Spike!

Truly destiny, this. With the finishing line in sight, a well-deserved respite to follow. That then a call from the nurse. Fever. 101. And guess what. She is neutropenic at 180 white count.

This is where pessimism comes into play. When one spends most of his/her life contemplating what one must do in times like this. Of duress, of disappointment, sometimes almost of despair.

Did you want to culture? Nurse Ellen asked. Of course. And I'll run to the lab for fungal culture. I called the resident. Both of us trying to mask the frustration that was understood in both of us. It wasn't hard, I imagine. You cannot survive being a resident long, always hoping for a surprise-free day.

So looking at 2 hours more than I expected. But this was what I expected. Perhaps I would have felt wary had there been nothing of the sort. That there was an overcast sky, and I didn't know when the rain would strike. And so it had, today. Not at Katrina level. More like Ithaca weather. I mean, I needed to learn this any way, this massive attack we call the sepsis workup, so often of which turn out to be something akin to a search for mythical WMDs.

But somehow, I felt better walking out today. Better today than I had felt all of last week, sitting in my apartment with nothing to do. I felt useful. Contributory. In a strange way, it was a good day. Because in this career I am, and need to continue to be, the eternal pessimist.

Massive

It was more than I could have imagined, being there in Avery Fisher Hall, listening to the divine concoction that is Mozart's Mass in C. I have listened to the CD dozens of times, while reading, studying, but still the vibrato of the soprano and the sparkling of the strings dring the opening Kyrie made me shiver like I never had. Perhaps it was the excitement of my virginal visit to Lincoln Center, or my love of Mozart and his masses, but I was transfixed, nearly moved to tears. I could not have imagined anything this beautiful.

And the thought came to me - how, by not being a subscriber to organized religion, I will never understand the profundity to which the love for an intangible being can motivate such powers of creation. Faced with religious fanatics, I am filled with skepticism. But faced with such resulting beauty, I am filled with envy. Will I never know such drive that evokes genious, creativity -- that elevates them to a plane of superhuman capacity.

This music. It moves me with its majesty. I doubt it will move me toward belief. But it convinces me that to some, indeed this love is real, and is something I can never fully understand.

Maureen Who?

I love this picture. I would like to use it, as if I had something to prove. Allow me to explain.

Three weeks ago at the Islamic art section of the Met, I ran into my high school friend Seema who I have not seen for one or two years, however long ago our five-year Amity Class reunion was. We had a pleasant enough conversation, talking our about our final year as medical students, our impending subinternships, (and the additiveness of friendster).

Call me crazy. But after than encounter I was filled with disappointment over the fact that she recognized me so easily. Ever since I graduated, changed my hair, my clothes, lost weight, plucked my eyebrows, I had this Romy and Michelle-esque fantasy that 10 years from being that frumpy geeky senior I used to hate, that no one would recognize me. That someone from my old school (preferably someone I used to crush on) will turn their head as I walk by, not realizing that they had once shunned me. (Admittedly I was disappointed when, during my high school reunion, my crush-of choice, Joe, greeted me by name.)

But let me lay it out like this. Mine wasn't the story of the typical nerd being picked on, made fun of, and hated. Mine was the story of non-existence. I could not join clubs, having to watch my sister after school. I did not have many friends. I spent lunch periods volunteering to clean the rat cages for our Biology teacher, because so often my friends would not be at our designated lunch table (and how horrible it would be if Joe or Chris or Fouad or any of the others caught me alone with one or two other estranged souls.) My club of choice? Math team. This was my claim to fame. Glamorous.

I never believed the being smart or successful necessitated, or is facilitated by, being a non-entity in high school. In fact, the girls who were ahead of me in class rank, the people who got into schools I could not get into, were popular, sat at lunch tables with hoards of people, all while having talents far exceeding my own. I hated them. Not because they were better, but because they were better AND popular. They showed me that my unhappy social status was not a sign of my introverted genious, but rather an intrinsic weakness I cannot overcome.

To some extent I have not outgrown this. In most social circumstances I still feel overwhelmingly inadequate. But now, after years of trying to change myself, inwardly and outwardly, I realize I cannot. And perhaps the reason that I cannot is that most of my attempt at change is focused on the outward. Because this is easy. You can buy the nice clothes, makeup, and run off the pounds. You can learn to make the mirror and the camera love you. But something else needs to happen. (and I don't know what it is.) Until then, when you are standing around in a chic lounge with people you barely know and are trying to impress, you will still be that math team geek that cleans up rat feces during lunch period.

So this as good as it gets. I am not as unhappy as I was. Having passed high school, college, and most of medical school, I am farther away from the societies that, by their emphasis on fraternizing, force me to face my own insecurities.

Job huntin'

There is hope for me yet. Once I got started on this residency search thing, I finally proved to myself I can make good process. But I am not certain whether getting started does anything to allay my nerves. The real problem comes in finding the truth about the programs -- somewhere between the buttered up versions resplendent with shiny happy residents featured on the program websites and the disgruntled rants on residency review sites/forums. I would love to see these program websites feature someone like Rich, the first night-float resident I met during my medicine rotation at Greenwich, who greeted us at sign-out every morning with hair tussled in every direction, chin grizzly with stubble, and the eyes of someone about to head-bob his way into REM. True, this is not the universal face of an IM intern, but it will be my face, minus the stubble of course.

As the impending doom draws nearer, I become more reluctant to enjoy my fourth-year bliss. In my head is the perpetual nag that chastises me on not filling my days with competitive electives, sucking up to big names, and rubbing shoulders with influential house staffs. Why am I sitting home reading novels when I should be running around gathering lab data like a true MS scut-monkey?

Some think of medicine as a life-calling, some as a steady income. I think of it as an inevitability. Because there is one track for me. As sure as I must eat, sleep, drink diet soda, call my mother on Sundays at 9PM. These are non-negotiable parts of my existence. Some ask me if I love medicine. I say love, whether it exists or not, is inconsequential.

Perhaps this plays into my procrastination, even avoidance of this application process. It leads to guilt, which I fully anticipate, but somehow am unwilling to overcome. Because it is inevitable as well. I think the guilt comes not from procrastination per se; rather it comes from the fact that I believe I am living falsely, but am unwilling and too fearful to truly find what will make me happy. Again, happiness is inconsequential, as is love. Necessity supercedes.

But I am not doing so poorly. I finished my comparison chart for the programs I plan to apply to. Happily my desire to remain in the city and its proximities narrows my choices for me. The personal statement is, for the most part, complete. The next step, I suppose, is finding the place that will make me the least unhappy. (or dare I hope, most happy.)

East Siiiiide

Boy this internet addiction is worse than crack. I come back to Valhalla today for my week of Anesthesia fun in the WMC and have just spent 2 hours in front of my computer, basking in the glory of LAN-pleasure. My temporary roommate Kathleen has not yet been able coax the cable guy from coming until two Wednesdays from now. She and I, suffering together, will have to wait another 11 days.

Yet the past week has been somewhat of a vacation. With an easy rotation in rehab and virtually no studying to do, I did my share of explorations I have meant to do during all these years I attended this school. Of course this taught me that a) the expensiveness of the city is inevitable, no matter how hard you try and b) I need better shoes. The latter conclusion came after I developed multiple blisters on both my feet, and, lacking the sterile and sharp equipment needed to eliminate them, proceeded to pop them with a) rubbing alcohol b) a tissue and c) a pushpin (and d - my tetanus booster 5 years ago).

Pain nonwithstanding, putting my legs to good use outside of the gym was readily welcome (despite the >95 degree heat and humidity). I discovered (well, with the guidance of my fellow classmate and tourguide Freddie) the bike trail along the East river, though questionable in its scenic appeal, serves an excellent (and cheaper) alternative to the gym. Admittedly on multiple occassions I desperately wished I were male and could thus make do without the shirt and sportsbra. The hosed down look is not terribly flattering on me. Maybe I need to invest in some waterproof mascara.

The camera my family gave me came to good use this week, mainly to take more pictures of myself (vain vain person!). But now, instead of my cramped and clustered room, I have as my background my sublet, graced by the quaint stylings of Kathleen. (Oh what I could do with some patience and some money. Patience, mainly.) Taking self-photos has been an addiction, and happily I feel less silly and self-conscious with each photo shoot.

But last night I took the first ones not of myself. Atop the rooftop at the Met, my 3rd or 4th favorite part of the museum. Despite the humidity and the hoards of people, cocktails in hand and appropriately chic for the occassion that is Friday night, it was charming.

Here's a piece from the LeWitt exhibit on the terrace. Appropriately reflecting the city skyline. Boris and I agreed that it was LSD like. (Which I informed him later was quite the safe drug.)

So I will be back in one week, to enjoy 2 weeks of freedom and NYC.
I thought I shouldn't deny my adoring audience one more picture, though. (Cheeky)