Rejections...

Dear Program Directors,

While it's always good to send out your rejections early, as well as keeping some 'rejections on hold' because you never know when someone's going to cancel an interview and you're forced to send out an invite to your back up island-students, sending out rejection letters mid February is something of a... well, let me put this professionally, a "dick move", if you will.

If you haven't contacted me by January 31st, way before that actually, even if you have not *formally* rejected me, I have long since accepted that you're probably not going to interview me past the date that some programs are sending in their rank lists. I'm cool with that. While having a formal "hell no" email, or in UCSF's case a written "OH hell no" letter is always nice, a void on the other end of my computer is already a good indication that you do not wish to be graced with my dengue-soaked presence. Noooo problemo.

But why send out the noreply email via ERAS? They don't even have a subject line at this point.

Let me point out the converse side... there are some interviews I didn't take because I got a good initial response and the programs were too far away.

Now these guys may have sent an invite back in early December... now picture a student NOW emailing them going "Dear ________, gee whiz, I got so many interviews that I can't interview with your program, but I wish you the best of luck finding good students on Match Day."

Douchey, right?

Apologies to the MTA

Only for the stuff I was saying about them today. That whole part where they jacked up the unlimited pass price by twenty dollars while continuing to cut service? Drastically uncool.

So here's a thing... I was going out to Jersey today to meet some friends to brew beer, because the interview season was so frigging exhausting that I have to start making my own hooch (I'm not adding centipedes to it like the moonshine in Grenada)... We're supposed to catch a train out of Penn Station at 10:11.

900: Home station closed because f- you, that's why.
900 - 915: Walk to next station
920: Board 2 train.
930: Why aren't we moving?
935: No seriously, why the f- aren't we moving?
936: Attention passengers. This train is being held due to a police investigation at Times Square. Atlantic Avenue is the last stop on this train. All passengers leave the train.
936-937: WTF? What police investigation? If this is someone leaving a GD Macy's bag under a GD bench and that sets off a GD bomb scare, I'm ballisticizing on someone. Why is stuff at Times Square sufficient to shut down service in Brooklyn?
938: Let's take the Q train!
939: Q train closes door in face; takes off.
939: *&(*&(*&#)&(*&!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
950: Q train arrives. Maybe we can still make it.
952: Q train running local. Profanity ensues.
1010: Let's get off at WTC and take the PATH train.
1015: Due to track work, the PATH train is running on a 20 minute schedule. Please plan extra travel time.

We made it, thanks to the willingness of one of our benevolent Jersey-side drivers to be willing to book it to Newark to pick us up, but naturally the 2 hours it took to make what would have normally been a 45 minute trip led to my attempting to think of any service that regularly ticked me off more than the public transit. Possibly whoever was responsible for clearing the roads after the Boxing Day blizzard.

While we were on the way out to the brewery, we were googling any possible justification for shutting off access to some of the busiest train stations in the world, and came across the early breaking version of this:


Suspect in Brooklyn Stabbing Spree Is Captured

So apparently, we couldn't take the train going uptown because while we were sitting on our train, they were taking down a guy that was, among many many many *many* other things, stabbing train patrons.

Okay, MTA. Good call.

No more interviews for me!!!

As of setting foot off the R from the N from the M60 from Laguardia, I am officially DONEZO with interviews. I can actually unpack the carry on bag (f- you, airlines, and your 25 dollar check bag fees for something you're gonna lose anyway) that's been always at a state of ready in the center of my room. I've made it through countless hotels still bedbug free. I have told literally dozens of people what I want to be when I grow up, why I want their specific programs, whether I'm an only child (???), and what my five year plan is.

Weirdly, I've seen more dead bodies than I have in years. What do you do on your job interviews?

I have bounced enough climates to be perpetually congested. I've given the Alamo in Union Square more money than an actual car payment would have cost. I have walked through more hospitals than the casts of ER, House, Grey's Anatomy, and Scrubs combined. I have consumed 50 thousand calories worth of free lunches. I've shaken more hands than a politician. I have rocked my black suit and used it to get my way at cheap hotels because it gives me a fake businesswoman street-cred. I have changed in the public restrooms of said hotels into beaten up jeans and strutted on the way out.

Since I'm a procrastinatey McProcrasterton, I finally submitted my final four week schedule, which will complete my 80 weeks of rotations, which finalizes my schedule and means that so long as I don't kill anyone in the next eight weeks, I'm solid gold.

Hell yeah.

Unusual plug

Okay, I don't usually just flat out post links, but all the subways are wonky in my neck of the woods (including a shutdown of one station which fortunately isn't mine), and this post was too funny for me to pass up. I wish I'd written it:

FIPS dislikes the new standard

Yes, that's the name of the actual blog. Know it, love it.

Ow ow ow ow...

So I just did my first time ever ten mile run in a triple loop around Prospect Park, an adventure that seemed like a grand idea until the moment I stopped and went "Wow! That was great; I don't even feel particularly OH MY GOD AAAAHHHHHHHHH", as every muscle in my body took that moment to celebrate the lactic acid build up they'd been accruing for the better part of two hours.

In other news, my attending seems peculiarly proud of me for going into my chosen field, which is a warm breath of fresh air. "You have no interest in my profession? Good for you!!!" He's also a Radiohead devotee, which makes surgery *so* much nicer. And everyone he's done brain/neck/back surgery on so far has been able to move all appendages halfway through anesthesia wake-up and no one's died, so I'm thinking that's a plus. It's less messy than all the abdominal stuff, but gets that bone/bovie/dentist office smell pretty far back in my sinuses, which kind of makes me nostalgic for my bone assembling days.

I also managed to at last secure a thyroid shield during surgery today. This is something that's irked me for a while. There are several types of surgery that require repeated x-rays during the procedure to make sure you don't wedge a tube through someone's kidney or stick a screw into their spinal cord. It also means you can see what you're doing in such spaces without needing to create a huge, infection prone, aesthetically unpleasant hole to do so.

Despite shooting anywhere from two to three dozen images, for the patient, this still doesn't amount to a huge dose of radiation. When you're scrubbed in and are leaning into thirty x-rays day after day, this starts to become a little much. As such, everyone in the room wears heavy-ass lead aprons. And they're good about enforcing that. I actually had to de-scrub and re-scrub one time because I forgot to put mine on after I'd gowned up. The circulating nurse was friendlier than most and made do with only one exclamation about where my brain was.

Problem being, at every hospital, there seems to be a dearth of thyroid shields for the med students, and when I went into urology to try to find one (because I knew they were there because I've seen their stash), was actively told they didn't have *any* back there while the nurse locked the door where four were visible (so I couldn't jack one, which honestly, I would have, though I would have put it back). The I one I found elsewhere, apparently *also* belonged to urology, but I was scrubbed in with it on by the the time someone told me, so ha ha, finders keepers.

The idea of aprons is great, but I have no plan to use my ovaries in the near future. Know what I am using? My thyroid!

This is also contributing to my continued blackheartedness against urology. When I did my mandatory rotation in it during surgery, I got assigned to a complete bastard of an attending that not only went to the Dr. Cox school of teaching but compounded it with sexist crap "Oh, going into pediatrics? Ob Gyn? You want to do Pathology? Oh, so you have time to have a family?" Seriously, guy? Just because you're around dicks all day doesn't mean you have to be one. It's not like being a werewolf.

Annnnnyway, my current attending is a lot nicer. Only two interviews left to go, weather permitting, and I'm officially registered for the 2011 match. Gotta start arranging my match list, which is kind of a tall order. Almost all the places where I've interviewed have had really great people there and they pull in different things. One place will have a ton of compensated offsite electives so you can audition for fellowships; one place has computer software that allows you to view some of your cases from home; one place sends home microscopes with residents; one place has ins with the coroner's so they're never wanting for autopsy numbers; one place has a tight association with a major cancer center, so you get crazy cases, etc etc. Most have warm fuzzy program directors and a pleasant group of residents.

Decisions decisions... a lot of it may just come down to where I want to live, which is also something I'm not sure about since I'm really evenly ripped between wanting to be in a lot of nature and being so spoiled by living in NYC that I wonder if I can get by anywhere smaller than... I dunno, Boston.

And a lot of it will be determined by the way the match operates. Path is a fairly small field, so instead of having 15-20 openings in a moderate sized program, like you'd see with IM or peds, you may have 2-4. Even if they like you, that doesn't leave a lot of room.

Drinking and brain surgery...

It has been recently brought to my attention that I have increasing time between blog posts, to which I responded something like "I'm not doing anything interesting right now... just drinking and brain surgery... er, not in that order". I'm also losing sight of what constitutes interesting. When I was on the island, at least if people reading this are anything like I was reading other people's blog, I was hanging on every word of people's daily activities because you're in another country. Where I ate, where I shopped, where I did laundry, that is all relevant information.

Now, I live in Brooklyn. Finding awesome things is as easy as throwing a rock in any direction, having the person you hit with the rock flip you off and scream stuff before rooster tailing you with snow, and then look at the business their car was in front of, and boom. Awesomeness.

I'm also not sure how relevant my interview shennanigans are. I ate oysters in New Hampshire, walked around in the Chicago blizzard, walked around in the NYC blizzard, and took a vacation from all this blizzard nonsense to interview a couple of times in New Orleans. The first time, I slept at a hostel in the Garden District, opened my toe in the shower and tracked blood all over the place. The second time, I went with two of my closest friends and stayed at an extremely opulent hotel while drinking hurricanes in a rooftop hot tub, because damn, medical school can be awesome sometimes.

But is that like medical schoolish? Is it Caribbean MDish? Is it travel blogish? I've always kind of wanted Samantha Brown's job.

My father had the whole heart attack thing, and that sucked, to put it in medical terms. I added a trip out to North Carolina for that in the middle of the Snowmagedopocalype of the Century and holy crap why did no one plow? It's frigging LaGuardia for chrissake. And there's the news worthyness of simply being in yet another Brooklyn insane weather moment. There was over a foot of snow on top of my *air conditioner*. There were taxi cabs stranded everywhere and it looked like the Day After Tomorrow. I tried to take a stroll through Rockefeller Plaza to see the tree and possibly take a skate because when the weather alerts on my phone say things like "GET OUT!!! SAVE YOURSELVES!! LEAVE THE CHILDREN!!" I think "Nah... they don't mean me."

Now I'm back in rotations and the interview trail is stammering to a close with a couple more out of state trips and then the blissful rest until March. I think it's going well. I'm doing neurosurgery so I got to touch someone's brain, so that's pretty awesome. No one in NS seems to begrudge my chosen field, which is particularly awesome, since I had one guy in family actually say the phrase "What can I do to keep you from going into pathology?" "Uhhh.... Give me Samantha Brown's job?" I'm also not cut out to wear lead vests. That crap is heavy. For the next surgery, I may just let the x-rays fry my eggs. I don't know how cops and rads techs do it. And lead vests while scrubbed? Good god, they should do that to prisoners. No wonder neurosurgeons and urologists make so much frigging money.

In other news, my doctor is more concerned with my thyroid than I am because apparently it was throwing off some abnormal levels in July, and being a responsible medical student, I ignored it until I needed a prescription renewed. Then my doctor was like "Oh, you need to come see me" which meant "I'm going to recheck your thyroid levels if I have to drag you into this office myself and no more baby-ex for you until you do.". I'm not sure why it's important because so long as it's not flashing in the danger zone, it's not like I'm going to do anything about it. He also seemed really surprised by my reaction to having my blood drawn because first he said "Don't look", and I'm like "Uhhh... no?" And then he said "You weren't scared at all!" "I'm 30. And a medical student. Now give me my Dora the Explorer sticker."

Next month I'm doing anesthesiology because... uh... yeah. Then a couple two week electives, some paperwork, and wow. Lincoln Center. My mom's already planning to cry at the ceremony. I'm just hoping they have a steel drum band. Grenada repreSENT!

Am I violating some kind of law?

Happy New Year!

Few things...

1. I spent a great deal of my impressionable youth watching a channel known for putting Music on TeleVision film parties at various locations and was convinced I would never be as cool or as in-crowd as the people at those parties who were always screaming, always having a good time, for HOURS.

2. WAY less fun than it looks.

3. Good god, being 18 is boring. I'd forgotten.

4. Cheering actually less spontaneous and more "we're going to do this again until you bastards get this right. Then, we're going to turn the music back off and go back to standing for forty-five minutes with the kind of silence usually reserved for art museums and funerals."

5. Disclaimer: *Crowds may include children, small dogs, and grandparents who wandered by to see who was making sporadic bursts of noise.

6. No alcohol. You monsters. If I weren't doing this partially as some kind of half-ironic, fun with friends, vaguely hipster New York representer, you would have ruined the entire point of going.

7. This town makes Davis look like Miami. Seriously, where the heck can I get some food?

8. Oh good... the next town over has food. Oh man... do not eat fat sandwiches while sober. Scratch that, do not eat fat sandwiches.

9. I really have only the faintest idea who this vodka-drenched gremlin is, but she needs to share whatever's in that cup. I mean "WOOO!!! OH MY GOD!! IT'S THE CHICK FROM TRUE BLOOD!!!!! Wait, that's Sookie. Wait, so Sookie's not coming?"

10. "11:59 on December 31st" looks creepily similar to "about 9:30 on a Thursday night".

11. I think SGU actually approximates the parties I expected in my youth twice a year at a shindig called Sandblast. As a jaded fourth year, I'd say those were also "way less fun than advertised", but that's a complete lie.

Good news

My dad got discharged from the hospital on Christmas Eve; he's doing much better, sounds really positive, and is making all those lifestyle changes the majority of my patients refused to consider, so that's a huge load off my shoulders, and I get to go see him in a couple of days before burning back to NYC just in time to conscientiously avoid Times Square for New Years.

Speaking of Times Square, I was there today, because I was trying to score Broadway tickets but gave up because they're expensive even on discount, and more importantly, scoring those tickets would have involved standing in an outside line during that whole blizzard thing we're having today.

Because on my mom's time off work, I spent a great deal of it either interviewing or lying in my house in a useless deep depression prior to Christmas, I decided we'd go out today to Midtown 'in the snow', maybe ice skate a little, and do it up. "In the snow" is quite different than "in a blizzard". Today while... let's say... fording a path through Rockefeller Center to see the tree, the wind and temperatures were such that my scarf actually froze through solid. I also had the same little faux-fur lined hood black parka that *everyone* in NYC owns, and that caked with snow and froze too.

It was a good reminder that though I typically avoid Midtown, I actually do like Grand Central Station a lot, which is where we ducked for cover for a while to "see the holiday decorations and eat", by which I mean "get out of the 40 mile per hour blinding snow, and was that thunder and lightning, holy crap get inside".

Christmas was nice; my mom came along with two of my friends and I cooked a massive feast thanks to a generous contribution of fake talent both from allrecipes.com, plus Yoshie taking on my roommate's usual role of following me around the kitchen cleaning dishes and trying to keep me from lighting stuff on fire.

The menu:
Spinach salad with mandarin oranges, dried cranberries, red onions, balsamic vinegarette and feta.
Rosemary lamb chops with balsalmic reduction
Yams with sugar and orange peel stuffed inside a shelled orange and coated in a caramel pecan sauce
Cashew broccoli
Ice cream sandwiches from Bierkraft (they're amazing; I can't top them)

This is probably more detail than anyone wants, but my cooking usually amounts to searing a steak or boiling ramen water, so I was pretty pleased with myself. Plenty of Christmas movies, wine, beer, and eggnog too. Traditional route.

Christmas in NYC reminds me of why it's going to be so hard to leave NYC. Well, currently, it would be difficult because I'm snowed in, but yesterday, we managed to procure lamb chops, eggnog, and beer on Christmas Day. On Christmas Eve, I was able to snag gourmet macaroons at night. I'm spoiled completely rotten. I kept saying the adage while I was cooking of "If I screw this up, we can get take out." How can I live elsewhere?

I'm off rotations right now for interviews and the holidays but start up again after New Year's. The whole reality of not being a medical student anymore after April keeps hitting me intermittently.

A pause, not one that refreshes

I was out earlier screwing around with my friends, eating one raw oyster from a good oyster bar because they were too expensive to order more, drinking, waiting two hours so that we could have fries at the Breslin, and getting mysteriously screwed out of the hot chocolate we'd planned on.

We're goofing about baby names due to one of the party having a bun in the oven, and that became the conversation as my roommate and I did our nightly home stuff... in the kitchen:

"Maleficent"
"Gertrilda"
"Diamond"
"I knew a girl that wanted to name her baby Diamond Katana. I begged her to have her tubes tied."
"Swaziland."
"Oh, that's pretty."

My phone rings and it's my dad, and sounds bad on the phone and I'm punchdrunk and slaphappy at this point and I say "TELL me you are not flaking out of coming down here on Christmas".

At which point, I get to feel like a complete asshole because the man's just had his first heart attack, is in the CCU, and he's scared, and no one's telling him things, and he really wanted to see me. For that last part, he sounded like he was crying, and I never see my dad cry. People barely even see me cry.

I'm split in two. I'm that family member calling the desk and wondering about prognosis, and if I were able to be at the hospital right now, I'd be the one looming around. Since I'm not there, I'm the bastard family member just leaving someone in their hour of need. "Daughter," they'll say. "Hasn't seen the guy in over a year. Bet now all of the sudden, she starts threatening litigation and all other manner of crap. What a scumbag".

The split was my first year medical school split. My maybe I can help even though I can't do anything. My maybe having the knowledge of what exactly happened will secure it in my mind so I know... well, I don't fucking know, how worried I should be?

So my first questions to my dad are who his doctor is, if I can speak to him, what was the quality of the heart attack. I call the charge nurse, apologize for bothering him, explain that I'm a medical student, so he'll dish me the dirt... STEMi, for starters. Shit. 100% occlusion of the left anterior descending artery. (roommate's response: that means he must have crazy collateral circulation) (Me: way to make lemonade out of those lemons). Stint in place, thrombolytics pushed within 90 minutes, standard stuff. Watching him in the CCU. Quick, med student. What's the most common cause of death within 24 hours of a heart attack? Arrhythmia. What complication arises within 3-5 days? When will the patient be able to return to physical activity? I'm getting pimped by my own fucking subconscious.

Through that din, which without the personal involvement, is similar to my normal mental din, is the thought that I don't want my daddy to die. I don't want him to miss Christmas. I want him to come to NYC so I can take him to nice places to eat, maybe a show on Broadway, show him the tree at Rockefeller Center, because turista nonsense or not, it is beautiful, and skate for him at the same center, because he always wanted me to when I was a kid and I couldn't. I want him back to NYC in June, when it's not horrendously cold, so he can see me graduate, become a doctor for the rest of my life, everything I've worked for, and I want him to be embarrassing me from the audience by yelling my real name too loudly when I walk across the stage.

Med student me knows that while this period is critical, it is also frequently survived. People live years and years post heart attack with little incident. A scare tactic to really motivate you for your diet. I know all this because I've seen all this. I've disinterestedly draped a stethoscope over all this. "You're stable, sir. Please relax. Turn your phone off. You're in the CCU. No, I cannot talk to your daughter right now to tell her everything's fine. I'm a doctor. I'm busy."

But for now, Dartmouth looms, as do a bunch of important travel decisions. I really really want to just go back to before that phone call.

Devon...
Madison
Bongwater
Esmerelda

Hopping along the interview trail...

My five year plan? Fellowship. Maybe two. Ten year plan? Good question. Should have an anwer to it. Don't. Why did I go to a good undergraduate program, excel in it, and then head to the Caribbean? No money for AMCAS stuff at the time. Do I want to go back to place-of-birth? Don't care. Am I applying to other specialties? No. What brings me to _______? You agreed to interview me. Why pathology? I love it. How long pathology? I dunno. It became apparent once I realized "medical science geek" was an actual job. Usually you don't find that kind of career specificity outside of "chocolate taster in a stripper factory". What did you learn during your pathology rotations? That gout is waaaay less disgusting under a microscope. Tell me about your research. Apparently, it's weird enough to gross out people that do this for a living. Do you have any questions for us? I've been stalking your program on the internet, but I'm still going to ask about your board pass rates. How many other programs have you applied to? Many. I mean, only yours. What are you looking for in a program? One that will hire me. Please note that I am, in fact, wearing a suit. This should adequately convince you that I totally don't spend the vast majority of my life wearing running shorts, tank tops, and penguin holiday socks (my feet get cold).

This is a brief summary of interviewing... that, plus becoming intimately acquainted with every form of public transportation ever conceived by man. And I'm sure with my upcoming air transit necessity, I'm going to become intimately acquainted with some TSA agents. Blah blah blah, relevant news. I'm actually trying to read the New York Times right now because there's a free app for it, I have a lot of downtime on trains, and I'm running out of ways to launch angry birds at pigs.

I've been running down my NYC "to do" list. I cheered for a friend in the NY marathon (that's the closest I'm going to get to running one, guys), had a fabulicious birthday weekend in Atlantic City, got smushed in the Greenwich Halloween parade while appropriately dressed as a bedbug, saw dancers reenact multiple seasons of Dr. Who, all while getting my hospital rotations on and obsessively checking my student email account every 16 seconds for the remote possibility of an interview. I've gone from fastidiously trying to impress attendings with my intrinsic knowledge of their field to trying not to get them too pissed off by missing too many days for interviews. I've come to accurately read the expression on their faces as they start to explain patient management algorithms to me, remember that I'm going into pathology, and trail off hopelessly as I lean forward and nod politely. I'm fighting the dregs of senioritis while being more aggressively 'scheduled' than I have perhaps ever been. I've developed a term for this period of my life known as exhaustilerating.

Reeeeejected!

Oh Harvard; you and I could have been so close. I mean, I know I'm from the wrong side of the tracks; I've been around, and if your parents had ever found out, there'd have been hell to pay... I mean, I'm a shark; you're a jet. I'm not even a shark... I'm a goldfish, but baby, we could have made something work in the end. When the love is there.

But I get it. You want to be left alone. No more 3 AM phone calls from the bar begging you to reconsider. No more violated restraining orders. No more facebook friending Yale and asking about you to see how you're doing. It's okay. I just hope... one day we can be friends... you know, maybe when fellowship season rolls along in a few years. Hey, I'm just throwing it out there. That's cool. Love ya.

Derm. Is. Awesome.

See above.

More Hijinks

So, there's often talk about us medical types being impossible to talk to by anyone not specifically ensconced in our field, because we're dorks with god complexes who can't fathom anyone not being interested in our "most disgusting/disturbing digital rectal exam" stories at dinner.

In an attempt to derail myself (usually unsuccessfully) from this white coated stereotype, I'm trying to get an appreciate of the arts. It still makes me insufferable, but a different kind of insufferable, and that's all I'm going for.

One of our friends is a dancer, thus has known about this adaptation of the usually mind-numbing (sorry) Swan Lake. After confirming that would would be able to get the cheap nosebleed seats (last student loan ever!), we made a Wednesday of it.

The reinterpretation looks something like this:



As far as art, an interesting adaptation bringing swans more into their actual role as aggressive nasty creatures rather than the ballet's traditional role, which has them as fluffy females helplessly waiting on a handsome price.

As far as my own perspective, replacing tutu clad ballerinas with hard bodied males wearing nothing but feathered capri pants and extended guyliner wins two enthusiastic thumbs up.

Because I like emotional whiplash, Thursday we headed to the Oktoburlesk celebration at our local Gowanus dive bar. They also featured an accordion/alpine horn player and I did something I referred to as "polka" but to the untrained eye, probably looks more like spastically hopping around on one foot while wearing heels. No sprained ankle this time.

Also, sometime in the weeks before, I finally managed to get the tickets to the Daily Show. That's have been on my New York bucket list since I got here. With Sam Harris as a special guest, which gets me street cred for something. Now, onto the Colbert Report. And yes, when Jon Stewart walked out, I screamed and clapped like a Jonas Brothers fangirl. Yes, he is that hot (and short) in person. We had a guy warming up the crowd that was fantastic, and we all got free audiobooks, which was an unexpected bonus, plus directions to the Jon Stewart-approved BYOB Thai restaurant we later attended.

Oh, the life of a fourth year would be sweet if I wasn't about to eat about two grand worth of airfare. On that note, I'm still really thrilled about how interviews are coming, and I get to go to New Orleans, which is always exciting, made more exciting by going in the dead of NY winter.

Speaking of fourth year, I'm actually enjoying Family Medicine more than I expected. Though it will hardly divert me from my desired route back to microscope-hugging, it's the closest I've come to feeling like a real doctor because it has all the associated doctor framework. I thought Internal Medicine would feel that way, but IM seems to be more constructed from existential angst and despair. Outpatient clinics get the have patient, check patient's wellness, provisionally diagnose patient, possibly refer patient to specialist. Follow patient's progress. Check on patient in a week to a month to gauge problem list. Doctoring. I enjoy it a lot; I'm just not sure I'll enjoy it in twenty years, nor will I enjoy the absolute necessity of setting up my own practice for it, failing miserably because I have no business sense, and waiting tables at Applebee's (I'm your server, DR. Ishie) due to my inability to run a practice.

Oh yeah, and I like pathology a heck of a lot.

In other news...

I forgot in my last blog, but remember that tornado I told you guys about um... last month? Well, this last week we had an unexpected torrential hailstorm that dropped about an inch of quarter-sized ice pellets onto our porch. WTF is going on in Brooklyn?

Success is... expensive

Hi all, it's your regularly absentee blogger again, stumbling from the hours-crunch of "trying to have a night job" to "partying for fourth year". Plus there's the whole: "I don't want residency directors to figure out who I am, spend the next week reading this blog from start to finish because they have nothing else to do and then figure I'm too unprofessional to ever give a job in a desirable location, ie, the place in the middle of the Venn diagram that encompasses "places close to a large body of water" with "places where cockroaches can't fly". Or something.

But my title... I'm getting interviews! Wahoo!!! In many different places!! Wahoo! Where I have to fly to... um.. wahoo... during scheduled clinical rotations... hmmm... hope they don't mind that... in the middle of the holiday season... ooh... off my last loan check, which is supposed to last me until July... ergh... hurk.

No, it's exciting though. It really is. I'm actually applying for a job as a doctor. Which is really frigging bizarre, and I feel like the gap between my position and the residents is shrinking. When I started my third year rotations, I was scared of interns. Little things keep emphasizing to me that it's next year. Before next season clears up this season's story arc on True Blood? Doctor. Before my lease is up? Doctor. Half the stuff I receive through my school account is addressed to "Doctor", because, eh, close enough. I even played the doctor card to get my stuff back at one point, because I figure if an airline loses belongings that have a stethoscope and a white coat in them, it's fair game.

And it's a title change thing. Since I'm fundamentally afraid of marriage, I never really thought about the Miss/Ms/Mrs transition, but once I get this degree, I get "Dr" before my last name for the rest of my life, even if I spend the rest of my life selling Amway. It's extremely weird.

Meanwhile, I spent yesterday in conference, teaching me a number of things.

1. Trapping medical students in conference while you spend an hour talking about the hospital's financial restructuring has become an obsolete form of torture due to the invention of the internet phone. I never got a chance to read Crime and Punishment in high school, and it's actually pretty darn good. My colleagues seem to equally be enjoying video games, Facebook, email, and a USMLE question prep app. The residents, similarly occupied. Seriously, no one cares.
2. Despite being in conference, "I just came in for ______ and these expletives want to get all up in my expletive" is a far more common primary patient complaint than I would have expected. All I ask for in my doctor is that he not lecture me about biological clocks when I tell him I've never been pregnant. I'm easy that way.
3. Why must every conference room either be as hot as the surface of the sun or as cold as a meat locker?

One the plus side, drug company visit during conference plus radiology company visit during clinic today meant free lunches *two days in a row*. To a penniless interview-scheduling med student, this is the frigging moneyload. I also got to work with my favorite surgeon despite being out in other-Brooklyn and not being in a surgical rotation. Sweet.

Roommate and I are having an October horror-month. Paranormal Activity is freaking scary. And no, I don't believe in the paranormal, and my current favorite show has a serial killer as a protagonist. Still freaking scary.

Update: it is both wonderful and unfortunate (calorie and money-wise) that I live near the food mecca of the universe. Half the places roomie and I regularly frequent seem to be featured on the Food Network. This is going to make it very difficult to leave NYC.