Pontificum Scriblerus

We all know this about me: I am easily influenced, highly impressionable and moderately obsessive.  But even I am surprised. You see, I read a book. To put this in context, this is probably the first non-science book I read in several months.  I was on vacation, and a friend lent me her Kindle.  Upon her recommendation, I delved into The Paris Wife, by Paula McLain.  It is about Ernest Hemingway's first wife and their beautiful yet wrenching love story, marriage and demise.  I don't even know very much about Ernest Hemingway, and have not read much of his writing because in high school, when I took American literature, I happened to have a very anti-establishment teacher (ironically, educated at Harvard and Yale), who concentrated mostly on African American, feminist and gay/lesbian literature instead of "dead white male" literature.  She had a vendetta against "dead white males."  While others read The Great Gatsby, I read Olivia Butler, the name ...

Ignore the above "pun" as the ramblings of a very tired test-taker who has had it with the very word "boards." What I was trying to convey by using such a terrible play on words is that taking the GI boards was torture. However, it is over - for now. I walked out of that indescript building on Devonshire Street thinking, okay, THIS is when they all will surely find out that I have been faking it all along. As I posted on FB for all to see: for 40% of the questions, all the answers looked right. 40% none of them looked right; 5% were about nutrition - and anything with the word "selenium" in it was taking a hit for the team. For the last 15%, I just simply had no clue and picked "a." The next day, when I rejoined reality, I had some crazy amount of patients to see, and faked them ALL out by getting it done. It was the same building where I took the medicine boards a mere 4 years earlier. Has it really been 4 years? That's a really long ...

I have a cold. Actually, this is the mother of all colds. We've met before - at least twice this year - but I was under the impression that the mother of all colds takes a vacation during the summer months. I guess I was incorrect. What happened was, we went to a party this weekend. Well - no, first, there was an insane heat wave, and air conditioners took over the world. Then, there was a party. I got all dressed up in a fuscia cocktail dress and espadrilles, did my hair, and put on the fancy perfume. I don't even remember the last time I did this, so I was pretty excited to recall that I have a fun-loving, let's -get-out-of-the-house side. I had probably about 3 glasses of sangria, which was probably enough to put me over the edge and make me do some embarrassing things, like laugh really loud and make inappropriate commentary about perfectly innocent strangers. And, of course, immune system-wise, the sangria almost surely made susceptible to legionella's eage...

When I wrote my personal statement for my residency application, I just sat down and jotted down what I was thinking. It went along with what the statement was about. I wrote about how important decisions shouldn't be agonizing, but rather, a natural next step in the smooth flow of life. Or something along those lines. I mentioned the decision to go to medical school, my then recent marriage, and choosing a specialty. Does it follow, then, that these natural next steps aren't a cause for celebration, because they're so smooth and natural? When I got the letter that I got into medical school, I was by myself in the mail room at my university. I looked at the letter. Looked around for someone to tell. Then I folded the letter and stuffed it into my bag. My mother brought champagne home that night, but I didn't drink it. And I got annoyed when people congratulated me for it. (feeling kind of guilty about it, to be quite honest, because I think I was rude to this on...

We were in the OR today, waiting for a procedure to start. Things always take forever when the OR gets involved, so I was wandering the halls back and forth, watching the clock. I was walking past OR 1, when I saw that they were wheeling in one of those HARD hospital cribs, which meant that there was a child getting operated on in that room. I was lined up with the door just as it slid open to reveal the secret life of that OR, and somehow, I couldn't stop myself; I turned and got a glimpse of what was in there. I saw the back of a baby's head, a sliver of exposed back and a little fat arm. I almost fainted. It stabbed me in the heart. I felt immediately dizzy. I felt tears welling up traitorously in my eyes. MaryEllen, the fluoro tech we work with, was standing a little bit in front of me, and she saw me - and I must have had some expression on my face, because she called out to me, and asked if I was ok. Instead of getting the hell out of there before I got too much more up...

Call weekend down. I was almost, ALMOST out of the woodwork in terms of any big screw ups, and even foolishly thought to myself, maybe, there is something to be said for being a 3rd year fellow? Less second guessing, more trust and independence... But then, in the nick of time, in the wee hours of the morning, throw a militant ER attending and some in-hospital politics into a caldron, and you have me stewing in my own juices, spiced with some doubt and insecurity... Amazing how that happens, right? Here's to felines and canines again! My canine self is uselessly chasing her own tail around and around a puddle of spilled milk. I really wish I was the kind of person that could do what she thinks is best and move on, but I'm not. No matter how I twist. ... After getting the phone call, and realizing there was going to be an issue, naturally, I couldn't fall back asleep, so I just lay there and fretted. Strangely enough, the first thing I wanted to do, and did, was pick ...

I'm on call this weekend, for the first time since January, so, of course, once again, I'm having nightmares. This time, I dreamt that I was wearing a pager, but I kept missing the pages. I think the pager was on silent. Instead of changing it back to beep, I kept freaking out about missing pages. Calculating how long ago I was paged and whether I should still call back, and how long before I get fired. Also, I got into a fight with a nurse because I didn't want to place a PEG over the weekend. She called me heartless. Clearly, my brain's sulci are twisted the wrong way.

There was an unmistakable scent in the air tonight as I walked home; it was the smell of firewood and chimney smoke, just a hint, floating through the nighttime sky and tickling my nostrils. Someone must have lit up their fireplace. Somehow, it reminded me of my childhood, although, I don't know why: I've never had a wood burning fireplace in my life... The air was a bit wet with impending rain, and the first layer of fallen leaves was starting to form under my feet. It's fall again. It's the time of orange, red, yellow, and of reaping what you sow. But some might say fall is sad, because it's the downward side of the proverbial cycle of life; things age and fall apart. Supposedly, it's high time for depressive episodes. So it happens, that apparently, my birthday is the national depression screening day? Isn't that interesting.

1) Physical It's just a C section... But it's not. It's a surgery where they slice you open! They don't slice you open when they take out the gallbladder or the appendix anymore. (Funny aside: my father from Philly asked if they do the c sections "laparoscopically," which is just hilarious! I explained to him that when they remove gall bladders through a 1 cm incision, they chop it up first and then place it in a plastic bag before pulling out the mush through said incision. Can't usually do that with a baby, not unless you wanna get sued...) I was ordered for q 1 hour O2 sat checks, so in my haziness and exhaustion, I was subjected to sleepus interruptus every hour. I was confined to bed with a foley - and thank god for that. I wasn't allowed to eat, or drink; only ice chips. When they finally allowed me to stand up, I inspected the incision, and found some insane number of stitches, which I totally didn't expect. Trying to pee for the fi...

We've graduated to weekly appointments now, and have the lucky privilege of internal exams at every visit. Last week, I was told I was 50% effaced and 2 cm dilated, which, apart from sounding disturbing to a lay person (my mom almost fainted when she heard the word "effaced"), also sounded really promising to me, so when I exhuberantly cried "What does that mean?!" and the OB cold-bloodedly answered "Nothing," I was pretty incredulous... Surely, I'd be in labor any second now? But I ain't. What I IS, though, is edematous, at least 1+, especially at the ankles. I look at them and I'm like, hey, didn't the medial malleolus (little bone) used to reside here? Also, I is a giant internal lava lamp. At least, that's how it feels. It's getting more and more science fictiony by the moment: the belly morphs into various shapes, vibrates and hops at random times, and occasionally, sprouts temporary limbs that later resorb back into the fl...

We have moved. We all remember how well I deal with change? Well. On the day of the move, I arrived to the new apartment early, and was immediately hit by a brick of panic. The new place has wall to wall carpeting, you see. And I have a serious aversion thereto. I think, nay, I KNOW, I was traumatized as a child. My fear of wall to wall carpeting goes way back to the days of early immigration. When we first got here, after staying with our "sponsors" for a few weeks, we needed to find our own place. A fun aside story is how we got our first place. Rent control was still a thing , and there was a rent control apartment owned by a Russian lady of the "first wave," ie, having arrived in the late 70s and acclimated and "Americanized," by her own declaration. The rent was set at $300, unless the apartment was furnished, in which case the rent was $600. So this philanthropist and helper to her brethren immigrants rented the apartment to us as furnished w...

I think it's winning. The pregnancy, I mean. I've been coasting along, with an "see? it's not so bad" kind of attitude, despite occasional gripes about blisters on feet, but lately, I think it's taking over. The other day I went home early from work because I thought I was having contractions. After sitting around for two hours, going, God, this is SO uncomfortable, regularly every 5 minutes, it dawned on me that maybe these were the famous Braxton Hicks? I called the OB office, and was instructed to go home, drink a big glass of water, and lie on my left side. Yes, Please! I tried to sneak out unseen, but got spotted by the secretaries, and soon the news had spread, and panic ensued. Typical. WHO WILL COVER THE INVALID PREGNANT GIRL WHILE SHE IS GONE? Meanwhile, it escaped people to try to find out what's going on, and if I'm actually gone for good, or just enyoing a doctor-sanctioned 3 hour afternoon nap. So, now, everyone thinks I might be having ...

I applied for GI fellowship knowing that chances were we might end up elsewhere, as in, Baltimore or Chicago, or even Albany. So, the fact that I got a spot in the area was actually a huge win. But that didn't keep me from crying about having to give up our cozy little apartment in Boston and make the move to Out Here. I work Out There, and Out Here is much closer than Boston. Ironically, initially, I gave up and said, let's just go for it... let's just live Out There too - at least, in my anticipated misery (and was I right!), I can be very very close to work. We poked around Out There's "luxury rental communities," but they were pretty depressing. They were mostly cardboard boxes with guilded decorations, and the only "luxurious" thing about them was the price - albeit, still cheaper than Boston. Out Here was a breath of fresh air. It was a sturdy solid construction and lacked that cookie cutter little box quality most "rental communite...

I'm not saying I do have preggy brain, and I'm not saying I don't. But the fact remains that I put on two plastic cover up gowns while performing colonoscopies at work last week. They're these horrible plastic full length, long sleeve bibs, essentially, that we wear to avoid getting splashed by never mind what when we do procedures. Usually, you wear just the one. Last week, I was doing a procedure, and suddenly, I was so hot, I could feel sweat dripping down my back and between by boobs and into my eyes - and I kept saying, Jeez, it's so hot in here, isn't it? God, I'm just so hot! I was accompanied by 2 menopausal nurses, who agreed heartily, and 1 less than sensitive male attending, who said, dismissively, "You're just pregnant." Then, I finished the procedure, and ripped of the gown, like I normally do. Imagine my surprise when the long awaited breeze of fresh endoscopy suite air didn't hit my sweaty body. Instead, my tactile senses...

In the last week, all at once, some annoying things whacked me and I don't know how to handle it! We all know how much of a creature of habit I am, and how I hate when things change. Little by litte, maybe, if it's careful, change can whittle away at me, but it takes subtlety and tact. On the other hand, completely without regard for my feelings, last Monday, they axed the only morning sbow I would listen to, the FNX Sandbox, firing two of their mornig DJs without an explanation - at least, to the viewers. This is several months after they unceremoniously took BCN off the air, ridding Boston once and for all of its only decent alternative station that actually gets reception - and a much shorter time after I finally accepted that fact. Now, FNX has an annoying new dude with a lame new show and annoying jokes, who just happens to be some sort of big cheese at the station, and who apparently, put himself on the air in the most listened-to spot. Only one of the old DJs is l...

We have been robbed of summer by psychotic weather that made June into November, and now, we're being robbed of beautiful yellow and gold fall by bipolar weather this time: can't decide between hot or cold, sun or snow. My mind and body are thoroughly confused by what's going on, and it must be exhausting because, lord, am I tired. So, I've developed a new routine. When I get home, nay, when I drag myself from car to elevator and ride up to the 3rd floor, and then drag myself down the impossibly long hallway across the threshold and into the apartment, the sequence goes something like this: I kick off shoes, and make a beeline for the couch on a good day, and straight into bed for a deeper nap on a bad day. Usually, I fall asleep immediately, and for at least an hour, and wake up completely disoriented on account of the cat or the husband confusedly pondering, poking and/or pawing my sleeping mass. Then, typically, I watch the husband make a meal from the couch, con...

Does it mean anything that for my birthday I got a gift certificate for a facial and rejuvenating skin treatment, a gift certificate for a massage, a gift certificate for yoga, and a big box of makeup? Is it that my family thinks I'm vain, or is it that they're trying to tell me that I need all the help I can get? Either way, birthday, shmirthday. 31 has no character, kind of like its cousin, 29. Although, as someone rightfully noted, after 30, who the hell cares. Fade into the background.

My sleeping schedule lately quite possibly rivals that of a newborn. How many times this weekend did I pull at my husband's sleeve and murmur, eyes half closed, "I have to tell you a secret... I'm ready for a nap?" The answer is TMTC, ie too many to count. Friday, after a relatively light day at the office, I came home and collapsed into bed from 5 until 7, and by 11, I was log-like again. Saturday, having woken up at 9:30 after feline cajoling, I took a nap from 4-6, and by 12, I was yawning so frequently, I missed half the conversation at dinner, and had to bail on possible further alcohol consumption in favor of more sleeping. Finally, Sunday, I forced my eyelids open at 10:30, and after about 1 hour of manual labor picking up my dirty clothes of the floor, I started rubbing my eyes, and eventually, could no longer resist the urge to curl up under the fuzzy nap blankie on the couch for another hour. Then, around 9, my cornish hen dinner still making rounds in ...

Looks like the blogging inspiration muse has left the building. Ever since I realized that I look like a crazy person, based on some of the angry stuff I write, she's been gone - I think I scared her away. She'll be back, but I don't know when. When new drama happens, probably.

Looks like after 3 whole days of summer, we're back in November - but in September. Absolutely black skies are spewing forth bucketfuls of water, and all is sad and dreary. My long awaited "friend" finally arrived (read: I got my wretched period, 2 months too late). As tends to happen, it brought with it cramps, backache and epic moodswings. On the other hand, "Epic boobs" are back to normal. Thus, a new cycle begins. Tamoxifen is in the mail. If I get a PE or have a stroke, you'll know, because I'll stop posting. Otherwise, I'll chronicle every pimple, every gained pound and, recent moodswings notwithstanding, every future moodswing, as I expect to have many more.