So, I had 15 minutes to kill yesterday on my way to a meeting, and decided to spend it in one of my most favorite ways to kill time (which sounds so unproductive and frivolous, but it doesn't feel that way): wandering Barnes and Noble. Having just spent a pretty penny on a new car (!), I knew I wasn't going to buy anything, and with only 15 minutes, it's not like I could sit down and, in one sitting, polish off the lastest Maximum Ride book (which is what I did LAST time I was "killing time"). And so I wandered.
I wish I could explain what it is about that store that makes me feel so at home. I think part of the draw is the familiar--seeing books I've read, organized in the same way, with the ever-present Starbucks and comfy chairs--and part of the draw is the unknown--the possibilities of escape and knowledge and characters that you come to know like old friends. I think I could read every minute for the rest of my life, and except for a neck cramp and an occasional need to run around or eat, I would be content.
For as wonderful as wandering is, there is also a sense of almost urgent searching, trying to find the next book. With so many choices and not enough time, where do I start? And so, I've decided to let someone else decide for me. In addition to continuing to page through the classics (Anna Karenina is next), I've decided to google the Pulitzer Prize in the hopes that some of the dirty work will have already been done, and I will be left with nothing less than a list of great possibilities. I also always take suggestions...
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
The Very Bad, the Somewhat Redeeming, and the Margaritas
Today at work, I'm all gelling in the ENT room, taking tonsils out. Well, I'M not taking them out. That would be ridiculous. That job belongs to a doctor. I'm just the one sliding a metal blade down the kid's throat and putting a plastic tube between his vocal cords so that he can breath while the doctor works. Laura, plus 2.
But our tranquil morning of tonsillectomies was not to be. Around 9:30, we got a call that a trauma was coming in, with a gun shot wound to the face. Let's just set the record straight that whatever you picture when you hear "gun shot wound to the face" is a sure sight less gruesome than the reality. When they got the half dozen rolls of gauze unwrapped from his head, it looked like one of those sick halloween rubber masks had melted in an oven. His nose was buried in the shattered hollow of his face, he'd completely lost one eye, and his chin looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. It's hard to imagine what this guy was thinking when he irreversibly shattered his life like this, but it almost certainly was nothing compared to what he's going to be thinking when he wakes up. I felt guilty that the whole time we were working on him, all I could really think about was whether it was worth it. This guy was requiring a heck of a lot of man-hours, equipment, blood products, etc trying to fix a self-inflicted disaster that he likely didn't want to survive in the first place. The whole thing made me sick because it's so hard to see the dignity in the situation, to imagine who this man was before he landed at Denver Health, and to look for something to hope in for his future.
I don't think I'm calloused that I can brush it off and walk out of the ICU afterwards without looking back. I think it's necessary. I think it is. Trauma has to be like that. You don't have time to invest in a relationship when you have a life on the line. Which, it then stands to reason, is one good reason why I don't want to do trauma.
At any rate, God must have known I needed a break, because I got done early yet again and was blessed with the most beautiful mountain view with all the changing leaves in their full glory lining both sides of the road as I drove home.
And now I have a free Friday night with margaritas and Sandra Bullock awaiting me.
But our tranquil morning of tonsillectomies was not to be. Around 9:30, we got a call that a trauma was coming in, with a gun shot wound to the face. Let's just set the record straight that whatever you picture when you hear "gun shot wound to the face" is a sure sight less gruesome than the reality. When they got the half dozen rolls of gauze unwrapped from his head, it looked like one of those sick halloween rubber masks had melted in an oven. His nose was buried in the shattered hollow of his face, he'd completely lost one eye, and his chin looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. It's hard to imagine what this guy was thinking when he irreversibly shattered his life like this, but it almost certainly was nothing compared to what he's going to be thinking when he wakes up. I felt guilty that the whole time we were working on him, all I could really think about was whether it was worth it. This guy was requiring a heck of a lot of man-hours, equipment, blood products, etc trying to fix a self-inflicted disaster that he likely didn't want to survive in the first place. The whole thing made me sick because it's so hard to see the dignity in the situation, to imagine who this man was before he landed at Denver Health, and to look for something to hope in for his future.
I don't think I'm calloused that I can brush it off and walk out of the ICU afterwards without looking back. I think it's necessary. I think it is. Trauma has to be like that. You don't have time to invest in a relationship when you have a life on the line. Which, it then stands to reason, is one good reason why I don't want to do trauma.
At any rate, God must have known I needed a break, because I got done early yet again and was blessed with the most beautiful mountain view with all the changing leaves in their full glory lining both sides of the road as I drove home.
And now I have a free Friday night with margaritas and Sandra Bullock awaiting me.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Train wreck
Things are not going my way kids.
-Student Health Insurance insists I double cover myself with their stupid insurance and stupid premiums despite the fact that I have perfectly good health insurance on my own, thank you very much.
-No one told me that Denver Health needed two weeks to process my ID badge and access, so I guess I show up Monday with NOTHING and expect them to just let me in to the operating room. Um, okay.
-I somehow temporarily let my brain leave my body and committed to be on team for a big retreat and lead a small group and give a talk on THE SAME WEEKEND that my roommate is getting married and I'm a bridal attendant. Come on, Padre Pio, bring on the bi-location.
Basically, it feels like everything is out of control and I just want to cry. Which is usually an indication that I need to pray. So we're going to do that instead. And yes, when I'm stressed I get to speak in the plural. It makes us feel better.
-Student Health Insurance insists I double cover myself with their stupid insurance and stupid premiums despite the fact that I have perfectly good health insurance on my own, thank you very much.
-No one told me that Denver Health needed two weeks to process my ID badge and access, so I guess I show up Monday with NOTHING and expect them to just let me in to the operating room. Um, okay.
-I somehow temporarily let my brain leave my body and committed to be on team for a big retreat and lead a small group and give a talk on THE SAME WEEKEND that my roommate is getting married and I'm a bridal attendant. Come on, Padre Pio, bring on the bi-location.
Basically, it feels like everything is out of control and I just want to cry. Which is usually an indication that I need to pray. So we're going to do that instead. And yes, when I'm stressed I get to speak in the plural. It makes us feel better.
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