The last time I significantly overhauled my curriculum vitae was about four years ago in preparation for my residency applications. Displeased with the resume templates available in Microsoft Word, I created a simple layout (not unlike the layout of this weblog) utilizing tables to play the game of Name My Accomplishments.
The letters “M.D.” now append my name. “Work Experience” has disappeared. In place of “Extracurricular Activities” is “Teaching Experience”, which, to my surprise, dates back farther than I had realized. (I intend to market myself as an Enthusiastic Teacher—an honest, though financially unprofitable, admission.)
For my purposes, there are two types of CVs: those that are academically impressive and those that are curious and distracting. Mine falls into the latter category. (”She writes a ‘medblog’? What’s that? And ‘lindy hop’? Harrumph!”)
New York City alone has seven accredited psychiatry fellowships in my desired discipline (in contrast to the mere two in the entire state of California!). Plan A is to apply to all seven programs, receive at least one offer of acceptance, and henceforth spend a year experiencing life in one of the largest urban centers in the world.
I have no idea what Plan B is.
“How does that make you feel?”
“A bit freaked out; thanks for asking.”
Other cities offer this fellowship, but I have little, if any, desire to live in Cleveland, Dallas, or even Chicago.
One of the academic institutions in Maryland offers a teaching fellowship. The Enthusiastic Teacher within blossoms with excitement at that opportunity… and promptly wilts upon realizing that that would require living in Baltimore, with its notoriety as an unsafe city, for a year.
I could settle for a job. Seattle is lovely (albeit “ethnically homogenous”). I am already familiar with the glorious zoos, dancing clubs, museums, beaches, television studios, amusement parks, burritos, national parks, barren valleys, twelve-lane freeways, droughts, suburban neighborhoods, and sunny skies of California… though my return would fulfill my duties to my parents. Would I be able to secure a job that would grant me opportunities to teach?
Locum tenens is an option. Spend six weeks in Fairbanks, Alaska, and witness the Aurora Lights as Autumn freezes into Winter, before dashing off to Casper, Wyoming, for a month. Perhaps I would be directed to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Or maybe I would be slated to work on the other side of Lake Washington for the empire of Bill Gates.
Locum tenens could feasibly send me to Australia, New Zealand, or the United Kingdom.
I still have an interest in the Peace Corps.
I could take a year off and travel around the world—and make a stop in New York City. Traveling around the world, however, requires money, and I still owe the government large sums of money for financing my overeducation.
The contents of my book are collecting dust on the hard drive of this computer. When will I make the solid commitment to publish it?
I hope that Plan A fails me not (… though unanticipated Plans may soon unfold, despite my exhortations otherwise).
This is called the illusion of control.
15 Apr 2007 | 9 comments.
Stethoscope as Bludgeon.
In response to my post, “How to Conduct a Physical Exam on an Assaultive Patient“, curious commenter Suzanne asked:
“For example, your patient could feasibly bludgeon you with the bell/diaphragm of your stethoscope. Those things hurt when they smack against your head. (Another story for another time.)”
So… is it time for that story?
Yes. The following is the (unimpressive, anti-climactic) story detailing my first-hand experience of the bell/diaphragm of a stethoscope hitting my head:
Like any good intern, I was sitting in an aisle seat during the lunch conference. Nurses have innate abilities to sense when interns and residents are unable to promptly answer pages—for example, when we are eating, in the bathroom, or engaged with patients (ranging from interviewing patients, performing procedures on patients, or trying to revive actively dying patients)—and those are the exact moments they page us. Their clairvoyance is both astonishing and disturbing. To avoid climbing over people and potentially falling into their laps, I selected an aisle seat to secure easy escape to answer any pages.
An older physician—greying hair, wrinkled face, academic scowl, and long white coat—ambled down the aisle. Both the ear buds and the bell of his stethoscope were peeking out from his pocket; he clearly belonged to the camp of physicians who “stuff” their stethoscopes into their coats (versus those of us who twist the stethoscope tubing into an informal knot and drop the “tied”, compact stethoscope into our pockets for easy retrieval). Something behind the older physician caught his attention—maybe he heard his name, maybe he forgot to add a cookie to his lunch plate, maybe he saw a sign on my head that read, “Maim me!”—
—and he abruptly turned around.
His loose stethoscope flew out of his coat, but one rubber earbud caught the lip of the pocket. Thus anchored, the bell of the stethoscope continued its flight path…
… directly into my forehead.
“Ow!” I ungraciously exclaimed, my hands immediately covering my forehead to prevent any further assaults from the delinquent Littman.
“Oh! Are you okay?” the attending inquired, reflexively responding to my utterance of pain. He was still unaware that his stethoscope was responsible for the contusion that was forming on my left forehead.
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing the tender spot. I leaned over and, quashing my desire to wince, picked up his limp stethoscope (how it feigned innocence!) from the ground, grasped the rubber tubing, and handed it to him. “You dropped this.”
“Oh,” he answered, his face revealing that he now understood that he was an accomplice in the assault. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” I mumbled, still rubbing my forehead.
13 Apr 2007 | 5 comments.
Microchips.
“They planted a chip in my head,” he said, removing the hand that was adjusting the knot of his tie to pat the back of his head. His nimble fingers listlessly pulled at his blonde hair for a few moments as he stared at me, the green irises of his eyes resembling life rings floating in pools of thick, white liquid strewn with thin, red ripples.
Unbuttoning his sport coat, he shifted in his seat and continued: “The silicon chip generates the voices I hear. They have programmed remote access for the chip and, in order to obtain my attention, they periodically have the voice threaten me.”
“Threaten you?”
“Yes. For example,” he said, his fingers fidgeting with the back tail of his blue and green striped necktie, “the voice informed me earlier today that a man would punch me in the left eye if I did not follow the directions. The voice has also told me that they will plan a head-on collision on the freeway. Things like that. That’s why I keep moving around; if I stay in one place too long, they will find me and the likelihood that they will kill me increases.”
Last week, he was at the Best Western. This week, he was staying with his uncle.
“I may go to Vancouver next week—I’m not sure yet,” he pondered.
“In addition,” he said, “they use the chip to download information from my brain.” He reached into his leather portfolio, handsomely embossed in gold leaf with his initials, and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was a printed copy of this webpage. “They have successfully developed technologies to not only transmit data through my brain, but also to take my thoughts. I don’t know how they are going to use my information. Maybe they want to use my accounting skills; I’m not sure. I worry that they will find me to implant a more advanced chip to download my thoughts faster—I don’t want to get killed in the process. My knowledge of business and economics is probably useful to them; they may be developing strategies to bring financial ruin to the country. I can’t let them do that. I’ve been researching ways to block transmission from my brain to their receivers—I try to stay in buildings with metal frames and multiple cinder blocks. It’s hard.”
My eyes skimmed the sheet of paper. He had neatly highlighted the second paragraph.
“Can you order a CAT scan of my head and refer me to a neurologist? I think that is my best hope to get the chip removed,” he remarked, his left index finger tapping on the portfolio in his lap.
“Why is it always a chip in the head?” I asked my colleague. “I never hear about nanobots in the bloodstream, recording devices in the spine, or circuits in the belly. It’s always a chip in the head. I wonder when this started… and what was it before microchips existed?”
“I’ve wondered that, too,” he exclaimed. “And so I looked it up.” (He’s rather enthusiastic about history.) “In the past, it sounds like people endorsed demon possession… and then there was a time when people reported that there were devils or gremlins in their teeth—little minions telling them what to do from inside their mouths.”
“Teeth, huh,” I said. “Why teeth?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Maybe they had tooth pain?” He shrugged before continuing, “The theme seems to be one of external control—something alien dictating what these people do. The demon, the gremlin, the chip. That they are not in full control of themselves.”
“Uh huh,” I answered, still imagining a gremlin hiding within the crevices of a yellowed tooth. “What an uncomfortable way to live.”
I still can’t find any citations.
12 Apr 2007 | 8 comments.
How to Apply…
A. How to Apply to College.
- send high school transcripts
- send proof of (pending) graduation from high school
- send SAT (and possibly ACT) scores
- write a personal statement describing naive and idealistic reasons for attending college
- send a personal photo of pre-determined dimensions, no bigger, no smaller
- submit a common application form
- pay money
B. How to Apply to Medical School.
- complete step A
- send college transcripts
- send proof of (pending) graduation from college
- send MCAT scores
- write a personal statement describing noble and upstanding reasons for entering medicine
- cajole (at least three) professors to write letters of recommendation filled with vague platitudes
- send an updated curriculum vitae
- submit a common application form
- pay (more) money
C. How to Apply to Residency.
- complete steps A and B
- send medical school transcripts
- send proof of (pending) graduation from medical school with notarized and embossed seal
- send the Dean’s Letter (which is almost never written by the Dean)
- send USMLE Step 1 and 2 scores
- write a personal statement describing passionate and dedicated reasons for choosing the desired medical specialty
- plead (at least three) attending physicians to write letters of recommendation filled with generic commendations
- send an updated curriculum vitae
- submit a common application form
- pay (even more) money
D. How to Apply to Fellowship.
- complete steps A, B, and C
- send medical school transcripts
- send proof of graduation from medical school with notarized and embossed seal
- send the Dean’s Letter (which is almost never written by the Dean)
- send proof of (pending) completion of residency (original copies only, please)
- send USMLE Step 1, 2, and 3 scores
- write a personal statement describing reasons for pursuing yet another cursed year of specialized medical education in a narrow discipline (limit to 1/2 page at most)
- wheedle (at least three) attending physicians to write letters of recommendation filled with fluffy accolades
- send an updated curriculum vitae
- submit a common application form
- pay (not as much) money, primarily for plane tickets
I seem to apply to something every four years.
9 Apr 2007 | 6 comments.
Assumption.
The elderly Asian woman sat on the bed, her head downcast, her wrinkled hands limply resting in her lap.
Two young Asian doctors hovered over her, occasionally speaking in hushed voices to her in the darkness. A thin slice of artificial yellow light cut across the room, casting a bright shadow against the far wall.
The second hand silently floated across the expressionless face of the clock. The time was 5:07am.
Walking briskly into the room, the Caucasian nurse saw the two doctors and inquired, “Are you family visiting?”
The senior resident smirked and replied, “No… we’re the residents on call.”
The nurse looked away and said nothing.
8 Apr 2007 | 2 comments.