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.

Ode to My Dudes

This post is in appreciation of every quality male friend that I am lucky enough to have in my life. You all have spoiled me rotten with your example of what it's like to be good men in a sea of douchebags. Flaws included, you are high-class people.

Your Momma Gnome loves you all.

NOTE: The above photo is not nearly all-encompassing of the dudes referred to in this musing.

I HAVE PEOPLE SKILLS.

Rarely do I ever just settle with a simple answer. I like thorough explanations and rationale. So it's natural that I want to put a name or label on this funny feeling in my gut that's been keeping me up at night. I've felt like I'm on the verge of some personal epiphany, or at very least some calm in this (so far) emotionally unstable year.

Guess what, kids. I've figured it out!


The number one thing I've learned in the last few months is that one needs to know their limits AND, this is key, be comfortable with them. At this point in my life, it mostly pertains to what I can and can't handle in a career environment, like whether or not I want to see patients on a continual basis or just "treat 'em and street 'em." I have to be honest with myself; I take things personally. I get overly emotional and cry a lot. Are these traits that are conducive to a career with the mentally ill? Or even seeing sick people in general? I don't know anymore.

Obviously this goes a lot deeper than just medicine. For a long time I didn't pay any attention to my internal barometer and ended up feeling deflated and foolish. My family, both blood and friend-family, brings a lot to my table but also takes their fair share from the buffet (bitches, get your hands off my cornbread!). I think I always knew where I wanted to draw the line with my inner circle, but because I love them, lines got fuzzy and I got sad. Sacrificing my personal sanity doesn't do any good in the long run if I'm burnt out and resentful.

I like the fact that I'm going to be a doctor in 13 months. I also like the fact that I can emotionally connect to someone, and I don't want to lose that after seeing a career's worth of pain and ugliness. Where my balance is, I'm not 100% sure anymore, but I think the questions now are worth the outcome in the end.

So there you have it. Another "duh" moment from your favorite doctor-in-training.

Silver Lining

Sometimes it's the saddest things about my day that make me 100% sure I made the right decision.

I think I'm wired funny.

-ology v. -iatry

I realized this weekend (for approximately the 34th time) that a lot of people don't know the distinction between a psychiatrist and a psychologist.

Let's do a Q&A, based on common inquiries about my career choice.

1. "Psychiatry? Don't you mean you're getting a PhD?" - Why no, that's not true at all! Psychiatrists are, in fact, medical doctors, aka MDs. They can prescribe medications and write orders for lab work. Some of them actually use their stethoscope a few times a week! Psychologists can have either a Master's degree or a PhD/PsyD in psychology and are unable to give you anything stronger than good advice and a box of kleenex.

2. "But I thought you wanted to practice medicine." - Ok, skeptics. Just because you can't see a shortage of serotonin or an overzealous dopamine-producing neuron doesn't mean it's not there. Last time I checked, the brain was an internal organ and, based on precedent, internal organs can misbehave. If you have high blood pressure, your doctor will use clinical judgement and treat thusly. Same goes for schizophrenia; it's a legitimate medical condition like hypertension, except it makes you go bat-shit crazy. Bottom line? Psychiatrists fix sick brains, and that seems pretty darned doctor-like to me.

3. "Aren't you going to get sick of listening to people's problems?" - There are a lot of talented psychologists and social workers that will talk to patients 'til the cows come home about the root(s) of their feelings. I, however, don't really have an interest in doing therapy. I want to know your symptoms, what makes you feel better or worse, and how long it's been going on... medical-ish things. The goal is to find a legal drug that will get you on the road to feeling better.

------

A good friend and future psychiatrist described the difference between practitioners of psychology and psychiatry like this: think of them like physical therapists and orthopedic surgeons; both fix musculoskeletal problems, but they do that from completely different angles. It's an efficient and accurate explanation.

Now that you've been educated, spread your new-found knowledge to the masses. Only YOU can prevent psychiatry confusion!

Oh, snap.

In regards to healthcare reform: "It must be REALLY hard to watch democracy work when you are rich & white & powerful."

I normally keep my mouth shut about my personal politics. But, when I read the above quote in a Facebook status today I decided to throw etiquette aside and put in my two cents.

I'm not going to mince words. I come from a fairly affluent upbringing and have never wanted for anything. I don't have any student loans. My parents are conservative and don't particularly like parting with 42% of their income and I really don't blame them. Call my father an asshole if you want, but realize that he is 52 years old and still works 7 days a week. Actually, I didn't know that dads didn't work every day until I went to play dates on Saturdays and noticed that every other dad was watching sports and drinking beer. For all of the critics out there, yes, I did play with middle class white kids and I know plenty of other parents worked their asses off to scrape by.

I digress.

My family's business is in some potentially serious financial shit because of the new mandates to carry health insurance. And the best part about all of this is that there has never been a time where they didn't offer health benefits. Moreover, everyone from the CEO to the minimum wage workers had the same exact insurance plan.

Do the math. For an industry that makes no more than 3% profit each year to be stuck with new rules, fines, and costs to provide something that is already in place is frankly devastating. No profit = no company. No company = loss of 250+ jobs.

And where does that leave the poor white rich man? Wait... don't powerful white men like to lay people off or dissolve their 40 year old business to stay afloat? Yes, my friends, the powerful white wealthy man certainly has had his comeuppance!

Fuck that.

I could not have asked for a better role model than my rich white father to teach me the importance of hard work and treating everyone with respect.

Nothing about these new laws is without flaw... not for doctors, insurance companies, politicians OR patients. Neither were the tactics used to get this whole mess passed. That's just politics. But, ignorance such as the above statement should not be tolerated, regardless of race or income.

Early Career Low

Let's talk about some straight-up bullshit, people.

I'm sure all of you are expecting me to go on a rant about this health care reform stuff. You're wrong, because I'm frankly sick of hearing about it.

No, friends, today the police were called on me and my attending physician by a patient. This all occurred while she was in a room inside the clinic.

Here's a nickel's worth of free advice - don't call 911 and complain of harassment and expect that the doctor will still be willing to see you. Bad form.

The short and medicolegally correct version of the story goes like this:

- Patient delivers baby by c-section 2 weeks ago after nearly dying. Both mom and baby are healthy post-partum.

- Patient has mild wound infection. Instead of immediately returning to a medical facility, she obtains legal counsel.

- THEN, patient returns for a 1.5 hour appointment where her incision is cleaned and re-dressed. An oral antibiotic is also given for back-up.

- At the instruction of her lawyer, patient goes to other hospital to confirm the diagnosis. No further action was recommended.

- Patient returns to clinic in order to record the physician and nurses to use against them in court.

You know, I don't fancy being recorded so my words can be taken out of context and used to nail my attending to the wall. Neither does my attending for that matter. But, asking* to see the phone to make sure it's not on record is tantamount to harassment and battery.

When did the collective opinion of doctors sink so low? Was is when health insurance companies began their rapacious pursuit of profits instead of delivering recommended care? Or maybe when lawyers started to advertise the option of suing the shit out of them when anything less than (the patient's idea of) perfection was achieved? Before you start to play devil's advocate, I get it. There are bad doctors out there. Just like there are bad hair stylists, gardeners, actors, CEOs and lawyers. But there are few, if any, professions requiring the time commitment of medicine that are subsequently governed by the interests of other industries.

I don't know where I'm going with all of this. Let's just call it venting.

Just don't call the cops on your doctors, ok?

* I didn't ask her because she scared the shit out of me. Just to clarify.

Updates, etc.

I have been immersed in the mystical land of baby-catching for the last few weeks, leaving me little time to write. Please enjoy the following random compilation of adventure.

- Since February 15, I have delivered 13 babies. They are the only things I've come across that are both slimy and adorable at the same time.

- The love of my life, Violet the 17 lb cat, was mercilessly attacked by a Brown Recluse spider. No lie, her vet told me that her layer of blubber saved her life by not allowing the venom to get to her muscles. I'll eat a cupcake to that!

- I will be doing some research this summer at the Center for Retired Athletes on the rates of depression/anxiety in football players with more than 3 concussions. WOOT!

- While walking through the halls of Florida Hospital, I noticed that there was a door that opened to the roof, a la The Hangover. The irony? The staircase originates in the psych ward.

- I met some new girlfriends at an old friend's bachelorette party. Hanging with an awesome friend begets meeting new awesome friends!

- A classmate called me the most confident person he knows. Fake it until you make it, baby!

- I worked an all-time high of 93 hours in 7 days.

With the exception of a few speed bumps, it's been a great few weeks. I always feel better about things when I have a structured plan, and now that my 4th year schedule is set, I'm really calming down. I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it is beautiful.

Rantings from the Call Room

One thing I will never understand is why women can be so intimidating to each other. And, why it's so uncool for a chick under 30 to have a plan or goal that doesn't involve mass makeup application and/or alcohol consumption. And why men generally don't think lady doctors are as cool as fashion merchandisers, models/actresses or a teachers.

Spending so much time on the L&D floor hasn't been good for me for two main reasons:

1. There are beautiful nurses and nursing students that constantly remind me of how little attention I'm able to pay to myself.

2. Being on 24-30 hour call shifts leaves me a lot of time to over-think things. Also, way too much time to peruse facebook and look at other people's fabulousness.

It's pretty obvious that I'm feeling a bit beaten down. It's not so mystifying when taken in the context of the last month-ish. I'm also in a rotation group with a pack of boys that like to (lovingly) make fun of me when my hair needs brushing or when I "look like [I've] given up on life."

Right now I want to have my cake and eat it, too. Stupid priorities!

The Media Strikes Again

The Depressing News About Antidepressants

Newsweek magazine recently published an issue with the above statement on the cover (that's also a link to the story). The article basically says that antidepressant medications are no better than sugar pills. It was also mentioned in a feature story on NPR.

Way to go, Newsweek. As if people that genuinely need these medications don't feel self-conscious enough, you went ahead and poured some rock salt in that gaping wound.

It doesn't matter that the article goes slightly more in-depth about the pros and cons of the pills. The damage is done.

I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant - Florida edition

One of my favorite shows on TV is the aptly titled "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" on Discovery Health. It's about women who have no idea that they are carrying a child for the entire duration of their pregnancy. Moms attribute their nausea and weight gain to "bubble gut" or too much fried chicken, and continue to drink Bud Light and smoke their Virginia Slims until they roll up to the ER and pop out a kid.

My secret wish of coming across one of these women was granted last week. In this lovely lady's case, she thought she had a wicked case of constipation. I guess, in theory, she did, except she had a baby stuck in her uterus as opposed to stool stuck in her colon.

Mother Nature - 1

Biologically Bamboozled Mom - 0

Baby Names

Parents name their kids some stupid, stupid things.

Here are the top six dumbest names I heard in the nursery this week:

6. Nevaeh - This is ridiculous because it's the word "Heaven" spelled backwards

5. Bella-Swan - Yes, after the Twilight character

4. Sincere - A boy's name

3. Tryumph - It speaks for itself

2. Tre'Vez - This is a white baby

1. Jermajesty - "What does Jermajesty want for breakfast this morning?"

If nothing else, my job provides endless comedic fodder.

GNOME Y TRUCKASAURUS!!!!!

One year ago today, I was hit by a truck.

You read that correctly.

It was, by far, the most memorable thing that happened to me while living in Tallahassee.

Here's the story: I went to the Publix on the corner of Park and Blair Stone specifically because I wanted to avoid the frenzy at Clublix*. I bought several large tubs of cole slaw and some soda for a medical school volleyball tournament and managed to make it out of the store in about 10 minutes. Little did I know that treachery in the form of a brown Chevy pickup was waiting... nay, stalking me in the parking lot. I walked to my car... I was steps away... BAM! I'm on the ground with my left knee bent at an angle that would challenge even the seasoned Cirque du Soleil performer. I hobbled around for a week with a presumed sprain, but it turned out to be a half-tear of my MCL.

This was NOT funny for a solid two months after the incident. I wore a brace and wasn't able to make my bed, go grocery shopping or wear actual pants until spring break. A serious case of self pity also accompanied the injury, along with a helpful reminder of which people I could really count on when I needed to cry or change the cat litter.

Now I can't tell this story without laughing to the point of crying. I like watching people try not to giggle and make faces of feigned horror when they picture me going down like a sack of potatoes. But, I still have yet to buy any more of that damned cole slaw.

*Clublix: The Publix location on Ocala Road where only the most beautiful FSU students buy their organic chicken and PBR.

Musical Churrin

This is a kid that I had to take care of this week. He has some profound handicaps, but I don't think he ever got the memo.

Simple, but amazing.

Good riddance, January!

This month has not been kind to me. I'm glad it's over in 3 hours.

But, at least I remembered where I put my metaphorical balls.

Bret and Jemaine get how I feel.

They also give good advice.

Louis Vuitton bags, shoes with the fur.

Here are three instances of mind-blowing absurdity that occurred on Monday morning during outpatient pediatrics clinic.

1. A 7 year old female comes in because of an ear infection. I notice that she's carrying a Louis Vuitton Speedy 25 bag. A real one. I compliment the bag, and little girl brags about how mommy bought it for her for Christmas. Mom subsequently refuses a flu shot because they "can't afford it".

2. Teenage parents bring in their 2 year old son because he has Chicken Pox, meaning that he hasn't been vaccinated properly. Dad's excuse is that they never found his records and they just assumed he had everything. He tells me this story while wearing custom Nike sneakers with faux-fur trim and a pair of True Religion jeans. The baby is on Medicaid.

3. Mom brings in her 9 year old son because of a 3 month history of a swollen lymph node. She yells at me because she had to wait 20 minutes in the exam room before she was seen. She yells at the doctor because she feels ignored and misunderstood. Every possible lab study has been done on her son. Because she doesn't believe anything anyone tells her, she's making him go through an uncomfortable surgery to have the benign lymph node removed. It should also be noted that she's never once brought her son in for an annual physical or preventative heath care.

I'm trying to come up with the right way to explain how this makes me feel. How priorities and personal responsibility aren't in style anymore.

This is the best I can do: I don't get it.

Sad Panda

I haven't talked to my best friend in almost two weeks. I've been compiling a list of stories and it just keeps getting longer and I have no idea when I'll be able to tell them.

Sometimes ambition isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

Dr. Sunglasses

I bought some new and admittedly ridiculous sunglasses last week. The lenses are about 2.5" square and the frames are a classy and subtle purple leopard print motif. Unfortunately they set me back a cool $12.99, but I think they were worth the investment.

I debuted these shades professionally on Wednesday while accompanying my peds pulmonary attending on our short commute to the children's hospital. Honestly, I didn't think much about the decision at the time; this is Florida... it's sunny... I wanted to protect my eyes and 3/4 of my face from harmful UV rays. I didn't get any feedback on the sunglasses until we exited the hospital a few hours later when I was laughed at by my attending, whose chortle sounds something akin to a cackling mongoose-albatross hybrid. I was more than a little self-conscious when the other people in the area started in on the laughing, too.

Picture it: I'm a towering 5'1" with a too-big white coat, black stethoscope, and purple leopard print sunglasses.

It's non-traditional. I get it. But why the hell not? I may look like a caricature to most, but I bet that you'd never forget a doctor of that description.

The ultimate list of ultimate destiny.

I worked at Anthropologie at the Mall at Millenia in 2003. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college and I was pretty convinced that I wanted to be a doctor. The job was certainly not something I'd look back on as a transformational experience (although the discount rocked), but I got some advice that summer that's stuck with me for almost 7 years.

"Don't lose yourself."

Let me explain further. I was working the cash wrap and rang up a woman in surgical scrubs, so I asked her if she was a doctor - she was. We got to chatting and she told me what she thought of medical school and how she got through alive. The aforementioned quote managed to lodge itself in my brain because it seemed kinda melodramatic at the time.

But damn if she wasn't right!

It's really easy to get caught up in the competitive fervor when you're in professional school or any other high-stress environment. I definitely did and crashed and burned HARD.

In honor of the new year, here's a list of the cool things I've done since January 1st that made me feel human again:

1. Spent New Year's Day playing games with some of my best friends.

2. Milked a newborn human baby boy and subsequently decided that I hate general peds.

3. Busted out my saxophone and pretended I still can wail.

4. Decided on a specialty after a few well-timed words from my mentor.

5. Gone to several ass-kicking pilates classes.

6. Started gathering applications for externships at ultra-competitive psychiatry programs at Stanford, UCSD, Northwestern and Harvard.

7. Got a new tattoo, which isn't done.

8. Started this blog.

I don't have a good reason for writing this stuff down, per se. Listing the fun things that I've done lately doesn't make me feel any more accomplished or alleviate the stress. It's just proof that I did it and that's good enough at this juncture.

In other news, general pediatrics is a real bummer because there aren't many funny patients to write about. My blog is turning in to a sappy coming-of-age story about the little medical student that finds herself through tough love and new ink.

Speaking of which! The new tattoo is an angel wing that's not quite finished. It's got some personal meaning... most of which is in memory of my Catholic grandma who was scared of not getting to heaven. If she didn't make it, none of us will.

Today, I fell in love.

Love was in the air at the pediatrics clinic today. My little heart went aflutter as soon as I saw his double-diapered, skinny frame sitting on the scale. I can't tell you his name, because that would be illegal on several fronts, but that's not intrinsic to my story.

I have this really deep affection for Down syndrome children. They are the happiest, most loving and unselfish little people, but they'll live a shorter life and be ostracized by ignorant peers just because of their extra 21st chromosome. I think nature sometimes has a funny way of protecting its most vulnerable creatures and Down syndrome patients are not spared from this phenomenon. Within that extra genetic material is definitely a healthy dose of good attitude.

I'm not trying to make a point about accepting those who are different or anything else remotely political with this post. There are just few better huggers than a child or adult with Down's, and I like that.

"As we hope for the best in them, hope is reborn in us." - Eunice Kennedy Shriver

Thanks, med school.

One of the best things about working in healthcare is that, when you're having a bad day, someone around you always has it worse. I don't claim that this is an unselfish statement - it's just a fact.

I've been having a comically bad week; mostly just little annoyances but definitely some serious and heavy stuff, too. For instance - someone stole my bed sheets from the community laundry room, and my cat projectile vomited all over my comforter at 4:36 am.

Like any other Wednesday, I went to the pediatric pulmonology clinic this morning and proceeded to vent to my nurse practitioner friend about my woes. Sympathetic words and hugs were offered but I was definitely still feeling sorry for myself. Not two hours passed until I saw one of my cystic fibrosis patients. She's an 18-month old hispanic darling with curly hair and deformed arms and her social situation is awful; young mom, food stamps, non-present dad. Long story short, mom had been skipping her treatments and grossly underfeeding her, leading to a significant drop in lung function and continued weight loss. Death isn't off the table.

I did some crying this evening because it seemed like the right thing to do, and I definitely shed some extra tears for that little girl. I was born healthy with parents who adore me. I am lucky enough to feel the joy and pain associated with being a grown-up or experiencing cat ownership. I have medical school to thank for those little reminders.

The Island of Misfit Doctors

The reason that I make reference to myself as a misfit in my blog title is because, in truth, I feel like one. Duh. I don't feel like I've found my home in the medical community and I'm surrounded by people who feel a pull towards a specialty like I feel a pull toward the bakery at Publix. I've become increasingly anxious and disheartened as the months pass and I continue to feel like an outsider among my peers.

As hard as it is to admit sometimes, I oscillate between painful insecurity and confident badassery. Add this to my need to make people better and it leads to some really self-neglectful behaviors. These traits are also the reason that I am absolutely meant to be a doctor.

It's funny how one weekend's worth of events can hit you like a Mack truck in a way that 3 years of medical school haven't. In truth, I've known where I want to be since August. I'm a born psychiatrist. Not saying that I'm not talented in other areas or that I don't like the OR or pregnant ladies, but I have this incredible feeling of joy, humility, fear, respect and stimulation when working with people that are trapped within the chemical imbalances of their brain. Mental illness doesn't scare me. I scare me.

I strongly believe that people need to break before they can put themselves back together again if things don't fit right. Also, the words of friends and mentors are often truer than the things you think about yourself.

The whole bang-up conclusion that I've come to is that I've been looking at external things as sources of happiness and contentment. Specialty... friends... boyfriend... parents... scrubs (fo' real). Especially my specialty choice. It's like I've been wanting to be a doctor who is also Lauren, as opposed to Lauren who is also a doctor.

I have nipples, Greg. Can you milk me?

After a three-week respite from the world of medicine, I begin 2010 on my pediatrics clerkship. This means that I'll spend the next 6 weeks working both in a private office and in a children's hospital. I'm not one of those girls whose maternal instincts have been in full effect since childhood; I hated baby sitting, I dug the Thundercats and I've only recently heard the (very) faint hum of my ovaries when surrounded by little ones. Kids actually kinda intimidate me.

It's also important to note that I've never been able to take medicine and the body as seriously as some of my colleagues. Words like "smegmocele" are meant to be laughed at.

Anyway, I found myself in the newborn nursery as my first official peds assignment. Examining a fresh one makes sense; I, myself, am also relatively fresh when it comes to baby parts and innards. Imagine my shock (and awe? Horror?) when I learn from my matronly and stoic attending that BABIES HAVE BOOBIES. Not "awwww, that's a chubby baby" mounds of fat, but actual functioning breasts. To emphasize the point, said attending invites me to palpate the little boy's chest for proof.

It gets worse. Hours later, when I think that there's no other pediatrician on earth that would bother pointing out the superfluous baby boobs, another doctor actually encourages me to MILK A BABY. A boy baby. In front of his crestfallen father.

I could get all science-y and give an accurate explanation of why this happens to newborns, but the fact is that this poor baby's dad is never going to get that image out of his head. This unwitting pediatrician has just caused years of daddy issues for this boy... he's going to wonder why dad forces him to go to the strip club for $9.95 all-you-can-eat ribeye or watch UFC when all he wants to do is go to Chuck-E-Cheese with the other kindergartners.

All of this because any good doctor needs to milk a newborn once in their career.