Monkey Wrench Puppet Lab. These Seattle puppeteers describe themselves as the “most creative, most courageous and most disturbing puppeteers, dedicated to creating ridiculous, inappropriate and artistically excellent puppet plays and events”. I recently saw their rendition of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (after brushing up on the story with SparkNotes!). I found their performance “creative” and “artistically excellent”, perhaps mildly “disturbing” and “inappropriate”, though not at all “ridiculous”. One might not think that watching adults play with dolls is entertaining, but it absolutely is—and stimulating and thoughtful entertainment at that. (Thank you to the person who introduced me to them.)
Right- or left-brained? It’s an optical illusion and, like most optical illusions, is simultaneously perplexing and fascinating. If you have difficulties making her spin in the opposite direction, look at another part of the page (i.e. not directly at her) and purposely blink a few times.
Autumn in New York. Not the movie—the beautiful song as sung by the lovely Billie Holiday. Autumn has settled upon Seattle and, as expected, is gorgeous… and I hope I shall have the opportunity to experience autumn in New York City next year.
How does it feel to die? An interesting article, if not mildly distressing. I personally experienced the most discomfort upon reading the section about decapitation—I feel compelled to rub my neck to reduce my anxiety, presumably because I want to ensure that my own neck is still intact.
The Now Habit. I snagged a copy of this book upon learning about the “Unschedule” as a means to increase productivity. The methods in the book follow the tenets of cognitive-behavioral therapy. Aaron Beck would be proud. And Neil Fiore would appreciate your patronage—I think it’s a useful book, even if only as a counterpoint to the rabid fanaticism associated with Getting Things Done.
14 Oct 2007 | 5 comments.
Courtship, Part II.
His date with the intriguing girl hadn’t gone badly. She was indeed demure, but she was not unassuming—in fact, it was her harsh commentary that caused him concern. When they had slipped into the taxi, she complained about the service in the restaurant in remarkably unkind terms. He didn’t interrupt her, though he felt uncomfortable—he wondered what she would say about him after he took her home. After all, the service wasn’t that atrocious.
Of course she was smart and talented, but he just wasn’t interested. In addition to her questionable manners when out of the public view, she also seemed sedate. It’s not that she was cool and calm—her behavior in the taxi suggested otherwise—she simply seemed bored. He had hoped for lively conversation, except they had little to talk about. Over the fated dinner, she talked endlessly about herself, boasting her skills and accomplishments, hence smothering any opportunities for thoughtful discussion or playful repartee. He minded his manners, though, and nodded enthusiastically while quietly chewing (with his mouth closed, of course) on the twice-baked garlic potatoes.
He knew that he had impressed her, though he didn’t realize the magnitude of his charms. Less than three weeks after that date, she sent a letter to him, strongly urging him to marry her.
Replacing the letter in the envelope, he sighed. It was like something out of a soap opera: The girl he didn’t want was chasing him down—and so soon, too!
And what about the woman he did want?
You know, the glamorous one who had captured his attention so long ago? The sassy one who had scrambled to see him when she learned that he was passing through town? The smart one who eagerly pulled him into intelligent conversations that tickled his curiosity? The witty one who laughed at his jokes? The charming one who had hinted that she liked him as much as he liked her?
The one who was now ignoring his phone calls?
He sank further into his chair and sighed again.
The story is still not really about a boy and a girl.
13 Oct 2007 | 6 comments.
Look How We Have Aged.
Security was fairly tight at the Scientific Assembly for the American College of Emergency Physicians. Not that I tried to barge my way into the conference—I merely noticed the many, many suited men who stood guard at the glass doorways and escalator bases at the Washington State Convention Center.
I also noticed the many, many attendees of the conference. It was simultaneously comforting and disturbing to know that there were probably hundreds of emergency room employees collected in one place.
Though I had just seen my emergency medicine resident friend in New York City a few weeks ago, we had the chance to catch up. I don’t know when we will see each other again. That sounds more dramatic than I intend, but it is entirely true. I had the opportunity to slip away from work and chat with him in the foyer while dozens of emergency room personnel streamed past, all looking calm, focused, and serious.
He and I met as interns and our encounter at the conference reminded me of the following incident, which I originally wrote about in December of 2004. (This friend is “my fellow intern”.)
(And I am proud to write that I have not committed the error described below since!)
I received the text page on the bus:
Sorry, Maria. A patient was transferred from the consult service to the inpatient service. I put her information on the computer patient list program. Basically, we’re trying to figure out if she has Obscure Diagnosis #1 or Obscure Diagnosis #2. Call with questions.
My fellow intern had left a thorough summary on patient list—but I was still concerned that I would not know how to answer any phone calls overnight. What if badness happened? I had never even seen this woman before.
I was paged at 3:00am (and, as usual, bolted upright in bed, totally disoriented and confused) regarding another patient. I spent the next two hours tangled in an unpleasant dream that involved me riding a bike to the airport, luggage on my back, panicking because I had missed a flight.
My conscious stress is now contaminating my sleep.
The bus was late this morning and I flew through the hospital, checking up on the inpatients (”pre-rounding”) prior to the team meeting (”rounding”). I checked my list to learn of the location of The New Patient.
Sixth floor, Northeast wing, I read.
Her name was misspelled on her door. I opened it gingerly and spied an elderly woman laying in bed.
“Hi, New Patient,” I said. “My name is Dr. Maria and I am one of the other docs on the neurology team. We didn”t have the chance to meet yesterday, but I’m just coming by to see how you’re doing.”
She was completely non-plussed.
“Can I examine you?” I asked. It’s not really so much of a request as it is a statement of intention—but most patients oblige.
The New Patient acquiesced. Lights in the eyes and mouth, cold hands on warm skin, stethoscope over heart, gentle mashing on stomach. None of this had anything to do with either Obscure Diagnosis, primarily because both Obscure Diagnoses cannot be assessed with the physical exam.
I thanked her and said, “The whole gaggle of white coats will be around in about an hour.” It’s my usual line to patients in an effort to warn them of our descent upon their diseased bodies.
She grunted her agreement, rolled over, and was silent.
About an hour later, I led the team (like any other good intern) to The New Patient’s room. I looked at my sheet and realized that she was young—not even 50 years of age.
“She’s not even 50 years old yet?” I asked, totally surprised. The woman looked well over 70 years old, complete with white hair, many wrinkles, and that papery, atrophic skin. The consult portion of the team—which included the same attending—had seen her yesterday. I was the only one who had not seen her and as such, she was basically unbeknownst to me. I wasn’t even completely sure of her story.
“Yeah,” my attending replied. “Steroids.”
“WOW,” I breathed. I knew steroids were harsh on the body, but this woman looked old.
We approached her door and I gallantly swung it open (like any other good intern). The team stopped in their tracks and the attending said, “That’s not her.”
What?
“Uh… sorry,” I apologized. But… but… the sheet said that she’s in this room…
“She was in this room yesterday, but that’s not her,” my fellow intern said, grinning at me.
Well, that would certainly explain why I thought she looked much older than she really is. Since she’s not the patient, anyway.
So yes, it was embarrassing, but the repercussions for the patient are probably worse. Some random doc went into her room this morning and examined her. And patients have so much faith in the system that they will let anyone in a white coat touch them.
Why she responded to another woman’s name, I’m not sure, but anyway—
But you see, when her real docs went in to examine her later on this morning, she might have said, “You know, this doctor I’ve never seen before came in this morning and examined me. Who was she? And why did she come in? Something about neurology?”
If she even caught that much.
And then her primary team will nod, smile, and shrug, but once outside her room, will say, “What is she talking about? She’s delusional. Or hallucinating. She’s nuts. Psych consult!”
It is so, so wrong.
11 Oct 2007 | 2 comments.
Early Morning Screaming.
Some mornings, I do not encounter any other runners in the neighborhood. I hear only my own breathing as I travel along the leaf-strewn sidewalks, sadly aware that the mornings are getting cooler and are already practically dark as the year fades into the Winter Solstice. (The frequent cloud cover does not facilitate illuminated mornings, either.)
While approaching the last half-mile of my run this morning, I saw a young man making his way up the hill, his hands shoved into the pockets of his grey hoodie. He looked forlorn and preoccupied as he trod down the center of the sidewalk. I wondered how I ought to pass him.
A young woman interrupted my calculations. Wearing shorts, a long-sleeved tee, and earbuds (the latter, in my opinion, is an unwise choice at such an early morning hour), she was running perpendicular to my path. She, too, was preoccupied with something and did not realize that we would collide into each other at the street corner. I purposely slowed down to permit her to pass and raised my forearms to prevent myself from touching her. Still looking at something in the distance, she passed literally within inches of me.
Only after she passed me did she realize that I was there and, after seeing my form unexpectedly appear so close to her, she let out a piercing scream.
It wasn’t even 6:10am. Her scream was impressive.
Her body quickly jerked away from me and after she had retreated a few steps did she notice that her scream completely freaked me out. I myself jerked in the other direction. I’m sure there was some arm flailing involved. My pace staggered—as did hers—and she rotated around, still jogging, and offered a breathy apology: “I’m sorry… sorry… sorry!”
I kept running, though I was already starting to smile.
As I passed the young man, I looked at his face. He must have been able to see the other runner and I approach each other; he must have heard her terrified scream; he must have seen our mutual reactions as we reeled away from each other.
He looked sullen and completely unimpressed.
Gravity pulled me down the hill and I let myself laugh.
9 Oct 2007 | 3 comments.
The Things That We Hide.
He drops the wrinkled dollar onto the counter and with his tobacco-stained fingers grasps the paper cup brimming with black coffee. He sneaks a quick look at the barista, but dares not look for too long. Mumbling his thanks, he waddles away, warming his hands on the cup of joe. He leans into the glass door and, as he pushes his way out of the coffee shop, takes one last look at the barista—
—and the voices tell him that she knows. She knows who is looking for him, who will find him, and who will ultimately kill him. The voices advise him to be kind to the young lady, for perhaps she will one day reveal to him the identity of the Angel of Death. He so wants to ask her how much longer he has to live—
—but he refrains from doing so, because he knows she’ll just think he’s crazy.
She’s tired of working at the coffee shop. She expected so much more for herself.
Her mother is a real estate agent, hawking million-dollar homes to the contemporary gentry. Her father is a entertainment lawyer. Her older sister manages her own ballet studio. Her younger brother designs computer games for a major software corporation.
And then there’s her. A barista at a small coffee shop. Between a tall Americano and double-shot espresso, her mind wanders—
I’m the failure of the family. They were embarrassed to talk about me at the wedding; everyone else is so successful and then there’s me, the coffee girl. I hate spending time with my family. I’m trying the best that I can to get back on my feet, but they will never understand. They’re too busy with the expensive details of their lives—
She calls out, “Tall Americano!” and offers a warm smile to the elderly woman who approaches the counter to pick up the steaming beverage.
Holding the cup in her bony hand, she smiles at the young lady and thanks her. The elderly woman retreats to a small table by the window, pulls out a chair, and sits down. She looks outside at the falling rain. After taking a sip of the freshly-brewed Americano, she looks back at the slender barista.
She looks like my daughter when she was in her teens, she muses to herself. I wonder how she is doing now—
—and then she winces. She knew about it the entire time and she didn’t do anything about it, even when her daughter confronted her.
“Mommy,” her daughter pleaded, “he’s touching me down there.”
“No, he’s not,” she replied. “Stop lying. You’re just trying to get attention.”
“I’m not lying!” her daughter hotly answered. “He touches me and won’t stop, even when I ask him to! Can’t you make him stop?”
“Since he’s not actually doing that, I can’t make him stop,” she said.
Oh! The look her daughter had given her. She saw right through her.
And the day her daughter turned 18, she promptly moved out of the house without a word. She hasn’t seen her since and wonders—
Something jostles her chair. The elderly woman looks up and sees a young man looking back at her.
“I’m sorry!” the young man says. He places a warm hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder and leans over, inspecting her. “I didn’t mean to bump into you.”
“It’s quite alright,” the woman answers, smiling. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” the young man says, relieved. He adjusts the bag on his shoulder with one hand and steadies the double-shot espresso with the other. He finds a small table on the other side of the coffee shop and sits down. He pulls a laptop computer from his bag, opens it, and turns it on. After checking his e-mail, he reluctantly opens the Word document that contains his dissertation. He still has three sections to write. This pains him.
The cursor patiently blinks at him. He raps his fingers impatiently on the quiet keys. His mind drifts from membrane proteins and ion channels—
—and he remembers her radiant smile, the way it shone on her face like the sun peeking out from behind a storm cloud. He liked the way her hand neatly fit into his, her bountiful affection for stray dogs and cats, her neat penmanship in smooth black ink in the cute notes she left for him. He liked the way she made him laugh.
That was over a year ago. Before the little white lie that wasn’t so little.
He still thinks about her every day. She doesn’t know this; neither does anyone else.
It’s not manly to pine after a woman for so long.
He daydreams about a chance encounter, what he would say, how she would respond—
—and then he looks up over the laptop monitor out the window.
She sees the man in the coffee shop look back at her, so she averts her gaze. She doesn’t want to stare; that’s rude.
Looking down, her cheeks flush as she smiles to herself.
He’s cute.
8 Oct 2007 | 7 comments.