Why is it that grocery stores and Walmarts in this state can't seem to hire people to bring in the shopping carts, yet every gas station has an attendant or two to pump your gas for you?
For that matter, why are there crossing guards at every freaking stoplight that do nothing but stand on the sidewalk and stare at their phones? I'm pretty sure it's Communism.
Why has this state never heard of on-ramps to highways? You have to sit at a stop sign and wait for an opening in the traffic. News flash, NJ, there is never a break in the traffic. Especially when every person in this state drives like the Devil is chasing them.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Oh baby
The hospital is a really bizarre place. Really, really bizarre. I've never experienced such unapologetic interest in the state of my reproductive system as I have in the hospital. There really should be more boundaries. The problem with being in medicine is that it's so all consuming that we forget that it's just not normal to talk about your health status with people who are basically strangers.
For instance: This one has nothing to do with my ovaries.
I was on anesthesia last month in an OR where I'm pretty sure 50% of the surgeries are AV Fistula placements (for you non-medical people, I'm not even going to attempt to explain because it would just cause mass narcolepsy). This type of surgery is always done with the assistance of a C-arm, which is a portable x-ray machine in the shape of a C (clever, huh?). Because radiation is generally considered a bad thing, we all have to wear these attractive lead vests that weigh a million pounds and don't help my already kyphotic posture. Now these lead vests only come up to the collarbone, leaving your neck exposed. Here's your medical lesson for the day: what really important endocrine organ that is sensitive to radiation exposure sits in your neck? Answer: your thyroid.
Stupid hospital lesson for the day: Guess who's hospital is too cheap to buy enough thyroid protectors for the whole OR? Answer: Mine.
I'll be damned if this place gives me thyroid cancer in 20 years, so I have to spend the whole surgery holding my lead vest up around my ears. But then I have to do something that involves my hands and they always choose that moment to shoot the x-ray. Good thing thyroid cancer has one of the highest cure rates.
For instance 2: Back to the ovaries.
I'm in an exploratory laparotomy for a guy that has a ruptured colon. The end of the case comes around and the surgeon calls for the x-ray tech to take a quick picture to make sure they didn't leave anything inside of the patient (which unfortunately happens more than you'd think). I don't have a vest on so I go to leave the room, but somebody's blocking the door. One of the PAs, Raj, this 5 foot tall Indian guy old enough to be my grandpa starts waving frantically for me to get out of the room. He keeps saying "We need to protect your ovaries. I want to be able to play with your kids some day. Protect the ovaries!"
For instance 3: My uterus.
I'm in a surgery and my anesthesia attending is talking about the different volatile anesthetics (the gasses) we use to put people to sleep. He tells me that studies have shown that exposure to nitrous increases the incidence of miscarriage in women. And what's more, if a man is the one exposed, his female partner also has a higher chance of miscarrying.
Thankfully, the gasses that we administer, when they are exhaled by the patient are delivered back into the machine and then vented out into air outside the hospital, where they will not be harmful (unless, I guess, you are standing right next to the vent doing your daily breathing exercises or something).
While he's telling me this, the resident is puttering around and ostensibly listening to our conversation. Not two minutes later the resident is dismantling the breathing circuit (which is where all the nitrous and sevoflurane and CO2 the patient has been breathing off is now sitting).
He looks over at me and says "You're not pregnant, are you?" (Which, by the way, I was asked on a daily basis during my radiology rotation).
I say, no, I'm not.
He says, "Oh, good," and pops the bag off the circuit and vents all the gas directly into my face!
Really? REALLY? Did you not just hear what your attending said or do you want me to have a spontaneous abortion?! I just felt one of my eggs disintegrate right then and there! I may not be capable of taking care of myself (evidenced by the fact that there hasn't been food in my fridge for almost two weeks) right now let alone a child, but someday I might want an embryo to actually stay in my uterus long enough to metamorphose into a baby. At the very least so Raj has somebody to play with one day.
For instance: This one has nothing to do with my ovaries.
I was on anesthesia last month in an OR where I'm pretty sure 50% of the surgeries are AV Fistula placements (for you non-medical people, I'm not even going to attempt to explain because it would just cause mass narcolepsy). This type of surgery is always done with the assistance of a C-arm, which is a portable x-ray machine in the shape of a C (clever, huh?). Because radiation is generally considered a bad thing, we all have to wear these attractive lead vests that weigh a million pounds and don't help my already kyphotic posture. Now these lead vests only come up to the collarbone, leaving your neck exposed. Here's your medical lesson for the day: what really important endocrine organ that is sensitive to radiation exposure sits in your neck? Answer: your thyroid.
Stupid hospital lesson for the day: Guess who's hospital is too cheap to buy enough thyroid protectors for the whole OR? Answer: Mine.
I'll be damned if this place gives me thyroid cancer in 20 years, so I have to spend the whole surgery holding my lead vest up around my ears. But then I have to do something that involves my hands and they always choose that moment to shoot the x-ray. Good thing thyroid cancer has one of the highest cure rates.
For instance 2: Back to the ovaries.
I'm in an exploratory laparotomy for a guy that has a ruptured colon. The end of the case comes around and the surgeon calls for the x-ray tech to take a quick picture to make sure they didn't leave anything inside of the patient (which unfortunately happens more than you'd think). I don't have a vest on so I go to leave the room, but somebody's blocking the door. One of the PAs, Raj, this 5 foot tall Indian guy old enough to be my grandpa starts waving frantically for me to get out of the room. He keeps saying "We need to protect your ovaries. I want to be able to play with your kids some day. Protect the ovaries!"
For instance 3: My uterus.
I'm in a surgery and my anesthesia attending is talking about the different volatile anesthetics (the gasses) we use to put people to sleep. He tells me that studies have shown that exposure to nitrous increases the incidence of miscarriage in women. And what's more, if a man is the one exposed, his female partner also has a higher chance of miscarrying.
Thankfully, the gasses that we administer, when they are exhaled by the patient are delivered back into the machine and then vented out into air outside the hospital, where they will not be harmful (unless, I guess, you are standing right next to the vent doing your daily breathing exercises or something).
While he's telling me this, the resident is puttering around and ostensibly listening to our conversation. Not two minutes later the resident is dismantling the breathing circuit (which is where all the nitrous and sevoflurane and CO2 the patient has been breathing off is now sitting).
He looks over at me and says "You're not pregnant, are you?" (Which, by the way, I was asked on a daily basis during my radiology rotation).
I say, no, I'm not.
He says, "Oh, good," and pops the bag off the circuit and vents all the gas directly into my face!
Really? REALLY? Did you not just hear what your attending said or do you want me to have a spontaneous abortion?! I just felt one of my eggs disintegrate right then and there! I may not be capable of taking care of myself (evidenced by the fact that there hasn't been food in my fridge for almost two weeks) right now let alone a child, but someday I might want an embryo to actually stay in my uterus long enough to metamorphose into a baby. At the very least so Raj has somebody to play with one day.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Scenes from Internal Medicine: or When are they letting me out of here?
From a guy admitted for chest pain to rule out a heart attack:
Doc, sometimes I get these electric shocks in my hands. I thought you might want to know about those too.
You mean like numbness or tingling?
No.
Do these shocks shoot down your arms?
No.
Happen at the same time as your chest pain?
No.
Ok. What are you doing when they happen?
Usually I'm walking across my living room. And then I touch something metal and I get shocked. What's that called, Doc?
Static electricity.
----
You got a foot doctor in this hospital?
Yep, we have podiatrists here.
Good, get me one of those. I want to ask him about my foot.
Me (thinking): Shit, there's something wrong with his feet. Now I have to take off this old guy's sock and there's gong to be a huge diabetic ulcer and I'm going to smell like gangrene for the rest of the day.
I pull off his sock...and there's nothing visibly wrong with his foot.
So what's wrong with your foot.
Well, sometimes the muscles under there move around. What's up with that?
I'm pretty sure that's what muscles are supposed to do.
Huh, didn't know that. Okay, well, you can go now. And I'll be right here for the rest of the night thinking up all the other things that are "wrong" with me. I'll tell you about them in the morning.
Can't wait.
----
Sir, your hemoglobin dropped a little overnight. We're worried that you might be bleeding from someplace that we can't see. We need to do a rectal exam to check your stool for blood.
What's that.
A rectal exam? It's kind of like a prostate exam except we check for stool.
Oh, I see. Well, I guess you can do that. As long as it don't hurt or nothing.
It won't hurt but you might feel a little discomfort.
Hmm. Nevermind then. I think my head hurts too much for you to do that right now.
Maybe later then.
Sorry, Doc. Don't mean to ruin your day. I know how much you want to do this rectal exam on me.
Words cannot describe how much I'd like to stick my finger up your butt to check for blood.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Boggle
Another post that I wrote and never published. Either I thought I had more to say, or I'm really bad at the follow through.
What is with people who think that refusing treatment for their medical problems somehow makes them healthier? It doesn't make you healthy, it only makes you sick and stupid. Happy thoughts about puppies and rainbows won't cure the raging skin infection you have on your foot. And neither will ocean water, btw. I had a patient today decline to take a short course of oral antibiotics to treat the not insignificant cellulitis on his foot because, and I quote, "my yoga teacher said that those antibiotics will cause bone thinning." Yes, because taking two weeks worth of Duricef is going to give you osteoporosis...at the age of 24. It's not that I'm opposed to not taking medications, because I would gladly never pop another pill for the rest of my life. But if there's something seriously wrong with me, then sign me up. Bring on the drugs!
Maybe it's because I have a better knowledge base about medicine and health to know what is serious and what isn't, but it boggles my mind when patients play the either-or game with their health. Why is the anecdotal threat of "bone thinning" worse than your skin infection that could progress to septic arthritis, which according to all my vast medical knowledge is dangerous, hard to treat, and hurts like a bitch? Why is the ability to proclaim that your family is proudly crunchy and anti-Western medicine and just generally more awesome than everyone else more important than giving your kid an asthma inhaler so he can properly oxygenate his body?
It's patients like these that make me want to go into forensic pathology. Their patients don't say stupid things...or say anything at all.
What is with people who think that refusing treatment for their medical problems somehow makes them healthier? It doesn't make you healthy, it only makes you sick and stupid. Happy thoughts about puppies and rainbows won't cure the raging skin infection you have on your foot. And neither will ocean water, btw. I had a patient today decline to take a short course of oral antibiotics to treat the not insignificant cellulitis on his foot because, and I quote, "my yoga teacher said that those antibiotics will cause bone thinning." Yes, because taking two weeks worth of Duricef is going to give you osteoporosis...at the age of 24. It's not that I'm opposed to not taking medications, because I would gladly never pop another pill for the rest of my life. But if there's something seriously wrong with me, then sign me up. Bring on the drugs!
Maybe it's because I have a better knowledge base about medicine and health to know what is serious and what isn't, but it boggles my mind when patients play the either-or game with their health. Why is the anecdotal threat of "bone thinning" worse than your skin infection that could progress to septic arthritis, which according to all my vast medical knowledge is dangerous, hard to treat, and hurts like a bitch? Why is the ability to proclaim that your family is proudly crunchy and anti-Western medicine and just generally more awesome than everyone else more important than giving your kid an asthma inhaler so he can properly oxygenate his body?
It's patients like these that make me want to go into forensic pathology. Their patients don't say stupid things...or say anything at all.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Here's What I Learned In Pediatrics:
aka: A post that I wrote and never published, probably because I wasn't done learning! Or because I have a short attention span and forgot it existed. So here you go.
1. It is surprisingly difficult to make a kid open their mouth when they don't want to. They have little piranha jaws and I don't want my fingers to be their next meal.
2. There is just a never-ending supply of screams.
3. If I ever want to have kids, then I needed to get married yesterday. Old mothers=Down's syndrome. Old fathers=Autism. There is no winning either way. I love Autistic kids, but what I love more is sending them home with their parents. From the way they scream, you'd think my stethoscope had been dipped in molten lava or something. It sounds callous, but I'm being completely serious. The possibility of having a kid with Autism is so scary that it makes me just want to skip the whole genetic lottery of having children altogether because its heartbreaking to watch those families in the office and know that they never get a break from it.
4. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy can cure any ailment if you have enough money. Diabetic ulcers? Definitely. Cerebral Palsy? Yep. Autism? There's no proven evidence, you say. Oh well, why not? Arthritis? Who knows, but we're not going to say no if you want to fork over $100 every day for two weeks to lay in a glass coffin while the magic oxygen rushes around you.
5. Fanny packs are making a comeback, heaven help us.
6. All doctors are assholes. This is what my attending told me at least once a day. I didn't quite have the guts to ask her what that makes her then.
1. It is surprisingly difficult to make a kid open their mouth when they don't want to. They have little piranha jaws and I don't want my fingers to be their next meal.
2. There is just a never-ending supply of screams.
3. If I ever want to have kids, then I needed to get married yesterday. Old mothers=Down's syndrome. Old fathers=Autism. There is no winning either way. I love Autistic kids, but what I love more is sending them home with their parents. From the way they scream, you'd think my stethoscope had been dipped in molten lava or something. It sounds callous, but I'm being completely serious. The possibility of having a kid with Autism is so scary that it makes me just want to skip the whole genetic lottery of having children altogether because its heartbreaking to watch those families in the office and know that they never get a break from it.
4. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy can cure any ailment if you have enough money. Diabetic ulcers? Definitely. Cerebral Palsy? Yep. Autism? There's no proven evidence, you say. Oh well, why not? Arthritis? Who knows, but we're not going to say no if you want to fork over $100 every day for two weeks to lay in a glass coffin while the magic oxygen rushes around you.
5. Fanny packs are making a comeback, heaven help us.
6. All doctors are assholes. This is what my attending told me at least once a day. I didn't quite have the guts to ask her what that makes her then.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
And All God's People Said AMEN!
In the psych ward, every morning we have group. We go around, one by one, and share our name and our goal for the day. Group is its own special brand of torture that involves giving actively psychotic people a platform in which to espouse their crazy theories and delusions in lieu of just stating their damn name and goal.
My goals, by the way, are always something lame like getting my oil changed or actually studying instead of spending four hours playing spider solitaire or working out. The nursing students that show up always try to outdo each other with increasingly stupid existentialist goals like accepting myself and others, finding my inner peace, making a new friend. Kill me.
My absolute favorite goal ever came today. This patient I like to refer to as Santa shared his name and his goal. Now, everyone's goal is to get out the hospital and go home, but that's not really in their control so they have to come up with another goal. So he said his goal was to relax today. The staff member leading the group asked what he was going to do to relax. His answer: have sex. The staff member, after he stopped laughing, politely informed Santa that this goal was for today, not just in general, and there will be no sex in the mental hospital thankyouverymuch. Santa just nodded and said, "Huh, I thought that was allowed under certain conditions."
Hmm. I don't even want to imagine what those conditions might be.
Today's group was more akin to a church service than a group meeting. In the psych ward, religion spreads like mass hysteria did in Salem, Massachusetts. Last week, only one guy had a Bible, from which he would quote long (made up) passages intermingled with very inventive strings of curse words. Then a couple more people took up Christianity. But that must have gotten old fast because today everyone was Muslim. Half the group said "Allah Akbar" before they introduced themselves.
Then the church service began. Some lady shared with us a five minute ramble on what God wanted her to do with her life. An old demented lady started singing hymns and praising Jesus like they do on those televised services on TV and everybody joined in. And, lo, there was dancing and shouting to the heavens. And all we were missing was someone speaking in tongues and a giant snake.
My goals, by the way, are always something lame like getting my oil changed or actually studying instead of spending four hours playing spider solitaire or working out. The nursing students that show up always try to outdo each other with increasingly stupid existentialist goals like accepting myself and others, finding my inner peace, making a new friend. Kill me.
My absolute favorite goal ever came today. This patient I like to refer to as Santa shared his name and his goal. Now, everyone's goal is to get out the hospital and go home, but that's not really in their control so they have to come up with another goal. So he said his goal was to relax today. The staff member leading the group asked what he was going to do to relax. His answer: have sex. The staff member, after he stopped laughing, politely informed Santa that this goal was for today, not just in general, and there will be no sex in the mental hospital thankyouverymuch. Santa just nodded and said, "Huh, I thought that was allowed under certain conditions."
Hmm. I don't even want to imagine what those conditions might be.
Today's group was more akin to a church service than a group meeting. In the psych ward, religion spreads like mass hysteria did in Salem, Massachusetts. Last week, only one guy had a Bible, from which he would quote long (made up) passages intermingled with very inventive strings of curse words. Then a couple more people took up Christianity. But that must have gotten old fast because today everyone was Muslim. Half the group said "Allah Akbar" before they introduced themselves.
Then the church service began. Some lady shared with us a five minute ramble on what God wanted her to do with her life. An old demented lady started singing hymns and praising Jesus like they do on those televised services on TV and everybody joined in. And, lo, there was dancing and shouting to the heavens. And all we were missing was someone speaking in tongues and a giant snake.
Dream
Last night I had a nightmare that I was involuntarily committed to the psych ward. And then I missed the morning shower time, and they wouldn't let me shower in the psych ward. I had to be dirty the rest of the day. In the psych ward. Did I mention that I was stuck in the psych ward?
I'm still recovering.
I'm still recovering.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Last week, the veteran psych medical students (from another school) left for greener (less insane) pastures, only to be replaced by two new medical students who get to suffer along with me. Unfortunately, this makes me the veteran student. You know how dogs can smell fear? Well, psych ward patients can smell when you're the only person who knows what's going on.
For some reason all the normal nurses on the floor were out today, or they all took lunch at the same time (jerks), which left me with two new nurses that had no idea what was going on. And my two new medical students (both of whom had those big anime eyes by the time the day was over). And some resident on ambulatory that was being forced to spend the morning on the psych ward. She wouldn't take off her white coat (no one wears white coats in psych, the better to not freak out the patients. Also, no one wears stethoscopes, the better to not get strangled with.) and she wouldn't do anything but refill her coffee cup.
I was trying to hide behind a bunch of charts and stay out of everyone's line of sight, but the nurses station is a square in the middle of the unit, with glass walls all around it. Basically, it's like a big fish tank. Or, probably more accurately, like one of those cages people lock themselves in to look at shark. So hiding is impossible.
In the span of two minutes, one patient came up and asked for a piece of paper. Everybody ignored her, so she (naturally) started chanting "Paper! Paper! Paper!" until somebody got some for her. Then she asked for a pen (It's like the psych version of "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie). The patients aren't allowed to have pens, I'm assuming so that they can't fashion it into some sort of shiv and injure themselves or others. They are allowed to have little golf pencils, which I can't see are any safer than pens, but, whatever. I'm not going to argue with crazy. So I tell the patient she can't have a pen, just as the new nurse hands her a pen. Of course The patient grabs it and runs off back to her room. That's going to end well, but not my problem, cause I'm just the student! Whee!
Then another patient tells me that the patient phone says it needs to be recharged but she needs to make a call rightthisveryminute but she can't make a phone call because it might die in the middle of her conversation and that would be the end of the world but it is of the upmost of importance that she make her call so what am I going to do about? Oh and also, she needs to talk to the doctor right now because she has this handy list of everything she's every felt after taking each dose of each medication she's currently taking and she wants to go over that with the doctor right now, but no one will get the doctor for her and she's upset that the doctor won't let her out because she's not crazy and she feels very unsafe with all the crazy people in here, and she REALLY NEEDS TO MAKE A PHONE CALL BUT THE PHONE MIGHT DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!
I suggested that she practice my new favorite stress relieving technique of deep breathing. She handed me the phone and told me that she'd be just right over there, waiting for the phone, and practicing her breathing. And then she sat down two feet away from me and proceeded to stare intently at the phone.
Then her friend rolls up in his wheelchair, using his legs to maneuver it (the same legs that last week he refused to move, instead using his hands to pull himself around on the floor) and he tries to tell me he wants to use the phone, except he doesn't really speak, at least not coherently. So manic girl from last minute interrupts and tells me what he wants because, naturally, she can understand him perfectly (I'm betting on psychotic telepathy). Guess what? He wants to use the broken phone too. Oh, and he doesn't know the number of the person he's trying to call.
Why me?
Then I went to exercise group where we did some aerobics that were guaranteed to get the blood pumping. I'm pretty sure my heart rate never got about 75, but it was possibly the most fun I've had on this rotation yet. I was raising the roof to Frank Sinatra, good times. Or at least good times, until the leg lifts portion of the workout, which is when the crazy penises started coming out. This old guy in a wheel chair with only an untied hospital gown on was sitting right across from me. Let's just say that I have seen more than my fare share of naked people on this rotation and it has left me to wonder why it is that we can involuntarily commit someone (meaning they are here against their will) to the psych ward but we cannot involuntarily put underwear on them?
For some reason all the normal nurses on the floor were out today, or they all took lunch at the same time (jerks), which left me with two new nurses that had no idea what was going on. And my two new medical students (both of whom had those big anime eyes by the time the day was over). And some resident on ambulatory that was being forced to spend the morning on the psych ward. She wouldn't take off her white coat (no one wears white coats in psych, the better to not freak out the patients. Also, no one wears stethoscopes, the better to not get strangled with.) and she wouldn't do anything but refill her coffee cup.
I was trying to hide behind a bunch of charts and stay out of everyone's line of sight, but the nurses station is a square in the middle of the unit, with glass walls all around it. Basically, it's like a big fish tank. Or, probably more accurately, like one of those cages people lock themselves in to look at shark. So hiding is impossible.
In the span of two minutes, one patient came up and asked for a piece of paper. Everybody ignored her, so she (naturally) started chanting "Paper! Paper! Paper!" until somebody got some for her. Then she asked for a pen (It's like the psych version of "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie). The patients aren't allowed to have pens, I'm assuming so that they can't fashion it into some sort of shiv and injure themselves or others. They are allowed to have little golf pencils, which I can't see are any safer than pens, but, whatever. I'm not going to argue with crazy. So I tell the patient she can't have a pen, just as the new nurse hands her a pen. Of course The patient grabs it and runs off back to her room. That's going to end well, but not my problem, cause I'm just the student! Whee!
Then another patient tells me that the patient phone says it needs to be recharged but she needs to make a call rightthisveryminute but she can't make a phone call because it might die in the middle of her conversation and that would be the end of the world but it is of the upmost of importance that she make her call so what am I going to do about? Oh and also, she needs to talk to the doctor right now because she has this handy list of everything she's every felt after taking each dose of each medication she's currently taking and she wants to go over that with the doctor right now, but no one will get the doctor for her and she's upset that the doctor won't let her out because she's not crazy and she feels very unsafe with all the crazy people in here, and she REALLY NEEDS TO MAKE A PHONE CALL BUT THE PHONE MIGHT DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!
I suggested that she practice my new favorite stress relieving technique of deep breathing. She handed me the phone and told me that she'd be just right over there, waiting for the phone, and practicing her breathing. And then she sat down two feet away from me and proceeded to stare intently at the phone.
Then her friend rolls up in his wheelchair, using his legs to maneuver it (the same legs that last week he refused to move, instead using his hands to pull himself around on the floor) and he tries to tell me he wants to use the phone, except he doesn't really speak, at least not coherently. So manic girl from last minute interrupts and tells me what he wants because, naturally, she can understand him perfectly (I'm betting on psychotic telepathy). Guess what? He wants to use the broken phone too. Oh, and he doesn't know the number of the person he's trying to call.
Why me?
Then I went to exercise group where we did some aerobics that were guaranteed to get the blood pumping. I'm pretty sure my heart rate never got about 75, but it was possibly the most fun I've had on this rotation yet. I was raising the roof to Frank Sinatra, good times. Or at least good times, until the leg lifts portion of the workout, which is when the crazy penises started coming out. This old guy in a wheel chair with only an untied hospital gown on was sitting right across from me. Let's just say that I have seen more than my fare share of naked people on this rotation and it has left me to wonder why it is that we can involuntarily commit someone (meaning they are here against their will) to the psych ward but we cannot involuntarily put underwear on them?
A Whole Bucket O' Crazy
I've been on psychiatry for the last two weeks. And the best thing that I can say about this rotation is that there are only 7 days 17 hours and 13 minutes left until it's over.
I thought I was going to like this rotation, I even thought at one point that I might want to be a psychiatrist. Especially one that studied serial killers, which just goes to show that there's something wrong with my brain. Or that I'd watched too much Criminal Minds. The jury is still out. But it didn't really take more than about 20 minutes at the inpatient psych ward for me to realize that if I wanted to retain the little sanity that I still possessed, I needed to get out of there.
I've been struggling with anxiety for a long time, anxiety that has been getting progressively worse for the past year. Anxiety that, at times, makes me feel like I'm going crazy, that my body is going to explode any minute into a million little pieces. Anxiety that makes me check the locks on my car door 3 times before I can walk away, that convinces me that the whole world is going wrong and it's just better to stay inside my house, in my bed, where it's safe. Anxiety is a bitch.
Suffice it to say, on my own, on a typical day, I feel like I have a precarious hold on my own sanity. And then I had to get locked in a mental hospital with 25 psychotic people. I need to take some mental health leave from my mental health rotation. Oh the irony.
About three seconds after I'd walked onto the ward, on my first day, I was greeted by Jose, the longest standing resident, a chronic schizophrenic, whose baseline involves a lot of imaginary friends and a compulsion to converse with them in unrecognizable Spanish. Jose, recognizing that I was fresh meat, beelined over to me and said hello by dancing for me (with his untied hospital gown fluttering in the wind) and then rubbing my bare arms muttering "soft." Awesome.
Funnily enough, he's been my favorite patient so far. He just left a couple of days ago, and I was sad to see him go. He'd follow me around and sing me new songs each day while he slow danced with no one. We'd talk, too. If you can call him mumbling something in "Spanish" (which the translator said doesn't even amount to real words) and then me talking back in English (mostly requesting new songs). And then he'd wink at me and walk away.
The real problem with the psych ward is, surprisingly enough, not the patients. It's the staff, or maybe the system, I don't know. Psych patients are hard to deal with. They have so many weird quirks, they're agitated, they're compulsive, they're brains are just plain not working right, and that makes them hard to deal with. Hard enough for a month that I can't imagine how the staff deals with them day in, day out for years.
The staff doesn't really seem to like the patients, and one of the doctors doesn't even look at her patients when they come to her office to be evaluated. The patients are often combative (you'd be too if someone locked you up in a creepy building where everything smells like week-old cafeteria food and your roommate talks to the walls). For whatever reason, the staff argues with the patients! One day the doctor spent 5 minutes arguing with a schizophrenic that "God helps those who help themselves" is actually in the Bible. The patient was right (It's not) and the doctor was wrong, but he just couldn't let it go. And all I could think was, why are we arguing with crazy? Doesn't that make us crazy too?
So I just sit in these meetings where everyone is talking at once and no one is listening (my mother calls this "Too many chiefs and not enough Indians," otherwise known as "Welcome to my extended family.") and there is so much passive-aggression (and sometimes just plain old aggression) and paranoia ("How come you're lookin' at me? Make her stop strarin' at me.) that it takes everything within me not to have a heart attack.
I don't do uncontrolled chaos well, and these meetings are like a field day for my anxiety. It's like my anxiety has just taken PCP and is now throwing chairs around the room and beating it's chest like Tarzan all while yelling "I'm the King of the World!" at the top of it's lungs (Because obviously that's what happens when someone's on PCP, just go with it). So in order to not have to voluntarily commit myself to the ward along with my patients, I sit in these meetings and do my breathing exercises while thinking about tranquil imagery like unicorns prancing in a meadow of wildflowers underneath a rainbow. It works surprisingly well, but then again, so does making finger guns and pointing them at my forehead when no one is looking.
Needless to say, I like to minimize my time there whenever possible. I show up late and leave early and talk to the least amount of patients possible. This might make me a bad medical student, but I'd like to think it's making me a better human being because I am not in the staff room rocking myself in the fetal position while mentally calculating how many Xanax is too many Xanax.
7 days 16 hours 34 minutes 17 seconds. Not that I'm counting or anything.
I thought I was going to like this rotation, I even thought at one point that I might want to be a psychiatrist. Especially one that studied serial killers, which just goes to show that there's something wrong with my brain. Or that I'd watched too much Criminal Minds. The jury is still out. But it didn't really take more than about 20 minutes at the inpatient psych ward for me to realize that if I wanted to retain the little sanity that I still possessed, I needed to get out of there.
I've been struggling with anxiety for a long time, anxiety that has been getting progressively worse for the past year. Anxiety that, at times, makes me feel like I'm going crazy, that my body is going to explode any minute into a million little pieces. Anxiety that makes me check the locks on my car door 3 times before I can walk away, that convinces me that the whole world is going wrong and it's just better to stay inside my house, in my bed, where it's safe. Anxiety is a bitch.
Suffice it to say, on my own, on a typical day, I feel like I have a precarious hold on my own sanity. And then I had to get locked in a mental hospital with 25 psychotic people. I need to take some mental health leave from my mental health rotation. Oh the irony.
About three seconds after I'd walked onto the ward, on my first day, I was greeted by Jose, the longest standing resident, a chronic schizophrenic, whose baseline involves a lot of imaginary friends and a compulsion to converse with them in unrecognizable Spanish. Jose, recognizing that I was fresh meat, beelined over to me and said hello by dancing for me (with his untied hospital gown fluttering in the wind) and then rubbing my bare arms muttering "soft." Awesome.
Funnily enough, he's been my favorite patient so far. He just left a couple of days ago, and I was sad to see him go. He'd follow me around and sing me new songs each day while he slow danced with no one. We'd talk, too. If you can call him mumbling something in "Spanish" (which the translator said doesn't even amount to real words) and then me talking back in English (mostly requesting new songs). And then he'd wink at me and walk away.
The real problem with the psych ward is, surprisingly enough, not the patients. It's the staff, or maybe the system, I don't know. Psych patients are hard to deal with. They have so many weird quirks, they're agitated, they're compulsive, they're brains are just plain not working right, and that makes them hard to deal with. Hard enough for a month that I can't imagine how the staff deals with them day in, day out for years.
The staff doesn't really seem to like the patients, and one of the doctors doesn't even look at her patients when they come to her office to be evaluated. The patients are often combative (you'd be too if someone locked you up in a creepy building where everything smells like week-old cafeteria food and your roommate talks to the walls). For whatever reason, the staff argues with the patients! One day the doctor spent 5 minutes arguing with a schizophrenic that "God helps those who help themselves" is actually in the Bible. The patient was right (It's not) and the doctor was wrong, but he just couldn't let it go. And all I could think was, why are we arguing with crazy? Doesn't that make us crazy too?
So I just sit in these meetings where everyone is talking at once and no one is listening (my mother calls this "Too many chiefs and not enough Indians," otherwise known as "Welcome to my extended family.") and there is so much passive-aggression (and sometimes just plain old aggression) and paranoia ("How come you're lookin' at me? Make her stop strarin' at me.) that it takes everything within me not to have a heart attack.
I don't do uncontrolled chaos well, and these meetings are like a field day for my anxiety. It's like my anxiety has just taken PCP and is now throwing chairs around the room and beating it's chest like Tarzan all while yelling "I'm the King of the World!" at the top of it's lungs (Because obviously that's what happens when someone's on PCP, just go with it). So in order to not have to voluntarily commit myself to the ward along with my patients, I sit in these meetings and do my breathing exercises while thinking about tranquil imagery like unicorns prancing in a meadow of wildflowers underneath a rainbow. It works surprisingly well, but then again, so does making finger guns and pointing them at my forehead when no one is looking.
Needless to say, I like to minimize my time there whenever possible. I show up late and leave early and talk to the least amount of patients possible. This might make me a bad medical student, but I'd like to think it's making me a better human being because I am not in the staff room rocking myself in the fetal position while mentally calculating how many Xanax is too many Xanax.
7 days 16 hours 34 minutes 17 seconds. Not that I'm counting or anything.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
OB/GYN
I'm currently on my OB/Gyn rotation. I don't want to say this too loudly, but I actually really like this rotation. I've always said that there was no way in hell that I'd do OB. For some demented reason, we used to watch A Baby Story on TLC during lunch in college. I'm not sure why we did that because I was always about 4 seconds away from losing my Baja Bingham quesadilla.
I very much prefer the OB part to the Gyn part because babies are much cuter than vaginas, even when they're all covered in ick and are screaming bloody murder. So who knows, maybe I'll end up as an OB and I'll finally get an excuse to use my Gone With the Wind material (I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies!)
C-sections are crazy. They make this 6 inch incision on your abdomen and cut through all the tissue until they hit the uterus. They rupture the membranes carefully with the scalpel and this big gush of blood and amniotic fluid comes gushing out in a mini tidal wave. Meanwhile the assisting physician keeps one eye on the tummy and the other on my skin color to see if I'm going to pass out or throw up while reminding me that if I feel sick to please puke away from the sterile field. I'm too preoccupied with figuring out how they're going to get that 8 pound baby out of that tiny hole to feel sick. A little foot pops out of the incision, because this is a breech delievery. The obstetritian grabs hold, fishes around for the other foot inside, grabs it too and then just begins to yank. Hard. All I can think is thank goodness that mom and dad are safely behind the blue curtain because this guy is going to rip this brand new baby's head off trying to get it out of it's little cocoon and why did you not just make a longer incision? I'd rather have a bigger scar than a baby missing a limb or two. Jeeze.
Vaginal deliveries are better, as long as mom got an epidural, otherwise the screaming is not okay.
Blowing the lid off the vagina.
Vaginas are weird. I'm just saying. I would consider being an OB/GYN if it weren't for the gyn part. The OB part is great because at least at the end of all the blood, guts, and a million pelvic exams, you get a cool prize. My attending doesn't see a lot of OB patients anymore, which is a pity, because I love those visits. They're my favorite ones because if its early enough in the pregnancy I don't have to stick my fingers in a stranger's hoo-ha and poke around and we all come out winners. Instead, I get to feel a pregnant belly for a baby head and then I get to use the fetal heart monitor to hunt around for the heart beat and we all stand around for a minute listening to the pitter-patter of a healthy baby heart and everyone is happy.
In gyn appointments I listen to 80 year old women ramble about how they're sure that cyst "down there" is actually a tick that's been causing her foot cramps. And I have to hear the word "discharge" which is something I never want to talk about. And if I have to hear the phrase "You're due for your yearly mammo" one more time, I might have to scream. Mammo sounds like some sort of maternal summo wrestler or a hippo or something. Although, these patients are more likely to bring me cookies for some reason, and I like cookies. So I can't completely look a gift horse in the mouth, or a gift hippo, as the case may be.
Why NJ is weird:
1. You are not legally allowed to pump your own gas.
2. People like to key your car when it has out-of-state license plates because they're dicks.
3. The mall has a kiosk that sells fruits and vegetables.
4. An inordinate number of people wear fanny packs, and they're not tourists.
5. I just saw someone in the mall bathroom wearing stir-up pants. Dear God, the Eighties, they are back.
1. You are not legally allowed to pump your own gas.
2. People like to key your car when it has out-of-state license plates because they're dicks.
3. The mall has a kiosk that sells fruits and vegetables.
4. An inordinate number of people wear fanny packs, and they're not tourists.
5. I just saw someone in the mall bathroom wearing stir-up pants. Dear God, the Eighties, they are back.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Pediatrics
Here was my day yesterday:
1: Dad comes in at 5:40 pm for his 5:15 emergency add-on visit with his son:
"Your son has asthma. He's going to need to start using this albuterol pump to get his asthma under control."
"Albuterol? Are you sure? My wife isn't going to like this. She's not really okay with our kids taking medication."
WTF?! "Yes I'm sure, he's wheezing in every lobe of his lungs, everytime he coughs he can't catch his breath and his oxygen saturation is low. He's not getting enough oxygen into his lungs."
"And that's serious?"
"Yes, not being able to breathe is serious."
"Well, I guess we can we'll try that medication. At least for a little bit."
2. Mom and 1 year-old baby are here for a well-baby visit. Mom pulls out a sheet of questions. Oh goodie.
"Is it okay for my baby to play with toys?
"Is it okay that he poops four times a day?"
"He gets three meals a day. Am I feeding him too much?"
"He's starting to walk. Should I be letting him do that?"
3. Mom to her 4 year-old girl here for booster vaccines:
Mom "You're going to get lots of shots today! Are you scared? You should be scared. It's going to hurt. A lot."
Kid: ear-piercing screams
4. Mom to 6 year-old who won't stop playing with the scale out in the hallway:
"If you don't start behaving right now, I swear I will leave you here with the doctor. How would you like that?"
Me (internally): I'm guessing your kid wouldn't mind that as much as you might think...
Is pediatrics over yet? The kids are cute, but the parents are going to be the death of me.
1: Dad comes in at 5:40 pm for his 5:15 emergency add-on visit with his son:
"Your son has asthma. He's going to need to start using this albuterol pump to get his asthma under control."
"Albuterol? Are you sure? My wife isn't going to like this. She's not really okay with our kids taking medication."
WTF?! "Yes I'm sure, he's wheezing in every lobe of his lungs, everytime he coughs he can't catch his breath and his oxygen saturation is low. He's not getting enough oxygen into his lungs."
"And that's serious?"
"Yes, not being able to breathe is serious."
"Well, I guess we can we'll try that medication. At least for a little bit."
2. Mom and 1 year-old baby are here for a well-baby visit. Mom pulls out a sheet of questions. Oh goodie.
"Is it okay for my baby to play with toys?
"Is it okay that he poops four times a day?"
"He gets three meals a day. Am I feeding him too much?"
"He's starting to walk. Should I be letting him do that?"
3. Mom to her 4 year-old girl here for booster vaccines:
Mom "You're going to get lots of shots today! Are you scared? You should be scared. It's going to hurt. A lot."
Kid: ear-piercing screams
4. Mom to 6 year-old who won't stop playing with the scale out in the hallway:
"If you don't start behaving right now, I swear I will leave you here with the doctor. How would you like that?"
Me (internally): I'm guessing your kid wouldn't mind that as much as you might think...
Is pediatrics over yet? The kids are cute, but the parents are going to be the death of me.
Monday, September 12, 2011
It's September 12th and everything is back to normal around here. Everyone seems to have recovered from the whole "Let's love everyone extra" of yesterday, which is kind of a relief because all the niceness was starting to freak me out. People in the grocery store kept striking up conversations with me. They even voluntarily moved their carts out of the middle of the aisle so I could get through , which might seem like common courtesy in any other part of the country, but here is like an act of God if you don't have to resort to pushing their cart with yours first. It was all very Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
Don't get me wrong, I think that sentiment is great, but it seems a little phoney when it only applies to one day of the year (man, this makes me sound like the hippy I desperately wanted to be in high school).
I knew everything was back to the status quo today when a transit bus decided to cut me off in rush hour traffic because he couldn't be bothered to check his mirrors before all 20 feet of him changed lanes. I was so happy that everyone was back to being rude again that I forgot to honk.
The empty lot next to my house has this stray cat and I want to adopt it. I keep asking if he wants to come home with me, but I think he's shy. He'd really come in handy this winter because my landlord has started bringing up the M-word and I don't really want to have to move out because Mickey's little cousins are coming to visit.
What I really want is one of those hairless cats that look like Voldemort. It sounds like the perfect pet because A: it's a cat, which means that it has no use for you as long as you make the food appear on a regular basis (ie, perfect for a med student) and B: because it's hypoallergenic and C: they just look hilarious. I did a little research on hairless cats last month during my radiology rotation because, let's be honest, what else was there to do. Sadly, hairless cats are the insecure sorority girls of the cat world. In other words, high maintenance. Because they have no hair, you have to bathe and moisturize them with special hairless cat soap multiple times a week. If I wanted to put in that much effort, I'd get a kid. The death of a dream...
Don't get me wrong, I think that sentiment is great, but it seems a little phoney when it only applies to one day of the year (man, this makes me sound like the hippy I desperately wanted to be in high school).
I knew everything was back to the status quo today when a transit bus decided to cut me off in rush hour traffic because he couldn't be bothered to check his mirrors before all 20 feet of him changed lanes. I was so happy that everyone was back to being rude again that I forgot to honk.
The empty lot next to my house has this stray cat and I want to adopt it. I keep asking if he wants to come home with me, but I think he's shy. He'd really come in handy this winter because my landlord has started bringing up the M-word and I don't really want to have to move out because Mickey's little cousins are coming to visit.
What I really want is one of those hairless cats that look like Voldemort. It sounds like the perfect pet because A: it's a cat, which means that it has no use for you as long as you make the food appear on a regular basis (ie, perfect for a med student) and B: because it's hypoallergenic and C: they just look hilarious. I did a little research on hairless cats last month during my radiology rotation because, let's be honest, what else was there to do. Sadly, hairless cats are the insecure sorority girls of the cat world. In other words, high maintenance. Because they have no hair, you have to bathe and moisturize them with special hairless cat soap multiple times a week. If I wanted to put in that much effort, I'd get a kid. The death of a dream...
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| See you in your nightmares... |
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9/11
I haven’t been here long, but New York City, I think, is one of those places that you either love or hate, and it doesn’t take too long to decide your position. There’s something undeniably special about the city that is hard to put into words. Despite the insane housing prices, the eye-watering smell on garbage day, never ending traffic, and the evil known as toll roads, there’s just something about this place that makes me want to stay here forever. It’s sad to know that I never got a chance to meet this city before it lost its innocence.
9/11 is different here, more real, less theoretical. For everyone here, whether you were here 10 years ago or not.
It's a different kind of loss, and a different kind of mourning, to live here now. To know that as I drive across the Pulaski Skyway, headed home from the hospital, with Manhattan's skyline in front of me, that I've never known that view the way it was meant to be. With the Twin Towers, the tallest in the bunch, watching over their shorter companions.
I wasn't planning on going down to Ground Zero today, given the possible terrorist threat, but this year might be the only chance I have to be there for an anniversary and it just felt wrong to sit at home and read about it on CNN when I'm a 20 minute bus ride away.
So I went. I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting. More crying and less Asian tourists flashing the peace sign to their cameras, I guess.
In high school, I went to the Oklahoma City Bombing memorial six or seven years after the bombing occurred. Even though I wasn't there on the anniversary of the event, the sense of loss was still palpable.
But Ground Zero felt a little more like Times Square than a memorial. Leave it to America to turn the most devastating tragedy in its history, at least of this century, into a tourist trap. There were people everywhere selling red ribbons, and programs, a small American flags. The obligatory nut-jobs were there waving their end-of-the-world signs in the air and yelling about evils of a capitalist economy. And there were thousands of people posing for pictures in front of the new WTC building in between talking about where they're going for dinner and asking that fireman passing by if he'll pose with them.
And all I could think was, ''Ten years ago, thousands of people died here. Just a few hours ago, their families came and read their names aloud in remembrance and cried over their names etched into the new memorial. And across there street, behind the mesh fence, there is still a gaping hole in the Earth. How can you even smile, much less laugh here, today?"
I didn't stay very long at Ground Zero. I walked downtown toward the end of the island where Battery Park sits. Flags of Heroes, American Flags with the names of everyone who gave their lives on 9/11 making up the Stars and Stripes, were erected all over the park's grounds, one for each person who died. 3000 flags.
As I walked back to the WTC subway stop, I passed this Irish pub that, ten years ago, would have sat in the shadow of the Towers. Outside there were FDNY firemen (and women), all in uniform, milling around. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a class reunion, and it was obvious that for many of them, this is the only day of the year they get to see one another. The older generation of firemen, the ones who were most likely there that day were shepherding little clusters of younger guys who probably in middle school a decade ago. There was more celebration among the FDNY than there was a block away among the tourists. And here, unlike with the tourists, the mood felt right. Here, you get the sense that the right to smile and laugh has been hard won. Because life goes on. Even if a small part of all of us has been left ten years in the past.
Walking past that pub was the most fitting book end to whole the day. It just felt right that a day that started in tears for what our country has lost, that was followed by unease of walking around Manhattan and seeing policemen carrying automatic weapons, ended with a display of human resiliency and hope.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
I'd like to take back everything I said about Hurricane Irene being a dud. Turns out, while Jersey City was spared, a lot of inland areas of New Jersey are underwater. Of course, these places happen to be right next to where my new pediatrics rotation is. The part of the highway I have to take to get to the suburbs flooded and collapsed. Who knew that could happen?
On a normal day, it takes nearly forever (or 45 minutes) to get out there. Yesterday it took me an hour and half to get there and two hours to get home! Because that major highway is closed for the foreseeable future, all the other highways are overloaded. On my drive home, I ended up taking 6 different highways to get home because everytime Judy the GPS found me a new route home, the road would be closed. She finally diverted me onto a toll road that only had two ticket lanes going. Guess who had to sit in line for 30 minutes because her EZ Pass is still sitting on her desk?
I took the wrong route home yesterday, which I realized about 4 seconds after I got on the highway onramp and it was too late to turn around. I kept telling myself that the other route must be equally bad because the thought that I more than doubled my commute was going to make my head explode. Sure enough, I took the other highway today. 40 minutes. Needless to say, Hurricane Irene is officially dead to me.
Also, I'd like to break up with Pediatrics. I like kids and all, but mostly when they're happy and cute. They're so much less cute when they scream. And yesterday, they all screamed. All. Day. Long.
Kill me.
I think my problem is that I like control and calm. Pediatrics is uncontrolled chaos. There's just way too much yelling and crying and crazy moms threatening to leave their crying kids with the doctor if they don't behave. Don't even joke about that. I will walk out of here and never come back if you leave that screaming kid alone with me.
My attending's practice attracts a lot of autistic kids, whom I normally love because they're quirky and socially awkward and way too smart for their own good. Autism plus doctor's office equals full-on Linda Blair nightmare because on the whole, autistic kids don't like to be touched and here's this stranger sticking point objects into their ears and nose. Oh the torture. For everyone involved.
It's just a matter of time before I come down with some sort of fluminant upper respiratory Strep-fluenza-croup infection because kids are big walking fomites.
The bright side is sometimes I get to hold babies, and discuss favorite Michael Jackson songs with 8 year-olds, and watch my attending give the sex talk to embarrassed 16 year-olds. Oh, and I have a 5 day weekend.
On a normal day, it takes nearly forever (or 45 minutes) to get out there. Yesterday it took me an hour and half to get there and two hours to get home! Because that major highway is closed for the foreseeable future, all the other highways are overloaded. On my drive home, I ended up taking 6 different highways to get home because everytime Judy the GPS found me a new route home, the road would be closed. She finally diverted me onto a toll road that only had two ticket lanes going. Guess who had to sit in line for 30 minutes because her EZ Pass is still sitting on her desk?
I took the wrong route home yesterday, which I realized about 4 seconds after I got on the highway onramp and it was too late to turn around. I kept telling myself that the other route must be equally bad because the thought that I more than doubled my commute was going to make my head explode. Sure enough, I took the other highway today. 40 minutes. Needless to say, Hurricane Irene is officially dead to me.
Also, I'd like to break up with Pediatrics. I like kids and all, but mostly when they're happy and cute. They're so much less cute when they scream. And yesterday, they all screamed. All. Day. Long.
Kill me.
I think my problem is that I like control and calm. Pediatrics is uncontrolled chaos. There's just way too much yelling and crying and crazy moms threatening to leave their crying kids with the doctor if they don't behave. Don't even joke about that. I will walk out of here and never come back if you leave that screaming kid alone with me.
My attending's practice attracts a lot of autistic kids, whom I normally love because they're quirky and socially awkward and way too smart for their own good. Autism plus doctor's office equals full-on Linda Blair nightmare because on the whole, autistic kids don't like to be touched and here's this stranger sticking point objects into their ears and nose. Oh the torture. For everyone involved.
It's just a matter of time before I come down with some sort of fluminant upper respiratory Strep-fluenza-croup infection because kids are big walking fomites.
The bright side is sometimes I get to hold babies, and discuss favorite Michael Jackson songs with 8 year-olds, and watch my attending give the sex talk to embarrassed 16 year-olds. Oh, and I have a 5 day weekend.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Jersey City vs. Hurricane Irene
That was the most disappointing hurricane ever! Now I'm pissed that I subjected myself to torture at the hands of Walmart on Friday. All for nothing.
It rained off and on pretty much all of Saturday. I spent the day over at a friend's house watching movies and killing time until the hurricane started. We decided to venture out for dinner because nothing was happening, so we ate at this Irish pub that was having hurricane drink specials. I've come to the conclusion that we should have fake hurricanes all the time because no one was out on the roads, we found street parking on the weekend (a certifiable miracle), and they suspended all the parking laws until Monday so you could park basically anywhere.
The storm started in earnest around 11 pm and by that time it was pouring and the wind was picking up. My cousin called me in a panic, wanting to know if I was prepared. He's lived through two hurricanes in Florida, and he was, needless to say, unimpressed when I told him that not only was I not boarding up the windows and filling the bathtub with ice water, but I wasn't even at home. He kind of freaked me out a little with all his disaster talk, so my friend filled the bathtub with water (not because we were going to need it, but to shut me up). Needless to say, we never lost power. The Dish even worked through most of the hurricane, which has to be some act of God because I had one of those my senior year in college and we lost all reception anytime the sky even thought about sending rain.
The storm was over by 10 this morning and I ventured home. I was expecting to see at least some damage from the storm, a few tree limbs down, anything to prove that we'd been through a hurricane.
I'm seriously disappointed that Hurricane Irene did not bring her A game, because how can I say I survived a hurricane when I've been through worse thunderstorms in the middle of the country? And now I have no choice but to go to work on Monday. Thanks a lot, Irene.
It rained off and on pretty much all of Saturday. I spent the day over at a friend's house watching movies and killing time until the hurricane started. We decided to venture out for dinner because nothing was happening, so we ate at this Irish pub that was having hurricane drink specials. I've come to the conclusion that we should have fake hurricanes all the time because no one was out on the roads, we found street parking on the weekend (a certifiable miracle), and they suspended all the parking laws until Monday so you could park basically anywhere.
The storm started in earnest around 11 pm and by that time it was pouring and the wind was picking up. My cousin called me in a panic, wanting to know if I was prepared. He's lived through two hurricanes in Florida, and he was, needless to say, unimpressed when I told him that not only was I not boarding up the windows and filling the bathtub with ice water, but I wasn't even at home. He kind of freaked me out a little with all his disaster talk, so my friend filled the bathtub with water (not because we were going to need it, but to shut me up). Needless to say, we never lost power. The Dish even worked through most of the hurricane, which has to be some act of God because I had one of those my senior year in college and we lost all reception anytime the sky even thought about sending rain.
The storm was over by 10 this morning and I ventured home. I was expecting to see at least some damage from the storm, a few tree limbs down, anything to prove that we'd been through a hurricane.
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| Leaves |
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| Lame |
Saturday, August 27, 2011
I miss predictable Midwestern weather patterns. Not to say that tornados are predictable, because they're not, which is what can make them so devastating, but at least I was comfortable with Missouri's weather. I know what to do when the tornado sirens go off (if you're a true Missourian, that means going outside to look at the sky before maybe going down to the basement). This whole Hurricane Irene deal is not okay.
My anxiety manifests itself in a excessive preoccupation with natural disasters (and also the ability to convince myself that I have all sorts of rare medical conditions), mainly because my brain is hard-wired to go directly to the worst-cast scenario for everything. So weather phenomena are like a field day for my nerves.
When I was little, I used to be deathly afraid of tsunamis whenever it would rain. Yes, I lived in Missouri, possibly the most land-locked state in the US. Completely logical, I know. So whenever it rained my dad would make me go get the mail from the mailbox at the end of the driveway. I'm going to pretend that he was doing it for my own good, helping me get over my completely irrational fear, but I'm pretty sure it was mostly just entertaining to watch me work up the nerve to leave the porch and then race down the driveway and back before the 20 foot tidal waves got me. Thanks, Dad.
I've spent most of the day checking the Weather Channel's website for updates on the impending doom. New Jersey is officially in a state of emergency. They're preparing to evacuate prisons. When they start evacuating the criminals, that's when you know it's serious. The problem with all of this is I don't know what to do in event of a hurricane. The Weather Channel is offering helpful advice like:
Please begin to think about and act on your hurricane preparations. Now is the time.
Thanks for that. Real helpful, there.
I went to the store Friday after work to buy supplies because I figured bottled water and a flashlight might save me the Hurricane. So I went to Walmart...and now I'm going to need therapy. There were so many people there that the police were directing traffic in and out of its parking lot. Although they really should have been inside because there were so many people you could hardly move. I figured that most people would be there buying the basics like canned food, water, bread, etc, but the people of Northern Jersey seem to be approaching a possible future without electricity and running water like it's a 4th of July BBQ. Every cart seems to be full of chips and cookies and hamburgers, sandwich meat, cheese...most of which require the electricity to still work in order for it to stay edible. Or maybe it's just they haven't worked out this whole electricity concept yet.
I passed more than one person who decided that the threat of extensive flooding made this weekend the perfect time to buy that new flat screen, HD tv they'd been eyeing.
I went straight back to the bottled water section, hoping that there'd be some left.
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| Not so much |
The storm isn't supposed to hit until late Saturday night, so last night I went out with a bunch of other med students to celebrate the end of our rotations.
I got an email from our program director about the Hurricane yesterday, telling us to "use your best judgement" on whether to go to work on Monday. I start my Pediatrics rotation, where apparently the attending doesn't actually let you talk to the mini-humans. What do you think the chances are that I can use my "best judgement" to claim emotional distress from the Hurricane and not go in?
Friday, August 12, 2011
Today was my last day on Radiology. I had my attending fill out my evaluation yesterday because I never know when he's actually going to be around. He wished me luck on my next rotation and told me to keep in touch (which is funny since I can guarantee that he has no idea what my name is). I told him that I still had one day left on the rotation and that I'd be in the next day. The radiologists were all shocked that I was going to actually come back. Apparently, once their evaluations are signed, students rarely return.
He should not have told me that because the temptation was almost too great. Especially early this morning, when I'd hit the snooze button three times too many. I decided to go in anyway, at least until noon (yeah, grueling, I know) and then I'd go home and take the exam that I didn't study for and call it a day.
Of course, all of the interesting patients waited until my last day to show up. The minute I walked in the door until the moment I left hours later, we went from one procedure after another and I didn't have to identify a single anatomic structure on a CT. We spent the last three hours of my work day in the CT room watching my attending basically invent a procedure on a patient that desperately needed a catheter placed but had no accessible peripheral veins. He was all pumped about this, but the other radiologist looked slightly less enthusiastic about it. So did the patient for that matter.
At least for me, radiology is almost always as dull as dishwater. I spent the last two weeks sitting in a dark room looking at abdominal CTs and chest x-rays, being lulled to sleep by radiologists quietly repeating the date 15 times into their handheld dictaphones. Today it was as if the circus had come to town. Half of the surgery department, all of the radiology department, an anesthesia resident, the CT techs, my resident and I are all crammed into this space smaller than my freshman dorm room, all of us peering at a computer monitor to watch the progress of a 12 cm needle as it got closer and closer to its intended target.
The radiology tech, this high strung older man who looks like he belongs at the North Pole helping Santa make toys for good little boys and girls, is running around about to blow a fuse because every attending in the room is trying to tell him what to do. The patient is screaming everytime the radiologist tries to draw on his skin with a marker. The department director is hovering around making sure all the T's are crossed and I's are dotted so the department doesn't get sued when the procedure doesn't work.
And my resident and I just keep saying to each other "Why hasn't every day been like this?"
He should not have told me that because the temptation was almost too great. Especially early this morning, when I'd hit the snooze button three times too many. I decided to go in anyway, at least until noon (yeah, grueling, I know) and then I'd go home and take the exam that I didn't study for and call it a day.
Of course, all of the interesting patients waited until my last day to show up. The minute I walked in the door until the moment I left hours later, we went from one procedure after another and I didn't have to identify a single anatomic structure on a CT. We spent the last three hours of my work day in the CT room watching my attending basically invent a procedure on a patient that desperately needed a catheter placed but had no accessible peripheral veins. He was all pumped about this, but the other radiologist looked slightly less enthusiastic about it. So did the patient for that matter.
At least for me, radiology is almost always as dull as dishwater. I spent the last two weeks sitting in a dark room looking at abdominal CTs and chest x-rays, being lulled to sleep by radiologists quietly repeating the date 15 times into their handheld dictaphones. Today it was as if the circus had come to town. Half of the surgery department, all of the radiology department, an anesthesia resident, the CT techs, my resident and I are all crammed into this space smaller than my freshman dorm room, all of us peering at a computer monitor to watch the progress of a 12 cm needle as it got closer and closer to its intended target.
The radiology tech, this high strung older man who looks like he belongs at the North Pole helping Santa make toys for good little boys and girls, is running around about to blow a fuse because every attending in the room is trying to tell him what to do. The patient is screaming everytime the radiologist tries to draw on his skin with a marker. The department director is hovering around making sure all the T's are crossed and I's are dotted so the department doesn't get sued when the procedure doesn't work.
And my resident and I just keep saying to each other "Why hasn't every day been like this?"
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The leg bone is connected to the foot bone...
I'm currently on my two week radiology rotation. The first day I stayed until lunch and then went home. Obviously I am such a gunner. I would put in more effort, except my attending thinks medical student equates more with secretary than, you know, student.
The other day I was observing him put in a fluoroscopy- guided PICC line (a central catheter designed for long-term medication administration) on a patient. This involves having everyone in the room wearing the lead shield aprons. So he's got this 50 lb apron on with a sterile gown over it. His phone rings and it's still clipped to his belt. Instead of just letting it go to voicemail, he asks me to get it. So I have to go digging around under all this stuff without breaking sterile and grab his phone from his pants. I can't decide who was sexually harassed in this situation, me or him?
Then I have to answer the phone like I'm his secretary. But here's the problem: the person on the other end has an accent and he's talking a mile a minute and I can't understand a single word he's saying. He wants to talk to my attending but I'm scared to interrupt him because he is currently trying to float a catheter up a vein in the patient's arm and into the superior vena cava, which I'm guessing takes some amount of concentration. I eventually just gave up trying to figure out what the caller wanted and told him my attending would call back when he was done.
Later that day we're doing the same procedure on another patient. As soon as my attending was sterile, his phone rings. I made the other med student get it.
The other day I was observing him put in a fluoroscopy- guided PICC line (a central catheter designed for long-term medication administration) on a patient. This involves having everyone in the room wearing the lead shield aprons. So he's got this 50 lb apron on with a sterile gown over it. His phone rings and it's still clipped to his belt. Instead of just letting it go to voicemail, he asks me to get it. So I have to go digging around under all this stuff without breaking sterile and grab his phone from his pants. I can't decide who was sexually harassed in this situation, me or him?
Then I have to answer the phone like I'm his secretary. But here's the problem: the person on the other end has an accent and he's talking a mile a minute and I can't understand a single word he's saying. He wants to talk to my attending but I'm scared to interrupt him because he is currently trying to float a catheter up a vein in the patient's arm and into the superior vena cava, which I'm guessing takes some amount of concentration. I eventually just gave up trying to figure out what the caller wanted and told him my attending would call back when he was done.
Later that day we're doing the same procedure on another patient. As soon as my attending was sterile, his phone rings. I made the other med student get it.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Google
I've just discovered this Stats application on Blogger. Who knew that it kept a record of all the Google searches that have lead people to my blog. The best one?
"Who let me into medical school?"
I don't know, but I think the same thing at least once a day.
"Who let me into medical school?"
I don't know, but I think the same thing at least once a day.
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