bowl of cherries

All these years, I thought I was allergic to cherries. I was allergic to cherries at a time in my childhood and adolescence--where the cherry juice would touch my mouth and lips, I would get all swollen and itchy and red, and my throat would start to swell. Not enough to kill me, mind you, but just enough to tell me that maybe I shouldn't eat cherries. So I didn't. I haven't eaten cherries for something like the past ten years.

(Random Michelle Trivia: I am allergic to lots of things that no one else is allergic to. Such as apples, peaches, carrots, certain soy products, and horses. I have no idea how I am allergic to horses, but it is true. I'm also allergic to cats, but I didn't put that on the list, because plenty of other people are allergic to cats too, so who cares.)

Then yesterday, on a whim, I ate a cherry and had no adverse reaction whatsoever. And they tasted good. So I ate more cherries and didn't die. I didn't even swell up or itch a little bit. So I guess sometime in the last ten years, I outgrew my cherry allergy. I don't know at what point this happen, but I shed the single tear of a sad clown thinking about all the summers of cherry-eating that I've been missing.

Well, here's to making up for lost time.


* * *




So I had my big 36 week OB visit today, which consisted of an ultrasound, repeat GBS culture, and an internal exam. Yuck for internal exams.

No great pictures from the ultrasound to post up here, or even to print out for Joe. The kid is just too damn big. Whereas we were able to get such nice shots last time, this time it was just a heart here, a liver there, part of the spinal column, the back of his head. Cal was being a jerk with the the ultrasound tech as usual, and was stubbornly facing my spine during the entire exam, unwilling to turn around and give us a look at his face, or even budge slightly from his facing-the-corner position. "He looks pretty comfortable, doesn't seem like he wants to move for us" the tech said, not knowing that he was doing the Electric Boogaloo on the subway all the way into my appointment, and would commence breakdancing (doing all the moves, including "The Worm") all the way home.

The one thing that freaked me out from the ultrasound was this little piece of information:


MICHELLE
So can we get an estimated fetal weight from these measurements?

TECH
Yes we can. Based on these measurements, he's...six pounds eleven ounces.

MICHELLE
Wait...he's going to be six pounds eleven ounces when he's born, or he's six eleven right now?

TECH
Right now.

MICHELLE
But that...that sounds really big. (Hopefully) These estimates are usually kind of off though, aren't they?

TECH
Well, it kind of depends. I think in your case, he probably will end up being a little smaller than the ultrasound estimate.

MICHELLE
Oh good. Why is that?

TECH
(Pointing and various measurements)
See, because they take all the measurements from the head and the abdomen and everything and extrapolate a weight based on that. But your baby has a big head, so that drives up the weight estimate, even though the abdomen gives us a better idea of true weight.

MICHELLE
Wait, his head is big? How big?

TECH
It's measuring at 40 weeks now, and you're 36 weeks.

MICHELLE'S INNER MONOLOGUE
Our kid's a genius! Either that, or he has hydrocephalus.

TECH
But his body is a little smaller. It's a very cute body.

MICHELLE
So he has a big head. I wonder where he gets that from?

MICHELLE'S INNER MONOLOGUE


MICHELLE
Dammit!


Later on, though, my OB did some sort of voodoo manual palpation estimation of fetal weight, and said, "This is not a huge baby. He's going to be a good size. I'm estimating maybe seven and change at term." Which made me feel better. But only slightly. Because the head is the biggest part. Curse you, large head genes!


* * *


I got a mass e-mail yesterday from one of my new classmates. He was trying to organize a hoedown tonight down in Alphabet City where all of the new first-years (oh Christ, I'm a first-year again) could all get together and hang out before we start work Friday morning. I was very happy to get this e-mail, because finally, here was real proof that at least some of my classmates were friendly social creatures who want to hang out and have a good time. See, I have this fear that after two years of warm fuzzies in Peds, I'm going to be thrown in a viper pit of gunners and weirdos. Mind you, this is not based on any Anethesia residents I've ever met (all of them that I know seem to be rather laid back and pleasant), but I just have this phobia that THIS IS THE YEAR that the department decides to fill its first year class with strange, intense social misfits. I mean, they accepted me, didn't they?

And then I started getting all this anxiety that everyone in the class already seems to have met each other during the hospital orientation last week. I had to go through the hospital orientation too, but that was two years ago when I first started, and once you're already settled into the hospital, they thankfully don't make you go through those damn medical informatics and fire safety lectures again. But now everyone knows each other except for me. Maybe they're already all friends. Maybe they've already formed cliques, or Lord of the Flies-esque tribes, and when I appear on the scene I will be ostracized, or have my glasses stolen from me to start fires. Maybe no one will like me. Maybe I'll have no one to eat lunch with and will have to eat alone in the library while pretending to read old copies of JAMA.

Moving from the Children's Hospital to the Grown-Up Hospital is feeling more and more like switching from middle school to high school.

Currently reading: I've got nothing. Where are my new books from Amazon? I think they're bundling the order with some other stuff, so they're taking a really long time to get here.

conan

I didn't mean to imply in my last entry that Cal's arrival was imminent or anything. I mean it is, kinda, but I still technically have 4 weeks to go. However, you know that kids born after 37 weeks are considered full-term, and since I'm 37 weeks next week, I figured it was time to get all my (adorable tiny terry-cloth pastel) ducks in a row. Anyway, I don't think I'll feel much like assembling baby crap when I'm back to working those 13-hour days next week.

But ANYWAY, in non-baby news, I didn't mention that I went to go see a taping of Late Night with Conan O'Brien last Friday. Because sometimes I like to pretend that I'm a tourist, even though I live here. The last time I had gone to see a Conan taping was something like five years ago, the summer after my first year of college. I had something of a crush on Conan at that time. Nowadays I think he's gotten a little bitter and self-hating, and ever since Andy Richter jumped ship I think the show has gotten significantly less funny, and I haven't really watched it with any regularity. Well, also, I don't stay up that late anymore. Because I AM OLD.

So anyway, Conan. Ray and Susan (our pregnant couple friends) scored four tickets and offered the other pair of them to Joe and me. Joe couldn't make it because of work (we had to be at NBC studios by 3pm for the taping), but since I am shiftless and on vacation, I was game for anything. A funny thing I noticed about the audience for Conan (besides the fact that everyone was a tourist, which I inferred from the fact that they were all wearing the requisite shorts-and-T-shirt-with-camera-bag uniform) is that the mean age of the audience members was extremely low. Our group was probably slightly older than the mean, which is saying something because most of us are dancing around our 30th birthdays. This audience was straight up college students with the occasional parent or older-person-who-couldn't-get-into-Letterman thrown into the mix. I wonder what the audience of The Daily Show is like? Probably largely the same. Speaking of which, that's a show that I'd love to get tickets to see. I heart that Jon Stewart.

I don't think the show we went to see was particularly strong. The "big name" guest was Al Franken, which...I mean, I know who Al Franken is, but it's kind of a cop-out, like when they can't find anyone else to guest on the show, so they walk over to the SNL set next door and drag Rachel Dratch or someone over to talk funny for ten minutes. The second string guest was this kid from that new documentary "Mad Hot Ballroom," which I've heard is a good movie, but people...do not put some annoying 10-year old boy in front of four cameras with a microphone, because he will start behaving like an annoying 10-year old boy. Guh, precocious showbiz kids. Hate. Finally, wrapping up the show, the musical guest was the band "Fountains of Wayne," which I impressed everyone in my party by correctly identifying them as the group that sings that "Stacy's Mom" song. I'm hip to the jive, man. But they didn't perform "Stacy's Mom," instead they insisted on performing a NEW song off their NEW album which no one knew, and we were all being geriatric and squinting at the strobe lights and smoke machine and Mylar and mumbling to each other about how LOUD the band was and what the hell was with the bass player and his gigantic white Mary-Kate Olsen sunglasses, he looked like a freaking BUG.

So maybe we were too old for the audience.

I don't think Conan was particularly pleased with the show either. He probably knew Al Franken from his SNL days so that went OK, but you could tell he kind of wanted to kill that "Mad Hot Ballroom" kid. I don't know what's worse, having to interview a sassy kid or having the show where the guy from the zoo brings in all the animals to crawl all over the stage. I personally would prefer the zoo guy and his animals, because the animals aren't trying to impress their friends at school the next morning. (Or maybe they are, I don't know. Maybe the giant python is sitting under his light bulb the next day like, "Dude, did you see me on Conan last night? I was awesome!")

The pace of the show was all hectic too. Every time they cut to commercial, a horde of writers rushed up to Conan's desk and they all started conversing furiously while writing and crossing out various things on their ubiquitous little blue notecards. I can't imagine how that must be, to have to be re-writing the show on the fly like that. I can' barely tolerate not knowing my call schedule three months in advance. Not destined for the bright lights, I guess. Conan also looked a lot skinnier than I remembered, which is really not saying very much, because the last time I saw him in person was nine years ago and he was just starting to become very successful, and maybe he had one too many foie gras sandwiches and not enough laps in his Scrooge McDuck money pit.

So that was my non-baby-related update. However, tune in tomorrow for reports from my 36 week ultrasound and doctor's visit, and the latest belly shot. And apologies to anyone who's just sick of reading about pregnancy and babies and is just dying for me to squeeze out the piglet so I can STOP TALKING ABOUT IT ALREADY. People, I know how you feel. I can't wait to stop talking about pregnancy too. Because after nine months, I'm SO OVER this.

Currently reading: My e-mail, scouring it for information on where exactly I have to be on Friday to start the new residency and what time I have to be there. So far, no information is forthcoming. Next I'm going to look through my old snail mail correspondence for a clue. Or maybe it's a secret. [Addendum: I figured it out. 8am on Friday morning. Ooh, we get to sleep in for the first day!]

prep work

I return to work this Friday. So there's been a little extra pressure this week to get everything squared away with Project Cal Nest before I dive back into the world of being a first-year resident. We're hitting the nine-month mark this week as it is, so it's not a bad idea to get everything ready regardless.





The first thing I did yesterday was to take inventory of what clothes and gear we've accumulated over the past six months, either as gifts or as little "we have to get this, it's so cute" impulse buys. (It is cute, though.) It didn't seem like a lot all wadded up in the closet, but when I took it all out, sorted it, and folded up all the little onesies and towels and whatnot, I actually think that we're pretty much loaded for bear. For the been-there-done-that contingent, I want to reassure you that the majority of the clothes depicted here are a size medium (3-6 months) or larger. And also, yes, those are emesis basins from the hospital that I'm using to store socks and diaper-changing miscellany--what of it?

The other thing I did yesterday was pack a bag for the hospital.




I wasn't really sure how much to pack, because I didn't know ultimately how many days I'd be in the Big House. I'm actually pushing for a 36-hour discharge with close follow-up later that week (they like to keep normal deliveries in for 48 hours, but have been known to let "experienced" moms out after 24)--but for all I know, we could end up sectioned and end up in the clink for three days. The horror. So in the end, I packed three days worth of clothes (three pairs of scrub pants, three nursing tops), and a "going home" outfit consisting of a polo shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Glamorous Sarah Jessica Parker leaving-the-hospital-with-my-baby-wrapped-in-a-pashmina pictures I will definitely not have. Who wants glamour? I just want to distance myself from the hospital as quickly as possible, and will wear gym clothing if it will enable me to run away faster.

Of course, Cal needs a going home outfit as well.




There was not much thinking as to what the going home outfit would be, because we have but a single onesie in the "Newborn" size that Joe's mom sent us. It's not packed away in the hospital bag yet though, because I want to wash it first. Well, I guess I have to wash all the clothes, at least the ones for the first few weeks. Some of them smell like mysterious chemicals and plastic.

I actually have this insatiable urge to organize and it's taking all my willpower not to just run down to the laundry room and wash and fold all the stuff. But this is the one task that we promised our nanny that we'd let her do, so I'm sitting on my hands over here. See, the situation with our nanny is that we're hiring her starting the first full week of July. We realize that there will be no baby at that point, but her old job finished in the middle of June, and we wanted to start her employment with us as soon as possible so she wouldn't need to go looking for another job. So that first month (actually, the first two months, if you take my maternity leave into account) we'll be paying her full-time wages but only be making her come part-time. Because her references were JUST THAT GOOD, people. And if we didn't offer this little signing bonus, evil nanny poachers would come and take her away from us and we would be fucked. Obviously, there will be more to help out with when there's an actual, you know, BABY in the house, but for that first month, we're scrambling to think of things for her to "help" us with so that she'll have a little something to do aside from petting the dog and practicing various routes of the early-morning commute to our house. So she's going to wash and put away the baby's clothes, but I'm probably so seized by the need to fold and sort that I'll come home later that evening, unfold everything, and then fold it right back up again. Don't tell her.

(OK, soliciting a little reader feedback now here: is there anything that I should pack in this hospital bag aside from what I'd pack in a standard overnight-type bag? I mean, clothes, toiletries, duh. But is there anything special and postpartum-esque that I should think of bringing? The hospital pre-registration info sheet did not offer much assistance. They also suggested that I pack "two nightgowns," a suggestion that I readily ignored, because...NIGHTGOWNS? Am I supposed to own such vestments? Who am I, Martha Washington? Unless they're talking about a nightgown like this, which would actually be equally bizarre to wear in the hospital.)

But the biggest piece of the puzzle to finally fall into place is the nursery furniture. Yes, after 16 weeks of waiting, it finally arrived today. The beauty of ordering from Buy Buy Baby (aside from their crackerjack timely delivery estimates--ha, just a little sarcasm there, folks!), is that the delivery charge includes assembly. So the delivery guys not only cart all the stuff up to your apartment, but actually whip out their little power drills and widgits and whatnot and help you put all the stuff together. It's magical, I tells you!

I'm never quite sure what to do when there are workmen in the apartment--I don't want to seem like I'm hovering, nor do I want to seem like I'm ignoring them. So this time I just plied them with granola bars and drinks and peeked my head in every five minutes or so, guiding them where to land the various furniture pieces. I think the layout turned out quite nicely in the end.








(Betsey, Rachel, Kathleen and JR--look, your books are on Cal's bookshelf! Thanks so much, you guys are awesome. I'm still working my way through our thank-you cards, but if you haven't gotten one yet, you'll be receiving one soon!)

We're still waiting for some miscellaneous items to arrive--changing pad, receiving blankets, bathtub--but otherwise, we're pretty much set. Furniture, clothes, feeding equipment, nanny (clearly not listed in order of importance). We even worked out an arrangement with our dog walker to take The Coop to the Dog Spa for a few days of mud wraps and reflexology in the event that we need to rush to the hospital overnight and are out of the house for a few days. We're prepared, man. Well, maybe not mentally prepared, but from the outside, you'd never know, right?

(Don't really answer that.)

Currently craving: A McDonald's hot fudge sundae. Except I don't think they put enough hot fudge in it. I always ask for extra, but the person dishing it out is not the same person taking my order, so they never give me the extra and I end up with all this leftover ice cream and no chocolate. Maybe I should carry a little jar of hot fudge around with me, the way that some people carry around their own hot sauce or salad dressing.

turning suburban

Hey everyone. I'm still alive. But it's been a busy weekend.

The first order of business on Saturday morning was The Matter of The Car.

A fairly brief explanation just to bring you up to speed. My parents have two cars. But, being residents of Manhattan, they rarely drive either of them. One of their cars is at their apartment, and the other parked in the garage of the apartment building where Joe and I live. They have very kindly allowed us use of this second car (don't get too excited, it's a dinged-up 1992 two-door Honda Civic hatchback--GREAT for picking up chicks!) which we have mainly been using to drive to work early in the mornings. This car has completely suited our limited purposes, and despite its age, has been reasonably reliable, probably owing to the fact that it only has 21,000 miles on it accrued over the past 13 years. Yes, you're reading that number correctly. 21,000 miles over the past 13 years. I wasn't kidding when I told you that my parents never drove it. I think the most that would happen is that they would get into it and run the motor for five minutes once a month while sitting in the garage, just so it wouldn't, you know, rust into immobility or whatever. And you wonder why I never learned to drive.

However, now that Cal's on the way, I think my parents were having second thoughts about the possibility of us driving around in this little two-door with a baby in the backseat. So they asked us if we would do some research and "help them" pick out a new car to replace their Civic, and after getting this new car, to "help them" maintain and drive the car around. So basically, they were telling us to get a safer new car for the baby. So we started doing our research.

Luckily, we had a lot of information already, because Joe and I had talked about getting a new car several months ago in anticipation of having the baby, and even done a lot of the safety and Consumer Report-y research already. We just never ended up doing anything about it because between the baby expenses and the nanny expenses, we just didn't have enough paycheck left over to even think about making car payments. I mean, unless we learned to photosynthesize. So we put off the new car idea for a few years at least, and decided to make do with the Civic, and basically avoid putting the baby in the car altogether.

However, with this new development with my parents helping out, we were able to resurrect all that old research, and after some more visits to various Honda dealerships in and around New York, had decided to get this car, the Honda Element EX.

Now, I am aware that this car incites extreme emotions from the general population. Some people love this car, and I see many, many Elements driving around the city streets. And some people think this car is the ugliest thing on the face of the earth. In fact, I think there was an episode of "Car Talk" on NPR a few months ago where viewers were calling in to nominate which vehicles they thought were the most hideous-looking things on the road, and I think that the Element came up fairly early into the program. Myself, I don't know anything about cars and I couldn't care less what it looks like, but liked three main things about this car:

1. High safety ratings
2. Despite the fact that it looks big, it's actually barely larger than the old car, and fits perfectly into our current parking space, which is a small, tricky park job, even by Manhattan garage standards.
3. It's not much wider or longer than the old Civic, but has a lot more usable space, so we can actually cart stuff around in this car, like baby gear and canines and such.

I know I'm not telling you anything new by revealing that the act of buying a new car is a gigantic pain in the ass. I mean, we were more than happy to alleviate my parents with the crappy administrative details of the actual purchase (that was one think that my dad was adamant about not being involved in), but I would happily live the rest of my life without having to visit another car dealership. I kept thinking about "Fargo," and Jerry Lundegaard. "Well, heck, if you wanna play games here! I'm workin' with ya on this thing, but I... Okay, I'll do a damned lot count!" Car salesmen are crooks, I tells ya.

But anyway, after about a week of haggling with these guys, we finally drove the car off the lot on Saturday. Drove the car off the lot...and straight to BJs (hee) wholesale club. Between the car and the wholesale club, it's now official. We are turning suburban.





So the ostensible purpose of our visit to BJs (hee) was to survey the scene and decide whether or not it would be worthwhile to shell out for membership. I think we were convinced by aisle 3. Something about seeing all that Charmin Ultra at rock-bottom prices was somehow very exciting. And because they're having some sort of special promotional month, we got a 15-month membership for $30, as opposed to the usual 12-month membership for $40. I am pleased with the savings extravaganza.

I couldn't tell how much cheaper the baby stuff was, because we just don't have enough buying experience with baby products to know what's a good deal and what's the same as the price being offered at Walgreens. Well, except for the price of diapers, which is comparable to what's offered on Amazon--but as we've discussed before, we have more than enough diapers for now, thanks. However, some of the other stuff we're used to buying (dry and canned foods, brown-bag lunch items) were being sold at outrageous savings compared to what we're used to paying. Of course, you have to keep in mind that our usual method for supermarket shopping is to swing by our local Manhattan supermarket chain after work and picking up assorted items piecemeal, which, duh, is an expensive way to live. But now that we know the CIRCUS OF VALUE that lies just across the river from us, we can plan ahead a litle and try to stock up on some of these items in bulk the next time we visit BJs (hee).

A brief summary of some of what we ended up buying:

• Fresh fruit and veggies
• Frozen veggies and meats
• Dog treats
• Various granola-type bars
• Cleaning products
• One million sandwich bags
• The mother lode of Barilla pasta and tomato sauce (and yes, it's spelled "mother lode," not "motherload")
• The biggest box of Nilla wafers you have ever seen
• A gigantic pack of assorted Orbitz gum
• A huge sack of Starbucks French Roast coffee beans for Joe (he prefers Peet's, being a Frisco expat, but can look the other way in the face of MONSTER SAVINGS).

So honestly, how was the BJs (hee) experience? Fun, and reasonably economical. I mean, the discounts weren't, like, mind-boggling or anything like that, but I think that we can safely say that we recouped the $30 membership fee in this one shopping trip alone. So I'm not going to go nuts second-guessing our choice to join. Instead, I'm going to sit here and work my way through our box of 64 granola bars.

Currently reading: This article in yesterday's New York Times Magazine about teenagers with perinatally acquired HIV, and the secrecy that sometimes surrounds their diagnosis. I had a case in the ER just a few months ago of a teenager who came in with his mother for something extremely minor. As usual, I asked about past medical history, home meds, past hospitalizations, and everything was no, no, no, nothing, never. But this kid just did not look right. So on a hunch, I looked him up on the hospital computer system and saw through the pharmacy notes that as recently as last week, he had been prescribed a whole slew of anti-virals and antibiotic prophylaxis. The hell? I went back to the room, pulled the mom outside and asked her quietly, point blank, if her teenager had HIV. Looking relieved, she nodded, and acknowledged that both she and the kid were HIV-positive. She just hadn't wanted to say anything in front of him, because he actually didn't know.

three things

First thing: I added a link to an FAQ page to the sidebar. Included in this FAQ section is a little timeline of the last five years, with links to old entries. If you're new to The Underwear Drawer (or have been here for a long time but would like to take a spin in the way-back machine) it might be fun to check out. I know it was fun for me to sort through. It also made me realize that a lot of stuff happened over the last five years. Well, duh, right?



* * *


Second thing: I am now ACLS certified! I can save grown-up lives now! Only I am kind of illegally certified, because I haven't actually officially recertified in BLS yet, and technically I needed to be BLS recertified before I should have been allowed to take ACLS. I already took the written part of the BLS exam, but I couldn't get an appointment to get my BLS skillz observed until tomorrow. ACLS is a two-day course, and yesterday, when I was stammeringly trying to explain to them about my situation, I kind of lied. I said my BLS card got lost and was being replaced--which is not a TOTAL lie, but kind of a half-lie. But I HAD TO DO IT, man, otherwise they would not have let me take ACLS and then I wouldn't have been able to start my residency on time and my life would have been RUINED. Anyway, shouldn't BLS proficiency be implicit in the fact that I passed ACLS? Building on the same knowledge base and all that? Anyway, I got into this whole thing with the instructors yesterday where they told me that even if I passed ACLS, they wouldn't be able to give me any documentation of certification until I got my new BLS card in the mail and faxed it to their main office, which translated to "blah blah blah RED TAPE blah blah." However, today, there was a new lady there dealing with the paperwork, and after I took my exam, I just stood there very quietly while she corrected it, hoping that she wouldn't see the front page, where the guy from yesterday wrote "NO CARD" in the space where he was supposed to fill in my BLS certification expiration date. And lo, she did not see that I had "NO CARD" and lo, she gave me my ACLS certification card, and everything is great now. I still have to go in and get that BLS stuff taken care of, but WHATEVER, that will take twenty minutes, and then I'll be done with all this nonsense for another two years.

Also, maybe now, having undergone ACLS training, I'll have a 10% less chance of killing my adult patients. Oh, but I underestimate myself. Maybe a 15% less chance. How reassuring.



* * *


I think we may have purchased too many diapers. But it's kind of not our fault. See, it started when we found this deal on Amazon for Pampers in bulk. We got so excited about the low price and the free delivery that we ordered a bunch. But not in some hog-wild way, there was a method to the madness. Basically, I did a calculation based on the average number of soiled diapers we could expect from a newborn cross-referenced with average weight gain based on a series of growth charts out of Harriet Lane (trust me, it was all very scientific), and ordered approximately enough diapers for the first month and a half. The diapers that we ordered fit babies from 8 pounds up to 15 pounds, and my rationale was that if Cal weighs more than 15 pounds at 6 weeks, he's clearly a MONSTER FREAK CHILD and should be sold to carneys on Coney Island immediately. So we were good on diapers.

Then Joe's mom e-mailed us a week ago asking us what brand of diapers we were planning on using. I informed her that we had decided on Pampers (this is based on no type of research whatsoever, by the way--it's just the kind that we use in the hospital) but that she should under no circumstances help us buy any diapers, at least not in the small size, because we were already tanked up. Somehow, though, Joe's mom interpreted "don't buy any more diapers" to "PLEASE BUY MORE DIAPERS WE NEED DIAPERS" and sent us something like a metric ton of the exact same diapers in the exact same size. Well, there were two smaller packs of diapers in the smaller size (I wasn't aware there was a smaller size, but I guess it makes sense--the max weight on those is 10 pounds) but the rest of them are for the 8-15 pound range. So now we've committed the cardinal sin of new parents, in that we have stocked up on something that the kid is probably going to outgrow before we can use them all up. But you see how it's kind of not our fault. Quick, multiple choice. What are we going to do about all those diapers?

a.) Keep Cal on a strict low-fat diet, therefore preventing him from growing too fast until we use up each and every one of the small diapers.

b.) Wait for Cal to outgrow the diapers, then sell the surplus on eBay.

c.) Start putting the dog in diapers.

Does it say something about me that I find choices B and C equally tempting?

Currently reading: This interview with J.K. Rowling. Is it too nerdy to admit that I'm all lathered up about the new book? I even pre-ordered it for "release day delivery" from Amazon. Don't laugh.

the question of why

Sometimes people ask me why I keep this online journal, or how I have time to update on a semi-regular basis. The quantity and quality of the updates definitely tapers off the busier I am, but I'm always, always glad to keep up the journal. I mean, I'm glad that other people like to read it too, and that certainly lights the fire under my boots to update regularly, but the main reason I keep this enterprise up is selfish. Because I want to remember all this stuff.

When Joe and I started med school, one of Joe's friends (who had just started his residency) encouraged us to keep a journal. "You will not believe the stories that you'll have to tell by the end of your training." At the time, I couldn't understand how reading about my Infectious Disease final would be terribly fascinating for posterity, but weirdly enough, even that is interesting in its own way now, looking back. As the years passed, the stories sometimes got a little more interesting, but also sometimes just as inane, if not more so, than ever. It's just life, you know, the little things and the big things and all the things in between.

These are just the things that I'm thinking about now, preparing for Cal to be born, and moving into a new phase of my medical training. With all the whirlwind of the next few months and how fast time seems to fly by these days, I wouldn't be totally surprised to look around only to realize that, incomprehensibly, another five years has passed. And honestly, in another five years, it's going to be really difficult to remember those hazy first few months of having a new baby, that feeling of disorientation in starting a new field, or just the day-in day-out torture of being a resident. People who finish residency say that the amnestic process takes them by surprise in how quickly it strikes, and from personal experience I know this to be true, since I can already barely remember what med school was like.

Luckily, I don't really have to remember, because I wrote it down. And then I wrote down some more. And reading back on some of those older entries is a fun, though occasionally disorienting experience. It's like opening up a time capsule, or getting into my own flying DeLorean. Sure, my experiences aren't so special or earth-shattering (I would classify it as externalized self-analysis at best, naval-gazing at worst), but there's just something very reassuring about having a record of it all. I'm a pack-rat anyway, so it's just in my nature to keep all kinds of mementos and souvenirs around. Lots of it is just minutiae, but now and then there's something pretty big. Personally, though, I barely even differentiate. Because I want to remember it all.


* * *


My scutmonkey OR cap arrived in the mail yesterday, and pleasantly surprised me by not being yellow as depicted in the retail picture, but a lovely shade of apple green. Better yet! I will be stylish, with my apple green cap and mashed hair.

I've had a lot of time off over the past few weeks, and I'm getting anxious to start work again, even if the timing is a little off with the whole due date and whatnot. It's like that feeling at the end of summer vacation, when you've kind of had enough of lying on the air conditioner and daytime TV, and you go back-to-school shopping with your parents to stock up on notebooks and pencils and things and all of a sudden you JUST CAN'T WAIT TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL. But then fast forward to three weeks later, when you actually are back at school and you just can't believe you were ever in such a rush to have your summer vacation over with. That's what it's going to be like in a week and a half, when that alarm clock goes off at 4:30am and I ask myself just what the hell I've gotten myself into.

That's one of the things about Anesthesiology that's making me nervous. They wake up so damn early. Maybe not at 4:30am every day--that's just a cruel personal detail dictated by earlier start times for the first month in addition to the commute time--but certainly no later than 5:30am for most people, unless they happen to live next door to the hospital or something like that. Maybe if I went into Pain Management or something with more normal "clinic" hours, it wouldn't be quite so painful (heh), but otherwise I feel like I'm never going to see the sun for the REST OF MY LIFE. Certainly, there were months in Peds where I felt like that too--stretches on the wards, in the NICU, stuff like that--but they were always interspersed with clinic or ER months where I didn't have to get in until 8 or 9am.

Well, I guess I'll just have to get used to it. And who knows, maybe I'll become one of those really annoying "morning people," the kind you see clad in head-to-toe spandex power-walking around your neighborhood at 6:00am on a Saturday morning, who beam and holler "GOOD MORNING!" at you with such chipper energy that you just want to punch them in the mouth.

Currently watching: "The Notebook." I rented this from Blockbuster because...actually, I don't know why I rented it. Lack of anything better to do, I guess. I don't like sappy romance movies, and I wasn't particularly enamored of any of the featured actors, except for Joan Allen, who was nice and frosty as always but not really given a whole hell of a lot to do, character-wise. And was I supposed to be surprised that the old couple were the same characters as the young couple? It seems like they went to extraordinary lengths to delay that "revelation," but...um, duh.

big

So did you know it's my birthday tomorrow? Well, it is. I'm going to be 27. Don't sing. No big plans for the evening, because I actually have to take my stupid ACLS certification class from 4pm-10pm at the hospital (10pm, for chrissake!) and then go back in the next evening to finish up the course. Then the next day I have to go in to get recertified in BLS (luckily, this should only take about half an hour, since I already completed most of the re-certification requirements online). But then I'll hopefully have fulfilled my creepy rubber mannequin quotient for the next two years.

I'm cool with turning 27. Seems like a reasonable age. A reasonable age to become a parent, a reasonable age to be someone's doctor. Or at least an age that I don't have to mumble and hide in a cough when patients ask, the way I felt I had to when I started my intern year at the age of 25. I don't have any major issues with aging. Maybe I will later, but for now, it's just not a huge deal to me. For instance, I'm not looking ahead to my 30th birthday with any sort of premonitory dread. It's just what happens the year after you turn 29. Meh. Whatever.

However, all this talk about getting older does remind me of a funny story from med school. It's actually a story from my Psych rotation, during one of the two sessions we spent on Child Psych. Guillem, Kal and I were interviewing a 7 year-old kid referred in from school for some sort of behavior problems. Given that it was our first rotation that year and we basically had no idea what we were doing, we were just chatting the kid up with no major Psych-type agenda.


KAL
So [kid], what do you want to be when you grow up?

KID
I wanna be a teenager.

KAL
(Trying to figure out how to respond)
You want to be...a teenager when you grow up.

KID
Yeah.

GUILLEM
(Starting to laugh, attempting to hide it.)

MICHELLE
(Covering)
Why do you want to be a teenager?

KID
Beause.

MICHELLE
Because why?

KID
Because I wanna be BIG.

[Perhaps I should mention at this point that this kid was hugely fat.]

GUILLEM
(Literally shaking with barely contained mirth.)

KID
(Gesturing towards Guillem)
Why is that guy laughing?

MICHELLE
Oh...he's not laughing. He's...coughing.

GUILLEM
(Choking with laughter)


I would like to tell you that we're all much more mature and professional now, four years later, but I can't.

Currently reading: This article from New York Magazine entitled "The Perfect Little Bump." If I wasn't already scared of freaky New York parents (read: mothers) before I read this article, I am now. Everything's a competition. Also poring through the replies in response to my Costco query. Thanks for all the responses, guys! I think we're going to check out both a Costco and a BJ's (heh, I said "BJ") in Queens this weekend, and then make a decision based on our reconnaissance mission whether or not we're going to join one or the other.

that's a great price for twelve pounds of nutmeg!

First off, a silly Manhattanite question: what can you guys tell me about Costco? What is it, like a gigantic bulk-goods department store? Or more like a supermarket? And what do you usually go there to stock up on? Especially you people with kids and/or pets--do you find that an annual membership is worthwhile? I mean, I guess people must, otherwise no one would shop there, but I just realized I have no idea what it is that people buy when they shop there. For some reason, all that comes to mind is giant, industrial-sized drums of mayonnaise, but there must be more than that, no? I'm just asking because I just recently realized that there's a Costco in Queens, and we're probably going to go swing by next weekend just to check out what they have to offer. I would be very into it if we could stock up on supermarket-type dry goods and toilet paper and that kind of thing, but their website doesn't seem to feature that much of those products. However, they are featuring a great deal on caskets and Swarovski crystal unicorns, which I have...less use for.


* * *


Joe and I went to see "Batman Begins" last night. We weren't slavering fans of the series eagerly awaiting this latest release, but the truth of the matter is that after seeing "Star Wars," there were no more Big Summer Movies that we were interested in seeing (aside from "War of the Worlds," which hasn't come out yet). And "Batman" got reasonable reviews (the Times called it "surprisingly good," which is kind of a backhanded compliment, I guess), so what the hell. Anyway, we actually liked it a lot. It had a good story and it wasn't a total joke, like the recent "Batman" movies have been (the one with George Clooney Batman and Arnold Schwarzenegger as "Mister Freeze" comes to mind). Plus, there were a lot of good people in it. Morgan Freeman, Liam Neeson, Michael Caine, Gary Oldman...like, hello, parade of Oscar-caliber talent. And Christian Bale was sufficiently brooding and chiseled. Even Katie Holmes couldn't ruin it, despite the fact that she seems to have some kind of Bell's Palsy and is only able to smile out of one side of her face.


* * *


Yesterday I cleaned out the refrigerator and freezer, organized our linen closet, and sterilized all five million pieces of Cal's milk collection system. Then it occurred to me: does this count as "nesting"? My closet is still a mess and it's not bothering me in the slightest, so I'm inclined to think that I'm not.

Currently reading: Just did a quick re-read of "Memoirs of a Geisha," because it was just sitting there on the front shelf and I had nothing else on deck. However, I have some books arriving in from Amazon in a few weeks, including the new Marjane Satrapi book "Embroideries," so hopefully I'll have something fresh to read soon.

stetho-ma-scope

I received my new stethoscope in the mail today. Not that there was anything wrong with my old stethoscope, except for the fact that it's GONE. It disappeared sometime after one of my final ER shifts earlier in the spring, the second stethoscope I've had stolen this year. Yes, stolen. Not that I go around pointing fingers a potential stethoscope thieves, blaming others for my own absent-minded misplacement of property, but there have been an alarming number of stethoscopes from various personnel gone missing this year. Not to mention (if this lends me any credibility) that up until this fall, I hadn't lost my stethoscope once, and had been using the same Littman Cardiology III for the past five years. It was good to me. We were friends. Then, sometime in October, at some point during a PICU call, it went away. Of course I had a nametag on my stethoscope, which included my e-mail address and cell phone number, so if it really had legitimately gone lost and picked up by someone with even the slightest charitable intent, it would have been easy enough to find me. But I never heard from my stethoscope again. No ransom demands, nothing. It was just gone.

Joe very nicely let me use his stethoscope for the rest of the year--after all, what did he use it for, really, he's an ophthalmology resident for chrissake. I mean, sure, he'd have to examine the occasional pre-op or check a blood pressure once in a while, but in those cases, he could just borrow someone else's stethoscope for five seconds and be done with it. Joe had a really nice stethoscope. It was an all black Master Cardiology that he had received as a getting-into-med-school present from his sister, and it was sweet. At first I didn't understand what the big deal was, like it was called MASTER Cardiology and all expensive and whatnot. But then I used it. Woah. You are the Master.

Needless to say, Joe's stethoscope had a nametag and multiple forms of contact info on it too. But that didn't stop it from walking away sometime in May. Again, it would have been easy enough to figure out who the stethoscope belonged to and return it, but that's only if the person who found it had good intent. Or maybe they just snipped off the nametag and sold the damn thing on the thriving underground stethoscope market.

You know that movie, "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead"? Well, don't tell Joe his stethoscope's gone. I haven't had the heart to break it to him yet, given that it was a gift and everything. Plus, he's going to think I'm totally irresponsible, losing two stethoscopes in the span of one year. BUT I'VE NEVER LOST A STETHOSCOPE BEFORE UP UNTIL THIS YEAR! I am GOOD to my medical equipment! It was the STETHOSCOPE THIEF, I tells you!

Thief!

For my past few PICU calls, I've been using the Classic II Pediatric, which I know a lot of Peds people use, and is a perfectly fine stethoscope, but after using the Cardiology Master, frankly feels like a piece of crap. Plus, I just needed to get a new stethoscope, if for no other reason that the first day I show up for work in the adult OR with my teeny tiny stethoscope head, I'm going to get laughed right out of the hospital. And with any luck, the stethoscope thief won't follow me to my new residency.

Though if s/he does, I'd like to see him/her steal this new one. Because I got that fucker engraved. Try to cut the nametag off that one, bud.

Currently reading: This article in the New York Times: "MasterCard Says Security Breach Affects 40 Million Cards." Oh crap. That had better not be me.

it's curtains for you

I am not in labor. Just thought I'd say that first off, because when you get to this late stage of the game and people don't hear from you in a while, they assume that you must be giving birth or something because what else could account for the radio silence?

Anyway. Not in labor. But you'll be the first to know. Well, first Joe, then our families, but then you for sure.


* * *


I just had my "exit interview" yesterday with the Peds Residency Director. Well, I don't think they billed it as an exit interview, but that's what I kept calling it all day. I would have had the same meeting with the director even if I wasn't switching residencies (we have these meetings twice a year where they go over your evaluations and commend you for not killing anybody), but since I'm actually taking leave of the department, I had all this crappy paperwork to fill out on top of the usual self-affirmation-fest. Unfortunately, most of the paperwork had nothing to do with me. They kept asking me about what career plans I had within Pediatrics, and what practices I had scouted out in what areas of the country--I just wanted to scrawl across the whole page in red pen, "Am planning to be a resident for THE REST OF MY LIFE with no end in sight, therefore have not looked that far ahead." But I didn't. But only because I didn't have a red pen.


* * *


So are you ready for another story about how I'm a GENIUS? Of course you are.

So remember back when Joe's dad was in town and he helped us to put together the nursery all nice-like? Well, except for the furniture part of the nursery, which apparently won't get here until sometime in Fall 2010 (actually, the new predicted delivery date is "in two or three weeks"--hey, don't rush on our account, people). And we put up wallpaper and built shelves and hung curtains and were very pleased with ourselves? Well, there were two slight problems, which a few readers pointed out. One is that the curtain panels we got were insufficient to cover the entire window. The second is that the curtains, being all gauzy and white, didn't seem to block any light whatsoever.

So ever since then, I've been trying to figure out an economical solution for our curtain problem. Should we just buy two more panels of the same curtain? But then we still have the same problem with the light. Should we just get new, opaque curtains? Good thought, but the window in the nursery is so wide that in order to cover the whole length of it, we'd have to get four standard-width curtain panels. And those things don't come cheap, my friends. The third option was that we could get all Martha and make our own curtains, but after having a nice long laugh about that, we abandoned that one as well. (Yes, I know that curtains are easy to make, or at least it seems like they should be, but you're talking to someone who doesn't even own a sewing machine. Sewing? What is this sewing you speak of?)

What I really wanted to find were relatively inexpensive curtains that were WIDE, so that we could just buy two panels that we could pull closed and have meet in the middle. But no one seemed to make curtains like that. At least until I started looking outside of the window treatment section of the store.




Oh look, curtains! It might be hard to tell from this picture, but they're kind of a orange-y red color, not quite as Satan red as they may appear.




They block the light and they're wide enough to meet in the middle when pulled together. (I just pulled one panel partway to give you the flava.) And they match the color scheme of the room. Where did I find these curtains, you may ask? Come closer and I'll tell you.

Closer than that.

OK, ready?

THEY'RE SHOWER CURTAINS.

Not the vinyl kind, obviously, but the fabric kind. With the kind of cheap-ass curtain rod that we bought and the width of our window, two shower curtains work perfectly.




Plus, see the cool shower hooks I got to go with the curtains? So matchy matchy! And so lucky on that count, because I had intended to bring a wallpaper sample to Bed Bath and Beyond with me to pick out the curtains, but of course totally forgot to do so because I am dumb. A dumb GENIUS.




Here's a closeup of the fabric detail. See how it's kind of striped, with the reds and the oranges and the golds? And then striped the other way? Pretty.


So that's the story of how I found curtains that fit our windows. So that's one less thing to worry about. Except for lack of furniture and my new job and the whole giving birth thing. But other than that, totally worry-free.


* * *


Speaking of overpriced interior design, Greg at daddytypes recently posted about child naming trends as predicted by monograms depicted in the too-rich-for-our-blood Pottery Barn Kids catalogue. One of the featured monogrammed names? "Cal." First thought: Hey! They stole our name! Second thought: Oh thank god, proof that we're not crazy for choosing to name our kid "Cal." Though I might have to re-examine my own sanity in using Pottery Barn as a barometer for mental health.

Currently reading: The 10-day weather forecast. After two weeks of humid, 90 degree weather, it finally seems to be cooling off. For a little while, at least. Why does the weather have to be so damn extreme? It seems like it went from March to August temperatures the span of a week.

dependent edema

Yesterday at my parents's house I happened to stroll by a mirror, and stopped mid-stride. And turned to the right, then to the left, all while keeping an eye on my reflection. Something was different.

"Guys, does this uterus make me look fat?" my sister said, making fun of my self-scrutiny. But it wasn't that, exactly. I mean, yes, my mid-section looked large, but I was used to that by now. Something else was different. Something about my legs and feet. Not to dwell on physical appearances, but...they looked fat. Looking straight down, my feet even looked strange from that vantage point. They looked bigger somehow, and strangely smooth and contour-less, unlike the usual mess of bones and veins usually on display. I reached down and pushed on the dorsal surface firmly with an extended index finger. When I withdrew a few seconds later, a finger-shaped indentation remained.

"Oh my god, I have pitting edema. I have 1+ pitting edema!" I nudged Joe and repeated my trick. "Look!" This time I made a new indentation next to the first, which had yet to re-inflate. "I'm like one of my own patients!"

Joe probed the skin up to my calves, which was similarly puffy, though not quite as impressively as my feet. "I would call it trace," he said loyally.

"Trace? Look at my feet! They're huge! I need some freaking compressions stockings over here!" I couldn't keep my hands off myself. (No, not like that, you pervs.) I kept pushing and prodding at my own third-spaced fluid like it was a damn video game. I felt like a fascinating science experiment. "Maybe because I was on call last night."

"Probably," Joe agreed.

"You know, on my feet all night."

"Exactly."

"Anyway, I'll diurese all of this off after the kid is born."

"Of course."

"Either that, or you're going to have to write me for some Lasix."

"Certainly."

"Or maybe I'll just have a couple of beers."

Currently eating: Doggie bag leftovers from the party yesterday. Lobster tempura is surprisingly tasty even when cold.

not with a bang, but with a whimper

So it's official, I'm no longer a Peds resident. I finished my last PICU call last night, and now I'm on vacation for the last two weeks before I start with Anesthesia. It's all a little anti-climactic since I've basically been phasing out of Peds for the past two months, along with the fact that I just got my schedule from the Anesthesia Department, and apparently my first month is going to be spent on...Peds Surgery. In some ways, I was relieved to see that's how the schedule panned out (unclear if they did that on purpose or if it was just a coincidence), because it's going to make the transition a little easier, and I might know some of the attendings that I'm paired with as many of them rotate through the PICU. However, in some other ways, I wish they had put me on something "adult" for the first month of supervised one-on-one time, because when the hell am I ever going to (re)learn my adult medicine? Then again, that's how I felt two years ago, when I started my Peds internship after I basically hadn't touched a Pediatric patient for nine months. Or any patients, for that matter, since the second half of my fourth year of med school was kind of...relaxed.

It's sad, though, to leave the Peds department. We had good times, and we had bad times, but we had times. And I'm going to be leaving a lot of friends, or at least not seeing them as frequently as I do now. That's the bad part.

The good part is that, to cheer myself up, I got an OR cap to wear on the job. Check it:





That's right, it's printed with SCUTMONKEYS. Ha! (Picture courtesy of the retailer, HoviHats on Ebay.) As you can see, I am rather easy to cheer up.

Now we're headed uptown to my parent's housewarming party. Yeah, my parents just moved. And the reason I never mentioned it up until now is the fact that their new apartment is in the same building, seven floors above their old apartment. Ah, the winds of change.

Currently reading: "Garlic and Sapphires." Well, just finished it, actually. How can I get a job like that? That's only one step down from my real dream job: travel writer. Well, I would have to qualify: travel writer for a publication with a lot of money. I don't want to be living out of a backpack, reviewing hostel after hostel while picking other people's escaped dredlocks and hash bits from my bedding.

shoe talk

There was some discussion in the comments section about comfortable hospital shoes, so I thought I'd weigh in. Not that I'm some expert or anything, and keep in mind that I'm a lady, so maybe there's some Secret Ultra-Comfort Men's Shoe out there of which I'm unaware--but the hospital shoes that I own fall into three main categories, each with their own pros and cons.






Obviously, we have our clogs. These are the first hospital shoes I bought at the beginning of my third year of med school, and they have served me well. We all know that clogs are the standard in hospital footwear, but they are by no means perfect.

PROS:

• A comfortable, roomy flat shoe for everyday walking around.
• Depending on the style, may be fancy-looking enough to pass for a "real" shoe if you're having a dress-up day--Grand Rounds or what have you.
• Easy to slip on and off for when you're on call and have the pleasure of getting some shut-eye.
  

CONS:

• Maybe it's just because I've had my clogs for so long, but I find them to be a little hard on the soles of my feet if I'm to be standing for prolonged periods of time. Walking around during the course of a normal day is no problem, but for prolonged standing or a 24-hour shift, I prefer something with a cushier sole.
• Due to the fact that they're so roomy and easy to slip on and off, it's actually kind of dangerous to run in these shoes. Not recreational running, of course, that would be CRAZY TALK, but I mean running to codes, running away from the portable X-ray machine, running to the snack machine between patients on rounds. I have turned my ankle more times than I can count in clogs.
• Kind of expensive, but maybe that's not really a con, since they last so long. I've had my first pair for going on four years now, and they're still perfectly serviceable (though fashionably scuffed at the toe box).

Ah, the sneaker. Good old sneaker. This is actually the pair that I have (well, one of the pairs), located after some angst-filled searching when Cara clued me in on an online distributor that carried my size. They are lovely to behold. But they are still not the perfect hospital shoe.

PROS:

• Come on, man. They just look cool. And allow for some modicum of fashion expression in your choice of Saucs vs. neon colored Roos vs. fancy high-performance running sneakers. I am an individual, dammit, not a hospital drone!
• You got your cushioned sole right here. Standing for hours in the OR or on rounds? These will serve you and your pressure-points well.
• You can run in these shoes without the fear of breaking your damn leg. Well, unless you're a real klutz.

CONS:

• They are a tad on the casual side. Fine with scrubs, but maybe you're on a service that requires you to actually wear work clothes like a normal person.
• They might feel a little snug at the end of the day, depending on how much standing around you do and the status of your lymphatic system.
• A bitch to pull on and off in a rush. Imagine this: you're sleeping in the call room overnight, and there's a code. "Hold on...let me just...unlace...my sneakers...so I can put them on..." I suppose you could just lace them really loosely so that you can slip them on and off easier, but it's hard to beat the clog for that kind of "Look Ma, no hands!" convenience.

And finally, we have the moc, which I guess is sort of a clog/sneaker hybrid. I'm assuming "moc" is short for "moccasin," but no retailers seem to call it that, maybe because it conjures up images of fringed leather footwear with beads and Sacajawea. Anyway, as you can see, the moc is sort of a slip-on walking shoe with a sneaker-ish sole. Many people have Merrells, but I find that for hospital-use purposes, the winter Mocs at Land's End or L.L. Bean work just as well, and cost less than half the price. (Unfortunately, Land's End doesn't seem to carry their "All-Weather Mocs" in the summertime, but I'm sure they'll be back in the fall.)

PROS:

• Cushiony.
• You can run in them.
• Easy to slip on.

CONS:

• Ugly as sin.

So there you are, The Underwear Drawer guide to hospital shoes. Any reader recommendations are more than welcome in the Comments section--I'm always on the lookout for the Next Great Shoe. Do you think they'll let me wear my Floaties on call tonight?

Currently reading: "Garlic and Sapphires," an excellent recommendation by Cecily from ye olde Comments section. In brief, it's a memoir-slash-food love story written by the former chief restaurant critic of the New York Times. Lord, this book is making me hungry. Too bad all of those reviews are at least ten years old now, no way to know if they still have the same chefs or menus--or indeed, if some of the smaller restaurants are even still around.

stuff i bought

Ooh, look what I got yesterday!





Have you seen these? They're these flip-flops, only they're super-squishy because the soles are made out of a one inch-thick layer of sponge covered in, I don't know, latex or something. So when you walk, it's like taking a walk in the clouds, and not in that Keanu Reeves period-romance way. Such a delight for the poor, abused feet. I swear, my arches are going to have a party when we finally unload Cal, because they are not used to supporting all this extra weight. They're like, "Hey lady, what gives?" I wore a sandal with a wedge heel to the reunion last week, and I swear, my feet just about mutinied on me. So now I have to buy them treats to win them over again to my side.


* * *


I have found the solution to our expensive dog-entertaining problem. As I have mentioned before, Cooper has a little problem with her stuffed toys. She loves them, literally begs for them, but once we hand a fresh one over, she completely disembowels it within about 20 minutes. Then, no more toy. And no more money, because these dog toys cost $3-5 at the absolute cheapest, and more like $7-10 for dogs built larger than oh, say, a chihuahua. The dog, she does not understand that it takes money to buy new toys, and that I am not some sort of giving tree or toy-making elf.

Enter the Salvation Army. Did you know you can get stuffed animals there for only 99 cents? And some of them are pretty cute too--see Cooper's teddy bear in the picture from yesterday's entry. (That's shortly before she ripped its head off and pulled out all its sweet, sweet polyester guts, by the way.) Why, for the price of ONE "dog toy" from PetCo, I could get, like SEVEN stuffed animals from the Salvation Army! It's not like the "real" dog toys last any longer. (Well, some of them do, mostly of the hard rubber and rope variety, but she is only occasionally interested in these, unless when they're smeared with some sort of foodstuff.) And sure, some of the stuffed animals are a little matted and busted looking, but WHO CARES, the dog is just going to destroy them anyway. It would be different if I were giving them to my kid, but for a dog, all I care is that it's not, like, impregnanted with arsenic or something. You just have to be careful when picking through the Salvation Army stuffed animal bin. Don't choose any toy with some big plastic piece that the dog could choke on when she inevitably rips it off, or any kind of "beanie" stuffed animal. Because when that dog gets to the little beanbag core and rips it open, you and your broom are going to get friendly.

Some part of me is worried that by continually buying her more stuffed toys and having her destroy them as part of her "play," I'm just reinforcing this destructive behavior and dooming Cal to a life of headless teddy bears. But you know what, we'll get to that "these are the dog toys, these are the baby toys" lesson when the time comes around. And at least Coop now no longer destroys non-toy items, like our chairs and tables and cushions. That's a step in the right direction, at least.

Anyway, it's been way to hot these past few days for a black dog to go to the park during the middle of the day, and what the hell else is she supposed to do for entertainment? Read?

Currently reading: The New York Times series on "Class Matters" in America. (Socioeconomic class, that is, not school class or elegance class.) There are 10 installments in the series so far about everything from Health Care to Marriage to Education, and it's really very eye-opening and worth a gander.

nobody's going to die

I know my last post must have sounded kind of nuts to many people, but since I've been stressing about it basically night and day, I just had to put it out there, as opposed to keeping it all bottled up inside while rocking back and forth in the corner picking at myself. In most ways, my situation isn't really different from that of anyone working in any kind of high-intensity job. It's not exactly that you're not supposed to have a personal life, you're just not supposed to let that personal life interfere with work. At all. But whatever, I'm not the first person to do this, I certainly won't be the last, I should just stop wasting all my energy worrying about external forces and just deal with things as they come.

I should just listen to my own advice once in a while. Isn't it funny how it's so much easier to give advice to others than to apply that same advice to yourself? Ha ha ha, so funny! (Ahem.) Anyway, my stock advice for calming people down in the workplace, however draconian as it may sound, is, "Nobody's going to die." Well, maybe that's not advice, more putting things into perspective. Like if I have an intern who's freaking out and has fifteen thousand things to do and her pager is going off non-stop and this kid just kicked out her IV and this parent is demanding to speak to patient relations because the kid hates green Jello and there was green Jello on her lunch tray and...gaah...gaaah...GAAAAH! (This is followed by the sound of a head exploding.) It's OK. We're going to get through this. Nobody's going to die. And even though that sounds comically extreme (like saying, "Well, at least this day is better than being caught in a nuclear holocaust"), in the context of the hospital, it's kind of...less implausible. And with that perspective in place, we take a deep breath and move on with our work.

(I don't say this when there actually is a risk of someone dying, though.)

Calm down, Michelle. Nobody's going to die.


* * *


So I've been trying to chase down our nursery furniture for the past month or so now, to no avail. We placed our order all the way back in the beginning of March, at which time we were told the stuff was on backorder, and would arrive in 10-12 weeks. 10-12 somehow morphed into 14-16, and now I'm starting to get concerned that the stuff's not going to get here until Cal's packing his bags for college. It's OK, he and the dog can share a bed until then.





See, there's plenty of room.

When I called the store last week, the furniture hadn't even left the distributor warehouse in Canada yet. Canada, for chrissake. We placed the order three months ago! What are they doing up there? Chopping down the tree for the wood to build the crib? Eating Canadian bacon? Enjoying their socialized health care? Surprisingly, however, when I called this morning, the new projected arrival date in New York is actually June 10th. Whether or not this "projection" is based in reality remains to be seen, but after the stuff gets to the city, it's just a matter of setting up delivery with the store itself to get it all up to our apartment. This is easier said than done of course, because as with any major furniture delivery, it involves getting the OK from the building super, padding up the elevator, and making sure that all the stuff is all upstairs within the designated time frame--or else it's lights off for us. (Remember, we had some issues with that when we moved into the apartment two years ago.) Thankfully, one plus of this furniture delivery is that the delivery guys actually also help assemble the furniture for us, thus saving us (read: Joe) many hours of wrestling with pegs and widgits.

Meanwhile, while Cal gets the nice hardwood crib, Mom and Dad are still sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Well, not that I really mind. It's a shorter height from which to fall out of bed, anyway.


* * *


Hey, did you know that they're making a movie out of "Rent?" I didn't. Looks like they got most of the original cast back for the film version, too. Might be interesting. I'm hoping that the movie won't be quite as loud as the stage version. I think I've seen the play twice, and it seems like they're combating the staleness that accompanies a long-running show by just turning the speakers allllll the way up. I mean, I know it's like a "rock opera" and all that, but dang. Or maybe I'm just getting old. You damn kids, turn it down!

Currently reading: Was reading "One Hundred Demons," but obviously that's a quick read. Thinking about getting that Ruth Reichl book that one of you guys recommended--maybe even later today, if I can stomach the idea of walking to the bookstore in this weather. It was freaking 90 degrees out yesterday, with no apparent respite today.

non-stress test

As I was getting on the bus the other day, this little teen boy spotted me and started shouting urgently to his mom, "Levante te! Levante te! [Get up! Get up!] Embarazada! [Pregnant!]" until the mom stood up and gave me her seat. Wow, what a nice little teen boy. And what a nice mom. Gracias!


* * *


This has been a lovely and relaxing period for me, winding down my stint as a Peds resident. Obviously, I've had some PICU calls and ER shifts to cover, but otherwise, I'm getting a lot of rest, and have had a lot of time to spend with the dog, to plan for Cal, and generally try to get my life in order before July. This is all set to end rather soon, though. My Anesthesia residency begins July 1st. And I'm getting more than a little stressed about it all.

Aside from the stress of dealing with the new and unknown, the stress of having to learn a whole new skill set and prove myself to a whole new cohort (I don't know why this is such a big thing for me, this desire to "prove myself," but starting off my residency with maternity leave kind of puts me in a strange situation, and as in all tight-knit workplaces, I've been warned that "people talk") is stressing me right the fuck out. It doesn't help that I'm going to be nine months pregnant when I start either, probably the most slow-moving and break-requiring that I'll ever be, at least until I start getting my Senior Citizen's Discount to ride the subway. I just am so worried about starting off on the wrong foot or being perceived as some whiney special-treatment-requesting weakling that I'm intent on going in there and going all out, balls to the walls, to show everyone just how serious I am about medicine, about my career dammit, and what? Pregnant? What's that? No no, ignore the baby crowning as we speak, I can stay on for the rest of this case.

I may be stressing unduly about this (which I would be more than delighted to realize on my own when the time comes), but while I'm not old-fashioned enough to think that medicine is still this patriarchal bastion where having children during residency is frowned upon, I'm also not naive enough to think that every single person that I encounter is going to be warm and accepting about our situation. (Though again, I have to say again that the people in the department that I've spoken to so far have been nothing but lovely and understanding about our particulars.) I just want to be prepared for any backbiting that my leave may generate, and to maximally shore up against it by working my ass off the first four weeks that I'm there. In Peds, it would be no problem. I mean, group hugs and warm fuzzies aside, I think that after two years, I generally have a reputation of being hard-working, straight-shooting, responsible and all that. But no one in the Anesthesiology Department knows me at all. I have no good reputation to rely on yet. And I'm concerned about making a bad first impression , because that could dog me for months.

I know it's kind of ridiculous to stress about something over which I basically have no control, or over the prospect of taking medical leave after giving birth, because duh, that's what medical leave is for. In the words of my OB, who was giving me the crazy eyes when I was trying to make some babbling explanation about how difficult it would be for me to make my weekly appointment the last four weeks of pregnancy with only a 30 minute lunch break and a clinic schedule which, even under the best of circumstances, never runs on time--"You. Are. PREGNANT. So you and the people at work are just going to have to deal with it. Find someone to cover for you and then run across the street."


MICHELLE
Yeah, but I'm pretty sure that's not how it works, that I can just ask someone to "cover me," because it's like, one-on-one, and I'll be in orientation then, so if you all are running late, I'm not really sure that I can just...

OB
(As if to a child)
Find someone to cover.

MICHELLE
Yeah, but...I can't just...

OB
See you in two weeks.

MICHELLE
I...but...OK.


I figure that my contingency plan if I can't be seen in my half-hour lunch break is just to show up to L&D (Labor and Delivery) after work and just have someone do my prenatal exam there. Other residents have done it before. And hell, I work in a hospital. How difficult could it be for me to find someone to dip my urine and check my blood pressure? Though I'm pretty sure that by then, there's going to be some icky internal exam component to it, so that's just another delight to anticipate.

Currently reading: This New York Times article about moms breastfeeding in public. I know this is squeamish old puritanical America, but still, it's surprising to me how much flack some people get for making the choice to feed their kid out in the open, as opposed to, you know, in a toilet stall or something. Not to say that I'm not going to feel a little self-conscious about doing it, but that's my issue, and if you're comfortable, more power to you. Boob does not equal sex. If you are titillated (heh) by the sight of someone's minimally exposed boobage while she's feeding her baby, or made uncomfortable by the fact that you're seeing boob in a context to which you're unaccustomed, maybe that's something you need to work on. Or just look away, the way I do when I see someone in public eating anything with blue cheese on it, because my god, that is disgusting.

trash

There's a street fair down Second Avenue today, and enticed by the smell of grilling street food, I ran on down to pick up some Italian sausage for lunch. For the uninitiated, Italian sausage is this big old mess of...well, sausage...smothered with an even bigger mess of grilled onions and peppers, served on a huge flaky Italian roll. They sell it off these gigantic white carts with painted signs and rows of flashing multicolored lights, and the grilling smell that catches you when you walk by DEMANDS that you eat Italian sausage IMMEDIATELY.





I came back up the the apartment with my bounty and, drooling canine at my elbow, started eating. The problem is that Italian sausage is very hard to eat neatly. For one, there's the actual size of the sausage-roll complex--very difficult to cram in one's mouth--as well as the unwieldiness of the slopped on onion and peppers to contend with. So it should come as no surprise that, five minutes into lunch, a giant tangle of grilled onions landed right in my lap. On my white! linen! skirt! Nice one.

I managed to get the stain out with some hydrogen peroxide and a little scrubbing, but I knew that unless I girded myself with a full length rubber apron, the same thing was bound to happen again. And it's really a nice skirt when it's clean--in fact, one that I was planning to wear to a barbecue later this evening. I didn't want it to be ruined forever just because I had a hankering for grilled street meats.

So what did I do? Did I change into shorts? Did I cover my skirt with napkins to prevent further culinary mishaps? Did I start eating my Italian sausage with a fork and knife?

No. In the end, I just took off the skirt and finished eating lunch in my underwear.

Later, my baby daddy and I plan to head on over to the county dump to shoot at some cans, and maybe trap a squirrel or two for dinner. Yeeeee-haw!

Currently reading: "Basics of Anesthesia," aka "Baby Miller." (Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it's called "Baby Miller" because Miller wrote a much larger, scarier two-volume textbook, of which the "Baby Miller" is basically the stripped-down Cliff Notes version.)

still nerdy after all these years

In honor of the reunion last night, I present to you my high school "school song," which for some reason I remember in its entirety. I know I can't present the melody, but rest assured that it has something of a droning quality about it, and isn't really peppy or invigorating at all (which I guess is only what can be expected for a school with no decent sport teams).

Sing to our school, forever may she stand,
Forever sheltering those who loved and served her well.
Strive for her fame, with firm and willing hand,
Let all Hunter ring as we sing alma MAAAAA-ter.
Now sing her name loud and clear,
Now sing her name loud and clear,
Now sing her NAAAAAME...loud and clear.
SIIIIIING...HUUUUUUUN...TEEEEEER!

(There's a second verse too, but I'll spare you that particular torment.)

So, ten years later, at the reunion honoring our high school days, have we proven to "strive for her fame with firm and willing hand?" Unclear. All I know is that there were a whole messload of people in varying stages of completing training in medicine, business and law. First runners up were people with careers in writing or the graphic arts. Second runners up were those who went around saying, "Oh my god, I was so embarrassed to come to this reunion because I'm not doing anything in medicine, business, law, writing, or graphic arts."

I know I said before that everyone from my high school looks basically the same as the day they graduated, but I was wrong. I was just thinking about my particular cohort of friends. The rest of them have changed so drastically that upon arriving at The Lemon Bar, I thought I was at the wrong event and was in the process of looking for another room where the real reunion was being held, because WHO THE HELL WERE THESE PEOPLE? But then people started saying hi to me and I started noticing that everyone was wearing those "Hello, my name is..." nametags (thankfully, to minimize those embarrassing contretemps) so I realized that indeed, I was at the right place after all. Some people--mostly the girls--looked exactly the same as the day we graduated from high school. But exactly. However, those people that looked different--perhaps due to varying delays of maturation between the sexes, many of the guys--looked completely, unrecognizably different. Weight and hair follicle density flux reigned supreme.

I did have a good time, rehashing various minutiae from our salad days with various close and peripheral acquaintances, but I'm sure Joe was bored out of his skull. He was being a very good sport about it, gamely chatting with other spouses and fetching me glass after glass of water from the bar, but when 11pm rolled around and I asked him if he wanted to go home, he said, "I'm ready whenever you're ready" which is his nice way of saying, "Holy crap, I don't know any of these people and I couldn't care less what happened during that one AP Bio dissection lab where Buddy offered to eat a piece of the the cow heart for $50, now GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS SWEAT-REEKING STINK HOLE." So we went home. Fun stuff, though. And I've never had my belly rubbed so many times in such a short period. Cal was like, "What the hell is going on out there? And why is the DJ playing 'Hip Hop Hooray' by Naughty by Nature? You guys are a bunch of fucking fossils."

Currently purchasing: Some more scented candles. (I prefer "Mountainview" myself.) The whole apartment smells like dog.

those were the days

After a relatively calm night in the PICU, I headed over to to Upper East Side for my usual drive-by OB appointment, in which my doctor basically sticks her head out of a moving car and shouts at me "Everything looks fine baby sounds good see you in two weeeeeeks..." while speeding on by to the next examining room. Hopefully I'll get a little more individual attention when, you know, Cal is actually emerging from my womb. At the same time, as someone who's dealt with clinic time pressures, I can't really say that I can totally fault her. I mean, when there's nothing more to say, there's nothing more to say, right? I just think that one of the true arts of medicine is making the patient feel like you're spending more time with them than you actually are. Little things like sitting down when you talk to them. Or taking your hand off the doorknob.


* * *


So, it's the big ten-year high school reunion tonight! To celebrate, or perhaps to torture you all, I've decided to share some of the photos from my high school archive. Warning: Bad home highlighting jobs and bangs ahead.




Here was the center of my high school social scene--at least when it was warm out--the courtyard. See, most high schools have sports fields and lawns. In Manhattan, we had poured concrete courtyards. It was basically a basketball court surrounded by some brick steps and arches. But underestimate not ye the brick steps! Where you sat on the steps designated your clique affiliation. I think we used to sit at the middle left of the steps, but we may have moved around some. There's me in the middle row of the cluster, all the way to the right. And no, you're not seeing things, there were a lot of Asian kids at my high school.





I took this picture in my eight grade science lab. This is to show how our school was basically falling apart. It was a good high school, don't get me wrong, we just didn't have a lot of money for frivolities like ceiling repair or, oh, asbestos removal. I think the kid who has his head through the ceiling actually attempted to climb up into the ceiling space before the teacher showed up.





I think this picture is from the eighth grade too. My friends came over to my apartment to Trick-or-Treat on Halloween. And before you say that we were too old to Trick-or-Treat, let me just remind you: free candy. And there you are. From left to right is me (yes, that's me) dressed as Gilligan from "Gilligan's Island,"; Maria dressed as...a vampire, I think?; Sumi dressed as "a crazy person" (I think she's supposed to be in a straightjacket, unclear what the wig was about); Melissa's younger sister dressed as a hobo; Julie dressed as a scary doll; and Melissa dressed as a hippie.





Remember how I said that there were a lot of Asians in my high school? Well, there was this thing called the Asian Cultural Society (ACS), which was basically this school club which served an unclear purpose. Most of the year, it seems that they just sat around and gossiped about people, or occasionally planned a bake sale, but once a year, they would put on a cultural show for the Lunar New Year. I was a member of ACS only around this time of year, basically because I wanted to be in the show. This is a shot from the show when I was in tenth grade, where I was a performer in the "Chinese Flag Dance" number. (I'm the chick in red all the way on the left.) The dance was fun, but with all the loud Chinese music and waving swaths of red silk, there was a strange element of "Yay, Communism!" about it all.





Here's me with Jamal at the prom. We didn't go together--Jamal went with this JUNIOR that we knew, I went with the person I was dating at the time, who has been, shall we say, "lost to follow-up" in the intervening years. I was one of the co-presidents of the senior class (yes yes, NERD ALERT), so I had spent a lot of time helping to plan this prom. It was originally supposed to be at the New York Palace (formerly known as "The Helmsley Palace" prior to the whole Leona Helmsley tax-evasion thing), but then the ceiling collapsed in their ballroom--I'm not making this up--so we had to change venues at the last second. We managed in the end to secure space at the Waldorf-Astoria, which I think worked out nicer in the end. Plus, it was fun, because all these old people who were staying at the hotel kind of crashed our prom, and it was fun dancing with them.





Finally, a picture from graduation. That's me at the podium, giving the class speech. I just need to clarify that the fact that I was giving the class speech DID NOT mean that I was smart or popular in high school. I wish I had been a better student--or barring that, at least a sparkling social butterfly--but the fact of it is that everyone else at my high school was so smart that I ended up being kind of mediocre in that milieu. However, like with many things at Hunter, election of the class speaker was very egalitarian. Basically, everyone who wanted to speak at graduation wrote their own speech and presented it to the class during some lunchtime assembly, and then everyone voted on which speech they liked the best. (Or hated the least, I guess.) I'm trying to figure out why everyone in this picture is smiling or laughing instead of looking bored out of their minds. I figure I either just said something kind of funny, or they're all laughing at my mauve platform Mary Janes.

Ah, high school memories. It'll be fun to see everyone tonight.


* * *


So congratulations to George Stephanopoulos and...uh...wife of George Stephanopoulos...for the new addition to their family! The reason that this announcement caught my eye in the maelstrom of celebrity gestations and births (it seems that pregnant is the new black these days) is that they decided to name their baby girl "Harper." Which is exactly the name that I was trying to convince Joe to have us name Cal back in the day before we knew Cal was all penile. After Harper Lee, you see. But Joe nixed it in the end because he said it was "kind of weird." Weird like a fox.

Currently reading: The New York Times review of "Cinderella Man." Sounds pretty milquetoast. They should have just called this movie "Human Seabiscuit," because that's what it basically is.

32 weeks

Cal just hit the eight month mark, and I'm the size of a freaking dirigible.

Seriously, is it possible that we still have eight weeks left? Is this possible? how could we possibly get larger than this? And what's going to happen to me? Am I going to become the queen of the ant colony, all gigantic and gelatinous and pulsating, tended to by little worker drones because I've lost all of my appendages and therefore the ability to move? I mean, this pregnancy thing has been fun and all that from a science experiment perspective, but seriously, I'm kind of done with it at this point. Enough already.

I know I'm lucky, though, in that I've not had to deal with the following things so far during this pregnancy:

• Any significant nausea
• "Pregnancy brain" (the phenomenon of becoming unusually absent-minded while cooking the bun in the old uterus-oven)
• Stretch marks (please karma, don't give me any now just because I said I didn't have any yet)

However, pregnancy phenomena that I have not been lucky enough to escape:

• Sciatic pain
• Back pain
• Our friend the linea nigra (Joe: "Maybe it's an evolutionary adaptation to help the surgeon find midline!")

OK then. Eight more weeks. Let the countdown commence.

* * *


Now that it's warm out again, we've replanted our little outdoor urban garden. It was a lot easier than last year when we had to start from scratch--this time, we could re-use all of the same dirt, which saved a lot of time. Let's just hope we don't kill everything like we did last year.






We went with the petunias again, but planted these weird-looking purple spore-like flowers with spinach leaves. I have no idea what they're called, but I like them.






In the big planters, I put dahlias and calla lilies. The calla lilies I enjoy just for the fact of being able to say, in a Katherine Hepburn voice, "The calla lilies are in bloom again."

Now as long as we can keep Cooper from digging up all the plants, I think we should be good for the summer.


* * *


I'm on call in the PICU tonight. Second to last Peds call ever. Please let it be better than my last two PICU calls, I'm due for a good one.

Currently reading: Look, even the New York Times is convinced that Tom Cruise has lost it.

famous talking head

So I went to the David Sedaris reading/book signing thing this evening, and of course, the place was packed. So packed that I couldn't really see the guy at all. There were speakers, of course, and I think he was being videotaped and simulcast down to a TV setup in the cafe, but that was a whole floor below where the actual reading was taking place. So the whole experience basically amounted to going to a bookstore to listen to the playing of a book on tape. It was still fun though, because I tend to enjoy his books on tape more than I enjoy the books themselves (something about how he does the voices makes it a lot more funny), and at the end he took some questions from the audience, which ranged from interesting to insipid.

Near the end, jockeying for a good spot, I did manage to get a tiny peek of him--or of someone I could only assume was him, since he was the only head I could see that was facing the towards the audience, and it did look like he was seated at a desk or something, up on stage. But it was still hard to say, because I was so far away I couldn't tell if his lips were moving or not. So far as I know, it could have been some security guy. Regardless, the tiny bobbing head I saw was a good approximation of David Sedaris--white, with a short haircut, wearing a dusty blue shirt and a yellow tie--so I'll just say it was him and feel good about myself for the rest of the night. Despite my fan-dom, however, I didn't stay around to actually get my book signed, because it was just too much of a mob scene. "For those of you with orange wristbands," boomed an overhead announcement after the Q&A ended, "please line up by the far wall, we will be moving you to the stage area by row. For those of you without orange wristbands," (and you could tell from her tone that in the caste system of the book signing, we were the lowest of the low--NO WRISTBANDS, for chrissake), please proceed to the information desk and await further instruction." What the hell was this, Lollapalooza? I don't have time for this! Can't you see, I am very important and busy! So I just took my sighting of the famous talking head and left the building.

Joe was late getting out from work, but met me at the door of the bookstore right as the signing was ending. Walking home along Park Avenue South, we saw some chick get out of a cab with her date and lose what I assumed was a dollar bill from her hand to the wind. She shrugged and made no motion to go for it, even though the wind had died down by then and the bill was already spinning it's way back down to earth. "What, you're just going to let that go?" Her date asked, surprised. "That's a ten dollar bill!" She just shrugged again and just started walking away, with the obedient man-boy trailing close behind. Joe caught the bill as it returned to earth literally seconds later--sure enough, it was a ten dollar bill. We looked down the street at the couple--they hadn't even looked back.

"Who just walks away after dropping ten dollars?" I asked.

"Dude, just keep it!" Shouted a passerby. "Clearly, they don't want it." The couple were now just specks on the horizon. After a moment of hesitation, Joe shrugged and pocketed the money. I was pleased with our surprise mini-fortune, but still aghast that people could just drop good money like that and not seem to care.


MICHELLE
Man, it's not like it blew across the street or into the sewer or anything. If they had just waited five more seconds, they could have picked it up. I can't believe they wouldn't chase after a ten dollar bill. Damn, I would chase after a one dollar bill.

JOE
Hey, if they don't care, I don't care about keeping it. And you can have one dollar of it.

MICHELLE
What, is that my cut? 10% as my agent fee?

JOE
Yeah. Your Asian fee.

MICHELLE
Heh.


Currently reading: "I Never Liked You." Chester Brown was kind of an acquired taste for me, but now I dig his stuff.