my cousin and his friend Alvaro drove us straight to the restaurant that my cousin manages, so that he could close up for the night.  At the restaurant, the owner—a 60 something year old, chain-smoking Frenchman—pulled me in for an elaborate cheek kiss.  I’ve met him several times before, and he adores me (I think…I don’t speak French, but I do sit outside of his restaurant looking pretty and luring customers in with my foreign airs…rarr) but he was especially drunk on Saturday night.  He wanted us to come to his apartment to listen to French music.

So, after the heavy chain link security gates had descended in front of the restaurant's facade, my cousin and I headed to his boss’ apartment, where I was immediately traumatized to meet his boss’ 20 year old girlfriend.  As in, the boss’ girlfriend is eight years younger than me.  As in, some basically teenage girl is living with a 60-something year old man and the mother in me wanted to say, “Honey, I know that he’s rich, but you can do something with your life other than cleaning his house and mixing the drinks on a Saturday night.”  (Then again, I am a middle class American, whose family is a huge proponent of independence and education, and not a poor Dominican girl from the barrios who was given the opportunity to have a better life by being the girlfriend of a wealthy restaurant owner.  So, feel free to ignore what I just wrote.  Also, I digress.)

While my cousin’s boss sang aloud to the music and mocked me for drinking water (WHAT?  I had just had a long flight and I didn’t want to be dehydrated), my cousin’s friend, Alvaro, entreated me to talk to him in English.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Alvaro whispered.

“Like what?”

“Anything.  Just keep talking to me, so that he can’t,” Alvaro would say, referencing the fact that we were the captive audience to a drunk Frenchman discussing the existentialist meaning of life at 2:00 in the morning. 

“What’s your favorite color?,” he asked.

“Red.”

As we were getting ready to leave, my cousin made the mistake of picking up a Taino (native Dominican) artifact that was sitting on the front entrance table and asking what it was.  This set off a chain reaction, in which my cousin’s boss led Alvaro and me to his balcony, where a large bookcase of carved Taino cats was displayed.

“Y que es?” (“And what is this?”), Alvaro asked, referring to a single elephant that was among the cats.

“Lo tome” (“You take it”), his boss responded.

Alvaro protested, while the Frenchman went on about how it was an antique from Puerto Plata and that he wanted him to have it.  He pushed the elephant into Alvaro’s hands, while he exclaimed,

“Es buena suerte!” (“It’s good luck!”)

Alvaro reluctantly accepted, but in the parking lot a few minutes later, he handed me the elephant.

“I got this for you,” he said, with a feigned air of boyish admiration.

“Aww, really?,” I said, playing into the role of impressed high school girlfriend.  “You put up with all of that talking just to get this for me?”

“Yeah,” Alvaro said, winking in my direction.

Elephants have always been my favorite animal and once upon a time, I used to collect elephant figurines and display them in my room and college dorm.  I didn’t tell Alvaro (lest I give him a reason to tease me), but the elephant made me happy.  It’s just some carved Taino artifact that a Frenchman forced upon us, but it’s beautiful and special, like so many other things in this country that I love.  Besides, I could use some good luck right now.  And, prayers.  And, direction.

Con mucho amor,

RS

What to Pack for a Month Abroad

Well, hello there.  I'm back in the sweet embrace of the DR, and let me tell you, I am never leaving.  NEVER LEAVING.  I'm shredding that ticket back home, because going home was a dumb idea, fraught with crazy foreigner phone calls, and a medical school situation so upsetting that I cannot even talk about it here.  I cannot talk about it on the blog that I started to talk about things!  Ugh.

Anyway, I digress.  The first time that I came to the DR, I had no idea what I was in for, so I definitely overpacked.  Now that I'm in the know, I actually used this list when repacking, and so far, so good.  If you are planning a medical trip abroad, behold!  I hope you find this helpful!

For shorter trips, I’m usually the master of multi-purpose vacation wear, with lots of layering pieces and shoes that can be worn with multiple outfits.  Because I was going to be gone for so long (6 weeks) and I had no idea what type of resources I’d be encountering in various countries, I ended up throwing in extra clothes (that I never wore) and worrying that I didn’t pack enough. When I was packing up my (substantial) luggage in the Dominican Republic, I had a better idea of what was used and what wasn’t, so I typed up this list.  

Things to Bring:

-Travel sized shampoo and body wash:  Even though I had large sizes of both, when I was on the beach, showering outside (WITH THE BIKINI ON) at some random pump, I was really happy that I had thrown the travel sized body wash in my bag.  You never know where you might end up showering (depending on how rugged/adventurous your vacation is) and you will be grateful to have had these things.  It’s also smart to throw mini-sizes of things into your carry-on, just in case your suitcase doesn’t arrive with you.

-Bug spray & Cortisone:  Choose a mosquito repellent with a high DEET concentration, but expect to get a few bites anyway…hence, the Cortisone.

-Scrubs & White Coat:  If you’re going on a medical trip, take them.  You’ll need both.

-Medical equipment:  You never know what you’re going to encounter, so take it all (within reason).  I brought a stethoscope, otoscope, large package of alcohol wipes (for disinfection), reflex hammer, and tuning fork (you can leave the tuning fork, unless you’re going to be working with a neurologist).  It was easy enough to steal gloves and gauze from the hospital here, but if you have space for a box of latex gloves, bring that too.

-Alcohol hand sanitizer:  Bathrooms may not have running water where you are and you want to be able to clean your hands.   Also, if you are working in a hospital with a cholera epidemic (ahem), you need to be prudent about keeping your hands clean.

-Pocket packs of tissues:  Public bathrooms may not have toilet paper.  Actually, most don’t.  Carry tissues in your purse/money pouch at all times.

-Medicine:  Bring your usual prescription medications, some antibiotics (just in case), Tylenol/Advil, cold medicine, an anti-diarrheal, and sleep aid (especially if you are traveling long distances by plane/train).  I know it sounds like overkill, but when I got sick my first week here, I was really grateful that I had Vicks and Breathe Right strips with me.

-Earplugs and an eye mask:  It’s hard to settle into sleeping in new surroundings and without my earplugs, those stupid Dominican produce trucks would have be waking me up every morning.

-Sunscreen:  It will be triple the cost as in the US, so bring your own.  I would recommend an 8 oz. bottle OR LESS, though.  I had way too large of a bottle and ended up ditching in St. Vincent to save weight.

-Ziploc bags:  Pack your toiletries in them, so that you have plenty to use while you’re abroad.  Don’t expect them to have them.

-Camera & Computer/Flash Drive to Upload Photos:  Your friends and blog readers will thank you!

-Tons of summer dresses:  I know that some women don’t like dresses, but I have a very good rationale for this!  In addition to being cool in hot weather, they are easy to wash by hand and hang out to dry.  This will be important if you don’t have access to laundry facilities. They also double as dressy wear (wear with heels and accessories) or casual wear (wear with flip flops).  Most importantly, though, when you find yourself changing in public on a beach, dresses are easier to manage.  Have at least two that you can slip on over your head and that have a built-in bra or padding.  Then, you can pull your dress on over your wet bathing suit and pull off your bathing suit underneath.  You’ll only need to slip on a pair of underwear (or not, I don’t judge!) and you’ll be good to go!  (Trust me, I have tried the public beach changing with shorts and a t-shirt and it is so much worse.)

-A two-piece bathing suit:  I am extremely modest in public, but let me tell you, buy yourself a bikini or tankini if you are going to the Caribbean.  You will likely be wearing your suit all day and it’s a lot easier to use the bathroom if you are in a two-piece.  Also, when you are faced with public beach changing (as you WILL be), it’s much easier to pull off a bathing suit piecewise than to hold a towel while wrestling a wet one-piece off underneath.  Again, I know from experience.  Just trust me and flaunt your hot body in a two-piece.  Besides, you’re in the Caribbean and no one’s going to see your fat thighs again anyway!  (By, “your” fat thighs, of course, I mean “my” fat thighs.) 

-Workout clothes:  If you are crazy, like I am, this is a given.  It doesn’t matter if you’ll have access to a gym or have to hike a mountain to get your heart rate up, you should take a pair of running shoes, one pair of workout shorts, one pair of workout long pants, two sports bras, and at least one t-shirt.  Wear, wash, repeat.

-One going out shirt:  You may or may not find yourself engaging in the night life of your respective location and you should have something to wear besides a church dress (ahem).

-One black skirt/dress:  If you are staying with family, be prepared to have to attend a funeral or other semi-formal event.  If your family is church-going, just make one of your church outfits a classy, black skirt and you’ll be good to go.

-One dressy dress:  Again, if you are staying with family, expect to be dragged to a wedding.  Pack a second church dress that is fancy enough to be worn to a wedding, if you get invited to one.  (If you are 28 and single, you will be invited to one, so just take my advice and don’t challenge me on this!)

-Personal hygiene items:  Unless you are staying in Santo Domingo (a.k.a. the Miami of the DR), make sure you pack enough shampoo, face wash, razors, contact solution, deodorant, perfume, moisturizers/lotion, toothpaste, pads/tampons, and hair spray to last a month.  Make sure that you also bring more hair conditioner than you usually use, since Caribbean water will leave your hair looking like a hot mess.

-Lightweight cardigan/shawl:  It’s going to feel like 100 degrees outside, but unless you want to look like that dumb tourist when you go out, you should put something on over your maxi dress. 

-Waterproof beach tote:  I got a large, plastic one several years ago from Wal-Mart or Target and it hasn’t left my side since.  A regular beach tote is fine too, but again, you might find yourself stuffing wet towels/bathing suits into it, and you’ll be grateful that you can contain the wetness in the car or on the beach. 

-Plastic Grocery Bags:  Wrap your shoes in these and stuff a couple of extras into your bag.  When you have to tote around wet bathing suits, etc. all day, they’re handy to have around.  Again, your respective country may not have readily available plastic bags.

-Camera batteries:  You will get price-gouged if you have to buy these abroad.

-Chewing gum/Decongestant:  I listed these separately from “medicine,” because even if you don’t have sinus problems, it’s good to have chewing gum to help with equalizing the pressure between elevations.  I do have sinus problems and always struggle for the first day after my flight.  If you are planning on going SCUBA diving at all, take a Claritin-D the morning before you go out, to help with pressure equalization underwater.  I also took a Claritin-D on the morning that I hiked that volcano in St. Vincent.  You don’t want to be near the summit and realize that you’re short of breath AND unable to equalize your ears.

-Sunglasses/Swim Goggles- If you’re going to be doing heavy watersports, take a “disposable” pair that you don’t mind losing in the water, or swim goggles if you plan on wearing your contacts in the water.

-Snacks/Granola bars- I'm hypoglycemic, so I always have snacks in my purse, but in case you are in an area where wrapped snacks are not easily accessible, I'd recommend taking some with you.  Especially if you happen to be shadowing a surgeon with affiliations at six different hospitals (referring to no one in particular, of course), your trusty granola bars may be the only meal that you (hastily) eat all day.

Things that I never used:

-Jeggings:  better for winter than for summer, don’t waste space.  They’ll just be clingy and uncomfortable anyway.

-Small curling iron- There was no occasion for fancy hair

-Pantyhose- Haha…this one was a fear thing.  I didn’t know if I’d be “allowed” to go to church or work without them.  I was.

-Several “beach tops”- If you plan on wearing sundresses, you don’t need a coverup.  (Unless you want one, but usually, you don’t need it.)

-Shoes:  Pack two pairs of ballet flats or work shoes for the hospital, one pair of high-heeled black sandals for church/nightlife, one pair of neutral heels for church/nightlife, two pairs of flip-flops, and one pair of sneakers.  Your mind will tell you that this isn’t enough for a month away, but IT IS ENOUGH.

  

Forgotten items:

-Spanish-English dictionary:  My aunt had one that I stole, but I wish that I would have brought my own!

-Small notebook to write down new words/phrases to look up at home

-Mini stapler and paper clips- Would have come in so handy to keep study materials organized!

-A travel-sized alarm clock:  I ended up using my US cell phone (I put it on airplane mode when I landed), but a small, battery-powered alarm clock would have been amazing.

And yes, this means that I did bring back two Spanish language books with me.  Thank you for asking.  When my cousin's friend, Alvaro, was tasked with having to carry one of my bags upstairs to my room at 3 a.m. (long story, another post), he was all, "What do you have in here...rocks?"  Then, I opened the suitcase and showed him my USMLE First Aid review book and gave him a look that said, "Don't worry, I won't be offended if you can't be my friend anymore."

I did bring the bikini and plenty of sunblock too, though, so hopefully there's a chance for redemption. :)

Con mucho amor,

RS

Dating an Ex: Taking Old MD Girl's Advice?*

“I would make out with you if you wanted me to.”

He was clearly joking, but this type of humor seemed out of character for him.

“Well, thanks for that,” I said, playing along. “I would totally make out with you too."

He finished his bite of chapatti, before responding with a smirk,

"I'd do other things too.  I don’t have as much self-control as when we were dating.”

“Is that so?,” I asked, laughing.

This type of flirtatious banter was out of character for us, and a little uncomfortable.  I was surprised at his remarks.  The laughter was nervous.

--

Even though our relationship ended five years ago, we’ve managed to stay in touch.  In fact, I usually like to stay in touch.  The Rich situation was a painful anomaly, but in a perfect world, I’m the hash it out, say you’re sorry, pull yourself together, and be friendly type of ex-girlfriend.   This always made Rich uncomfortable. 

“The only reason that Rajiv wants to talk to you is because he’s hoping for reconciliation,” Rich would tell me.

Rajiv was my last serious boyfriend before Rich and Rich hated that we had stayed close.  He’d forbidden me to answer Rajiv’s phone calls and I had to explain to Rajiv that despite the fact that he was seriously dating a DC lawyer and that Rich had given me an engagement ring sparkly enough to deter a blind man, the reason that I couldn’t invite him to my wedding was because Rich had said no.

Before Rich, though, Rajiv and I would swap our respective dating stories and meet for dinner a few times a year.  I loved hearing about his travels and growing business and unlike Rich, I’d defend Rajiv’s character to the ground any day.  Even though we didn’t work as a couple, I always knew that he had a kind heart.  He’s always been the kind of person who will answer the phone during an emergency and do anything to help.  Unlike Rich, he’s also always been supportive of my career aspirations.

He’s the one who bought me my first MCAT prep book and long before there was a successful freelance career or book deal, he told me that I was the most talented writer that he had ever met.  Last summer, when I told Rajiv that I was considering dropping out of medical school, he put down his fork at brunch.

“What are you talking about?,” he asked sharply.  “This is the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life!  When we were dating, all you could talk about was getting into medical school!  You did an entire post-baccalaureate program, took your MCATs, and GOT IN!”

“You’re in now!,” he kept repeating.  “Don’t walk away now.”

He’s also the one who pushed me to start writing this blog last year.  When I protested that there was no way I’d find time to write during medical school, he dismissed me with a calm,

 “Of course you will.  You love blogging.”

He was right.

--

Last Thursday night, while he prodded me to tell him all of my graphic dating stories from the summer, I cringed and prefaced each one with, “You know that this is very out of character for me.”

He just kept smiling and laughing.  He told me some racy stories of his own (which was weird and a little TMI), but we ended the night with our typical hug and promise to keep in touch.

Usually, this means that I’ll hear from Rajiv in a few weeks.  Two nights ago, though, I got a text message asking if I had plans for Monday night.  I said no, and waited to see what he had in mind.

Rajiv is a small business owner who spent his twenties building a successful commercial real estate business at the expense of his health.  When he was my 26 year old boyfriend, he’d routinely be sitting at his computer until 2 a.m., crunching numbers.  He had ulcers, GI issues, and other stress-related health problems.   He didn’t have the best social life, diet, or exercise routine.  But, I can be a workaholic myself (how shocking), so things sort of…worked….for us.

Now, he’s done the grunt work of building a large, corporate business and is reaping the rewards of owning a company with enough staff to run the show for him.  He said that he now wakes up at 5 a.m. to juice fresh fruits and he meets with his personal trainer every night.

“I want to make you dinner,” he texted back.

“Umm…when did you learn to cook?,” I asked, surprised.

“Six months ago.  I can do either Indian or American food.  Do you want me to cook at your place or mine?”

I was still reeling in shock, trying to figure out when this man learned to be self-sufficient and stopped eating fast food for every meal.  More importantly, why am I the lucky recipient of his generosity?  Is he practicing on me, for one of the other women he is currently dating?  Or, is he trying to give me something to think about in the DR?

One can only guess, but rest assured that there will be updates to follow.

*Two days ago, OMDG asked if I could re-evaluate any of my relationships with my male friends for a potential boyfriend.  Then, as if on cue, Rajiv asks if he can come over to make me dinner. (SO WEIRD.)