"Do you want some nog with lunch?"
"Sure!"
"Alright, well, we've only got egg. I hope that's okay."
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
"They may be bitches, but they are skinny bitches."
I gave up coffee nineteen days ago.
And just this moment I successfully walked away from a coffee percolator that looked suspiciously as though it were about to drip the sweet nectar of consciousness into my favorite mug.
I can't imagine how it became so precariously perched. Maybe it had something to do with me putting it there.
Yes. I was about to throw nineteen days worth of withdrawal jitters and obtundent lecture attendance to nurse once more at the teat of blessed caffeination.
But I didn't. I walked away and came to the keyboard instead.
My very sweet and ridiculously gorgeous cousin decided she and I should have our own personal book club spotlighting the "no nonsense tough love guide for savvy girls who want to stop eating crap and start looking fabulous": Skinny Bitch.
It reads like something I would write if I were a hungover drill sergeant on my period paging through science fiction (read: REALLY, REALLY CRANKY) and had no regard for my readers' capacity for human emotion. There's a certain, "C'mon you fat, lame fools, stop wrecking your body and wasting my time," tone to the prose. The sarcasm leaps off the page and lambastes any preconceived notions of decency regarding my diet CLEAR OUT OF MY HEAD. The only way it could be more effective is if the sharp wit could come to life and actually slice the fat off my booty.
In short, the narrative manhandling scares the ever loving shit out of me. They aren't kidding when they say, "no nonsense."
I have read only Chapter One.
There were so many things within the "Give It Up" chapter that I need to work on I don't think I yet deserve to go on to the rest of the book. Or rather, I don't know that I can take the shame onslaught that will inevitably result if I read on and have to sustain more acerbic slaps to the face as I confront the truth that my diet suckity suck suck sucks.
So, because I want to keep reading the book, but don't feel I can face the authors again until I've made some changes, I gave up coffee.
I realize as a member of both the medical profession and the Starbucks generation this effort amounts to sheer blasphemy. But the Skinny Bitches say that coffee's acidity goads the body to produce fat cells to emulsify the coffee. The fat cells surround the uh, absorbed coffee, or what I envision as little piranha like Pac-men, and bar their destructive jaws from hurting the body. Now, this is all well and good, Go Body! with its adaptive mechanisms and all that, but I sure don't need extra fat cells circulating about.
Particularly if they're coming from something as second string luxurious as coffee. I'd rather save my fat cells for cheesecake. Or pizza. Mmmm... pizza...
So... I don't know how effective this has been, because it's but one small change I've made of about eighty three thousand I probably should, but that first week I gave up coffee... I WAS pretty bitchy. I assume that means it's working. I had half of the skinny bitch-dom down.
Since parting with the dark roasted temptress I have also been getting fewer headaches and I've started sating my hot beverage cravings with all manners of tea that claim to be antioxidant laden. Overall these seem like two positives and... perhaps more valid measures of the authors' advice.
To those of you who wonder why I'd listen to a book that makes me feel awful about myself I'd like to point out that I am a medical student. Masochism is how I roll.
In all honesty though, there's promise of applicability. It cuts the crap and speaks to me in chick-lit language I can relate to and be influenced by. If you're still looking for a stocking stuffer for someone who won't be offended if you say, "Oh, the title made me think of you!" I highly recommend it.
And just this moment I successfully walked away from a coffee percolator that looked suspiciously as though it were about to drip the sweet nectar of consciousness into my favorite mug.
I can't imagine how it became so precariously perched. Maybe it had something to do with me putting it there.
Yes. I was about to throw nineteen days worth of withdrawal jitters and obtundent lecture attendance to nurse once more at the teat of blessed caffeination.
But I didn't. I walked away and came to the keyboard instead.
My very sweet and ridiculously gorgeous cousin decided she and I should have our own personal book club spotlighting the "no nonsense tough love guide for savvy girls who want to stop eating crap and start looking fabulous": Skinny Bitch.
It reads like something I would write if I were a hungover drill sergeant on my period paging through science fiction (read: REALLY, REALLY CRANKY) and had no regard for my readers' capacity for human emotion. There's a certain, "C'mon you fat, lame fools, stop wrecking your body and wasting my time," tone to the prose. The sarcasm leaps off the page and lambastes any preconceived notions of decency regarding my diet CLEAR OUT OF MY HEAD. The only way it could be more effective is if the sharp wit could come to life and actually slice the fat off my booty.
In short, the narrative manhandling scares the ever loving shit out of me. They aren't kidding when they say, "no nonsense."
I have read only Chapter One.
There were so many things within the "Give It Up" chapter that I need to work on I don't think I yet deserve to go on to the rest of the book. Or rather, I don't know that I can take the shame onslaught that will inevitably result if I read on and have to sustain more acerbic slaps to the face as I confront the truth that my diet suckity suck suck sucks.
So, because I want to keep reading the book, but don't feel I can face the authors again until I've made some changes, I gave up coffee.
I realize as a member of both the medical profession and the Starbucks generation this effort amounts to sheer blasphemy. But the Skinny Bitches say that coffee's acidity goads the body to produce fat cells to emulsify the coffee. The fat cells surround the uh, absorbed coffee, or what I envision as little piranha like Pac-men, and bar their destructive jaws from hurting the body. Now, this is all well and good, Go Body! with its adaptive mechanisms and all that, but I sure don't need extra fat cells circulating about.
Particularly if they're coming from something as second string luxurious as coffee. I'd rather save my fat cells for cheesecake. Or pizza. Mmmm... pizza...
So... I don't know how effective this has been, because it's but one small change I've made of about eighty three thousand I probably should, but that first week I gave up coffee... I WAS pretty bitchy. I assume that means it's working. I had half of the skinny bitch-dom down.
Since parting with the dark roasted temptress I have also been getting fewer headaches and I've started sating my hot beverage cravings with all manners of tea that claim to be antioxidant laden. Overall these seem like two positives and... perhaps more valid measures of the authors' advice.
To those of you who wonder why I'd listen to a book that makes me feel awful about myself I'd like to point out that I am a medical student. Masochism is how I roll.
In all honesty though, there's promise of applicability. It cuts the crap and speaks to me in chick-lit language I can relate to and be influenced by. If you're still looking for a stocking stuffer for someone who won't be offended if you say, "Oh, the title made me think of you!" I highly recommend it.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
7 Random Things About Me
Apparently I decided that after posting every single day in November I was absolved from writing for the whole of December.
As my holiday gift to you, I've returned early.
You're welcome.
Now, on to business. I've been tagged. Nevermind that the tag-age was nearly three weeks ago, I was still tagged. And if there's one thing I've learned from the blogosphere, it's that you don't eff around with OldMDGirl ;)
So, without further ado...
1. My ears have been pierced since I was three months old. Evidently three months was the cap on how long my mother could have a non-bedazzled infant. By three months it was high time I started earning my keep by being a more attractive accessory for her hip. And if my face wasn't going to do it, well, jewels in my ears would have to suffice.
2. I keep every piece of personal written correspondence I receive. Now... this might be better listed in a future edition of "7 Creepy Things About Me," but either way it's still true. I have six file boxes in my closet with assorted categories of folders labeled, "Aunts," "Birthday Cards," "Pen Pals 1996-1997," etc. They may or may not be color coded.
I'm not sure what this says about me (I mean, after our ears stop ringing from the PACKRAT PACKRAT PACKRAT alarm), but I just feel too guilty throwing away something someone has taken the time to write me. Admittedly, some cases are more justified than others. The letters I received when I was young from my grandmother? Invaluable. The personalized birthday newsletter from the Muffy VanDerBear fan club? You decide.
3. My high school valedictory address centered around the Britney Spears single "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman," thereby cementing in everyone's mind the disconnect between book smarts and... actual smarts.
4. In the seventh grade I crafted a Happy Meteorologist's Day (February 4th or 5th, I can't remember exactly) card out of yellow and orange construction paper (it may or may not have been a sun...) and mailed it to the channel five weather man who I was convinced was my soul mate. I believe the inscription read along the lines of, "Thank you for brightening the greater viewing region's mornings even when the forecast is partly cloudy. Your Biggest Fan, Pants."
After mailing it I was extremely smug and pleased with myself, wondering how long it would take for him to write me back and tell me that he had never before witnessed such construction paper wizardry, and clearly with skills like that I HAD to be his wife. Also, for some reason I remember congratulating myself for pulling off this scheme without my parents knowledge. Why they would've cared that I was stalking a minor local celebrity, I'm not sure, but their awareness seemed an imminent catastrophe back then.
Thus, imagine my horror when one February morning I hear my dad shout from the family room, "PANTS TAILORED MCSLACKS. Did you send Weather Man a Valentine?"
I was in the other room putting together some cereal and I remember pouring and pouring the Cheerios, unknowingly overflowing them onto the counter.
I went into the family room. "What?"
"You sent the weather man a Valentine?"
"NO. It was a card for National Meteorologist's Day. How did you... how did you know?"
"He just thanked you on the air for your thoughtful card. My daughter mailed a valentine to the weather man."
I remember thinking, MY GOD. Did my weather man SAY it was a Valentine!? It was just a meterologists' day card! HE MUST LOVE ME. (Yep. Over analysis and decryption of men's thoughts were rampant even way back when.)
And then he never wrote back.
He's now the nightly five o'clock weather man and the station's chief meteorologist. I like to think my early boost to his ego gave him the confidence to pursue the prestigious appointment.
5. I can wiggle both of my eyebrows independently. I regularly twitch them asynchronously in the rhythm of popular songs and try to make my friends guess the melody.
6. One time in the fifth grade I went over to my neighborhood friend's house to play after school. We knew our time was limited because I had to be at ballet practice by 5, so we dove right into her expansive Barbie collection and imagineered the day away. By 4:30 we realized our time was drawing to a close. Neither one of us wanted to stop playing so we decided I just needed to skip ballet.
The only way my mother would let me skip anything (school, ballet, piano, etc.) was if I either had a temperature or was throwing up.
We didn't know a fool proof way to get my temperature up, because as a nurse my mother didn't rely on the forehead touch, she always whipped out the thermometer, so our only option was to make me throw up.
I downed a jar's worth of dill pickle juice, while managing to consume an entire can of Redi-Whip between sips. We thought such a volatile combination would surely make me ralph by the time I had to leave for ballet.
Nope.
And I had to go to practice weighed down by what I would later recognize as the world's greatest pregnancy cocktail (Not because I've been pregnant myself, but because I became aware of the pickles and ice cream craving stereotype, but ho, wouldn't THAT have been a random thing about me.).
7. I was an avid member of my high school's speech and debate team. My category was a state category so the highest I could ever hope to place was #1 at the state level. I qualified to state all four years and made it to the semi-finals twice. My senior year I placed seventh in the state, missing the final round (wherein the top six competitors compete against one another, vying for their final placements) and my shot at #1 by 2 points. I have never gotten over it.
As my holiday gift to you, I've returned early.
You're welcome.
Now, on to business. I've been tagged. Nevermind that the tag-age was nearly three weeks ago, I was still tagged. And if there's one thing I've learned from the blogosphere, it's that you don't eff around with OldMDGirl ;)
So, without further ado...
THE SEVEN MOST RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME I CAN THINK OF OFF THE CUFF EVEN THOUGH I'VE HYPOTHETICALLY HAD THREE WEEKS TO GENERATE A LIST
1. My ears have been pierced since I was three months old. Evidently three months was the cap on how long my mother could have a non-bedazzled infant. By three months it was high time I started earning my keep by being a more attractive accessory for her hip. And if my face wasn't going to do it, well, jewels in my ears would have to suffice.
2. I keep every piece of personal written correspondence I receive. Now... this might be better listed in a future edition of "7 Creepy Things About Me," but either way it's still true. I have six file boxes in my closet with assorted categories of folders labeled, "Aunts," "Birthday Cards," "Pen Pals 1996-1997," etc. They may or may not be color coded.
I'm not sure what this says about me (I mean, after our ears stop ringing from the PACKRAT PACKRAT PACKRAT alarm), but I just feel too guilty throwing away something someone has taken the time to write me. Admittedly, some cases are more justified than others. The letters I received when I was young from my grandmother? Invaluable. The personalized birthday newsletter from the Muffy VanDerBear fan club? You decide.
3. My high school valedictory address centered around the Britney Spears single "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman," thereby cementing in everyone's mind the disconnect between book smarts and... actual smarts.
4. In the seventh grade I crafted a Happy Meteorologist's Day (February 4th or 5th, I can't remember exactly) card out of yellow and orange construction paper (it may or may not have been a sun...) and mailed it to the channel five weather man who I was convinced was my soul mate. I believe the inscription read along the lines of, "Thank you for brightening the greater viewing region's mornings even when the forecast is partly cloudy. Your Biggest Fan, Pants."
After mailing it I was extremely smug and pleased with myself, wondering how long it would take for him to write me back and tell me that he had never before witnessed such construction paper wizardry, and clearly with skills like that I HAD to be his wife. Also, for some reason I remember congratulating myself for pulling off this scheme without my parents knowledge. Why they would've cared that I was stalking a minor local celebrity, I'm not sure, but their awareness seemed an imminent catastrophe back then.
Thus, imagine my horror when one February morning I hear my dad shout from the family room, "PANTS TAILORED MCSLACKS. Did you send Weather Man a Valentine?"
I was in the other room putting together some cereal and I remember pouring and pouring the Cheerios, unknowingly overflowing them onto the counter.
I went into the family room. "What?"
"You sent the weather man a Valentine?"
"NO. It was a card for National Meteorologist's Day. How did you... how did you know?"
"He just thanked you on the air for your thoughtful card. My daughter mailed a valentine to the weather man."
I remember thinking, MY GOD. Did my weather man SAY it was a Valentine!? It was just a meterologists' day card! HE MUST LOVE ME. (Yep. Over analysis and decryption of men's thoughts were rampant even way back when.)
And then he never wrote back.
He's now the nightly five o'clock weather man and the station's chief meteorologist. I like to think my early boost to his ego gave him the confidence to pursue the prestigious appointment.
5. I can wiggle both of my eyebrows independently. I regularly twitch them asynchronously in the rhythm of popular songs and try to make my friends guess the melody.
6. One time in the fifth grade I went over to my neighborhood friend's house to play after school. We knew our time was limited because I had to be at ballet practice by 5, so we dove right into her expansive Barbie collection and imagineered the day away. By 4:30 we realized our time was drawing to a close. Neither one of us wanted to stop playing so we decided I just needed to skip ballet.
The only way my mother would let me skip anything (school, ballet, piano, etc.) was if I either had a temperature or was throwing up.
We didn't know a fool proof way to get my temperature up, because as a nurse my mother didn't rely on the forehead touch, she always whipped out the thermometer, so our only option was to make me throw up.
I downed a jar's worth of dill pickle juice, while managing to consume an entire can of Redi-Whip between sips. We thought such a volatile combination would surely make me ralph by the time I had to leave for ballet.
Nope.
And I had to go to practice weighed down by what I would later recognize as the world's greatest pregnancy cocktail (Not because I've been pregnant myself, but because I became aware of the pickles and ice cream craving stereotype, but ho, wouldn't THAT have been a random thing about me.).
7. I was an avid member of my high school's speech and debate team. My category was a state category so the highest I could ever hope to place was #1 at the state level. I qualified to state all four years and made it to the semi-finals twice. My senior year I placed seventh in the state, missing the final round (wherein the top six competitors compete against one another, vying for their final placements) and my shot at #1 by 2 points. I have never gotten over it.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Hard Nut to Crack
You know, if you look at it objectively, The Nutcracker is pretty weird.
A family has a party... the crazy uncle arrives with dancing life-sized dolls and he gives the little girl of the house a nutcracker. Is that supposed to be some sort of domestic, gendered statement? If this was a modern story would he be giving her a cuisinart? I mean, a food processor doesn't lend itself as well to anthropomorphism, but it pretty much boils down to the same thing. And quite frankly, if mutant rats are attacking, I think I'd rather have spinning blades on my side than a wooden novelty utensil.
So, we made it. Thirty posts in thirty days.
I don't think I'll be able to keep up that pace for always and, let's face it... I probably shouldn't. The quality of the things I pound out at 11:45p trying to eek under midnight just aren't worth the blogosphere space. The English language doesn't deserve to be bastardized so.
There were bad days and there were worse. There were cop-outs and there were photos, but by and large I accomplished what I set out to do in making navapants a cozy new writing home.
A family has a party... the crazy uncle arrives with dancing life-sized dolls and he gives the little girl of the house a nutcracker. Is that supposed to be some sort of domestic, gendered statement? If this was a modern story would he be giving her a cuisinart? I mean, a food processor doesn't lend itself as well to anthropomorphism, but it pretty much boils down to the same thing. And quite frankly, if mutant rats are attacking, I think I'd rather have spinning blades on my side than a wooden novelty utensil.
***************
So, we made it. Thirty posts in thirty days.
I don't think I'll be able to keep up that pace for always and, let's face it... I probably shouldn't. The quality of the things I pound out at 11:45p trying to eek under midnight just aren't worth the blogosphere space. The English language doesn't deserve to be bastardized so.
There were bad days and there were worse. There were cop-outs and there were photos, but by and large I accomplished what I set out to do in making navapants a cozy new writing home.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Oh, it's Christmas time in the city, baby.
Tomorrow morning Disturbingly Potent arrives. I'm peacing out early after PBL to collect her at the airport so she doesn't end up on a bus somewhere in Connecticut or inadvertently stranded in Midtown, ticking New Yorkers off with those pesky Midwestern manners.
We'll pass through the seven layers of the candy cane forest, through the sea of swirly twirly gumdrops, and then walk through the Lincoln Tunnel to embrace our weekend:
1. Attend The New York City Ballet's Nutcracker
2. Attend The Radio City Music Hall Rockettes Christmas Spectacular (OH HELL YES)
3. Take a walking tour of all the Christmas windows -- Macy's, Lord and Taylor, Saks, Bloomingdales, etc.
4. Gawk at the mass herds of people at the Rockefeller tree
5. Peruse the pop-up Christmas boutiques at Bryant Park and/or Union Square
6. Ice skate in Central Park
7. Find my will to blog
8. Live it up and pretend I don't have an exam next week.
We'll pass through the seven layers of the candy cane forest, through the sea of swirly twirly gumdrops, and then walk through the Lincoln Tunnel to embrace our weekend:
1. Attend The New York City Ballet's Nutcracker
2. Attend The Radio City Music Hall Rockettes Christmas Spectacular (OH HELL YES)
3. Take a walking tour of all the Christmas windows -- Macy's, Lord and Taylor, Saks, Bloomingdales, etc.
4. Gawk at the mass herds of people at the Rockefeller tree
5. Peruse the pop-up Christmas boutiques at Bryant Park and/or Union Square
6. Ice skate in Central Park
7. Find my will to blog
8. Live it up and pretend I don't have an exam next week.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Day One of the Physical Exam
So it was pretty much a shit show.
Silly me. I thought our very first physical diagnosis session with our preceptors would include some demonstration, some guidelines, you know, some INSTRUCTION seeing as we've never ever done this on anyone ever.
Sure we poked and prodded each other a month or so ago, but we didn't know what on Earth we were doing. We were just giggling nervously like fools wondering if we would have to disrobe in front of 10 of our classmates and a random proctor. Up until this point we've had a single lecture each week over the past six weeks covering various aspects of the physical exam. I... just don't see how that qualifies as learning how to do it. I mean, maybe this is just me, but to learn a physical exam I would expect some physicality thrown into it. Like say, touching a patient.
Which is what I thought these sessions were going to be about.
I envisioned our preceptor palpating a liver edge, keeping their hand on a patient's abdomen and dragging my hand to where theirs is saying, "Here. Feel that? THAT is what liver feels like." Or showing me where to put my stethoscope and saying, "Listen. Hear that swooshing? THAT'S mitral regurgitation." Obviously I'm an ignorant fool who expects to be spoon fed.
We showed up to meet our preceptor and all he said to us was, "Alright. Well. Here are your patients. I'll give you an hour and a half to do the full history and physical, then you can present to me and I'll check your findings."
UHM. BUDDY.
WE
ARE
GREEN.
Green as green can be. And I don't know if you missed the memo from the frog, but IT AIN'T EASY.
WTF. I CAN'T PUT MY HANDS ON A PATIENT. I DON'T KNOW WHAT IN THE BLUE BLAZES OF HELL I'M DOING.
I can say with the utmost confidence that my eyes have never been larger, the pit of my stomach never fallen faster, my insecurity never more florid than when he said those words all no nonsense and posthaste.
If there's one thing I did learn today, it wasn't how to palpate an abdomen or percuss a diaphragmatic excursion or observe the apical impulse of the heart, no no... I learned how to suck it up and dive right in. I learned that when an attending says jump, you say how high, and that it doesn't matter if you don't have legs or have feet nailed to the floor or are in an anti-gravity environment, you FIND a way to jump.
I may have also learned that it's not what we call tactful to ask a blind woman to read from your visual acuity card.
I have a long way to go.
Silly me. I thought our very first physical diagnosis session with our preceptors would include some demonstration, some guidelines, you know, some INSTRUCTION seeing as we've never ever done this on anyone ever.
Sure we poked and prodded each other a month or so ago, but we didn't know what on Earth we were doing. We were just giggling nervously like fools wondering if we would have to disrobe in front of 10 of our classmates and a random proctor. Up until this point we've had a single lecture each week over the past six weeks covering various aspects of the physical exam. I... just don't see how that qualifies as learning how to do it. I mean, maybe this is just me, but to learn a physical exam I would expect some physicality thrown into it. Like say, touching a patient.
Which is what I thought these sessions were going to be about.
I envisioned our preceptor palpating a liver edge, keeping their hand on a patient's abdomen and dragging my hand to where theirs is saying, "Here. Feel that? THAT is what liver feels like." Or showing me where to put my stethoscope and saying, "Listen. Hear that swooshing? THAT'S mitral regurgitation." Obviously I'm an ignorant fool who expects to be spoon fed.
We showed up to meet our preceptor and all he said to us was, "Alright. Well. Here are your patients. I'll give you an hour and a half to do the full history and physical, then you can present to me and I'll check your findings."
UHM. BUDDY.
WE
ARE
GREEN.
Green as green can be. And I don't know if you missed the memo from the frog, but IT AIN'T EASY.
WTF. I CAN'T PUT MY HANDS ON A PATIENT. I DON'T KNOW WHAT IN THE BLUE BLAZES OF HELL I'M DOING.
I can say with the utmost confidence that my eyes have never been larger, the pit of my stomach never fallen faster, my insecurity never more florid than when he said those words all no nonsense and posthaste.
If there's one thing I did learn today, it wasn't how to palpate an abdomen or percuss a diaphragmatic excursion or observe the apical impulse of the heart, no no... I learned how to suck it up and dive right in. I learned that when an attending says jump, you say how high, and that it doesn't matter if you don't have legs or have feet nailed to the floor or are in an anti-gravity environment, you FIND a way to jump.
I may have also learned that it's not what we call tactful to ask a blind woman to read from your visual acuity card.
I have a long way to go.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Wake up little Snoozy, Wake up
There are few moments that horrify me more than those where I realize I'm training to be a physician.
As in, this is for real.
Hypothetically, I am going to walk away from this experience with a license to practice medicine. Uhm. Yeah.
I don't know if I can really explain it, but there's a stark difference between going to the lecture hall everyday, kicking around ideas in PBL, writing ridiculous throw-away papers on health systems, aaaand actually treating patients. Or, well okay! That explained it pretty well. Patients are not scantron sheets.
These things that I cram into my head in order to pass quizzes and exams will one day be information that I need to apply to real life human beings. It's... unsettling because never before in my life have I been expected to be accountable in any REAL sense for learning things. Or at least accountable in any way that would affect anyone besides myself.
We start physical diagnosis sessions tomorrow in which we will be in small groups with a preceptor examining patients.
Patients... weird.
Before the end of our neuro course a few weeks ago we performed neurological exams under a neurologist's watchful eye. That was the beginning of my wake-up call. My first alarm if you will, and between then and now I've been mid snooze cycle
While it's very obvious to a certain degree, it took that experience to really slap me in the face and make me recognize that we will be responsible for producing the clues we use to make diagnoses. There will be no big PBL leader in the sky that passes out the history and physical of a patient. We won't be handed the pertinent findings upon which we can flex our analytical logic. We have to PRODUCE that stuff. That's what's scary.
I have to know when I hear certain things or observe this or that what it all means clinically. I'm going to have to have enough confidence in myself and my skills to trust my judgment. I don't think it's too self-aggrandizing or melodramatic to say peoples' health will depend on it.
Granted, it won't until many years in the future that I'll be doing it all on my own, but... a person's health is their everything.
Their EVERYTHING.
But, for tomorrow, I'm just going to concentrate on not hurling on anyone and save the rudest awakening for another day.
As in, this is for real.
Hypothetically, I am going to walk away from this experience with a license to practice medicine. Uhm. Yeah.
I don't know if I can really explain it, but there's a stark difference between going to the lecture hall everyday, kicking around ideas in PBL, writing ridiculous throw-away papers on health systems, aaaand actually treating patients. Or, well okay! That explained it pretty well. Patients are not scantron sheets.
These things that I cram into my head in order to pass quizzes and exams will one day be information that I need to apply to real life human beings. It's... unsettling because never before in my life have I been expected to be accountable in any REAL sense for learning things. Or at least accountable in any way that would affect anyone besides myself.
We start physical diagnosis sessions tomorrow in which we will be in small groups with a preceptor examining patients.
Patients... weird.
Before the end of our neuro course a few weeks ago we performed neurological exams under a neurologist's watchful eye. That was the beginning of my wake-up call. My first alarm if you will, and between then and now I've been mid snooze cycle
While it's very obvious to a certain degree, it took that experience to really slap me in the face and make me recognize that we will be responsible for producing the clues we use to make diagnoses. There will be no big PBL leader in the sky that passes out the history and physical of a patient. We won't be handed the pertinent findings upon which we can flex our analytical logic. We have to PRODUCE that stuff. That's what's scary.
I have to know when I hear certain things or observe this or that what it all means clinically. I'm going to have to have enough confidence in myself and my skills to trust my judgment. I don't think it's too self-aggrandizing or melodramatic to say peoples' health will depend on it.
Granted, it won't until many years in the future that I'll be doing it all on my own, but... a person's health is their everything.
Their EVERYTHING.
But, for tomorrow, I'm just going to concentrate on not hurling on anyone and save the rudest awakening for another day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)