Running with Hemostats

The End Is Nigh

2014-04-11T18:14:00.000-05:00

Dun dun dunnnn...

I've been thinking about what to do with this blog for a while now. It all started as a vehicle for venting about medical school, and, for a good while, it served its purpose. But now that I've matched and med school is almost over (Huzzah!), I'm not really sure what to do with this space. Maybe it's time to put this thing to bed...

September 15th

2013-09-24T20:45:00.001-05:00

Yes, yes, I realize today is September 24th.

But since we're talking about dates, because I brought it up and all, I always wear a watch that has the date because I can never remember the date. Random dates, I know well.

325 - Council of Nicea.
1066 - Norman invasion of England.
1283 - Dante sees Beatrice for the first time.
September 29, 2013 - Series finale of Breaking Bad.

But the date, as in the date of the actual present day, I have a hard time remembering. Especially when I'm on nights where you start on one day and end on another and then the days start to meld together and you lose track of time. All this leads to this niggling... concern that if I were to ever have to have the mini mental status exam done on myself, that I would fail it because I can't remember what day/date it is and would be considered not oriented to time and thus declining. Anyway...

September 15th.

More specifically, September 15th, 9 AM ET, the date you can certify and submit your myERAS application and begin applying to residency programs. I played it cool. I followed my usual Sunday morning routine. Then I had lunch. I even took a nap. And then I certified and submitted my application and went on with my life.

But yesterday, I made the mistake of visiting the SDN forums, the place where pre-meds, med students, and residents go to have meltdowns over minor things and psych each other out.

I went to the ERAS and NRMP Match forum, and that was when I saw The Posts. The Posts where people were talking about how they already got interview offers. A couple of people even got interview offers Last Week, the first week ERAS was open. People were getting interviews and on my end it was complete Radio Silence.

And of course, I started thinking about what would happen come March 17th if I did not match. And what would happen if I still couldn't find a position during the SOAPy/Scrambly days. And what would happen if by graduation I remained, essentially, unemployed.

And then I got a zit on my chin. The first zit I've gotten in... I don't even remember when.

But today, today, I heard the little ding of the special alert I set on the Boxcar app letting me know whenever I get an email from the AAMC. Ding! And I saw It. The First Interview Invite.

Somebody likes me on paper!

And this is a huge deal for me. Huge. Ginormous really. Because the majority of the faculty and administration at my medical school, save for the ones who have stood by me and stood up for me, are all expecting me to not match because my medical school academic record is like one big, ugly zit that no one wants to have, and I was warned that if I did not match, it would not be the school's fault but rather my own fault. All my fault.* All at once I texted my brother, called my mom, and sent a reply back scheduling my interview.

I am very talented like that.

Also, somebody likes me!

*No shit. I got that in an actual letter. From the dean. He's now no longer dean though.

Stellaaaa!

2013-09-11T13:52:00.000-05:00

Stella turns three today.

And I've turned into that crazy dog lady who makes collages of her dog.

And buys a cookie cake for her dog.

It says "Yappy Barkday." Get it? YAPPY BARKDAY! I am easily amused.

(Confession: I tried the icing, and it was pretty damn good. DON'T JUDGE.)

At least I didn't make a birthday slideshow complete with a soundtrack...

(I did think about it though.)

My dog is cuter than your baby.

Incontinence, Incompetence

2013-06-08T01:50:00.000-05:00

It's 1:57 AM, and I can't sleep. Normally, sleep is not an issue for me. I am a champion sleeper. I can sleep for 12 hours, and then a few hours later, go take a nap. Unlike some people, I have no problems adjusting to night float because I can sleep anytime. I love sleep.

I love it.

But tonight I just. cannot. sleep. All I can think about is how I hate standardized patients with the white-hot passion of a thousand burning suns.

Hate! Thousand burning suns!

I had an OSCE ~~yesterday~~... ~~two days ago~~... Thursday. I had an OSCE on Thursday. Anyway, OSCE. Standardized patients. Supposedly standardized and supposedly well trained, right? Yet, I had a BPH "patient" dock me for not asking if he had a problem with incontinence. What happened, as is evident on a video recording, was that I asked, "Have you ever had a problem with not making it to the bathroom in time or with leakage of urine?" That's what incontinence means, you bleepity bleeping bleep!

Oh, but it doesn't end there. No, no... It gets better. Or worse, shall I say? I had another "patient" claim I didn't do a knee exam for her "knee pain." What the hell does she think I was doing with her knees for five minutes?! I'll tell you what the hell I was doing. I was doing the patellar ballotment and apprehension tests, patellar grind test, valgus and varus stress tests, Lachman's test, posterior drawer test, and McMurray test.

Knee exam. Boom.

But here's the real kicker. We don't have staff physicians or residents grading us. We have the standardized patients (a.k.a. unemployed people plucked off the street who have to be explained what "standardized patient" means in picture form*) grading us.

See Dick cough. See Jane have chest pain.

Hell, I'd even take a first year med student over the standardized patient as my grader.

Might I add this was 35% of my grade?

See Cat tear out her hair.

*I shit you not.

The Tale of El Jefe

2013-03-15T12:39:00.001-05:00

EL JEFE

[storms up to the registration desk]

My wife has a postpartum fever and needs to be seen immediately!

CLERK

[uber calm]

Sir, there are three people ahead of you.

EL JEFE

I am the chief of surgery, and my wife needs to be seen immediately!

CLERK

[still uber calm]

Sir, there are three people ahead of you.

EL JEFE

Did you not hear me?! I am the chief of surgery!

CLERK

Sir, I'm sure your mother is very proud, but there are still three people ahead of you.

***

Oh, snap.

Shoulda Woulda Coulda

2013-03-14T13:44:00.000-05:00

Not to get all self-congratulatory, but how good am I at keeping my new year's resolutions? Okay, sure, I haven't posted in three-and-a-half months, but hey, that's a lot better than my record last year.

So for you folks following at home, at this juncture I should have:

finished 3rd year.
knocked out Step 2 CK and CS.
started 4th year.
applied to and interviewed for residency.
submitted my rank list.
and, lastly, be eagerly awaiting Match Day (which is tomorrow) because Woohoo! First real-paying job after a bajillion years of higher education!

Well... yes and no. And I could go into all the reasons why things got stalled but that would just stir back up a vat of vitriol and feelings of hate and then I would spend the next few days in bed eating all the Easter candy in the house except that I can't eat because I have gastritis and every time I eat it feels like there's an alien baby implanted in my epigastrium trying to claw its way out with its tiny, yet sharp, fingernails because all babies want to get borned!

There I go again, talking about all my ailments like the old lady that I am. Anyway...

So, yes, I'm still in med school. Just call me Daniel Desario. Danielle Desario? Desaria? I don't know.

2012

2012-12-31T11:41:00.000-06:00

So... it's been 394 days since I last posted on this blog.

Three hundred and ninety-four days.

See, the thing about not posting an entry for a while is that there's this incredibly overwhelming pressure to churn out something really, really good when you finally do. Something that's full of wit and hilarity with a heavy dose of profound insight, punctuated by an inspiring tale of triumph that will have people jumping out of their seats in excitement because CAT'S BACK ALRIGHT!

Now throw your hands up in the air. And wave 'em around like you just don't care. ... Everybooooody, yeaaahhhh, rock your booooody, yeaaahhhh. ...

BSB 4eva!

No! 'N Sync 4eva!

It's an inner turmoil I have been struggling with for over a decade. It's tearin' up my heart.

Anyway... Resolution time! I solemnly swear that I will be a less naughty blogger next year and post more often. This I promise you. You'll be seeing more of me in 2013. (As if the interwebs needed any more stories about medical school.) Until then...

Bye bye bye.

Thoughts on the Train Wreck Saga

2011-12-03T13:03:00.000-06:00

Because I have a tendency to make bad decisions after taking an exam, I helped make Stephenie Meyer become $10 richer last night. I also went to Saks and bought boots that I don't need and then on to MAC because a girl cannot have too many lipsticks. Viva Glam!

Anyway... Breaking Dawn: Part 1... Thoughts, I have them.

Thought #1: Why is everyone okay with Bella getting married at, what, 17, 18 years old? Seriously, why did no one address this? There was never a moment where someone suggested, hey, maybe you should go to college or get a job or experience something other than an unhealthy relationship with a guy who breaks into homes and watches girls sleep. Take a lesson from Buffy and get a life.

Thought #2: So Edward and Jacob were afraid that sexy times with Edward would kill Bella... because Edward's vampire lovin' is so powerful? I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this one, but okay...

Thought #3: How can Edward--being a vampire and, hence, dead--have an erection if there isn't any blood circulating throughout his body? Because an erection occurs when the corpus cavernosum becomes engorged with blood. And I'm quite certain sex with a flaccid penis doesn't work out very well. Also, last I checked, when a man dies, his sperm dies with him because sperm are living cells. So if Edward can actually have an erection, he should be shooting blanks. But yet he can impregnate someone. Kelly Bensimon's gibberish makes more sense to me than this. Satchels of gold!

Thought #4: Where is Dakota Fanning? Wiki tells me that after the credits there's a scene featuring the Volturi. Yeah, I didn't stay for that. I'm actually kinda regretting it because I like me some Michael Sheen. We are destined to settle for one another.

Thought #5: So Bella needs to replace the nutrients her vampire tumor/fetus/baby is sucking out of her. Hook her up with some TPN. Duh. Think, Carlisle. And having Bella drinking blood out of a styrofoam cup through a straw? Couldn't they have transfused her? Oh, wait, it's because Carlisle says that drinking blood will help it absorb into her system faster. Except that it doesn't. The difference between oral and IV is IV administration allows for greater bioavailability because it can bypass the first pass effect. Duh, again. And you call yourself a doctor, Carlisle...

Thought #6: Rosalie cut through Bella's abdomen in an UNSTERILE FIELD. Way to kill her faster, Rosalie.

Thought #7: Did Edward really have to eat his way through Bella's uterus in order to deliver the demon spawn? I mean, there were surgical instruments just a few feet away. As if the stretch marks made by your rapidly growing demon spawn weren't bad enough.

Thought #8: Naming the baby Renesmee? Seriously? Why didn't someone say something? Sure, there was some smirking and stifled giggles but friends don't let friends name their baby Renesmee. No one would call Barbara Ann Barbann because that's stupid. Stupid like the name you just came up with.

Thought #9: Jacob "imprinting" on a baby? The vampire baby of the girl he's been pining over for the past three films? What kind of messed up Mormon child bride crap is that?

And finally...

Thought #10: Why was this film split into two parts? There is not enough plot to justify that. Jacob loves Bella. Bella loves Edward. Bella and Edward get married. Bella gets knocked up and foolishly extends the pro-life concept to include mutant monsters. It was like being at a never-ending Indian wedding. Let's get down to business and eat cake already. Speaking of which, throughout all the wedding scenes, I kept wondering what flavor the cake was. Red velvet, perhaps? Or maybe rum mocha? Or how about chocolate hazelnut?

Who's hungry for cake?

Mac Daddy

2011-11-25T09:38:00.000-06:00

During my anesthesiology elective I found out that every anesthesiologist and his dog had a Macbook, an iPad, and an iPhone 4S. That was also when I learned what "running rooms" really meant for the supervising anesthesiologist. It meant signing off the CRNA and then going back to the office to check ESPN to figure out which team you should pick for your fantasy football Survivor League.

(Answer: Picking the Green Bay Packers can win you $10,000. No shit.)

Of course, I am very impressionable. Who wouldn't look up to someone who wears pajama-like clothes to work and spends most of the day playing on his iPad? And so I decided that I need more Apple in my life.

Last year I was in the market for a new laptop because every time I did a block of USMLEWorld questions my lap would get just a tad too toasty and that was no bueno. And for someone who cannot stand the sound of ticking clocks, the loud fan on my laptop was pushing me towards the edge of sanity. And even then I was all torn up inside on what operating system I should go with. The problem was that I was a little scared of Macs. Even though they were the standard at my grade school and I grew up on Macs, I've been a PC since I was 14 years old--that's a decade and then some. And it's hard to teach an old Cat new tricks. So I went with a PC because at that point, my wee little brain was at capacity and overwhelmed with basic science nonsense. Basic science nonsense, I might add, that has been very unhelpful when I'm being pimped on ICU rounds. TPN goal rate, say what? Apparently "Ask the dietician" is not the answer that the attending was looking for.

So I stayed a PC. And then just as my warranty was out, I became a PC who was constantly being terrorized by the Blue Screen of Death. And when the Blue Screen of Death struck as I was working on my case presentation for surgery, I just about died because OMFG! My beautiful slides on papillary serous carcinoma!

And so after my oral surgery boards on Wednesday, I got a Macbook Pro. I figured if I can manage to keep myself from peeing in my pants while being grilled by two surgeons I've never met before, surely I can figure out how to work a Mac. And I did figure it out. And you know what the BEST part of having a Mac is? It's being able to type notes while using the USMLEWorld Qbank. You can't do that on a PC because you get locked out of every other program while you're in USMLEWorld on a PC.

I feel so empowered now.

Surgeons Say the Darndest Things

2011-11-07T19:18:00.001-06:00

On a medical student with shaky hands in the OR...

Stop shaking like a whore in church.

On a male medical student saying, "Thanks for letting me watch," to a patient after a breast exam...

Just a matter of semantics, but you go home and you watch porn. In medicine, you observe patients.

On being given breast cases...

I don't do breast cases! Stop sending me these breast cases! It's like dropping a giant dove turd on my head.

On Siri...

So if you listed me in your phone as "Cocksucker" and said into the phone, "Call Cocksucker," it would dial my number?

On how to fix an iatrogenically perforated aorta...

First, I would go take a dump.

On how to describe an abscess...

Why can't I say pussy? What's wrong with pussy?

On one of the (black) scrub techs taking paternity leave...

I don't mean this as a racial comment, but if we wanted to, we could totally blackball you.

On the difficulty of having to hold the laparascopic camera for hours on end...

Is it tougher than being unemployed?

On getting a full education in surgery...

Do you feel cheated that I'm not yelling at you? Because you're paying to be here. I can yell at you... DAMNIT, CAT! ... That actually felt pretty good.

The Return of Cat

2011-09-02T14:09:00.001-05:00

I have not died yet. The bronchitis did not kill me. The costochondritis did not kill me. The gastritis did not kill me. And with a little help from my friend levothyroxine, my TSH levels are back to normal. Even the USMLE did not do me in.

You are my bitch, USMLE!

However, notice I said that I have not died yet. Key word being yet because this surgery rotation that's coming up might just be the death of me. Perhaps if I chant "Surgery is fun," three times in front of a mirror in the dark, it might just come true.

Oh wait... that's for summoning Bloody Mary.

Surgery is fun?

Hold me.

Who Moved My Yarn Stash?

2011-04-13T19:28:00.003-05:00

I've been acutely aware of my mortality for years now. I got my first gray hair when I was 11 years old.

In high school, my friends predicted I would become the crotchety old lady who whacks children in the shin with her cane as I yell, "Get off my lawn!" because I was (and still am) chronically annoyed.

In college, I would consistently get back pain after organic chemistry lab because of all the standing I had to do as I waited for those damn reactions to run. This was also when I started using anti-aging products. I may be a crotchety old lady at heart but I didn't want to look it and prevention is key.

Up until last summer, I lived in an apartment complex where three-quarters of the residents was made up of college students. I would hear them staggering in the hallway late at night, which would lead me to silently glare at them through my peephole.

Soon after I had moved, I encountered a new type of nuisance: the noisy upstairs neighbor. So I did what any crotchety old person would do. I got the broom. And I tapped on the ceiling. Four times. I was officially the crabby old lady in apt. 511.

But that wasn't the moment when I knew I had reached old lady-dom. That happened when I got a pill organizer, complete with the days of the week labeled in black print and in Braille (in case I ever go blind) and AM and PM compartments. I'm currently on four different prescription medications and taking one over-the-counter pill. Apparently, the average elderly American is on 4-5 prescription medications and 2 over-the-counter medications. Whoo! Polypharmacy! Fist bump, granny!

But there's more to my old lady ways than just my pill organizer. In the span of one month, I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism, contracted bronchitis, coughed so badly due to my bronchitis that my coughing turned into retching, which turned into vomiting (In case you ever wondered, asparagus is still recognizable as asparagus after it's been in the stomach for an hour.), and now I have what appears to be the signs of costochondritis. Oh, and did I mention that last summer I learned I was severely vitamin D deficient and had slightly microcytic anemia? I am deteriorating as we speak.

At least I still have control over my bowel movements. For now...

UPDATE 2 MAY 2011 I now have gastritis from all the aspirin I took for my costochondritis, which probably wouldn't have happened if I hadn't had bronchitis. I might as well start looking into nursing homes.

This Space for Rent

2011-02-24T13:51:00.002-06:00

Hello, two remaining people who still check this site. (Shout out to Anonymous 1 and Anonymous 2! Holla!) As you may have noticed, I've been MIA since last October. The reason I haven't been updating is because, well, there hasn't been much to update. My life is pretty much at a standstill at the moment. I'm currently in med school limbo (i.e., on leave of absence). Because while I can explain all the physiological reasons why The Human Centipede can never be a viable species and give a differential diagnosis and treatment plan for the Black Swan, I cannot seem to, for the life of me, pass my freakin' board exam.

I did, however, complete my psychiatry rotation and ended up doing quite well, so there's still hope for me yet. Also, I've been finding lately that I have trouble reading my own handwriting, so surely that's a sign that I'm meant to be a doctor, right?

Right?!

And I am, if anything, tenacious. On the streets, they call me Tenacious C.

Westside!

So you better watch it, USMLE. Because I am coming for you. And with my little dog, too. By our powers combined, I am Captain Planet!

Study Buddy Stella

Psych!

2010-10-25T22:12:00.012-05:00

Remember how in the Sweet Valley series whenever anyone was excited about something, they'd say they were so psyched? Like "I'm so psyched about Lila Fowler's party!" Or "I just got asked out on a date by Bruce Patman! I'm so psyched! Oh, no! I have nothing to wear! I need to go to the mall!"

That has nothing to do with this post except that it involves the word psych and I'm currently on my pyschiatry clerkship. I think it's a pretty good service to start off with after having not seen patients in, oh... six months what with all the Step 1 studying I had to do and then do some more. The attendings are fairly laid back. Most days are 8am to 5pm. There's no overnight call--only two nights of short call.* And every weekend is a Golden Weekend--just like normal working people! How exciting! I am so psyched!

So psychiatry... nothing's happened so far except for orientation with today being the first day and all. I now have five--count 'em five!--ID badges. It's like I'm a janitor but instead of having a bunch of keys I have a bunch of ID badges so I'm not really like a janitor but more like Girl with Lots of ID Badges. Anyway, orientation was same ole, same ole.

This is the hospital. Don't let the fact that it looks eerily a lot like Shutter Island scare you. But if a patient attacks you, here are some techniques on how to handle the situation. When you're backing away, make sure you back towards an exit, not into the patient's room where they can really get on you. And remember to always have your key with you lest you be locked in the hospital.

And then there were questions to answer to ensure that we learned something during orientation. One of the questions the social worker leading orientation asked was "True or false: Does schizophrenia mean multiple personalities or split personality?" To which I cleverly answered (or so I thought), "True and false." And before I could complete my thought, she went into full-on teaching mode, which I didn't mind, because she's just trying to educate me. Also, I didn't want to be that argumentative weird girl who talks about words with Greek roots. But since this, here, is my blog, I can talk about whatever I want, including words with Greek roots.

So my complete thought: While schizophrenia has distinct hallmarks of hallucinations, delusions, paranoia, and disorganized thought and speech and is not to be confused with multiple personality disorder which is now called dissociative identity disorder, the term schizophrenia has Greek origins meaning "split (schizein) mind (phren)". The misconception of schizophrenia arises in part due to the literal interpretation of the term.

Gosh, I am that weird girl, aren't I?

*For all you regular people out there, short call means I work from 8am until midnight. I know what you're thinking. Oh, the horror! But it's not that bad. Working 16 hours is a lot better than working 30 hours. Well, with the new regulations, it's now 24 hours. And it's way better than surgery where you have to arrive around 4am. So really, The Suck Factor is all relative.

Maim That Tune

2010-10-02T10:41:00.002-05:00

My brain's been like a broken jukebox all week. It started Sunday morning during Mass. While everyone was singing "Alleluia," out of nowhere "Hava Nagila" sprung into my head. A song sung at Jewish weddings and Bar/Bat Mitzvahs came into my head during a Catholic religious service--the irony does not escape me.

I don't even know all the words to "Hava Nagila." All I know is Hava nagila / Hava nagila / Hava nagila na na na na na na na na na na na na... aaaaand repeat. All. Sunday. Long--my abridged version of "Hava Nagila" on a continuous loop. On Monday it would occasionally warp into Molly Shannon's version of "Hava Nagila" from Will & Grace. While doing blocks of questions in USMLE World, I would randomly bust out with Gosh and begorra / Gosh and begorra / Gosh and begorra / my Irish eyes. And so it went...

A certain antineoplastic drug Gosh and begorra / Gosh and begorra / Gosh and begorra / my Irish eyes resistance to adenosine deaminase Hava nagila / Hava nagila / Hava nagila na na na na na na na na na na na na...

This persisted for three more days until my brain switched gears and decided that "This Old Man" would make for a great tune to add to the soundtrack of my study session.

This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on my thumb.
With a knick-knack, patty-whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played two,
He played knick-knack on my shoe.
With a knick-knack, patty-whack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played three,
He played knick-knack on my knee...
With a knick-knack, patty-whack,
Give a dog a bone,
Someone help me, my mind is gone.

Seriously. Help me. This morning I awoke to a mash-up of "This Old Man" and "Hava Nagila" stuck in my head. This old man, he played one / He played Hava Nagila in my noggin... Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody. Help! You know I need... Awww... crap...

Cat and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2010-08-15T15:09:00.008-05:00

Lately I've been practicing saying, "Would you like fries with that?" in my most pleasant and saccharine voice but I just end up sounding like a snarky teenager out of a John Hughes' film. All I need is a side ponytail and some gum to smack. And, of course, some practical skills would help because it seems I'm not so great at my chosen career.

The beginning of August was made of the stuff of contrived novels. It marked six months since I had been diagnosed with depression and anxiety. It was the first week of clinical rotations. And it was when I received my Step 1 score. It appears I spoke too soon when I last talked about Step 1. I had disrespected The Jinx. It did not go fine as I had hoped. It went horribly the opposite of fine.

When I found out, I was at lunch eating my dry chicken breast in the physicians lounge, checking my e-mail as I was half listening to the doctors talk about the voice recognition service of the EMR system and how it used to record dictations along the lines of "The patient presents with a large potato in his head." Things weren't too shabby--save for the dry chicken--until I noticed an e-mail sent from Dean Grim with the subject line marked as "Today." I was confused (which has become the norm for me) because what was so special about "today?" Oh, ye of so much cluelessness.

Apparently, "today" was the day my Step 1 score was released. I had completely forgotten about the exam. It was as if it were a lifetime ago. Clearly, it didn't forget about me. I had failed. My score ended up being significantly lower (and I mean SIGNIFICANTLY LOWER) than my lowest practice test score. It didn't seem real. It didn't seem possible. I was in a fog. When I had submitted my exam, I had no idea how I had performed. I had a bit of a snafu during the first block with a media question and I didn't have extra time at the end of each block of questions like I did while I was studying, but I didn't leave with a gnawing feeling in my gut believing I had failed. But I had failed. I had failed the USMLE Step 1.

Understanding that "today" was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, Dean Grim asked for me to be excused from clinic at 2:30pm so I could clear my head and for us to talk. The intervening hours examining patients were a blur. Before going into Dean Grim's office, I spent half an hour sitting in my car frozen in silence. There was no sadness. No anger. Just silence. Somehow I made it from my car up the four flights to the administrative offices. When I swiped my badge on the security keypad, I was denied entrance. And then it was as if a thunderclap went off in my head. Did they just kick me out?! I'm not leaving without a fight! Or at least my tuition money! LET ME IN! It was like I was Shirley MacLaine in the hospital scene in Terms of Endearment. Then the secretary got up from her desk and let me in. Overreactive much? Why, yes. It would be another 10 minutes before I could speak with Dean Grim as she was on the phone, and during those 10 minutes I slipped back into my catatonic state. My mind went blank. The world was cloaked in a haze.

I'd never been in Dean Grim's office before. I'd never even spoken to Dean Grim in person before. Frankly, I was even a little scared of Dean Grim. She just always seemed so... stern. Dean Mack was always my go-to guy, the warm father-figure of the campus, always with a basketful of king size candy on his desk and a box of tissues at the ready, but Dean Mack wasn't available. So there I was, outside Dean Grim's office feeling as if I were suspended in time. When I finally entered and sat down, the tears began to flood. Given my state of mind for the past few hours, my crying shocked me a bit. I wasn't expecting to cry, especially in front of someone who pretty much was a stranger to me. I think it surprised me as much as it did Dean Grim because she was not prepared for the floodwaters. She had no tissues in her office and had to rush across the hall for some toilet paper from the restroom. And together we sat, trying to figure out what went wrong. Or rather, Dean Grim sat trying to figure out what went wrong and I sat there stammering and stuttering as tears and snot were rushing out of every orifice of my face.

I had done everything I was supposed to do. I studied diligently. I did practice questions. I completed an NBME practice exam. All the signs pointed toward a passing score with a decent cushion between me and the failing line. Yet I had sunk past that failing line.

Dean Grim and I traced back to the period leading up to my exam. I hadn't had any satisfactory sleep for weeks. On the Sunday the week of the exam, I had a panic attack. I was sitting in my chair with my copy of First Aid in my lap feeling as if I were paralyzed. Cognitively I understood what I needed to do. I needed to read. I needed to turn the page, read some more, repeat. But my body wouldn't cooperate. I'm not sure how long that lasted. It could've been minutes. It could've been an hour. On Monday, I was hit with the runs. I had had anxiety-inducing diarrhea before exams in the past, but I wasn't expecting it to occur so early on. I had a prescription anxiolytic in my arsenal to use as needed, and at that moment it was most definitely needed. For the remainder of the week I was restless. I attemped to squeeze in some studying and last minute factoids. I doodled in my notes to amuse myself. My medication was enough to sedate me at night but it wasn't quality sleep. I was a mess. I felt like I'd forgotten everything I had ever learned, including how to read English and do simple math. Multiplication? Jigga wha?! Is that what the little "x" between two numbers means? Alarmed, I e-mailed Dean Mack and he did what he could to console me. Focus on the objective: I was prepared and my practice test score and the percentage of correct answers in my QBank said so. By the morning of the exam, I had calmed down a few notches, but I was still agitated. All I wanted was for Step 1 to be behind me.

Well, it's behind me all right, chasing me to this day. I am retaking the exam later this year. I've since decided to withdraw from my current rotation. Just the thought of having to take an NBME and an OSCE at the end all the while during the time in between being pimped by my attending--in front of patients, no less--was just unbearable. Even though I have a pretty decent track record with regards to answering questions correctly in clinic, I just couldn't see myself going through it all with Step 1 still haunting me. I have spoken to my doctors about strategies to overcome anxiety and we've changed my medication regimen for the third time--perhaps third time's a charm when it comes to anti-anxiety meds. I've come up with a study plan with the help of the school's education specialist. I got words of encouragement from my mother. I met up with Dean Mack for a pep talk. While the future is still scary, it's not so scary anymore, and neither is Dean Grim. She gave me her cell phone number so I could easily contact her in case I needed to talk on days she isn't in her office. I believe she's also since stocked up on tissue boxes.

And now the USMLE Step 1 Study Stretch begins. Again. Graduation will be delayed by a semester. I won't be able to start residency until the summer of 2013, that is if there's a program out there that will accept me.

See Cat run. See Cat trip and fall. See Cat pick herself up and run again. See Cat fall again. Two steps forward, one step back: story of my life. There is one difference though. I haven't cried since that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. In the past, setbacks like this would've left me reeling and, subsequently, spending several days lying on my couch, moping as I watched movie after movie on Netflix whilst stuffing my face with strawberry margarita pie. But this time I quickly accepted what has happened and I came up with a plan to take control of what will happen--a plan that I will (hopefully with fingers and toes crossed) execute with success. I suspect this is what is often referred to as "growth." Maybe one day this blog will stop sounding like a broken record.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find some farm animals to sacrifice to the NBME gods to get into their good graces.

Olá, Adeus

2010-07-28T10:07:00.070-05:00

An hour into my flight to Lisbon, I suddenly became ~~obsessively fearful of~~ concerned about DVTs. I've heard of young, fit people developing DVTs on long flights, and while I'm young-ish and (somewhat) fit, I am on medication that has a known relationship with hypercoagulable states. And for some reason, at that moment, partway through watching Date Night (awesome movie, by the way), the ~~fear~~ concern hit me. Of course, other factors come into play--factors that are not present in my case--but knowing that does nothing to assuage my ~~obsessive thoughts~~ concerns. So I spent the rest of the flight fanatically flexing my calves and continued the ritual on my return flight.

I've been stateside for a few days now, and my allergies have retaken me hostage. Did you know that ragweed can travel for hundreds of miles on wind? So even if it doesn't grow where you live, it can come into town like an assassin for hire. I should've stayed in Portugal. Because in Portugal I didn't get whiplash from my gale-force sneezes. Also, the hotel I stayed at served cakes, tortes, and tarts at breakfast. Dessert for breakfast is my kinda breakfast. Low-carb diets are a crock. I'm pretty sure Soames agrees.

So other than sneezing, I've been spending the past few days sifting through the 1000+ photos I shot in Portugal. I went snap-happy with my second lover, the Olympus PEN E-P2. My iPhone is still my #1 Lover, but the retro body with the black metal finish of the Olympus PEN makes this camera oh-so-swoon-worthy. At first glance, it looks like an old rangefinder, but closer inspection gives away the digital features. Normally, I wouldn't go for an Olympus camera because I'm a snobby Canon-head, but I'm not the spring chicken I was when I was in my teens and I'm starting to find it difficult to lug an SLR around while spending 12-14 hours a day on foot. Since my trek through Japan last year, I've been dreaming of a camera that offers the control of an SLR but with the size and weight of a P&S. So earlier this summer I started looking into getting a micro four-thirds camera. (I was also looking for a distraction because I was getting sick of studying for Step 1--clearly.) The Olympus PEN is lightweight yet feels properly dense, and with the option of interchangeable lenses, I was able to switch out the kit lens for a Panasonic Lumix G 20mm/f1.7 pancake lens. I used to think I needed at the very least a low-end zoom telephoto lens for traveling, but I've since learned to zoom with my feet. A couple of ND filters takes care of any lighting issues the aperture of the lens might lead to in bright sunlight. This camera is most definitely worthy of its title as Lover #2. Now if it could bake me a cake every morning, it'd knock the iPhone out and move up to Lover #1.

[Full Portugal photo set here.]

Listen to Me Talk About Step 1!

2010-07-19T09:40:00.048-05:00

So Step 1 happened.

The morning of the exam I felt like I'd forgotten everything I'd learned in the past 20 years. You want me to add two fractions together? How do you do that?! I had thought that by taking calculus in high school, I would be done with math forever! Apparently, not so.

Also, apparently, going in to take the USMLE is like going into JAIL, not that I've ever been to jail, but I did learn some things about jail by watching many, many episodes of Law & Order. So taking the boards? A lot like jail. For starters, they fingerprint you. And they take a ~~mugshot~~ photo of you. And they ~~frisk you~~ check your pockets for contraband, like ~~knives!~~ drawings of the coagulation cascade(?). And they squeeze your earplugs (Lindsay Lohan has something to look forward to!). And this happens EACH AND EVERY SINGLE TIME you go in and out of the exam room, which for me was a total of 10 times.

All in all, it went fine. I think... I hope... I mean, clearly, I studied. And by studied I mean drew all over my copy of First Aid. These weren't just any drawings though. Some of these drawings made for useful mnemonics, you see.

Buerger's disease: progressive inflammation and thrombosis of the small and medium arteries and veins, associated with tobacco abuse; common symptom is Raynaud's phenomenon, an exaggerated vasomotor response to cold or emotional stress. And there you see a burger (Buerger) smoking a cigarrette (tobacco abuse!) with snow falling around it (Raynaud's! Brrrrrr!).

If med school doesn't work out, maybe Tao Le, et al. would consider hiring me as an illustrator?

Clearly, I studied. And clearly, I made some good use out of those stickies from Urban Outfitters. Since I didn't have my therapist nearby to vent, it was most definitely cathartic to be able to tack a flag next to a biochemical pathway that said, FUCK THIS and FUCK THAT. I released a lot of pent up frustration through those stickies. GOOD CRAP! And then there were my amazing Staedtler pens. Them Germans sure do know how to do a pen good. They dry in 5 Mississippi's! I counted and did "test smears" on the glossy paper First Aid is printed on. All very scientific.

And here's where I'll let you in on a little USMLE Step 1 test-taking secret: You can bigot your way through the exam! Is your patient black? Then he's either got sickle cell disease, sarcoidosis, or G6PD deficiency. Sick immigrant in your emergency department? He has a disease that could've been prevented with a vaccine. Woman with a numb arm who just broke up with her boyfriend? Think conversion disorder. Spelunker (because spelunking is such a common hobby) coughing up a storm? He has histoplasmosis. Did your patient just come back from a trip to California? He's got coccidioides. Got a naked, violent patient? He must be on PCP! And so it goes.

Also, clearly, I'm mature (humor is considered a mature ego defense!). And clearly, I'm nerdy. Help me! I'm diene! Teeheehee. A little organic chemistry humor for you.

Thanks to everyone who wished me luck and crossed their fingers and toes and sacrificed farm animals to the NBME gods for me. It was much appreciated. I don't get my score for another six to eight weeks, so between now and then, I'm not really sure what to do with myself. I've become so accustomed to studying day in and day out for the past few months that not studying is a sort of strange relief. I think I kinda miss my chair a bit. I hope it misses my butt.

I suppose there's third year to contend with, but I don't officially start rotations for another couple of weeks.

I saw Eclipse the other day. Not as funny as Twilight, but the fight scene where that vampire with the boxy face loses his hand? That made me laugh. Just thinking about it again is making me laugh. Because he was all like, Aaaaaahhhhhhh! Victoria! And I was all like, Haha, loser! ... I guess you had to have been there. I've also been shopping and sleeping in a lot these past few days, but you can only shop and sleep in for so long.

So in a few hours I'll be leaving for Portugal. Adiós. Oh, wait, that's Spanish. Damn. Adeus?

Filling the Knowledge Gap

2010-07-14T15:22:00.007-05:00

Tomorrow I go to war against The Beast, or as I sometimes like to call him, you stupid SOB, yo' momma's so ugly, that when she was born, her incubator in the nursery had to be fitted with tinted windows so no one at the hospital would die of fright.

Sorry, I got a bit carried away there.

Normally before going into war, I spend the days leading up to the showdown having panic attacks and nearly crapping in my pants. Think I'm joking? This isn't one of those moments where I'm speaking in hyperbolic terms for dramatic effect. During med school on the days leading up to exam day, when I wasn't busy studying, I was busy trying to breathe. And when I wasn't preoccupied with that, I was planted on the porcelain throne. But now I have an anxiolytic to help control those issues so it's all good in da hood.

But while those magical pills keep my GABA levels in check, they still can't tell me the answers to tomorrow's exam. So I'm pulling out all the stops. In addition to a last run-through of First Aid, 10 Hail Mary's, and crossing my fingers and toes and ~~crossing~~ braiding my hair and asking everyone around me to do the same, I'm making some sacrifices of Biblical proportions. The offer of my firstborn child to the NBME gods in exchange for their good graces is still on the table. I'm also calling in the auxiliary forces.

CHOW CHOW

Good luck tomorrow!

CAT
Thanks. Can you do me a favor?

CHOW CHOW

What?

CAT

Can you sacrifice a goat to the NBME gods for me?

CHOW CHOW

Uh... we have three dogs but no goats at my house. Although I don't think RMK and VG would be happy if I sacrificed their dogs.

CAT

You live in [a godforsaken town in the middle of nowhere]. There has got to be a goat nearby.

CHOW CHOW
I don't want to get shot trying to find a goat for you!

CAT
Are you my friend or not??

Hair: A Story of Guile and Vacillation

2010-07-05T11:19:00.006-05:00

Lately I've been thinking that maybe I should brush my hair.

What?

Brush my hair.

BRUSH MY HAIR.

Because, you see, I don't. I don't brush my hair. I don't even think I own a hairbrush. If I do, I'm not sure where it is. I haven't brushed my hair in over ten years. There. I said it. Now the entire world knows--or at least the small population that actually ever reads these words.

I, Cat, haven't brushed my hair since I was 14 years old.

It all started innocently enough. When I was a little girl, my mom used to do my hair before school, and when I was 11 years old, she stopped. I suppose she figured I was old enough to handle a hairbrush by myself. After all, I was in the sixth grade by then. I was a big girl. I had a locker! And so my mom left me to my own devices. I gave it a good go for a few years, but then I started getting tired of doing my hair in the morning before school. And considering I went to an all girls school, I really had no one to impress since I was not of the lesbian persuasion (nor did I really care what people thought in general), so one day I decided I was going to exchange the haircare part of my morning routine for extra sleep time. And you know what? Those extra minutes of sleep were glorious. So glorious that I decided to try it again the next day. And then the next. And then the next. Until one day I was 25 years old and I found myself having had unbrushed hair for the past 11 years. And during all those 11 years no one was the wiser. No one. Not the stylist at the hair salon. Not even my hypercritical mother.

Throughout all those years, my hair never got tangled, never had flyaways, and never frizzed no matter the length of hair, strength of wind, or level of humidity and without hairspray or any other hair product. Shampoo, conditioner, air dry, the end. It's like magical unicorn hair. My closest friends didn't even know that I don't brush my hair until a few months ago, and they only found out because I told them whilst we were getting ready for a wedding. If I hadn't told them, this little secret could've been something I could've taken to the grave.

But lately I've been thinking that maybe I should start brushing my hair. Not because the third year of med school is starting and brushing my hair would help me look more professional on the wards. It's not necessary for me to brush my hair for I have magical unicorn hair that inexplicably falls into place every morning and can withstand all odds. I'm considering starting to brush my hair because I recently discovered this adorable Anna Sui hairbrush and I am in lust. Just look at it! Look at it!

Anna Sui hairbrush

Doesn't it just make you swoon? The shiny black handle. The vintage feel. The scalloped edges. The sculpted rose detailing. Swooooon. Being lazy doesn't necessarily preclude liking pretty things; my eyes still work even when the rest of my body won't. Given that the Anna Sui hairbrush costs almost as much as a week's worth of groceries for me, I better damn well use it if I get it. But knowing me, I'll probably make the purchase, admire it as I delicately turn it over in my hand whilst in the bathroom that same evening, and then the next morning when the alarm goes off, I'll hit the snooze button, sleep for an extra ten minutes and walk out the door with my unbrushed, yet perfectly shiny and tangle-free, magical unicorn hair as my lovely, little Anna Sui hairbrush sits in the drawer of my vanity for the next decade.

I still really want that brush though.

Maybe I won't eat for a week. Lord knows I'm lazy enough to forego food. I've had moments where I just sit on the couch being hungry for an hour because I don't feel like getting up and walking several feet to the kitchen to get something to eat.

They Call It Fútbol

2010-06-23T08:38:00.007-05:00

Growing up, I wasn't ever really into sports. Because sweating is gross. I was the girl who would pretend to play basketball by briskly walking up and down along the edge of the court as everyone else would actually be playing. And when it came time to play softball in school, I would go as faaaarrr outfield as possible, and there I would pick flowers and twirl my hair around my fingers. Yell, "Catch!" and throw a ball at me, and I will step aside and follow the ball with my eyes as it falls to the ground, making minimal effort to extend my hand. I just don't catch things, okay? Also, my upper body strength is practically non-existent. The fact that I push the handicap button to open doors whenever possible probably doesn't help matters. The closest I ever came to being involved in a sport was ballet. You know, the "sport" where people prance around in outfits made of lycra and tulle.

Oh, and there was that year I did cheerleading, the "sport" where girls jump up and down in short skirts (with bloomers underneath, of course) and wave balls of fluffy material in the air. My squad also had bells on our shoes, as if we weren't already annoying enough.

Given all that, it's really no surprise that I have not felt compelled to follow the events of this year's (or any year's) World Cup nor did I realize that the US played against Slovenia recently and that it turned out to be quite a Big Deal. I may not know the ins and outs sports, but can you tell me that paying attention during P.E., of all classes, was really that important?

GUY
Man, can you believe that call during the Slovenia vs. US game?

CAT
[Is he talking to me? Why is he talking to me?]

OTHER GUY
Doesn't Slovenia also make light bulbs?

CAT
[turns to OTHER GUY, raises eyebrow]
Seriously?

OTHER GUY
Yeah, there's a company named Slovenia that makes light bulbs.

CAT
[eyebrow still raised]

OTHER GUY
[now confused]
No?

GUY
Uh... that's Sylvania...

OTHER GUY
Sylvania?

GUY
Yeah, Sylvania.

OTHER GUY
And Slovenia?

CAT
Is a country in central Europe.

OTHER GUY
[furrows brow in concentration]
And Sylvania...

GUY
Makes light bulbs.

OTHER GUY
[murmuring to himself]
Sylvania makes light bulbs, not Slovenia. Slovenia is a country... in... Europe?

CAT
Yes.

OTHER GUY
[nodding contemplatively]
Hmmm...

GUY
You get it now?

OTHER GUY
[confidently]
Yeah, I got it. So that game against Sylvania...

CAT
[sighs as she twirls her hair around her fingers]

Dazed & Confuzzled

2010-06-18T20:45:00.005-05:00

After days of visiting the various hospitals I'll be rotating through, the most I could probably tell you about said hospitals is where each one is located within the city. Give me a map and tell me where I should be and at what time and I can find my way around just fine. Ask me to follow you around on a tour, and my eyes start to glaze over and my arms awkwardly jut out like I'm coming out of Zombieland.

(Double tap!)

Now that orientation week is over, I'm not sure if I'm more oriented or disoriented today than I was on Monday. On Monday, I met a guy in my class for the first time. He's been in my class for the past two years. Who knew? Apparently, everyone else.

On Monday, I also got my pager. It's like I'm a drug dealer on Miami Vice. A zombie drug dealer. (No one better steal my idea for a movie script.) As official-looking as it is, my pager doesn't beat my iPhone. My iPhone is my boyfriend. Or maybe it's my lesbian girlfriend. Whatever it is, I love it. Is there an app that allows you to marry your iPhone? If not, someone should work on that.

So now that third year is starting, you will be hearing less stories of the "...and today I studied all day just like yesterday" nature, and more of the "...last night I stayed up an hour past my bedtime and went to sleep at 9pm" nature. But if you love hearing about the former, don't panic just yet. I still have to take Step 1, and after that Step 2, and Step 3, and God knows how many other exams. Gettin' my study on is like a neverending story.

So welcome to the new pathetic version of my life.

That's What My Mom Said

2010-06-12T10:30:00.003-05:00

With third year starting on Monday, there's been some shuffling around of students across the school's various clinical sites and teaching hospitals. Some are staying at the home campus. Some are moving (myself included). And one person I know of is going to live with her parents, which is why she sent an e-mail not too long ago offering up her twin-sized bed for loan for the next two years until graduation. So naturally, I tell my mother as I tell her most things, like all of your secrets.

(Just kidding.)

(Sorta... I only tell her the really embarrassing, juicy secrets.)

(Totally kidding.)

MOM
[waking up from her two-hour nap]
You have a lot of stuff.

CAT
[not napping]
Nah, really? I just thought the movers were sweating profusely when they were carrying my boxes because they have a glandular problem.

MOM
[feeling the need to re-state the obvious]
You have a lot of stuff! And you already took three carloads of junk to the dumpster at your old place last week!

CAT
I get it. I have a lot of stuff. Maybe you could help me unpack? Whaddaya say?

MOM
Your friends don't have as much stuff, do they? I bet they don't, which was probably why most of them only took a day to pack up and move.

CAT
But my apartment is waaay cuter.*

MOM
What are you going to do when you move again in two years? You should consider slowly getting rid of some more stuff.

CAT
Speaking of getting rid of stuff, there's a girl in my class asking if anyone wants to borrow her twin-sized bed for the next two years.

MOM
[quizzically]
What? Borrow a bed?

CAT
Yeah, she sent out an e-mail.

MOM
Borrow a twin-sized bed?

CAT
[enunciating]
Yeeesss...

MOM
Who would want a twin-sized bed?

CAT
A small person?

MOM
Who would want to borrow a twin-sized bed?

CAT
A cheap, small person?

MOM
But what if there's...
[whispers]
...secretions on it?

CAT
Like...
[mock whisper]
...from sex?

MOM
[emphatically]
Yes! From the sex!

CAT
[tickled by the phrase "the sex"]
Well, she's uber religious and, I think, maybe even schizotypal,** so I doubt she's having any of the sex.

MOM
You know, there's a reason why stores don't let you return used mattresses.

CAT
Because of secretions from...
[dramatic pause]
...the sex?

MOM
[gravely nods]
Yes.

So there you have it: a Running with Hemostats blog first. My mom and I talk about jizz. Bet you never saw that one comin'.

*It's true.
**Note that I'm not saying being religious and being schizotypal are the same thing.

Starbucks Break (Or Where My Inner Nerd Gets Judgmental)

2010-06-11T10:34:00.013-05:00

Every once in a while, I head out to the nearby Starbucks to study for a change in scenery and the ambient noise. As much as I love my bedroom at my parents' house (I got the biggest one! Ha! Suck it, Sissy!), it pretty much has looked the same for the past decade. Walk into it and it'll feel like a time warp back to the days of a prissy 12 year-old girl who grew up in the '90s.

Plus, I need to give my armchair a bit of a rest from my fat, ulcerated ass.

So I was at Starbucks earlier today when I ~~eavesdropped on a conversation because I am nosy like that~~ overheard a conversation because people don't understand the concept of indoor voices and hence talk super loudly. The convo was between two women in their 20s. One was gushing about her new relationship, and the other one was desperately trying to look interested. (Because that's what good friends do.) Miss Gushy McGusherson described the new man in her life as someone who "makes [her] laugh until [her] spleen hurts." Now, I'm sure she thought she was being clever by using spleen instead of stomach, but I just about died because all I wanted to do was interject and say, "Actually, it's not your spleen, or even your stomach or any other internal organ for that matter, that hurts when you laugh. The pain comes from straining the muscles of your abdominal wall, which aid in respiration."

But I didn't.

I kept my thoughts to myself. I didn't want to be That Weird Girl Who Talked About Abdominal Muscles of Respiration and thus become the subsequent topic of their conversation. So instead I just quietly judged her choice of words.

You should be proud of me and my exercise of restraint.

Or maybe you should tsk tsk me for being so judgmental.

I can't help it though. It's like a disease!

Buttprints in the Chair

2010-06-02T11:47:00.021-05:00

So I haven't posted in a while. What started out as one week of no blogging became two, which became a month, etcetera, etcetera. The more I stayed away, the weaker my will to write became. And there you have it: my excuse for not writing for the audience that I don't have.

That isn't to say things have been uneventful. The second year of medical school ended and... and... well, it was kind of anticlimactic really. I should have felt overjoyed, yet... I didn't. (And it's not because of the benzos.) After three years, I had finally completed the first two years of medical school, but there was no triumphant fist pump in the air, no guttural shout of "This is Sparta!" After everything I had been through these past three years and the hoops I've had to jump through, I was beat and just wanted to be done. Also, I got a speeding ticket on my way to therapy in late April, which put a bit of a damper on things. I was hoping I could wheedle my way out of it because the cop had the wrong car description on my ticket, but no dice. My lawyer friend basically told me to suck it up but in much nicer terms. So second year ended, I sent a request into traffic court to take defensive driving, and then I went back to my parents' house. I pretty much slept for three days. It was glorious.

And then the pain began to set in. No, not from bedsores. The pain of USMLE Step 1 studying. It's as awful as everyone who has taken it says it is. But times a gajillion. (That's right. GAJILLION.) I'm taking my exam in July although third year technically starts in less than two weeks. Back in February when life was crashing down around me, I requested to swap out my fourth year vacation time with the first block of third year rotations to get extra study time so I could really get things down and properly prepare, and my school breathed a huge sigh of relief because ~~they didn't want a problem student ruining their increasing Step 1 score average~~ this exam is quite possibly the most important exam I will ever take and my school wants me in my best form because it's for my own good. In April, I took the CBSE offered by the NBME (gotta love all those acronyms), and while I didn't score in the "high-risk" range (that is, high risk for failure), I still opted to take the extra time. And frankly, this IS the most important exam I will ever take because the score I get plays a large factor in determining the direction my career will go. And let's face it. I've already closed a lot of doors on myself given my tumultuous trek through medical school, and if I want to at least get my toes--and then maybe a foot and then a leg and then BAM! all my body parts--back into some of those doors, I will have a lot to prove. So a lot rides on this exam, and I need to study my ass off. But hey, no pressure. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. And then scream.

It's been five weeks since school ended, and now when I get up out of my armchair at the end of a day of studying, the cushion no longer rebounds to its original form. My buttprint has become firmly implanted in the seat. During times of testing and studying, when you see a set of buttprints, it was there that a med student sat. (See what I did there?) I probably even have a Stage I decubitus ulcer on my ass from all that sitting--literally studying my ass off. I should probably get that taken care of. And maybe I should walk around every so often, too, because I'm also at risk for DVTs.

(Hey, at least I haven't reached the point where I've convinced myself I have lupus.)

(Yet.)

Step 1 studying can get lonely. The only people I've interacted with these past several weeks have been my parents. Once my dad came into my room wanting to say something to me. I looked up straight at him. He glanced around the room and walked out. And I was left sitting in the corner confused. Later I found out he walked out because he did not see me even though I was right in front of him. I'm already fair-skinned, but since I haven't gone outside much in the past month, I suppose this means that I've become so pale that I now BLEND INTO THE WALLS.

Oh, and I can't forget to mention my new BFF Brian Jenkins. He and I have been interacting almost every day for the past few weeks. We've been interacting via pre-recorded lectures posted online, so really, it's not so much interacting as much as me wondering why he pronounces a lot of terms differently than I and my professors do and then there's just him, Brian Jenkins, talking weirdly on my computer screen. Is it a Brian Jenkins thing or a Texan thing? I don't know. Although, once I did think he could read my mind. No, not in the delusional the TV is talking to me kind of way. He showed an image of an infant with allergic contact dermatitis, and the infant was grabbing his nipples with both hands in a really awkward position. I, of course, wondered why he was grabbing his nipples. Is it a thing babies do just because they're babies and and as babies they inherently make no sense most of the time? Or does the action of grabbing one's nipples as an infant with contact dermatitis have an underlying pathophysiological mechanism that can be explained? Kind of like the Gower's maneuver. But then Brian Jenkins explained it. It means nothing other than babies are just strange creatures.

At least I'm not the student who took the statement, "At six months of age, children can pass a cube," to mean a six-month old child can defecate cube-shaped feces. Yeah...

So this is another one of those posts where I talk about studying and exams. Exciting, isn't it? You don't have to tell me you're glad I'm back.

While I don't start clinicals until the second block, which begins in August, I still have to participate in the dog and pony show that is orientation (Third year is going to be awesome! Yeah! Or whatevs...) the week of June 14th with everyone else in my class, and many of them I will be meeting for the first time (because I am a hermit, you see). I'm sure that should bring about some interesting stories, what with it coinciding with my reintroduction into direct sunlight after a period of Step 1 isolation.

I hope I don't start acting like a feral child.