Raise your glass

Celebratory welcome-back-to-LA/post-interview drinks with my boy at Urth --

We both asked for swan designs, but apparently he got the ugly duckling.

The only exception

I don't quite know what to think.

I interviewed at a pretty prestigious program recently, and man, I was super intimidated by all the Ivy Leaguers in attendance. Because let's face it - for all that the Northwestern faculty says about Northwestern's name getting us places, it really doesn't amount to much.

So yes, I'll admit it - I was going in with a major inferiority complex. Then, during one interview with an attending, he basically told me that my scores and resume were crap, and I was not the typical applicant they usually interview. Cue total and complete deflation of ego. However, he continued, my personal statement was so well written, the committee is convinced that I'm going to write a book at some point in my career, and they would like for it to say that I went to Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine, and trained at [insert their program name here]. In fact, the attending basically promised me a book deal if I were to do residency there, even though I'm pretty sure he has no say over in the literary world, no matter how much of a hotshot psychiatrist he is.

So does that mean they want me? Or they don't? Or that it's all contingent on me securing a book deal within the next 3 months?

Hands all over

My neighbor nudged me awake, "Hey, there's something going on up there." I nodded, still half-asleep, my headache still raging, and put my head back down on my tray table. "Hey, hey," he nudged me again, "Shouldn't you go do something?"

He had seen me reading my Step 2 Secrets book prior to takeoff, and so of course had asked me all about medical school, how many months it would be until I would officially get my M.D., and then proceeded to describe his chronic constipation to me in excruciating detail. I finally lied and told him that I had a terrible hangover when really, all I was was tired, just so that he would stop telling me his vomit-inducing stories. And now he was nudging me. Poking me. Loudly ahem-ing at me.

There was a bustle of commotion at the front of the aircraft. And then came the announcement overhead that I was dreading. "If there is a medical doctor on board, please identify yourself and come to the front, thank you."

I stayed in my seat. I wasn't a doctor - I was just a medical student. And god knows what was going on. What if I couldn't do anything? Or worse yet, what if I did something wrong?? I could barely remember my BLS training. Was it 30 compressions and 2 breaths, or was it just continuous compressions now? I wasn't equipped to help out. Or at least, that's the excuse I told myself.

My neighbor stared at me, judgement written across his face. "I'm not a doctor yet!" I protested meekly. "I'll go if there's no real doctor on the plane," I promised. But as the seconds ticked by, it became evident very quickly that there was no real doctor on the plane. My neighbor just continued to look at me every now and then, and although he didn't say anything, I could hear him going tsk tsk in his head. The flight attendants were now fumbling with large headsets, trying to connect to a medical center on the ground. And then, overhead again, another request, "If there are any medical personnel on board, we'd appreciate your help at this time."

I swear my neighbor's head snapped so quickly to look at me again, he must have pulled a muscle. I unbuckled my seat belt and made my way to the front of the aircraft.

There, a woman was protesting that she didn't need anything, that she felt fine, that she didn't need the oxygen mask that an older woman was trying to slap on her face. Another woman was trying to take her blood pressure, but the cuff was inside out. And in the seat next to the patient were stethoscopes, reflex hammers, pen lights, tongue depressors, IV tubing, glucometers, bandaids, and everything else you could possibly imagine. It was as though a doctor's office had regurgitated its entire contents onto the unwanted middle seat. And now this older woman was trying to place AED pads on the patient.

And then, somehow, someway, my training kicked in, and I thanked my physical exam instructors for forcing us to go through the SEGUEway at every patient encounter. I stepped in, quickly got a history from her, as I took over blood pressure duties from the overwhelmed retired nurse who had come forward. She had gone out drinking the night before, had way too many drinks, had thrown up way too many times, and was late for the flight, so she hadn't had anything to eat or drink all morning. No past medical history except for anxiety. And maybe some possible claustrophobia. And so when the plane took off, she got a little anxious, then realized she forgot her Xanax in her carry-on that was now out of reach, and then started freaking out more. And that's when she started hyperventilating, and then passed out for maybe a couple of seconds.

I immediately took off the oxygen mask, and waved off the woman who still wanted to shock the patient, for some reason. "She needs fluids," the retired nurse kept interjecting, her own anxiety projecting onto all the flight attendants. "Let's put an IV in her!!" The flight attendants all nodded, and handed me a 500cc bag of normal saline, along with the IV kit.

I haven't put in an IV since Intro to Clinical Clerkships, which was less than a year and a half ago, but might as well have been a lifetime ago. And although I might try to forget it, I remember that I pretty badly bruised up my IV partner. And I was still trying to figure out the history and the best next course of action. I looked at the patient, worried that she could see the fear in my eyes. "Are you nauseous, or do you think you could drink something?" She nodded at me. And with that nod, the nurse started yelling out commands, "Let's get her some water!" "Actually," I interjected, "Let's get her some orange juice."

She was fine. More mortified than anything. Her blood pressure was low (90/60), she was breathing a little fast, and she was a little tachycardic - although I couldn't be positive that I wasn't just feeling my own pulse. The color was coming back into her face, and like she said, she felt fine.

The head flight attendant looked at me. "Do we need to make an emergency landing?"

"No no," I replied, hoping with all my might that I was making the right call, and that the woman wouldn't pass out again. "She's just a little tachy, but I think --"

"SHE'S TACHY!!!" one of the flight attendant freaked out, before the other flight attendant quickly reassured her, "That just means her heart rate's a little fast." "Oh," said the first flight attendant, now considerably calmer, "I thought that meant she was having a heart attack or something like that."

Things now under control, I went back to my seat, telling them to come get me if anything else happened. Nothing else did, thank the lord. And once we landed, she was whisked away in an ambulance. I grabbed my carry-on, and as I de-planed, one of the flight attendants pressed a few coupons into my hands - and now I can pay for a round of alcoholic beverages for everyone on my next flight!

Only girl (in the world)

No way! his fiancée laughed, shocked by his complete lack of relevant pop culture. He blushed, embarrassed by his obvious obliviousness, but still genially helping me tell the story.

Six or so years ago, he was part of the Welcoming Committee for his Yale college. Everyone was interacting and talking and eating munchies, but there was a girl sitting off to the corner. People would periodically look over nonchalantly (or so they thought), but no one was really talking to her. So Jason, being a good committee welcomer and not knowing what was going on, went over, sat down and struck up a conversation.

JASON

Hey - I'm Jason, what's your name?

GIRL

Oh it's Sarah.

JASON

Awesome name! How're you liking Yale so far?

GIRL HENCEFORTH TO BE CALLED SARAH

Oh it's good. My roommate seems pretty nice.

JASON

Oh good good! ...Um, so what do you like to do for fun?

SARAH

Oh I ice skate.

JASON

Very cool! There's an ice rink near me - Escondido...I don't skate, but I've driven by it a couple of times.

SARAH

Oh yeah, I've skated there a few times.

JASON

Nice. What else do you do?

SARAH

Um....I play violin.

And with that, Jason was off, talking about everything and anything from the Suzuki Method to orchestra opportunities at Yale to favorite composers and songs. She nodded and mmhmm'd along, glad to be talking to someone. They chatted for a little bit longer, and then Jason noticed something from the buffet was low, and excused himself to go replenish the spread.

And that's when his friends came over to congratulate him on his cojones.

You see, Jason had been talking to THE Sarah Hughes - just a year out from winning the 2002 Olympic Gold Medal.

We laughed as we finished telling the story, probably a little louder than we intended, drunk on friendship and white wine.

Well, his fiancée laughed, wiping tears from her eyes, I guess I should be proud that you didn't mention Michelle Kwan when you were talking to her about ice skating. Could you imagine? 'Oh you ice skate? Don't you love Michelle Kwan? - so sad that girl has never won gold!'

No hands

"Michelle?"

I looked up and smiled brightly, "That's me!"

I had done my stalking the night before, so I recognized him from the program's website. I was apparently meeting with the residency director first. "Dr. Waggert - so nice to meet you!" I stuck out my hand, pleased that I was able to show him that I had done my research, that I knew who he was.

He stared at my hand, mumbling and stumbling over his words. "I- I uh, no - I um, no - uh, I uh, I-don't-shake-hands. Mmhmm, no hand shaking. No no." He shook his head at my outstretched arm, as I hastily processed what he was saying to me and withdrew the offending hand away.

I followed him into his office, still completely taken aback by that exchange.

But it only got worse. Much worse. He asked me ridiculous questions - about policies the nation should enact to protect the environment, to decrease our dependence on fossil fuels. And then he started asking me about Northwestern's psychiatry program. How many attendings we had. What type of research they were doing. What papers had been recently published by Northwestern faculty.

And the whole time, he was sitting there, blatantly reading my application for the very first time.

Then when it came time to dismiss me, he didn't shake my hand, but instead said, "Well, we were very impressed by your application, and we hope you will consider our program. Nice meeting you again, Melissa."

I smiled politely. "It was a pleasure meeting you too sir, and just so you know, my name is actually Michelle."

What's my name

I think a residency program just broke HIPAA by telling us that there's someone quite famous in their world-renowned addiction program right now. Especially when all their clues rather ostentatiously and obviously point to a Disney child star.

I did love that my fellow applicants immediately thought Lindsay Lohan. (Which is wrong, just in case you were wondering.)

Maybe I do want to come here after all!

Lose my head

I haven't been blogging too much substance lately, and for that I apologize.

I could give you a million excuses - SICU's draining (emotionally and physically), studying's mindless, interviews, interview jitters, interview stress, not getting interviews stress - but at the end of the day, I know that my posts have been bitter and few.

Big shout out to the boyfriend for being so understanding, so good at the whole listening bit while I cry and rage against all my perceived injustices, all while he's on a notably difficult month of cardiothoracic surgery.

Big shout out to my family for keeping me fed. Thank you to my momma for making sure my fridge is always stocked with something homemade (and therefore delicious). No thank you to my momma for keeping me so well fed that I'm no longer able to zip up my suit skirt all the way. Thank goodness for longer suit jackets that cover up less forgiving figures.

Post on the way about my most recent interview - let's just say that it was a foray into awkward and then even more awkward. And then I'm off to Boston and Phoenix, before bringing it all on home to my glorious southern California.

See you on the flip side.

Forget you

You know, I probably would have thought this was so romantic circa 2006, but today, when I was reading it on PostSecret, all I could think was that this card is selfish.

What if the girl has moved on with her life and is done with you, wants nothing more to do with you? And now you're just gonna show up on her door and be like, marry me? The fact that he doesn't know if he's too late, means that he hasn't talked to her, doesn't know what's going on with her life. And he wants to marry her? No, he wants to marry some ideal that he's created in his head. Ugh, and that whole "I'm ready" makes it seem like he's the one holding all the cards, and now that he's ready, she'll just jump into his arms.

I hope she turns him down. Girl power!

I guess I've become very jaded when it comes to romance. And that makes me feel old.

Start me up

Pansy.

I hate that term.

It irritates me to no end when guys use that term to describe other guys. And of note, it's only ever guys who do this. No girl ever calls another girl a pansy. And no girl ever calls another guy a pansy. Nope, it's just the boys insulting each other.

"Oh look at that guy carrying that girl's books."

"Oh man, what a pansy."

"Ha ha ha!"

And then they do that annoying thing where they walk by the aforementioned boy and girl and pretend cough/say "pansy" all at the same time?

Gah. It reminds me of all the horrors of high school just picturing it.

Worse yet is when they don't even have that exchange, but rather just walk by and make that whiplash sound. You know what I'm talking about. BBFFFFF-shhhhhhh. The supposed universal sound for, 'dude, where did your manhood go?'

The whiplash sound has thankfully gone the way of frosted tips and boy bands, but today, I was rudely reminded that the thinking behind it is still very much 2010.

All because someone used pansy as a derogatory term.

I dunno if it was a trigger word for terrible high school memories and consequently post-traumatic stress or what, but regardless, my skin started to crawl.

Like I said, I hate that term. I hate the thinking behind it.

Here's why. There is nothing wrong with doing something nice for a girl. There's nothing wrong with cooking a girl dinner or going out of your way to do something for her - especially when you know that she's coming home from a difficult rotation, and you're doing this to be nice. There's nothing wrong with washing the dishes without having to be asked. And there's nothing wrong with having to excuse yourself from dinner to say goodnight to your long-distance girlfriend over the phone. There's nothing wrong with saying I love you in public, where others (gasp!) might hear. There's nothing wrong with holding a girl's books. And there's definitely nothing wrong with being a grown man, standing in line at H&M, holding baby clothes your fiancée wants to buy for your mutual friends.

I find it very hard to believe that any girl would look at that list and think that the boy's balls had been cut off and handed to a girl on a silver platter. And I find it very hard to believe that there's any girl out there who wouldn't appreciate being on the receiving end of anything on that list.

It's called being nice. Being considerate. Showing your affection.

It's NOT being whipped. It's not as though you boys are some untamed beast that needs to be tamed. You wear ties for crying out loud. If that's not a figurative and literal leash, I don't know what is.

The point is this. You've already been tamed. By work, by society, by your mama. Doing nice things for girls isn't emasculating, it's just plain being nice. So don't go disparaging on other guys and their "masculinity" when maybe it's just you who needs to grow up and realize that nice guys do finish first.

Because niceness is always appreciated and rewarded.

Empire state of mind

Interviewing is a bit like going on a first date. With a really hot guy. A really really hot guy (i.e. one who makes you swoon if he so much as looks at you).

But look at you, he did. And now you're going on a date with him!

And you're nervous. And excited! But mainly nervous.

You desperately want him to like you, so you try on 15 different outfits and arrive 30 minutes too early. And every little bit of you hopes that he turns out to be not douche-y; that underneath the good clothes and the witty repartee, there's a deeper guy who understands you and will think your awkwardness is endearing. And let's face it - you already know you're more invested than he is. So at the end of the night, you linger before leaving, hoping he'll say the magic words, that he wants to see you again.

I went to my very first interview last Monday. And I was an absolute wreck. I couldn't sleep at all the night before because I was so nervous I would oversleep and miss my interview, so I woke up at 20 minute intervals to compulsively check my phone alarm and clock -- to the point that my phone needed to be plugged in again in the middle of the night. I bought 5 different shirts to wear under my suit, and spent almost 2 hours trying to figure out which one would be most appropriate. I left the apartment at 7am for a thirty minute cab ride to a 9am interview, because I didn't want to get stuck in traffic and be late. And every second of every minute that I was there, I prayed and hoped that they would like me.

See - I was in New York! And I love New York. And the more I heard about the program, the more I fell in love with it. Twelve residents per class! An AWESOME first-year salary! Paid-for meals every day! Protected patient census counts! Subsidized housing! Weekend get-aways to faculty cottages in Niagara Falls or the Hamptons!

And then I talked to the residents and fell in love even more. Dedicated didactic days. One-on-one supervision. And here's the kicker - the residents actually enjoyed their CL months, notoriously known as THE WORST ROTATION EVER across the psychiatry board. And it was amazing seeing how well the residents all got along. As though they genuinely all liked each other and were happy there. And it was impressive to see how many of them came to talk to the applicants; there were at least 30 people crammed into that small conference room for the lunch meeting.

Add to that how much I love New York. And I love my friends who are there now - from undergrad, from my childhood. And what other city perfectly fulfills my absolute dependence on public transportation? And the food! Oh my god, the food! I would gain twenty pounds in a month if I lived here.

Anyways, all of this emoting just to say one thing -- I hope they like me. I really hope they like me.

(With Thanan in Central Park!)

(Domo arrigato, Mr. Roboto!)

Special shout-out to Yulee for taking me to her mom's spa and beautifying me up, and to Thanan (who doesn't even read my blog) for letting me crash in his apartment on the Upper West Side and trying to make sure I had a good night's rest and a solid breakfast before seeing me off to my interview. Thank you also for forcing me to walk in the Halloween Parade, because even though my feet wanted to kill you at the end of the night, it was a definite conversation starter.