So this month I'm rotating through Orthopedics again (doing so-called "regional" anesthesia--nerve blocks and such) so I knew that it was finally time to come clean. I knew that at some point, I would be in a room with The Friendly Ortho Nurse, and I knew at that point, she would have to chart my name into the computerized OR record. Then the truth would have to come out. The truth that my name is not Cathy.
MICHELLE (In the OR, setting up)
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE (Walking in) Morning, Cathy! Are you in this room today?
MICHELLE Yep. Ready to rumble.
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE Great, Cath! We have a good room today! And our surgeon is Dr. Green! He's so nice! And he doesn't yell! We're lucky today, Cathy!
MICHELLE Good news!
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE Yes, we're going to have a good day, Cath!
MICHELLE Can't wait!
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE Cathy Cathy Cathy!
MICHELLE Uh...Friendly Ortho Nurse? I have to tell you something embarrassing.
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE What is it, Cathy?
MICHELLE This is totally my fault.
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE What happened?
MICHELLE Well...you know how you always call me "Cathy?" Uh...my name is actually Michelle.
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE Ca...Michelle?
MICHELLE This is totally my fault--at first I thought I heard you wrong, and then I never corrected you, and then it just kind of got out of control. But I should have said something earlier. I am so embarrassed. Sorry.
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE Your name...is Michelle!
MICHELLE Yeah. Sorry! It's all my fault for not saying something before.
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE (Giving Michelle a hug) I knew that! I knew you were Michelle! But I called you "Cathy"! I'm so embarrassed!
MICHELLE (Hugging back) No, I'm so embarrassed!
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE I do this all the time! I confuse Olson and Phil all the time! And I always think that Mike is Steve and Steve is Mike!
MICHELLE Yeah, everyone always calls me "Amy" because she and I have the same glasses. It happens to me all the time, so I don't want you to feel bad. But I just wanted to tell you before the day began.
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE Thank you! Oh, how funny! I'm sorry!
MICHELLE No, I'm sorry. So, what do you say, should we bring the patient in?
SCRUB TECH Dude, she just said her name is "Michelle"!
FRIENDLY ORTHO NURSE Aaah! I did it again!
So that's the end of that. You know, I was watching this standup routine on Comedy Central a few months back (yes, I am an unemployed man) and the comedian did a bit with the EXACT SAME SETUP, wherein his neighbors got him confused with someone else and consistently called him the wrong name. Until one day someone corrected them, and then they went back to calling the comedian by his real name. But then he was bummed, because he kind of liked the wrong name, and he missed being called "Kevin," or whatever it was that they called him in the bit.
To be clear--I do not miss being called "Cathy."
Currently reading:"Anesthesia Secrets." I have to take my in-service exam in something like six weeks, and after almost a year of doing this, I figure they probably want me to know something.
Hee, funny. I just relieved one of the CNRAs from her room for 15 minutes so that she could run to the TV and get the voting call-in numbers for "American Idol". The only knowledge I have of "American Idol" is limited to the morning-after commentary I get in the OR, and though I am cognizant of the fact that tonight is, like, the final sing-off (or whatever) I am only vaguely aware of the contestants from passive media osmosis. I think it's down to The Grey Haired Guy and The Girl. (The CRNA is voting for The Grey-Haired Guy.)
So I'm on call again tonight, which means that Joe is at home with Cal. These past few weeks, we've been kind of tag-teaming it with child care, more out of necessity than anything else. Sometimes we can predict when we're going to be at work late, and unfortunately sometimes we can't--but anytime that lateness can be anticipated (a scheduled overnight call, for example) we need to make sure that the other parent can be home in time for The Nighttime Routine, consisting of dinner, bath, and other such revels. We've been reasonably successful this year in making sure that at least one of us is able to be home with the baby in the evenings, but the bad part about staggering out schedule is that during our busier periods, Joe and I don't really get to see each other at all. Sunday I was on call all day, Joe got home late Monday evening, I'm on call again tonight, and Joe has a late conference that he has to attend tomorrow night. Like two ships passing in the night. Tired ships.
I feel much less guilty about being at work when I know that Cal's with Joe, though. Knowing Cal's with Joe is the next best thing to being with Cal myself. Like right now, I'm sitting in a hospital call room, but I know that Joe and Cal are at home playing, taking a bath, getting into pajamas, bedding down for the night. And I know that the next time I talk to Joe, I'll get the full report, and I mean a full report, with a parent's attention to detail. I was just walking into my OR earlier this evening when I got a call from Joe at home. "I just want you to hear something," he said. There was a rustle, and some cajoling sounds. Then I heard Cal jabbering, "Da da dah dih dah." And then, "Wah wah wah."
"That's the first time I heard him say 'wah!'" Joe said, wresting the phone back. "Pretty cool!"
"Yeah," I told him. "Pretty cool." And the thing is this: even though I couldn't be there with them, I know that, with Joe at home, part of me was anyway.
Currently eating: Falafel from one of those sidewalk food carts. Don't tell me about the roach parts and fecal contamination, I DON'T WANT TO KNOW.
I had the best Sunday call yesterday. One big case during the day (my standard crani for aneurysm--every time I have a Sunday call, I end up doing a crani for aneurysm) that kept my busy during the daylight hours and helped the time pass faster. But then after that, the sweet, sweet sound of silence. I think one of my co-residents got called to do some 20-minute gyn crap (these weekend gyn cases inevitably involve sucking blood clots out of something) but seriously, it was quiet the entire rest of the night. We all got to eat our dinner (out of emesis basins, scooped with tongue blades, because this time there were no plates or plastic forks) and we all got to sleep. And best of all, I got to come home this morning and be a non-zombie parent for Cal. Truly awesome. Can I tell you how cute Cal is getting? I mean, he was always cute, but people, COME ON NOW. It's not fair to the ladies.
He's not quite walking yet, but standing and cruising quite nicely. I think he considers walking, but at the last second, he chickens out, either reaching out to hold on to something, or plopping back down onto the safety of his well-padded butt. Which, actually, is the same strategy I use when I go skiing.
The funniest thing he does--well, one of the funniest things--is that he crows like a rooster. Seriously, that's exactly what it's like. When he does something new and notable, or he gets really excited about something, he sticks out his chest, clenches his fists, and starts crowing in triumph. Maybe this is one of those things that falls under the category of "Only Cute To The Parents, While Everyone Else Wants To Shut That Damn Kid Up Already," but being the parent, I am blind so such sadly unbiased points of view. Because to me, nothing is funnier than a ten month-old baby vocalizing the equivalent of, "By the power of Grayskull, I am He-Man!"
Joe's mom was in town for the past week, and I worry that she thinks we're nuts. Given that she has three kids and two other grandchildren, she's from more of a relaxed, "let it be, it'll all be OK" school of parenting, whereas we as first-timers are coming more from the obsessive-compulsive and guilt-laden school of parenting. She feels (I think) that we dote on Cal too much, whereas my feeling is that if I only get to see my kid awake for three hours a day during the work week, I sure as hell am going to be picking him up and cuddling and playing with him at least two hours and forty-five minutes of those three waking hours. (The other fifteen minutes are for showering.) So yes, we hug and kiss and snuggle him a lot. But what of it? Soon he'll be a pimply teenager and hate us and everything we stand for, so we have to get all this cuddling in while we can.
But whatever, I guess that's such a typical grandparent-parent scenario that it's its own stereotype. It was great having her around for the week, and Cal certainly loved all the extra attention and home-cooking. As, I suspect from the drool puddle next to the dining room table, did Cooper. Either that, or Cooper has finally decided that she is, indeed, going to eat the baby at last.
Currently reading:About Barbaro and his broken ankle. I don't know why I'm so obsessed with this story--I couldn't care less about horse racing, obviously, and it barely even registered on my current events radar when he won the Kentucky Derby, because what? The Kentucky what? But something about the accident is so sad, and, I think, appeals to anyone who was ever a little kid who drew pictures of horses and spent many hours combing the manes of her assorted My Little Ponies. Also, there is something terrible and horrifying about this picture, which shows him running all-out on his broken ankle.
(Barbaro is the fifth from the left, with the jockey wearing blue with green sleeves. Look at how his right back leg is going out all sideways at the ankle joint. Gah! Picture courtesy of Matt Houston/AP)
I got a package in the mail the other day, which was a little strange, because I hadn't ordered anything. Inside the outer box was a big slippery black box and a leatherette portfolio embossed with some fancy pants script that read "AWARD". Award? Me? I was an award winner! I was a STAR! I opened the big slippery black box, and inside was...a keychain. A keychain surrounded by a bed of foam. The "award" was a token of recognition from [University Hospital] for "three years of commitment and service."
A keychain. Dang. At least they could have sent me the umbrella or tote bag.
* * *
So the funny thing about this job fair. Joe and I both went, and we brought Cal long for the ride. We were both wearing name tags with our names and our specialties, and we both took turns holding Cal as we went up to the various booths. However, the people working the booths looked at the two of us, and invariably started talking to Joe, asking him what field he was in, when he was looking to place in a job, what geographical location was he looking at, etcetera. And at some point, either Joe or I would pipe in that yes, by the way, this is my wife Michelle, she's a resident in Anesthesia, and the employer/scout/headhunter's eyes would get all big and they would say, "Oh. OH! You're a doctor too! No kidding!" But then they would go back to talking to Joe. I'm not quite sure why this was--there were plenty of female physicians at the job fair, and there were even a few (older) kids running around the place. But I think the combination of having a double physician family show up with a baby just kind of threw them. IT'S JUST WAY TOO CONFUSING. Easier to assume that I was the child care associate, I guess. But anyway, we got a lot of free pens and promotional tchotchkes, and you know how I love that stuff.
Whatever. I don't want a job in rural Maine anyway. Do they even do Anesthesia up there, or do they just pack their patients in ice and hope that they don't feel anything?
(Just kidding, Maine lovers. I know Maine is supposed to be beautiful. But the recruiter was there for RURAL rural Maine. As in, the population of the town was half the size of the employee census of my current hospital. And that's including the moose. Meece. I don't mind moving to a town smaller than New York, but that's really, really small.)
* * *
So now that it's spring again, we've started our annual Planting of Outdoor Plants That We Will Eventually Kill. (Seriously, we kill them. But it's not out fault! Sometimes we get sold bum plants that are, like, half-dead already. And last year, the garden was doing really well, and then Cal was born, and come on, was I really supposed to remember to water the flowers EVERY DAY?) But this year, it's all good. We planted orange and yellow marigolds in the flowerboxes on the ledge, and these weird little pinky-orangey-yellow multicolored cluster flowers (I don't know the name) in the bigger pots on the side, and now everything looks so lovely and springy. I will take pictures when the sun actually deigns to shine, but for now, just trust me: SPRINGY. I also just ordered a few trees (they are very small "trees"--this is a city garden, remember) for some of our bigger pots. I got one lime tree, one lemon, and one orange. In my rich fantasy life, they will bloom and produce fruit and we will be Maximally Martha by using the fruit to cook and zest and make fruity drinks for our guests. But probably we will be lucky if we get one good-sized fruit out of each of these little shrubs. If we remember to water them, that is.
(This is called "being domestic".)
* * *
Oh yeah, Mother's Day. It was nice. I was maternal. Joe made pancakes. Then we went to Home Depot and got childproofing stuff so that Cal won't get electrocuted or eat bleach. He is really very, very close to walking. He has been standing alone (without holding on) for a while now, but now he has been taking single steps on his own. He is also very keen to go on the floor and cruise on stuff, no longer content to just be held or play in his designated play area (you know, the baby cage). Developmentally, he's doing really well, except for ONE THING. He doesn't say "ma ma." I don't mean saying it on purpose, like he's saying my name--I don't expect that for a while yet. But he doesn't even make the "ma" sound. He will say "mmmmm" and he says "da da" (as well as variations thereof--"do do" and "dih dih") until the cows come home, but no "ma ma ma." Come on Cal, IT'S NOT THAT HARD. Easier than "da da," anyway. Just close your mouth and open it. "Ma." SO EASY. So why can't you do it? Whenever I say "Ma ma ma" around him in order to, you know, encourage him to copy me, he just laughs. HA HA HA, SO FUNNY. You know what else was super funny? When I GAVE BIRTH TO YOU.
If he starts saying "Cooper" before he says "ma ma," I'm going to be a little peeved.
Currently reading:"Anesthesiology Review." This is actually a really good review book, for those interested in that kind of thing. I'm going in for the Hall book too, which I understand has a lot of practice questions in it.
in which i weigh in on various pop culture events about a week too late
I know all these things happened a little while ago and have been discussed to death, but humor me here. I'm out of touch.
* * *
So, this David Blaine thing. So we all know that it's kind of a dumb stunt--as well as physiologically implausible, the idea that someone struggling against 500 lbs. of chains and thereby increasing their metabolic rate could actually break a breath-holding record set under resting conditions--but am I the only one that thinks that the idea of being submerged in a glass ball for a week is just gross? He wore a fucking condom catheter for seven days! And he was showing various gawkers his bag o' urine! That's just MAGICAL! Also, where was the poop? Just because he was in a glass ball all "Labyrinth"-style and not eating doesn't mean that the gut stops making poop. Poop waits for no man. So, what, did he have a colostomy too? Furthermore, I would think that the water would get all murky after a few days just from the accumulation of all those sloughed-off skin cells in suspension. It would be like amniotic fluid.
These are just some of the things that I think about when I see a man in a snow globe.
* * *
So, Stephen Colbert at the White House Correspondents' Association Dinner. (My, that's a long name for a dinner. How about just, "The Chow Line?" Think about it for next year.) Now, let me preface this by saying that I know that we all have different political leanings and ideologies, and I'm OK with these differences if you are. It's a melting pot, people. I also know that reaction to the Colbert speech was mixed, some people hailing him as a comedy hero, while some people thought him to be mean and one-note and not very funny. Well, let me tell you that we have watched the Colbert speech three times total here at our camp (two times were back to back), and we are of the opinion that THE MAN IS A GENIUS. Seriously, that line, "That's because you looked it up in a book. Next time, look it up in your gut," has entered our lexicon of inscrutable communication-by-quoting-things-other-people-have-said. (Also: I love lamp.)
I just can't believe he got away with it, is all. I would think there'd be some sort of screening process for the speeches, especially with this administration, so intent on controlling their image, and that anything too racy or incendiary would be yanked or edited out while glowering Secret Service agents stand behind you cracking their knuckles. Yet, that would probably not be in the spirit of FREEDOM OF THE PRESS, now would it, at the White House Correspondents' Association Dinner. So bravo, Mister Colbert, for not pulling your punches. Bravo for being that kid who points out that the emperor is naked. Bravo for looking at the giant white elephant in the room that everyone is studiously trying to avoid and pointing out, "Hey! There's a freaking giant white elephant in the room! And it's THE WAR." It's the responsibility of the press to illuminate the truth. It's not the responsibility of the press to eschew the truth in order to be polite.
As for the other featured skit with Bush and the Bush impersonator--well, that was a whole lot of nothing. Same lame, old, tired, clean jokes, meant to convey the impression that ALL IS WELL WITH THE ADMINISTRATION, TRA LA LA! Oh, Bush and his malapropisms! How droll! Why, I have practically busted a gut laughing! And then I done laughed me some more! What's next, a joke about Bill Clinton eating McDonald's?
* * *
(This next bit is not pop culture related.)
Joe and I are going to a Job Fair today. I didn't know that they had job fairs for medicine jobs--sounds more like something they would have in a high school gym after classes, with heavy recruiting from local industries and one table recruiting for the army set up discreetly in the corner--but yes, there are medical job fairs. I've never been to one, obviously, but since Joe's going to be in his final year of residency next year, and since both he and I need to find jobs in the same geographic area (though unclear yet which area that will end up being) going to a job fair seemed like a good way to see what's out there. The job fair is at a hotel in midtown, with food and drink, and while I'm not quite sure what it will be like, my guess is that it'll be similar to a science fair, though with less posterboard.
The other thing about going to a job fair is that I actually have to redo my CV. Not that anything significant has really changed since the last time I updated my CV (no major major research papers accepted to Science...YET) but I have changed my computer, and the program I used to write my old CV does not translate over to Mac. Oh, Microsoft Publisher, I miss you. Anyway, so maybe "updating" my CV is not quite accurate--what I have to actually do is retype my CV before the job fair. Time to hop to it.
Currently watching:"Match Point." Despite the obvious similarities to "Crimes and Misdemeanors" (a superior story, in my opinion) and despite the somewhat flimsy deus ex machina that allowed for the amoralistic ending, this was a pretty good movie. It was also devoid of all those verbal tics and one-liners that have made the last few Woody Allen movies pretty annoying.
While on call, usually the overnight team will order food for dinner. We got Pan-Asian tonight. The food got here around 9:00pm--however, when my case finally ended at 10:30pm, all the food was gone. All that was left were the garnishes. Pieces of side vegetable that no one wanted to eat, sauces, dollops of rice here and there, and the unsavory Mystery Tempura, which, unlike its already-masticated bretheren, did not have a shape or color that broadcast its former identity before being dipped in tempura batter and deep fried, and had been avoided for that very reason. Who knows what it could be? Tempura mouse, maybe, or tempura doorstop.
So what did I do? I compiled all the rice bits and poured the leftover sauce on top, mixing in the little veggie bits and Mystery Tempura to make a sort of rice bowl. And you know, it wasn't half bad. But what other choice did I have? I suppose the other option would be to put a stone in a pot of water and starting boiling it in hopes that some kindly village people would start bringing by savory stew meats and vegetables to add to my cauldron, and then we could ALL SHARE IN THE GOODNESS...but I don't have a cauldron. And also I don't know any kindly village people. Damn.
* * *
So I finally got up the courage to cut Cal's hair again. It was just getting so long is all. He was starting to look like a Monchichi. But I kept putting off the trim because the last time I tried to cut his hair, I did a bad job and he ended up looking like Moe from the Three Stooges. That said, Moe is the leader of the stooges, so clearly his hair didn't impact his ascent to power in any way. And yet, not a good look.
So this time, I decided that I would not touch the front of his hair at all, that I would only cut the sides, over his ears. But how to cut a baby's hair without having them whip his head around to look at the scissors? Oh, the scissors, THOSE FASCINATING SCISSORS. I thought briefly about doing it while he was asleep, but I didn't really want all that hair getting strewn all over the bed. I asked a friend with a kid how she managed to keep her kid still for his haircut, and she told me that she just did it while he was watching TV. But Cal doesn't watch TV. In fact, he doesn't even seem very interested in it the times that it happens to be on in his range of vision. Which either means he's a supergenius who eschews all conventional media because he's thinking SO MANY DIMENSIONS BEYOND THAT, or he has no attention span at all.
Well, either way, I ended up just giving him a little snip while he was eating dinner. Specifically, while he was eating his Goldfish crackers. He loves those Goldfish crackers. And don't bother telling me if they're high in sodium or full of deadly preservatives or some such, because HE LOVES THOSE GOLDFISH CRACKERS.
(I would post a picture of Cal at this point, only I'm at work now, so I don't have access to pictures. Just imagine a Monchichi eating goldfish crackers. There you go.)
* * *
I have this weekend off. Originally I was scheduled to work this Sunday, but I traded with one of my classmates for another Sunday, because as we all (maybe) know, this Sunday is Mother's Day. I normally steer clear of these Hallmark-type Holidays (Grandparent's Day and Secretary's Day also spring to mind), but this year I am intrigued. What's Mother's Day like from THE INSIDE? This being my first Mother's Day as an actual mother, I will have to report back on you on how it is. If it was really cool, it would be all sunshine and treats and not having to wait on line for anything--but I suspect the reality will be a little more pedestrian. Like, say, brunch and a nap.
Currently reading: Finished "Comfort Me With Apples." Thouroughly enjoyable. But did you read the part about how they adopted that baby and then they had to give her back after six months because the biological parents changed their minds? MUCH TOO SAD. I asked myself what I would do were someone to want to take Cal away, and I have to admit, I probably would have a strong inclination to take the baby and abscond. Unlawful, but I would do it. Don't tell the Hypthetical Crimes Unit at the NYPD, though.
So it was a beautiful spring Saturday, and here's how my day went: first we took Cal to the playground, then we drove to New Jersey to attend someone's retirement party (really), and after we got home, I watched a movie on TV. And now it's almost 9:30pm, which means that it's almost time for bed. I know, I know.
Usually people say things to me like, "Oh, I could never have a kid, I can barely take care of myself," but sometimes, they say, "Oh, I'm not ready to have a kid, I'm still young and I'm not done having fun yet." Which is what I was afraid I was going to feel like once Cal was born, because with a baby in the house, suddenly it's a big production requiring a few weeks of planning even to just go out for dinner and a movie. Why, with a kid, we can't go out clubbing, stay up late, go to the coolest new nightspots and restaurants, get drunken and dance on tabletops. With a kid, it's goodbye, wild youth.
But do you want to know a secret? It's kind of a secret because part of me feels lame admitting that I am so uncool, but the reason I don't lament not being able to enjoy the rest of my twenties partying like a rock star is because I never liked partying all that much in the first place.
There were two summers of my ill-spent youth (and the fact that they were summers already shows that I'm lame--I mean, I would never jeopardize my future by partying on a SCHOOL NIGHT) where I went out every night. One of these summers was spent in Boston and the other was spent in Manhattan, right before I started med school, and I did the standard thing. Every night, after work, I would meet up with friends, have dinner, go to a bar, go dancing, go to a concert, what have you. We would get home at 3am and collapse into bed smelling like a a distillery after the tobacco factory next door exploded (this was when they still allowed people to smoke in New York bars), and the next night we would do it again. And the next night. And the next.
It was cool because I felt like it was something I "should" be doing at that point in my life--I had just turned 21, I was relatively unmired with responsibility, I had a lot of friends in the same situation--but I'm not sure that I liked it all that much. I didn't like the loudness. I didn't really like drinking. It was fun being out late in Manhattan in the summer, but at 2am, waiting for the subway and baking underground with a fine sheen of sweat down my back and my feet hurting, I would often wonder if I would have had more fun that night at home, alone, with a good book and the air conditioning on.
I'm an introvert. I know this. I took the test and everything. I still remember, I'm an ISTJ, and while I don't remember what the S or the T or the J stand for, I know that I = INTROVERTED, which means that being around people makes me tired. My idea of a fun weekend night is getting together with one or two friends, having a nice dinner, and then talking for many hours over dessert. After I started residency, these preferences for quiet nights became even more pronounced, because I'M TIRED, OK? I DON'T WANT TO DO ANYTHING THAT INVOLVES HAVING TO BE SOCIAL. IN FACT, STOP TALKING RIGHT NOW. And now with Cal, forget it. Fun is a walk to the park and then rolling around in the playpen with a couple of stuffed animals. I could never take a job that would involve a lot of after-hours functions and networking, like being a consultant or a drug rep, because lord, even the IDEA of it makes me exhausted.
In some ways, being a resident now and having a kid is great, because it's an excuse that everyone can understand. If we get invited out for a late night event, or a big function with millions of people milling about and schmoozing, I can always beg off because I have to wake up early the next morning, or because we have to take care of The Boy. But many times, it's just that--an excuse. Because even without the job or the baby, I'm not sure that I would want to go do those things anyway.
So now the truth is out. It's not being a resident or having a kid that makes me lame. I WAS LAME ALL ALONG.
Currently reading:"Comfort Me With Apples." I do think Ruth Reichl is a good writer, and I love how enthusiastic she gets about food.
The good thing about having a husband and a kid (aside from the tax implications) are that it's like having a big neon sign in your life that flashes and indicates THIS IS WHAT'S IMPORTANT, THIS IS WHAT MATTERS. I just got home close to 10pm from being on "short" call, after a long day at the hospital which was, like any other day, fraught with its own set of frustrations and annoyances. And my whole way home, I was just thinking, man, if only I'd said this, if only I'd done this, if only this had played out differently and it was making me absolutely crazy because last I checked, I didn't have a time machine. (Nor the one point twenty one gigawatts to power it.)
And then I came home and walked into the bedroom, where Cal and Joe were sleeping. They were both lying on their backs, snoring lightly in tandem, and Cal had his little hand resting on Joe's chest, as though to make sure that Joe wasn't going to go anywhere. And then all of a sudden all of the annoying stuff didn't matter so much anymore. This is what's important. This is what matters.
Currently reading:"The Tenth Circle." This book is kind of bad. But I'm reading it anyway, so clearly I have no taste and you shouldn't listen to anything I say.
