Burnout

We are NOT alone. We are not alone in medical school, that is. Even though it devastatingly feels that way sometimes.

I was going to write up a post somewhat related to this, but hey, the New York Times is a million times better than an incoherent sleep-deprived student.

It's an interesting read. Medical Student Burnout and the Challenge to Patient Care.

Miss Independent (part II)

A sequel to the 5 Friends campaign:



All the famous kids are doing it. You should too. Get out there and vote.

Highlights:
"I can do anything - I was in a boy band." - Justin Timberlake
"I'm going to vote because I fell in love...and I want it to matter." - Neil Patrick Harris

Speaking of which - to the kids in California - vote NO on prop 8. Seriously. That thing's messed up. Because sure, in real life, love itself may be difficult and messy at times, but the bottom line is simple. At the end of the day, you want to be able to love whomever you want, and marry the one you love. God knows love is hard enough without having to get politics involved. And really, why is politics even butting in? It's like the awkward third wheel on a date. Totally unwanted and just completely ruins the mood.

So vote no. I promise you - actually, I guarantee - the sanctity of marriage will not be destroyed. So just say no.

I'll get off my soapbox now. But whatever you believe, get out there and vote. It does matter. You matter.

Dream on

I had the strangest dream last night.

I was in my house (or at least what I thought was my house) in California. And my two sisters were there, along with the family dog. My parents had seemingly been replaced by Sam Neill and Laura Dern (or maybe I should say, Dr. Alan Grant and Dr. Ellie Sattler since they were in full costume). And we were trapped in the house with a giant purple and green scary-looking dinosaur. (I know I said purple and green, but you should think this, and not this.) Anyways, I was essentially in Jurassic Park.

Now, Jurassic Park is scary, okay?

I was trapped in a house with this blood-thirsty dinosaur. And all we had were tranquilizer guns. And we shot the thing a million times before it finally keeled over. Still alive, but down. Funny thing is, while everyone else stayed and watched the dinosaur sleep (or whatever it is that it was doing), I ran through the house trying to find a way out. But eventually, I knew that inevitably the dinosaur would wake up, and for some odd reason, I went back to the room where everyone else was. And we waited for the inevitable. Because the only way to get out of that situation was to attack.

I woke up in a pile of sweat.

And I realized - I think I might be getting a little worried about this unit. I am after all, a week behind. And this one week's worth of material seems disproportionate to all the other weeks' material. I am behind by nineteen lectures, eight case studies, and a million and one powerpoint slides. Adding to my stress is the fact that today is the last day of hematology. Tomorrow we start oncology. One week of material was an entire subunit! Seems impossible, but true.

So I should probably stop puttering around, and attack that clotting cascade monster that is waiting for me. It's inevitable, and there's no other way out.

(UPDATE: It is also possible that the boyfriend's snoring reminds me of dinosaurs' roars in my unconscious state, and that's what set off the whole dreaming of Jurassic Park thing, but we'll give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.)

Cup of life

On my six-month anniversary date for the boy, I took him to go paint some mugs, for various reasons:

1. He desperately needs something other than glass beer steins and dainty teacups to drink strong coffee from. Coffee that makes you grow hair on your chest. Coffee that shocks you awake. Coffee that deserves a proper coffee mug.
2. He's very artistic - a fantastic cartoonist - and too much of our time has been spent indoors studying.
3. Because I wanted to.

So I present to you our mugs - preglazed and pre-baked. I'll be able to pick up our final project next week...but for now, here are the Before pictures.

Here's my cup. (Yes, I got some help from Martin, because clearly, I cannot draw stick figures to save my life.)

And here is the Boy's. (I guess his mug is very, um, erm...creative?)

More pictures from the rest of the day to come!

Say my name

At the beginning of the year, I really wanted to make friends with my new classmates. I was not going to be a wallflower. I was going to go out there, introduce myself, and say hello. Sure, there were college meetings and afternoon classes and morning classes, and eventually I got to know maybe ten people pretty well that I could have a five-minute conversation without turning into someone with Asperger's Disorder, but that was only ten people. All my new friends. Ten. I could count them all on my fingers! No toes required!

So I went to a post-test party. Mind you, I am so not the partying type. But I went anyways. And bought a coke - but told everyone it was a rum and coke, because you know if you're not drinking an alcoholic drink at a post-test party, you're technically not 'drinking' drinking - just so I could be cool and hang out with the in crowd.

Yes, I'm twenty-four years old, but that peer pressure's still so strong, I can make a diamond in a cave.

Anyways, I put myself out there and Made An Effort. I made jokes, moaned about questions on the test, shook my fist at that one guy who scored a 98%, and introduced myself. And this is how it went:

Hey - I'm sorry, I don't think I know your name...I'm Michelle.
Hey Michelle. I'm Matt. And you do know me.
What?
You know me. You were in charge of my patient perspectives group.
Really?
Yeah. But forget about it.
No, really! What semester were you?
2nd...so yeah, we didn't see each other that much. But - not to call you out or anything- but there were only eight of us.
...oooooh. Oh crap. I DO remember you!

So yeah. I'm a little gun shy now with the whole introduction thing. In my defense, I was barely around, and all of 2nd semester was kind of a blur. I don't remember much of it. Or really, any of it.

But anyways, the point of all this is to tell you that I'm realizing that I'm still The New Kid. We're now a week into our third unit, and I'm still that weird girl who sits in the back of the classroom. I'm the strange face in the crowd of familiars. I'm the quiet wallflower that fades into the background. And I feel that it's too late in the game for me to be introducing myself now. That window of opportunity has passed. The train has left the station. You get what I mean.

I will acknowledge that it is my fault. I got gun-shy. So what's a girl to do?

Well, this girl is looking up all the kids in my class on Facebook, and memorizing names and faces. I might be a stalker, but hey, at least it works.

Pumpkin eater

And just for equal measure, here's a pumpkin carved hot dog! Or, as the creator named it, "The Halloweiner!" Hee. Some people are so clever.

...

Yes. I'm a little obsessed with pumpkins. Especially at this time of year.

Sway (part II)

Heart! What is wrong with you?! I thought we've been over this already. You are fine. You do not have mitral valve prolapse. In fact, the echo came back PERFECT. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You are fine.

...

So why am I blacking out for no reason during PEX? Again?

I feel like an idiot. An idiot student who can't stay on her feet during a freaking routine physical exam. What must the patient think?

Misery business

This past unit has been a doozy. It's been four weeks of memorization hell. Drugs, neoplasias, immunopathology, genetic disorders, connective tissue disorders, drug metabolism, drug excretion, drug absorption, and so on and so forth. There have been so many equations and trivia flung in my direction, it's no wonder that my brain feels like it's been beaten senseless.

Three hours ago, I was high on adrenaline, high on anxiety, high on sleep deprivation. Every single muscle, and seemingly every single fiber of my being, was tense and on alert.

They don't call it the fight or flight response for no reason.

Three hours ago, I was taking one of my dreaded unit tests, and oh, I was fighting hard.

Fighting to remember which chromosomal abnormality caused that specific genetic mutation, which antibody was present in that version of lupus, and what lesions were present in the kidney.

And it was hard. I mean, there was math and long division, and units that didn't match up correctly. There was lots and lots of conjuring up images of notes, trying to remember which drug did what, and what drug caused this or that, and which drugs worked with that other drug.

And now, three hours later, it is over. Gloriously and wonderfully over.

I couldn't sleep last night, because my mind was racing with everything I had memorized. And now, I wouldn't be able to tell you how to calculate a dosing rate or a half-life, even if I wanted to. Those equations are out of my head. Those facts that I've painstakingly assembled over the past four weeks, have flown out the window and are gone forever (or at least until I memorize them again).

But it's over. I might not have done all that well, but at least it's over. And I'm now lying in bed, completely and absolutely relaxed. Without a care in the world. Watching ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. This is the life.

The sad thing is, in less than an hour, I have to get back up and start that whole school routine all over again.

Yes. Because in less than an hour, I'll have to be in my seat for afternoon class so that I can learn how to perform a thyroid exam correctly. How to assess for all those thyroid diseases that we were tested on this morning. Hashimoto and Graves' and all that wonderful stuff.

And then tomorrow, we'll start a brand new unit and the memorizing will begin yet again. Yay endocrinology and hematology/oncology.

I guess I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Funny face

Oh the election campaigns are finally making me laugh. And it's not because of some crazily ridiculous thing that Sarah Palin said, or the outrageous claims that are coming out of both camps. Seriously, watch the videos below for some good old-fashioned smiles and giggles. Obama and McCain address all those negative comments and ads they've been throwing at each other, and it's pretty freaking hilarious. Who knew Obama and McCain would be so willing to poke fun at themselves?





Those speech-writers, or whomever wrote those jokes for them, definitely deserve a raise. Or a tax break. Whatever their respective campaign platform calls for. From Obama's "I love the Waldorf-Astoria - I hear from the doorstep, you can see all the way to the Russian Tea Room!" to McCain's "Oprah Winfrey calls him The One, but as a friend and colleague, I just refer to him as That One" both of the politicians were personable and funny, and it was just really great to see.

Silver lining (part II)

I got a package yesterday.

Wrapped in bright blue tissue paper and a giant bow, it was my belated birthday present to myself. It was my coat that I had drooled over and spent endless time debating whether or not to get, before I did eventually give in and plunk down my hard-earned government-loaned money.

And there it was! With the big brown buttons! And the cute collar plus bow!

Except it wasn't.

The middle button was the only one with an amber jewel. And while it looked charming on the original design, in person it looked like the other buttons' "amber accents" had fallen off and been misplaced with these huge brown things that didn't really match. And there was no structure. The heavy wool winter jacket I'd been expecting was actually more like a lightweight fall cover-up.

But though my excitement was dampened, I still had hope that it would be totally cute. So I tried it on.

Now, I've never worn a burlap sack before, but I imagine this must be what it looks like.

The jacket made me gain twenty pounds, in all the wrong places. The arms were too short and I looked as though I were pregnant or smuggling watermelons. Smuggling something. I have no idea what the material is made out of - supposedly "wool" - but it made me itch as though I had a bad case of lice (which, I haven't ever had, but again, I imagine that is how it must feel like).

Needless to say, I'm going to have to return it.

But hey! They sent me a free gift with purchase! Something that was "mind in china." Awesome.

(Seriously, I swear that's what it says at the bottom. I'm even posting a picture to prove it.)

Oh the best part? I went back to the website to see how to return my coat, and then I found out that they had restocked...and the coat is now available in my size. So now I have to decide if I want to return it or merely exchange it. My head is about to explode with all the back and forth. Cute bow and buttons! No, it looks like a burlap sack! But maybe it only looks like a burlap sack because it's in the wrong size! Exchange it! Return it! And so on.

Again, I should really be studying. Or sleeping.

Joke's on you (part II)

See, this is the proper way to make an AIDS-related joke.

Beauty in walking away

I was studying at Argo today. This was my study buddy.

Look at how huge it is! Needless to say, I had to high-tail it out of there, even though I was in the groove and getting lots of productive studying done. Because I hate spiders. Detest them. Abhor them. Rather they be dead.

Especially gigantic, as big as your palm, spiders.

Yuck yuck yuck. So gross.

Joke's on you

Are you kidding me?

Nigerians are finding a new way to glamorize HIV. Oh, not the AIDS-causing HIV. HIV - the acronym that says: “H is for happiness and joy forever with an I: Incomparable love that will never V: Vanish until death do us part. I love you.”

Apparently, it was in a book targeted at text-sending fiends in Nigeria. A book so popular that several people are getting texts saying, “I swear, I will make sure I give you HIV."

I don't know about you, but forget acronyms or so-called new ways to say I love you. I'd much rather just hear those three little words - no matter how simple or cliched they might be. I don't want you to say that you want to give me HIV. No matter what you mean for those letters to stand for, HIV equals AIDS in my book and I don't approve of people trying to change that meaning. Especially given in a country where HIV/AIDS is so very prevalent, and its hard enough to just properly educate people about it. Sure, the author claims he's helping tongue-tied lovers find new expressive ways to declare their romantic intentions, but he's also obscuring what HIV really is.

Did you know that in South Africa - the rural parts at the very least - HIV+ men believe that if they have sex with a virgin, they'll be cured? You won't believe how many young girls I saw at the hospitals, who were tricked into thinking that they were doing a good deed, and raped. By their uncle. Or their "respected" neighbor. I saw girls as young as four come in to the hospital due to internal bleeding. It was absolutely disgusting. The worst part is, because it is so rampant, the social workers can't do anything.

And now, you're telling me that there's a book out there. A book telling Nigerians that HIV doesn't stand for a terrible and deadly infection. No, it says that HIV is just another way to say "I love you."

HIV is not a joke, and it's upsetting that this man is making a profit by telling impressionable young adults that threatening to give someone HIV is just a fantastic way to tell someone you love them.

That's the real joke.

Honestly, if you want a novel way to tell people you love them, go back to the old pager code of 1-4-3. Make what's old, new again. But don't equate HIV with love.

You are my sunshine

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.

Actually, I woke up to the stench of rotting food, and that's never a good thing. I woke up and realized that the pots and pans and all the dishes from the past month hadn't just magically washed themselves during the night. And my kitchen was far from spic and span.

My test is LOOMING on the horizon and I couldn't study, because I had to clean or go crazy just looking at my pigsty of an apartment. So I cleaned and washed and disinfected and silently screamed obscenities inside my head. Freaking dirty cup. Freaking bed that can't just stay made. Freaking missing socks. Freaking pile of laundry - why can't clothes just stay stain-free? Freaking rice that had to be wet and go get smashed into my carpet.

I never said my obscenities made sense.

The Boy came over to find me furiously scrubbing away, muttering like a crazy lady with a dark and stormy raincloud hanging over me, and staged an intervention. Slowly he made me back away from the 409, and leave the paper towels where they were. He sat me down, packed up my things, and we left my apartment. We headed to the corner Starbucks, and I got a Java Chip Frappuccino and we sat outside, studying and basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

And after a couple of minutes in that fabulous fall afternoon, I felt so much much better. I was smiling and singing and humming along (badly) to the coffeehouse's Frank Sinatra soundtrack.

Clearly, I had cabin fever, and I just needed to get OUT. I needed some Vitamin D and I needed to change out the pajamas I'd been wearing for forty-eight hours straight. I needed to change up my surroundings - because after three straight days of staring at the same genetic diseases, I was bound to snap.

I also clearly need a maid.

Hit me baby one more time

Holy cow, it's Britney, bitch! She's BACK!!! And she looks absolutely amazing.

Silver lining

I have buyer's remorse. Or buyer's bargaining. I'm not quite sure what the terminology is.

I do know I should be studying, or making my PBL presentation, or memorizing seemingly endless lists of drugs, but instead I'm shopping online. Shopping! Online! Where I don't even know if things will fit! And if there's one thing I know about my body, it's this: it's weird and not very proportional, and things look funny on it, so I gotta try things on first.

But I'm still shopping. At new websites where I have never bought anything from before. And now, I'm so taken with this coat. And the big over-sized buttons. And the cute collar.

I'm so enamored that even though I know I don't have any money in my bank account and thus, can't buy it - I keep checking my wish-list every two hours to make sure my size doesn't sell out. And then when my size does inevitably sell out, because remember, the coat and its vintage over-sized buttons and cute collar, is ridiculously cute, what do I do? I freak out, and I buy it.

Yes. I bought it. A size too large, but I still bought it. Because it is still cute. The way I see it, now I can wear bulky sweaters underneath it, right?

Oy, I should be studying.

Trainwreck

I will readily admit that during the days leading up to a big unit exam, I tend to dress a little bit more sloppily. I've said it once, and I'll say it again - it is far more important to me to get an extra fifteen minutes of sleep, than it is for me to curl my hair. Granted, that said, I do still brush my hair and take showers and am generally somewhat presentable.

Besides that, there are mirrors in my elevators for me to do a final quick once-over before I step out into the world.

So I'm coming down the elevator, on my way to class, and it stops once at Floor 34. A pretty and stylish young Asian woman gets on. She's wearing stilettos, a nice cashmere wrap, and a pound and a half of foundation on her face, but is otherwise unremarkable. Until she looks me over in the elevator and remarks:

"Well, aren't you just a hundred different fashion tragedies today?"

I think I stuttered or sputtered or said something incoherent, because I was so taken aback and also very instantly self-conscious.

The doors opened up to the lobby, and she flounced out. And I took the time to re-examine myself in the mirror.

Yes, I was wearing white socks with my ballet flats, but I was on my way to the library, and it is essentially the frozen tundra there. True, I wasn't wearing any makeup, the part in my hair was a little haphazard, and I might subscribe to the comfort over beauty way of thinking, but I was certainly not so terrible that Tim Gunn needed to stage an intervention right then and there.

So anyways. The point of all this is that I'm a little speechless that people can be so horrible.

A friend who shall remain unnamed (because he is actually a wonderful person, and people would be quite taken aback to know that he is capable of such vitriol) said that I should have replied, "Well, you're only one tragedy, and that's your mom's and dad's."

Zing!

My favorite things

Truth: I love the Sound of Music. I think I drove my parents insane with all my pretending to twirl around on a mountain (read: stairs; also read: unsafe) as I sang songs about "raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with string..."

Yup, those were my favorite things, along with Disney cartoons and Mr. Rodgers, and pink ponies. But as I've gotten older, I've realized, who needs that when you can have:

Deep dish pizza! (I love love love stuffed spinach. Seriously, it's so delicious, and I like to pretend it's not so bad for you since it's full of vegetables. Okay, kinda not really full of vegetables, but the key word here is pretend.)

Popcorn!

Jelly beans (preferably Jelly Belly since I like to mix them and make up sometimes delicious, sometimes disgusting, combinations).

Ciao Bella Green Tea with White Chocolate Chips (seriously, you have to try it; it is fantastic!)


Board games! Taboo! Jenga! Mafia! Whoonu!


Tiaras and clip-on plastic earrings, birthday ribbons, and pink and white streamers! (It's even better when the decorations probably constitute a fire hazard of some sort.)


Lots of cake! (If you look closely in the second picture, you'll notice that one of the candles fell over from the sheer amazingness that was Neil Biswas' operatic birthday song, but thankfully, nothing caught fire.)

And of course, my most favorite friends. :)

My list of favorite things totally beats Rodgers and Hammerstein's. Eat your heart out, Julie Andrews.

Thanks for a fantastic surprise birthday party that included ALL of my favorites. Twenty-four wouldn't be the same without all of you in it. Thanks for the emails, the e-cards, the voicemails, the texts, the poems, everything. I'm touched that so many of you remembered.


According to the boyfriend, I am now officially old.

...

I prefer to use the word "mature."

**Oh yes, I have a blue Spongebob Squarepants bandaid on my face. I'm just that cool, okay?

Get your head in the game

Apparently I'm not the only one who absolutely loves Mariokart. (I mean, you know it's bad when you dream about avoiding blue shells and giant goombas, and you can hum along better to the Mariokart music than you can to the most recent Britney Spears' single.)


Look at it! It is absolutely amazing!! The details! The mushrooms and bananas! The chained Clompers! Seriously, click on the picture so you can see everything. There's Luigi and Yoshi and Toad freaking out about something. Bowser and Donky Kong were probably too large to fit on the cake...but it doesn't matter! Because they included my favorite Rainbow Road! And the impossible to avoid penguins and snowmen on the snowy mountain tracks!!

Sorry, I'm totally geeking out right now.

But just one last thing? I totally love that Mario is standing on a question box so that he can kiss the princess. Seriously, too cute.

(For more pictures and different angles, visit CakeWrecks to see the original post.)

Learn you inside out

After a whole unit of being blissfully untainted and unaware, today it hit me like a ton of bricks. The poo finally hit the fan. The floor fell out from under me. You get the picture.

By it, I mean stress.

I was sitting there in class listening to my two professors talk and talk and talk about pharmacokinetics and drug dosing and clearance and steady state and infusion loads and half-lives and renal insufficiency and drug dosing in those situations and so on and so forth, and I realized, I was just sitting there. Not taking notes. Not understanding. Just sitting there, letting it all wash over me.

I was in shock. Because I couldn't believe that they were speaking English. For all that I was comprehending, they could have been speaking a different language. It was like being in third period French all over again. But worse, because there was math and calculus derivations thrown in too, and I couldn't fake my way out of this with some poor man's Franglais.

Needless to say, I'm a little stressed.

I actually came home and wanted to cry. Because the task ahead just seems so daunting.

But I'm hopped up on three Sunkists. And it's not even midnight yet. So I have faith that I'll figure it out and somehow start understanding all these equations before morning breaks.

No sleep for the weary. Or the worried, apparently.

Miss Independent

The deadline is mere days away.




I registered. (Twice, actually - but that's another story.) So do it! Do it now!

Or not. After all, "I hear polar bears can swim."