Crate and Barrel is having a quite fantastic giveaway: a $100,000 "Ultimate Wedding," complete with celebrity wedding planner, and presumably lots of uber-goodness.
Seems like I should jump on the chance, right? One hundred thousand dollars plans a pretty dang spectacular wedding! And a wedding planner to do all the work? Huzzah!
But... I'm totally unexcited at the prospect. Even if you didn't have to create a "marketing campaign" (their words) to win since the finalists will be voted in based on the best story, I am so not interested in the prize.
I love scrounging for bargains, and hitting various thrift shops looking for the best deals. And even with all the stress involved, I am really enjoying hashing out a budget, and finding creative ways to stay within it. (and even more creative ways to expand it -- CRV, anyone??)
I also would have a reaaaalllllly hard time giving control over to a wedding planner, celebrity or not. Yes, I believe that is one tick mark in the "How to Know if You Are a Bridezilla?" column, but let's face it: I am a control freak.
And don't you, my friends and family, want to help me set up table decorations, and place settings, and flowers, and aisle runners, and a guest book, and programs, etc. on the big day? I know you do!
So, I apologize to you all in advance for not striving to have a Platinum/Ultimate wedding. But I promise you that Budget wedding Brenna-style will be pretty spectacular.
As a last thought, however, let me tell you - if someone gave me 100,000 that I had to spend on the wedding? I could totally do it. And it would start with a massage area for the guests.
Apparently it is de rigeur these days to create an "inspiration board" while planning your wedding. Here is my first attempt. Not quite there, but it is a start.
I had never really thought about how one chooses where to have a wedding. Had I thought about it, I'd have guessed you just choose a pretty location reasonably close to where you live, and there you go. Venue! Turns out it isn't that easy. Well, I should say, it isn't that easy when you put me in charge of it. Seems I can turn an 'easy' project into one that requires Excel spreadsheets, multiple site visits and hours of agonizing.
Brings me back to the days of trying to choose a residency program. But this is just for a 4-6 hour event, not thee years of my life! Granted, these 4-6 hours mark the beginning of a brand new life. Not to mention, these will be the most expensive 4-6 hours of my entire life. So with that in mind, I guess it makes sense to put some time and effort into finding the right place.
What I was looking for in a venue: 1. Beautiful surroundings/view/photography sites - ideally with big trees and water 2. Peaceful atmosphere 3. A sense of being "away" from real life 4. A place where there were no noise or time restrictions 5. Catering on site (I didn't want to have to create another spreadsheet for caterers) 6. Not a budget buster 7. Enough room for up to 200 guests (generous estimate, as we will likely have fewer than that number!!)
We are fortunate on the West Coast in general, and in Northern California in particular to have SO MANY options for beautiful, peaceful places that really do take you away from real life. There are the amazing Napa and Sonoma counties, Gold Country, the San Francisco Bay Area, Yosemite, and Tahoe to mention the big players. There are also other less known areas that are more under the radar, but just as stunning. Add to this places closer to my home in Oregon - like my favorite place in the world, the Columbia River Gorge.
In other words: enough places to look at for about TEN years and fill up hundreds of lines of Excel files! But since we are not in our early twenties, we decided on a shorter engagement. Ten months, not ten years. Not short per se, but not enough time to spend several months choosing a venue.
So. In a (rare) moment of clarity and decisiveness, I decided that we would get married in Tahoe!
Marc has some strong connections to Tahoe, and actually lived there for a time. I think it is gorgeous, and kind of reminds me of the Gorge in some ways - mountains, trees and water. Gorgeous!
And with the location decided, we were limited to the 72 miles of Lake Tahoe shore to find a venue. Much more manageable, right?
Now. Close your eyes. Wait. Open them! You have to see to keep reading this.
Close your metaphysical eyes.
Now, I want you to expand your consciousness, lay aside all cares and worries, take a deep cleansing breath and... PLAN A GIANT PARTY FOR ALL OF YOUR CLOSEST FRIENDS AND FAMILY. GO!!!
While some of you may find this a soothing activity, personally it gives me a bit of a panicky feeling right there in the pit of my stomach. That area that seems to know how you're feeling before your brain does.
I'm not nervous, per se. Just anxious to make sure that we have a fantastically wonderful wedding. Wherein everything goes perfectly and everyone has a perfectly splendiferous time.
Hmmm. Perhaps there is bit more Bridezilla to me than I thought....
In an attempt to rein in the Bridezilla, I decided that the first thing we needed to do was determine our priorities. So, amongst many conversations, Marc and I decided what those priorities are.
Turns out that for both of us, the number one priority is to get married. Shouldn't be too hard!
After that, we diverge a bit.
My priority: have a smallish gathering of our closest friends and family - the people that have shaped us into who we are today. It will be our way to thank them and maybe spoil them if at all possible.
His priority: invite as many people as possible to honor family heritage, to not offend anybody, and to attempt to strengthen our bond with various people who, for various reasons, are not actually a part of our lives at the moment.
Diametrically opposed? Perhaps a bit. But this is a great opportunity to practice the art of compromise.
So, I won't get my cozy cabin in the woods, hanging out all weekend with my nearest and dearest, having massages and pedicures and playing games until the wee hours of the night.
And he won't have his epic, joyous family reunion.
But, as long as the FIRST priorty gets checked off our checklist, we will both be happy.
It took 31 years, 6 months and 21 days (I'd count hours, but I don't remember what time I was born), and it finally happened: I am engaged! When you're waiting for the right person, you have to take your time. I'm still in some shock!
[note: I started this post over a week ago, but then I decided I wanted to go back and find all dating related posts I'd written, which took me down a long and twisty pathway to this curret post. Read on, dear friends, read on.]
The Road to Engagement was not a quick one for yours truly (as anyone who reads this - likely only people that I know - knows) Somewhere there was a sign post (a la Robert Frost) and I took my own path, that did not lead directly to Marriage and Children. Much to my poor mother's dismay. I've met many people and made many friends along my path, however, and had a heck of a lot of fun.
Anyway.
The right guy for me had to pass a few challenges along the way. He had to have good etiquette, and understand a few, basic rules.
It turned out that he didn't have to have a fun name or to play the role of the beautiful jerk. Starting residency really helped me solidify the grown up that I'm going to be (some day), and helped me to change my focus.
It took some maturity on my part, some cyber help on both our parts, and voila! I finally found home. And that is dang exciting.
In the last 32 days, I have had three days off. Extending that to 40 days, I've had 4 days off (plus one quite miserable sick day).
I haven't the will to... well, do much of anything really! This entire second year of residency has been difficult, but this past stretch is really doing a number on me. Ugh. I'm going to try to start blogging again, though. It is a great place to air my grievances (like working 35 of the past 40 days - geez - I bet even Noah took off more time than that on the arc) without hearing "oh, that sucks," condolences, or even worse: someone else's war stories. I will say it here officially: I. Don't. Care. I just want to sleep.
And maybe get my oil changed.
Is it bad that my brakes have been squeaking for two months?
Background Info: 1. Though my last 'vacation' was a week off at the end of June, I spent that week moving. And it was hot. 2. My last "real" vacation was early April, nearly 8 months ago. 3. Through the vagaries of vacation scheduling, and a little fancy footwork, four of us (three residents and an resident-turned-attending) all had vacation at the same time. 4. Given the above, it was obvious what our course of action should be: CRUISE! Topped off with Disney World!!
This is how excited I was: (Imagine flashing neon lights and loud music with a rockin' beat and a marching band and elephants and baton twirlers and Mexican jumping beans and Tickle Me Elmo and a man playing a harmonica in the background. Oh, and fireworks, don't forget the fireworks.)
Did you know that my last blog post was on August 1st? Well? Did you? It's true. Just look down a few inches to the heading of the post that is next on the list, AKA the Last Post I Wrote.
That was a long time ago.
For real.
What have I been doing, you ask?
Being a second year resident, I reply.
But wherefore would that totally remove you from the "blogosphere?" you inquire?
Nice job using the correct meaning of "wherefore," but I would that you desist utilizing the term 'blogosphere,' I retort.
Um, seriously, are we really going to have this conversation now? you whine.
No. No, we're not, I say soothingly.
In other news: year two of residency is busy. Busier than year one.
BUT! I just returned from a most fab vacation, and have some pictures to post, so be on the look out!
I pride myself on living a relatively drama-free life (despite my occasional tirades indicating otherwise), and I try to take things day-by-day and to remember to breathe and to not sweat the small stuff, and all those other things that inspirational posters tell us to do while lulling us into a sense of peace with scenes of wooded streams with dappled lights and adorable kittens tousling with balls of yarn. Yes, I try to live the adorable-kitten-calm-stream-dappled-light sort of life. Without actually hanging up those posters. Because I think those posters are tacky.
But. Into every dappled-light life, a little panic and chaos must fall. In my case, it comes in the form of the Pediatric ICU. Since the beginning of residency - nay since interview season prior to residency, I have been dreading the PICU. Granted, I have had some ICU exposure - the CT surgery ICU as a fourth year (during which my most lofty goal was to be invisible) and the NICU, which, though it ended well, started off as the worst day of my residency ever. Hands down.
So this little spark of terror that has been living in my chest over the last two years started flaring up last week - disturbing what otherwise would have been an idyllic weekend of good food, good company, wine tasting and overall general laziness. Because, horror of horrors, terror of terrors - the PICU was coming. (that piercing scream you hear just now is a several-days-old echo of my cry)
Yes, dear friends, I started the PICU on Sunday. Night. Sunday night. For some ungodly reason, the scheduling gremlins that live inside our cheif residents brains decided that I should start on nights in the PICU. From 5 pm to 6 am I am 'in charge' of keeping these critically ill children alive. I use quotes around the in charge, because I really have no clue what I am doing.
Thankfully (this is fall to your knees, raise your hands to the heavens thankful) there is an attending PICU doctor on with me every night - which can be hit or miss. So far, I've had one night on with the Attending Who Thinks Everyone Else Is An Idiot, but who was willing to sort of let me do what I wanted to do (which was mostly nothing), two nights with the Attending Who Thinks Everyone Else Is An Idiot, and makes me think really hard about things that I just can't remember most of the time, and end up saying ridiculously stupid things that I know are wrong, but I can't stop the words from coming out of my mouth anyway as she paralyzes me with her gaze, and tonight I'm on with the Attending Who Always Looks Like She Is Crying, who basically dictates the orders for me to transcribe. When I can hear her.
So far, it has been going okay. There have even been a few moments where I felt a glimmer of excitement and appreciation for the acuity of the patients and our ability to fix things that go wrong. And I've made some medically sound decisions all on my own (not tonight - tonight my brain is on vacation, see: dictating attendings orders). It has definitely been better than the NICU debacle of last year, and I've come to realize in some ways how much I have grown as a resident. It has also helped me realize that I'm freaking stupid a lot of the time - or, rather, that my 'medical fund of knowledge' appears to be on Welfare.
My life as a whole pretty much sucks on this schedule. I work, go home, sleep and come back to work. At work, I sit and obsessively track lab values while I try to fatten up my medical knowledge by reading numerous articles. I realized today that I haven't seen anyone outside of the hospital since Sunday, apart from a fleeting hi-bye with my roommate on Monday evening. I have developed this massive heartburn tonight that is making me quite literally writhe around in pain (which is hard to do subtlely and look professional and competent) But I think, despite the suckage of my personal life, I will be able to manage the PICU one day at a time, while breathing and not sweating the small stuff, etc. In short, I will maintain the dappled-light life. Still without the posters.
And, though I don't intend to offend, if you have those cute kitten/wooded stream/hot air balloon inspirational posters hanging up in your home? Take them down. Please. Unless you actually live in a small business or a motivational speaker's office. In which case, you really should think about getting your own place. I mean, c'mon!
Fear not, there be no spoilers here. Only a couple of pretty big dorks - but fun ones, so that makes it okay. You disagree? Well, all I say to that is: watch your back. The world is brimming over with Harry Potter fans, and you don't want us on your bad side, or we'll go all magic on your behinds.
So, for those of you who have, perhaps, been living in a cave (or perhaps a resident on the PICU or NICU service), let me fill you in: The final Harry Potter book was just released on Saturday.
To celebrate the monumental occasion, my friend Susan (ofadventuresofyore) came up from Alabama so that we could attend a Harry Potter release party. There were several in the area - we weren't picky, we just wanted to experience the insanity. Because it is the LAST BOOK. With all the ANSWERS! And we were EXCITED! And Susan and I just do stuff like this. It's what makes us so dorky - I mean cool. It's what makes us so cool.
We got to Borders around 9:30, or so, and entered through Platfom 9 3/4 (hee!) Both of us were little worse for the wear - Susan was not only jet-lagged, but post call as well; and I was sleep-deprived from staying up late the past few nights re-reading all the previous Harry Potters. It is truly amazing the dedication I can show for studying when it is not at all related to what I should be doing.
There were hundreds of people there, and many in costume. I made the decision to go sans costume, for the very real chance that I could have run into some patients, and didn't want to undermine my integrity as their physician. Just kidding. I just didn't have time/energy to pull together a clever costume.
Susan and I picked out our favorite Harry: I think we almost made him cry when we asked if we could take our picture with him (we got permission from his mom), but he was a great sport in the end. Besides, who wouldn't trust us? We're doctors!
There were several different activities through the night - face painting, palm reading, the great Snape Debate (friend vs. foe) and a costume contest. Susan and I mostly observed, though I totally would have gone for the lightning bolt face-painting if I wouldn't have had to trample over scores of little kids to get it. I do have some limitations to my dorkiness - I mean... well, yeah, I mean dorkiness)
They finally rolled in boxes and boxes of books about 20 minutes before midnight.
Susan and I were quite atwitter with excitement (though still dang tired, as it was freaking LATE!)
Here I am debating which is scarier: Match Day or Harry Potter release day.
The line to actually buy the books after the countdown was long, long, long. We were in the second hundred group, and got our books around one am (I think, I can't remember, I was just excited to have it).
We rushed home, giddy with anticipation and settled in for a long night of reading. I crashed around four, but Susan - post-call, jet-lagged Susan was up until 6 am reading. Thus is the power of Harry Potter, people!
The rest of the weekend was filled with reading, eating, more reading, pedicures while reading, seeing the movie Hairspray (fantastic, go see it immediately), and a tad more reading. But now we know the fate of the characters in Harry Potter. And if you don't yet, well, I'm not going to tell you, so either get out there and read it, or just, you know, go outside your front door, because there is bound to be somebody out there right now talking about it. We may be dorks, nerds, geeks or just plain immature, but there sure are a lot of us:
As our intern year approached its end, we were asked to submit schedule requests for our second year - what electives we wanted to take, any weekends that we wanted to request off, or any other 'special' requests.
I had one request: to do an ICU rotation before I did a general wards rotation. Why? Well, frankly, the prospect of being the 'senior' resident on the wards over night without having taken care of really sick kids kinda sorta freaked me. In a hugely major way.
When our schedules (finally) came out, I was delighted to see that I started with Nephrology - a subspecialty that I chose to take as one of my electives (the kidney is perhaps the most complicated and elegant thing EVER created, and therefore way above my head), followed by my first ICU month. Success! My one request granted. Happy was I.
Then, the schedule for the month came out and, horror of horrors: I was scheduled to be on call my first Friday night. Ever. On call, overnight, after less than a week of being a 'senior' resident with a brand new intern. Not to mention the fact that as a cross-covering senior, I wouldn't know the patients at all. Or how to take care of anybody if they got, you know, really sick.
Terrifying prospect.
And then tonight came. Oh boy. I literally spent the first hour or so telling myself repeatedly, 'You're the senior, Brenna. The senior. SE-NIOR. That means you're in charge.'
Now, I was fine being the intern overnight. In fact, I dare way that I was great being the intern overnight. The senior said 'jump,' and gosh darn it, I'd jump. I wouldn't ask how high (I leave that question to the med students), but I would get up off my butt and jump - over hurdles, around obstacles, or even just straight up into the air for no good reason.
But tonight, I find myself in the position of telling other people to jump. I don't know how I'm doing. I really don't have any clue. No one has died (knock on wood). I have my PALS card on hand just in case any one should try to, you know, die. (somehow carrying a laminated quad-fold card with lots of small writing and confusing diagrams with arrows pointing in every direction makes me feel more capable of handling a patient who is trying to, you know, die)
My week as a 'senior' resident on Nephrology was great. So far, my night as a 'senior' resident does not appear to be an epic tragedy. Or even a comedy of errors. So I guess that's good. Right?
I really wish there was someone to tell me to jump, though. Because right now, I'm just going to go to sleep. And I'm sure there are many hurdles that will remain un-jumped tonight.
When I moved last year, I was great. I packed those boxes to within the merest cubic centimeter, protected fragiles with just the right amount of tissue paper and bubble wrap, and loaded it all in my truck so exquisitely that I fit in all my worldly goods, with literally no room for a sneeze. But of course, when you're moving across the country, you kind of have to be organized and efficient.
When you're moving across town? Not so much. Especially when you have a whole week in which to do it!
I've been moving in shifts. Saturday, I moved most of my clothes. Monday, I moved my yarn. (As Susan pointed out: surely moving yarn could not have qualified for a whole day's worth of moving. And she was correct. I also moved my DVDs that day... along with a lot of yarn) Yesterday, I decided, was the day to tackle my books.
So, I was a good little worker-bee, and loaded up (most of) my books into banker's boxes - perfect size that I can load up and still comfortably carry (are you not so thrilled with excitement to learn that?!). I am mighty fine at loading up them boxes, if I do say so myself. After I got bored of packing, I put on my most comfortable-ist pair of shoes on hand and started lugging my boxes down to my truck.
Ta-da! The shoes.
Even as I put them on, I knew better. I am the granddaughter of a foot doctor. Flip-flops = evil. My father, who taught me to pack so well in the first place, pounded into my head over and over as I grew up that one should wear STURDY shoes when one is going to do such things as lug boxes of books down, then up, stairs.
It was the second box that my folly did me in. My foot slipped, the flip-flop went one way, my foot the other, and I went d-o-w-n. Hard. Knock-the-breath-out-of-you hard. When-I'm-75-with-bad-arthritis-I'll-look-back-on-that-day-that-I-wore-flip-flops-while-I-moved-books-and-curse-that-day hard. Thankfully, my skill at falling (due to extensive, if unintentional, practice) saved me from hitting my head, or falling onto my hands (hello, scaphoid fracture!)
I did get this nice little souvenir from the trip, though. (hee-hee! catch the pun?!)
They say "Pride goeth before the fall," but for me it is "Sturdy shoes cometh after the fall."
Today, I am going to move Miscellaneous and Sundry, including Shoes. And I will be wearing tennis shoes whilst I do it.
...years left, that is. Because (drumrollllll): Intern year is over! And, oh. my. goodness. did it speed by! Like flying on the Lear jet from New York to Paris. Not that I've been to Paris. Or, you know, on a Lear jet. But I bet the trip goes by really fast, and while you're still just barely getting over that 'oh-my-gosh-I'm-on-a-Lear-jet' feeling you find yourself being bienvenue'd to Paris. Much like intern year flies by. Which I do know from experience. Because (have I mentioned?) I just finished intern year!
We're putting aside, for the moment, the absolute terror that is the Beginning of Second Year and the Responsibility and Presumed Growth and Expansion of Knowledge Base that implies.
Now it is time for Intern Year Rehash. Because I know that everyone is incredibly fascinated wiht my little life. (for my fellow interns-at-large - I got the info from e-value)
* Total Days of Intern Year: 364 * Vacation Days: 29.58 (I don't know how that works, I'm just reporting stats!) * Total Hours worked: 2,725.25 * Average Hours per Day (over 334 days): 8.15 * Average Hours per Week (over ~48 weeks): 57.04
* Number of Patients I Saw: Lots * Number of Parents Who Yelled at Me: 2 or 3. But one mom yelled at me about several of her children, so maybe she should count more... * Number of _My_ Patients Who Died: Zero - I'm more lucky than skillful * Number of Patients Who I'd Helped Care For Who Died: Four (sorry to be morbid!) * Number of Absolutely Freaking Miraculous, Saved From the Brink of Death Cures of My Patients: One (I was not directly involved, just watching from the sidelines) * Number of Days I Overslept: Probably 10 or so * Number of Days I Said At Least One Incredibly Stupid Things: 364 * Number of Days I Regretted Choosing This Life: Surprisingly, none. * Number of Days I Reminded Myself That This is Only For Three Years: 334
Alright, I could keep going with more nonsense, but I'm even beginning to bore myself! I have this next week off, and the masochist inside of me decided that it is time for me to move again. Sigh. So I have to go pack. Which will likely not fly by like those hours on the Lear jet.
I was sitting at a nursing station checking my patients' vital signs and lab results this morning, when I looked up and saw some artwork adorning a child's door.
It was a lovely picture with a big sun, and children by a river, and birds in the sky, and flowers and a big tree. And over everything, in big, black letters, the words: "And no resident will say, 'I am sick.'" (Isaiah 33:24)
Seriously? They've got the patients giving us a hard time too now?
Lately I have really enjoyed tying random concepts together as the title of my blog post. Yes, I am stating the obvious - something else I like to do.
I have finally reached the Last Week of Intern Year. Ideally, I would have started this week in top form: knowledgable about a vast array of topics; quoting scholarly articles in my discussion of patient management; balancing demands of patients, parents, nurses, dietitians, discharge planners, subspecialists without a drop of sweat. In reality? Not so much.
Two things impeded my glory today: #1: I am ridiculously tired, and am barely able to complete my normal daily tasks (i.e. walking, talking, eating), much less balance all the people who want me to do things AND #2 My attending is VERY PASSIONATE ABOUT TEACHING. He asks a lot of questions. And gets very excited when I answer right. And when I get a question wrong (which I frequently do), he gets even MORE excited that I have the chance to LOOK SOMETHING UP!!! LEARNING OPPORTUNITY!!! This stresses me out. See #1.
And, now? At the end of a long, stressful day during which I had to do all sorts of challenging things like WALK and TALK IN SENTENCES and DRIVE (and manage a septic patient in respiratory distress on the floor)? I have to look up those things that I didn't know. Because tomorrow, he is going to ask again. And I think if I don't know the answer twice in two days, he will get so excited that his head will EXPLODE.
It is my last week, though. The new interns - aka our replacements - started their orientation last Friday. They're all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Like chipmunks. But better dressed. I'd say that I can't believe that this year is over, but that sounds very cliche. So I'll just think it really hard. (Because I can't believe it!)
I'm trying to think of a smoothe way to transition from new interns to coleslaw. Hmm. Okay, follow me here: One of the new interns maybe, kind of, sort of looks like a cabbage patch kid. Speaking of cabbage... (hee-hee!)
I have recently developed a great love for coleslaw. I always thought I hated coleslaw. But now I love it.
My goodness, but that was a boring story. If life were like DVR, you could rewind back to the part about me not saying that I couldn't believe that intern year was as-good-as over, then fast forward through the part about cabbage patch kids and my new-found love of coleslaw. But life isn't like DVR, and you just spent several seconds of your life reading, first the boring story of how I like coleslaw, followed by the even more boring exposition about how you should have fast-forwarded through it if you could have. Stop the insanity!!!
I have to go do my homework now. I'm trying to figure out if there is any information I could glean about hemoglobinopathies or glycolysis (seriously, people - I have to review glycolysis) in Harry Potter. Because I really just want to read Harry Potter.
A lot of semi-interesting stuff has been 'going down' (to use the street slang that I am so known for) lately. But nothing compelled me to actually sit down and write another blog post until my beloved show, So You Think You Can Dance, managed to amuse me so greatly tonight.
Plus the fact that we have our "Rising R2" retreat tomorrow, and I don't have to go in until nine. Nine! NINE! I would like to tattoo the number nine to my forehead and take a picture of my face while I am skydiving out of a clown-populated jumbo jet through rings of fire into a pool of sharks to demonstrate just how happy I am about going in at nine. Except that particular demonstration of X-treme emotion would probably be taken more as fear/apprhension than the actual joy it means. So, instead, I should take a picture of me with the number nine tattooed to my forehead while I am asleep, deeply, at 5 am and 6 am. And 7 am. And, why the heck not - 8 am!
Oh, how greatly I digress.
I was watching SYTYCD tonight and for just a second, on the screen flashed by what was possibly the oddest grouping of facial expressions I had ever seen in TV: (brought to you by the magic of DVR)
Until I saw this shot:
Hee-hee! These are some of the contestants from last year, in case you don't follow the program. They're actually reacting to the judges, not the dancers.
I don't know what the deal is, but over the last three days, I have had three totally random people just spontaneously compliment me.
On Monday, one of the patients on the floor (not mine) came up and said, "I like your eyes" then made me some art.
Yesterday, the lovely lady selling me my coffee handed me my change and, quite out of the blue (all I'd said to her was 'medium coffee, please') said, "You're pretty."
Then today, I was literally just walking past someone carrying bags of IV fluid in the hall who said, "I like your hair."
What's up people? Apparently, I must be giving off enough 'I'm miserable and my head hurts and I'd so much rather be at home sleeping off this virus that is trying to take over my sinuses and bronchi' vibes that total strangers feel the need to brighten my day with compliments.
And, to be quite honest, it worked! (At least temporarily.)
Have I mentioned, dear reader, how fantastic you are? And beautiful!
Apparently, one hundred years ago today a small epidemic of the Bubonic Plague broke out in San Francisco. Less historically notable, but more personally relevant, one year ago today: I broke out in Sacramento. (Yes, I am comparing myself to the Bubonic Plague.)
And on my Year-In-Sacramento Anniversary, I am also celebrating the beginning of my Last Rotation As An Intern. I looked but Hallmark does not, in fact, carry a "Congratulations On Your One Year Living In Sacramento Anniversary And About To Be Starting Your Last Rotation As An Intern" cards. I'm totally going to send them a sappy poem so they can make one.
I've found that I always sink into this slight depression at the beginning of a new rotation. I think it is really just the way my anxiety plays out. That, and the fact that, despite all my other Gemini-like traits (inability to make a decision, a tendency to shy away from philosophical/meaning-of-life discussions, optimistic, etc.) I hate change.
Okay, I take that back (hello, inability to make a decision). Part of me obviously loves change and the challenge it presents, or I would not find myself living in the fifth state of the last ten years. I'm sure there is some psycho-analytically based reason for that, but we'll just call it a gypsy heart (and there's the shying away from meaning-of-life issues!)
The part of me that has to start a new rotation is alway gloomy on these transition days, though. (Did I mention that Gemini is the "twins" - multiple personalities?) I hate not being in control, which is what I think this gloominess boils down to. On the new rotation, I have to start over with new people, places, schedules, attitudes, everything. No control. Grumble.
My Last Rotation is Hem/Onc, which is generally accepted as the 'hardest' rotation of intern year. Seeing as it is the Last Rotation of Intern Year (have I mentioned that?), I'm not dreading the work so much as the change. I am actually looking forward to this month as a whole - the new interns arrive (!), it's my birthday, there is graduation stuff for the seniors, I am moving - all sorts of big and cool stuff is going down. But I still find myself (metaphorically) beating my head against the wall.
Still. It could be worse. I could have the plague!
Guess what! Guess what! It is my last time on the wards at night as an intern! And, after four overnight ward calls, and three weeks of night float, I totally have this stuff all down. I am Intern Extraordinaire (imagine that in bright green, sparkly letters, with a marching band playing in the background, and the Shriner's on their crazy trikes throwing out bags of candy and occasionally Frisbees)
Being an intern on night float, has now become easy!
Except that I am totally and completely lying, and most of the time still feel like I am "playing" doctor and other times feel that I am completely over my head and I don't really know much of anything, and am mostly just flying by the seat of my pants...
And the next time I'm on a night? I'm the senior resident. Which means that I'll be in charge. Which means that I should know stuff.
Which explains why I have broken out into Brenna bumps tonight. My last night as an intern.
I believe there are jobs out there that are pretty... routine. You get up, go in at a particular time, deal with the things that you expect to deal with, meet with people, have breaks, make a few phone calls, order office supplies, and then go home at a particular time. And you kind of have a general idea of what to expect your day or week or month to be like. If you're going to be busy, you know it and can duly prepare.
The same can't really be said about inpatient medicine. Or outpatient, for that matter, but it is really true about inpatient. At the beginning of a day (or night as the case may be - I'm back on night float again) I have NO idea what the day (or night) is going to be like. Because I have no control over when or how kids get sick. Some days we get flooded with kids, other days, it is like someone has pumped a cure-all into the water and it is very quiet. No control.
Which can be hard when you're a control freak.
Not that I am.
(I am.)
(But so are most residents.)
As a result of this lack of control, there is a kind of pseudo-control that exists in resident culture. In laymen's terms, it might be known as "Superstition." I think it becomes our way of feeling that we have some control over what might become of us during our next night. I myself am guilty of believing that I have an 'unlucky' pair of socks. Twice I wore them, and had busy nights. Those socks are now at the back of my sock drawer.
One really universal concept is the "Black Cloud" or "White Cloud." It is the idea that a resident has a certain aura around them that either invites work, or keeps it at bay. So ingrained is this concept in medical culture, that they actually did a research study on it a while back. And it was published! Granted it was in the "Letters" section, and not the actual research article part, but still. It is a big part of our lives.
While I've always been on the fence about colored clouds (mine's kind of a mottled lightish gray), one superstition that I NEVER took stock in was the idea that if you say the name of a patient who is frequently admitted, you're basically inviting that person to come to the hospital.
So last week, when I accidentally called one of the current patients by a name of one of our 'frequent fliers'* and everyone around me got all up in arms, I was like, oh yeah? I don't believe that! Watch! And proceeded to name two more 'frequent fliers.' Just to prove my point.
The next day, the patient who's name I'd accidentally said was admitted. Within the week the other two were.
I think I may be changing my tune here!
And I'm totally going to throw out those socks.
* Frequent Flier is a patient who is frequently admitted, and generally has some bad systemic illnesses or problems - cerebral palsy, bad seizure disorder, etc. I actually hate the term, but as of yet, don't have anything better to call them. And it is faster than saying 'he is a patient that is frequently admitted.'
