After four years of staring at these penguins every day....
...I finally saw some real live ones.
And man, oh man, they are soooo freaking cute.
Thanks to Markus Heitzer for letting me steal some of his more exceptional pictures.
6 years ago
Friday, May 13, 2011
Well well well. Blogger goes down, and erases my last post. Not so 'temporary' after all, eh Google?
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Placeholder
Preach it sister. Tall is not cute. To all those people who have been envious of my height, read the article. Because it's completely true. From the bigfoot shoes (all in ballerina flats) to never having a guy rest his chin on my head (romantic notion that shall never be fulfilled) to never worrying about getting my drink jostled in clubs...well, I found myself nodding along while reading that post. Blake Lively is a gorgeous gal, and while we may have absolutely nothing in common, she and I do share the trials and tribulation of being 'tall, but not cute.'
I'm trying to finish up my South Africa posts this week, so then I can devote the rest of my time to Chicago and my final experiences as a med student, and then, it's on to graduation and moving to Los Angeles. It all seems quite surreal and daunting, and well, I worry for my future patients. Seriously, you're trusting me with patients? Really?
I still need to find a place to live in. And I need to take my permit test and finally learn how to drive so that I'm officially driver licensed in time for me to drive to the hospital for work.
It's gonna be a jampacked month.
I'm trying to finish up my South Africa posts this week, so then I can devote the rest of my time to Chicago and my final experiences as a med student, and then, it's on to graduation and moving to Los Angeles. It all seems quite surreal and daunting, and well, I worry for my future patients. Seriously, you're trusting me with patients? Really?
I still need to find a place to live in. And I need to take my permit test and finally learn how to drive so that I'm officially driver licensed in time for me to drive to the hospital for work.
It's gonna be a jampacked month.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
I could say
RESIDENT
So, did you get a lot out of your rotation?
ME
Yeah, definitely! I feel like I'm less awkward talking about death and dying now, you know? And those used to be such taboo topics for me to bring up with patients.
RESIDENT
Yeah, sure. But you know, sometimes you just have to ask, to put out feelers, you know? It's only taboo if you make it taboo.
ME
Yeah, but still. It can get kinda uncomfortable at times.
RESIDENT
Well, it's always gonna be uncomfortable. For example, let's say I ask you out. What's the worst thing you can say?
ME
Um, no.
RESIDENT
Right, and what's the best thing you can say?
ME
...yes?
RESIDENT
Right. So is that awkward?
ME
Well yeah.
RESIDENT
But would it be more awkward if you were to say yes or no?
ME
I guess if I were to say no.
RESIDENT
So are you saying no?
ME
Yes? Wait, what?
RESIDENT
And is it only awkward because I'm a resident, and you're a med student? Because you know, in five hours, you will no longer be a short white coat.
ME
Are we still talking hypothetically? Because I unhypothetically have a boyfriend.
RESIDENT
And is it only awkward because I'm a resident, and you're a med student? Because you know, in five hours, you will no longer be a short white coat.
ME
Are we still talking hypothetically? Because I unhypothetically have a boyfriend.
RESIDENT
No no, we're just talking.
ME
Hm. This isn't awkward at all. Not in the least.
RESIDENT
Hahaha, so you would hypothetically say no in that completely hypothetical conversation.
ME
Um, yeah.
RESIDENT
Okay, and see, now I know. You've just got to put out feelers. Let's go see our consult.
ME
Um, yeah.
RESIDENT
Okay, and see, now I know. You've just got to put out feelers. Let's go see our consult.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Beat and the pulse
The child was screaming, screaming bloody murder and crying her heart out.
For the past five months, she'd been told that her mom was on a business trip. A really long business trip to a land far far away, so far there wasn't any access to telephones. She hadn't seen or talked to her mother, and instead, was quite unceremoniously shipped off to her grandparents' house.
Her mom was in hospice.
The day after Christmas, my patient had finally gone to get checked out by the doctor for some weird flu-like symptoms that she'd been having. She was diagnosed with ALL. She started treatment right away, but as luck would have it, she ended up getting every single complication in the book. Three weeks later, just as she was starting to clear up all those nosocomial infections, the pathology report came back showing the ALL had recurred.
Since then, it's been all downhill from there. UTIs, pneumonias, sepsis, respiratory failure, kidney failure, anemia, TPN, catheter fungal infections from the TPN line placement, so on and so forth. My patient couldn't catch a break.
She's only twenty-two.
Her husband, whom she married at just seventeen, was constantly by her side. One morning, I walked in to preround, only to find him in her hospital bed, cradling her head in his arms, lovingly stroking her head, her long blonde locks long gone from the chemo. I silently backed out of the room, not wanting to disturb them.
He only left her side once, and that was this morning, to go pick up their five-year old daughter from the grandparents. Mommy was back, and she was finally going to get to see her.
I wasn't there when she was first brought into the room. I don't know what they told her to prepare her for this alien creature that looked vaguely like her mom, but didn't smell or really look like her anymore and didn't respond to her stories about pre-school and baking cookies with grandma.
But I was there when we finally took our patient off the vent. The little girl clung to her mother's hand, as though afraid that if she let go, her mom would vanish into thin air. And the husband lay next to her, at his usual spot, one arm around his daughter, and the other stroking my patient's peach fuzz hair, as he whispered I love you's and promises that he and their daughter would be okay together, would take care of each other, would never forget her, and that while they would miss her terribly, she should go if God was calling her home.
With nothing to help her breathe, our patient passed on pretty quickly. The color in her face disappeared, and her face, although peaceful, looked still and unreal. My attending moved in to check vitals for one final time, and then nodding to the husband, declared her dead at 2:38pm.
He nodded back at my attending, tears streaming down his face, and after kissing his wife one more time, released his death grip on her hand.
The little girl, her face buried in her mother's chest, seemed to know exactly when that happened. And she started sobbing, her pain evident in her cries and desperate pleas aloud, willing her mother's spirit to "please come back, please come back." Somehow knowing that the ventilator had been key in helping her mother live, she grabbed the tube, and frantically tried to force it back down her mother's throat, before her father finally gathered her up in a giant bear hug, and crumpling onto the couch, they both cried and gripped on to each other for dear life.
I started tearing up immediately, and I excused myself from the room, feeling as though I was intruding on a deeply private moment.
I'm on palliative care. I've seen a fair share of deaths. And maybe it's cause she was so young, maybe it's cause her daughter had such a profound reaction to her death, maybe it's because I could see myself in her, but her death was far more painful for me than all the others combined.
Tomorrow's my last day as a medical student. But I know the lifelong lessons are only just beginning.
For the past five months, she'd been told that her mom was on a business trip. A really long business trip to a land far far away, so far there wasn't any access to telephones. She hadn't seen or talked to her mother, and instead, was quite unceremoniously shipped off to her grandparents' house.
Her mom was in hospice.
The day after Christmas, my patient had finally gone to get checked out by the doctor for some weird flu-like symptoms that she'd been having. She was diagnosed with ALL. She started treatment right away, but as luck would have it, she ended up getting every single complication in the book. Three weeks later, just as she was starting to clear up all those nosocomial infections, the pathology report came back showing the ALL had recurred.
Since then, it's been all downhill from there. UTIs, pneumonias, sepsis, respiratory failure, kidney failure, anemia, TPN, catheter fungal infections from the TPN line placement, so on and so forth. My patient couldn't catch a break.
She's only twenty-two.
Her husband, whom she married at just seventeen, was constantly by her side. One morning, I walked in to preround, only to find him in her hospital bed, cradling her head in his arms, lovingly stroking her head, her long blonde locks long gone from the chemo. I silently backed out of the room, not wanting to disturb them.
He only left her side once, and that was this morning, to go pick up their five-year old daughter from the grandparents. Mommy was back, and she was finally going to get to see her.
I wasn't there when she was first brought into the room. I don't know what they told her to prepare her for this alien creature that looked vaguely like her mom, but didn't smell or really look like her anymore and didn't respond to her stories about pre-school and baking cookies with grandma.
But I was there when we finally took our patient off the vent. The little girl clung to her mother's hand, as though afraid that if she let go, her mom would vanish into thin air. And the husband lay next to her, at his usual spot, one arm around his daughter, and the other stroking my patient's peach fuzz hair, as he whispered I love you's and promises that he and their daughter would be okay together, would take care of each other, would never forget her, and that while they would miss her terribly, she should go if God was calling her home.
With nothing to help her breathe, our patient passed on pretty quickly. The color in her face disappeared, and her face, although peaceful, looked still and unreal. My attending moved in to check vitals for one final time, and then nodding to the husband, declared her dead at 2:38pm.
He nodded back at my attending, tears streaming down his face, and after kissing his wife one more time, released his death grip on her hand.
The little girl, her face buried in her mother's chest, seemed to know exactly when that happened. And she started sobbing, her pain evident in her cries and desperate pleas aloud, willing her mother's spirit to "please come back, please come back." Somehow knowing that the ventilator had been key in helping her mother live, she grabbed the tube, and frantically tried to force it back down her mother's throat, before her father finally gathered her up in a giant bear hug, and crumpling onto the couch, they both cried and gripped on to each other for dear life.
I started tearing up immediately, and I excused myself from the room, feeling as though I was intruding on a deeply private moment.
I'm on palliative care. I've seen a fair share of deaths. And maybe it's cause she was so young, maybe it's cause her daughter had such a profound reaction to her death, maybe it's because I could see myself in her, but her death was far more painful for me than all the others combined.
Tomorrow's my last day as a medical student. But I know the lifelong lessons are only just beginning.
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
Reading rainbow
Because there's nothing a girl loves more than a great book and some gorgeous 'just cause' flowers.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Breaking
Osama Bin Laden is dead.
Dead dead dead.
And even though we've spent the past ten years talking about the war on terror, spent the past ten years allowing more and more invasive security practices at airports, spent the past ten years trying to heal from the absolute horror that occurred on September 11th, hearing that Osama Bin Laden is dead - dead as a doornail - just makes me feel numb.
I mean, what does this mean for us? What does this mean for the people who lost loved ones? Is it closure? Is it relief? Is it revenge? That finally, eye for an eye, justice has been done? Or does it dredge up past hurts, open up old wounds, and bring about new worries?
Because, now that he's dead, where does our nation go from here? I can't help but feel like it doesn't make a difference. Osama hasn't been orchestrating much from his hidden dirt cave in quite a while. Other extremists have taken over calling the shots. And now that he's dead, does that just give them more ammunition for the next time when they decide to strike again? If they decide to strike again?
Osama Bin Laden is dead. I should say good riddance, I know. But I wonder if it was all for naught. I highly doubt that he went to the grave realizing the profound devastation he caused so many families. That there was any regret for his actions. That he died thinking he was anything but a martyr. And that's what makes me feel so numb.
And then I see videos like this - Northwestern students, hands over hearts, standing together in salute, singing our National Anthem (in the library naturally), and chanting 'USA! USA!' and I feel like I should also be yelling from my windows that the Wicked Witch of the East is dead.
But as it is, my heart goes out to the families and the victims of 9/11. May you finally rest in peace.
Dead dead dead.
And even though we've spent the past ten years talking about the war on terror, spent the past ten years allowing more and more invasive security practices at airports, spent the past ten years trying to heal from the absolute horror that occurred on September 11th, hearing that Osama Bin Laden is dead - dead as a doornail - just makes me feel numb.
I mean, what does this mean for us? What does this mean for the people who lost loved ones? Is it closure? Is it relief? Is it revenge? That finally, eye for an eye, justice has been done? Or does it dredge up past hurts, open up old wounds, and bring about new worries?
Because, now that he's dead, where does our nation go from here? I can't help but feel like it doesn't make a difference. Osama hasn't been orchestrating much from his hidden dirt cave in quite a while. Other extremists have taken over calling the shots. And now that he's dead, does that just give them more ammunition for the next time when they decide to strike again? If they decide to strike again?
Osama Bin Laden is dead. I should say good riddance, I know. But I wonder if it was all for naught. I highly doubt that he went to the grave realizing the profound devastation he caused so many families. That there was any regret for his actions. That he died thinking he was anything but a martyr. And that's what makes me feel so numb.
And then I see videos like this - Northwestern students, hands over hearts, standing together in salute, singing our National Anthem (in the library naturally), and chanting 'USA! USA!' and I feel like I should also be yelling from my windows that the Wicked Witch of the East is dead.
But as it is, my heart goes out to the families and the victims of 9/11. May you finally rest in peace.
