after a string of surprise tuesday night phone conversations and an inability to connect for certain other desired tuesday night phone conversations

[cries]

redux

now that i think about it,
i've had this feeling before.

it's this feeling of eager anticipation, as though something good is coming. things are changing, i'll be moving on, something.

i've had it before, a couple of times. nothing happened.

evidently i've learned not to believe it, because this time i don't expect that something will actually change like i did the times before. i do expect this feeling to pass.

in other news, i completely forgot to celebrate the one year anniversary of the founding of my niche in the blogosphere. a couple of weeks ago it came, and went, and i didn't even know it. anyway, i've written 1,219 total posts since then, including a few drafts that haven't been posted yet.

i report it to you.

quote

if you look after truth and goodness, beauty looks after herself.

call

saturday call was legendarily bad.

all day today the only thing people asked me was "so. have you recovered from your bad call?"

patients upon patients. upon patients. phone calls from worried parents. consults. dying babies. multi-hospital rescue procedures. urgent, emergent. two fellows and two attendings worked round the clock, through the night, non-stop. we all failed to eat or drink or sleep for at least thirty hours. okay, i exaggerate. twenty-four of the thirty. we ate a little. and stole little boxes of gatorade to suck down when we passed by a patient nutrition cart.

the good thing about it is that everyone else thought it was bad too. i didn't know; it was my first saturday call, and for all i knew it could always be that bad. if that were the case, i don't know that i'd be able to keep a good attitude about working that hard every time i'm on call. i think i might start seizing up and going to the bathroom on myself anytime my beeper went off.

oh, that's right. i'm a pediatrician, and a lady, and i ought not be so crude.

going potty on myself.

well

i am better, thank you, thank you all.

actually i was better in about twenty minutes after my, erm, "episode". and by episode i mean emesis. i was all better, well enough to work all through the rest of the night and all through the next morning.

today my mother brings up an interesting point. "so what if you get really sick? do you have friends who'll take care of you?"

leave it to mom. i don't think i'd ask anyone to come over and take care of me, but i would ask them to take me to the hospital or something if i needed that. yeah, i think i could find a ride. or i would just not leave work and bum health care from the nurses and doctors at the hospital.

scary thought.

sick

last night on call i got a really bad headache and was nauseated. then i puked, and then i was fine.

in the icu. or at least one of the icu's.

this has not happened at work before, but it has happened with enough frequency that it worries me.

and again

[plays in the background: soy un perdedor...]

you know how when something is painfully slow or boring people say it's "like watching paint dry"?

well, i am watching a stain dissolve.

stupid ink stain on my stupid white coat. i understand that i have need for a pocket protector. i know. but i won't use one. you know why.

so i'm bleaching it.

this isn't my first encounter with ink, which has destroyed my favorite work shirt. i'm still mourning that one. that was waterman ink. it was a gold shirt. the ONE and only time i used that pen at work.

so the bleach is working. sort of.

every time i look, i think the stain just might be a little bit lighter. it was midnight black, then it was charcoal grey. after a while it was like dark chocolate, then milk chocolate. then it looked like old blood. now it looks like spaghetti sauce that's been partially washed out. so it's working. but it's painfully slow.

as the stain fades, i have time to think of those stains on my life that i wish would disappear. years old they are, and they are useless to me. in fact, i hate them. hate. hate them. they are blemishes on my life, these bad memories. and yes, with time, memories fade, but they fade so... painfully... slowly...

anyway i've now wasted like an hour on these inkspots.

gah.

patient conversation

"so how do you like your takamine?" i asked, starved for a good musical conversation, hoping to talk about the martin, my martin, whose sound enthralls me.

"um, it's good. when i went to the store, i had $200, and i didn't want a tan guitar. so i bought the only black one, and that's it over there."

"oh. so you picked your guitar by its color then," i said, smiling politely.

"yeah."

yeah. okay.

nevermind, i guess.

addendum: suddenly i remember that i too wanted a black guitar at first. i remember thinking it would be much better to have a black one. but that was short-lived, and i love my tan martin. more on that later.

.... and better ...

and now my lunchbox is missing.

i don't know whether someone stole it or i misplaced it.

in any case, it is quite upsetting to me, because my lunchbox was cool and i was fond of it.


i'm kind of waffling between the first two kubler-ross stages of grief about it, denial and anger. i wish i could trust my own brain better to know whether took it out of the rounding room with me somewhere while i was on call, or if i left it in there for someone to steal after the residents ate the candy i brought them in it.

oh, yes. it gets even better.

i seem to have misplaced my cheese.

HOW does one LOSE CHEESE?

i literally amaze myself with my absent-minded incompetence.

waterlogged

yes, my dear, i suppose the soul does need some rain.

but sometimes it's waterlogged. and you slosh around, dragging your galoshes through the swampy loam, sometimes losing one and then you're barefoot and knee-deep in the muck sloshing about in circles.

dry periods are nice too.

and besides, my fingers are all pruney.

averguenza

i just can't leave work without having done something to embarrass myself EVERY DAY.

why? whywhywhywhy?

[hides face]

clinical pearly whites

it's time for another public service announcement.

*warning! this post may contain subject matter offensive to those who turn up their noses at dirty diapers. scroll away! scroll away!*

first i shall begin with an anecdote from work.

the surgeon was concerned about the baby's loose stools. considering that he'd been on intravenous antibiotics for days on end, this didn't surprise the rest of us, but he wouldn't let it go.

the baby grinned, and clapped his hands, drool pouring from his mouth, unfazed by the supposedly torrential output from his other end. (if you're drooling, you ain't dehydrated. got it?) the surgeon noticed the drool. "is he teething?" "yes, i think so," said mom.

the surgical attending then looked at me and asked, "that can cause diarrhea, right?"

stifled snorts and chortles of laughter could be heard from my residents and the nurse. i tried hard to keep a straight face, but i think i reflexively shook my head a little. after a pause, "no," was all i could get out without laughing.

teething does not cause illness, that's for sure.

and as for discomfort, let me ask you something. do you remember feeling your permanent teeth come in? how about your wisdom teeth?

i'm just saying.

#572

kieran hath dubbed my corner of the blogosphere the "camoweb". and he says it works a treat.

thanks, kieran, for teaching me phrases like "works a treat".

so. how do you all like that term, "camoweb"? what other terms would you recommend?

recover

hey.

what's up?

okay.

who signed me up for that darn "thought and humor" newsletter?

i ought to flay you.

now that's a humorous thought.

petulant

sometimes i want to make people pay for forgetting to remember me
by making them remember that they’ve forgotten me

and then all they can see is my hair a-swinging
and the soles of my shoes
as i walk away.

anyway. for those of you who suddenly remembered and haven't finished reading through my blog to see how i'm doing (there are enough of you that i'll sum it all up here)...

i'm in a new place with a new job. it's hard work. things are rocky with my family. i dislike my hair (which, actually, doesn't swing anymore) and my clothes and my shoes. i haven't found a church to call home yet, and this makes me very crabby indeed. all the churches are so mono-cultural. with ultra-lame music to boot. gah. i like my new home; it is great, but i made a big mess of it, and home-owning is a lot of responsibility. i'm keeping up with cooking. i hate cooking. i'm healthy and gaining weight. my salary is really crappy again. i haven't made friends outside of work, because i don't spend much time outside of work. and work friends are all as busy as i am. i'm still single without prospects, and have given up hope in this area of life, figuring that since it isn't going to change, worrying and feeling disappointed about it is just a waste of emotional energy.

i'm generically (and temporarily) unhappy but not miserable. so i'm crabby and i crab about stuff, but life isn't taupe despair for the moment. my life is a good life. no one is actively oppressing me at this very moment, although long-distance attempts continue. no one i'm close to is ill or dying. no one is beating me. i have no major active diseases. i have food to eat and a safe place to live and long-term assurance for my soul.

i report it to you.

place holder

harumph.

i'm posting things from my vault to bump posts out of the top spot. then i keep deciding i don't want those new posts in the top spot, so i post something new.

i wanted to put some goofy entertaining story here. but i have none currently. so then i contemplated posting a picture of my new shoes, but i didn't like that either. then i thought about writing my continued thoughts on tattoos here (there's a show about tattoos on tv right now), but decided that they're really not that interesting. my thoughts, that is.

hmm. don't want to post about the scarf that i'm not progressing on knitting. don't want to write a grouchy-sounding post about people who read everyone else's blogs without writing on their own (what? am i like a clown to you? am i here to entertain you? just kidding— sort of.), or to attempt to try to uncloak my lurkers ("i see you! i see how often you come by and how you get here, and where you live! identify yourselves or be gone!" nah, that wouldn't do. but i do see you). and even though i feel a need to explain the whole personal anonymity thing again (why do some of you still not understand what that's about?) i shall refrain, because i doubt it will help.

okay then. more reading, then to bed.

by the way, i did go to the store, and i forgot both the frozen pizzas and the diet mountain dew. i bought a stupid calculator instead.

the squeaky wheel

neediness. perhaps it’s those who wear their neediness on their proverbial sleeves that get their needs fulfilled. is it only those who appear needy that find shelter under the wing of someone who cares?

it is my perception that i was raised never to seem needy. i was “encouraged” to learn to do things myself. but maybe this wasn’t my parents’ intention, because i remember once being completely bewildered and appalled when i was told by one of them to ask for help finding something in the library. ask? for help? i would not, and was labelled “stubborn”. i must have been six or seven.

so anyway, some of us tend not to pronounce our needs publicly. that doesn't mean we don't have them.

what needs? a need for attention. a need for affection. a need for affirmation. a need for just some company. a need for a

a need for things that other women have.

i wonder if it is doing me any good. actually, i wonder if it is doing me any harm. and i wonder if it’s just habit, or if i’m doing it on purpose—

because what is it? what is it in my smile that says “i don’t need you to be my friend”? what is it in my handshake that says “i don’t need any help”? and what it is in my eyes that says “i don’t need for anyone to love me”?

sniff.

shoulders back. eyes on the level. click go the heels, and away go i.

simple definitions

okay, folks.

i’m only going to explain this once.

interns are doctors.

residents are doctors.

and fellows are doctors.

none of us are “in school” any longer. we are not medical students. we have passed that level.

we are the ones who stay in the hospital caring for your loved ones. we’re the ones who work through the night so your loved one can have some continuity of care.

idiotic tv shows like grey’s anatomy make it seem like physicians-in-training don’t know anything. i assure you that this was never the case for many of us. those of us who were good students may have even made the transition into physicianhood prior to graduating. yes, we may be in training, but we are not necessarily ignorant. having medical degrees, chances are high that we just might know more than you do.

we don’t make lots of money, but have amassed lots of debt. we take lots of abuse. we work lots of hours.

so be nice to us. we are the present AND the future of medical care.

in case you're wondering about me in specific, i am a fully trained, fully licensed, fully boarded paediatrician. i have chosen to go back into training for a paediatric subspecialty. i am only a "student" in that i will be for the rest of my life learning more and more about God, life, and the human body. i hope that explains some things. and now i have to go, because i'm coming onservice, and i have to get up at 0430 to be at the hospital at 0600 to work a ~12 hour workday and an ~80 hour work week (still less than i used to), and in my off time at home tonight i'm going to read 1) about my patients and 2) about some other general knowledge type stuff so that i can a) take good care of my patients and b) teach the residents how to take good care of them. but first i'm going to the store to buy some frozen pizzas and diet mountain dew. just kidding. actually, no i'm not kidding.

softball

why is it softball? why isn’t it music? i mean, everybody listens to music, right? and sings along every once in a while?

i’ve never thrown or caught a softball in my entire life. as a matter of fact, i don’t think i’ve ever even touched a softball. yeah. i was surprised myself when i realized this several days ago. how unusual is this?

so the folks at work are forming a softball team. it’s always softball, isn’t it? i guess the assumption is that everyone has developed the basic skills of running, throwing, catching, and swinging a stick to hit a ball. i kind of wonder why i’m deficient in these skills that really do seem quite basic. except for the hitting. hitting seems to me as though it would be quite difficult, because baseball bats aren’t very wide, and the ball seems to move pretty fast.

one idea that i’ve had recently that intrigues me: what if i could get together with all of you whom i haven’t met who can play music (i guess this includes t and kieran, among others) and just play? what would happen? because when strangers get together and make music it’s a phenomenon all its own. (of course, kirk, heidi v., puffintoad, ray, cheeser, camodidi, camofoo, i don’t mention you ‘cause we aren’t strangers and i’ve already played with all of you but ray and cheeser. ‘cept i just did mention you all, so there.)

because making music together is relational on a deeper level. at least, i think so. especially if you manage to make good music. it’s really special. more special, i’m guessing, than being on a softball team together. even if your team wins. because winning is fun and great and everything, but music touches the soul. perfect harmony, perfect unison, these are concepts that seem nice to the non-musician, but it takes experience in music to really fully understand what they mean and how special and elusive they can be. like that incredible shimmering chord you can acheive with the voices of a choir, the kind that just hangs in the air right in front of you, making you want to reach out and catch it, and wrap it around you, or save it for later. or the spine-tinglingly intimate moment in a duet that your voices (or instrument tones) come from different places to land on the same note at the same time, and proceed from thence to travel along a single melodic line, step by step, together. you know? do you?

so, softball? sorry. i have no desire to play softball with any of you.

no offense.

ms. understood

so i think if i were ever to have any songs produced and released, i wouldn't like it.

well, not just ANY songs. i guess my personal ones. the bubble-gum ones could go out and i wouldn't care. but the personal ones, see, they're mine. they're all personal and stuff. it'd take great effort on my part to share them. and then once i did share them, i'd find people would take them and think that they can [clutches chest mockingly] understand and relate to them, but they'd probably be misinterpreting them entirely. and i would be so annoyed that people were misinterpreting my personal expressions. it's part of my pathological honesty. i don't like it when other people think things that aren't true, even if they are trivial matters, and especially if they are about me. (except when they think i'm tall. i am amused by that.)

i've learned from blogging that most people try to relate other people's stories to their own thoughts, feelings, and experiences. no, scratch that. it would be more accurate to say that most people are incapable of interpreting other people's expressions outside of the context of their own experiences etc. lots of miscommunication can happen because of this.

before you comment, "well, duh," i must point out that there are some people who are capable of maintaining enough objectivity to see and understand others without that whole transference/countertransference problem. i find these people great to be around and to talk to, but they are few and far between. they usually are a couple steps ahead of you in the wisdom department. i wish that i could be one of these people, but i have doubts about the objectivity of my own insights.

all that to say (ugh, i used that blasted phrase again) this is a major reason why i don't write more music, and never perform my own songs anymore. because i'm selfish with them, and i don't want them to be misunderstood.

and now for the ultimate test of your insights. how many of you were able to tell that the real reason i just wrote this post is simply that i'm having trouble sleeping tonight?

wow. impressive. i knew i had good readers.

lookit

they did another one.



i like this one too. i dunno. maybe it's just that i like songs about underwear. and that i don't care much for coldplay. (snicker) and it gets me that they did an entire 2 minute and 15 second video this time.

and have you ever used your underwear as a weapon? i have. but not quite like this.

interruption

lazy saturday

today's rhythm of the day:

thrumm chunka chunka,
thrumm chunka chunka...

i don't know why. i usually don't care for this particular rhythm. possibly because it does sound lazy. or because it's commonly used by untalented musicians. or that i usually tend more toward 6/8 than 3/4.

but today it works. and now i'm thinking about sun streaming through the window, and smiles, and simple food.

news flash

here's an excerpt from an e-mail i recently received.

We have been inundated today with calls from parents who have children suffering from what sounds like bacterial folliculitis after participating in a huge "Mud Mania" event at a county park last weekend. Over 5000 kids played in the mud for 2 days and >150 have reported a rash that looks like bacterial folliculitis. (Like the hot tub version only mud-related.) We've conducted interviews today alone on 111 kids. Your ER may be seeing kids with a folliculitis-like rash and a history of rolling in the mud at a county park. The cases we have interviewed seem to all be getting well without treatment. We have convinced a very small number of pediatricians to culture the rash, but most are making a clinical diagnosis. Besides folliculitis, some of these kids have been given diagnoses of varicella, scabies and sand flea bites. Since they all rolled in the same mud and have the same symptoms, I suspect they are all folliculitis. When the cultures come back, we'll know more. You may want to pass the word to any interested parties....

in short,

rolling in the mud is unsanitary.

i report it to you.

virtual divorce

the scary part is

in my heart,

i honestly don't care anymore.

and as you know,

the opposite of love is not hate.

it is apathy.

i report it to you.

explanations

so. reconciliation?

i am left with an unsettled and plain old unhappy feeling inside me.

i am, as ought anyone who is engaged in conflict, attempting to understand the other point of view.

maybe the line of thought goes like this?

"i reproduced. my offspring is purposed to be the victim of my evil thoughts and deeds. it is the nature of inheritance."

nah.

maybe,

"i was here first. therefore my evil, as precedent, is actually righteousness."

getting closer.

"i dislike you greatly. but no matter how many times i tell you so, no matter what i do or how i feel, you're supposed to think and believe and acknowledge that i love you, because by definition i am supposed to love you. this definition does not obligate me to love you, but it obligates you to believe i love you."

now that one is interesting.

so as you can see, i'm having some trouble understanding the other side.

but no one can say i'm not trying.

surely not

surely not everyone
fights this way
so consistently
so heartbreakingly meaninglessly
against the ones who are supposed to love them most

surely not always
does reconciliation come
only with lies and false promises

surely not always
does righteousness feel like failure
does self-esteem feel like debt
does freedom feel like guilt

surely not always
does the innocent bear the blame
does familiarity breed contempt
does hatred dwell in heart and hearth

will this damned, damnable enmity
last for an earthly lifetime
only to be ended by a sudden separation
as heaven from hell?

all that to say
i feel as though i've just struck a deal with the devil.

so. reconciliation?

bug splat

ever feel like bug splat?

it's kinda how i feel these days. flattened to motionlessness by all the pressure, extremities all splayed at funky angles, weird expression on my face.

except not quite. because bugs, after they hit the windshield, die. and i imagine them "facing" the windshield.

nope. i feel pinned up against the wall, facing outward to fully view my tormentors, and most certainly still alive. i'm sort of being hit full on in the face by a torrent of humiliation when i don't know the correct answers to the questions shooting out of their fire hoses.

or maybe not a torrent. maybe more like tennis balls being served at you. donk. thud. ow.

all in a comical sort of way, because really, they're very good-natured about it. they don't mean to be torturing me.

is it i whose humiliation threshold is so low that i feel embarrassed when perhaps i needn't? am i the reason for my own mortification?

of course.

if you can understand that.

stupid pride.

extra surprise report

162.5 cm.

which is like, super cool for me.

i report it to you.