Biscuits and Residency

Philip had to scram tonight. He found out a patient had a 5-hour consecutive bp of 60 that he wasn't notified of until 1:10 am. This was our exchange:

(Rustling and scrambling sounds as Philip takes out his retainer, puts in his contacts and puts on clothes. Incoherent mumbling and curses).
Me: So, you have to go back in?
Philip: Yeah. I'm going to be there all night. This is bad. Like, this is really bad. I can't believe no one called me. This is really, really bad.
Me: Okay. I love you.
Philip: I love you, too (flustered noises, harumphing, backpack gathering).
Me: Uh, Philip, baby?
Philip: Yeah?
Me: Did you eat the last biscuit?
Philip: Huh?
Me: There was one biscuit left. Did you eat it?
Philip: A biscuit? Yeah. For dinner. I ate it.
Me: Oh, okay. Bye. Be careful.

I can't believe I escaped with all my body parts and faculties intact. I braved a dangerous challenge. It was like asking a lion "Hey, I'm waving my juicy, meaty human hand around like catnip before your ridiculously strong jaws. Are you going to eat it?" And then the lion politely cedes "Why yes, I am," giving you just enough time to remove the precarious hand. On the one hand (no pun intended) I am glad to know not only what happened to the biscuit, but that I survived the interrrogation. And on the other hand (again, no pun intended), I feel guilty for even asking in the first place.

Those biscuits were really good, though. Ask Philip. He ate the last one.

A Christmas Miracle

BEFORE

TWO WEEKS AGO

THIS WEEK!

I didn't know if it would ever happen for me, but I've experienced a Christmas miracle. Like any story, we must go back and start at the beginning....

Early on in our relationship, the first time I went to Birmingham to stay with Philip, I thought his set up was quite "noteworthy," to be polite. The bathroom and bedroom completely lacked anything of personality. Seriously: No drawings, art, photos, NOTHING, on the plain white walls. (Oh, except for a sheet hung on the windows that Philip used to black out the sun, as if he were some manner of cave creature. Hello Gollum!). I thought I might be dating a sociopath, but then I remembered sociopaths usually at least TRY to appear normal. Surgeons just don't bother.

Most interesting was the counter top of his bathroom, on which all of his bathroom "tools" were displayed in an orderly fashion atop two sheets of folded white paper towel. Much as I imagine a table in an OR, so were his bathroom items. The only thing missing was a live-in tech, to whom Philip might bark, while holding out his palm: "Toothbrush! Paste! Dental floss. Hurry, hurry. We've got tartar buildup!"

Philip patiently explained that once a week he would replace the folded paper towel with a clean one. Thus, not only did his bathroom tools remain relatively sanitary, he also didn't have to perform any sort of real cleaning of the counter top at regular intervals like the rest of the population that actually uses the counter as a primary surface. You know, when I think about it I'll bet that most surgeons wish their OR set ups could be applied to everyday life: everything awash in drapes, towels, sheets and latex. All things that can easily be swept up, sanitized or tossed in biohazard bins. More than a few times, I'll bet Philip has wished he could pull a drape between our halves of the bed.

I digress, as usual. Philip lived his OR lifestyle pleasantly until I came along with radical ideas of putting art on the walls, using pots and pans, using more than one plate, fork and spoon and, most shockingly, my crazy, newfangled ideas that his bathroom items could sit on the counter top as is, without a paper towel layer between. I KNOW! Have you ever heard such?

We took baby steps over the last year. First, the paper towel layer was eliminated. Then, I gently suggested he might not need every single item he owned on the counter top all at once. Instead, maybe those could go into a handy storage contraption called a "drawer," conveniently located right at hip height. And when I say that I "suggested" these things, what I mean is that I repeatedly moved the items to the drawer until he got tired of pulling them out again. You see, he's busy all day cutting things open and sewing them back together and he comes home pretty tired. But I've got nothing but time and patience and am the winner of this battle due to sheer willpower and endurance.

But there was one last hurdle: the mouthwash (see middle photo). It kept reappearing. Long after things began to acclimate to their new cozy drawer home, that damn mouthwash held out, stalwart in its ugly plastic bottle, casting its chemical-blue glow across the counter top. Finally, I figured the problem: I was putting it too far away from Philip's drawers, decreasing efficiency by forcing him to take two steps to the right to retrieve it from a separate cabinet. I got the wild idea of lying it on its side and placing it in his set of drawers. I wasn't sure this was going to fly, as it was not sitting upright and I feared that he might be afraid of a leak. But I tried anyway.

And lo and behold, ACCEPTED!

Please behold the glory of photo 3. I could hardly believe my own eyes. It has now been 5 days and I think we've made real progress: monogrammed towels, a vase with miniature roses and a stainless steel toothbrush holder. My victory is complete. It is a true Christmas miracle.

Holiday Cheer, Part I

Philip left for work at 1 am this morning. I have no idea when he's coming back. So far, he's been working for 15 hours straight.

In honor of him, I rewrote Winter Wonderland, so that it might more accurately reflect his life:

*ps: That image above is from a T shirt I made for him a long time ago.

Stalking Through the Mayo Hinterlands*
(sung to "Winter Wonderland")

Pagers beep, are you list'nen
In the halls, the docs are hissing,
A treacherous sight!
No one's happy tonight,
Stalking through the Mayo Hinterlands.

Gone away are the hours,
whiled away on patients soured
by an extended stay,
yet they won't go away!
Stalking through the Mayo Hinterlands

In the call room we can catch a quick wink,
And pretend it's a full 8-hours sleep.

Farley'll say are you over hours?
We'll say no sir, not that I can think
But it's hard to do the math for the lack of sleep.

Later on, we'll conspire
To set the clinic all a-fire!
And face unafraid,
the big mess we've made,
Stalking through the Mayo Hinterlands

In the call room we can catch a quick wink
And pretend it's a full 8-hours sleep.
We'll be smiling as we catch a quick wink.
And crying when the pagers begin to beep.

Working so long, ain't it thrilling?
Though we don't seem to do much healing.
We'll hold our life at bay, true to the Mayo Way.
Stalking through the Mayo Hinterlands.

*Yes, some of the rhymes and rhythms are a stretch. But come on! I'm quite proud. And I've got more, too! But I'm saving them for now.

Thyroid Cancer. Don't Do It.

Oh. My. God. Are you looking at this ad from People magazine? Look closer. It's confusing, embarrassing, creepy and wrong on so many levels I'm not sure what to say. Even the use of colors is sort of creepy.

So, as you can see, a teenage girl is verbalizing some thoughts. Then, under the colorful, fun block letters, in smaller script , it says: "Rachel Kramer, 14, the day before she was diagnosed with thyroid cancer."

Setting aside the fact that it is highly doubtful someone happened to be around to note some of Rachel Kramer's words the day BEFORE she got diagnosed with thyroid cancer and also to quickly sketch her wistful half-smile as she dreamt of "cute upper classmen", the scare-tactic premise behind this ad is completely horrifying in and of itself. The company should be ashamed.

But even worse is what you can't see at the bottom of the page (which my scanner cut off). It says "Confidence kills. Thyroid cancer can happen to anyone. Including you. It doesn't care how healthy you are. That's why it's the fastest-increasing cancer in the U.S. Ask your doctor to check your neck. It could save your life."

Confidence Kills? This is something you want to tell a 14 year old girl, who is already probably rife with self-esteem, body issues, and the general angst that goes with being a teen?

Well, I had to write a letter:

To Whom it May Concern,

I am lucky and do not have thyroid cancer (that I know of). However, I did recently see a very unfortunate ad in People magazine promoting this website (It has an illustration of a teen girl, purportedly of poor Rachel Kramer). While I am absolutely certain you are trying to promote a good cause, the tone of the ad--which is clearly targeted at teens (and all of the angst and anxiety that comes along with them)--and the scare tactic approach is distasteful, horrifying and fairly disgusting (not to mention the poor execution and questionable illustration choice).

But most offensive is the tagline at the bottom of the page and on this very web site, which is "Confidence Kills." This is a poor choice for so many reasons. But I would say the most glaring reason this is a poor choice is due to the general state of mind of teen girls. As I am sure you are well aware, many young girls struggle with self-image and confidence issues. To use a tagline such as "Confidence Kills" seems like a very poor choice considering your target audience. I am a 29 year old female and found it offensive.

Confidence does not kill. Confidence enables people to stand tall and proud, to seek out professions and ideas that nurture them and help them grow. But most of all, SOMEONE THAT IS CONFIDENT IS SOMEONE THAT TAKES CARE OF THEIR BODY AND HEALTH, someone that is likely to check themselves for signs of melanoma (another quickly growing cancer), check their neck and check their breasts. It is someone riddled with confidence issues that's more likely to ignore symptoms and regular health checks.

Confidence does not kill. It saves. You might consider trying a different approach next time. One that promotes your cause in a useful way rather than a detrimental way.

Sincerely,
Rachel Wiles

Fucking Idiots.

Good day to you all.

Snow White and the 7 Reasons I Hate Minnesota

I am sorry to say that it comes as no surprise to me that my first post as a newlywed is one born of bitterness. And though I've heard that is a natural turn of events after marriage, the sour taste in my mouth is not from marital strife–though I have questioned my husband's intelligence multiple times today and it is not yet noon (see following pictures). No, it is the Minnesota weather that is the subject of this diatribe. More specifically the winter and the 2.5 feet of snow I spent 2.5 hours shoveling this morning. I'm not going to rant on too much about everything I hate about Minnesota weather. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

Suffice it to say, I am beginning to understand why people here are either carrying some extra pounds or orange from tanning beds (seriously, they're orange. I call it Minnesota tan. I haven't yet figured out whether they think they're fooling people or they just think mistakenly think oompa loompas represent a "healthy, fresh-from-the-beach, flattering glow." Half the population here looks like they've got advanced jaundice).#1: Christmas decorations are rendered almost completely pointless in the span of 8 hours. There's our star, sticking irritably out of the snow where it must have fallen at some point. Can you see the Christmas lights I wound around the porch. No? That is because you are blinded by the ridiculous amount of snow between the camera and the porch.
#2: Minnesota has transformed snow from a magical event that involves laughter, sledding and hot chocolate to a miserable event that involves copious shoveling, repetitive stress injuries and instant dreadlocks from the completely stupid strong gusts of wind. Above, you can see I have completed 1/3 of the driveway. What's that in the background? Oh, it's my husband's car. Stuck. In 2 feet of snow. Let's move on to that, shall we?#3: Minnesota has done something to me and Philip. I notice in myself a newfound cynicism and bitterness (you don't say). I think this is because the weather forces me to spend so much time indoors. I'm like a plant and thrive in sunny, warm climes where I can spend time outdoors, open the windows, even sweat. Gray, cold places like Minnesota used to make me sad and wilted. Now they just piss me off. Of course if you ask me if I'd rather be sad or angry, I'd pick angry. I get a lot more done angry than sad.

As for Philip, his common sense and perception seems to completely disappear in the Winter. He owns a hat, a coat and boots and yet he WALKS to work in 12 degree weather wearing just his suit and dress shoes. His hat, coat and boots remain in the closet. In fact, he has never, EVER worn the super warm cashmere coat his parents got him four years ago. Not even once. Philip refuses to acquiesce to the Winter. I'm not sure why. If he is not in danger of instantaneous frostbite, he wears his flip flops. He has become one of the obstinate patients he complains about the most: the ones who just won't see what is right in front of them. Which brings us to this morning, when he ran headlong right into what was in front of him: 2.5 feet of deep, cold snow.

#4. So you see the two photos above. I took those photos of my progress as I dug Philip's car out of the snow. You can see that the car is a pretty busted '98 Toyota Solara. It has 120,000+ miles on it, a defroster that won't work and a rusting left-hand side that got swiped by a drunk driver. On the inside if you lower the visor, the vanity mirror falls out and hits you on the head. The seats jiggle so much that I'm convinced that if we had a wreck, we'd be shot like projectiles, seat and seatbelt straight through the window. Despite all of that, Philip seems to be under the impression that his car is a Humvee. And he treats it as such. This morning he opened the garage door and, without taking so much as a second to look behind him, promptly drove 6 feet backwards, packing the snow nice and tight in the undercarriage before finally marooning his poor dinghy of a car on a vast island of snow. (Philip apparently has a few issues with glancing behind him before exiting a garage, having previously driven entirely through a garage door on the way to a hot date). At that point, guess what he did. HE WALKED TO WORK IN A BLIZZARD IN HIS SUIT AND DRESS SHOES. His coat, hat and boots were a mere 10 feet away inside. THEN HE CALLED ME TO TELL ME HOW COLD HE WAS AND HOW WET HIS SUIT AND SHOES WERE FROM WALKING IN KNEE DEEP SNOW DURING A BLIZZARD. Do you know how much sympathy I had for him? I'll bet you can guess.
#5: This weather ruins all kinds of things, not just moods. Above is my snow-covered car (we only have a one-car garage, so Philip's elderly, ailing car gets it). Once I brushed all the snow off, I discovered a very impressive crack in the windshield that stretched the entire length. Yay!
#6: Don't even try to look cool during a Minnesota Winter. It's not possible. I've given up trying to look cute and instead just try to maintain a life-sustaining body temperature. Sometimes this requires outfits like the one above which consists of:

1. 1 pair of long johns (pant and shirt)
2. One pair of pajama pants with lollipops on them
3. Under a pair of red fleece pajama pants with snowflakes on them
4. Tucked into two pairs of Christmas socks with reindeer and snowmen on them
5. Shielded by brown and pink rubber galoshes
6. Topped with a fleece pullover, a fleece jacket, a fleece scarf, my dead granny's black beret, a look of bitter scorn, a pair of leather effing gloves and my fingers pointedly posed to show exactly how I feel about spending the morning shoveling snow.

And I was still cold.
#7. I watched many a snowplow drive by and ignore me as I struggled in the snow. I thought: "Well fine. If not me, who else is going to do it?" Twenty minutes after I got inside, Philip called and said our landlord would be over tonight and tomorrow to shovel snow. I might cry. Tears of joy. Tears of anger. But definitely tears.

Remember going to camp when you were little and getting homesick and writing letters begging your parents to come get you?

Dear mom and dad,

Please come pick me up. It's miserable here.

Love,
Rachel