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.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
This is a high stress situation
Alright, so basically the circus of figuring out where I will spend the next 3 years goes like this.
Step 1. Spend weeks putting together a list of all of your accomplishments, which will be the sole basis on which your merits are judged. Except for that pesky personal statement, which is like trying to sum yourself up in 3 paragraphs. No wait, that's exactly what it is.
Step 2. Hit the "submit" button and pray like mad you didn't have any typos.
Step 3. Compulsively check your email every hour for the next 2 months waiting for a subject line of "Invitation to Interview."
Step 4. Schedule first interview in Milwaukee (technically Wauwatosa. Go ahead, say it..."It's amazing how exotic Wisconsin...isn't." There, I feel better).
Step 5. Try to imagine how I'm going to fit in all these interviews, resident dinners, plane trips, and hotel stays...Do I try to string a bunch together without knowing if I'll even get interviews in nearby states? How close do I cut it when scheduling flights? We are talking about snow season here. Should I rent a car and try to see the city or just stick to the hotel shuttle? Which interviews do I schedule for later because I'm pretty sure I'll be canceling them anyways?
Step 6. Iowa, Utah, Michigan State, New Mexico...
Step 7. To be continued...in a city near you.
So, pray for me, pray for sanity and on-time flights and people to put me up on their couch and for my frequent flier miles to add up quickly and for wrinkle-free shirts and not sticking my foot in my mouth and trying not to let this consume my whole life, because after all, interviews don't even start for another month and a half. Yikes!
Step 1. Spend weeks putting together a list of all of your accomplishments, which will be the sole basis on which your merits are judged. Except for that pesky personal statement, which is like trying to sum yourself up in 3 paragraphs. No wait, that's exactly what it is.
Step 2. Hit the "submit" button and pray like mad you didn't have any typos.
Step 3. Compulsively check your email every hour for the next 2 months waiting for a subject line of "Invitation to Interview."
Step 4. Schedule first interview in Milwaukee (technically Wauwatosa. Go ahead, say it..."It's amazing how exotic Wisconsin...isn't." There, I feel better).
Step 5. Try to imagine how I'm going to fit in all these interviews, resident dinners, plane trips, and hotel stays...Do I try to string a bunch together without knowing if I'll even get interviews in nearby states? How close do I cut it when scheduling flights? We are talking about snow season here. Should I rent a car and try to see the city or just stick to the hotel shuttle? Which interviews do I schedule for later because I'm pretty sure I'll be canceling them anyways?
Step 6. Iowa, Utah, Michigan State, New Mexico...
Step 7. To be continued...in a city near you.
So, pray for me, pray for sanity and on-time flights and people to put me up on their couch and for my frequent flier miles to add up quickly and for wrinkle-free shirts and not sticking my foot in my mouth and trying not to let this consume my whole life, because after all, interviews don't even start for another month and a half. Yikes!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I'm Awesome
I would just like to say that, although the Red Stars had a tough second half and missed the playoffs, and although St. Louis surprised me, and even though LA Sol led the whole season and Sky Blue had to pull off some upsets, I totally called it!
Saturday, August 15, 2009
More than a mere aversion
The DSM IV defines a specific phobia as a
A. Marked and persistent fear that is excessive or unreasonable.
B. Exposure to the phobic stimulus almost invariably provokes an immediate anxiety response.
C. The person recognizes that the fear is excessive or unreasonable.
D. The phobic situation(s) is avoided or else is endured with intense anxiety or distress.
E. The avoidance, anxious anticipation, or distress in the feared situation(s) interferes significantly with the person's normal functioning.
F. In individuals under age 18 years, the duration is at least 6 months.
...and as with all DSM IV disorders...
G. The anxiety, Panic Attacks, or phobic avoidance associated with the specific object or situation are not better accounted for by another mental disorder.
I just want to make it clear for the following story that according to bonafide scientific definition, I have clinical arachnophobia, as I think you will see. And I kind of take offense when people are like "Oh, yeah, I'm arachnophobic" and then can sit calmly with a spider in the same city block. I'm sorry, friends, but you mock the dysfuction of us true phobics by pretending.
Now, I'm going to but mention the actual spider, because it will give me nightmares (again), but I'm pretty sure you will enjoy the retelling of our reaction to it.
Last night, we were wishing Hilary off after watching Kyle Orton self destruct, I was returning something to the basement, and on my way up the stairs, I saw a HUGE spider on the stairs. Now, I realize that I tend to exaggerate when it comes to this specific subject, usually on the order of ten-fold, but this one really was HUGE. I'm pretty sure I had taken three stairs in one giant leap by the time an inhuman "Uh-wah-uhhhhhh-ahhhhh" made it out of my mouth. Michelle, a fellow arachnophobe, understood immediately, and goes, "You have to KILL it!" with the unspoken (actually, later she did speak it) assumption that if left alive, the spider would stalk her to her bedroom, kill, and eat her in the middle of the night. And I'm like, "Oh, okay, did that 'uh-wah-uhhhhhh-ahhhh' SOUND like someone who is going to go BACK THERE, ANYWHERE NEAR that thing? Didn't THINK so." So she's like, "Well, then get someone to kill it." So, grown-up, mature, nearly doctor that I am, I screamed, "MOMMY!!!!!!"
Unfortunately, running away crying like a baby means that said spider has the chance to hide by the time my valiant pajama-clad mother got down there with three papertowels ("Um, you might need the whole roll") and the can of Raid. So we looked for a while, covered basically the whole doorway and Michelle's bathroom (in case it DID come stalking her) in the sweet scent of Raid, and went back to....
"Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!" Um, yeah. IT. CAME. BACK. Now about 5 stairs closer to MY BEDROOM. NOT OKAY. This time, we were smart enough to leave one of us cowering in the stairwell so it couldn't escape again (not me, I was the one on the other side of the house grasping handfuls of my shorts to keep myself from going through the wall) while my mom recovered her weapons. Unfortunately, she didn't have her glasses on, so Michelle had to get a flashlight to shine on the spider. Which meant she actually had to LOOK at it. See where this is going? Not what I'd call an effective spotlight. Nonetheless, my mom triumphed against her menacing foe, turning towards us with the papertowel wad, saying, "Let's see if I got him." "NOOOOOOO!!!!" More running away grabbing my shorts.
Wish I could say this was the end of the story, but apparently Michelle wasn't quite liberal enough with the Raid, because there were two more waiting for her when she went to brush her teeth. "MOM!!!! WE NEED YOU AGAIN!" Thank God for understanding parents. I'll even accept the ridicule that comes along with it, as long as they kill the devil monsters. After all, I KNOW it's a perfectly irrational fear (see A and C above) and that going out of my way to avoid spiders (D) interferes with normal function (E) and I'm not exactly PROUD of the girlish screams that accompany my severe anxiety (B) but I CAN'T HELP IT.
I'm just glad that it provides so much amusement for everyone else.
And let's just pray I end up with a VERY understanding husband.
A. Marked and persistent fear that is excessive or unreasonable.
B. Exposure to the phobic stimulus almost invariably provokes an immediate anxiety response.
C. The person recognizes that the fear is excessive or unreasonable.
D. The phobic situation(s) is avoided or else is endured with intense anxiety or distress.
E. The avoidance, anxious anticipation, or distress in the feared situation(s) interferes significantly with the person's normal functioning.
F. In individuals under age 18 years, the duration is at least 6 months.
...and as with all DSM IV disorders...
G. The anxiety, Panic Attacks, or phobic avoidance associated with the specific object or situation are not better accounted for by another mental disorder.
I just want to make it clear for the following story that according to bonafide scientific definition, I have clinical arachnophobia, as I think you will see. And I kind of take offense when people are like "Oh, yeah, I'm arachnophobic" and then can sit calmly with a spider in the same city block. I'm sorry, friends, but you mock the dysfuction of us true phobics by pretending.
Now, I'm going to but mention the actual spider, because it will give me nightmares (again), but I'm pretty sure you will enjoy the retelling of our reaction to it.
Last night, we were wishing Hilary off after watching Kyle Orton self destruct, I was returning something to the basement, and on my way up the stairs, I saw a HUGE spider on the stairs. Now, I realize that I tend to exaggerate when it comes to this specific subject, usually on the order of ten-fold, but this one really was HUGE. I'm pretty sure I had taken three stairs in one giant leap by the time an inhuman "Uh-wah-uhhhhhh-ahhhhh" made it out of my mouth. Michelle, a fellow arachnophobe, understood immediately, and goes, "You have to KILL it!" with the unspoken (actually, later she did speak it) assumption that if left alive, the spider would stalk her to her bedroom, kill, and eat her in the middle of the night. And I'm like, "Oh, okay, did that 'uh-wah-uhhhhhh-ahhhh' SOUND like someone who is going to go BACK THERE, ANYWHERE NEAR that thing? Didn't THINK so." So she's like, "Well, then get someone to kill it." So, grown-up, mature, nearly doctor that I am, I screamed, "MOMMY!!!!!!"
Unfortunately, running away crying like a baby means that said spider has the chance to hide by the time my valiant pajama-clad mother got down there with three papertowels ("Um, you might need the whole roll") and the can of Raid. So we looked for a while, covered basically the whole doorway and Michelle's bathroom (in case it DID come stalking her) in the sweet scent of Raid, and went back to....
"Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!" Um, yeah. IT. CAME. BACK. Now about 5 stairs closer to MY BEDROOM. NOT OKAY. This time, we were smart enough to leave one of us cowering in the stairwell so it couldn't escape again (not me, I was the one on the other side of the house grasping handfuls of my shorts to keep myself from going through the wall) while my mom recovered her weapons. Unfortunately, she didn't have her glasses on, so Michelle had to get a flashlight to shine on the spider. Which meant she actually had to LOOK at it. See where this is going? Not what I'd call an effective spotlight. Nonetheless, my mom triumphed against her menacing foe, turning towards us with the papertowel wad, saying, "Let's see if I got him." "NOOOOOOO!!!!" More running away grabbing my shorts.
Wish I could say this was the end of the story, but apparently Michelle wasn't quite liberal enough with the Raid, because there were two more waiting for her when she went to brush her teeth. "MOM!!!! WE NEED YOU AGAIN!" Thank God for understanding parents. I'll even accept the ridicule that comes along with it, as long as they kill the devil monsters. After all, I KNOW it's a perfectly irrational fear (see A and C above) and that going out of my way to avoid spiders (D) interferes with normal function (E) and I'm not exactly PROUD of the girlish screams that accompany my severe anxiety (B) but I CAN'T HELP IT.
I'm just glad that it provides so much amusement for everyone else.
And let's just pray I end up with a VERY understanding husband.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
I make my husband put down his job, so I don't have to tell them I work at Children's
If you want to be encouraged about your kids turning out okay, are pregnant, or really ever planning to have kids, NEVER have a neonatologist tell you stories. They will ALL sound like horror stories to the uninitiated (read: non-medical professionals). To us, they are hilarious.
Like your son getting bitten by a pit viper and sucked on by a leech in the span of 24 hours. "He says the snake bit him and THEN he threw a metal stick at it...but anyone who knows Kieran knows it was probably the other way around. I tried calling poison control, and the operator was like, 'Oh, they're closed.'"
Or delivering a baby and having him turn blue and start snorting within minutes. "I just said, 'He's fine, he just needs to acclimate a little bit.'" "And they LISTENED to you?" "Well, she didn't take a lot of convincing. And I knew they were just going to whisk him away to the NICU and poke him and put him on CPAP, and at the time, it sounded like a good idea. I don't know, I was so drugged up I couldn't stay awake."
Or any number of things that land you on a first name basis with the urgent care docs and the overpowering desire to hide the fact that you are a DOCTOR to the nurses in the emergency room. "My husband made me bring her in. Next time, he's putting HIS job on there, cause you know as soon as you leave, they're talking about you."
And those are just the neonatologists' kids.
Also what I've learned is that if someone codes (heart stops beating or they stop breathing), the phones and overhead pages may or MAY NOT tell you what is going on and might lead to a slight delay in qualified people responding; but if a parent brings in Scotcharoos to the break room, it only takes 37.4 seconds for everyone on the floor to know that they're there. Same thing with free ice cream day. Priorities, people.
Like your son getting bitten by a pit viper and sucked on by a leech in the span of 24 hours. "He says the snake bit him and THEN he threw a metal stick at it...but anyone who knows Kieran knows it was probably the other way around. I tried calling poison control, and the operator was like, 'Oh, they're closed.'"
Or delivering a baby and having him turn blue and start snorting within minutes. "I just said, 'He's fine, he just needs to acclimate a little bit.'" "And they LISTENED to you?" "Well, she didn't take a lot of convincing. And I knew they were just going to whisk him away to the NICU and poke him and put him on CPAP, and at the time, it sounded like a good idea. I don't know, I was so drugged up I couldn't stay awake."
Or any number of things that land you on a first name basis with the urgent care docs and the overpowering desire to hide the fact that you are a DOCTOR to the nurses in the emergency room. "My husband made me bring her in. Next time, he's putting HIS job on there, cause you know as soon as you leave, they're talking about you."
And those are just the neonatologists' kids.
Also what I've learned is that if someone codes (heart stops beating or they stop breathing), the phones and overhead pages may or MAY NOT tell you what is going on and might lead to a slight delay in qualified people responding; but if a parent brings in Scotcharoos to the break room, it only takes 37.4 seconds for everyone on the floor to know that they're there. Same thing with free ice cream day. Priorities, people.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)