I am bed-ridden with disease. Except not really. Because I only get free WiFi (hijacked from the Public Health house next door) in certain parts of the room, I am strategically lying on the floor. Anyways, I've completely failed at being a committed blogger. I really tried. The first night, I had a monstrous migraine. It was so bad, I couldn't focus on the last 15 minutes of my Korean drama. When a migraine messes with my bad romcom fix?...it's bad. The second day, I spent the entire afternoon at Charm City Clinic (which is awesome! More on that later...), went to dinner with friends, and spent the evening with Chumin strategizing for our next FULL day of shopping. I still can't believe the Towson mall only opens from 12-6PM on Sunday. Probably better that way, because I would be a lot more than $100 poorer right now. Tax free week, yo!
Another large part of why I probably would suck at blogging every day....not much happens to me. Certainly not enough to blog about: "Today I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Except I used mocha hazelnut spread instead of peanut butter. Ho ho, I am so whimsical! It was much more delicious than yesterday's sandwich. I think I will make my sandwiches this way in the future."
...Really. Who wants to read that? Not me two years from now, wondering what I was like in my youth/pre-Med school. I still remember opening the time capsule that our third grade teacher Ms. Jones sent us when we graduated from high school. Third-grade Abby had written, "You were cool once, Abby. Remember that." Hurtful words, third-grade Abby. Hurtful words.
Just woke up from a five-hour nap and have resigned myself to being severely jet-lagged in the morning.Then I thought, hey, my best essays have been written in the wee hours of the morning, I should blog now while my creative juices are...fermenting. How does that expression go?
So yes, I have been contemplating on different topics to write about. I need to practice expressing and defending my opinions on a variety of topics to get in shape for the MCAT Writing Sample. While ruminating over this in the shower, the realization struck me. I have no opinions. I feel apathetic, or at most, ambivalent, about most issues. I've been marinating in a culture of tolerance for so long, it takes a lot to stir me to scream RIGHT or WRONG. I mean, I used to feel strongly about people who smoked. Then a bunch of my friends took up smoking (or revealed that they, in fact, have been smoking all along), and I discovered it wasn't the end of the world. I still love my friends and far be it from me to make them feel uncomfortable doing something that, to them, is part of a daily ritual. At the same time, my friends respect me and, even though they don't have to, go out of their way to make sure I'm not exposed to any second-hand smoke inhalation. Drugs? Well, pick your poison. Alcohol? Yes, please. You see, I'm just too emotionally unattached to express disapproval or preach about any of these issues. I believe that each individual should be able to make their own choices and not have to take other people's preferences into consideration, especially if the aforementioned others won't even be impacted by these life decisions.
Still, I don't think "I politely decline to take sides on this issue" is going to fly on my MCAT.
I've been brushing up, trying to read some Op/Ed articles, research journals, ethical debates, etc., not just for the MCAT, but so that in the future I'll have more to contribute in a conversation with my superiors than "Awesome." "That's cool!" Or the worst offender, "Niiiiice." Yeah, it's pretty bad.
Ok. I should probably try to get some more sleep. Work tomorrow. :\ I literally got paid $9 this morning for standing around and having an hour-long conversation about irrational parental worries with my boss and the psychiatrist on staff. Best job ever.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Continuity
You know that feeling when you're absolutely convinced that something monumental has just happened, that your life will never be the same, that surely tomorrow morning when you wake up, things will be so fundamentally different that you won't even remember what life used to be like before the Big Change? Then life kind of just moves on, the endorphins wear off, and every great thing just fades into shades of nostalgia and memory. Life's funny like that.
I feel like a momentous chapter of my life has just ended. If my life were one of those Pick-Your-Own-Ending books, I'd be standing at a crossroad debating between "If you'd like to move on with your life, keep reading. If you think it's time to start making crazy life decisions in your emotionally compromised state, throw the book on the ground!" The past six weeks of my life have been some of the most fulfilling and peaceful I have known in a long time. I know most of the other Pre-College RA's would beg to differ, but I am so accustomed to summers being packed with drama, disease, and discomfort (I literally just sat here for three minutes trying to come up with the third alliterative adjective), that this was the first actual summer vacation I've had in over a decade. AND I got paid for it. I'm not saying that experience has changed my perspective of ADVENT, but it's definitely something I didn't know I needed to prepare me both emotionally and mentally for the impending MCAT lockdown.
I'll eventually write more about the Pre-College experience, but I wanted to preface the upcoming posts with a bit of a warning:
I am writing under duress.
While taking the practice full-length MCAT, I was horrified by the discovery of a Writing Sample section. What. the. Fuck. I literally flinched away from the computer screen at the mere thought of answering the hated prompt. (I didn't. Skipped that section like a boss.) This was then coupled with a reading passage about how the current generation is no longer capable of thinking for itself. That our thoughts are unoriginal and learned. I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE. So yeah, I'm writing these posts to force myself to remember what it's like to form thoughts and put them down in (semi)coherent sentences. Practice makes perfect. Sigh.
So yeah. For the last three days, my world has been work, MCAT, ramen, Korean dramas, empty apartment. If I die young, don't bury me in satin. In fact, don't bury me at all, I'd like to be composted. And if there are roses anywhere NEAR my casket, I will come back and haunt you all.
Yeah, this is going to be harrowing butt fun.
I feel like a momentous chapter of my life has just ended. If my life were one of those Pick-Your-Own-Ending books, I'd be standing at a crossroad debating between "If you'd like to move on with your life, keep reading. If you think it's time to start making crazy life decisions in your emotionally compromised state, throw the book on the ground!" The past six weeks of my life have been some of the most fulfilling and peaceful I have known in a long time. I know most of the other Pre-College RA's would beg to differ, but I am so accustomed to summers being packed with drama, disease, and discomfort (I literally just sat here for three minutes trying to come up with the third alliterative adjective), that this was the first actual summer vacation I've had in over a decade. AND I got paid for it. I'm not saying that experience has changed my perspective of ADVENT, but it's definitely something I didn't know I needed to prepare me both emotionally and mentally for the impending MCAT lockdown.
I'll eventually write more about the Pre-College experience, but I wanted to preface the upcoming posts with a bit of a warning:
I am writing under duress.
While taking the practice full-length MCAT, I was horrified by the discovery of a Writing Sample section. What. the. Fuck. I literally flinched away from the computer screen at the mere thought of answering the hated prompt. (I didn't. Skipped that section like a boss.) This was then coupled with a reading passage about how the current generation is no longer capable of thinking for itself. That our thoughts are unoriginal and learned. I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE. So yeah, I'm writing these posts to force myself to remember what it's like to form thoughts and put them down in (semi)coherent sentences. Practice makes perfect. Sigh.
So yeah. For the last three days, my world has been work, MCAT, ramen, Korean dramas, empty apartment. If I die young, don't bury me in satin. In fact, don't bury me at all, I'd like to be composted. And if there are roses anywhere NEAR my casket, I will come back and haunt you all.
Yeah, this is going to be harrowing butt fun.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Nightmare
I must have had a nightmare. When I woke up this morning, my skin felt sticky and my hair tacky with dried sweat. Made me wonder what my subconscious agonizes over that I don't already beat to death under the sun, when my eyes are open, and even when my eyes are closed but my thoughts whirr onward, refusing to retreat into the refuge of a temporary death.
Well, I guess it's true what they say: No rest for the wicked.
Well, I guess it's true what they say: No rest for the wicked.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Slitherer Outer
" Of course you hate getting angry! You don’t like anything unpleasant,
do you? You’re a slitherer-outer, that’s what you are! You slither
away from anything you don’t like!"
I like to think of myself as a slitherer outer by choice. I know the limits of my own short temper; I am familiar with the not-so-passive aggression that seeps out when my tenuous grip on its reigns starts to slip. I know myself enough to know that the essence of my personality boils down to fickleness; I am eternally at some stage in the progression of failing relationships as obsession cools into interest, fades into apathy, lapses into annoyance, and eventually terminates in abhorrence. That's where the slithering comes in. Onto my lengthy list of character flaws, you can also add "selfish". I would rather avoid a problem, -- excise it like a malignant tumor greedily consuming my time, attention, and stunted emotions -- than confront it. Actually, I would say it's one of my Principles of life. (Yes, it deserves to be capitalized.) Is not avoidance just another method of dealing with a problem? If I had a festering wound, I wouldn't poke at it in an attempt to make it go away. I'd let it be and try to keep the pain far from my mind until I am pleasantly surprised by the shiny pink scar tissue that emerges and will serve as a reminder to avoid the provocation of said festering wound in the future. I mean, that's still normal, healthy thinking. I am more concerned by my tendency to wait until the wound is inflamed and weeping pus then declare, "Well, fuck it, I don't need this arm anyways!" before lopping the offending limb off and throwing it away. These are the kinds of thoughts I dwell upon on Easter Sunday.
I am having a crisis of spirituality. Not a crisis of faith. I've been through enough to never doubt that there is one true God who sent his only Son, who died in order to pay the price for my iniquities, and the Holy Spirit, who I invited into my heart when I was young, doubting, and alone. The problem lies in my lack of relationship with God, or more specifically, my lack of motivation in seeking a relationship with Him. If my curiosity were a penis, I'd have sown acres-worth of wild oats. Quite the philandering pee-pee, I'd say. Embracing a relationship with The Highest Authority would mean guilt, and horror-of-horrors, most likely giving up these behaviors entirely. I'm not ready to want that. In fact, I am at a place in my life where I vehemently do NOT want that. My parents have always warned me, "There are some things out there that you just never want to try.". My brain grasps the concept of self-destructive decisions and indelible consequences, but the demands of my insatiable dopamine receptors drown out any rational opposition to these behaviors. (And with that, I have fulfilled my Neuroscience reference quota of the day.) That's how it's supposed to be, living young and wild and free.
I've grown used to answering only to myself. When I was younger, my parents were The Authorities. Teachers could scold me and send me to the principal's office, but the real guilt and self-castigation could only be evoked by that look of mute disappointment I would get from my parents. Now that I'm older and my parents are satisfied with the conditioning of my guilt response, they are content to settle in their roles as co-consiglieres. One of the biggest chips on my shoulder, of which there are many, is an inability to accept advice/criticism from the Church. I don't like being told to do my QTs. I don't like being asked to pray. Sometimes I feel like a Republican in a sea of loving hippies. I choose the Republican analogy deliberately to convey the degree of self-disgust I feel at my inability to embrace the peace, love, and general all-around well-being. My heart is saying "Let's go!", my pride is saying "No." (Ok, I'll stop with the obscure references.)
Anyways, I've never been a big believer in talking about feelings. I mean, anyone who ever told you that talking about your feelings was "healthy"was a big fat liar. It's just the oldest excuse to pry and satisfy the basic human need to slurp up the juicy details and get in on the down-low. This may be one of the many reasons I'm going to die alone, but I digress.
One of the easiest ways to perturb a Christian is to feign nonchalance. "Yeah, I'm going straight to hell, so I got this one life to make sure I deserve it." This will get you the Face of Disapproval. Some will get angry, dismiss you, and walk away. Others will attempt to engage you and divert you from this perverted philosophy of paganism (I get my shits and giggles from alliteration), but further flippant remarks will have them excusing themselves to pray for your immortal soul. The smart ones can tell you're just trying to get a rise out of them. They may attempt to put on a neutral face, but the disapproval and concern is betrayed by the slight furrow of the brow and the faint twist of the lips. They may become genuinely concerned. Those are the ones that piss me off the most. Apparently, I don't respond well to other people's emotions either.
So yeah, back to talking about feelings. I don't talk about them because I am selfish and I don't want to deal with, nor do I actually care about, other people's emotions about my emotions. So this is what I do. Write about it. What started out as a quick study break just became an epic rant. I blame Liz Lemon and her decision to finally confront her feelings and tell James Marsden that she loves him. (Yeah, that's how behind I am. Still on the St. Patrick's day episode.) Also Easter Sunday with its holiness and bring-all-the-guilty-people-to-church and redemption themes and promised chocolate that is nowhere to be found....
I know people are reading this (conceited of me, yes) and going, "Wow, what a bad message to send to non-believers." and I say -- well, I say some rude things that would really be a bad message to send to non-believers. If I want to acknowledge that I am flawed, broken, and at times a totally unloveable or even unlikeable person, I will. Christians are people too. I've always instinctively referred to Christians as "them", partly because I take it as a personal insult every time someone says something like "Christians hate homosexuals" or "Christians support Republicans", or even worse, "Wow, Abby, I thought you were a good Christian girl." It's like getting grief from both sides and there are times I just want to give up and say "Well, can't satisfy everyone, so I might as well just satisfy myself." But again, that's the selfishness speaking.
This is what my sister would call an "emo post", but whatever, they make me feel better. You know that feeling right after you take a dump that you've been holding for hours because you went to class before you realized you need to go and then had to run and catch a shuttle and start work and just never got the chance for some APT (Ample Poop Time, courtesy of Tatiana)? In one word -- glorious. In fact, I encourage everyone to write their deepest, darkest, not fit for genteel society thoughts down more often. If not to make you feel better, to keep me entertained.
Anyone ever feel this way?
- Sophie (Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones)
I like to think of myself as a slitherer outer by choice. I know the limits of my own short temper; I am familiar with the not-so-passive aggression that seeps out when my tenuous grip on its reigns starts to slip. I know myself enough to know that the essence of my personality boils down to fickleness; I am eternally at some stage in the progression of failing relationships as obsession cools into interest, fades into apathy, lapses into annoyance, and eventually terminates in abhorrence. That's where the slithering comes in. Onto my lengthy list of character flaws, you can also add "selfish". I would rather avoid a problem, -- excise it like a malignant tumor greedily consuming my time, attention, and stunted emotions -- than confront it. Actually, I would say it's one of my Principles of life. (Yes, it deserves to be capitalized.) Is not avoidance just another method of dealing with a problem? If I had a festering wound, I wouldn't poke at it in an attempt to make it go away. I'd let it be and try to keep the pain far from my mind until I am pleasantly surprised by the shiny pink scar tissue that emerges and will serve as a reminder to avoid the provocation of said festering wound in the future. I mean, that's still normal, healthy thinking. I am more concerned by my tendency to wait until the wound is inflamed and weeping pus then declare, "Well, fuck it, I don't need this arm anyways!" before lopping the offending limb off and throwing it away. These are the kinds of thoughts I dwell upon on Easter Sunday.
I am having a crisis of spirituality. Not a crisis of faith. I've been through enough to never doubt that there is one true God who sent his only Son, who died in order to pay the price for my iniquities, and the Holy Spirit, who I invited into my heart when I was young, doubting, and alone. The problem lies in my lack of relationship with God, or more specifically, my lack of motivation in seeking a relationship with Him. If my curiosity were a penis, I'd have sown acres-worth of wild oats. Quite the philandering pee-pee, I'd say. Embracing a relationship with The Highest Authority would mean guilt, and horror-of-horrors, most likely giving up these behaviors entirely. I'm not ready to want that. In fact, I am at a place in my life where I vehemently do NOT want that. My parents have always warned me, "There are some things out there that you just never want to try.". My brain grasps the concept of self-destructive decisions and indelible consequences, but the demands of my insatiable dopamine receptors drown out any rational opposition to these behaviors. (And with that, I have fulfilled my Neuroscience reference quota of the day.) That's how it's supposed to be, living young and wild and free.
I've grown used to answering only to myself. When I was younger, my parents were The Authorities. Teachers could scold me and send me to the principal's office, but the real guilt and self-castigation could only be evoked by that look of mute disappointment I would get from my parents. Now that I'm older and my parents are satisfied with the conditioning of my guilt response, they are content to settle in their roles as co-consiglieres. One of the biggest chips on my shoulder, of which there are many, is an inability to accept advice/criticism from the Church. I don't like being told to do my QTs. I don't like being asked to pray. Sometimes I feel like a Republican in a sea of loving hippies. I choose the Republican analogy deliberately to convey the degree of self-disgust I feel at my inability to embrace the peace, love, and general all-around well-being. My heart is saying "Let's go!", my pride is saying "No." (Ok, I'll stop with the obscure references.)
Anyways, I've never been a big believer in talking about feelings. I mean, anyone who ever told you that talking about your feelings was "healthy"was a big fat liar. It's just the oldest excuse to pry and satisfy the basic human need to slurp up the juicy details and get in on the down-low. This may be one of the many reasons I'm going to die alone, but I digress.
One of the easiest ways to perturb a Christian is to feign nonchalance. "Yeah, I'm going straight to hell, so I got this one life to make sure I deserve it." This will get you the Face of Disapproval. Some will get angry, dismiss you, and walk away. Others will attempt to engage you and divert you from this perverted philosophy of paganism (I get my shits and giggles from alliteration), but further flippant remarks will have them excusing themselves to pray for your immortal soul. The smart ones can tell you're just trying to get a rise out of them. They may attempt to put on a neutral face, but the disapproval and concern is betrayed by the slight furrow of the brow and the faint twist of the lips. They may become genuinely concerned. Those are the ones that piss me off the most. Apparently, I don't respond well to other people's emotions either.
So yeah, back to talking about feelings. I don't talk about them because I am selfish and I don't want to deal with, nor do I actually care about, other people's emotions about my emotions. So this is what I do. Write about it. What started out as a quick study break just became an epic rant. I blame Liz Lemon and her decision to finally confront her feelings and tell James Marsden that she loves him. (Yeah, that's how behind I am. Still on the St. Patrick's day episode.) Also Easter Sunday with its holiness and bring-all-the-guilty-people-to-church and redemption themes and promised chocolate that is nowhere to be found....
I know people are reading this (conceited of me, yes) and going, "Wow, what a bad message to send to non-believers." and I say -- well, I say some rude things that would really be a bad message to send to non-believers. If I want to acknowledge that I am flawed, broken, and at times a totally unloveable or even unlikeable person, I will. Christians are people too. I've always instinctively referred to Christians as "them", partly because I take it as a personal insult every time someone says something like "Christians hate homosexuals" or "Christians support Republicans", or even worse, "Wow, Abby, I thought you were a good Christian girl." It's like getting grief from both sides and there are times I just want to give up and say "Well, can't satisfy everyone, so I might as well just satisfy myself." But again, that's the selfishness speaking.
This is what my sister would call an "emo post", but whatever, they make me feel better. You know that feeling right after you take a dump that you've been holding for hours because you went to class before you realized you need to go and then had to run and catch a shuttle and start work and just never got the chance for some APT (Ample Poop Time, courtesy of Tatiana)? In one word -- glorious. In fact, I encourage everyone to write their deepest, darkest, not fit for genteel society thoughts down more often. If not to make you feel better, to keep me entertained.
Anyone ever feel this way?
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Indecent Glory
There is a certain hour in the night where everything is indecent and thus, glorious. I don't know anyone who would advocate drunk texting, let alone blogging, but hey, GLORIOUS, I SAY.
It was my friend's 20th birthday a few days ago and he's decided to start his twenties off with a bang....or a bang...wah wah waaaaah. Anyways, needless to say, I will most likely be a loyal patron of Pub Med from the very first day it opens its shady doors.
When did your heart go missing?
I've lived the entirety of my conscious life under a penumbra of guilt and I refuse to entertain that silly notion anymore. I will do what I want. You don't know me. I will live limitless. Watch me soar and crash and burn. Honeybadger don't care. Whee!
I'm not going to humor you anymore. Not unless it suits my flights of fancy. You unearth the ugly inside of me and encourage the darkness I've stowed away. My faith is riddled with apathy, my belief weakened by vice.
I'd rather spend a day worshiping at the altars of consumerism than even an hour pretending to be something I am not.
Divorce is something adults do, so let's take a break instead. I need my space. When I'm distant, what I'm really trying to say is "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT". But politely. So more like, "Shoo, if it's not too much of a bother". Your presence chafes. Your probing questions are poorly masked demands.
My candor is temporary, my feelings inconstant, but one thing will always remain. Don't tell me what to do. Because I will do the opposite just to spite you.
It was my friend's 20th birthday a few days ago and he's decided to start his twenties off with a bang....or a bang...wah wah waaaaah. Anyways, needless to say, I will most likely be a loyal patron of Pub Med from the very first day it opens its shady doors.
When did your heart go missing?
I've lived the entirety of my conscious life under a penumbra of guilt and I refuse to entertain that silly notion anymore. I will do what I want. You don't know me. I will live limitless. Watch me soar and crash and burn. Honeybadger don't care. Whee!
I'm not going to humor you anymore. Not unless it suits my flights of fancy. You unearth the ugly inside of me and encourage the darkness I've stowed away. My faith is riddled with apathy, my belief weakened by vice.
I'd rather spend a day worshiping at the altars of consumerism than even an hour pretending to be something I am not.
Divorce is something adults do, so let's take a break instead. I need my space. When I'm distant, what I'm really trying to say is "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT". But politely. So more like, "Shoo, if it's not too much of a bother". Your presence chafes. Your probing questions are poorly masked demands.
My candor is temporary, my feelings inconstant, but one thing will always remain. Don't tell me what to do. Because I will do the opposite just to spite you.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Spring Break
Nothing like eating at your desk, realizing you need a napkin, and finding one lying on the table. It's like a Christmas day miracle. But I digress...
Woken up by my allergies this morning at six. Stuffy nose and sneezing up the wazoo. Instead of getting up and doing something like a productive person, I tossed and turned in misery before picking up my kindle...which only compounded my misery. Several days ago, I was perusing the NY Times Bestselling list and found some kinky romance novel that sounded promising --- Fifty Shades of Grey. Garbage. Utter garbage. I've read better fanfiction. Which is pretty much what this is. Cross out the name Christian Grey every time you encounter it and pen in "Edward" and you have some pretty inspiring Twilight porn...except without quite as much blood fixation. As atrocious as it is, I can't stop reading and unfortunately for me, it's a trilogy. The author's favorite word is apparently "convulsions", and for the life of me, I cannot fathom how that can ever be...pleasant...let alone desirable. Anyways, I spent my morning reading about epileptic sex.
I have a Korean oral exam in a little more than an hour, but really, how do you study for an oral exam? My listening skills are awful. I can't understand what most people are saying even when they're speaking English. BUT, apparently, I have the verbal fluency skills of an ADHD kid on crack. I passed the Stroop test with flying colors when I was getting screened for dementia. Can I get a "woot woot"? Just got an email from my supervisor giving me the day off. DOUBLE WOOT WOOT.
Spring break pretty much started on Wednesday for me, after my Nervous System midterm, my pre-college RA interview, and my Korean written midterm. By the grace of God, my Orgo midterm was moved to the Thursday after break. Phew. So, I decided to double up on clinics Wednesday evening. I went to Shepherd's then after that, tried out the Baltimore Rescue Mission Clinic with WPHLS. I'd always wanted to go but never got the chance. I've heard conflicting viewpoints about it, some people telling me it was the best experience of their lives while others told me they were exposed to TB and were going to die within a week. Needless to say, I was intrigued.
We get to the clinic downtown and park shady-like by the side of the road. The clinic is on the third-floor...I think, and we pass through what looks like a dining hall and cabin bedrooms of a run-down summer camp. Apparently, the clinic is in something like a homeless shelter. When we finally make it upstairs, there are already several people there. Some are obviously Hopkins students, but there are a few people milling about in white doctor's coats who have the bright-eyed, self-assured look of medical students. The one doctor in the room quickly calls everyone to attention.
"Any newbies here?"
Uhhh...I get pushed out into the spotlight. Along with another girl, I'm sequestered off to the side and given a quick three-part crash course in medicine.
1.) SOAP:
Subjective: The patient's chief complaint. This made me very glad I took HERU courses. Gotta bust out my OPQRST and...other stuff I've since forgotten.
Objective: Vitals, etc. Hard facts and numbers
Assessment: This was the best part! After we interview the patient and gleaned all the relevant information we could, we get to present the cases to Dr. Dalton.
Plan/prescription: Dr Dalton then precribes treatment accordingly.
2.) This is where the drugs are. This is where the gloves are. This is where the goggles are. That's the bathroom.
3.) This is how you get HIV. Don't get HIV.
I'm like "Uhh...are we going to be actually interacting with patients by ourselves?"
"Oh, you'll be in groups." Titi reassures me.
Great.
We are ushered back into the group just as they were leaving to enter the waiting room. Dr. Dalton is the nicest man I have seen in a long time. He asks us to each introduce ourselves to the patients and leads us in a quick prayer before clinic begins. "Things always go better when we start with prayer."
Then patients are assigned. Well, not so much assigned as...start walking and wait for two/three students to attach themselves. There was an awkward moment where two people tagged onto a man and I wasn't sure if I was to follow so I stood around helplessly until a seasoned worker caught my eye, gestured at the side room with her arm, and firmly said: "GO."
Yes'm!
I've never had the opportunity to actually interact with a patient before. It was amazing. I don't know how much I'm allowed to say (Who really remembers all that HIPAA stuff?) but I'll err on the side of caution and focus more on what I observed from a social perspective. The patient was very respectful even though it was obvious that he was faced by four inexperienced college students. We had a small netbook for writing down relevant information. From the beginning, we were plagued with technical difficulties. While two students figured out the computer, Jess and I talked to the patient. He looked tense, twitchy almost, and it turned out that he had a history of anxiety which led to a mild case of claustrophobia in the crowded room. I guess what really bothered me was that the two students on the computer kind of acted as if the patient was not there. No small talk, no eye contact, just pointed questions followed by furious typing on the computer, then murmured comments to themselves, to the other students, but never the patient. RUDE.
The worst part came later when our patient had already been assessed by Dr. Dalton. We realized that in our noobness, we had not taken the patient's vitals. The patient was showing signs of agitation and he was clearly not feeling well. He started complaining about how the clinc/shelter was infested with bedbugs and promptly took off his shirt and plucked one off for us to see. The student who was on the computer recoiled in horror. I'm like "Calm yo titties." He then runs off to grab a sandwich bag to get a sample and show the doctor. When he returns, the patient is worse. The student then informs the patient that we need to take his vitals. The patient is irritated and demands to know why we didn't do it earlier. The student, who's been at the clinic before, hands me a stethoscope. I'm like "Whuh." Hello, first time at clinic and I'm clearly incompetent. I don't even know what a full vitals work-up entails.
The student: "You've never taken blood pressure before right?"
Me: "Um, nope. "
He hands me the stethoscope.
Him: "Now you can learn."
He leaves.
What the fuck.
We've already established that the patient has a fever. He's not feeling well, he's agitated, he's claustrophobic and stuck in a small space. People keep on crowding into the exam room to talk to him and he is now visibly upset. Now is not the time for you to give me that shit-eating, smug-ass grin of yours and tell me to bumble-fuck my way through an examination on a distressed patient. As I hesitate, a medical student senses my unease and comes over.
"What's wrong?"
"I've never done this before."
Med student is calm.
"Don't worry, I'll walk you through it."
He introduces himself to the patient. He brings me over. However, after introductions are made, he also senses that the patient is somewhat less then pleased. I quickly explain the bedbug situation and the claustrophobia. At this point, the patient is loudly exclaiming: "FILTHY. This place is FILTHY." The med student, all casual-like, gives me a reassuring nod and gestures me out. He takes care of the problem.
Now I will be the first to admit that I have no balls. None. Not even a travel-size. Still, I'm always open to get my hands dirty (unless it involves spiders) and learn. However, I do believe there's a time and place for everything. We're at a clinic. The patients have come to get treatment. The priority is the patient's comfort, not my own learning. This asshole student with an inflated sense of self-importance acts like the clinic is a classroom where his amount of "experience" (namely, more than mine) entitles him to act like a pretentious prick and grants him the ability to graciously bestow learning opportunities on the peons around him. That is unacceptable. I may have been overly sensitive because as the patient got more and more worked up, my nerves were getting increasingly stretched out. I'm like "Aaaaah, he's not happy. Why don't you guys care that he's not happy, let's make him happy, I must do somethinggggg." When other people are not happy, I feel like I've failed the world in some way. But that's just my own neuroses speaking.
My own biases aside, the Baltimore Rescue Mission Clinic was one of...medical experiences I've ever had. Being the noob, I was assigned to present the case to Dr. Dalton. I know I'm just stringing words together and I'm practically gushing in my own excitement, but there's just something about attempting to speak doctor talk that makes you want to thump your chest and say, "Yeah. That's right. I'm the shit." And the assessment of the patient is interactive. Dr. Dalton asks us what we think the important facts are -- the "hints". Then he asks us how we would treat these causes and symptoms. Actually, he doesn't just ask. He points at you and demands to know the answer. This is particularly unfortunately when you've spaced out because you were too busy eying the cookies on the desk with ardent longing. (But I got the answer right. Find it before the arthritis sets in! I've now much more knowledgeable about Lyme disease.) After you've presented your case, he asks you to respectfully listen and weigh in on other cases as well. My goblet of glee runneth over.
In the end, we did get to help my patient. We got him new clothes, bed bug killing shampoo, and the prescriptions he needed. I talked to him before he left, just to apologize again for the frenetic atmosphere and my own lack of experience. He was very understanding and even apologized to me. For what, I don't know, but when he thanked me for my time, it felt good. Fulfilling. Almost as fulfilling as getting on my knees and scraping the adhesive off that hardwood floor at Remington Outreach. But very near to that feeling of ecstasy and satisfaction.
It's experiences like these that make me question then reaffirm why I want to be a doctor. I'm still thinking, more details on that later. But for now, I'm thankful for these opportunities and hope to keep them coming.
Okay, off to class. Need to start packing/cleaning soon. -___-. Boston, Philly, NYC with my sister in less then 24 hours! Watch out food of the world. Soon you will GET IN MY BELLY.
Woken up by my allergies this morning at six. Stuffy nose and sneezing up the wazoo. Instead of getting up and doing something like a productive person, I tossed and turned in misery before picking up my kindle...which only compounded my misery. Several days ago, I was perusing the NY Times Bestselling list and found some kinky romance novel that sounded promising --- Fifty Shades of Grey. Garbage. Utter garbage. I've read better fanfiction. Which is pretty much what this is. Cross out the name Christian Grey every time you encounter it and pen in "Edward" and you have some pretty inspiring Twilight porn...except without quite as much blood fixation. As atrocious as it is, I can't stop reading and unfortunately for me, it's a trilogy. The author's favorite word is apparently "convulsions", and for the life of me, I cannot fathom how that can ever be...pleasant...let alone desirable. Anyways, I spent my morning reading about epileptic sex.
I have a Korean oral exam in a little more than an hour, but really, how do you study for an oral exam? My listening skills are awful. I can't understand what most people are saying even when they're speaking English. BUT, apparently, I have the verbal fluency skills of an ADHD kid on crack. I passed the Stroop test with flying colors when I was getting screened for dementia. Can I get a "woot woot"? Just got an email from my supervisor giving me the day off. DOUBLE WOOT WOOT.
Spring break pretty much started on Wednesday for me, after my Nervous System midterm, my pre-college RA interview, and my Korean written midterm. By the grace of God, my Orgo midterm was moved to the Thursday after break. Phew. So, I decided to double up on clinics Wednesday evening. I went to Shepherd's then after that, tried out the Baltimore Rescue Mission Clinic with WPHLS. I'd always wanted to go but never got the chance. I've heard conflicting viewpoints about it, some people telling me it was the best experience of their lives while others told me they were exposed to TB and were going to die within a week. Needless to say, I was intrigued.
We get to the clinic downtown and park shady-like by the side of the road. The clinic is on the third-floor...I think, and we pass through what looks like a dining hall and cabin bedrooms of a run-down summer camp. Apparently, the clinic is in something like a homeless shelter. When we finally make it upstairs, there are already several people there. Some are obviously Hopkins students, but there are a few people milling about in white doctor's coats who have the bright-eyed, self-assured look of medical students. The one doctor in the room quickly calls everyone to attention.
"Any newbies here?"
Uhhh...I get pushed out into the spotlight. Along with another girl, I'm sequestered off to the side and given a quick three-part crash course in medicine.
1.) SOAP:
Subjective: The patient's chief complaint. This made me very glad I took HERU courses. Gotta bust out my OPQRST and...other stuff I've since forgotten.
Objective: Vitals, etc. Hard facts and numbers
Assessment: This was the best part! After we interview the patient and gleaned all the relevant information we could, we get to present the cases to Dr. Dalton.
Plan/prescription: Dr Dalton then precribes treatment accordingly.
2.) This is where the drugs are. This is where the gloves are. This is where the goggles are. That's the bathroom.
3.) This is how you get HIV. Don't get HIV.
I'm like "Uhh...are we going to be actually interacting with patients by ourselves?"
"Oh, you'll be in groups." Titi reassures me.
Great.
We are ushered back into the group just as they were leaving to enter the waiting room. Dr. Dalton is the nicest man I have seen in a long time. He asks us to each introduce ourselves to the patients and leads us in a quick prayer before clinic begins. "Things always go better when we start with prayer."
Then patients are assigned. Well, not so much assigned as...start walking and wait for two/three students to attach themselves. There was an awkward moment where two people tagged onto a man and I wasn't sure if I was to follow so I stood around helplessly until a seasoned worker caught my eye, gestured at the side room with her arm, and firmly said: "GO."
Yes'm!
I've never had the opportunity to actually interact with a patient before. It was amazing. I don't know how much I'm allowed to say (Who really remembers all that HIPAA stuff?) but I'll err on the side of caution and focus more on what I observed from a social perspective. The patient was very respectful even though it was obvious that he was faced by four inexperienced college students. We had a small netbook for writing down relevant information. From the beginning, we were plagued with technical difficulties. While two students figured out the computer, Jess and I talked to the patient. He looked tense, twitchy almost, and it turned out that he had a history of anxiety which led to a mild case of claustrophobia in the crowded room. I guess what really bothered me was that the two students on the computer kind of acted as if the patient was not there. No small talk, no eye contact, just pointed questions followed by furious typing on the computer, then murmured comments to themselves, to the other students, but never the patient. RUDE.
The worst part came later when our patient had already been assessed by Dr. Dalton. We realized that in our noobness, we had not taken the patient's vitals. The patient was showing signs of agitation and he was clearly not feeling well. He started complaining about how the clinc/shelter was infested with bedbugs and promptly took off his shirt and plucked one off for us to see. The student who was on the computer recoiled in horror. I'm like "Calm yo titties." He then runs off to grab a sandwich bag to get a sample and show the doctor. When he returns, the patient is worse. The student then informs the patient that we need to take his vitals. The patient is irritated and demands to know why we didn't do it earlier. The student, who's been at the clinic before, hands me a stethoscope. I'm like "Whuh." Hello, first time at clinic and I'm clearly incompetent. I don't even know what a full vitals work-up entails.
The student: "You've never taken blood pressure before right?"
Me: "Um, nope. "
He hands me the stethoscope.
Him: "Now you can learn."
He leaves.
What the fuck.
We've already established that the patient has a fever. He's not feeling well, he's agitated, he's claustrophobic and stuck in a small space. People keep on crowding into the exam room to talk to him and he is now visibly upset. Now is not the time for you to give me that shit-eating, smug-ass grin of yours and tell me to bumble-fuck my way through an examination on a distressed patient. As I hesitate, a medical student senses my unease and comes over.
"What's wrong?"
"I've never done this before."
Med student is calm.
"Don't worry, I'll walk you through it."
He introduces himself to the patient. He brings me over. However, after introductions are made, he also senses that the patient is somewhat less then pleased. I quickly explain the bedbug situation and the claustrophobia. At this point, the patient is loudly exclaiming: "FILTHY. This place is FILTHY." The med student, all casual-like, gives me a reassuring nod and gestures me out. He takes care of the problem.
Now I will be the first to admit that I have no balls. None. Not even a travel-size. Still, I'm always open to get my hands dirty (unless it involves spiders) and learn. However, I do believe there's a time and place for everything. We're at a clinic. The patients have come to get treatment. The priority is the patient's comfort, not my own learning. This asshole student with an inflated sense of self-importance acts like the clinic is a classroom where his amount of "experience" (namely, more than mine) entitles him to act like a pretentious prick and grants him the ability to graciously bestow learning opportunities on the peons around him. That is unacceptable. I may have been overly sensitive because as the patient got more and more worked up, my nerves were getting increasingly stretched out. I'm like "Aaaaah, he's not happy. Why don't you guys care that he's not happy, let's make him happy, I must do somethinggggg." When other people are not happy, I feel like I've failed the world in some way. But that's just my own neuroses speaking.
My own biases aside, the Baltimore Rescue Mission Clinic was one of...medical experiences I've ever had. Being the noob, I was assigned to present the case to Dr. Dalton. I know I'm just stringing words together and I'm practically gushing in my own excitement, but there's just something about attempting to speak doctor talk that makes you want to thump your chest and say, "Yeah. That's right. I'm the shit." And the assessment of the patient is interactive. Dr. Dalton asks us what we think the important facts are -- the "hints". Then he asks us how we would treat these causes and symptoms. Actually, he doesn't just ask. He points at you and demands to know the answer. This is particularly unfortunately when you've spaced out because you were too busy eying the cookies on the desk with ardent longing. (But I got the answer right. Find it before the arthritis sets in! I've now much more knowledgeable about Lyme disease.) After you've presented your case, he asks you to respectfully listen and weigh in on other cases as well. My goblet of glee runneth over.
In the end, we did get to help my patient. We got him new clothes, bed bug killing shampoo, and the prescriptions he needed. I talked to him before he left, just to apologize again for the frenetic atmosphere and my own lack of experience. He was very understanding and even apologized to me. For what, I don't know, but when he thanked me for my time, it felt good. Fulfilling. Almost as fulfilling as getting on my knees and scraping the adhesive off that hardwood floor at Remington Outreach. But very near to that feeling of ecstasy and satisfaction.
It's experiences like these that make me question then reaffirm why I want to be a doctor. I'm still thinking, more details on that later. But for now, I'm thankful for these opportunities and hope to keep them coming.
Okay, off to class. Need to start packing/cleaning soon. -___-. Boston, Philly, NYC with my sister in less then 24 hours! Watch out food of the world. Soon you will GET IN MY BELLY.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Best Text Convo I've Ever Had
I'm at work right now, but this was brilliant so I had to post it before I accidentally deleted the text. I'm scanning teleforms when I get a text from a number I don't recognize:
Her: Baby? Are you up?
Me: who is this?
Her: What? Are you with your wife?
Her: Marissa of course baby.
Me: Get thee behind me, Satan!
Her: Huh?
Her: Oh this must be her. Tell my man I said to call me.
Me: YOUR MAN?? Bitch, I will cut you.
Her: Sorry I think I texted the wrong number I was looking for 5515 not 5155 I really apologize...Hungover
Me: Aww, it was fun while it lasted. Have a happy adulterous life! :)
No joke. That is the exact conversation transcribed word for word. Made my day. I think I'm going to make it a habit to text random numbers now and start drama.
"WHO IS SHE. I THOUGHT WE HAD SOMETHING SPECIAL"
Ok, back to work...
UPDATE: Her: "Haha! You so funny!!"
UPDATE 2: So, I was talking to Clinton who says " I suppose now you know the number she was going for...you can warn him". And this gets me thinking of all the ways we can mess with Marissa's poor unsuspecting lover.
Should I text him and say "I know your secret?"
How about "I want a divorce." ?
My personal favorite, coordinate a group a people to text him, one letter at a time, "A-D-U-L-T-E-R-E-R".
BRILLIANT.
Any suggestions?
Her: Baby? Are you up?
Me: who is this?
Her: What? Are you with your wife?
Her: Marissa of course baby.
Me: Get thee behind me, Satan!
Her: Huh?
Her: Oh this must be her. Tell my man I said to call me.
Me: YOUR MAN?? Bitch, I will cut you.
Her: Sorry I think I texted the wrong number I was looking for 5515 not 5155 I really apologize...Hungover
Me: Aww, it was fun while it lasted. Have a happy adulterous life! :)
No joke. That is the exact conversation transcribed word for word. Made my day. I think I'm going to make it a habit to text random numbers now and start drama.
"WHO IS SHE. I THOUGHT WE HAD SOMETHING SPECIAL"
Ok, back to work...
UPDATE: Her: "Haha! You so funny!!"
UPDATE 2: So, I was talking to Clinton who says " I suppose now you know the number she was going for...you can warn him". And this gets me thinking of all the ways we can mess with Marissa's poor unsuspecting lover.
Should I text him and say "I know your secret?"
How about "I want a divorce." ?
My personal favorite, coordinate a group a people to text him, one letter at a time, "A-D-U-L-T-E-R-E-R".
BRILLIANT.
Any suggestions?
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