Highway to hell

Surgery is not going well.

No, it's not going well at all.

We had a midterm on Friday that's worth 15% of our grade. And I've been stressing out about it, because instead of studying during my outpatient month, I went out to dinners and dates nights with Martin. So I ended up with only 2 weeks to cram as much general surgery knowledge into my overworked, sleep-deprived brain. I come home at 7pm (at the earliest!), eat my 3 meals of the day in one giant sitting, then try to study for an hour or so, before my body gives up and I pass out. In a chair, at my desk, in bed - it doesn't matter. The moment the clock strikes nine, my body poops out and refuses to function.

And I can't drink coffee to keep me going, because I haven't had coffee for the past two months, out of fear that my caffeine-aided anxiety will cause my hands to shake uncontrollably during crucial parts of retracting or suturing.

So yes. The studying, and subsequently the midterm, did not go so well.

But if it were just the studying and the tests that weren't going well, it'd be okay. After all, that's what happened with ob/gyn, and I still loved it.

No, it's the studying, and the tests, and the not having a good relationship with my attending.

Now, I originally thought my general surgery rotation was going to be awesome. My attendings for my first week were these old men, who just like to joke around in the OR with the nurses, but were are also awesome teachers, because they know I'm there for a reason - and want to reward me for my impeccable retracting job.

But then my real attending came back from vacation. It's a female surgeon. And when I first met her, I thought I had hit the jackpot. She was nice, relatively young, and really knew her stuff. I was upfront about my lack of endocrine knowledge, and she reassured me, saying that I'd be able to recite all of it by the end of the month. She promised I would know it inside-out, upside-down, topsy-turvy, and right ways up. It seemed like it was going to be a great learning experience.

I was so wrong.

This week has been absolute torture.

She's reprimanded me for wearing clothes that are too low-cut. Now, if you know me and the dresses that I wear, I think you'd agree that I'm dressed pretty professionally. Everything is at least knee-length, and they're professional work dresses from professional work clothing stores like Banana Republic or J. Crew or Ann Taylor. I'm not wearing slutty Forever 21 miniskirts, mind you. But one day, she asked me if I had a cover-up for my dress. I was already wearing an undershirt because my dress is a v-cut. But she wanted to know if I had a cardigan, to essentially cover up my neck. And she tsk, tsk'd when I said that I only had my white coat.

Then, another day, she told me to stop saying "um" and "like" telling me that it was completely unprofessional. Now, I'm sorry, but I can't help but say "um" during my oral presentations, so I eventually said it again (probably while I was searching for lab values). And once I said it, she cut off the rest of my presentation, saying I could try again with the next patient.

The day after that, she had an add-on surgery that I didn't know about, and thus, wasn't able to prepare for it. And even though I was able to guess 50% of the anatomy questions that she asked me, once we got down into the nitty gritty, I was at a loss. So no, I couldn't answer "what vein is this? Which lymph node is this? What is this structure?" because I honestly had no clue.

She then put down her scalpel and retractor (bad sign!) and looked at me, her headlight blinding me, saying "Michelle - I expect you to act as a mini-attending. Now, if I were doing your parathyroidectomy, wouldn't you want me to know the anatomy?" I was silent, eyes averted, letting the shame wash over me. But it wasn't a rhetorical question. "Answer me! Wouldn't you?" "Yes," I replied, quickly, quietly. "Scrub out. You're done. Go learn the anatomy." Near tears, I asked if I should return with the answers. She sighed, disappointed with me, "No, you're done. Don't let this happen again. Next time, I won't even let you into the OR."

I thought I had grown a thicker skin with each passing week of third year, but I'm still a sensitive crybaby. So I left and went to the library, where I proceeded to learn everything I possibly could about the neck through my blurry tear-filled vision.

And now, I dread waking up in the morning. Every time I see my attending, I have a mini panic attack. Thank goodness for scrubs, because I sweat like a pig under her rapid-fire questioning brigade. I'm exhausted and burnt out and I'm not sure I'm going to survive this surgery hell.

Six more weeks. I just gotta get through another six weeks.