Vultures

Trust me. There's a reason why they put the word gross in gross anatomy.

We started lab this week.

I know it's a rite of passage. Every med student goes through it. And dissecting a cadaver? Means you get to be part of that cool club with the cool handshake with the other cool people whom you can talk to about all that cool anatomy stuff.

And I was excited. Excited to see everything I've been learning from books and lectures. Excited to be part of this "med school experience." Excited to learn from doing. But I was also so apprehensive. Seriously. Cutting someone open? Especially someone who's dead? It's not natural. And it's not like chopping up chicken for stew. This is a person! Someone just like you and me. I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that I would be cutting through someone. Cutting through skin. Fat. Muscle. Bone. I couldn't get over the fact that it felt like a total invasion of personal space. Personal privacy. Yes, I know that they donated their body to science. But when they made that decision, did they realize that first year students would be doing the dissecting? In other words, complete idiots to the whole dissection process. Cause honestly? Most of us know nothing about dissecting a cadaver. We don't know how thick the skin is. We barely know where and what muscles should be where and what. When we're dissecting, our hands are everywhere - prying, pulling, pushing.

Now mind you, I'm completely grateful to these people. This is an experience that no one outside of the medical field has ever had. Will ever have. And oh man, learning by doing makes so much more sense than reading pages and pages of anatomy books and then trying to correlate that to illustrated drawings.

But the first day, I was scared. When I walked into lab on Monday, all decked out in my anatomy gown and purple gloves, I was shaking. Not visibly. Heck, no. I have far too much pride to let my classmates know how freaked out I was. And that false swagger got me through a lot. It got me through the smell which hits you the moment you walk into lab. And, to be perfectly honest, I don't think I'll ever get used to it. The smell follows me around. No matter how much I wash my hand, I swear I can still smell it on my fingers. It's on my salt and vinegar chips. It's on my clothes. It's in my books. I can't escape it.

Yet somehow, I managed to get to my group without hurling up the breakfast I had forced myself to eat that morning. And bright, fake smile in place, I met "George." Luckily, the anatomy staff had placed big black trash bags over his arms, his legs, his face. Also, he's a pretty big guy which kind of distorts the body. All of which made it much easier to pretend that there wasn't a person lying in front of us. That it was just another science experiment to get through.

Two of my group members made the first cut.

I couldn't do it. And I don't really know quite what I was expecting. Stuff to ooze out, I guess. He didn't "wake up" on the table when we made that first cut, like he did in my nightmares. Nothing happened actually. We folded back the skin, and proceeded to start taking the fat off so that we could see the muscles underneath better.

Now, because George is a big guy, we all had to help out. And pretty soon, I was de-fatting like nobody's business. I was so concentrated on my little section, that I completely forgot exactly what I was doing. Focused on the details, I could forget all about the big picture, which I was more than happy to do. We were at it for a good two hours. And then, finally, we started to see the muscles. The pectoralis major. The pectoralis minor. The deltoid. Every now and then someone would find something huge. A nerve we were supposed to locate. The vein without an artery. Each time we would get very excited. "Look what I found!" "Whoaaaaaaa..." "SO cool!" We were like little kids. "Look here!! Look here!!!"

And then, all of a sudden, I started to feel very weak. Maybe it was from standing for the past two hours, but I felt my knees starting to buckle. So I grabbed the lab stool and tried to keep going. But then my head started spinning, and I noticed I was breaking out in a cold sweat. I tried to reason with myself in my head. Michelle. Don't freak out. You're doing great. Look at how much you've done already! Heck, you found the cephalic vein! There was no use. I couldn't get the room to stop spinning. I was starting to black out.

Muttering an excuse to my group, I rushed out of lab. But I could barely see where I was going. I was just fumbling to get through any door. I ended up in the supplies room. I didn't care how we were told not to touch anything in the anatomy lab. I plopped down on the floor and put my head in between my knees. After ten minutes, I tried to get back up, but the moment I stood up, the dizziness started all over again.

I couldn't finish anatomy lab that day. And after freaking out for twenty or so minutes that I wouldn't be able to get through med school, I went home and ate some chocolate. Talk about a cure-all.

I got through anatomy lab just fine on Wednesday. True, I'm still prying and pulling and pushing and I still have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, but I guess that's what the actual rite of passage is. Figuring it out. Working it out.

Out of reach

I know I ended my last post resolving to move on. The exact words being move forward, if I recall/read correctly.

I lied.

I miss him.

I want so much to call him up and tell him that. Cause I do. I miss him a lot. Even though we did the long-distance thing, and he technically wasn't ever physically there for me, I knew that I needed anything, he was just one phone call away. He was emotionally there for me. And so, I miss him.

But I know I can't. Call it pride. Call it smart. Call it whatever you want. I can't make that phone call. Cause somewhere, deep down, I know that he let go of this relationship a long time ago. He's already well into the healing stage, whereas I am still barely treading water. I just got over the shock of it all a day ago. See, the silver lining in long-distance relationships? Once you break up, there's no chance of an awkward run-in. No worrying about seeing them in the corridors at school. No hiding about in the supermarket. No avoiding eye contact. No hedge diving. Actually, the long-distance breakup has ideal conditions, if you think about it. Everyone around you probably knows you better, and so, is automatically, "on your side," even if there are no sides to speak of. There are no "spies" to go back and report to him how horribly you're doing.

So I've been taking full advantage of this "ideal" breakup situation. Not showering. Vegetating in front of the television with lots and lots of junk food. I definitely feel no need to cook for myself, so I've been subsisting on whatever's edible in our fridge. Kraft single slices of cheese. Spoonfuls of peanut butter - straight from the jar. Gummy bears meant as part of a birthday package. Yogurt (that turned out to be past its expiration date). Pickles.

I knew there was absolutely no chance that I would see him, so I'd go check my mail in the lobby occasionally - pajamas and unkempt hair be damned. I knew I wouldn't run into him on my way to class, so I would throw on the stained sweatshirt that I left on the floor a week ago, and walk out the door. I had absolutely zero energy to devote to looking nice, or even presentable, really.

It was pathetic, really. And my apartment was turning into an absolute pig sty.

Last night, my friends were fabulous. They made me finally get out of the house, and took me to the Joffrey - where the dress code dictates that you a) must have taken a shower prior to the performance, and b) look relatively nice.

The ballet was gorgeous. Amazing. Wonderful. But what's even better is that my friends and I then just hung out at one of our apartments afterwards - taking silly pictures and basically just enjoying ourselves. It was so therapeutic. They got my thoughts off of Tim. Which is a lot harder of a task than you might think - since I was supposed to go visit him this weekend.

So once I got home, I resolved to put my life back in order. Folded my laundry that I had been sleeping on for the past day and a half. Did the dishes that had started to overflow in the sink. Finally stepped back into my room and got rid of that last bit of Tim - unpacked that suitcase that I, last Monday, thought was bound for Kansas City. And with the unpacking, threw away any last bits of denial that my relationship was really over. Okay, in the spirit of being honest, I tried to get rid of that denial. A big part of me is still clinging to the hope that he'll call and tell me he misses me. As much as I miss him.

I really do. Everything I see or hear makes me want to call him. Tell him things. Or I'll think things and relate them back to us. I see people flirting with each other, and it's super cute. We used to be super cute. I just found out that one of my friends is dating a girl who lives in Japan. Has been dating her. For over a year now. If he can make it work, why couldn't we? Or maybe more importantly, why didn't he want to make it work??

I know I'm just hurting myself by thinking these things. But I can't help it.

I miss him. Terribly.

And I was a fool for thinking I could move past it so quickly. I need this time to "get over him," to fall out of love with him. I was so hopeful - wanting to be able to be that bigger person and forgive and forget quickly. But, I know me, and so I should have known better. It's gonna take me a while. And I'll probably hurt for a while. And I need to be okay with that. After all, time heals everything, right?

She will be loved

Today was hard to get through.

I woke up hoping everything would turn out to be just a bad dream.

It wasn't. And so...today was hard.

It was hard smiling at others and responding in the affirmative to casual how are you questions. It was hard going about my normal routine, realizing that it wasn't actually very normal. It was hard leaving class, and looking at my phone, and stopping myself before I did something I'd regret later.

And if I'm completely honest with you, I'd tell you that I haven't even ventured into my room yet cause I know there's just too much to handle in there. It would be just a little too hard.

Tim and I broke up last night.

That line took me ten minutes to type out. But there. I said it. It's officially real.

The room finally burned up.

I wanted this to be an angry post. Angry at the world. Angry at the situation. Angry at him. Angry at all men. It's my pity party, and hell, if you're gonna crash it, you're gonna listen to me rant.

But I can't. When all is said and done, even though I have a million questions, and I think we could have lasted for another year or so, he's right. Long distance is hard. Maybe we could have talked more. Maybe we could have arranged to see each other more often. Maybe if we had met two years earlier. Maybe if we had a stronger foundation to go on. Maybe if we hadn't started out long distance. But those are all maybe's, baby. No use dwelling on the what if's, the what might have been's.

Speaking of dwelling, or rather refusing to allow myself to do so, I finally officially de-relationshipped myself from facebook, and untagged all of our couple-y pictures. I wanted him to do it. Part of me, pathetic as it might sound, hoped that he'd do it and realize what a huge mistake he had made. But I did it. Threw away the roses he sent me for my birthday. Got rid of the screensavers. Locked away the postcards and the little trinkets from his trips around the nation. Took control. Took charge.

That doesn't mean it was easy. Not in the least. Pushing that "cancel relationship" button, throwing away those gorgeous pink flowers...made it all so very real.

One of the big reasons why it's so hard to face the reality of it all, is because it was so unexpected. I think it's safe to say that I was completely blindsided, and am still reeling a little bit. Shell-shocked. A week ago, he bought me a ticket to Kansas City. Four days ago, I told my parents about him. He had his crazy I-don't-know-what-I-want-to-do-with-my-life quarter-life crisis two days ago, and yesterday afternoon I found something that would fit his wants and needs perfectly, and set up the necessary connections. I thought we worked. That we were a good fit for each other.

While he was busy detaching, I was trying to keep us together.

It seems so silly that I would be so wrapped up in a three-month relationship. But I fell. I fell hard. How did so much change in him in just one week?

I went to the dentist today. And it felt so strange not talking to him on my way there, knowing that he would have assuaged all of my fears of dental drills. I walked home from clinic, not knowing who to call about my apprehension over the new unit. He thinks he was a bad boyfriend because he never really had time for me. I mean, can you really sustain a relationship on brief five-minute snatches of conversations? Regardless of what he thinks he was or wasn't, he was someone that I depended on. And all of our little interactions added up to a whole heck of a lot that I really missed today.

I wish I knew what he was thinking. What he is thinking. What he's feeling.

But I know the only way I'm going to get out of this only half-burned, is to be strong, and move forward.

---
And you ask me what I want this year, and I try to make this kind and clear - just a chance that maybe we'll find better days. 'Cause I don't need boxes wrapped in strings, and desire and love and empty things - just a chance that maybe we'll find better days. So take these words and sing out loud 'cause everyone is forgiven now - cause tonight's the night the world begins again. - Better Days, Goo Goo Dolls

Growing up is hard to do

I've been punctuating all of my posts with "I'm a med student." I think it's partly because I can't believe I'm actually finally here. I took so many detours along the way. Majored in something non-medicine-related, just to see if medicine was really what I wanted. Rebelled against my parents "I want all three of my daughters to be doctors" wishes/orders. Dabbled in journalism. Tried to be a ballerina. But now I'm here. Because this is where I want to be. And I'm glad for the journey I took to get here, no matter how cliched that is, because now I know that this is what I want.

But that's only part of it. A huge part of me can't believe I'm a med student because that means I have to start growing up. I'm going to take care of people? I can't even take care of myself. I have to talk to patients and assuage their fears? Hello, I'm the geeky, awkward kid with braces who sits in the back eating paste. I'm supposed to convey some kind of wisdom when I have absolutely no common sense? Really?

Med student. It's a huge title. It means responsibility and diligence and thinking of the future.

But I've been avoiding all of that. I want to stay my naive silly self. Be a die-hard romantic. I refuse to turn into this jaded, cynical, skeptical person.

Everyone has to grow up at some point though.

This past Friday I officially turned another year older. It was like any other day, except for one thing. One huge thing. I had my first big unit test. Biochem. Cell bio. Genetics. The foundations of medicine, the professors tell us, trying to convince us that yes, we'll need to know the TCA cycle in it's entirety so we can explain it to our patients - whom I'm sure will be far more worried about whether or not his succinate dehydrogenase is working rather than whether or not we can fix him.

That test, while not quite as hard as I thought it could be, was hard. It was hard because I hadn't had to memorize and then synthesize so much information in such a short time period. Honestly? They took my entire bio major and condensed two years into four weeks. It was hard because I got my grades back within four hours. And they weren't anywhere near spectacular. It was hard because I realized that, even though this is something I want to do, I need to work for it.

My first major medical school test. And my birthday. All in one day. If that's not telling me something, I don't know what is.

It's telling me that I need to buckle down and start studying and start being a med student. This is what I'm going to be doing for the rest of my life. It's my responsibility, not only to myself, but to my future patients, to know this. No one wants a dreamer for a doctor. We all want responsible, intelligent physicians. So. No more time for silly pipe dreams. No more pretending that the far-off future isn't going to turn into the present in less than four years. It's about time that I start facing what's real and seeing what I make of it, as it makes something out of me.