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.