Sunday, August 27, 2006
cut me, mickCal looks like a young hooligan, he has so many scrapes and cuts on his face. But all the injuries are from separate incidents, not one big bar brawl. See:
scratch on eyelid =
overvigorous eye rubbingscratch on nose =
too long fingernails (since trimmed)
scrape on chin =
top-heavy tumble onto carpet at Gymboreefat lip =
too many teeth in mouthHe's just sauntering around as happy as can be, but now I'm a little afraid to take him outside, lest Child Protective Services snatch him into custody.
* * *
Joe got home Friday night. And the angels sang, the clouds parted to reveal a ray of sun that shone down on us from on high and lo, it was good. I am all too happy to go back to our two parent system. Between working, taking care of Cal, and cleaning up after Cooper (who was kind of being a jerk the whole week that Alpha Dog was in Texas), I did not have a single moment to myself the entire week. Now I can have several such moments. For example, I can ask Joe to watch Cal while I go to the bathroom. And this is GREAT.
Also! He got us presents! I got a t-shirt that read "Air Force Base," though I suspect it was not from the actual Air Force base, given that it was a brown fitted baby-tee with multicolored letters, and I think Uncle Sam would frown on such an unpatriotic display. Cal got a little t-shirt with a picture of an airplane on it, with the words, "Daddy's Coming Home" written across the bottom. I thought that was kind of sweet. Cal did too. And then he fell down and got blood all over the shirt, so there you go.
I am back on Pediatrics next week. Not back to being a Peds resident, I just mean that I'm rotation through Pediatric Anesthesia again. I am looking forward to a great many things about being back on Peds, probably not the least of which is being able to move most of my patients from the OR table to the recovery room bed without damn near herniating a disc every time.
Currently reading: About the
Rastelli procedure. I'm in the cath lab tomorrow.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Let there be light...
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
the foundlingSo Joe's in Texas at this surgical dissection course. I think things are going OK for him there. I make fun because he's staying on the cheap at these "visiting officers quarters" on the army base where the course is taking place (why is the surgical course taking place at an army base, anyway?). I keep asking him how his barracks are, and whether or not he has to eat out of these little tin plates in the mess hall, but in actuality, the accomodations are probably pretty decent. And considering it only costs him $35 per night to stay there, probably
very decent. Plus, there's almost definitely a Hooters nearby, in which case, alllll RIGHT! Tan pantyhose!
Our week at home started off with somewhat more difficulty, when our nanny called in sick early Monday morning. Actually, she didn't call in sick--I called her after a 15 minute grace period, at which point she told me that she wasn't feeling well and slept through her alarm. It was kind of short notice for me to really do anything but call in to work myself, but that's the kind of thing that I really, really can't afford to do more than once a year. (Actually, more than zero times a year would be more accurate, but whatever.) It was nice getting to spend the day with Cal, but much of the joy was crushed by the guilt of actually having to miss work to be with him. To add fuel to the flames, Cooper also decided yesterday to pee extravagantly on one of the couch cushions. To her credit, I think she was asleep when it happened (I think some female dogs are prone to some degree of post-spaying incontinence), but it was unpleasant nonetheless.
And now today I'm on call, which is the day that I've been dreading. Not so much for the call, but for the no-parent-at-home-for-27-hours aspect of the whole thing. I know Cal's going to be fine, but I'm also not going to pretend that he won't
notice that both Joe and I are missing. If he were older, I would explain it to him, but he's not old. HE'S JUST A LITTLE BABY. OK, not so little, but still. Maybe they wouldn't mind me bringing him on call with me. I will wrap him in sterile blue towels and give him tongue blades to play with and let him help me extubate. And if he gets too feisty in there--I have drugs.
Hopefully I'll have a reasonably good call tonight, though. Cal has a pediatrician's appointment tomorrow morning, if I rush out the door tomorrow morning, get home, walk the dog, take a shower, get Cal's stuff together, and jump on the subway, we may be able to make it in time to sit in the waiting room reading
Highlights for half an hour.
Currently reading: This article about Hillary Clinton's presidential campaign. She hasn't admitted she's running, but come on, you know she will. I have mixed feelings about this. We (as in the Democrats) need to get someone in the race who can actually WIN, and even though I like Hillary Clinton, a lot of people really, really hate her.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
the zoo story[originally written on Thursday, not posted until Saturday]
Was on call again last night, and in the OR all day for some gigantic face tumor resection case with reconstruction. It was kind of fun at the beginning, because there was a lot of stuff to do (fiberoptic intubation! lines! replace lines when old lines stop working!) but then by the mid-evening when it was clear that the guy was stable as a rock and the plastics team was fussing endlessly with the free flap, it got kind of boring. And it's never fun to be trapped in a room for 16 hours straight, unless it's a room with toys and candy and books and movies. And maybe a trampoline.
I got home earlier this morning, took Cal to the playground, and now he's down for his nap. He can be a little clingy when I'm post-call--maybe because I've been away for so many hours and now he doesn't want to let me out of his sight, or maybe because he knows that fussing and clinging ceaselessly is the path to snuggling and cookies. (But they are
Nilla cookies, which are wholesome and old skool and therefore OK, right?) Part of me is excited for Cal to start talking already, but part of me is also dreading the moment when he's going to know enough to say, "Don't go to work, Mommy! Don't leave! WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME?" Yes, that's the sound of my heart breaking into a million pointy shards and flying up into my lacrimal ducts. Crying? I'm not
crying. Why, I'm just tearing because of those damn pointy heart shards.
I was talking to one of the new first year residents last night when I got spelled out of my room briefly for a late dinner. He has a kid too (actually, two kids) and we were talking about residency and this and that, and how we're making do with the childcare and such. "You know, residency is hard enough as is," he was saying, "but none of my classmates who don't have kids
really understand how much easier they have it." Preach it, brother.
Anyway, blah blah blah, same old story.
* * *
So! Who wants to see picture from the zoo? Yes you do, don't lie.
Central Park has a pretty good smallish
zoo, and even though I have some mixed feelings about zoos in general (glad to see the animals but feel bad that they are caged and such) I think they do a pretty good job there. You know, neat, clean, animals keep their dignity, etc. And Cal had a good time, though it seemed that he enjoyed picking microdebris off the ground and handing them to us just about as much as seeing the polar bears and the sea lions.
So speaking of this polar bear--you all know he's crazy, right? I mean, it's been in the
New York Times and everything. I think there are two or three polar bears that they have in Central Park, but one of them is, like, psychotic. As in requiring psychotropic medications and everything. I guess he's adjusted poorly to captivity or something. They had to bring in some animal psychiatrist, who said that the bear was probably bored, so they threw a whole mess of toys in there a couple of years ago, like some giant ball and a floating blue plastic spool, and these fake ice floes. But the bear kept acting crazy. Now it looks like all the toys are gone, so maybe the Prozac is kicking in or whatever, but still, all this bear does is swim back and forth his tank all day long. The same path, the same stereotyped movements. It was not hard to get those pictures of the bear's feet swimming away, because even if you missed the shot, all you had to do was wait fifteen more seconds and he'd be back, pushing off against that same wall like some Olympic swimmer doing the freestyle.
Maybe aquariums are better. Animals lower on the evolutionary web have less mind to lose. I would like to take Cal to the
Brooklyn Aquarium sometime, but it's somewhere out in Coney Island. And that's far.
* * *
So Joe's flying out to his conference in Texas tomorrow. So not only am I upset that he's going to be gone for a week, now I have to worry that he's going to get blown up by a Gatorade bottle. He pointed out that now is actually probably the best time to fly, since everyone's all hypervigilant and whatnot, but
still. I'm more worried about this all than he is, but Joe did say in passing that if he and I were ever to have to fly somewhere together without Cal, that we should take separate flights, just like the President and the Vice President, so that if one of us gets exploded by a shoe bomb, the other would survive. Part of me thinks this is overly paranoid, but part of me thinks,
orphan insurance, damn straight we'd be on separate planes. Not that I can forsee a scenario in the near future where we'd both be flying without Cal, but still.
I suppose there really is no point in worrying so much, but we do. If you live in New York, I think there's always that undercurrent of worry. For instance, even now, five years after 9/11, everytime the subway stops on the tracks between stations, my heart rate picks up a little bit. After all, it's not so much a matter of
if terrorists will strike here again, but when and how. I mean really, it's frighteningly easy. There's all this focus on air travel, but hell, people can blow up anything they damn well please. Detonate a bomb on the subway during rush hour. Release sarin gas in Times Square. Walk into a hospital lobby strapped with explosives. It's easy. Anyone could do it. I don't know why it hasn't happened yet, frankly.
So I guess you could sit in your home and worry, or you can realize that crazy shit can always happen, and that if you tried to avoid all potential dangers, you'll just end up a prisoner in your home, hunkered down in a panic room with canned goods and toilet paper. So I try not to worry, but I still do sometimes. I didn't worry as much before Cal was born, but now, it's more of a concern. And honestly, the fact of New York City being such a huge, obvious target may be one of the only compelling reasons that could convince this diehard New Yorker to finally move her family out of the city.
Currently watching: "Lost: Season 1." OK, so one of the first years brought a DVD of the first season of "Lost" on call last weekend, and we all got a chance to watch a few episodes in the evening. At first I was all, "What is this 'Gilligan's Island' shit? And where are the coconut bikinis?" But then I became curiously captivated. I do have to say that it's a hard show to kind of pick up in the middle, because the story is pretty complicated and there's a lot of backstory, but luckily
Adam knows every damn thing about this show and filled me in.
Friday, August 11, 2006
liver? i don't even know 'er!I'm on call this Sunday. Now that I'm a BIG SECOND YEAR and CLEARLY instantly endowed with all the sagacity of the ages once July 1st rolled around, I even get a new title on call. Behold,
before I was just a resident on call, but now when I work overnight, I am known as the "Assistant Team Captain," or, for all you acronym lovers out there, the ATC. (The third year on call is the TC, or "Team Captain," which, despite what it sounds like, has very little to do with sports.)
I've never taken ATC call before, so I'm not really sure what it entails, but I think the general idea is that they save you for the bigger cases and sicker patients. The holy grail over ATC call, though, is getting to "do a liver," which basically means doing the anesthesia for a liver transplant. There's always so much talk of "doing a liver" and who got to do a liver when and how many livers and is there going to be a liver tonight I think I smell a liver that I am now PETRIFIED of the idea of actually "doing a liver." They're sick! And bleedy! And infect-y! Gah! Livers! Don't die, yellow patient!
So part of me is scared that I might get called to "do a liver" when I'm on call overnight on Sunday. But then another part of me is hoping that there will be a liver and that I can just do one already, so at least I can't say anymore that I've never done a liver and I can stop being so nervous. Because then on all my subsequent ATC calls this year, I can just be like, "Oh, another liver? BRING IT, BITCHES." And that would be good for my morale.
* * *
I have to work on Sunday, but I am off from work tomorrow. We're going to take Cal to Central Park Zoo, and maybe have a little picnic lunch outside if the weather's nice. Wow, a whole day with the three of us all together, just like a normal family. Huzzah!
Currently reading: "This Much I Know Is True." So far OK, but it has the feel of a book that I'm going to lose interest in 1/3rd of the way through.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
when the tag team system breaks downSo far, despite being a two-resident household, we have succeeded in our goal of always having at least one parent home with Cal in the evenings. This is probably something that most households take for granted--of
course someone will be home in the evening, why
wouldn't we be?--but in the two-resident household, this takes some creative jiggering with call schedules, clinic and OR bookings and whatnot. It's not been easy, but we've been able to do it. Not that there haven't been times where Joe and I just silently sit and glower at each other and telepathically will the other to quit residency and just become a stay-at-home parent already, because having an elaborate color-coded childcare calendar WITH SIX DIFFERENT COLORS is just too damn complicated. (OK, to be honest, it's me who's usually asking Joe to quit his residency, but I guess that makes little sense, since he's going to be finished a year before I will be.)
But alas, the tag team system is not untouchable. Because you need two parents around at all times for the system to work. And in a couple of weeks, Joe has to fly to Texas for a week to go to some sort of mandatory surgical skills course. For a week. In Texas. FOR A WEEK. I have two calls that week--one 24 hour call, where I will be leaving for work at 5:45am and returning 8:30am the following day; and one "short call," where I will be working until probably 10 or 11pm, and then leaving for work again the following morning before Cal wakes up. That's
two nights that week that Cal will probably go more than 24 hours without seeing either parent. And friends, that just sucks.
My first instinct was to just trade my calls with other residents and clear the deck for the week that Joe will be away. But when you have a 70-person residency program, the call schedule is like a house of cards. Or like a teetering
Jenga tower. You can't just go trading calls willy-nilly, because then you end up with someone taking call on a day that they're supposed to be home post-call, or with three calls in a row or some other such schedule implosion. It just could not be done, unless I was willing to take three extra calls to trade out of my one, including an extra weekend day. Jen-ga,
Jen-ga,
JEN-GA!
So I kept my calls as is. The thing is, if we'd known about this conference in advance (and I guess by "in advance," I mean if I'd known about it last Spring), I could have requested my week of vacation to coincide with the conference dates. That way, the issue of me being on call while Joe was out of town would never come up. Or I could have put in a request to have only "short" call that week, which is still call, but one in which I'd have a reasonable chance of getting home by 9pm, to at least put Cal to bed. But unfortunately, we didn't find out about the conference until well into July, by which point the call schedule was basically immutable. Herein lies the hardest part of being a medical resident. The inability to say "No." I can't do anything about my call. Joe can't do anything about his conference. We just have to go along for the ride and try to minimize the damage to our personal lives as much as we can, however we can.
Honestly, though, Cal's going to be fine. Joe's mom is going to help us out by coming in from Ohio for the week that he's away, and she'll take the night shift with The Boy when I'm on call. But I just hate the
idea of it. One of the things that keeps me from worrying when I'm working late, or keeps me able to focus on my job, is the knowledge that when I'm at the hospital at night, at least Cal is with his daddy. I don't know why it's such a big deal to me to not have a parent available to put him to bed at night, BUT IT IS. It's like the one thing I promised myself we would try to never do, but here it is at last, unavoidable. And not like his grandmother doesn't love him, or that she's not going to do a good job, but...I don't know. It makes me feel like we're abandoning our son for our work. It makes me feel like a bad parent.
Obviously we're not the only people who have it hard--single parents must have to go through this kind of thing all the time--but
man. It's just not easy. And there's no good solution, either. The only thing I really know how to do is just keep going and just hope that in the end, it's all worth it.
Currently eating: A hot fudge sundae from McDonald's. Good stuff.
Friday, August 04, 2006
celebration via retailSo the thunderstorm last night turned out to be nothing more than a few scattered drops and some vaguely ominous cloud formations, but nevertheless had the predicted effect of dropping the temperature about 10 degrees, making conditions outdoors compatible with life. Bravo, Mother Nature. Bravo.
To celebrate, Cal and I went to Gymboree in the morning, and in the afternoon, went clothes shopping. That is to say, we went clothes shopping for Cal. I can't even remember the last time I went clothes shopping for myself, though the only thing I seem to buy nowadays are comfy fleece blobs and sad granny cardigans, for the specific purpose of wearing over my scrubs overnight while on call. Since I never wear anything but scrubs to work anyway, and cannot summon the energy on weekends to go beyond the jeans-and-a-t-shirt level of fashion, it seems foolish to go clothes shopping for myself. Unless there's a really, really, REALLY cool t-shirt. Or some new ugly
orthotic shoe that I must have because I am a hospital worker, and must look baggy, rumpled, and like I have podiatric problems at all times.
But BABIES, babies are so fun to shop for. For one, there's always a reason to shop. They grow at such a monstrous rate that even if you buy them something new, they outgrow it on the way home from the store. Plus, the seasons change. You can be all set up with a summer wardrobe that fits, and then it starts to get cold and you have NOTHING TO WEAR. And it's not like you can just wear the stuff from last winter either, because, unlike (most of) us, Cal has, like, doubled his weight since last year. Anyway, who wants to be caught in last year's fashion? What will the other babies at the playground think?
Plus, kids clothing is just so darn cute.
I'm not in love with the idea that all little boy's clothing is based on the dual themes of YAY, SPORTS and HOORAY FOR AMERICA, but despite these limitations, you have to admit, it's still pretty cute. Though in the case of the picture above, it's hard to differentiate if it's the clothes that are cute, or the kid himself. Hello, kid! Come home with me! We have cookies and toys and a sippy cup for your milk! Also, your real parents don't love you anymore!
The real conundrum is what size of clothing to buy. If I get him a fall jacket in a size that fits him now, surely it will be too small by the time it is cold enough to wear it. But will he grow fast enough to fit into the next size up? They have little signs that tell you the size by weight, but despite having a reasonably good idea of what Cal weighs (I stepped on the scale with him, and then subtracted my weight--we were supposed to go to the Pediatrician yesterday for a checkup and thus an official height and weight, but ended up having to cancel because of the whole blackout thing) the clothes that are supposed to fit him look HUGE. Like really, ridiculously big. But if I purposely get a size smaller than the size he's supposed to wear--which, by the way, still looks big, but less so--am I just setting myself up to have a bunch of too small sweaters lying around when fall rolls around? Is it possible that he
weighs a lot, but is not actually that
big, and thus, requires a smaller size than his weight would dictate? Could he be made of lead, or mercury, or some other heavy metal?
I know I could just wait until it actually gets cold before buying the cool weather clothes, and that some of the stuff may even be on sale by then, but I know I will not have time to do it once I start up again with work, whereas I am on vacation now. Which is why I have a shopping bag full of fleece in August.
Currently reading: "Possible Side Effects." Boo.
Boooooo.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
power to the peopleOK, so now it's starting to get scary. It's still a million degrees out, and there are power outages all over the city. How can there be power outages? This is New York! They
know how much power we use! They should anticipate this! That skyline don't light up for nothing! So far the electricity on our block is still holding, but both of our elevators have been shut down indefinitely. And did I mention that we live on the 19th floor?
So you know, when you live on a high floor, water has to be pumped up to your apartment before it can flow out of your faucet. So a power outage would not only mean no lights or air conditioning, but NO WATER. Last I consulted my medical textbooks, human beings need water to live, especially when it's fifty spijillion degrees outside and one of the human beings is a baby who seems to be CONSTANTLY SWEATING even in the middle of winter, sitting perfectly still, in a snowdrift with ice cubes stuffed down his shirt. So what's a panic-prone survivalist to do?
I filled the bathtub with fresh water. That way, I figure even if the power goes out, we have a couple of gallons to work on. Then I filled one of our big soup pots with water. Then I further thought,
oh hell, what will I regret more, wasting a little bit or water, or not having the extra water if Manhattan is plunged into darkness and therefore MAD MAX AT THUNDERDOME ANARCHY--and filled our other big soup pot with water too. So now if the power goes out, we'll be hot and in the dark, but at least we can bob for apples.
I actually think that even if there is some mass blackout, New Yorkers will remain calm and civilized, just like we all did
the last time this happened. I mean, we've been through a lot worse. But still, I'm not excited about the prospect of weathering a power outage in record-setting heat with a baby who seems to subsist on highly perishable dairy products.
Now to turn off the computer and go polish off the rest of that ice cream. You know, in case of the blackout.
Currently reading: "Possible Side Effects." This book is terrible. I think Augusten Burroughs has reached a point where he thinks he can do no wrong, and what, why
wouldn't the American public be interested in reading a story about how he got a nosebleed that one time?
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
hot town, summer in the citySo even though I scoffed at these overachieving Manhattan moms for comparing what "classes" their infants went to ("little Dahlia is in
'Music Together',
Gymboree, and she takes SAT prep on Thursdays") I recently started researching some activities in which to get Cal involved. The reason is twofold. One, he is OLD now. (See yesterday's post.) Two, he does not have any other little kids to play with. There are many other babies and toddlers in the building, but given that many or most of the other moms are part-time vs. stay-at-home types, it's been hard for us to really meet them and infiltrate their elaborate social network. Maybe if I had a notebook and hid in the tall grass observing them, a la Diane Fosse. Yes, if I were some super schmoozy type, I know that I could just start up a conversation in the elevator or at the annual Halloween party in the lobby so that we could Get Our Kids Together, but seriously, I am just not good at that kind of thing. What can I say, I'm SHY. But I also don't want Cal to grow up to be some maladjusted loner, sitting in the corner of the lunchroom counting his
Magic cards, so Gymboree it is.
He's been having such a good time at Gymboree that I actually feel guilty that I didn't sign him up for it earlier. But I didn't KNOW about such things! Who knew they had the big foam tunnel and the play balls and the big rainbow parachute and songs and dances and bubbles? This place is like baby heaven! Except you don't have to be dead to go there! And also, you have to wear socks at all times! (In real baby heaven, you could go barefoot.) So yes, yay for Gymboree, even though their mascot is a potentially evil clown named "Jimbo" ("Gymbo"?) and even though they insidiously insert the word "Gymboree" into all their songs for advertising purposes.
The itsy bitsy spider went up the waterspout...at Gymboree!Anyway, yes, so Cal now has Activities. Now if only this miserable heat wave would break so that we could actually leave the house to attend said activities. I don't think walking thirteen blocks in the sun with a heat index of 110 degrees is the path to happiness.
* * *
So July came and went, which means I'm now starting my fourth year of residency. AND I'M STILL HERE. I hit an admittedly low point in June, when I realized that my original classmates in Peds were all graduating, moving on to fellowships and attending positions and other such grown-up things, and there I was, doing intern-level work in the SICU. I felt like a sister in the Church of the Perpetual Residency, except less chaste, and with more cursing. But I'm OK with it now.
I haven't gotten a chance to meet many of the new first-years yet, but I will when I get back to work on Monday. First years, I feel for you. Reflecting now, my first few months of Anesthesia residency were probably one of the most professionally stressful periods of my life. I think we were into winter before I really stopped having dreams about work every night, and I can still remember every day feeling like the
stupidest person in the room. But it does get easier. It's of little solace to hear that now, I know, but it's true. It's almost exactly like arriving in a foreign country when you don't speak the language. At first, everything is a struggle. (
Give my patient a unit of blood? Not only do I not know where the blood transfusion tubing is, I don't know how to set it up, where the blood is, how to check it, or how to use the fluid warmer! And my IV just stopped working!) But then you start learning a few key words and phrases and this enables you to at least understand the words coming out of your attending's mouth. (Well, unless the have a really heavy accent, in which case you may never understand anything that they say.) You start to figure out some things for yourself, from your reading and from your VAST experience. Twelve whole months! Well, eleven for me, I guess, less maternity leave. And things just get exponentially better from there. Not that I still don't feel dumb fairly often, or that I don't make some really boneheaded mistakes...but at least I don't worry anymore that I'm going to kill someone just by being in the same room as them.
(Actually, that would be a pretty impressive trick.)
* * *
I know it's all in the news and everything already, so duh, but--man has it been hot here these past few days. It's the kind of hot where you can't even remember what it was ever like to feel cold, like winter was some strange hallucination you had once.
There are many, many things that I should be doing right now (studying, writing thank-you cards, making phone calls), but I just can't summon the will. It's too hot. So instead I'm just going to lie here next to the air conditioning and wait for Cal to wake up so that we can go play in the sprinklers. Stay classy, San Diego.
Currently listening to: "Peter Paul and Mary: Around the Campfire." I wanted to get some kiddie-music for Cal to listen to, something outside the standard classical music repertoire, but I just couldn't bring myself to jump on the
Raffi bandwagon because it just sounds like some sort of punchline. I mean,
have you seen this guy?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
surely one longish post with pictures will make up for a month of neglectWoah, what is this thing? I have a website now?
Yeah, so July went quickly. Between jamming needles into the backs of five million wincing pregnant ladies (I originally wrote "screeching pregnant ladies" but changed it because while it sounded too perjorative and I am a SENSITIVE DOCTOR-TYPE), being on call every two milliseconds, and celebrating Cal's birthday (about which more later), I have been Away From My Computer. But now I'm on vacation for a week, and Cal is sleeping, so here I am.
Yes, so Cal is one now. That makes him old. He used to be a baby, but now he is a kid. Behold:
10 minutes old
1 month old
2 months old
3 months old
4 months old
5 months old
6 months old
7 months old
8 months old
9 months old
10 months old
11 months old
"What? My birthday? Fine, I'll play along with your foolish customs. I will even feign interest in your pathetic M&M adorned cake. What? There was no colored frosting at the supermarket? Spare me your meager excuses."
"No hats. I will examine it from afar but do not dare to place it on my head or I will commence with the screeching."
"I SAID NO HATS, DAMMIT."
"Now
this, I can get behind. More pushing, foolish father man."
"Hey, who invited
Gollum to my party, and why is he on my bike?"
A couple of things I realize now, looking back on those old pictures.
1.) Cal? Was FAT. Not in, like, a pathalogical
Prader-Willi way, but he just was a hefty sack of boy meal.
2.) Cal used to look more white, then he looked more Chinese, and now he looks more white again. He's a horse of a different color.
Can you even dye my eyes to match my gown? Uh-huh, jolly good fun! So anyway, despite being somewhat busy, we had a nice month. Lots of days on overnight call is unfortunate, but for a resident, also means lots of post-call days off. And yes, I only had one weeked at home the entire month, but what of it? If the pain of residency only serves to make you stronger, then I am indeed...uh...strongish.
Anyway, Cal's going to wake up any second, so I should go. But more later! Because I'm on vacation! Which means I have more time for internet tomfoolery! Hooray for tomfoolery!
Currently reading: OK, I read a couple of books, among which were
"Singular Intimacies" (a re-read, still good),
"Devil in the Details" (Sedaris-ish or trying to be, but girly and one-note) and the ubiquitous
"The Devil Wears Prada," in lieu of seeing the movie (chick lit, but better than the average offering in the genre, which is to say one step above decerebrate).
