I'm pilgrimming to Savannah tomorrow for what I'm told is an incredible celebration, and most importantly, I made these:
I got the recipe from here which is an adaptation off the Smitten Kitchen.
Pretty much it's an Irish car bomb shot that's been made into a cupcake. More significantly, *I* cooked. Which I can't generally, but I've been on phase 45 of trying to become a grown up at the tender age of 31 and eat something that hasn't come out of the hands of a delivery boy or out of a microwave or through my car's window.
And I get to see New York friends again! Which is super awesome.
The fire: I replaced my fabulous alligator head purse which I loved so much and feel a little more complete.
I attended another hearing for the little shit that started all this and this time got to see him, look him in the eye, and tell him what he did. Heard his mother talk about his neighborhood and how he wasn't a bad child even though he's already committed a decent smattering of felonies and misdemeanors without being beaten to death. I love my mom, but somewhere between larceny and assault, I would have concerned myself with finding and recovering tooth fragments rather than progressing to arson. Not that she beat me, because I didn't give her a compelling enough reason to do so, because I knew better. Anyhoo, the next hearing was waved and next step is a trial, so I don't have to worry about it for a while and getting to say "This is what you did" in a court and have people listen to me for a change felt a lot like closure.
I feel comfortably settled into my new life. My roommate's dog is hating me me less. My car is awesome, shuttled me to and from Maryland last weekend without incident, and tempts me every time I shift into first gear to really rev the engines and let it run, but I'm trying to behave myself for the sake of my greatly inflated insurance rates.
Work: Pretty not bad. Autopsy is calming; I like the attendings, and I'm beginning to not feel like a complete idiot. The heart used to panic me since there's a whole process for it and it's usually what kills someone, and now I can teach it to med students so they can cut it shakingly while I watch. I can toss stuff off while I'm dissecting. Here's the conduction system; here's the substantia nigra; what's the significance of it? Why don't you see it in babies? This is a pulmonary embolism. This is a postmortem blood clot. This is how you can tell. Do you remember the liens of Zahn?
I still feel an odd sense of fascination about the snapshot of a person we get from their personal effects. Especially since the police usually take wallet and phone (and guns and such) so no picture, no identification, just.. cough drop wrappers. A crack pipe. A penny. A photo. Fifty dollars and a gap coupon. A handful of tree leaves and branches from where they died. When someone's tried to help, the sequella of events is extremely clear, the laryngeal edema from the endotracheal tube, bruises on the chest, the rib and sternal fractures, the punctures all over from rapid indelicate IV attempts. The battle scars of the good Samaritan.
A word of advice though, which I reserve for myself a lot. It's never as bad as you think it is. Tomorrow will always be better when you've had time to process it. The idea that you're going to "show someone" you're fighting with and teach them a lesson either leads to you hurting someone who cares about you or killing yourself over someone who doesn't. Just sleep on it. The bridge or the gun or the chainsaw or the pills will always be there tomorrow, so why be hasty about it? No one will ever find you? Of course they will. And it won't be as bones or a memory. It'll be bloated and stinking and that's the legacy you'll leave to a room full of people that refer to you by a number. So therapy and some perspective guys; just saying.