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.