Mondays. Blow. In true, Garfield-hiding-in-the-bed-bloodshot-eyes-bunnyslipper-wearing-coffee-clutching fashion, I hate Mondays. Yes, maybe (probably) its an irrational, superstitious, self-fulfilling feeling. But d*mn if it isn’t reaffirmed with still, somehow, startling regularity. Today was a prime example.
Exhibit A: Went to bed with two bars of battery on my cell-y, which I always use for an alarm. Bolt awake at 7:17 am (one hour and 17 minutes after my alarm was to alert me, to start snoozing). Run out of The Writers house in t-shirt, boxers and unlaced shoes to scream home, lightening shower, and scream to the hospital while texting apologies to my attending on the barely revived cell-y. Miss rounds (pretty much the ONLY thing I am responsible for, all day, in this rotation) by 8 minutes. Am worst medical student ever. Visit (super nice, deserving of non-late/crappy student) attending after lunch to explain (yes, I told the truth) and get “Well, best to do it now and not when you’re in residency.” Hang head in shame, Worst Medical Student Status: Confirmed.
This, is serious people. No more screwing around. It is time for the Two-Four Alarm Plan.
Exhibit B: Go to Best Shamefully Expensive Coffee Place (BSECP) for consoling Macciato. Get another one as desperate bid for clemency from (super nice) attending. Get to the hospital and realize clemency coffee has spilled all over the floor of my car.
Exhibit C: Go to lunch with new (super nice) OB/GYN attending to talk residency. Am so nervous I stumble over conversation, at one (horrifying, slow-mo) point have Giant Drool String linking mouth and bagel, and realize I have completely pitted out by the end of lunch. WTF????? Seriously, lets just hope this one is a Monday Thing and NOT a preview of interview season. (Mental Note: NO INTERVIEWS ON MONDAYS.)
Exhibit D: Phone keeps dying. Run home to retrieve charger only to find AC adapter has fallen off (God only knows where) en route back to the hospital. Am on call so have to keep taking phone out to plug it into car charger and leave car running and unlocked so I can get back into it. Am only able to get away with this without immediately having car stolen because I live in Mayberry. And, possibly, because no car thief would believe anyone is really stupid enough to leave their car running and unlocked, with big, fat, juicy electronics in it, without lurking in the immediate vicinity.
PMS, also blows. I spent what was supposed to be a fun, relaxing weekend with my sweetie who I had hardly seen all week, in a hormonal haze, a helpless, hapless slave to my failing ovaries and sloughing endometrium. Alternately crying, engaging in stupid fights over Stupid Things with The Writer (your friends hate me! if I cook for you/give you a back rub/be overtly giving to you in any way I have immediately, single-handedly sent all women back to the stone age and taken a huge crap on Gloria Steinham’s face! you don’t tell me that you love me/shower me with champagne, caviar, and roses/respect me/devote your entire existence to me enough! HOO HOO HOO!!!!) and being crampy, constipated, reaching soaring new heights (lows?) of irrational thought (for anyone who knows me this is a REALLY scary picture I’m painting here), and generally acting as irritable as a starving, rabid wart hog (and, honestly, probably often resembling one).
This was the opposite of how I saw the weekend unfolding.
If I had a time machine I would go back and give myself the Cher treatment a few times (i.e. a healthy slap and a “Snap out of it!!!”). (If I had a time machine, I suspect this is mostly what I would use it for.)
Luckily, where I am completely high-strung and over-emotional (on my best days), The Writer is unfailingly even-keeled and completely (sometimes infuriatingly) mellow. Really, I don’t know what it is about this guy, but he has a special gamma bomb way of driving me insane like no other. Under normal circumstances, I’m quite good at tamping it down and talking myself out of the frequent irrationalities (he’s going to cheat on me – he’s never cheated on anyone, I’m not good/smart/nice enough – um, yeah, except you’ve sacrificed pretty much everything to devote yourself to the care and healing of other human beings, I’m too crazy – well, you got me there) he seems to inspire. But, he just texted that he loves me and offered to cook me burgers tonight. I’m going to take that as I, and my hormones, are forgiven. (Thank you sweetie, love you too).
I didn’t hear back from any more residencies for interviews today. (What the H*ll Midwest????) I did hear from some guy named Abul Mugolozzi from the Arab Emirates who would like to talk to me about giving him some money, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count. So, as of right now, I have three interviews scheduled, none at places I super want to go to.
Now, I’m going to do you third years a favor and actually tell you (because no one told me, b*stards) how this interview stuff really goes down. See, there’s an initial, massive feeling of relief when you finally get your application submitted, then, spurts of pure joy (They like me!! They really like me!!) when the first few interview offers roll in. Then, you realize you actually have to figure out how to schedule the d*mn things (which are all offered on the same four days), while still, occasionally, showing up to scheduled rotations, and, o yeah, you are a horrible secretary and generally, completely SUCK at stuff like this.
P.S. You barely managed to get three interviews scheduled, which you still haven’t bought plane tickets for, and still haven’t heard back from the, like, seven other places you actually want to go to. Which, probably also schedule interviews on those same four days. Good luck with that.
After my busy morning of missing rounds and coating my front seat in (what is probably now curdling) latte, I retreated to the library for another full day of trying desperately to entertain myself because I have no (actual, required) work (of any kind) on this rotation (fine, I guess I could ‘study,’ or whatever, I did crack OB/GYN Recall last week so back off). I set about to reading my favorite med blogs which I have sorely neglected (I missed almost an entire pregnancy for chr*ssake, where have I been???) for the last year or so (okay, down deep, I blame The Writer).
I have noticed an interesting theme in all of the med blogs I frequently read (lurk on). Namely, anonymity and mean people who write nasty comments and ruin it for everyone. Interesting. Because these are the main issues that made give up my last blog, lay low for almost a year, and finally, because I couldn’t take it anymore (I….must….write…arrrrgggghhhhhahofaihgao9hg;hga…..) set up shop in this shiny, new little piece of blogging heaven. Basically, I was getting a lot more readers, which meant a lot more people who felt the need to say really mean, hurtful, scary, threatening things to me on a regular basis. Plus, I think a lot of my classmates were reading, you know, because during colloquium one of them snidely quoted something I’d written. Right to mah face. Yikes. Not that I was making concerted attempts to write bad, harmful, mean things about my classmates or anyone else for that matter.
But, it seems no matter how benign your intentions are, how warm and fuzzily you write, or however vaguely you identify yourself, if you blog and enough people read it, you will get trolls and your anonymity will be compromised. (Of course if you do purposefully write mean, deliberately inflammatory things, well, then, you probably deserve every troll and ugly epitaph flung in your general direction. Now don’t you.)
Last week I was starting to bemoan the fact that no one was visiting my shiny, new piece of blog heaven. Granted, it ain’t that good (yet). Now, however, I think its time to enjoy the peaceful silence, for as long (yes, I am vain enough to hope that its not forever) it lasts. But, when it is, maybe, finally broken, at least I now know I’ll be in good company.