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.

Cardio: It's Not Just Physical Torture Anymore

Another block down, another blog post. I think this is how it's going to go from now on. But what a block it's been. Holy crap. Cardio has been a whirlwind of drugs and pathology, but the best part of cardio is the clinical experience. We had the chance to do patient simulators, both with live standardized patients and mannequins, as well as shadow real doctors in a clinical setting. With every physical examination and patient history I gather, the reality starts sinking in. In other words,  shit is getting real, folks! I'm going to be a doctor!

One of the most eye-opening experiences so far has been shadowing an ER doc at SFGH. When I found out I had been placed in the Emergency Department for my preceptorship, I was super disappointed. I wanted something in primary care, something administrative maybe, something that was low stress and chill. My classmates were unsympathetic. As one friend put it, "Some people would kill for your spot." OK, fine. No more complaining. Still, images of amputated limbs, gunshot wounds, and traumatic head injuries flashed through my mind. While these cases may make other medical students tremble with glee, frankly, I'd much rather be filling out paperwork or constructing an immaculate excel document.  Luckily, my first day was relatively gore-free.

When I headed into the ED with my preceptor, he joked that others called him a "black cloud". Whenever he came in for a shift...bad things happened. His reputation definitely held that day, as back to back traumas soon began to flood the emergency wards. There were three cases I witnessed that stood out to me the most.

1.) A little old Asian woman was brought into the ED by her husband. He had come back from an errand to find her at home, half of her face drooping. He rushed her to the hospital, where doctors, fearing the worse, whisked her off to get a CT scan in case it was a stroke. However, the scans came back clear. In the end, it turned out to be Bell's Palsy, a relatively non-life threatening form of facial paralysis caused by inflammation of the facial nerve.

What stuck out to me in this case was the language barrier the patient faced and how it negatively impacted her care. As she was wheeled in, the ED had already called an over-the-phone translator. When asked what language they spoke, the husband repeatedly replied "Chinese". "Yes sir, Cantonese or Mandarin?" "Chinese." Going off statistics, the resident dialed for a Cantonese translator. As we listened to the dial tone and waited for a translator to come on the line, the resident asked the woman to do a few diagnostic tests, mostly directing the patient with slow/loud English and exaggerated movements.  Just as the translator comes on the line, another Cantonese translator walks through the door with the husband. We hang up on the over the phone translator. The in-person translator starts interrogating the husband for details. If you've never heard Cantonese in person before, it sounds very aggressive. "Thank you for these flowers, they're simply delightful!" sounds like "I'M GOING TO DISEMBOWEL YOUR FAMILY." The ED is already a very loud environment, but the room was soon filled with the sounds of the translator alternating between yelling at the husband and yelling at the wife. After about 5 minutes of yelling, the translator reveals that the patient and her husband actually speak Toisan, not Cantonese.

As in any cases that involve elderly Asian patients, I am reminded of my parents and grandparents. I imagined my Mom sitting in that ED, bewildered and confused, not knowing what the doctors wanted from her while they manhandled her and spoke to her in a foreign language. I thought about what would have happened if the patient was actually suffering from a stroke. What consequences could those precious wasted seconds have caused?

I want to emphasize here that the ED docs did everything right. They were patient, they did the best to ensure patient understanding and consent. They were respectful to the patient, even though they were visibly frustrated by the language barrier. But what can you do when the patient is unable to give you the information that you need to give them the best treatment possible?

2.) When the ED is overcome with traumas, it is often the patients presenting with low-urgency needs that suffer. One patient had come in after suffering a serious work injury on the job. He had waited hours to be seen and in that time did not receive any pain medications. When he was finally escorted to a room, he was again asked to wait. While he waited, he asked for a blanket because the room was cold. The nurse nodded, but never came back. After a while, he complained to another nurse that he had been waiting for hours and asked when the doctor would be by to see him. This nurse replied, "This is a free hospital. You're going to have to wait."

This is an extremely offensive statement for several reasons. SFGH is not a free hospital, but it is a public hospital. This means that doctors are obligated to provide care to any patients that need it, regardless of their ability to pay. By saying this, the nurse is making an assumption that the patient is unable to afford care. This turns out not to be the case, as the patient angrily informed us that his employers are footing the bill. Offended and in pain, this patient eventually stormed out of the ED to seek care at Kaiser instead, where he has always been treated respectfully and promptly. Before the patient left, my preceptor assured him that they would file a report about what the nurse had said. "That's not how we operate here," he told me later, "I'm very disappointed that this happened to him."

Rudeness aside, long wait times are unavoidable at the ED. As you walk into the ED, the first thing you notice are dozens of patients in beds lined up against the walls in the corridor. These are for patients who need to be observed but aren't in need of urgent care. This way, doctors can keep an eye on them as they walk around. The ED has to wait until rooms open up in the wards above (internal medicine, OBGYN, etc.) before they can transfer patients over, opening up room for other patients who are still in the waiting room. So patients get mad at the ED staff about long wait times, when in fact, the ED has no control over how long it takes for patients to be seen.

3.) At UCSF, we first years are coddled. In all our sample cases, patients survive and go on to live blissful and fulfilling lives. (I've heard that they wean us off these idealized cases starting in second year.) Of course, with my luck, I witness a death on my FIRST day in the ER.

I'm in the CT room waiting for patient #1 to get her scan when my temporary Momma Duck (the provider I was currently following around) gets a code. He looks at me, "This one should be fun. Come with me."  We race back to the ED and on the way we see four policemen running in the same direction. "Uhh, Curt, are you sure we want to head in the same direction as the cops?" He just grins at me and keeps running. (It turns out the cops are heading to the same place, but for an unrelated case.) We get to the empty trauma room. I quickly find a vacated corner tucker behind Curt and try to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. Soon, a unresponsive patient is wheeled into the room and hoisted onto the bed. He has already been intubated and the team immediately commences CPR.

Everything that you've seen on television is a lie. There is no beeping sound of the ECG. The room is eerily calm, the only sound you hear is the huffs of exertion as compressions are given. Every once in a while, my preceptor would pause CPR to see if the patient's heart would start spontaneously.

"Do we have a pulse?"
"I feel a pulse!"
"OK, the pulse is weak."
"I don't feel a pulse."
"Let's do some more compressions."

This lasted for about 40 minutes, during which time they must have given epinephrine at least six times. They tried to defibrillate the patient twice but to no avail. Finally, my preceptor surveyed the room, "Does anyone have any objections to calling this?" The room is silent. "Time of Death, 17:42"

There was no dramatic sound of the ECG flatlining. There were no grieving family members waiting outside. We held a moment of silence for this stranger who came into our lives so turbulently and left so anticlimactically.

Afterwards,  the patient's family was contacted by a social worker. My preceptor and I decided it would be inappropriate for me to shadow the resident as she delivered the news. It turns out that the patient had just gone out that day to run a few errands and never came back. While he had collapsed in the middle of the sidewalk and was rushed to the ER, as strangers did their best to restart his heart, his family was sitting at home, going on with their lives, none the wiser. In fact, they would not know about his passing until over half an hour after it had occurred. This is inconceivable to me.

I made sure to give my parents a call that night as I left the ER.




I definitely feel very blessed now that I have been given the opportunity to shadow in the ER. It's not about seeing gory cases or cool medical abnormalities -- it's about seeing what real doctors do every day to serve those who need it the most despite tremendous limitations. It's the humanizing of a practice that is known for fostering God complexes.

I know I kind of just verbal diarrhea-ed all over this blog, but my brain is still recovering from that last Cardio test. There are still several experiences I want to blog about and hopefully I'll get the chance when my family and I get back from our Death Valley/So-Cal road trip!

Surviving Prologue

Wow, a lot has happened since I blogged last. Let's see...there was my White Coat ceremony, first real week of classes, first exam, my birthday, second exam, and here we are -- all done with my first block of medical school. So much for faithfully chronicling it. As it turns out, med school is BUSY. Who knew? I think I have read more in the past few months than I have in the past few years. Before my first exam, I literally read the equivalent of a large textbook in a weekend. This is my life now.

Anyways, here is a brief rundown of all the awesome things that have happened to me in the last couple weeks/months:

- Finally got the coveted white coat! My parents actually dressed up for the ceremony, and if you know my family, you know that never happens. I'm pretty sure they wore shorts to my last graduation. And of course, we celebrated afterwards by getting some quality soul food. That oxtail though! WHOOWHEE!

- Passed my first medical school exam ever. Studied way too hard. Went home the weekend after and slept for 12 hours. Med student down.

- Celebrated my 23rd birthday by telling absolutely no one in order to avoid being cornered as a crowd of people sing me the dreaded birthday song. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do during that? Twiddle my thumbs? Cringe as people sing in approximately 20 different keys? Furthermore, do I clap with everyone when it's over? Do I say "Thank you" afterwards?? PLEASE SPARE ME THE AGONY.  In typical Abby fashion, I grabbed my free birthday drink from Starbucks ($7, fuck yeah), and went to class like a good girl. Even went to the evening review session -- now that's how you treat yo'self on your birthday. 

Haha just kidding, I did celebrate my birthday a little bit. My good friend Tina came up with her partner and my sister to take me out to dinner that Wednesday. We ate to the pain at Espetus (OMG, those chicken hearts though!) I would include a picture of us there, but my sister does this thing where pictures in her camera don't see the light of day for at least half a year. Sigh. Then, my parents picked me up that Friday and took me to House of Prime Rib. I got the King Henry cut, thinking it was the only one that came with the dessert slice. Not only could I have settled for the House of Prime Rib cut, but I also was never offered a dessert slice!! UGH. I couldn't have eaten a single more bit, but STILL. The principle!!

A formidable foe

I am always so grateful to have such an amazing family and such great friends. They treat me right. Like a baby. A very hungry baby.

Honestly, med school has been a blast so far. I've met some of the most awesome and authentic people who challenge me to see from new perspectives and never settle for less than my best. Whether we're freaking out in the Anatomy lab, checking out the faculty members in Histology lab, kayaking, paddle-boarding, hitting the gym, or shamelessly inhaling free samples at Costco, I am so grateful to have these people in my life. 

I mean, look at these goobers. Kayaking study break in the Bay!

But let's get real for a moment here. Med school is also hard. Many people here are feeling the pressure and it just reminds me how important it is to be open and honest to your peers. When I'm struggling, I ask for help. Just as importantly, when I get it (rare as this may be), I offer to help others. That's how we stay sane around here. Someone wise once said, "Never compare your insides with somebody else's outside." This could not be more true in med school. Everyone is coming from a different background. Some have had science courses every day for the past four or five years and even continued to do research in relevant science fields for countless numbers of years after that! Others have been out of school for years, working in the real world in a field that may or not even be related to medicine or science. It's not always rainbows or butterflies, sometimes people are dicks, sometimes people get hurt, but the most important thing is that you do you, boo. Whether it's rearranging your priorities, avoiding toxic people/environments, or actively constructing a collaborative and supportive social circle, you got to do what you need to do to 1.) stay sane, 2.) be the best that you can be, and 3.) be a positive influence on those around you. 

It sounds simple, but it can be so hard, especially when you're having a bad day or week. For example, a few weeks ago, I fell behind on my reading because I was having too much fun celebrating my birthday with friends and family. I skipped going to the gym that week and I cut back on sleep in order to make time to catch up. During that entire week, I was constantly tired. I felt like I couldn't concentrate or think and my eyelids would start feeling heavy whenever the lights were dimmed. By the end of the week, I just felt burnt out. I literally went home and slept for 12 hours straight. I can't imagine doing that or feeling that way every single day for any more than a week. I changed how I study, I cut back on gym time instead of cutting it out entirely, and I make sure to go to bed by midnight each night now. I feel more energized, more sharp, and most importantly, more positive about everything that I have to do. 

It also helps that I am working now (a small federal work study job), which gives me a feeling of financial stability -- I can treat myself to Jamba Juice once every blue moon now with less guilt -- while also allowing me to continue pursue my other passion, teaching. It's only 4-8 hours a week, I get paid for my transportation time, and I get to work with elementary school kids to help them strengthen their reading skills (which is what I did with Americorps during my year off). It literally could not be more perfect -- God is great!

One more thing -- I'm still figuring out where I stand with God and with the church. I've visited the campus fellowship and it seems like they are a great group of people. But committing to stick around on campus on Friday nights is difficult, especially since I live so far away. Also, not having a campus church is another huge obstacle. Most of the people from the fellowship attend church in the Mission by Dolores Park and that is a 45-60 minute bus ride away for me. Seems pretty impractical. Hopefully, I will find a good church to visit in Inner Sunset for those weekends in which I stay in SF instead of traipsing home for good food and company. 

So yes, it's becoming abundantly clear that medical school is going to be a looooong journey --more like four back-to-back marathons, really. But I'm excited to be here and I'm hanging in here! For now. 

First Steps in the Right Direction

I tried to write a blog yesterday to talk about how awesome the past two days of orientation were, but my thoughts were too jumbled in my head. How could I possibly convey this sense of excitement, positivity, optimism, and exuberance -- all sentiments usually stored in a dusty corner of my emotional repertoire. Now the first day of school has come and gone and I am still in disbelief that this is real. I'm at my dream school. And it's everything that I hoped and imagined it would be.

The purpose of orientations is really to set the tone for the rest of the program and UCSF blew it out of the water. Most orientations consist of 500 dry presentations about policies, program details, and technology broken up by icebreakers. Painful. Icebreakers. There were definitely still awkward icebreakers, but there wasn't a single passive moment. Instead, UCSF invited dozens of faculty members to volunteer their time and work with the first year medical students in small groups to discuss issues concerning diversity and bias. I was really struck by the fact that UCSF doesn't waste time (or money) on pomp and circumstance but instead hones in on real issues that plague our institutions. They are truly training us to become empathetic physicians who are firmly rooted in the communities we serve. In our small groups, we discussed difficult scenarios about racial discrimination and shared true stories of times we each had been hurt in the past. To learn more about our biases and perspectives, we talked about our backgrounds (our origin stories, if you will) and shit got real. Because of the heavy nature of the topics, we were able to dispense with small talk and really represent our genuine selves. I am so thankful that I have the privilege of attending a school that encourages discussions about controversial topics, a school that acknowledges that it doesn't exist in a void but instead bears a responsibility to the community to advocate for and model positive change. 

The conversations I had with my classmates over those two days has really affirmed that these are the people I want to learn and grow with over the next four years. There's a Chinese saying, "近朱者赤,近墨者黑", which roughly translates to "He who stays near vermillion is stained red, He who stays near ink is stained black." It's a fancy Chinese way of saying that you take on the "color" or characteristics of the company you keep. If you hang out with good people, you naturally start to adopt their good behavior, but conversely, if you hang out with bad people, you will start to take on aspects of their bad behavior. More simply put, you pick up the attitude, perspective, and behavior of the people you spend time with.

I think this past year, I picked up a lot of bad habits like having a poor attitude, assuming negative intent, and talking shit. These past few days have reminded me that's not who I am or who I aspire to be. Meeting these amazing UCSF physicians who are the best in their fields yet take time out of their busy schedule to invest in me and my fellow first-years has been transformative -- these are the role models I look up to, these are the physicians I strive to emulate.

I've said it before, but I can't stop thinking this to myself every day I'm here: I definitely made the right choice to come to UCSF. Don't get me wrong, going to Hopkins could also have helped me to become a good doctor, but I strongly believe that coming to UCSF will place me on the path to becoming a better person. 

It was a whirlwind of a first day. I've never felt this way about school before; It was always something that I had to do, not something I necessarily wanted to do. It feels like I've been eating the vegetables off the plate of life and now I've finally gotten to the best, meaty part that I've saved for last. And who knows, maybe afterwards, I'll have dessert!