The Great Equalizer

It doesn't matter how you look when you go to school if the professor starts the lecture: "Raise your hand if you've ever had diarrhea."

Drugs and Bugs

Last week was the kind of week I'd like to forget. In the first two-weeks of microbiology, my medical school decided to employ a new educational approach. It's an approach borrowed from the mafia and inspired by spraying bullets from AK-47s. It was an assault of information. All kinds of information about infectious organisms and the medications used to treat them. I remember reading about mountain climbers trapped in a snow storm on K2 in Pakistan, and noted, "That's what this learning curve feels like, too."

It was a whir, and as quickly as it started, it was over with nothing but a long, luxurious 3-day weekend to recuperate.

Over the course of this weekend, I partied with friends at a birthday party for an entire day. The party started on a boat in the Detroit river, spilled onto a Polish street fair and reached its climax in a Detroit karaoke bar with crowd-surfing. I entered Opposite World and undid last week.

Sunday was spent hanging out with my picture-perfect identical twin nephews and entertaining family in my Detroit apartment.

Today was another day with the family: very low key and relaxing. Much needed. Because one week ago, I dreamed that I was writing prescription antibiotics, and was making up names for medication. Names like Milkacillin and Jazzacyclin. You don't want to those medications. They don't exist, except in my sub-conscious. It's like--a few months ago-- when I was speaking fluent Arabic in a dream, as though my sub-conscious learned Arabic while my conscious mind was busy playing Super Mario Brothers.

But now, after a long-weekend, I feel ready to face the long stretch of school. To mentally prepare, I am not expecting to catch a breath of air until Thanksgiving break in about 3 months from now.

Until then, I'll take 13 exams and run a half-marathon. I will watch the hours of daylight dwindle and leaves fall from trees. I'll watch myself grow more accustomed to the chaotic pace of school so that I won't remember what if feels like to slow down. I will try to remember to shower daily and get my eyebrows waxed before my nephews ask why I have fuzzy caterpillars growing above my eyes.

I will try to stay in touch with friends. I will try to accept my position in life. I will fend off the sadness that I'm not a rock star and wouldn't look good in skinny black jeans even if I was a rock star. I will accept my status as a dork with grace and dignity and know that one day I will gladly give patients my autograph--written passionately and illegibly--on countless prescriptions. So, fine, it might not be rock'n'roll. But I've never heard of a soap opera called Rock Star, and we all know how many American hours are wasted in front of television sets watching shows about the boring, uneventful lives of professional dorks we like to call doctors.

Spelling Words for This Week

Before this week, I don't think I ever wrote the word "syphilis." During a lecture this morning, I wrote "chlamydia" over and again. It's kind of a pretty word, kind of sounds like an old lady's name.

Gonorrhea: you know it when you see it, but do you know how to spell it?

A Year By Any Other Name

I'm not getting any younger. We've all heard that time goes by faster as we age. I have the perspective of childhood memories to confirm that observation. When I was a kid, my busy mom would tell me to wait 10 more minutes until I could do something awesome, I swear I could feel my hair grow during the slow tic of 10 long minutes. During one such 10 minute vigil, I remember actually counting the seconds until 10 minutes were up. It felt as though I had finally counted to infinity. There, it could be done, infinity had been reached, now can we go to the pool?

But, as we age, the increased velocity of time is somehow seen as bad; time becomes slick and evades us, slipping through our hands until all of us a sudden we find ourselves eating dinner at 4pm and wearing a sweater in July.

Yesterday, Iron Skillet celebrated her 31st birthday. And while 31 is still considered young, I believe it is subject to debate. Everyone agrees that the major birthdays of 16, 18 and 21 are celebrated in the neon sunshine of youth, but 30...that's a moment to pause. Even for myself, as a 30-year-old, I've noticed store clerks refer to me as "ma'am" instead of "miss." Whoa, when did that happen? People, when they hear that I'm 30, reply in surprise, "wow, you don't look 30!" All this confirms that somewhere in our cultural psyche, 30 is registered as Young Old. In their 30s, people start to talk about youth as a state of mind instead of a physical reality. You don't hear 21-year-olds talking about their age, they're too busy learning existentialism and drinking Boone's Farm wine.

The odd thing about how quickly time flies as we age is that I don't seem to mind. I have nothing but the desire to be done with this phase of my life. Medical school is not a time in which I choose to languish. This four year stretch of time is like getting your teeth pulled without novocaine or whiskey. You want it quick, over with and then some really good vanilla ice cream.

So, let me age! If it means that this time will fly, buy me a girdle and call me over the hill.

During Iron Skillet's birthday celebration last night, however, the evening felt like it stretched on for week. It was wonderful. Over a beautiful bottle of wine, Iron Skillet and I came up with a list of 31 things we want to do in our lifetime. The list included everything from "make a soufflé" to "go to Africa." While Iron Skillet and I enjoyed a rare moment together of total relaxation, drinking wine and making up that list, it was the best kind of birthday celebration possible. Instead of noticing time moving quickly or slowly, we were suspended in the eternal timelessness of happiness. I think the passage of time is most enjoyed when it is not noticed. Life goes on, bliss fades, but moments like that last forever.

Prologue to Year II. Or: At least I don't Smell Like Formaldehyde

School has started. With summer vacation over, I've quickly adjusted to student mode, ready for the high-stress year ahead.

During the first week of school, I have already learned how to draw blood. It's not a hard skill to acquire, the hardest part was pushing the needle into another person's vein. Such a little needle, such a little vein, it felt like such a big deal. I can still count on one hand the number of hard skills I've acquired in medical school. At this point, I've earned more gray hairs than skills, if we're keeping score.

Second year of medical school is reputed to be the toughest academically. Much more information in much less time. On a positive note, this year will prepare us for the elusive thinking like a doctor--which is hopefully more rewarding than thinking like a confused, stressed out and overwhelmed medical student.

Over the summer I had a chance to speak with Amy, a good friend from undergrad, who is a resident in Opthalmology at the Mayo Clinic. She advised me to "trust the system" to prepare me for becoming a doctor. It's the first time that I've ever been encouraged to trust the system. Maybe it's something I'll have to do in order for patients to trust me. Maybe this academic gauntlet is actually useful in the world of professional medicine. Maybe I have to stop being a rebel for once and toe a line in order to learn the responsibility of other people's lives.

It will keep getting better, that's what I'm told. And to think one year ago I was heading down to the cadaver labs of Gross Anatomy. Just after one week of school, it is already a huge improvement to come home at the end of the day without having to wash the smell of embalming fluid from my skin. There's nothing like medical school to wipe clean your previous sense of standards.

It's Been Real

I remember my first exam for Gross Anatomy, August 28, 2007. Everything since then is a blur.
However, in one day from now, I will begin taking my last exam of first year.

While it feels good to write that, there will nothing that feels as good as the margarita directly afterwards.

Inspired by Cognitive Dissonance

I started this blog to create an index of the ups and downs of life as a medical student. After several months of cataloging this lifestyle, the pattern has become clear: about a few days before exam week, I have a melt-down. Not the kind of melt-down that I lay in the middle of my apartment wearing mis-matched socks, smoking cigarettes and twitching. That kind of meltdown sounds fun.

My meltdown usually hits three days before an exam. During the day, I feel fine, perhaps a bit stressed, but nothing out of the usual. No indigestion, sudden fatigue, phantom pain. And then, BAMN, I wake up at 3 a.m., convinced that my life has been little more than total failure. It's a 3 a.m. panic attack of "I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING. I'M GOING TO FAIL. AND I'M FAT. AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE. AND I'M LONELY. AND I'M NOT COOL. AND I THINK MY SISTER IS MAD AT ME. AND I NEED TO DO MORE YOGA. AND I DIDN'T REPLY TO THAT ONE E-MAIL. AND I NEED TO WASH THE DISHES. AND I'M GOING TO FAIL OUT OF SCHOOL. AND I NEED TO SHAVE MY LEGS."

Somewhere in the background of all the freaking-out, there is a little voice, barely audible, whispering, "Breathe." But the other voice, the shouting voice, is way louder and easier to listen to. Iron Skillet has referred to this phenomenon as my Witching Hour. Luckily, she's witnessed all the ups and downs, and knows that as soon as exams are over, I'm normal again. I sleep through the night. Yelling voice in my head goes away, and the whispering-breathy voice comes back. And I don't stay awake at 3 a.m., stressed out over the fact that I'm not relaxed.

Useful Knowledge

Design for the Real Nerd.

Instead of termites, they worry about books worms.

Umm...Never Mind

Had lunch with my folks yesterday. They have extended the length of their visit next month, so they can celebrate the end of school with me. I felt myself swallow every word typed into the previous blog. It felt like trying to swallow whole Doritos.

Visceral Reflexes

My parents are visiting from Los Angeles, CA. It's been great to see them, but no family visit is without its emotionally triggering moments.

Last night, Iron Skillet came home from work utterly depressed. She was crying in bed last night, lamenting the absence of meaning in her life. We stayed up late, trying to lighten the mood, realizing that we are both so strapped by our current lives.

This morning, I had an emotionally difficult conversation with my mom on the phone. My mom and dad are visiting Michigan for the week. I was supposed to have my family over for cocktails tomorrow evening, but had to cancel because I don't have time to play host.

My folks haven't been to my apartment very much and I was looking forward to having everyone over. I knew they were planning a return trip next month, after my exams. This morning, my mom told me they would be returning during my final exam week. DURING. Meaning: I'm totally useless. Can't relax around my family. Can't socialize. Can't host a cocktail party. They are leaving the day after my final exams.

Okay. I can roll. I've dealt with bigger blows. "Well, Lara," I asked myself, "what CAN I do?"


I can shore myself up. After hanging up with my mom (I was really only mildly upset), I sat down to watch a lecture on taste and smell. Because I CAN study! The lecture began. The first slide appeared: a diagram of the taste bud.

I tried so hard to concentrate. But listening to the professor go on about the minutia of taste buds, it felt so unimportant. I stared at the screen and started to cry. Studying while emotional is like driving drunk. You might think you're fine, but you're actually heading straight into oncoming traffic.


"Don't let it get to you," I kept telling myself. "Focusfocusfocus." I have a bad cold. I feel so disappointed. I had nothing to grasp onto but taste buds. TASTE BUDS. It got to me.

Because I'm human, not a machine. Because I can only memorize so many bodiless facts before I start to feel like a hollow shell of a student. Because school can often feel more like hazing than like education.

Less Than One Month

Four more exams.
28 more days.

One commentary on multiple choice exams.

Normal Schmormal

For the first time in many months, I had an actual weekend. I can explain. Last week was a crazy exam week. But with an exam last Friday, there was nothing to study over the weekend. So, when I woke up on Saturday morning, I had only house cleaning, errand running and friend catch-upping to do.

I spent time with my friend Jack and his boyfriend Harold up in Ann Arbor. We just hung out and and I realized how incredibly stressed I am all the time. Nowadays, I mostly hang out with medical students or Iron Skillet, all of whom are accustomed to the high level of daily stress of a med student. But Jack and Harold were acting like it was a Saturday. Because that's what most people do on Saturday.

Now that the weekend is over, today has been a slow introduction to the swing of things. I skipped the morning lectures to get organized for the week. Then I went and shadowed a doctor who has bad breath and porcelain statues of Jesus all over his office. One of his patients had a 1st degree burn on her right breast. She told the doctor she got the burn from drinking tea. I repeat, a First Degree Burn. When I asked how tea gave her that burn, both doctor and patient looked at me like, "You mean, you don't pour hot water all over your breasts when you drink tea?"

Normal was fun for a weekend.

Creataholics Annonymous

This is a story about taking the evening off. It may be inappropriate for children under 13.

Neuroscience has been taking up a lot of my time. As one of my classmates put it, "I had no idea the brain was so complicated." So, it's been a lot of sitting on my butt in the library drawing out the roadmaps that allow us to see, hear, read, bitch, write blogs, and come up with the Theory of Relativity. In no particular order.

This past week was a little bit Head of the Class and little bit Magnum PI. I'm working with the Palliative Care team at Big Parking Lot Hospital and there was an unusual string of circumstances with a patient. I felt like a nerdy student and an undercover detective all in one day. It took up quite a bit of time and required me to write a narrative for my supervising doctor. This small task completely drained me because I was actually asked to articulate a thought. That is something I haven't had to do since med school began. You mean, you don't want to know the function of the optic nerve? You don't want to know about the knee-jerk reflex? YOU WANT ME TO WRITE A NARRATIVE ABOUT MY FEELINGS?? But don't you know I am nothing more than a bunch of cold, hard facts?

So, I sat down and wrote about my feelings. After writing a little less than one page, I was completely drained. I sent it off, sat down on the couch and proclaimed the evening off.

The blog entry below is the result of that evening. If that blog entry could be made manifest, it would be a stray puppy with a broken leg crying for it's mom. Hungry. In the rain. And in Communist Poland. Before medical school, writing was always my refuge. I have always been able to turn to my creative side to help ease anxiety, sorrow and boredom. Now, a year into med school, the ol' brain is so stuffed with chockablock medical facts that it feels as if there's no room left for free, crazy, creative thought.

I called my friend Cheryl in New York. She directed a documentary about the U.S. Synchronized Swimming Olympic Team. There are times when the person you're calling HAS TO PICK UP THE PHONE. This was one of those times. She picked up the phone, she was busy, but could talk. And talk we did. About everything and nothing. She's doing really well, and it was fantastic to hear about it. As the conversation neared its close, I felt the ignition of a creative spark. She agreed to be my creativity sponsor. Similar to AA, when alcoholics about to relapse call their sponsor instead of drinking a bottle of tequila. I know that if I feel the creativity slipping from me, I can call her and she'll make sure I don't relapse into the Budweiser of self-wallowing.

Vice Grip

The longer I'm in med school, the farther away I feel from creative thought. Does this happen to everyone? Will it return? It's strange to try to feel inspired. I wonder if anyone peaked artistically in med school. If there's a peak, or a slope of any kind, it's a downward one for me. Just trying to write a narrative of a clinical experience required several first-starts before I wrote something interesting. I can't quite say what's happening, but it's akin to The Nothing.

Unofficial

Sitting at my desk, it occurred to me that I actually have an unpaid, unofficial, part-time job: I am an unemployed web surfer.  I hired myself for the job.  No resume, references or cover letter required.  Spanish wasn't even mentioned.  As a "freelance" web surfer, I get no benefits, no vacation or sick days, and no 401-K.  The job is not without perks, however. I get a collection of web sites that uplift, inspire, and waste lots and lots of time.

I'd like to share one of my favorite websites.  The site speaks for itself, as it's a daily snapshot of a Brooklyn photographer's breakfast.  (If only it were brunch...) There's something about the early-morning simplicity of her photos that sheds light on how morning people must see the world.

Now, web surfing can become your part time job, too: Simply Breakfast.  Enjoy!

Pons, Brought To You by Tampax

Neuroscience has started.  From what I gather, the class covers anatomy and physiology of the brain and nervous tissue.  I've never learned this stuff before.  As a former mental health professional, I've clearly given much thought to the mind, but I actually know very little about the brain--the noodle itself.  When studying the brain, I find it easy to have meta-moments: using my brain to understand the brain.  Whoa.  Dude.

At this point, I haven't learned too many brain structures or functions.  So, after two days worth of lectures, I'm mostly enjoying the funky names given to various structures.  First off, the pons.  It's from the Latin for "bridge," and, without it, we wouldn't have the signal to breathe. Kind of important.  It's also a fun word to say with a Midwestern accent: "paaaahnz."

Other fun names for structures:

• olive (pronounced just like the little Italian fruits from which we get our good oil.)
• gyrus (pl. gyri--these are the wrinkles on your brain.)
• cerebellar peduncle (sounds like a card game.)
• red nucleus (that's what I'd want my code name to be if I was a Cold War spy.)

I'll try to dazzle with more posts about the brain.  It's really my way of trying to stay engaged, in the hopes that whoever reads this will humor me as well.  Or pity me.  Or whatever, I'm going to go use my gyri and engage by cerebellar peduncles.  

Over and out, 

Red Nucleus. 

I Sprung Forward...

...and landed on my face.  School started today.  

Mt. Motherflip

A few days ago, I picked up lecture notes for the next two months of school.  I didn't put anything next to the pile of paper to give it scale, but for those of you who need scale, the pile is 10 inches, or 1,500 sheets of paper, thick.  So, that's about up by my waist, or actually I think it's taller than me, probably the size of a house, or a small apartment building.  Yeah, that's how much I have to read in two months.  About as much reading as Moby Dick, Anna Karenina, the Bible, and one People Magazine combined.

Brunch: The Corky of Meals

I was first introduced to brunch culture while living in New York.  There, brunch is an institution.  Combing the streets and avenues, you find restaurants you wouldn't dream of going to for breakfast, lunch or dinner, but come Sunday morning, there's a 3-hour wait.  There are restaurants designed to be ideal for brunch.  They have the perfect late morning light, the balanced sweet-savory menu, coffee, mimosas, waiters who understand it was a late night, a late morning, let me bring you a cup of joe to ease you into the last day of the weekend.  Because tomorrow is Monday, I'm so sorry.  In New York, brunch plans are almost as important--and often more enjoyable--than Saturday night plans.  Brunch is one of the few weekly NYC institutions that requires and perpetuates leisure.  

Sadly, Detroit is missing a quality selection of brunch places on Sunday morning.  Detroit is missing many hallmarks of leisure, brunch being the least important by far.  There is, however, a critical mass of diners for greasy-spoon breakfasts, great lunch places, and a wonderful organic cafe/bakery down the street.  But, where can I get eggs benedict? I know I sound spoiled--not hugely snobby, but lightly sprinkled with snob pepper.  I'm okay with that.  I reserve my right to long for what is not in Detroit, even if it is because Detroit's population could not support a fancy brunch place.  But maybe it could.  I'm here.  I know at least 50 other people in Detroit who share my demographic and love of goat cheese omelets. (Maybe with some roasted asparagus, side of potatoes, wheat toast with raspberry jam.  Just a suggestion, a thought.)

But it's not just the food that's great about brunch.  It's the idea that an entire meal has been created for those of us who opt to sleep in on Sunday morning.  It's a meal for people who take it slow.  In New York, most brunch places begin serving at 9am and don't stop until 6pm.  It's not breakfast, lunch or dinner.  It's the three-square meals' lazy, slow and friendly little brother.  With a special menu.  I don't know the history of brunch, where or when is started, or by which enterprising culture.  Because to research something like brunch is similar to looking up "fun" on Wikipedia. It doesn't matter. 

Today is Sunday.  And while my morning was relaxing and slow as molasses, something was missing. That cling and clang of silverware, coffee cups and newspapers.  The din of weary weekenders, the brunch community gathered for their weekly ritual: leisure made manifest.  But, as I sipped coffee in my apartment this morning, I thought of my New York counterparts, brushed some snob pepper off my shoulder and shrugged and the thought of getting elbowed  in line, waiting an hour for overpriced eggs.

Spring Break 'n' Leopard Print

Today:

Woke up, 9am. (sun visible in sky.)

Fantastic burrito made by Iron Skillet Shearer.

Lounge.

Watched a chiropracter crack spinal columns for four hours.

Went on a shopping spree: 4 tumblers, 1 floor lamp, 1 bottle bourbon.

Met Iron Skillet Shearer at home.

Ate dinner, drank some wine.

Felt HAPPY.

Lounge.

Put on Iron Skillet's leopard print pajama pants.

Sitting by the fire.

One of the best parts of hard work is noticing it's absence.

Hormones

I couldn't resist posting today.  In much need of an outlet.  Tomorrow (26 hours from now, to be exact), I have a physiology exam.  That's not so bad.  I'm getting used to having exams looming over my head like second hand smoke at your friend's mom's house when you were a kid, and when you come home and you still smell like Virginia Slim Ultra Light 100s.  

I am really tired of the pre-exam build-up.  Or, in other words, studying.  I'm sick of wading through hundreds of pages of information.  For example, during this 4-week unit on endocrinology, we've had six professors, all with their own style of writing notes, teaching, explaining.  There are hundreds of pages, thousands of different facts to memorize.  And no way of knowing what is more important than something else.  

I am sick of chasing hormones around pieces of paper, arrows pointing every which way.  If the human body was as disorganized our lecture notes, I don't think humans would've evolved beyond the little fish that walk on their elbows.  So, for the next 26 hours, I'm a disgruntled medical student.  Then I will be on spring break.   Until then, I have my agitation to deal with.  Aside from burnout, why am I so resistant to sitting down and learning calcium homeostasis? Maybe it's because I had fun this weekend.  Maybe because Diablo Cody won an Oscar for Best Screenplay for Juno, and I just found out she's 29.  And I'm 30.  And I haven't won an Oscar.  

Maybe it's because I'm wearing fleece sweatpants covered in cat hair.  Yeah, that's probably it.

Talk to Me, Goose

This post is simply for base-touching purposes.  I've actually been a bit too busy to procrastinate.  No blog entries.   I had my last biochemistry exam on Tuesday and am gearing up for the last physiology exam this upcoming Wednesday.  Then sweet, sweet spring break.  While I'm not going to go crazy in Cancun, it will feel like that on the inside.  

There's lots to write about, and I'll have more time after Wednesday.  I don't want to loose momentum this early in my blogging career, so I'm forcing myself to post right now between lectures on Puberty and the Pituitary Gland.  Ah, you can try to not be jealous.  

Silver White Winters That Melt

On a rare bender for February in Detroit, the sun has shone for the past two days straight.  I can almost hear people whistling.  Driving home from Big Parking Lot Hospital yesterday evening, I caught a smidge of sunset in my rear view mirror.  At first, I thought it was an air-brushed sunset scene on the guy's van behind me.  Another glimpse assured me it was THE sun setting in the sky with actual variation in color, tone and texture.   You know in Goonies, when Sloth realizes that there is such a thing as a Baby Ruth?  And he smiles diagonally and shakes his chains in delight.   That's how I felt.  

I'm not one to talk about the weather.  If put in a position to small talk, the weather is usually my last resort.  When I small talk about the weather I have to admit that I have nothing interesting to say about any other topic in the world. It's a declaration of boredom.

Except in Michigan.  In Michigan, during the 11.5 months of winter, talking about the weather is actually interesting.  It's not a topic for small talk either. It's a topic for deep, meaningful discussions.  My sister and I often discuss the weather.  She hates the cold and has loved the sun and warmth her entire life.  We're like a winter support group for each other.  We help each other cope with the dull malaise brought on by an endless parade of grey sky, bone-chilling wind, and days as long as a hyper kid's attention span.  

You don't realize how much the absence of sunshine affects you until you wake up--on the very rare occasion--to a blue morning sky filled with sunshine.  All of a sudden, you can get out of bed.  No problem!  Coffee tastes better.  Your sweater is softer.  The freezing morning air feels refreshing.  Look at my frozen breath!  It's so pretty.  Hey Mr. Homeless Man, here's a dollar for you, to "buy bus fair" to "get to work!"  Yes, "God bless you, too!" Look at the big, puffy clouds, they're shaped like cinnamon buns and baby chicks and spinning dreiedels! 

Yesterday, after parallel parking my car onto a patch of ice, I called my friend John to find out how he celebrated his birthday the day before.  John is in med school with me.  He's an interesting guy with interesting things to say.  Lately, though, he's been looking really tired and red-eyed.  He told me he bought himself a full-color spectrum sun lamp.   What an AWESOME gift!  The gift of sunlight.  The gift of joy and life and hope.  What a smart guy.   We talked about S.A.D.S. (Seasonal Affective Disorder Syndrome--an actual, diagnosable mental illness).  The sun lamp may be the only thing standing between him and going Swedish.

Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, looking up to the clear, azure sky.  I'm pretending it's late Spring, filled with fuzzy green buds, innocent yellow daffodils and the sound of tires in the parking lot spinning, trapped in knee-deep mud. 

Why July?

I thought that I should explain why I entitled this blog "Busy 'Til July."  In April 2007, I moved back to Michigan (from Portland, OR).  At that time, I made some phone calls to old friends.  A friend of mine, Nicole, was in her second year of medical school in Detroit. She was finishing up the year and about to begin studying for her Board exams.  I'll get into the Board exams later, but suffice it to say, they are MAJOR.   (Without getting into too many details, it is a series of exams that are leaps more annoying than most other annoying exams.  For example, most multiple-choice exams give the usual answer options A-E.  Five options.  Even if you guess, you have a 20% chance of getting it right.  Not terrible odds.  On the Boards, the answer options are listed A-K.  Eleven.  Eleven options all starring back.  Blank faced.  Guessing brings your odds of a correct answer down to a measly 9%.  And it is not just a matter of passing, it's a matter of doing so well that you get a competitive residency, which is what determines your job, which is what you work so hard for and sacrifice so much.  One exam.  In July.)

So, Nicole was about to begin studying.  I called her to hang out.  She told me she was busy studying.  I asked when she'd be free.  She thought about it, and replied, "I'm pretty much busy until July."  She wasn't exaggerating. She wasn't being funny.  She was actually busy studying until July. It was early April.  (No small aside: she rocked the exam.)  By that time, I already knew I was going to med school and knew that in two years, it will be my turn to look down the list of A-K.  It struck me as a small glimpse into the life ahead.

That pretty much captures the spirit of this blog.  At this point, I pretty much feel that I'm busy until...2011? During first-year orientation, an academic counselor actually suggested that on our voice mail, we record something like, "Hi, you've reached Lara.  I'm a first year medical student and I probably won't be able to call you back."  During those first days and weeks of school,  I looked at second year medical students, and wondered how they had gotten through it, how they had managed to pass their classes.  How they remembered to make a sandwich after cramming so much other information into their brains.  

The key is, like hot water, you get used to it.  A four-year long tub of very hot water.  And as soon as you think you might be used to it and you can stop squirming around, they turn on the water and crank up the heat. But day by day, month by month, time goes on and you know that if you wait it out, you'll be okay.  At least, that is, until July.

Busy Until Next Week

We all know that life is cyclic.  Eon by eon, century by century, and minute by minute, we experience the rise and fall of galaxies, empires, hormones, sun tans.  The axes upon which these cycles revolve vary, and so does our ability to perceive them.  Our lives themselves may seem linear, with a definite beginning, middle and end.  This apparent linearity is evident in how different the end of life appears from the beginning.  For example, as a recently-turned 30 year old, I can hardly relate to the person I was ten years ago.  But, perhaps, this process of maturation and growth isn't so linear, as it is a first time around in my cycle.  Maybe as I age, I will seem more and more familiar to myself, until I recognize myself in all that I do, similar to that of a child.  "Really, though," my sister observed recently about her twin three-year old sons, "they act like old men sometimes." So, maybe taking a step back, we see how the extremes of life are not so different after all.  And if we take a step even farther back, we can see how we are created from the earth's matter and return to the earth at the end.  

The current axis around which my cycle revolves is the ebb and flow of exam time.  As a first year medical student, I am enrolled in two main courses at any one time.  In the beginning of the school year, I tangoed with Anatomy and Histology.  Embryology was incorporated into Histology.  The third class that runs the entire academic year is called Clinical Medicine, where we are taught exactly that, clinical medicine.  The class includes some gravy topics, like evidence-based medicine, complementary and alternative medicine and other such catchalls not included in basic medical science.

After the whirlwind of Anatomy and Histology, we began Biochemistry and Physiology.  These two classes are appreciably more interesting than the first two--because they are more than memorization, memorization, memorization--but it's still too easy to complain about them.  

In one week (here is the cycle of my life) we have our last biochem exam.  A week after than, the final physiology exam, followed by spring break, followed by the final push towards summer vacation.  

In many ways, this has been an absolutely bizarre year.  Medical school gives a certain amount of assurance about my future.  Long term, I know I will have a job that I will most likely enjoy. I know that I will not have to worry about paying off my substantial student debt and for the most part I will be able to make a difference in the lives of my patients.  But, aside from those securities, I feel completely insecure.  

Hopefully, this blog will be a respite from that insecurity, an outlet for the emotional ups and downs endemic to life as a medical student.  

So, the countdown begins.  Six more days left of biochem.  On the seventh day, I'll be able to take a breather, see a movie, relax a bit, until the cycle of stress and pressured studying begins again.  We'll see how this blog project responds to cycle.  Hopefully, it will not be my greatest accomplishment of these next four years.