“How do you like This Big City?” The Applicant asked, smoothing out the wrinkles of the napkin in her lap. She deftly plucked another section of the sushi roll from the platter with her copper-colored chopsticks, gingerly dipped the morsel into the murky puddle of soy sauce, and popped it into her mouth.
“Oh, it’s great—the food here is great, the clubs are fun, and the beaches are great,” The Girlfriend replied, unaware that she said the word “great” three times in one sentence.
“There’s a lot of stuff to do, but it’s hard to get out and do things when you’re an intern,” The Resident replied, still chewing on the remnants of the seaweed roll in his mouth. “The schedule opens up a bit the second year, though, and then you have the time and energy to go out and party.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” The Girlfriend said. She gently wrapped her thin fingers around The Resident’s forearm and tapped her long, coral-lacquered nails against his skin. He leaned into her, brushed a lock of her brunette hair from her face, licked the residual wasabi from his lips, and kissed her on the cheek. She smirked. “I didn’t see him much during his intern year; it sucked.”
“That’s too bad,” The Applicant said, using her chopsticks to select a slender slice of ginger. “How did you two manage?”
“Oh, there’s ways around the schedule, you know,” The Girlfriend replied, squeezing The Resident’s forearm. Apparently unaware of her touch, he continued to place sections of sushi rolls into his mouth at a regular rate of a piece every twenty seconds.
The Applicant raised her eyebrows, tacitly asking The Girlfriend to continue.
“You know, I’d bring dinner to him at the hospital on his call nights; sometimes I’d bring him coffee and a muffin in the morning. Little things like that,” The Girlfriend said, tucking an errant wisp of hair behind her ear with her bejeweled hand.
“That’s sweet,” The Applicant mumbled as she nibbled on the ginger.
“Yeah; the beds in the call room aren’t all that comfortable or stable, but they do okay for us, you know?” The Girlfriend remarked.
The Applicant choked and began to cough.
14 Mar 2007 | 5 comments.
Perception Spectrum.
A man walked past her on the sidewalk. His dark eyes darted to her face before snapping back to an invisible point in the distant horizon.
She saw his surreptitious glance.
He must be the one! she thought to herself. He won’t stay out of my mind.
Placing a hand over each ear, she began to violently shake her head back and forth, hoping to forcefully eject his thoughts from her mind.
“No, I won’t work for the aliens! No! No! I don’t know the aliens! I won’t work for them! Leave me alone!”
If you don’t work for the aliens, she heard him say, his voice low and gruff, like the sound of gravel grinding underfoot, then they will kill you.
“No! It’s not right! I can’t work for the aliens! Go away! Go away!”
I know where you live and I will follow you wherever you go. Just do as I say and work for the aliens.
“No!”
They will kill you if you don’t do as I say.
“NO!” she shouted. She started to run down the sidewalk and the crowd magically parted around her—everyone thought she was crazy.
A man walked past her on the sidewalk. His dark eyes darted to her face before snapping back to an invisible point in the distant horizon.
She saw his surreptitious glance.
He thinks I’m fat, too, she thought to herself. Everyone thinks I’m fat.
Wrapping her loose coat around her limbs, she turned her gaze downwards and began to walk faster. She felt her pant legs rub against each other as her legs scissored across the concrete surface—in fact, that was the source of that terrible rustling sound.
Oh my—everyone can hear my legs rub against each other! It’s like I’m announcing that I’m fat to everyone!
She tried to take wider steps to prevent her thighs from touching each other, but that compromised the speed of her gait. A frustrated sigh left her lips as she continued to weave her way through the crowd of people. Their intrusive eyes fixed upon her body before they moved away—
I’m so fat that they need to make extra room for me!
A man walked past her on the sidewalk. His dark eyes darted to her face before snapping back to an invisible point in the distant horizon.
She saw his surreptitious glance.
He thinks I’m hot, she thought to herself. He wants to ask me out, I know it.
Her stiletto heels clicked loudly against the concrete catwalk and, after he passed her, she swiveled her hips with more panache to offer him a teasing view of her backside.
They all look back—what’s there not to like?
With a gentle toss of her head, her long hair floated over her shoulder and landed softly on her back, revealing more of her voluptuous figure. Throwing her shoulders back and pushing her chest out, she continued to sashay along the sidewalk while the crowd parted around her.
I’m so gorgeous that everyone wants to look at my delicious body.
A man walked past her on the sidewalk. His dark eyes darted to her face before snapping back to an invisible point in the distant horizon.
She saw his surreptitious glance.
I wonder where he’s going, she thought to herself. He looked so serious.
Shifting the position of her bag on her shoulder, she leaned into the mass of people traveling the other direction.
I hope the bus hasn’t arrived yet.
Her trail weaved towards the curb, then back to the relative safety of the buildings, then to the small square plots of grass surrounding the tree stumps. The crowd parted around her—
I hope I don’t hit anyone with my bag.
12 Mar 2007 | 3 comments.
Three Unwritten Stories.
It’s a little after midnight and you’ve completed all of your duties—for the time being, anyway. All of your fellow interns did an excellent job of signing out their patients to you and none of them seem “sick sick”. You’ve already received a few “Tylenol calls” (”Mr. Payne is complaining of of a headache and he doesn’t have any meds available—you wanna give him some Tylenol?”), but thus far, no one has spiked a fever, fallen out of bed, or stopped breathing.
Not yet, anyway.
You’ve already admitted two patients from the ER and during your last visit down there, the board was practically empty, the beds in the hallway were unoccupied, and the ER residents were sitting around in front of the computers, reading those “weblog” things. The nurses even had time nod hello to you, rather than push past you like the non-existent peon that they usually believe you to be.
You’re walking past the ward where six of your patients (along with at least seven of your cross-cover patients) are located. The hall lights are dimmed and only the occasional hacking cough echoes through the dark hallway (is it your guy in isolation due to tuberculosis?). One nurse is watching the squiggly red lines of the cardiac telemetry monitors trace sharp mountains and valleys on the black screen before him; the charge nurse is looking over her clipboard, quietly tapping the yellow barreled pencil against the desk surface.
You see them, but they don’t see you. You could easily slip past them and retreat to your call room to lay down—you may not have this chance again for the rest of the night. You also remember, though, that you haven’t heard anything about any of the patients for over six hours… and common hospital lore holds that if you don’t check in with the nurses before you lay down, they shall definitely call you—and perhaps with alarming news. On the other hand, if you check in with them and get an updated report, they may end up keeping you there for another half hour or forty-five minutes with non-urgent issues… and that’s up to forty-five minutes of lost sleep.
If you decide to risk losing precious sleep and check in with the nurses to receive an updated report, turn to page 28.
If you decide to go straight to your call room to lay down—hey, if it’s that important, they’ll page you, right?—turn to page 32.
So that’s one story idea that’s bouncing around in my head: Write a Choose Your Own Adventure story featuring the narrator (reader) as an intern… or medical student… or resident. It could be both entertaining and educational—my friend enthusiastically remarked that I could write one for each specialty! this could be included in pre-clinical medical school curricula! these books could augment “problem based learning” and help students study for clinical “shelf” exams and the like! Hooray!
And then I wondered if I’d be infringing upon the Choose Your Own Adventure copyright/trademark/whatever it is. (That is, I wondered if I’d be doing something illegal.) And the Choose Your Own Adventure people have yet to reply to my polite inquiry.
I apparently made the wrong decision and landed on a page that sends me nowhere.
The text file that contains all of the blog entries from November 2000 through January 2007 is huge; it contains over 11 megabytes of data. That, however, includes SQL tags and comments from readers. It’s a mine of material that is awaiting refinement to become a book of beautiful stories. I know this.
Lately, several of my friends and acquaintances have “remembered” that I maintain a weblog and have successfully (and easily) found it. They have graciously praised my writing and encouraged me to write that book, though they recognize and understand the obstacles in my way.
“You’ll have more time when you’re done with training,” they all say, as if on cue.
I have a plethora of excuses: Sorting through 11 megabytes of data is daunting. There are other areas of my life I’d like to cultivate. I’d like to read even more so I can finally know what the heck I’m doing with patients. I appreciate sleep.
The real reason I balk at this task, however, is self-doubt.
My best story, though, remains unwritten. And by “best”, I mean “most compelling, most engaging, and most thoughtful”.
However, “best” also encapsulates “most painful, most difficult, and most tender”.
The story has yet to end, though few events have occurred in recent years. I still hope for a happy ending, though part of me believes—fears—that a happy ending would only occur in a world of fiction.
In order to write the story, I must think about it. And, though I can tell the story is vague terms (and only in vague terms) with a straight face and an unwavering voice that betrays no emotion, just thinking of the story still causes me to feel more sadness than anything else I’ve ever experienced.
In the meantime, I write what I can with hopes that, one day, I’ll write what I currently cannot.
11 Mar 2007 | 2 comments.
Equilibrium.
Perhaps the reason why I have found it difficult to write is because the equilibrium of reflection/action is upset.
When I was an intern, the compulsion to write was overwhelming because I spent so much time doing and hardly any time being. The act of writing—choosing words, creating phrases, generating thoughtfulness—forced me to slow down and reflect.
These days, I spend so much time reflecting (as a function of learning about and incorporating skills into psychotherapy) that I feel a stronger pull to do stuff. Hence the dance classes, improv classes, teaching efforts, etc.
It’s not that I lack stories… it’s just that I am unable to be still.
I’m not pleased with this development.
It also doesn’t help that my pendulum for guardedness has oscillated close to its extreme.
10 Mar 2007 | 5 comments.
Suggestions for Dancing Etiquette.
(All examples refer to partner dances, such as lindy hop, salsa, tango, etc.)
How to Dance (as a man) with a Woman.
- Make a polite request to dance, whether by eye contact, verbal communication, or hand motions, and wait for a response. Do not grab her hand and jerk her to the dance floor—you wouldn’t do that while you’re dancing, so refrain from such behavior prior to the dance.
- Lead her onto the dance floor. You begin leading the moment after you make the request; it is somewhat awkward for her to lead you onto the floor, only to wait for you to start leading so she can follow.
- Keep your priorities straight: Dance with her. Lead things that she can comfortably follow (and/or things that you can comfortably lead); if she’s having trouble staying with you, dance to her level. (This does not mean, however, that you should avoid trying different and novel steps and patterns. Creativity is not necessarily a function of skill level.) Protect her from other dancers. Smile at her. Make the experience fun for you both.
- Thank her for the dance when it is over. This means actually saying “thank you”, not just blinking twice in rapid succession.
- Bonus points: Escort her off of the dance floor to the relative safety of the seating areas. This will leave an indelible impression on her.
How to Ask a Man to Dance (as a woman).
- Find a man who is not dancing or is in the process of asking someone else to dance.
- Ask, in a kind and calm manner (versus desperately and hysterically), “Would you like to dance?”
- If he says “yes” (as the vast majority will), begin dancing with him. To make the experience rewarding for him, follow his lead to the best of your ability and smile. Leads like it when follows smile.
- If he says “no”, listen for a reason. He may be tired from the previous fast dancing, in which case he may offer to dance with you at a later time. If he doesn’t offer a reason, give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he is just having a bad day (versus assuming that he is a jerk).
How to Get a Man to Ask You (a woman) to Dance.
- (This works best when you have shared a delightful dance with the man in question.)
- Ensure that he is not already dancing with someone else or is in the process of asking someone to dance.
- Make your presence known at the beginning of the song. And make it absolutely obvious. For example, stand directly next to or in front of him. Make coy or silly faces at him. Tap him on the shoulder. Most importantly, flash that Winning Smile at him.
- Most men will pick up on your obvious cue and ask you to dance (… even though you admittedly did all the work. Such is the life of a follow who wants to spend the vast majority of the time on the dance floor.) If he is not recognizing the cue (because he is preoccupied, oblivious, or autistic), see “How to Ask a Man to Dance”.
Potential Injuries That May Occur While Dancing (bonus information).
- squashed toes
- bloody noses
- slapped face
- sprained ankles
- broken legs
- bruised shins
- kicked belly
8 Mar 2007 | 3 comments.