Why does everything have to be about race?

Because it is. 

How about a more inclusive stance? You ask, lovingly, with peace/#alllivesmatter/harmony in your heart. 

Here you go: Because it is, until it isn't. 

Before you close this page and refuse to engage (hey, that rhymes..), that question is mine. It is what I asked myself some three, or four or five odd years after living continuously in the USA after having lived 18 years in Zambia. I grew up in Zambia, a small, land locked and peaceful country in the region of sub-Saharan Africa. A former British colony, this is home to the Bantu languages and traditions, to the carbohydrate staple Nshima, to the opening and welcoming arms of a culture that tends to see every person as individuals. 

I recently had a conversation with my Mom as follows: 

Mom: do you have any Black friends? 

Me: 

Mom: ? 

Me: umm, not really. Most of the potential Black friends I know are not quite friends yet - we agree to meet up for coffee, or drinks once in a while and might see each other once every six months, but have never gotten to the stage that we've become friends. 

Mom: that's because you are Zambian 

Me: what do you mean?! [read, what does THAT have to do with ANYTHING?] 

Mom: Zambians tend to see people as individuals, rather than for the color of their skin. In order for you to have Black friends, you would have to [slight pause] make a special effort to seek them out. 

 My Mom is American. She was born and raised in Houston, Texas in 1947. She was brought up through the education system in America, was brought up by black Americans in America, was a part of multiple marches and protests on Civil rights in America and thus has a perspective I do not. 

Until now. 

The person who is able to ask "Why does everything have to be about race?" is one who is blind (willfully, or as in my case, ignorantly) to the very foundation of these great United States of America from which everything today is built upon. 

Turn your History books to page 1, please. 

1619's - 1863: Race was used to justify slavery. That is, Black people in early USA were regarded as an inferior race, as sub-human, in needing of enlightenment and work that was provided to them, graciously, by their White masters. The economic boom that resulted came literally, on the backs of Black people in the USA. You know this. Due to the emancipation proclamation on 1/1/1863, [*most] slaves then became free. 

1863 - 1900s: Then came the Reconstruction period in which Black people started to become self sufficient, owning business, becoming literate, voting and generally just being awesome. What happened next, you ask? I'll tell you - the black codes, or what we now loosely refer to as Jim Crow laws. These laws were designed to limit the freedom of Black people in America. Again. 

1900's - 1940's: with more and more Black people speaking truth to power (I love this phrase) and realizing their worth, you have Booker T. Washington and W.E.B Du Bois (and others) raising their proud Black voices. So you know what comes next - segregation aka separate but equal laws. Just another way to limit the freedom of Black people in America. 

1940's - 1960's: now we have more unapologetic Black people speaking truth to power, Malcolm X., Rosa Parks among others, culminating in Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Dare you ask what comes next? The war on drugs. This is a war that on the outside seems to be non-racist and color blind. What is wrong with a war on drugs? How can you, deadrocketcow, a seemingly well educated, law abiding citizen have an issue with a war on drugs? This is a long discussion for another day, best started early, when no Godly person should be awake - but let the facts speak for themselves with these questions: 

1. Why does crack cocaine have heftier penalties and prison time compared to an equivalent amount of powder cocaine? 

2. People of all colors use and sell illegal drugs at similar rates. When you count the number of people in prison for drug crimes, why are they overflowing with minorities? 

These are rhetorical questions, for you to think on while you drink your morning coffee. Don't come for me. 

1960's - now: 

 As recently as August 1965, Black people did not have the right to vote. As recently as 1967, it was illegal in sixteen states for a black person to marry outside of their race. Redlining - a heinous and disgusting practice that exists to this day, allows neighborhoods and districts to be placed into groups that make them ineligible for federal funding and services. Black people are more likely to receive higher interest rates on their mortgage compared to White people. Black people are 23% more likely to be pulled over by the police than White people, 1.5 to 5 times more likely to be searched when they *are* pulled over (while less likely to turn up contraband), resulting in a 3.5-4 times higher probability that they will be killed by the police. Black mothers with a college education have a higher infant mortality compared to White women who have a high school diploma. More Black people (and minorities) die from COVID19 than white people. I could go on. The examples are legion. 

I was not raised or (before college) educated in the USA. I had the blissful ignorance provided by being raised in my formative years, in a country where people are seen as individuals and not immediately judged by the color of their skin. (This is not to say that Zambians do not suffer from their own post-colonial syndromes). 

I am sorry for all the Black friends in college and in medical school and in early residency who were hurt by my question. They opened up the most vulnerable parts of themselves, to me, a fellow Black person, and were hurt by my ignorance. 

But now that I see, I cannot un-see. 

The question you should be asking is "How can we make everything NOT have to be about race?" 

 *not in the states loyal to the Union

A day on call

Over here is a lady who can only communicate by sticking out her tongue. She has reverted to her child hood state and won't respond to questions in English. "Saco la lengua!", you command, because who knows if she's still alive? She sacos her lengua. Don't feel sorry for her though - she blew her own brains out high on a combination of heroin and cocaine and now she lies in a $10 000 a day neurosurgical intensive care unit bed, sucking on your tax dollars. At least, this is what my attending tells me.

Over there is a 15 year old, undergoing a tracheostomy cap trial. He has a big indentation in his head on the side his bone was removed in an effort to save his life. His crime? Playing basketball in a bad neighborhood. His mother found him, lying in the street across from his house, with a gunshot wound to the head. If he passes this cap trial, maybe that special rehabilitation facility that deals with pediatric neurosurgical patients will take him. He's failed three times. But he's been in the hospital for 80 days. What's another week while applying to a different facility?

I can see you in the face of your 95 year old aunt. She gets restless at night, calling out for your uncle, who's been dead for 30 years. This time she fell and broke her neck. You weren't there to prevent this, because although you try, how is it possible to watch her 24/7? You've fed her her meals, coaxing her to take a few more bites. You've bathed her. You've read the newspaper to her. How could you not? No one else will. I can see the scratches on your face, on your neck and on your arms. Last night she didn't recognise who you were and panicked, thinking you were a burglar. You still put her in her yellow dress and brought her to the emergency department though.

She told me she didn't use drugs. There are amphetamines in her urine drug screen, but that's ok. Maybe she ate an extra large bagel with poppy seeds on it. Oh wait, that's heroin that does that. We found out why her brain is so swollen though. She has had untreated high blood pressure, probably for many years. "Sign off! Let the medicine doctors deal with her. This is not a neurosurgical problem." That's my attending. He cuts to the chase.

Here comes the guy who fell down the stairs, drunk last night. He had bleeding in his brain and we asked him to stay in the intensive care unit overnight so he could be watched closely. We wanted to repeat his head CT in the morning. He had things to do at home though, *cough* get sloshed *cough* and left, "against medical advice". He's back now - on the ventilator.

Say, isn't that the woman who was just in the hospital last week for x? Now she has x AND y.

Don't worry, sir, we'll take good care of your mother.

Hey, mister, this won't hurt a bit.

2014

It's 2014 and I am 6 months into third year. That means...in 6 more months, I will be a fourth year and back on the wretched main service. Hell on wheels, in other words.

Right now, I have the luxury of a less stressful schedule (sometimes) and more time to study. More time to be that all-star resident I always wanted to be.

It means making choices though - do I sleep, work out, study, work on research or do something social? It's always a challenge.

But, like Dr. R says, if you don't think you can handle it, you're probably in the wrong specialty.

Third year - it continues

So continue the blessed rotations of third year.
I am doing two months of Pituitary/Endoscopy in a state that took 11 hours to drive to. I work three days a week and live in the basement of a couple that takes in medical students, residents and other stragglers of the medical persuasion for a fee. (I'm assuming there is a fee...the money that changed hands between program and host did not involve my hands. Or any other body parts, for that matter).
In any case, I have A LOT of free time on my hands.
Incidentally, the two attendings I am working with during this rotation are away at a conference this week. So. I get an additional week off.
The downsides to this rotation
1. Way too much free time
2. Very bad phone reception at this place I'm staying
3. I know no one here

The upside:
1. Way too much free time
2. Did I mention I have way too much free time?

So, I've been working out. A LOT. Like, twice a day a lot. Don't judge me - it beats watching an entire season of Breaking Bad. Per day. Of which, I am fully capable.

Speaking of the gym:
Is your workout so intense, so totally consuming, that you - weightlifter guy/gal, must insist on throwing your dumbbells onto the floor after each set? Yes. I'm talking to you. You there, in the wife beater, carrying the Costco [so you know they have like, 40 of these at home] gallon jug of water. Is that your way of announcing to the gym world that you just pressed three times your own weight? Is that how you mark your gym territory? Don't answer - I don't really care. If you do not have the strength at the end of a set to lower your weights to the floor in a controlled and civilized manner, you should be lifting a lighter weight. No matter how many pounds of gnarly muscle you have on your shoulders.

And:
What is going on in the mind of the person who steps onto the treadmill, cranks the incline up to 100% and then hangs on for dear life? They must realize that defeats the entire purpose of the incline. And what a sight! Huffing, puffing, the sweat pouring down - honey, don't bother. You're really going at, like, 10% incline right now. And that's being generous.

So, yeah. Working out. Quite a bit. What I need to do - and God help me, I will - is use all the extra time to study and work on some solid research projects. Like a real neurosurgery resident.

For now though, I have three episodes of Scandal chapters of Neurosurgery Text Book to read.

Goodnight.

Happy Birthday, deadrocketcow

29. The countup continues.

I still hate presentations and other thoughts

I am close to the end of this three month Pediatric Neurosurgery rotation in this here, mid-western state and as such, I have a presentation to work on. This presentation is due on Monday. Yes.
I cheated and asked one of the attendings for topic suggestions. So now I have one: X-linked congenital hydrocephalus. I also have 5 solid hours of free time today before my OR case in the mid afternoon. A great opportunity to get some work done.
So, of course, I'm blogging.
My surgical skills are improving, and in turn, so is my confidence. I don't know if you can tell, but I'm a quiet/shy/reserved sorta gal. I err on the side of caution. If there is any doubt in my mind about something, I hold back and assume that I will be wrong. This is not your classical surgeon, and more specifically - neurosurgoen personality, which, as my program director (Dr. R) has reminded me over and over again, hampers my learning.
If I don't "take over" the case in the OR, the attending assumes I don't want to. I just assume that "taking over" like that is rude. If I don't have anything worthwile to say, I keep silent. My attendings think I'm not interested. I've never been one to always have something to say. You know, like that person. In my [humble] opinion, those that have the most to say, usually know the least.
However, my co-resident here is pretty much the exact opposite. Assertive is putting it mildly. There are other choice adjectives I could use to describe her, but that's material for another post. Out of a desire to survive this rotation and not be her doormat, my personality has taken some sharpening. Dr. R would be proud.
What else has improved?
My neurosurgical knowlege. My ability to communicate with patients and their parents in terms they can understand. Working with difficult people. Compromising. This rotation has made me a better neurosurgeon (in training) AND person.
I now know what it is to be so tired that you can't think.
To be so tired that you would rather sleep than eat (despite being ferociously hungry).
My patience has been tried. To the moon and then back again.
But I'm still here. Right?
After this rotation, I pretty much have no reason to ever complain about work ever again. It has been rough.
As such, I am counting down the days for my return to my home program, where I will begin a one month Endovascular rotation.
I'll miss everyone in the department. Everyone except my co-resident. But, like I said, that's material for another post.

I guess I should work on my presentation now.

Catching up

So, it seems that almost 8 months have gone by since I last posted. How did that happen? At the start of the year, I was half way through my second year of residency and was tired of being at the bottom of the totem pole. Woe was me. Now, I am three weeks into my third year and still feel like I am at the bottom of the totem pole (surprise!).
My third year is divided into four, three month rotations both at my home institution and at other institutions. This first rotation is Pediatric Neurosurgery at [redacted] hospital in mid-western state. The schedule has taken some adjustment - home call is both a blessing and a curse - so far, mostly curse...
Getting woken up every hour and or having to come into the hospital to see a sick child and or operate for hours at a time and THEN having to come back the next day (provided it was not so late at night that I just had to stay in the hospital) and work another full day the next morning is KILLER. It is NOT normal. Perhaps it is punishment for all those times I complained about taking in-house/overnight call.
Aside from that, I am operating a lot, learning tons and, can you believe it - working out 5 days a week. Needless to say, it doesn't leave much time for anything else. Sorry Mom.
I get up at 3:45 am, work out, get to work, leave anywhere between 6 pm and 9 pm depending on whether or not I am on call and try to be in bed by 7:30 pm. I kid you not.
But it's just three months. Right?
Right.

Things I need to do by the end of Sunday
1. Call my parents
2. Log my OR cases
3. Catch up on my research project
4. Do laundry
5. Replace the hubcap on my right front tire
6. And, as always, read, read, read.


Until the next time.

New Year and such

I'm tired.
Tired of being at the bottom of the totem pole. Of always having to grin and bear it. Of always being in the wrong, always having to apologize, always being the one who does the stuff that nobody else wants to do.

"Hey, the surgical PA is not going to be around for the next 3 weeks to write the H and P's on the pre-op patients or write the chief resident's post-op orders."
"That's ok. We have drc."
"But what about when the surgical PA leaves? You know she's moving jobs, right?"
"Yes. Drc will do it. Speaking of which, can you tell drc she's covering next weekend's call instead of A? She was post call the day we made the schedule for the entire next 6 months, but we just went ahead and made it anyway, we didn't have time to wait."

Just shoot me.

I suppose I talked to M about this stuff way more than I realized. And now, I have no one to complain to, to release all that anger and frustration before it drives me nuts. Which, I guess it is.

That's not entirely true. I have my Mom. And my Dad. And my siblings. And C. And J.

I just want to get smart already. And have more power and authority (You WILL respect my authority!). And that means I have to read. More.

And be more vocal. According to Dr. R.

Argh! Happy New Year, friends.

Merry Christmas

The regular milk conspiracy

Ladies and gentlemen. All across America, in cafes and coffee shops alike, a conspiracy is afoot. It is the conspiracy of regular milk. Take for instance, the coffee shop right at the entrance of the hospital when you walk in through the revolving doors adjacent to the employee parking garage. With its chalkboards inscribed with coffee ground humor, brightly lit signs, displays of muffins, brownies and baked goods galore, you'd think Christmas had come early. You walk up to the ahem, 'barista' (now there's self pomp and delusion of grandeur at its finest) and are immediately bombarded with choice. There's coffee with a hint of cherry, hazelnut roasted beans, breakfast blends, medium dark, decaffeinated coffee (what freak of nature drinks that?!), coffee with shots of espresso in it, basically, there is coffee up the wazoo. But before that, first you must decide on the appropriate receptacle. You may select the short, which in my opinion, should be labelled I'm-the-kind-of-person-who-says-F-U-to-the-system-and-buys-what-I-need-for-ME aka, I'm a pompous prig who thinks the world rotates around my axis, to small (which has no business being associated with this name, given that four shorts could fit into it with space for cream) and all the way to venti....or is it grande (pronounced grawn-day)? I forget. Anyhow, you get the point. After you have painstakingly made your selection, you make your way to the designated waiting area and decide, while your beverage of choice is being 'designed', if you want sweet n' low, Truvia, Splenda, sugar in the 'raw', honey or just plan old fashioned white table sugar. Lest you get bored, there is cinnamon, nutmeg and other spices, that I cannot dissociate from baking (like, am I making a cake here?! Wtf?) that you can add to your already hyper-flavor infused drink. You are handed your highly anticipated cup, which, depending on your selection, may require the addition of some cream-age. Then...you take a look at the dairy that is displayed and you are flabbergasted. You turn to the barrister with a sheepish grin on your face and ask "OK, where are the hidden cameras? Because, this must be a joke. On me. Haha, you got me!" But no. It's true. After the amazing selection of cups, beverages, beverages for those beverages, toppings, snacks and sweeteners, you have only two choices when it comes to dairy. Skim milk and half and half. Could this be? Are you born with the wrong set of taste buds? Is it un-conceived of to yearn for the taste of regular milk in your coffee? Are there only two kinds of people on this earth? Those who like skim milk in their coffee and those who like half and half? How much trouble will it cause this coffee shop to serve an alternative to the two extremes? Say, a carton of 2%? A jug of whole? Maybe, even, if the former involve preparations far too complex, a bottle of 1%?
So I tell you. It must be a conspiracy. There is just no other explanation. Somewhere, around a large mahogany table, there sit executives in black suits. There are flickering candles in the corner, casting their distorted shadows on the walls, balanced on rickety corner tables dripping candle wax on a stone floor. And they are scheming. "We will gather ALL the regular milk from ALL the cows on this planet, yes, we will divert it from ALL the coffee shops and into our giant regular milk powered ray gun. And with this giant regular milk powered ray gun, we will air a special on national TV and hypnotize the ENTIRE nation into BUYING...MORE...COFFEE!!". Then they rub their hands together in fashion most cryptic and laugh menacingly into the ceiling.
So you see, ladies, gentlemen. A conspiracy is afoot. Watch. And be ready.

Plotting and scheming

Will there ever be a day when I don't have any paper work to do? It seems I am constantly battling a never ending pile of forms - both online and in hard copy. No sooner do I fill out a form that my program co-ordinator has been nagging me about, there are ten more that spring up in its place. For instance:
There are health benefit forms to fill out - before Monday at midnight, mind. And, online courses about the new electronic record - to be done by December 1st, please. Then there's the book chapter I keep having to make changes to, because, it turns out, I'm just not the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to research, apparently.
In other news...
I'm on vacation for (gasp!) 10 whole days. I spent part of this with my sister and (only the best) nephew (in the world) in Florida. My sister and (only the best...ok, you get the point) nephew picked me up from the airport and it was great to see them both. To add that purple icing to the cake, I walked in the door of my sister's apartment and it was all decked out, Happy Birthday style, with balloons and streamers. Then...the best meal on earth, a candle topped cake WITH ice-cream, complete with party hats and a nephew-sister rendition of Happy Birthday deadrocketcow. There are some feelings that just cannot be expressed with words. Needless to say, it was a good day.
Now, I'm back in [mid-west city]. I start work again Monday. The prospect of going back without M, does not make me a happy girl. But...what can I do? I'm just a PGY-2, yes?
Hey, guess what? I bought some weights, and so far, I have done two full body workouts right in the comfort of my very own apartment. I know. You're jealous.
For the rest of this month, I plan to:

1. Read. Every single day. No more procrastination. This "I'll do it tomorrow" attitude just isn't cutting it.
2. Do three full body workouts a week, two HIIT sessions and one aerobic session.
3. Live each day like it's my last
4. Just breathe

Cheers.

(Not so) Happy Birthday deadrocketcow

I turned 28 today, and what a day. My thoughts were dissipated, tormenting my heart. I will always remember this day because of how I felt.

Points to ponder

1. If you are writing up a discharge summary on a patient who is deceased do you write about them in the past tense?

2. Is it OK to tell your patient that you just operated on that you don't know what type of tumor they have, when in fact, you just heard that the frozen pathology (high chance of being inaccurate) was malignant?

4. Are some patients lying about how much pain they're in?

5. My PHQ-9 score is 8. Am I depressed or just a neurosurgery resident?

6. How much caffeine is too much caffeine?

7. Why do I end up staying late at work only on days when I make plans?

8. Why is there such a thing as a VIP patient? Isn't everyone a VIP patient?

I cannot escape it

It's on those lonely early morning drives while the sun is a distant rumor on the horizon, and I have nothing but myself for company that I take a moment and stop to think to myself, out of all those existential life questions such as, what is the meaning of my life, and is Pluto a planet or not and are people inherently bad, deep down, in their souls, where no one is looking - why did I do it?
And I turn the music on. And then I turn it on a little louder, because that question for which I stopped, on this lonely early morning drive, to think to myself, will keep nagging, as questions without easy answers are in the habit of doing, echoing louder and louder in the back of my mind where all those other difficult questions have been banished, to be since buried and forgotten.
But they do not stay buried.
It was her laugh. I heard it once and then a second time on that day, and I was lost. It was a laugh like no other; rich with the promises of all that could be good and beautiful. Of mutual feelings shared. We hesitated, we faltered against our individual alter-egos whispering out our lives to each other. Her Max, my Judy. Our 9th grade christmas plays, family trips to the amusement park, in-laws, grandparents, vows made in the presence of God to last until death.
I came home a different man that day and I have been a different man since. My only refuge from my thoughts is the unconsciousness that comes between the hours of 10 and 4, although it lasts but an instant. It has been said that only God will judge us, but I know better. I am judged daily - in the smiles of my children, in Judy's kiss as I come home from work and in the eyes of that man in the mirror. What is done cannot be undone, and what will be, will be.
This is my thought, on this lonely early morning drive, and I cannot escape it.

Yet another 'Happiness is...' post

Happiness is

-A clean pair of socks on a call day
-A clean apartment on a post-call day
-French vanilla cappuccino en route to see the 5 ER consults I just got in the past 15 minutes
-A fully charged phone
-A co-resident with whom I don't have to watch what I'm saying
-That rare, golden weekend
-A charge nurse (S) to whom you only have to say "S, there's a patient coming up from the ER with a subarachnoid hemorrhage", and before you know it, you have an open ICU bed, a ventricular catheter already set up at the bedside and the crash cart at the ready.
-A chief resident that tells you it's going to be OK
-A day in the OR
-A mother you can call, at a moment's notice, no matter what hour of the night, because things are just not going well
-Dinner on the balcony with J
-A set of bills that have just been paid
-A good night's sleep
-Being pimped by your attending, in front of the entire team, and knowing the answers
-That patient that tells you, when you least expect it, how glad they are to have you as their doctor

Letter

Dear floor nurse,

You and I - we used to get along real well, back when I had a 16 hour limit on the number of consecutive hours I could be in the hospital. We laughed together, we shared the occasional moment. We even discussed work related issues. Life was good. But now? Not so much. Let's face it. Our relationship is not what it used to be. I'd like to be the noble person here and say it's not you, it's me....but come on, let's not fool ourselves. It's really just you.
Look. I'm not saying you're a bad person. It's not that at all. It's just...you're not a good person and frankly, you're not that bright. We ALL can't be the sharpest tool in the shed, eh?
You know I have 60 odd patients on my service; you know I have to cover the ICU, the step down unit, the floor, all consults AND the ER, right? So why do you call right when I am in the middle of placing an EVD, sterile, and unable to answer the phone without someone placing it to my ear, and immediately launch into a long spiel about the most non-urgent matter, without even giving any identifying patient information, until I realize that the person of whom you speak is not even my patient?
I realize your three patients must consume a tremendous amount of your time. I know you are overwhelmed because your scheduled two hour breaks are not enough down time during your third 12hr shift of the week, but....do you do this deliberately? To antagonize me? To make my blood pressure rise when your third consecutive phone call comes in and I am praying there is not a ruptured aneurysm on the other end of the line? Do you like to torment me?
And what about that sweet moment, when I finally have half an hour to myself and I can lay down and drift to sleep, and you call me with a NORMAL lab result? What can I do besides mutter "Thank you for letting me know" and hang up? God only knows. Another thing - when I am at the chart, looking through a patient's vitals...is there a sign above my head that says "You must now update me on every single patient issue from their bowel habits to the breed of their son's dog"? Do you realize that once I hear your concerns I HAVE to address them? Do you know that this causes my adrenal gland to pour out cortisol? Do you know that I am stabbing you in the eye, in my head?
I am trying to make this relationship work. I really am. Right now, though, I think the prognosis is poor. We might have to have a talk soon.

Sincerely,

Your resident physician.

Pause, reflect.

Each step of this dreaded USMLE process hangs heavier and heavier over my soul, like that one essential piece of carry on luggage on a 2 bag limit airline. I have postponed step 3, and have paid dearly with my wallet - I choked out an extra $200 and promised it was the only time. Therefore, on May 21st and 22nd, come hell or high water, I Must Take This Test. But have I not proven my medical acumen? Must I take yet another exam to show to the world, that I can indeed practice medicine? And pay for it? Mon dieu! Self pity aside, I did just have 4 straight days off (miracles never cease) which I spent deep in USMLE World, agonizing over 26 year old women with PID and 74 year old men with diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol and 80 pack year smoking histories. Nice. I feel I have made progress. Tomorrow, it is back to the world of General Surgery - my very last month - where I will express my joy at Nissen fundoplication this, whipple that, all the while wishing Neurosurgery - starting in June, yay - would come yesterday. There are things; an entire operating day with the infamous Dr. S, lunch with my family medicine intern friend, free french vanilla cappuchinos in the resident lounge and the intangible fulfillment that making a difference in a patient's life can bring; these are the things that make everything worth it.

I'm just that awesome

I stride down halls with my [long] white coat flapping in the wind because I am badass. I answer trauma activations with "I got this" because I am that cool. I run codes in resuscitation room 1 with my eyes closed, a blindfold on, and one hand tied behind my back. I resect basilar tip aneurysms bedside. When Martin and Spetzler were looking at an MRI trying to grade an AVM, they called me. I know all the CPT codes, for all the procedures, all the time. Off the top of my head. I passed the Neurosurgery boards before I went to medical school. This 7 years of training? Just a formality - I have accepted the position of chair at Big Top Notch Academic Center of excellence, to commence the day after my graduation. When the chair at my program is away on vacation, who steps in? This girl. When there is an emergency in the OR, an unexpected turn of events, who do they consult? You got it, this girl. Why? I'm just that awesome.

Mens sana incorpore sano

Since it's almost the New Year, I've decided to get all mainstream and whip up some resolutions. All the cool people do this, right? Right.
Six months of internship has been good, bad, exciting, aggravating and fulfilling all at once. I go from being completely out of my depth to striding into patient's rooms, cool as a cucumber and ready to kick some General Surgery butt. Overall, the stress levels on a scale from 1 to 10, with 1 being "I could do this with one hand and my eyes closed", and 10 being "Somebody stab me now. In the eyeballs, and make it quick", range from 3 to 8. Basically, I need to figure out a way to relieve stress, get down with some R and R and generally, not turn into that bitter, angry and jaded surgical resident I used to hate when I was a medical student.
There are setbacks to this:
The administrative/paper work/scut crap I have to do in order to get things done, that is, Care For My Patients, is just atrocious. Does there seriously have to be a form for everything? Do they seriously have to be placed at opposite ends of the hospital? And whose job is it to stock those things anyway?! Grr! But, I digress.
And...well, I can't think of anything else right now...but I tell you, there are setbacks!
I went from working out 6 days a week and eating like a champ on my Neurology rotation to not working out for the entire month I was on Vascular Surgery and shoving down chocolate chip muffins and regular sodas like they were umm...candy. (They were, basically). This month, I am on Plastic Surgery and have been somewhat better - a grand total of 4 trips to the gym during a three week period and some concern about how many grams of sugar enter my insides.
But, like I said, New Year, new resoulutions, yes? Yes. Listen:
I decided to hop onto the Weight Watcher's bandwagon. It can't hurt to have killer abs, glutes you can debride a sacral pressure ulcer with AND be a Neurosurgeon, can it? I agree.
In order to reward myself, I plan on using my last week of vacation sometime in May or June and jetting off to an exotic land of white sand, gorgeous beaches and unending Pina Coladas. May it be so.

In other news, I start work in the Neuro Intensive Care Unit on New Years day, which is AWESOME! Enough with this General Surgery ish.

Happy Birthday deadrocketcow

Two-Seven: I'm a big girl now.