Dancing Machine

I feel like I've changed a lot since the beginning of the year. Maybe "a lot" is the wrong way to describe it; the fundamentals are still similar. But, around March, I noticed that I started doing something that I'd never willingly done before. 

I danced in public. And enjoyed it.

I am (was?) painfully self-conscious, almost to the point where I'm sometimes convinced that I have avoidant personality disorder (mostly kidding, folks). I've been this way for years; probably since the end of high school. In general, I don't like doing things that bring attention my way. The vulnerability of simply dancing at a wedding really freaked me out because I didn't want to give anyone fodder to make fun of my arrhythmic rump-shaking. Perpetuating this pattern of thought was that I knew it wasn't healthy. I wanted to come across as confident... 'cause confidence is sexy, right? Tight control of my immediate surroundings became compensatory.

Recently, someone compared my actions to that of a benevolent dictator. It hurt because it was true. My version of compromise was a short list of acceptable options handed down when I was scared that my life wasn't going exactly the way I envisioned it. Things that I desperately wanted to work fell apart because of the underlying worry-rumblings. The harder I tried, the more out of control things became. It's like my life was a Gusher, and I was slowly squeezing it until the oozy high-fructose corn syrup mix finally erupted.

Anyway! One spring night I seemed to forget that I was too embarrassed to dance. I had fun. So much fun that I've since danced many more times in many public places. I've even started singing! To me this is a big fucking deal; it's a tangible way that I'm starting to let go and breathe already.

I can't change the fact that I like structure. It lets my never-calm brain run smoothly - trust me on that one. But I can't do the Gnome Jong Il thing anymore 'cause the mental rigidity gets in the way of my sweet moves.

East v. West

New York 

or...

California?

Where should I spend my fall? 

You Are a Dummy.

I got my August issue of Glamour magazine in the mail last week. This is not something newsworthy in and of itself, but the cover promised a story of another way that doctors suck, so I obviously flipped right to page 86.

If you read this blog and can comprehend context clues, you probably know by now that I'm overly sensitive to doctor-bashing, especially the variety that ends up in a women's magazine that has Vanessa Hudgens squishing kittens on the cover (poor kittens, BTW). Sometimes it's justified, but the vast majority of the time it's overly-dramatic hogwash.
ANYWAY, the article tells the tale of women who aren't properly diagnosed with various womanly diseases. What blows my mind about the story isn't that I think the information presented about misdiagnosis was false, but rather that it's so twisted and diluted and dumbed-down.

Oprah, Cosmo and WebMD (among others) are usurping the expertise of trained physicians and are changing the way healthcare is delivered by creating an erroneously educated public. A headshot and a byline are seemingly the most effective ways to get medical knowledge across. White coats and lots of schooling can't compete with the Internet or Oprah's producers in the snazzy department. And the scariest part of all - the masses eat this shit up!

Journalists need to be held more accountable when reporting health-related concerns. Fact check. Do a literature search. Call more than one expert. Present multiple opinions, pros, cons. Help to create an informed patient, not one who is biased and full of mistrust. Heathcare in America is in shambles, and an ignorant, self-intitled public is part of the problem.

2010 (so far), in Lyrics

Calm down
Deep breaths
And get yourself dressed instead
Of running around
And pulling all your threads
And breaking yourself up

If it's a broken part, replace it
If it's a broken arm, then brace it
If it's a broken heart, then face it

And hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way
Hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way

And everything will be fine

Hang on
Help is on the way
Stay strong
I'm doing everything

Hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way
Hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way

And everything, everything will be fine
Everything

Are the details in the fabric
Are the things that make you panic
Are your thoughts results of static cling

Are the things that make you blow
Hell, no reason, go on and scream
If you're shocked it's just the fault
Of faulty manufacturing

Everything will be fine
Everything in no time at all
Everything

Hold your own
Know your name
Go your own way

Are the details in the fabric (Hold your own, know your name)
Are the things that make you panic
Are your thoughts results of static cling (Go your own way)

Are the details in the fabric (Hold your own, know your name)
Are the things that make you panic (Go your own way)
Is it Mother Nature's sewing machine

Are the things that make you blow (Hold your own, know your name)
Hell no reason go on and scream
If you're shocked it's just the fault (Go your own way)
Of faulty manufacturing

Everything will be fine
Everything in no time at all
Hearts will hold

Small Girl. Short Fuse. Big Heart?

My new favorite mental hobby is switching between being thankful for the opportunity to be in medical school and being completely fed up with the process.

Case in point. At Sunday dinner I was asked what kind of doctor I want to be. My reply was met with another question - "So you're not going to be a real doctor?" If you want to see my eyes glaze over and my head spin around, imply that I'm half-assing my life. Work half as hard as I do, pal, and then ask that question again. I certainly don't need praise and adoration, but I'd be lying if I said that the implied lack of respect doesn't fucking hack me off.

But then I see a person near retirement-age working at Taco Bell and I get weepy and thank every known deity for the chance to educate myself. Because, really, I can't think of a better way to spend my career than being a good doctor, even if people don't think I'm "real."

Even 3+ years in and 11 months away from graduation, I have yet to feel any sustained calm about being a doctor. Is this my "calling" or just my job? I've never felt a calling to do any one thing. I have a whole list of things that I want to accomplish with my life, and it just so happens that going to professional school for the better part of my twenties was on the list. I also plan to be a kick-ass wife, a good mom, get an MBA, surf averagely, buy a home, and avoid buying a mini-van at all costs.

It's all good. Most of the time.

Physician, heal thyself.

“At some point everyone realizes that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that like it or not, we are who we are; that despite the infinite abundance in the universe, nothing good can come to us except by working that little plot of land that we are given to farm.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Love Stinks (Yeah, Yeah)

I've been thinking about love a lot lately. Unfortunately this doesn't happen unless it's 3:00 am on a work night, essentially ruining the quiet moments that my brain so desperately needs.

My conclusion? I don't get it. At all.


I can't understand why the gut-punch feeling of a broken heart creeps up and, well, punches me in the stomach when I'm folding clothes. Or why other times I just want to giggle and listen to sappy songs and think about the big, bright world and all of the love waiting in it.

Then there's the cliched question asked in power ballads and rom-com plots a million times over; is love enough? Why are such intense emotions experienced between two people compartmentalized and felt so differently? Pragmatism and reality are just too damned sad sometimes.

I see my patients and can't help but notice the way illness affects their relationships; how roses-and-sunshine romance has turned in to wiping drool off of a chin. Never mind a passionate kiss under the Eiffel Tower, I want the kind of love where I know that I'll have help getting a sponge bath one day. The tenderly mundane acts of affection are what make me believe in love. Medicine, if nothing else, keeps me humble.

It's hard to wrap my head around why I have to feel these things and where love (of all kinds) has gotten me. I'm almost 27 years old, still in school, unmarried, living off my parents with several years of training left ahead. It might not be the life I pictured for myself 10 years ago, but it's mine and I chose this route even though it occasionally sucks. I can still cry with patients, get googly-eyed over a song and I 100% believe in the power of a good hug. I am pretty sure that wearing my heart on my sleeve (a flaw to some) is going to work for me in the end, but we'll have to see how and where.

Until then, I need some sleep.