Last year we went to the British Art Museum to develop "observational skills." Even as someone who likes art, I didn't think this experience would be particularly fulfilling of its purpose but it was. We formed groups of four and were each assigned a painting. We were given something like twenty minutes to study the painting and plan how to describe it as objectively as possible to the rest of the group. And they were serious about "objective." You couldn't make any assumptions about what things were or what people were doing; you can say a person is smiling but you can't say a person is happy. People who knew me and my over-contextualization and over-feeling thought it'd be near impossible for me to avoid subjectivity. But most of those things arise from intrinsic details, and the only way to contextualize is to see those things first. That said, from day to day we have very little space to focus on just those. And while it might seem limiting to only see the very basics, it can actually be pretty expansive. You're forced to pay attention to every shade of color, the size and placement of objects, and relate things in the painting only to each other and nothing outside of it and so you find much more in that square. It makes you search for how things are defined in the first place. Someone was burned for calling a church a church; he had to reach far for something like "building with raised column." Anyway, it was really nice to sit and just look for some time.
Afterwards we examined photographs of skin lesions and went around the room describing them, similar to the paintings. It was more difficult, because rashes and irregular shapes aren't as situated in a larger picture. Since then I haven't been exposed to any dermatology until reading the skin chapter today. While in general I was a little bored by the fact that there isn't as much of a "system" as with say, the lungs or kidney, after awhile all the skin problems don't actually look alike. As nerdy as it is, there's certain satisfaction in finding the distinguishing details in shade, texture and quality. The terminology became less annoying, when used to encompass certain descriptions in a word. A vesicle is a fluid-filled blister, but a pustule is a fluid-filled blister with inflammatory cells. I like when language is invented and manipulated for accuracy and nuance.
But--and the reason I began to write at all--why does the term "violaceous" exist? The skin...is...just...purple.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
beeeeep
The other day we were given beepers. Since we became med students in the fall of 2007 we have visited the hospital weekly to interview patients, learning how to do a history and physical. In a few months we're going to do it not for practice but for real. People will beep us in order to do so. My beeper was much smaller than I expected. Everyone else's were small too, but I don't know what they expected.
In anticipation of the beeper's use, they sat us down today and kind of told us what our third year will entail. In one year we are to do the following "rotations," not necessarily in the following order:
Internal Medicine (8 weeks of inpatient care, 4 weeks of outpatient care)
Surgery (4 weeks of general, 4 weeks of subspecialties)
Anesthesiology (2 weeks)
Emergency Medicine (2 weeks)
Pediatrics (8 weeks)
Obstetrics & Gynecology (6 weeks)
Psychiatry (6 weeks)
Clinical Neuroscience (4 weeks)
We were told that we would be faced with three major changes during this transition from book learning to patient care: we are required to be there, to dress appropriately, and to get grades. Seeing as how I don't go to class, glean much joy from bright accessories, and have stopped taking our voluntary self-assessments, these are big changes for me indeed. But none of those came to mind when faced with a beeper and eighteen pages of logistics about just choosing the order of our rotations.
We're constantly being told not to stress. Don't stress about getting the highest score on the Boards. Don't stress about planning the order of your rotations. Don't stress about controlling your life to get the best residency after graduation. Don't stress about getting poor grades on rotations because you don't know something. These are legitimate concerns that we'll all face when being pimped by an intimidating superior with a million times your knowledge and experience, and I am sure I will be stressed. It seems to me, though, that in the midst of all this reassurance about our performance as students who are responsible for their own futures, I worry most about my performance as a person who is now responsible for others.
Sometimes that thought hits me so hard, especially during all these rites and milestones we have that make this field different than others for me. I find it difficult sometimes to convey our experience in medicine so far, and we haven't even experienced it. I felt a lot during our white coat ceremony, but what it was I can't even say. I just know it was supposed to be a marker for something. During the dinner where we received our beepers and thanked the mentors who have guided us through patient interviews since we started, we were made aware that this is a point of moving on. Combined with all the patients we've met; the science we've learned; the non-science of ethics, insurance, professionalism, social issues, and so on we've been exposed to--medicine has become all-consuming, and while that can be inevitably hard, it's made me think much harder about reasons.
In the past, getting to certain places was about a sort of validation of what came before. Getting into college bundled up accomplishments up until then into a neat package. Getting there was also a means to go elsewhere. I wanted Harvard simply because to my 18 year old self it meant a new coast and possibilities and possibilities. Medical school followed a similar thought process, where my college experience was tied up in an application to medical school. Even as each individual thing I did or learned had its own value for me independent of what it meant for school, to explain it to someone else I had to frame everything in terms of getting here. And I wanted to get here, in order to go somewhere else good afterwards. In between the markers of acceptance and graduation, I had an incredible time and learned so much wherever I was, but that can get lost amidst the bookends.
Now, while we may stress because the Boards and rotations are to lead us somewhere, the concern for me lies in making the present worthwhile regardless of where it takes me. I doubt the people who will let us learn about them at their most vulnerable will care much where we go for residency after school or the kind of career we'll lead. I'm not immune to caring about these things (I would like to be in a path that will fulfill my reasons for going into medicine, in a location I like and with people I love), but harder and more important than achieving them, I would like to do well by the people we've been waiting to care for, in the moment we meet them and not for anything before or after.
In anticipation of the beeper's use, they sat us down today and kind of told us what our third year will entail. In one year we are to do the following "rotations," not necessarily in the following order:
Internal Medicine (8 weeks of inpatient care, 4 weeks of outpatient care)
Surgery (4 weeks of general, 4 weeks of subspecialties)
Anesthesiology (2 weeks)
Emergency Medicine (2 weeks)
Pediatrics (8 weeks)
Obstetrics & Gynecology (6 weeks)
Psychiatry (6 weeks)
Clinical Neuroscience (4 weeks)
We were told that we would be faced with three major changes during this transition from book learning to patient care: we are required to be there, to dress appropriately, and to get grades. Seeing as how I don't go to class, glean much joy from bright accessories, and have stopped taking our voluntary self-assessments, these are big changes for me indeed. But none of those came to mind when faced with a beeper and eighteen pages of logistics about just choosing the order of our rotations.
We're constantly being told not to stress. Don't stress about getting the highest score on the Boards. Don't stress about planning the order of your rotations. Don't stress about controlling your life to get the best residency after graduation. Don't stress about getting poor grades on rotations because you don't know something. These are legitimate concerns that we'll all face when being pimped by an intimidating superior with a million times your knowledge and experience, and I am sure I will be stressed. It seems to me, though, that in the midst of all this reassurance about our performance as students who are responsible for their own futures, I worry most about my performance as a person who is now responsible for others.
Sometimes that thought hits me so hard, especially during all these rites and milestones we have that make this field different than others for me. I find it difficult sometimes to convey our experience in medicine so far, and we haven't even experienced it. I felt a lot during our white coat ceremony, but what it was I can't even say. I just know it was supposed to be a marker for something. During the dinner where we received our beepers and thanked the mentors who have guided us through patient interviews since we started, we were made aware that this is a point of moving on. Combined with all the patients we've met; the science we've learned; the non-science of ethics, insurance, professionalism, social issues, and so on we've been exposed to--medicine has become all-consuming, and while that can be inevitably hard, it's made me think much harder about reasons.
In the past, getting to certain places was about a sort of validation of what came before. Getting into college bundled up accomplishments up until then into a neat package. Getting there was also a means to go elsewhere. I wanted Harvard simply because to my 18 year old self it meant a new coast and possibilities and possibilities. Medical school followed a similar thought process, where my college experience was tied up in an application to medical school. Even as each individual thing I did or learned had its own value for me independent of what it meant for school, to explain it to someone else I had to frame everything in terms of getting here. And I wanted to get here, in order to go somewhere else good afterwards. In between the markers of acceptance and graduation, I had an incredible time and learned so much wherever I was, but that can get lost amidst the bookends.
Now, while we may stress because the Boards and rotations are to lead us somewhere, the concern for me lies in making the present worthwhile regardless of where it takes me. I doubt the people who will let us learn about them at their most vulnerable will care much where we go for residency after school or the kind of career we'll lead. I'm not immune to caring about these things (I would like to be in a path that will fulfill my reasons for going into medicine, in a location I like and with people I love), but harder and more important than achieving them, I would like to do well by the people we've been waiting to care for, in the moment we meet them and not for anything before or after.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
moles
By way of scrutiny from my mother and ex-boyfriend, I learned that my face contains numerous small flat black moles. I say flat to qualify moles because they aren't raised as I thought defined moles, but I can't think of what else to call them. My mom once called the two that are in proximity, in a sort of diagonal that follows their course between cheek and chin, twins. The fact of her saying this is fuzzy, but has sharpened from my thinking it.
Murakami has a thing for ears, and as I recently discovered, moles. I read a story of his the other day that made me smile hard and aloud: "There was a single mole, he noticed, on her right earlobe. His older sister had a mole about the same size, in the same spot. When he was little, he used to playfully rub his sister's mole when she was asleep, trying to rub it off."
The story, called Chance Traveler, begins by saying that he is narrating this story in his own voice. He wants to relate some strange events that have happened to him, that never get much response when he tells them in conversation. Even when written, people don't believe him because they assume that as a novelist, all his stories must be just stories. He'd like to try again, after telling us these strange events are real, and says he'll "stick to the trifling, insignificant ones."
This is the first one:
*
"From 1993 to 1995 I lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I was a sort of writer-in-residence at a college, and was working on a novel entitled The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. In Harvard Square there was a jazz club called the Regattabar Jazz Club where they had lots of live performances. It was a comfortable, relaxed, cozy place. Famous jazz musicians played there, and the cover charge was reasonable.
One evening the pianist Tommy Flanagan appeared with his trio. My wife had something else to do so I went by myself. Tommy Flanagan is one of my favorite jazz pianists. He usually appears as an accompanist; his performances are invariably warm and deep, and marvelously steady. His solos are fantastic. Full of anticipation, then, I sat down at a table near a stage and enjoyed a glass of California Merlot. To tell the truth, though, his performance was a bit of a letdown. Maybe he wasn't feeling well. Or else it was still too early for him to get in the swing of things. His performance wasn't bad, it was just missing that extra element that sends us flying into another world. It lacked that special magical glow, I guess you could say. Tommy Flanagan's better than this, I thought as I listened--just wait till he gets up to speed.
But time didn't improve things. As their set was drawing to a close I started to get almost panicky, hoping that it wouldn't end like this. I wanted something to remember his performance by. If things ended like this, all I'd take home would be lukewarm memories. Or maybe no memories at all. And I may never have a chance to see Tommy Flanagan play live again. (In fact I never did). Suddenly a thought struck me: what if I were given a chance to request two songs by him right now--which ones would I choose? I mulled it over for awhile before picking 'Barbados' and 'Star-Crossed Lovers.'
The first piece is by Charlie Parker, the second a Duke Ellington tune. I add this for people who aren't into jazz, but neither one is very popular, or performed much. You might occasionally hear 'Barbados,' though it's one of the less flashy numbers Charlie Parker wrote, and I bet most people have never heard 'Star-Crossed Lovers' even once. My point being, these weren't typical choices.
I had my reasons, of course, for choosing these unlikely pieces for my fantasy requests--namely that Tommy Flanagan had made memorable recordings of both. 'Barbados' appeared on the 1957 album Dial JJ 5 when he was a pianist with the J.J. Johnson Quintet, while he recorded 'Star-Crossed Lovers' on the 1968 album Encounter! with Pepper Adams and Zoot Sims. Over his long career Tommy Flanagan has played and recorded countless pieces as a sideman in various groups, but it was the crisp, smart solos, short though they were, in those two particular pieces that I've always loved. That's why I was thinking if only he would play those two numbers right now it'd be perfect. I was watching him closely, picturing him coming over to my table and asking, 'Hey, I've had my eye on you. Do you have any requests? Why don't you give me the titles of two numbers you'd like me to play?' Knowing all the time, of course, that the chances of that happening were nil.
And then, without a word, and without so much as a glance in my direction, Tommy Flanagan launched into the last two numbers of his set--the very ones I'd been thinking of. He started off with the ballad 'Star-Crossed Lovers,' then went into an up-tempo version of 'Barbados.' I sat there, wineglass in hand, speechless. Jazz fans will understand that the chance of his picking these two pieces from the millions of jazz numbers out there was astronomical. And also--and this is the main point here--his performances of both numbers were amazing."
*
I typed that all out, because I like to forgo cut and paste in favor of re-typing writings (lyrics, quotes, so on) and because in a Murakami story I read a couple months ago he wrote:
"Just below her shoulder blades were two small moles, lined up like a pair of twins."
Murakami has a thing for ears, and as I recently discovered, moles. I read a story of his the other day that made me smile hard and aloud: "There was a single mole, he noticed, on her right earlobe. His older sister had a mole about the same size, in the same spot. When he was little, he used to playfully rub his sister's mole when she was asleep, trying to rub it off."
The story, called Chance Traveler, begins by saying that he is narrating this story in his own voice. He wants to relate some strange events that have happened to him, that never get much response when he tells them in conversation. Even when written, people don't believe him because they assume that as a novelist, all his stories must be just stories. He'd like to try again, after telling us these strange events are real, and says he'll "stick to the trifling, insignificant ones."
This is the first one:
*
"From 1993 to 1995 I lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I was a sort of writer-in-residence at a college, and was working on a novel entitled The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. In Harvard Square there was a jazz club called the Regattabar Jazz Club where they had lots of live performances. It was a comfortable, relaxed, cozy place. Famous jazz musicians played there, and the cover charge was reasonable.
One evening the pianist Tommy Flanagan appeared with his trio. My wife had something else to do so I went by myself. Tommy Flanagan is one of my favorite jazz pianists. He usually appears as an accompanist; his performances are invariably warm and deep, and marvelously steady. His solos are fantastic. Full of anticipation, then, I sat down at a table near a stage and enjoyed a glass of California Merlot. To tell the truth, though, his performance was a bit of a letdown. Maybe he wasn't feeling well. Or else it was still too early for him to get in the swing of things. His performance wasn't bad, it was just missing that extra element that sends us flying into another world. It lacked that special magical glow, I guess you could say. Tommy Flanagan's better than this, I thought as I listened--just wait till he gets up to speed.
But time didn't improve things. As their set was drawing to a close I started to get almost panicky, hoping that it wouldn't end like this. I wanted something to remember his performance by. If things ended like this, all I'd take home would be lukewarm memories. Or maybe no memories at all. And I may never have a chance to see Tommy Flanagan play live again. (In fact I never did). Suddenly a thought struck me: what if I were given a chance to request two songs by him right now--which ones would I choose? I mulled it over for awhile before picking 'Barbados' and 'Star-Crossed Lovers.'
The first piece is by Charlie Parker, the second a Duke Ellington tune. I add this for people who aren't into jazz, but neither one is very popular, or performed much. You might occasionally hear 'Barbados,' though it's one of the less flashy numbers Charlie Parker wrote, and I bet most people have never heard 'Star-Crossed Lovers' even once. My point being, these weren't typical choices.
I had my reasons, of course, for choosing these unlikely pieces for my fantasy requests--namely that Tommy Flanagan had made memorable recordings of both. 'Barbados' appeared on the 1957 album Dial JJ 5 when he was a pianist with the J.J. Johnson Quintet, while he recorded 'Star-Crossed Lovers' on the 1968 album Encounter! with Pepper Adams and Zoot Sims. Over his long career Tommy Flanagan has played and recorded countless pieces as a sideman in various groups, but it was the crisp, smart solos, short though they were, in those two particular pieces that I've always loved. That's why I was thinking if only he would play those two numbers right now it'd be perfect. I was watching him closely, picturing him coming over to my table and asking, 'Hey, I've had my eye on you. Do you have any requests? Why don't you give me the titles of two numbers you'd like me to play?' Knowing all the time, of course, that the chances of that happening were nil.
And then, without a word, and without so much as a glance in my direction, Tommy Flanagan launched into the last two numbers of his set--the very ones I'd been thinking of. He started off with the ballad 'Star-Crossed Lovers,' then went into an up-tempo version of 'Barbados.' I sat there, wineglass in hand, speechless. Jazz fans will understand that the chance of his picking these two pieces from the millions of jazz numbers out there was astronomical. And also--and this is the main point here--his performances of both numbers were amazing."
*
I typed that all out, because I like to forgo cut and paste in favor of re-typing writings (lyrics, quotes, so on) and because in a Murakami story I read a couple months ago he wrote:
"Just below her shoulder blades were two small moles, lined up like a pair of twins."
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
vietnamese food
I made myself a meal for the first time in weeks. It made me feel slightly more human, less robot. I made my mom's crack pork chops (with sauteed scallions and shallots, leftover from our potluck last week) with steamed broccoli and basmati rice (ran out of my other white rice). It was simple and satisfying, and made me miss my mom very much. So I made a decision that makes me happy. I decided to violate my plan of doing nothing on those six Sundays during Boards studying. I've wanted to learn and compile my mom's recipes for a long time, but resisted making this (and several other ventures) a goal during my study time at home. I wanted to let go of the need to be "productive" even on my "day off." I'd pretty much planned on being a couch potato on those no-study-Sundays. I haven't entirely abandoned this image of myself (my dad will have plenty of company on the couch). But atop of my meal today, some small coinciding events reminded me that my mom's cooking is something I want to preserve. These included meeting up with a junior high friend I haven't seen in a couple years, who still remembers how good the food was that my mom fed her when we were thirteen; being sent an article about students discovering their immigrant parents' stories way past the time they felt there was little left to know; and Allison raving about Vietnamese food.
I can make my mom's crack chicken and pork chops which have become addictive staples among those I've fed it to (hence crack), egg rolls that I steep in oil despite everyone's complaints about unhealthy because that's how my mom does it, and her various kinds of eggs (yes you can put ground beef in eggs). But I have a list of others I'd like to learn and have been limited in the past by ingredients, or her protest that I'll never make these things because they're meant to be consumed by groups. These include a tangy sweet and sour catfish soup; my favorite kind of spring rolls with boiled beef and pineapple; Vietnamese crepes with shrimp, pork and bean sprouts; and my favorite favorite meal of all time, a noodle and fish dish that she makes every time I come home. The fish is marinated and fried with onions and lemongrass, served with vermicelli. Condiments include roasted peanuts, raw onions soaked in vinegar, some pickled vegetable whose name I don't know, crispy sesame rice paper, lettuce, and other Asian greens whose names I also don't know (part of this project entails learning names). As with a lot of other dishes, you don't eat it in one big bowl; you use a small rice bowl and keep re-filling it as you go. You take some noodles and fish, add condiments to taste, and top with a key component: a pungent shrimp sauce mixed with red peppers from the backyard. I do believe the essence of my love for food lies in 1) sauces and 2) mixing things. Some people finish their burger before they eat their fries; I always complement a bite of burger with a few fries. This dish isn't something most people like on first try, but once your palate adjusts it is such an amazing blend of flavors and textures.
To prove that I'm studying and not just daydreaming about my mom's food, I'm going to impart something interesting I've learned in posts when possible. Today I learned that three out of five heart transplants are rejected by the immune system of the recipient. Getting a new heart is pretty wondrous, but it's not so easy. People miss what's theirs when it's gone. As an almost twenty-five year old, I find it a bit pathetic that I consciously miss my parents probably more than they miss me. I hope this helps keep them close.
I can make my mom's crack chicken and pork chops which have become addictive staples among those I've fed it to (hence crack), egg rolls that I steep in oil despite everyone's complaints about unhealthy because that's how my mom does it, and her various kinds of eggs (yes you can put ground beef in eggs). But I have a list of others I'd like to learn and have been limited in the past by ingredients, or her protest that I'll never make these things because they're meant to be consumed by groups. These include a tangy sweet and sour catfish soup; my favorite kind of spring rolls with boiled beef and pineapple; Vietnamese crepes with shrimp, pork and bean sprouts; and my favorite favorite meal of all time, a noodle and fish dish that she makes every time I come home. The fish is marinated and fried with onions and lemongrass, served with vermicelli. Condiments include roasted peanuts, raw onions soaked in vinegar, some pickled vegetable whose name I don't know, crispy sesame rice paper, lettuce, and other Asian greens whose names I also don't know (part of this project entails learning names). As with a lot of other dishes, you don't eat it in one big bowl; you use a small rice bowl and keep re-filling it as you go. You take some noodles and fish, add condiments to taste, and top with a key component: a pungent shrimp sauce mixed with red peppers from the backyard. I do believe the essence of my love for food lies in 1) sauces and 2) mixing things. Some people finish their burger before they eat their fries; I always complement a bite of burger with a few fries. This dish isn't something most people like on first try, but once your palate adjusts it is such an amazing blend of flavors and textures.
To prove that I'm studying and not just daydreaming about my mom's food, I'm going to impart something interesting I've learned in posts when possible. Today I learned that three out of five heart transplants are rejected by the immune system of the recipient. Getting a new heart is pretty wondrous, but it's not so easy. People miss what's theirs when it's gone. As an almost twenty-five year old, I find it a bit pathetic that I consciously miss my parents probably more than they miss me. I hope this helps keep them close.
Friday, March 13, 2009
my songs
I use the word love a lot. I love a lot of things and a lot of people. On this particular day and on many days I think about all the different songs I love. But when it comes down to it, there are only a few I love in a specific, perfect way. This doesn’t mean that when I say I love other songs, I don’t mean it. I worry sometimes that applying the word too liberally to things devalues them, both in the eyes of others who become suspect of my standards, and intrinsically, as though love has to be selective to be true. I worry about this, but not too much, because all the while I know it’s not true, not for me. The quality of love can stay the same, even as the texture differs from one thing to the next.
Skinny Love (Bon Iver)
Push, acoustic (Matchbox 20)
Yellow (Coldplay)
Soul to Squeeze (Red Hot Chili Peppers)
Cold Girl Fever (The National)
Delicate (Damien Rice)
There are common features; most apparently, they are all sung by males (I don’t really know what that says). They’re quiet and not earth-shattering. Most are well-known; for all the lesser known music I'm exposed to, these are the ones that choose me. Closer to me, they are songs for nighttime or the dark, and for the cold, for transportation in familiar places. I don’t love them for memories; though there are many, many songs whose associated people and experiences intensify my inherent love for them. They exude a similar quality. In their own way, these give me the same feeling, a certain kind of ache that makes them perfect, perfect not as in flawless; perfect because it fits my particular combination of angles.
Skinny Love (Bon Iver)
Push, acoustic (Matchbox 20)
Yellow (Coldplay)
Soul to Squeeze (Red Hot Chili Peppers)
Cold Girl Fever (The National)
Delicate (Damien Rice)
There are common features; most apparently, they are all sung by males (I don’t really know what that says). They’re quiet and not earth-shattering. Most are well-known; for all the lesser known music I'm exposed to, these are the ones that choose me. Closer to me, they are songs for nighttime or the dark, and for the cold, for transportation in familiar places. I don’t love them for memories; though there are many, many songs whose associated people and experiences intensify my inherent love for them. They exude a similar quality. In their own way, these give me the same feeling, a certain kind of ache that makes them perfect, perfect not as in flawless; perfect because it fits my particular combination of angles.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
reminder
I felt bad today because we learned how to draw blood for the first time, and after my classmate and good friend Prathap relieved my great deal of anxiety about it by having a great vein that gave me no problems, I couldn't return the favor because my veins are without weight or shade and gave no blood on either arm.
Narae's response, and why I know love:
"Why should you feel bad?!!! That's how you were BORN!"
Narae's response, and why I know love:
"Why should you feel bad?!!! That's how you were BORN!"
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
persistence
The other day a survivor of sexual assault as a child came to speak to our class. From childhood to puberty she'd been abused by her father. She was amazingly in tune with how she felt back then, how she feels now, and everything she had to go through in between. I admired very much her emphasis on surviving over being victimized. The thing she said that struck me most was how she described the physical effects of her trauma as persistent. Not continuous, necessarily, but ever latent. Neck pain, sore throat, jaw aches every so often. It drew attention to the way this is embedded in her identity as much as everything else. Afterwards I asked her whether this persistence applies to emotional pain, too. As someone whose feelings have too strong of a memory and who can't concentrate after anything remotely emotional happens, I was so impressed by her capacity to carry with her all of that, to be at home with continual feeling of this sort. Besides flashbacks and the like, how often does she consciously think about it? She said, often, but not about the actual events--more about what to do with it, how to proceed with what she has. That is conscious, and persistent.
I've been told that I'm too self-aware, and I know this to be true and how sometimes damaging it can be. So to see someone with such extreme self-awareness that wasn't crippling, in the face of so much that could be, that was a source of survival, was so strong and amazing to me. We're always being told that practicing medicine is a privilege, and really most things in my life are privileges. Being new means that it's still surprising, when you realize people share with you for a reason, with an expectation that you will remember and use it as to not waste their gift, and that you are working to live up to this trust. I know how idealistic that all is and how much of it is inevitably consumed in stress, worry, limitations, and so on; how sometimes you're not given the trust at all and how other times you are and you fail. But to be given the chance? I will always take it.
My chest pain is 99% gone. The sensation was so sharp while it was there that now every time I breathe or laugh without pain, I'm aware of its absence. I find myself breathing in more often and more deeply to feel it, and am reminded that that's persistent too.
I've been told that I'm too self-aware, and I know this to be true and how sometimes damaging it can be. So to see someone with such extreme self-awareness that wasn't crippling, in the face of so much that could be, that was a source of survival, was so strong and amazing to me. We're always being told that practicing medicine is a privilege, and really most things in my life are privileges. Being new means that it's still surprising, when you realize people share with you for a reason, with an expectation that you will remember and use it as to not waste their gift, and that you are working to live up to this trust. I know how idealistic that all is and how much of it is inevitably consumed in stress, worry, limitations, and so on; how sometimes you're not given the trust at all and how other times you are and you fail. But to be given the chance? I will always take it.
My chest pain is 99% gone. The sensation was so sharp while it was there that now every time I breathe or laugh without pain, I'm aware of its absence. I find myself breathing in more often and more deeply to feel it, and am reminded that that's persistent too.
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