Today, from roughly 1100 to 1700, I waited for an old man to pee so that I may take it and look at it under a microscope. Around 1715 I was given word that the long awaited urination had taken place. Briefly taking care of other urgent matters, I attended to my wee sometime around 1745 only to find it was nowhere to be found. Some masked stranger had run off with my urine. I asked the nurse, she didn't know. I asked the patient, he said "a doc" took it. I asked my interns, they were clueless. Somebody, for whatever clearly no good reason, had absconded with my wiz. I was upset. Although few will every appreciate this, there are few things more frustrating then waiting an entire day for urine only to have it disappear. Nevertheless it seems to be the running average for Williford Hall these days. Most labs get sucked up by gremlins in the vacuum tubes, most daily radiographs become every other day radiographs by the x-ray tech fairy, and half of our electrolyte panels seem as if the masked stranger himself is urinating in them yielding the wildest most ridiculous and inaccurate of results. Wilford Hall, you're too much for me. I don't know what to do with you.
Someone will pay dearly for the pee, though. Someday I will have my revenge.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
I Should Have Been a Christian
I love the ladies, but the ladies, well, apparently they don't love me.
Or at least so suggests the informal polls that are Match.com and E-Harmony.
After six months of the former and three of the latter, it can conclusively be said that we, myself and the ladies, can both do better. By and large the women I fancied did not fancy me back, and by and large the women who fancied me seemed to be either entirely unaware of what was written in my profile or not particularly picky in their mate. It appeared that most of my attempts failed at or shortly after introductions, and most of their attempts never made much sense. Why women who did not share my interests or goals or even any of the "what I am looking for" criteria would think we would have any significant romantic connection is admittedly a bit beyond me. Perhaps there's intimacy in having absolutely nothing to talk about.
My failed attempts at wooing aside, the greatest realization I came to amongst all of this woman hunting is that perhaps I ditched the Christian faith thing a bit too early. Although this is an entirely unsubstantiated assertion, it seemed the more a profile directly or indirectly referenced Adonai the more fetching the woman was. (Either there is a significant lack of devout Christian guys leading to a surplus of devout Christian women or religious zeal and Internet access correlate directly with attractiveness and amicable disposition.) Unfortunately, part of being pious for most involves dating only the like minded, something about 2 Corinthians and unequal yoking, so that meant no matter how fabulous and charming I was, or how much I begged and pleaded, further discourse was right out. I was left to choose from only the nonbelievers and carnal Christians. To think, if only I had not turned to empty hedonism so quickly I could right now be enjoying myself some empty hedonism. Oh, Lord, you're an ironic one if nothing else.
This is not all to say that I missed out, though. That I feel somehow as if my experience was incomplete or that I pine for an endless series of what ifs. Perhaps had I still been waving the Christian flag I would have met the love of my life -- I would have at the very least had a larger pool of possibilities -- but I don't care for such perspectives. You do the best with what you got, learn, and move on. I certainly cannot choose my faith or will myself to believe, and I definitely cannot go back in time even if I could wear religion like a hat. But dang, man, there're some cute Christian ladies out there.
So the six months went by. At first I felt uneasy about regularly judging and assessing whether I was interested in someone or not based solely on their profiles and pictures, but this gave way to acceptance, then amusement, and then finally disinterest. It seems the appraising of maidens like all things gets boring in time. I did meet a few girls throughout it all -- a young woman whose every conversation seemed to return to Friends being a lame knock off of Seinfeld and another polite lady whose conversation style consisted of an endless stream of unconnected questions, amongst others -- and I found it interesting to see how different people chose to sell themselves -- it seemed there was a pretty even balance between tomboys with a girly side, party girls with a dorky side, smart girls with a pretentious side, and characterless nitwits -- but the pickings got slim, I got self centered (or rather more so), and so the time came for my departure.
Curiously, the very last message I was to get the day my Match.com subscription expired was from a pleasant young woman from Georgia. In it she stated that she had seen that I had seen her profile (an odd feature of Match.com), and not typically catching the eye of dudes hundreds of miles away she out of curiosity clicked to view mine. After reading it she felt inclined to write a brief message stating simply that she did not see why I was on Match.com, that my profile was not typical of the profiles on the site, and although she imagined it would be a brief venture she wanted to wish the best of luck to me with my search. That was all. Very sweet. Very nice. Very random.
And I give up.
Or at least so suggests the informal polls that are Match.com and E-Harmony.
After six months of the former and three of the latter, it can conclusively be said that we, myself and the ladies, can both do better. By and large the women I fancied did not fancy me back, and by and large the women who fancied me seemed to be either entirely unaware of what was written in my profile or not particularly picky in their mate. It appeared that most of my attempts failed at or shortly after introductions, and most of their attempts never made much sense. Why women who did not share my interests or goals or even any of the "what I am looking for" criteria would think we would have any significant romantic connection is admittedly a bit beyond me. Perhaps there's intimacy in having absolutely nothing to talk about.
My failed attempts at wooing aside, the greatest realization I came to amongst all of this woman hunting is that perhaps I ditched the Christian faith thing a bit too early. Although this is an entirely unsubstantiated assertion, it seemed the more a profile directly or indirectly referenced Adonai the more fetching the woman was. (Either there is a significant lack of devout Christian guys leading to a surplus of devout Christian women or religious zeal and Internet access correlate directly with attractiveness and amicable disposition.) Unfortunately, part of being pious for most involves dating only the like minded, something about 2 Corinthians and unequal yoking, so that meant no matter how fabulous and charming I was, or how much I begged and pleaded, further discourse was right out. I was left to choose from only the nonbelievers and carnal Christians. To think, if only I had not turned to empty hedonism so quickly I could right now be enjoying myself some empty hedonism. Oh, Lord, you're an ironic one if nothing else.
This is not all to say that I missed out, though. That I feel somehow as if my experience was incomplete or that I pine for an endless series of what ifs. Perhaps had I still been waving the Christian flag I would have met the love of my life -- I would have at the very least had a larger pool of possibilities -- but I don't care for such perspectives. You do the best with what you got, learn, and move on. I certainly cannot choose my faith or will myself to believe, and I definitely cannot go back in time even if I could wear religion like a hat. But dang, man, there're some cute Christian ladies out there.
So the six months went by. At first I felt uneasy about regularly judging and assessing whether I was interested in someone or not based solely on their profiles and pictures, but this gave way to acceptance, then amusement, and then finally disinterest. It seems the appraising of maidens like all things gets boring in time. I did meet a few girls throughout it all -- a young woman whose every conversation seemed to return to Friends being a lame knock off of Seinfeld and another polite lady whose conversation style consisted of an endless stream of unconnected questions, amongst others -- and I found it interesting to see how different people chose to sell themselves -- it seemed there was a pretty even balance between tomboys with a girly side, party girls with a dorky side, smart girls with a pretentious side, and characterless nitwits -- but the pickings got slim, I got self centered (or rather more so), and so the time came for my departure.
Curiously, the very last message I was to get the day my Match.com subscription expired was from a pleasant young woman from Georgia. In it she stated that she had seen that I had seen her profile (an odd feature of Match.com), and not typically catching the eye of dudes hundreds of miles away she out of curiosity clicked to view mine. After reading it she felt inclined to write a brief message stating simply that she did not see why I was on Match.com, that my profile was not typical of the profiles on the site, and although she imagined it would be a brief venture she wanted to wish the best of luck to me with my search. That was all. Very sweet. Very nice. Very random.
And I give up.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Befuddlement
It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.
Or so I am frequently told.
Frankly, I don't find the times very enjoyable. In all honesty, though, I have no idea how to interpret them. These times apparently be confusing.
Relatively speaking us Air Force residents have got it easy. Compared to the internal medicine residencies of yesterday where interns and residents were shackled to their wards, forced to work while sleeping, and generally treated like so much chattel, we live lives of luxury with slashed work hours, broken chains, and alleviated patient burdens. Everyone always says it was harder back in the day -- and I am inclined to believe them -- nevertheless I am also inclined to believe that back in the day there were infrequent CT scans, no MRIs, only a handful of blood tests, and a pharmacy consisting mostly of a few penicillins, ergotamine, and phenobarbital. Twenty patients ain't so bad when all you can do is lay on hands and hope for the best.
Beyond that we've got it easy in other ways too. Compared to many civilian programs we work less, see fewer patients, are paid better, and likely are showed more appreciation by our patients. And compared to the hobos living immediately outside my apartment at least I have more to come home to than cheap booze and some invisible pets.
In absolute terms, however, residency is so much balderdash. We still work harder, longer, and with less perks and less confidence than the vast majority of Americans. Our job is in its very design constructed to make us feel continuously ill prepared so as to constantly compel us to learn. And through a legacy of estrangement many who teach and guide us have no great sympathy for our lot.
So how am I supposed to feel? Frustrated that it's not better? Happy that it's not worse? Thankful that I get to train for the unique career of my choosing or upset that all I do is train for the unique career of my choosing? I am undoubtedly incomparably blessed, but this particular blessing comes with an odd trial before the spoils. I have no means of measure and so am constantly wavering between emotions; I find myself muttering under my breath perhaps more than is healthy, and am thinking of joining the hobos.
Perhaps they'll let me take care of the invisible cat.
Or so I am frequently told.
Frankly, I don't find the times very enjoyable. In all honesty, though, I have no idea how to interpret them. These times apparently be confusing.
Relatively speaking us Air Force residents have got it easy. Compared to the internal medicine residencies of yesterday where interns and residents were shackled to their wards, forced to work while sleeping, and generally treated like so much chattel, we live lives of luxury with slashed work hours, broken chains, and alleviated patient burdens. Everyone always says it was harder back in the day -- and I am inclined to believe them -- nevertheless I am also inclined to believe that back in the day there were infrequent CT scans, no MRIs, only a handful of blood tests, and a pharmacy consisting mostly of a few penicillins, ergotamine, and phenobarbital. Twenty patients ain't so bad when all you can do is lay on hands and hope for the best.
Beyond that we've got it easy in other ways too. Compared to many civilian programs we work less, see fewer patients, are paid better, and likely are showed more appreciation by our patients. And compared to the hobos living immediately outside my apartment at least I have more to come home to than cheap booze and some invisible pets.
In absolute terms, however, residency is so much balderdash. We still work harder, longer, and with less perks and less confidence than the vast majority of Americans. Our job is in its very design constructed to make us feel continuously ill prepared so as to constantly compel us to learn. And through a legacy of estrangement many who teach and guide us have no great sympathy for our lot.
So how am I supposed to feel? Frustrated that it's not better? Happy that it's not worse? Thankful that I get to train for the unique career of my choosing or upset that all I do is train for the unique career of my choosing? I am undoubtedly incomparably blessed, but this particular blessing comes with an odd trial before the spoils. I have no means of measure and so am constantly wavering between emotions; I find myself muttering under my breath perhaps more than is healthy, and am thinking of joining the hobos.
Perhaps they'll let me take care of the invisible cat.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Breaking News
We interrupt the previously scheduled post-election coverage of demonstrations in Iran in order to provide you with this late breaking news:
Michael Jackson is still dead!
Initially thought to have died on June 25th, 2009, a repeat autopsy was undertaken today to confirm that the legendary singer-song writer is still in fact deceased. He is. Further memorials and tributes are likely in light of this breaking revelation. Many have called for an official day of mourning to be followed by a national day of remembrance and a week long world wide candle light vigil. A stirring audio-visual tribute is scheduled for every multimedia awards show to take place for the rest of the year.
We will return to your regularly scheduled program once we have sufficiently beaten this story into the ground.
Michael Jackson is still dead!
Initially thought to have died on June 25th, 2009, a repeat autopsy was undertaken today to confirm that the legendary singer-song writer is still in fact deceased. He is. Further memorials and tributes are likely in light of this breaking revelation. Many have called for an official day of mourning to be followed by a national day of remembrance and a week long world wide candle light vigil. A stirring audio-visual tribute is scheduled for every multimedia awards show to take place for the rest of the year.
We will return to your regularly scheduled program once we have sufficiently beaten this story into the ground.
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