Monster twitch

For the better part of an hour, my arm has been twitching. My triceps brachii, to be a little more exact. And it is driving me absolutely crazy. Doesn't it know that I am busy studying and would be much better off if it would quiet down and cool it with the shenanigans? That's right, I just used some Celtic profanity on your ass, muscle. It's not even rhythmic in any way. I could probably handle regular, periodic twitches, but it's the wild unpredictability of it all that gets my goose all up in a gander. If that's a thing. Come to think of it, the whole thing reeks of brachialis. A notorious diva always clamoring for attention in one way or another. Look, brachialis, we all know that you are the best at flexing elbows, but you can't even pronate or supinate the forearm, so just quiet down and let me get some studying done.

Ok, some stress may be getting to me...

Ironically, I'm trying to study for my stress management class right now.

It's been a week full of tests, secondary applications coming my way, transcript drama, getting back biochemistry tests marked with a solid...C+, and muscle twitches (seriously brachialis, you're the proverbial straw). Secondary applications are sent from medical schools who think that your 19 page primary application was A-Okay and goll-ee they'd sure like to know more. Oh yeah, please send another $200 our way too ok thanks. If it weren't for the near-paralyzing fear of flat-out rejection from every school, I just might tell them to stop sha-noodling (for lack of a non-offensive way to say "screw") money out of poor college students who just want to give you hundreds of thousands of dollars so we can learn to be doctors. So I'm back to the non-stop world of the Medical School Application Process. Seek ye first the good things of the mind, and the rest will either be supplied or its loss shall not be felt, insisted ye olde Sir Francis Bacon. The future does not belong to the faint of heart; it belongs to the brave, quoth my dear friend Ronald Reagan.

The folksy bits of this entry are thanks to the recent reappearance of Sarah Palin back into the news. I am trying to regurgitate (aka vomit) every word I have heard (or read) her speak out of my body. If I do that, she doesn't exist, right? Maybe she is making my muscle twitch.

The box of crazy

I got knocked off my rocker a little bit today and held it together until this evening when all I could feel was OVERWHELMED! I can't even think that word without it being in all caps and with an exclamation point. I had a lab practical today, and I felt cooly prepared as usual because, well, I prepared. An hour before the exam, I did a quick review and realized that I didn't know how to do a very key thing: calculate generation time. After a few frantic minutes scouring the internet for an answer, I figured it out. But the lid of my Pandora box o' crazy was opened. And the world trembled in fear.

Patience? Evaporated. Appearance? Frenzied. Do not, oh do not bother me because I have to fold the laundry study for my test catch up on my reading for biochem micro health and stress management (irony) get groceries walk the dog check my transcripts make dinner do the dishes clean the counters check my AMCAS my hair is in my face and I'm about ready to snap. All wrapped up in a silent, tight lipped scowl. What do I normally do? Make a list. And lists are genius. I didn't stop to make a list today, I just looked around and all I could see was futility and disaster. Enter go mode. I just do one thing after another (still with the silent, tight lipped scowl) until I can see the forest through the trees and then sit, relax, reflect, and write. The list will come soon. Obviously I did not do all of my "necessary tasks" and obviously I didn't need to. When I'm OVERWHELMED! all I can see is what needs to be done and believe that I must do it. Now.

The haze of fervor has passed and here I sit, ready to veg out.

Clinic.

I love the free clinic. Where else would someone let a know-nothing like me give shots, do sutures, and take ultrasounds? It's a fantastic experience, often exhilarating, but yesterday was somewhat less than splendid. There were people that were really sick, and felt they didn't have the resources to deal with it. We saw a few people with very concerning cardiovascular problems, but none more so than a volunteer firefighter I'll call Russ.

Russ was apologetic to be using the free clinic, but needed a work release signed by a physician and just couldn't afford to go anywhere else. His eyes were warm, but distant, heavy with a thousand other things on his mind. His shirt was riddled with holes, as were his socks, although he did his best to quickly hide the holes from our sight. In a soft but urgent tone, he confessed to me that he was short of breath often, and experienced regular pain in his left arm. He was embarrassed to admit what he considered to be weaknesses, and didn't want to be where he was in life. Broke, sick, and nothing to show for his hard-earned 40-some years. But he needed a physical so he could work.

It took me a second or two to process what I heard when I put the stethoscope to his chest. I remained calm and stoic, and passed the stethoscope back to the doctor. I stepped back, and played the sound I had just heard over and over in my head. It was not the steady lub dub, lub dub that you intimately know and feel within your own chest. It was the sound of five pairs of tennis shoes tumbling around and around inside a dryer. No rhyme, no reason, no rhythm: atrial fibrillation. His heart no longer knew how and when to pump, and in that condition, he would die in seconds, minutes, or months. Russ was a time-bomb. I wouldn't bet ten dollars that he would make it down the stairs and I wouldn't bet five that he would make it through the week.

When he asked how to fix it, the doctor replied without hesitation to go to the hospital immediately. To both of our surprise, Russ politely declined and asked to just get his work release signed so he could get back to work. Of course, that was an impossibility. Russ could not work, he was going to die any second if he didn't get to a hospital. That didn't matter. He was scared, but simply could not afford a trip to the hospital, he had to provide for his parents. The doctor pressed him, you can't provide for your parents if you're dead. Russ asked if he could just get the tests run at the hospital then come back to the free clinic for medication and treatment. However, the drugs to treat atrial fibrillation must be given under observation because they can be unpredictable. No, the only place for Russ was the hospital. And he wouldn't go.

The doctor and I both of course wanted to help him, tried to explain that since he truly had no money, they couldn't refuse him and probably wouldn't charge him. Russ felt that was dishonest. The doctor gave him the name of a social worker. Russ didn't call. We both wished that we could treat him at the free clinic. The doctor had the knowledge but not the tools, and I had neither.

Lesson learned: I can only do my best to give people the resources, suggestions, and medicine that they need. What they do with that knowledge is out of my hands.

Interviewing

It may be a little premature, but I'm starting to obsess over what to wear to interview. So many things look great, but there are so many choices to make. Skirt or pants? I love wearing both...but pants may be more appropriate, less sexy. Or is that me thinking overly well of my gams? Tweed or wool or other? I do love tweed, confirming my suspicion that I was born to wear Chanel, but maybe a classic grey wool would be better.

Confounding my dilemma, all the shoes that catch my eye are either too sassy or taunt me with a sultry "you can't afford me." However...all the books and sites do say to invest in a quality interview outfit....Yeah good luck with that one, self.

I guess if you go too long without buying stuff, you get some irrational I-wants. When it comes down to it, we all know that I'll shop as miserly as Scrooge McDuck, and I won't have fun doing it. Somehow the shopping gene got deleted during transmission in utero, because it's not fun and I'm pretty much worthless after one hour, while my grandmother can go for days. I suppose that's a good thing, though. Otherwise I might be a very well-dressed homeless person. I will definitely be a well-dressed med school applicant. After thousands of dollars for application fees and traveling for interviews, what's an extra couple hundred for a classy suit?

OC'd

I'm compulsively checking my email and my application status, waiting for the verified stamp to finally appear. Realistically, it will be a few weeks, but compulsive I remain. And it's trickling into compulsively forgoing studying in my current classes for day-dreaming and researching what future med-school classes may look like. It may be a good idea to start practicing some of the good study skills that I will (hopefully) need next year.

I need to tune back into the present, but I seem to be missing some important catalyst. I suppose the threat of a microbiology test on Thursday may get me moving, but I tend to leave more than a few things until the last minute. Another habit I need to start breaking...

Decisions

I'm a pretty non-commital person, lacking in a few decision-making skills. Where do you want to go for coffee? I don't care. What do you want for dinner? You pick. What should our Microbiology research project be on? Oh, doesn't matter to me--choose whichever one you want. Don't get me wrong, I'm all over things that really matter. If an important decision is necessary, I'll make it with appropriate consideration and little hesitation. An overly farty husband? Hit him and kick him out of the room immediately.

One thing that needs no deliberation is how I feel about dinosaurs. I. Hate. Them. What part about dinosaurs is not terrifying? Their giant teeth? The sheer size of the monsters? The fact that they EAT people in every scenario that the two species co-exist? I was really getting into The Land of the Lost trailer tonight when what starts tearing across the screen in a massive blur of scales and drool? Oh yes. A dinosaur. I actually shrunk the window that the trailer was playing in so I could see other things in the background, and remember my mantra. Dinosaurs are not real they are not real they are not real they are not real. I'm not sure why they scare me so severely, it may be because I watched Jurassic Park at too young of an age. However, my current theory is that I may have been torn viciously into tiny pieces by a hungry T-Rex in a previous life.

I am, in fact, moderately concerned that if we do have multiple lives, each of mine have ended and will end at the claw or dagger-like tooth of some carnivorous beast. This seems to be a rational explanation for an otherwise irrational fear and I'll stick with it until a better one comes around.

But back to decision-making. It's possible that I will be faced with a decision in the near future, and I'd like to make it now, now, now, but there are too many unknowns. Which school will I get into? What if I don't get into any? Which school will T get into? What if we get into different schools? It's a whole big crapbag full of what-if's and darn it, I'm ready for some resolution. Of course, it will likely be months. So I try to put the day-dreaming (or day-what-if-ing) aside and concentrate on school now...yeah right.

A salute...

Here's to you, overly-flu-concerned-Asian-exchange-student. You don't care if people stare at you with mild curiosity and concern, you're wearing your surgical mask to school and not taking it off. Sure, you're probably going to get the flu anyway, but meanwhile you can make other people uncomfortable as they start wondering if you have SARS or tuberculosis. It's strange, but kind of ok because you're foreign. So go ahead, wear the flimsy paper mask and flash the peace sign as you filter into the classroom, I guess the other Asians won't think it's weird. Heiwa. Ni hao.

Morning person!

I love mornings. They're quiet, I have solitude, and I'm under no obligation to look even remotely cute. Still, when I've been up since somewhere between 5 and 6, I'm ready for some company when 9:00 rolls around. So I chastised my husband to quit sleeping until 11. Gradually start setting your alarm a little earlier, I advised. Unfortunately, now he rumbles out of bed at 7:10.

This is not ok.

My morning space is being encroached upon, and I can't complain now because he'll just start sleeping in again like one of those unemployed lumps you see on Judge Joe Brown. So my conundrum is answered by setting my own alarm even earlier. However much of a morning person I may be, there is a limit to what you can call "morning." I'm just going to have to hope that he doesn't go for any earlier times to rise, or I'm going to need a new bedtime of 7pm.

In other news, today is the day I kiss my AMCAS goodbye. I'm checking it over one last time, then sending it out to the powers that be. I don't think that I have agonized over anything to the extent that I am agonizing over this time-hungry process. After I click the submit button, I still have to recreate the whole thing for the osteopathic schools but trim my essay by 1000 characters. Don't even ask me how I'm going to do that, because I just don't know. All I want from all of this is one measly letter that shrugs and says, Ok. You're in.

Then the real fun/anguish/stress can start kicking in.

AMCAS

So I'm guilty of leaving the blog in the dust for five months. My excuse? I felt I needed to save my creative energy for my med school personal statement. The reality? I didn't write it until a couple of weeks ago. Further, it was one of the toughest things I'd ever written, and that may well have been because my writing wheels were rusty. So here I am, the prodigal blogger.

I was inspired by a blog I found by a med student recounting her (his?) experiences and thought I should follow suit. Why not? It'll keep me from getting rusty and maybe I'll sell it and make a fortune. Ok, maybe not a fortune.

I'm here in my second to last quarter of college and it's a little bittersweet. I haven't really followed the traditional path of the undergrad, but it's been fun all the same. I got a taste of sorority life, went through the drinking-in-the-dorms-then-go-to-the-bars phase, was humbled through a little taste of failure, and empowered by getting back on the collegiate horse. Now that I'm staring that B.S. practically in the eye, I cringe at the thought of entering the real world and leaving the bubble of academia. Sure, school can be stressful, but at least I'm not sitting at a desk for 8 hours every day or asking for some douchebag's order (never again. I hope.) Please let me be a student forever.

I got a little taste of that officey real world during my internship/practicum. It was enlightening, but not much fun.

Post-MCAT, I'm living in the final days of the AAMC medical school application. Polishing my words and trying to iron creases over my bad grades are all I have left before I kiss it goodbye. Of course, I still have to recreate the application for the AACOM, but the deadline is much less pressing.

What is there to know about the AAMCAS?

It's long. Longer than you think. So do yourself a favor and start it early because if you wait until the week before it's due, you'll be a giant, tearful ball of stress. Trust me, I know. Because like most things, my dear husband left his application 'til the last minute and now we're both paying the price. Also, the personal statement is a toughie. There's not a lot of room for you to divulge everything that's important to you, so you have to pick and choose, and it needs to be awesome. This is the last thing that I've yet to finish; people are looking it over with tough criticism and as a signature first-draft-Sally, editing (Ok, and criticism) is a tough pill to swallow. I ship the whole thing off tomorrow, so I am spending most of my day between the Microbiology lab and this dreaded application. With luck, this will all be worth it.

Stay tuned, I'll be a better blogger.