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Addie's General Awesomeness

I've been on a Spuffy binge for the last two weeks. It's like crack cocaine, but worse.

The crackiest of the crack cocaine is written by Addie Logan, my personal heroine. She writes the bestest Spuffy ever. If I've read _Need_ once, I've read it a hundred times. _A Pirate's Life for Me_ is absolutely brilliant and is a hundred times more effective than celexa for curing depression. Everything she writes is amazing.

Addie, if you ever read my posts, please please please write more on Learning Curve, 'cause I think it's the best thing you've ever done.

I just wanted to take a minute and record my thoughts on how brill Addie is.

Bedtime now. I'm whipped.

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Oh yuk

There's a Walgreen's ad on my banner! Ew!

The Great Hysterectomy Adventure


At least today didn't suck quite as badly as I thought it would.

In fact, it was surprisingly good.

I adore Dr. R, whose OR I attended today. I got to do stuff, he was nice to me (why do I act like this is a big deal) and it was a great, great day. The resident was nice to me, and I had a shockingly good day. The patients were sweet, the cases were interesting and I got to write some orders and pretend I was still on medicine even though there was blood running down my leg at one point.

One thing that really surprised me was Dr. R. The resident asked us what procedure we were doing on one patient, and I chimed in with the answer because I'd read the chart the night before. Well, Dr. R. contradicted me and said we were doing a procedure he'd done on her 2 years ago. I didn't say anything, even though I knew I was right. After all, attendings are always right and clerks are always wrong, and when the reverse is  true, vide supra, baby.

Later that same day, Dr. R. took me aside, thanked me for my help on the first two cases and then told me that I was right about the third case! An attending, acting like a human and admitting that he was wrong. Will wonders never cease? Anyway, that settled it for me. Dr. R has my unswerving devotion after that. See how easy I am? A little respect and I'll follow you to the gates of hell.

I wish I could be as optimistic about tomorrow. The AM should be good, lots of clinic procedures, but the PM will be spent with the MEga Bitch herself. This wouldn't be so bad except that she was my teacher in first year and decided that since I have an alphabet soup behind my name (in the hard sciences no less) then I am completely incapable of talking to people. This is, of course, crap, because the very next year, one of my profs told me I could talk to anyone about anything and make them feel entirely comfortable. 

So it's bedtime now. I have to be at the hospital for ~6.30 tomorrow morning so I can round on my patients and write my orders before my R5 shows up to do exactly the same thing again behind me. I love how efficient we are: let's duplicate each other's work.

The only good thing about being at the hospital that early is that the outside chance exists that I might run into COB. He has to be at work early to round too. I know it won't happen now because I'm thinking about it (it's like the opposite of magical thinking; if I think about it, then it won't happen) but if I have to have clinic with the dragoln lady herself, then the universe owes me a little something by way of karmic repayment, doesn't it? 

Thirteen days of gyne left...

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So my first day was not nearly as bad as it could have been. We had a loooong and largely irrelevant orientation session in the AM, followed by a two hour lunch, during which I watched CNN and CTV News Net, which reminds me why I never watch the news. My blood pressure is still coming down. Grrr... I hate politics.

Anyway, I survived my PM clinic w/ a nice doc, and it was entirely speculum-free. Apart from the officious lawyer who didn't want to talk to me, the lowly medical student, it was a decent afternoon.

I prepped for my OR day tomorrow, read all the patients' charts and wrote progress notes and I'm a freaking rock star.

Of course this meant an eleven hour day. With two teaching sessions. Argh. I am not so sure I really want to learn that much... If I could spend those two hours in bed instead, I'd be so much happier... and if I weren't alone, well, it would be the trifecta, wouldn't it?

Came home, ran a 15K in the wind. I think I have  a stress fracture in my foot. I should really know what joint it is. I"ll talk to the ortho keener who's on w/ me. He'll be able to tell me. IT hurts like a bugger. I hope it's not a stress fracture. I logged 60K last week, and 100K the week before. If I'm going to be 140 for my interviews, I've gotta keep pounding away. Raiining and I are going to run the Bay this spring. If I want to finish that, I need to keep my distance up.

In other news: only fourteen days of gynaecology left. Weekends don't count.

I think I'd hate this rotation less if there were cute men for me to look at. I think I should offer that suggestion at the feedback session. Won't that win me friends?

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Another Day, Another Crazy Person

Another day, another crazy person.

Having a great time on service now, though. My new R1 is a rock star. Fun, funny, makes me laugh.

Of course he's married, which means that I can talk to him. In fact, we sit around and gossip and shoot the bull and my patients never get seen. Well, the lady who weeps doesn't get seen. No great loss.

Ran into one of the R4's who I think is a cool, cool person. Absolute sweetheart, great clothes, great shoes, fun, fabulous. She said she wants a dog as a boyfriend substitute (someone to laze around the house, get fat and drool...oh,yeah, and adore her). If someone as fab as she is single, what hope is there for someone as awkward and useless as me?

And the girls' previous hypothesis that I'm being crushed upon... well, two days of ignored (including greetings and smiles) equals no crush in my world. Self-sabotage, thy name is Eliza. It's like as soon as I clue in to what's going on (and start thinking I might like back) it evaporates. Go me.

The prospect of no dog in residency scares me. I've already decided I'm not sure I want a cat... I don't want to become one of those crazy depressed ladies who tries to kill herself because her cat died. The crazy cat lady stereotype is strongly rooted in truth; indeed, I have seen it with my own  eyes. It scares me. I don't want to become the crazy cat woman. Of course my reality testing isn't impaired. Yet.

Three more years of celibacy might change that.

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To be or not to be (ambivalent)

So the countdown to 30 continues.

As does the freaking out. I want to do something special for myself, but I have no idea what this is.

I scored the day off work (oh, bliss) after my exam. I'm going for lunch with my dear beta, raiining, then for a nice long run (15-20-25K or so...), then to the french bistro w/ my friends and from there to the pub with the good food and the organic beer. And none of this includes the weekend of fun that awaits once raiining's honey arrives and the three of us go out for sushi and more beer, probably at the pub w/ the good beer and the weak food.

So what should I do for myself, to celebrate 30 years of survival?

Overpriced yoga pants? A facial? Sexy patent leather boots in fire-engine red?

All three?

I guess I find this all so hard because everything I want is vastly overpriced and I feel horrendous guilt over spending money I don't have on indulgences.

But you only turn 30 once.

And sometimes I feel like I'm making too big a deal about all of this, this turning 30. But it's forced me to look at things (or maybe it's the psychiatry rotation). I can admit to myself that there are things I want... of course money can't buy any of them: a happy long-term relationship. A baby. My dad to be healthy. An easy decision about where to go for residency (and why on earth am I making that decision harder than it needs to be? Stupid, stupid, stupid) World peace. (hey, I don't just think about myself)

I really want to shake this feeling I have inside, that there is something going on that I can't see, that someone, somewhere knows exactly what the right thing for me is (not just in a birthday gift, but in the rest of my life)... and if I could find this prophet, they could tell me what the 'right' decision for me is.

I feel like my ambivalence (NOT ambivalency... I wanted to smack that man in rounds last week) about my birthday gift to myself mirrors my ambivalence about where to go for the next stage of my training. If I go home, what will happen? If I stay, what will happen? If I go to the prairies or the west coast, what will happen? Which is the right one? Where do I belong? Am I clinging desperately to some stupid (stupid, stupid) notion that Prince Charming (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) exists out there somewhere for me?

I feel like if I go home (which I really, really should do), I'm sentencing myself to a solitary existence, that I'll never find anyone there. I feel like I have no reason to stay except that it would be so easy to stay, that the next three years would zip by... but this is not the town for the single, professional woman. Of course, we've established that there is no town that could work for my constellation of social awkwardness and excessive education...

Maybe I focus too much on my own misery. Even a 15K today couldn't dislodge the blues entirely.

I know I need to get rid of these thoughts. It would be so much easier if I were busier at work.

Clearly, I have found the solution: I need to deal with more crazy people.

SSRI's, anyone?


 

Sometimes, I forget how lucky I really am.

It should be easy, being me. I am happy at work (or I will be once I start getting paid), I have great friends who are willing to let me moan about my problems, and then run excessive distances with me so I can forget about them. I have a family who adore me and are proud of me, even when we drive each other crazy. I don't want for things (although I desperately covet Lululemon reverse groove pants and some wine-coloured patent leather heels from Camper), I have enough to eat and I'm healthy. I have jingle in my jeans and a smile on my face.

But I'm single, and I'm fast approaching my 30th birthday.

This fills me with trepidation.

Not that my 20s were so great: I had my heart ripped out and stomped on more than once, I could not for the life of me find a boyfriend who could really push my buttons (and certainly not one whose ego was able to handle my temper or my professional credentials, or who viewed my earning potential as an excuse to stay home and not get a job), I was far from my family and I hated grad school like sciatic back pain.

But there is something scary about turning 30. I'm entering a new decade, and I feel like I"m not done with the last one.

My friends, my younger cousins, they're all pairing off and reproducing. I have been to two weddings in two weekends (no date for either, thanks very much) and I'm acutely aware of my declining number of fertile years, the fact that I haven't had a boyfriend in three years (nor even a date) and I'm prepared to accept that I might never find true love or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

But part of me, the part that still likes to walk by the wedding dress shop and look at the gowns in the window and sigh, who hangs out on the maternity floor (I'm a medical student) hoping to cuddle the babies, who daydreams about finding someone who'll want to spend Saturday morning in bed, working on the NYT crossword and eating croissants, someone who will laugh with me, fight with me and accept that my family is, well, my family... she wants to be in love again, more than she wants to draw her next breath.

So when my nice Italian lady patient offered to pray for me, that I would find a nice boy, I was grateful, but little Eliza inside, well, I think she started breakdancing.

Until little Eliza realized: our little Italian lady was going to pray to St. Anthony.

The patron saint of lost causes.