Queen Fibroid

It's been two days since my first surgery -- a laparascopic uterine myomectomy, or in layman's terms, a fibroid removal. I've been meaning to write about this since I first found out about the fibroid in October, but as usual, life, school, and my own laziness have gotten in the way. Now the pain is pleasantly muted by some truly A+ narcotics, my mind is warm and cottony, and I'm going to do my best to provide a faithful account of my experience.

This story actually starts over a year ago, before I started medical school. One of my goals before entering medical school was to lose some weight, because let's face it, no one will take advice about obesity from an obese doctor. I started to go on morning runs in the nearby park. Every once in a while, if I ran too far or too fast, I would get really bad cramps followed by some spotting. Sometimes, the pain would be so bad, I would have to sit down on a bench and breathe through it until the episode died down. My mom convinced me to go to a doctor to get it checked out. At the time, I had insurance under Americorps, so I figured, why not, preventative care is free.

When I told the doctor at North Eastern Medical Services (NEMS) about my symptoms, she told me it was most likely a fibroid. She said that she could give me a referral for a ultrasound, but mostly likely, the ultrasound would only confirm the diagnosis. My symptoms were relatively mild and, in most cases, doctors choose to leave the fibroid in unless it is seriously detracting from the quality of life. I wasn't about to pay $100+ for a test that would only tell me something that I already knew, so I filed away this fibroid business to the back of my mind and just accepted the cramps as a part of exercise (No pain, no gain, and all that).

Fast forward to three months ago, when I started learning about pelvic exams in school. We were taught to palpate the inguinal region to see if we could detect any bumps (we shouldn't) that could correspond to problems with ovaries or even the uterus. As any good med student would do, I immediately went home to palpate the heck out of my inguinal region. I lied in bed and followed the oblique line of my inguinal ligament until my fingers pressed upon a large lump. Deeper pressure elicited a crampy sensation. A general rule of thumb when detecting a lump/abnormality is to check for symmetry. If the abnormality is equal and present on both sides of the body, it's less likely to be something bad. I checked hopefully on the opposite side and felt nothing. Crap.

I lied awake in bed and contemplated my own mortality.

The next morning, I made an appointment at the Student Health Center. The physician was super helpful and confirmed the presence of the lump with a bimanual exam (something that the doctor at NEMS never did). Things moved relatively quickly from that point on. I was given a referral to the radiologist for a pelvic ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed that the fibroid was larger than my uterus (11.5cm x 11.6cm), but fortunately, it was pedunculated (or attached by a stalk) so it would be relatively easy to remove. I tried to make an appointment at the UCSF OB-GYN, but they informed me that the earliest appointment would probably be in December. I may have shamelessly pulled the "I am a medical student, please help me so that I can get this done before I take Step One and disappear off the face of the earth, Queen Fibroid and all" card. Miraculously, the doctor called me the next day and squeezed me in for an appointment in early October.

Those two weeks seemed surreal. I didn't tell anyone about what I had found or what I was doing. If it turned out that I didn't need to have surgery, why worry my family prematurely as they waited for news? I confided in my sister after I scheduled my appointment with the OB-GYN, but we decided that I would tell my parents only if it turned out that I needed to have surgery. It was a time of high stress and uncertainty. Two weeks, three appointments -- it felt like I had more things inserted in my hoo-ha than I have had in my entire lifetime. (Let me tell you, pelvic ultrasounds are NOT fun. The ultrasound technician may have laughed at my face of horror when she showed me the transducer.) I would get asked the same questions over and over again: "When was your last period?", "Is there a possibility you might be pregnant?", "Have you ever had an STI?" My personal favorite is the doctor who asked me if I might be pregnant, to whom I responded, "Not unless Jesus is coming again." and then she proceeded to give me a STI test just in case. Thanks for the vote of confidence, ma'am.

Once I met with my OB-GYN in October, she confirmed that I would be needing the surgery. Though I wasn't having the worst symptoms (heavy bleeding, bad cramps during menstruation), the fibroid was large enough that it was compressing my bladder and they had concerns that it might continue to grow. When Dr. Illagansakare (YEAH. TRY PRONOUNCING THAT. Took me at least three encounters to get that right.) told me about the bladder compression, I was like "OMG. That's why I always need to pee!" Rotations are looking up, y'all.

I was scheduled for surgery on December 15th. A huge shout out to all the school admin who helped coordinate everything -- to Dean Jones who met with me personally to express his support and to Dr. Hyland who was so sweet about rescheduling my exam and checking in on me.

After all the dates were set, I was able to forget about the surgery for a good month or so. I had a minor scare with the insurance company two weeks before the scheduled date, when they rejected my insurance claim for the surgery. When I received the call from UCSF, I was incensed. I was ready to sue everybody. Who are these people to deny me this surgery, telling me it's medically unnecessary?? TELL THAT TO MY BLADDER. I spent an hour on hold with the insurance company the next day, and it would later turn out that there was a mistake on UCSF's part. They had coded the procedure as a hysterectomy and my insurance company, seeing I am a healthy 24yo F, was like "Um. Why are you removing her healthy viable uterus? Let's re-think this."

The run-in with the insurance company gave me another moment to reflect on how lucky I am. After a day of despair and anger, I was able to sort out the situation and eventually get the procedure that I needed. I can't imagine what would have happened if I didn't have the medical/bureaucratic literacy to navigate the system or the inherent inflated sense of entitlement to be like "No. I am getting this procedure." Or if I wasn't a student and I didn't have time to just spend essentially 1.5 hours on the phone with the insurance company during business hours. Or if I didn't have the necessary English proficiency to negotiate with the insurance representatives. This minor headache could have been a real nightmare.

The two or three days before the surgery, I had the worst sleep of my life. I was nervous about my exam and anxious about the surgery. By the morning of the procedure, I was almost looking forward to it -- sedation guaranteed the best sleep of my life.

The worst part about the whole surgery was the IV. I have the worst veins. Every phlebotomist I have ever encountered has called me a "hard stick". Once, a nurse told me that if I exercised more, my veins would be bigger (Dis Bitch. I now run 3 miles a day and lift and still have no palpable veins. All that exercise for NOTHING). Anyways, it took them three sticks to get a usable IV. A nurse tried, then the anesthesiologist's nurse assistant, and finally the anesthesiologist got it to work. I was super close to begging them to just give me laughing gas before they stuck me to their heart's content. Once the IV was in, they rolled me down the hallway and to the OR.

Upon getting in the OR, I remember them telling me to get up on the table. I remember saying "Wow, this table is super comfortable. I want one of these pillows for my bed." I remember someone saying, "I don't think anyone has ever said that before." Then laughing, then nothing.

The next thing I remember is coming to in the recovery room, distraught about everything. My nose was stuffy, snotty from apparently crying for the past 30 minutes. My sister and Dad were there trying to comfort me. I had just found out that I had to stay the night in the hospital, and I remember moaning, "I'm OK. I can go home. I can go home, I'm fine. I want to go home." My Dad told me they got a parking ticket and I think I cried about that for another hour. My sister claims I cried for 3 hours straight. Of course, she provided ample video documentation.  At the risk of tearing my stitches, I watched these videos and I can attest that they are hilarious. I'll wait before I'm completely recovered before I share them. Too good, comic gold.

A brief preview:
Me: "TICKET!!!! (sobs)"
(brief pause)
Me: "Is there Wifi?"

or

Me: (look of intense betrayal) "You took my phone?"
Me: (Throws head back dramatically and starts sobbing)

My family has been super supportive through the whole thing. My sister took two days off work. She spent the night before my surgery with me in SF and took me to eat wings to help me keep my mind off things. My parents left San Jose at 4AM to take me to the hospital at 5AM. My family sat with me in the hospital as I humiliated myself and cried all the way from the recovery room to my hospital bed. My sister brought me jajangmyun and fried chicken for dinner (I hadn't eaten since midnight the night before. The doctors didn't believe I would be up to eating for a while...I proved them wrong.) Amy also stayed with me overnight in the hospital, brought me my First Aid book when I deliriously requested it in my semi-conscious state, and was an overall trooper through this entire experience.

I cannot express how thankful I am for my family for being with me from the start to the end. Even now they insist on feeding me foods I like and making soup "for my recovery". I also appreciate all the friends who have checked in or stopped by to drop off home-cooked meals and pray for me. I definitely feel the love!

As for the procedure itself, it was a success. They got Queen Fibroid out completely and we are now waiting from the report from Pathology to know the final weight. The surgery was supposed to be laparoscopic but I was losing too much blood so they had to make a fourth, larger incision from which to remove the fibroid in strips. They kept me overnight in the hospital to monitor me for any negative effects from the blood loss.

The doctor gave me a truly gnarly picture of the fibroid, cut into strips. Let me know if you want to see it, I would love to share. hehe. I am so used to showing this picture to med students who are like "AWW YISSSS. OMGGGG. THAT'S HUGE. WELL DONE." that I forgot when I was showing my childhood friend and she gasped and clutched her chest and was like "Warn a girl first!!!!" Oops.

Anyways, yes, I am now home eating donuts and doped up on Norco. Overall, a happy recovery! Another big thank you to everyone who has supported me along the way. I really appreciate you guys being in my life. :)

Up In Smoke

Last night, I watched my neighbor's house burn down. As I look across the street at the burned husk of what used to be a home, I can't help but reflect on how quickly life can change. Two families were made homeless overnight. At the same time, a neighborhood of strangers came together to form a supportive community.

We were sitting in the living room watching the Olympics when we first smelled the smoke. My Dad said, "It might be from the fire in Watsonville."But it didn't smell like a campfire, it smelled more like burnt rubber. Amy immediately starts looking around to see if any of our outlets are smoking, I check the backyard to see if someone has been setting off fireworks again, and my Dad goes out the front door. Suddenly, I hear my Dad yelling and sprinting up our driveway -- "THE HOUSE ACROSS THE STREET IS ON FIRE!" Everyone explodes into action. Amy runs to call 911. My dad has already grabbed the garden hose and has run across the street. I roll out the hose for him and turn on the water, but our hose is far too short to reach the flames. The best we could do is wet the car and the front lawn in hopes of slowing down the fire. My Dad has me try to turn on our neighbor's hose, but their water pressure is much too weak for it to be of any use. My Dad yells, "Someone get Victoria!" I'm like, "Who's Victoria??" Out of the corner of my eye, I see the neighbor next door to the burning building (who turns out to be Victoria) jump into their car and move it. At this point, the fire is creeping closer and closer to the front of the house, where there are several cars parked. I hear my sister and my mom yelling, "Get back! The cars will explode! YOU IDIOTS, get back!" We have to drag my father back to our side of the street. We later find out that the husband of the house works on cars in his backyard and that there is something like 5-6 cars in his backyard and a small plane in their garage.

My sister has the phone in hand, "911 has me on hold!" she murmurs in disbelief. It turns out that the dispatchers had probably been inundated with calls from our neighborhood. The firefighters arrive in less than 10 minutes.

Neighbors and strangers are now gathering. Luckily, a firetruck parked right in front of our driveway so people stood instead on the lawn next door. They climbed his pickup truck in an attempt to get a better view. Dozens of cell phone screens documented the chaos that was happening across the street. There are no less than six firetrucks parked in our neighborhood now. We await breathlessly as they roll out the hose. "Why don't they turn it on already," someone exclaims. In that moment, we all became expert firefighters with strong opinions on how fires should be put out.

Victoria's family and dogs have been evacuated; she joins us on our driveway. We count the cars in the neighbor's driveway and are reasonably sure that they are not home. "What about the dog?" we ask with dawning realization, a fluffy white friendly beast that has been a thorn in my parents' side since it decided that our front yard was its favorite place to poop. I remember turning to my sister, who whispered in horror, "I hated that dog, but I didn't want it to die."

Just a few hours before the fire, Victoria had brought over a bagful of homegrown tomatoes. As we watched the chaos across the street, she remarked ruefully, "Good thing I picked those tomatoes. The plants are right over there by the fence on fire." Also, can I take a moment to say what a BOSS Victoria is? Lady is PREPARED. Apparently, she grew up in Florida, where evacuating their home for hurricanes is a pretty common event. She apparently had all her important documents in a box in a closet by the front door. We all need to learn to be more like Victoria.

The fire has spread throughout the entire house at this point. When we first arrived on scene, the fire was localized to the back of the house. Now, the flames are bursting out of the upstairs front window. We watch apprehensively as cinders float across the street. We fear that the massive tree on our lawn will catch fire.

The neighborhood is a cacophony of sirens and alarms, but at the same time it feels like we are drowning in silence.

As the fire is slowly contained, we hear that the family has returned. Is the dog with them? It turns out that when the firefighters had knocked down the fence in an attempt to attack the fire from the side, the terrified dog had streaked out of the flaming yard. Praise God, the dog is OK! Everyone breathes a sigh of relief as the entire family is accounted for.

We have only exchanged words with these neighbors a handful of times. Once or twice about the dog poop on our lawn. Another time when my Dad spotted someone breaking into their car at 5AM. As we walk up to the mother, she is visibly in shock. My Dad offers our house and tea to her and her family. As she pulls out her phone to call her son, her hand is shaking so badly she can't press the buttons. I put my arms around her and press her trembling hands.

It was a long night. The fire started around 9PM. The family stayed at our house and sorted out their affairs with the firefighters, Red Cross, and the insurance company until 1AM. The firefighters stayed even later to clear out the debris and rope off the house.

The Red Cross was able to find accommodations for both families. The firefighters give them $100 to tide them over for a few days. We offer to take care of the dog for the night.

It's crazy how many things there are to worry about after a house fire. On top of losing mementos and official documents, the wife worried about not having her husband's diabetes medication. The solar panel company had to be called to turn them off. The wires had been damaged so badly that if they were still on when the sun came out, the house could reignite. Both families had dogs that needed to be boarded for the upcoming days but most hotels wouldn't take them. The husband called StateFarm (to my eternal disappoint, the agent's name was not Jake) and when asked what the problem was, he stated bluntly, "My house just burned down." We all laughed, a moment of startled levity despite the circumstances. The family realized that they had bought the insurance years ago and had never really read over the terms; all the papers going over the contract were now reduced to glowing embers across the street. (My sister and I immediately turn to our Mom and demand to know whether we have house insurance. We do.)

The events of last night have gone a long ways in restoring my faith in humanity. Yes, there were rubberneckers there hoping to catch a glimpse of the action, but there were also just as many neighbors exchanging numbers, asking if there was anything they could do, and offering up their homes. The firefighters told us this isn't always the case. Apparently, in some neighborhoods, people come out, watch/film the fire, and then go back in their homes and close their doors. Unbelievable.

In the end, we are just grateful that no one was hurt. I think the entire neighborhood is going to look into their insurance policies and make emergency evacuation plans. It was definitely a much-needed wake-up call, but man! This neighborhood has been through some shit. Four houses and numerous cars broken into and now a two-alarm fire.

So yeah, lesson learned -- say "Hi" to your neighbors from time to time, you never know when you'll be knocking on their door for help.

Meaning of Service

So it's summer and I've sold my soul for ~$1000/week to teach rich kids science. After three weeks on the job, I can definitely say these children are of a different breed from the underserved kids I have worked with in the past. But I'll save those stories for a different time.

I've been thinking a lot about my future. More specifically, I've been worrying over whether I should be doing more for my projected career path. I still have no idea what specialty (or non-specialty) I want to go into. I'm spending this summer working for $$$ instead of doing any meaningful research or volunteerism. I feel like I burnt out all my ambition trying to get into medical school and now that I'm here, I've been coasting. Honestly, I could be working harder and doing more, but after a year of being in the workforce, I feel like my priorities have shifted. I'm too old to be making myself try things I don't enjoy in an attempt to fatten my resume. I'm over building and investing in relationships with new people. I'm beef jerky -- med school applications have leeched me of my succulent youth and vitality. I don't want to lean in...I just want to lie down. (Baby Cobra is my life goal right now.)

Anyways, I haven't emerged from my months-long blogging dry spell (just) to complain. There's been a lot going on in my father's side of the family and watching my Dad weather through it all has reminded me of all the reasons why I appreciate him so much. Even though sometimes he frustrates me on a visceral level that only family can attain, my Dad is a good man and I am proud to be his daughter.

This weekend, my Dad took us to visit an older woman with whom we attended church back in the day. Grandma ZQ is now 93 years old and I have the vaguest, almost fantastical, recollection of her in a knitted white cardigan and a silk scarf. My parents met her when they were still young Christians -- my sister was still little and I barely alive. My only recollections of that church involve stealing sugar cubes from the coffee cart to suck on and flashing the audience (and my horrified parents) from the stage on Palm Sunday.

Though I barely remember her, Grandma ZQ embraced us each like family as she welcomed us into her home. She was so excited to see us, she was breathless as she herded us around her pristine apartment. She kept on repeating that she was "so happy to see us". At first, this struck me as rather weird. Her name was one that I had heard around our house every once in a blue moon, but I could not remember the last time that we had visited her. But as we sat with her Saturday afternoon, she regaled us with stories about the things that my parents had done for her over the years.

Grandma ZQ was diagnosed with cancer when she was 35. She was told she had two years to live. She was part of the first test group of patients to receive rudimentary radiation treatment in China. Out of that group, she was the only one to survive. Her family was once well-known in China, but they lost it all in the cultural revolution; her family home remains a historical landmark to this day. Rather than being embittered by her losses, Grandma ZQ is one of the most positive human beings I have ever met. She was just so grateful for everything that she had and generous with anything extra she'd been given.

When my parents attended church with her, Grandma ZQ was diagnosed with another form of cancer. My father urged her to seek care, but most of her children were still in China, her only child in the US was busy at work. There was no one to take her to her treatments at Stanford. My Dad, being my Dad, volunteered to drive her. He and my mother took turns driving from San Jose to her home in Newark and stayed with her during her treatment at Stanford before driving her home. Grandma ZQ recounted the time that my father bought her a humidifier because the radiation treatment had debilitated her salivary glands, leaving her mouth and sinuses dry -- she even recalled that it had cost $59. (Mind like a steel trap, that one!) A lot of the things that she remembered and was still touched by, my parents didn't even remember doing. It just served as a reminder that people will always remember the way that you made them feel, even when you don't. There were probably times that my parents felt that they had bit off more than they could chew as they drove Grandma ZQ back and forth from her appointments, but I know that they had no regrets that afternoon as they saw how much their actions meant to her.

But that's just so much like my Dad. When he commits to doing something, he does it 100% and more importantly, he does it joyfully. I know I take more after my mom in this aspect. I'm more likely to think practically about how much something is going to cost me and how sustainable my actions will be. I also tend to get fed up with things once they become an annoyance or burden. But I thank God for that afternoon with Grandma ZQ. Not only did we leave laden with homemade buns and wontons (she emptied her fridge and thrust them upon us despite our vehement protests), but I left with a reminder of the true meaning and purpose of service. We are not called to serve merely when convenient, but whole-heartedly in all aspects of our lives. I hope that the next time such an opportunity presents itself, I will remember my Dad and Grandma ZQ and have the strength to do the right thing.

Basis of Fear

I guess most of my blog posts now are going to be fueled by procrastination. And in today's case, a little bit of alcohol because I think I got a bit too heavy-handed when spiking my hot chocolate tonight. Oh yeah, Momma's feeling good.

But yes, it's been a long day. I got back from tutoring and then I had to study for my physical exam assessment tomorrow. A part of me is like "Meh, it's not graded" and I feel like the longer I'm in med school, the more that part of me is winning over the perfectionist/overambitious remnants of my high school/college days.

Today, I was tutoring one of my "problem" students. Sweet kid. Funny. Charismatic. NAUGHTY. Bless this child, but she drives me up the wall 75% of the time. Some days she begs me to take her from class, other days she refuses to come. Some days she gets engaged in the reading, adds her own voices and sound effects...other days she refuses to pick up a book. Today was one of the latter days. She spent 15 minutes refusing to get in the chair. Instead, she'd walk back and forth into the book room, claiming she had to get another book because the book she had "had too many words". I allowed the first book exchange. When she got up to get the second one, I asked her to sit down. She ignored me. Went and dilly-dallied in the book room for a minute or two before coming back. By the third time, I was pretty fed up. I said "Jasmine. Please stop stalling and sit down." She ignored me. This time, she came back with "Brown Bear, Brown Bear", a book that is about...4 grade levels too easy for her.

I am more than a little frustrated at this point. I manage to convince her to read from one of the books she had brought back earlier. She read it beautifully. She got really into the book. She moo'd when the characters moo'd, she imitated the sound of the falling rain,  she crowed like a rooster. Then the book ended and she lost all interest in cooperating.

She laid her empty banana peel on my arm.

I said, "Please throw away your garbage, Jasmine."

She laid her mozzarella stick wrapper (which had been in her mouth for the last 5 minutes) on top of the banana peel.

I said, "Jasmine, this is not funny. I'm going to ask you one more time. Please throw your garbage away."

She took the mozzarella wrapper and placed it on my head.

I was 100% done.

I stood up. I said very calmly, "You're done. I'm taking you back to class."

Seeing my stony countenance, she senses something is wrong. She begs me to stay. I take her into the office and have her throw her garbage away. I walk her back to class. I don't say another word.

After this ordeal, I reflected on what I could have done better. It was clear this child had zero respect for me. I wasn't one of her teachers. I didn't work for the after school program. I realized that I had no authority over this child. Yes, I could do a countdown. Yes, I could issue ultimatums. But all of these are ultimately empty threats because I lacked the power to truly discipline her. And maybe a part of this child recognized that. I couldn't do anything to her. She didn't need to listen to me because she wasn't scared of me; she knew there would be no repercussions.

I have an assessment tomorrow. It's ungraded. I definitely haven't done my due diligence in preparing for it. I feel like my attitude toward med school now is "Is it mandatory?", and if not, I give it as little effort as required to skate by so that I can focus my energies on the things that "matter". In other words, I feel like I am going to be a terrible doctor. Much like Jasmine, my respect is built on a basis of fear. I know my Foundations of Patient Care (FPC) activities are ungraded, so I don't respect the classes as much. They're the lowest priority on a endless list of things I need to do. But unlike Jasmine, I should be old enough to recognize the latent benefits and payoffs that these learning experiences hold. I guess there's some kid left in me after all.

Anyways, back to studying. If anyone has any suggestions/tips on how to better manage rowdy kids, I'd much appreciate it. For now, I think Jasmine will be dismayed to know that, in light of her recent behavior, I have now been granted the power to call parents. BOOM. KID GON' LEARN TODAY.

Critical Reflection

I have an exam on Friday, and like any responsible med student, I am doing anything I can to avoid studying for it. Let me tell you, for being fist-sized organs tucked in glorified bags of fat, kidneys are a pain in the ass to learn about. Ugh.

Over the long weekend, we were given an assignment for Foundations of Patient Care (FPC), where we had to write a self-reflection on an interaction we had with a standardized patient. While writing, I realized that it had been a long time since I'd actively reflected on my experiences. Whereas in undergrad and high school, I often thought back on the things I did, what I learned from them, what was funny, what sucked, I feel like that level of introspection tapered off gradually before my senior year. Maybe I finally found my niche and surrounded myself with a group of friends who taught me how to live in the moment. More likely I got caught up with all the things that were happening that I lost the patience for sitting down and chronicling major events. It used to be that I would lie in bed, unable to sleep until I got up and jot down my thoughts. Nowadays, I still lie in bed unable to sleep, but I turn to my phone and swipe left, left, left until I slip into oblivion.

My friend Chumin recently asked me, "What do you think 10-year old Abby would think of the person you've become today?" My third grade teacher once made us write a letter to our future selves, a letter she later sent out to each of us upon our high school graduation. Third grade Abby had written "You used to be cool...remember that." Little Abby's words cut deep. I know, without a doubt, that Little Abby would think that I was a giant lame-o. But then again, Little Abby thought it was imperative to also include the line "You like tacos," so that little shit clearly did not have her priorities in order.

I guess this is a long, roundabout way of me asking myself, am I proud of the person I've become? I think if I were to look at my salient achievements -- graduating from Hopkins, doing a year of service in AmeriCorps, becoming a medical student -- I do feel like like I'm on the road to "success" as society defines it. I am proud of these accomplishments but, to me, these events are divorced from who I am as a person. What is the use in becoming a doctor if I'm a shitty person? How much good can a doctor do if inside she is twisted and broken, jaded and cynical? It's a legitimate concern for me because I can feel a growing change in my perspective. I am no longer the idealistic do-gooder of semesters past, who dedicated hours to community service and helping others just because I saw a need. These days, I avoid commitments like they're the plague and my default question is always "Is it mandatory?"

I don't even know if I can attribute this all to med school burnout. Yes, I spend hours every day reading over the material and studying. There are days where I wake up at 7AM to get to class and don't get back from work until 7PM, after which I eat dinner and study until 11PM. But then again, which one of my classmates is not doing the same thing? Yet others still find time to volunteer, hang out, care about social issues, etc.

Even during my year off when I was working at Reading Partners, I really began to treasure my alone time. Once my pajamas were on, ain't nothing gon' get me out of the house again. I just wanted to spend time with my family and dogs, read, watch TV, sleep, etc. When I think about socializing now, I am exhausted. Am I too old? I just don't have the energy to invest in people the way I used to. God, that makes me sound like I'm 80.

Another thing that weighs heavily on my mind is the fact that I haven't attended church in years. I stopped attending sometime my sophomore year. First, it was because I got a job that required me to work on Sundays. (I can hear my Dad in my head telling me that money is my idol.)Then it was because other things in life became more important to me than church. By the time I started dating a woman my junior year, I had already stopped attending church completely for quite some time. I'm not drawing a causal relationship between the two events. But not going to church definitely made it a lot easier for me to take the leap.

As I grow older or as I become "indoctrinated by my liberal education", I feel like I have more and more issues with the church. Yes, homosexuality is one major thing. And then there's abortion. And then there's no sex before marriage. And then there's the very unfeminist ideology in the Bible and church. There's a growing association in my mind between religion and a lack of independent thought. There's living by faith then there's living like a decent human being and I really don't feel like the two should be mutually exclusive. But I'm starting to digress, so I think this is a topic I should revisit another day.

I guess what I'm saying is, maybe Little Abby would be proud of the person I am today. Who knows, she wanted to be a Indian, cowboy, or a homeless person during various intervals of her life, but maybe she would think becoming a doctor is pretty badass too. But older and (a little) wiser Abby isn't quite as sold. I think I've been slipping in the personal development department and it's time I start devoting some more mental resources to that once again -- just as soon as I finish studying for this exam.