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.