The Person Behind Your Personal Statement.

Our final exam is June 6th, less than 2 weeks away.
Which is funny that I preface it like that, because I've felt that for most of my academic first year as a medical student, I've adopted a frame of chronological reference whose parameters are defined by which exam is impending, which has passed, which exam I ought to prioritize over the other, which exam is going to impede on my social life, which exam is going to be cause for celebration, which exam warrants indulging in 3 pints of Ben & Jerry's while I lay in fetal position on the ground with/without half empty bottles of wine.

And I start off this way not as a prelude to lecture anyone about "don't forget the little things," which is obviously important/implied.  You should do your best to remain as human as possible.  You are never too good to wish someone happy birthday just because you have to "study."  You are never above calling your friends, or your parents, or whomever, just because you lead this taxing life of a voluntary education with the promise of career and are simply forced to learn about the wonderful and dynamic and evolving aspects of clinical and scientific medicine. All of those things, you should know. One year ago, you were (I was) a pre-medical student.  Today, I am a medical student.  Apart from chronic fatigue and more scrupulous financing, I have not changed.  Or maybe I have, but I have made an earnest attempt not to compromise that person who began in August 2013.

Which leads me to the meat and potatoes of this entry.  The other day, someone asked a very difficult, but also, very valid question.  "How do you stay inspired?" And it's funny because, you constantly remind yourself that a medical education is a privilege, not a right.  It's earned and not indiscriminately granted.  And yet, we whine.  We whine about everything.  And I'm equally guilty of it.  "It's hard.  This class is hard.  That exam was hard.  Figuring out how to study is hard.  Figuring out how to not get bored is hard."

And it IS hard.  It is incredibly difficult to get up in the morning, for the 290th day in a row, and say, OK, today, I'm going to go to lecture for 4-6 hours, and pay attention, and then study what I hopefully paid attention to, and then self-assess and hopefully not feel like an idiot, and then probably get distracted, and then feel bad about being distracted, and then forcibly study some more, and then go to bed.  And then tomorrow, I'm going to do that again.  And the next day, I'm going to do it some more.  And then I'm going to do it for 4 more years. 

Because in the preliminary stage, what we learn is fascinating.  But it is a lot.  And it is challenging to varying degrees, regardless of your background. It is especially challenging if you do not speak with clinical ease just yet, or if the first time you ever saw a cell under a microscope was here, amongst some folks who have graduate degrees in the very class you're barely passing.  That is very, very hard.

But what's harder, and in many ways, even more important, is remembering why you are here.  Yesterday, I read a lecture...probably 3 times.  And I just...couldn't.  I didn't want to.  And I know myself well enough to decide when to stop, when I'm too mentally fatigued, or whatever.  But that wasn't it.  I just couldn't see beyond the number, beyond the exam schedule, beyond the "number of questions per lecture hour."  I couldn't see that I take this exam, and god-willing, I pass it.  And then I progress to second year.  And then third, and fourth.  And then, I'm your doctor.

I'm your Doctor.

And I put away all of my notes, and my books, and I emailed an Attending EM Physician I met a couple years ago that spearheaded an outreach program I did in the Bay Area.
Perhaps it was the borderline-weepy-nostalgia, the flaring stress hormones, or my baseline hyper-somnolent insanity, but I sent her an email. I thanked her for her pipeline program, and for letting me volunteer for a year.  I thanked her for all of the resources she provided to my Ambassador Program in Oakland, and for the residents, Clinical Faculty, and even the life coach she brought in.  I rolled my eyes back then..."I don't need a life coach." (I totally needed a life coach).  But what she did was so remarkable.  She took 30 or so students-pre-med, postbaccalaureate like myself, some allied healthcare professionals- most of which were lacking the grades, or the income, or the confidence to successfully apply to medical school-and she showed us how to fish for ourselves.  How to take information at the clinical level and disseminate in the community with efficacy and empathy and cultural awareness.  How to remember to be functional human beings, not robots, when we taught sexual education at the East Oakland Youth Development Center.  She taught us that, for every person that tells you "no"...there is always at least one person who will say yes.  Above all else, that person should be you.

Today, she responded.  On a logistical networking level, it stressed the importance of keeping contact with those that have helped form the person you are today.  Polite exchanges of words aside, it facilitated a conversion about contacting her when the time came to complete a rotation, something that, at Highland General Hospital, fills up very very quickly and is first come, first serve at the "discretion of the Director of Medical Education" (UCSF students often get priority, as the elective calendar is affiliated with their institution).  So for this, I am very very grateful.

But in our conversation, what struck me most was less of a prospective "favor" and more of what she opened with. "Of course I remember you.  It makes me so happy to see MIMS Alumni with stories of inspiration to share with others."
And it's funny, here, in my frequent self-pitying or self-induced chaos that I remember, this is exactly what I wanted.  It's what I hoped for.  And this exam, this passing of time dictated by Test XYZ, that's not what I'm living for.  It's essential, and it's an objective measure of competancy, but those aren't what I live for.  I live for moments where I can say,
"Hi, I'm your doctor." 
And in my weird, naive fantasy, I can shake Dr. Garrick's hand on rotation, and even if I never step into the Alameda County Medical Center again, I can truly say "Thank you", because it set a precedent for the necessary diligence of my future. I wasn't complacent then, and like others, I am tired, but I am not complacent now. 

To close, I thought it would be nice to share with you something that, maybe during it's inception, a lot of us hated.  When I wrote my personal statement, I was actually just arriving to the 24 Hour fitness in Hayward, CA.  And it was about 20 minutes into the elliptical that the words just came to my head.  And I ran, and grabbed my bag, and marched over to the Starbucks next door.  And 3 hours later, I had my personal statement.  I take a lot of pride in my writing, not because of any sort of verbal finesse, but because I write exactly how I speak...honestly.  My personal statement was just that, personal.  And on occassion, I read it, to remember why I get up, why I wouldn't trade any of this for anything else.  Even today.  Even on June 6th.

AACOMAS Personal Statement

            No rehearsal could desensitize me from that utter exhilaration-a pulse-racing, electrifying elation consuming me every time a curtain rustling in darkness gave way to rising colors of Fresnel lights and, as is often the case in musical theater, cheers and applause preceding Act One. I pursued drama with an intention of metamorphosis-to evolve as a storyteller and therein a healer. Whether I was Rizzo in Grease, director of Hairspray or a fly-system-pulling lowly production assistant, I had an appreciation for the social responsibility of actors. Thespians may assume a show revolves around their talent or reward in recognition but in reality, it’s about enabling an audience to recognize themselves in you. I was attracted to a dynamic, comprehensive aspect of drama: projecting a social x-ray of a world on stage where players enlighten viewers to problems of a people outside.
            But it was the ephemeral nature of theater, a performance here and gone, that left me thirsty to make a more tangible impact in perhaps another avenue. Coming home from late rehearsals, I often encountered my roommate Lauren absorbed in a biology textbook, toiling upon an arduous pre-medical path. I knew little of healthcare and initially avoided sciences like the plague, preferential to singing and dancing, knowing my GPA was safest where I was gifted. It was one Uncle Vanya dramaturgy meeting that gave a final impetus to leave the familiar, where I learned the playwright Chekhov was both physician and dramatist, equally passionate in both disciplines. I was inspired by the way Chekhov's work as a doctor enriched his writing by bringing him into intimate contact with all parts of Russian society; how he reflected health disparities witnessed firsthand among peasants in his stories. The parallels between actors and physicians as entities in a unique place to use their credibility, advocacy and talent to oversee community wellbeing seemed irrefutable; I dove into a slew of prerequisites, resolved to cultivate a new, almost accidentally, realized dream of medicine.
            A near-cliché embodiment of starving artist, my goal was not without the difficulty of financing it. Undergraduate years were spent striking balance between competing obligations of schoolwork and paying tuition while contributing to the income of a single-parent household. Imposing an unrealistic deadline on my dream-impacting my schedule only to yield subpar results-caused my grades to fall. I saw a need to divert attention to academic aptitude versus overwhelming work hours, even if I had to surrender what little control I had over financial security. Living out of the backseat of a Hyundai parked behind Albertson’s to save for summer school proved impressively uncomfortable, if not mildly demoralizing. Examination of my transcript after graduation put priorities into perspective; I had graduated but not excelled, demonstrated competency, not competitiveness. As a post-baccalaureate student, I attenuated study habits and focus to meet demands of rigorous science while clinical immersion and experience as an EMT, ER Scribe and community health outreach educator in Oakland provided ways to cultivate hands-on skills and affirm a passion for healthcare. Even more insightful were similarities observed between a theater and the clinic; just as the stage manager needs rapport with a costume or lighting designer to create a cohesive production, so does the physician need collaboration with a pharmacist or nurse for thorough treatment.
            Medicine is a gateway to supporting human rights, and raw theater the platform that ignited consideration of the reality of human suffering. Scenes may add an insightful dimension of ethics that textbooks do not afford, but my pursuit of medical education can actuate a dream of alleviating pain in ways less transient than a show’s run. Translating the faculties of trust-building, collaboration, improvisation, and leadership used in Drama to a seemingly disparate field of medicine makes me a more capable physician, using specialized skills to defend the voices of the vulnerable, those marginalized in healthcare. My journey to medicine may be unorthodox, pursuing many auditions with infrequent call-backs or confronting skepticism in my ability. But what was perseverance for securing greater roles and thus, a greater chance to inspire those who came to listen has since fueled a relentless tenacity in becoming a Doctor of Medicine, finally ready to take center stage.

Tommy

This is a bedtime story.  For you, not for me.  Unfortunately, I don't foresee a bedtime today.  My brain won't let me and my eyeballs will hate me for it tomorrow. I have a run with Back On My Feet tomorrow...today? at 5:30am, and I'm so happy.  I'm so excited.  But I can't sleep. Ugh, and I wonder why I get C's.

I have been in bed for over an hour. Total sensory deprivation: blackout curtains drawn, earplugs in, fan set to that very meticulous vortex spin that creates just the appropriate amount of white noise.  No cigar. 

And both wonderfully and disappointingly, for whatever impulse received and conjured and spat back out by my hippocampus, I thought of Tommy.  It was like a wash of grainy picture montage as I rolled to the left, to the right, onto my stomach, repositioned the pillow.  Before I could even process or finalize that feeling you get of tightness in your chest, into your throat, like your body manifesting a very real and very visceral response to remembered sadness. Before my brain can recall that this memory, this impression, is not entirely melancholy.

And it's not.  For the impatient that have read too much into the preface already, it does seem sad.  It's sad on a superficial level because, like most of us who have had the experience of losing someone we care for before their "epidemiological" expiration date, the life expectancy outlined so carefully by insurance companies and the WHO, someone I appreciated, someone I looked up to, somebody I cared for left me before I got to say goodbye.  Beyond salutations.  I had words to say.  I had thank you's to say. I was mad, albeit petty, and I had other things to say. So yes, that is sad. 

For a long time, apart from little anecdotes told (even hesitantly) to close friends, I was very particular about what I shared about Tommy, and how.  I was reluctant because our relationship-and I mean that which is both inclusive and inevitably exclusive of romantic involvement-was defined and dissipated (as most long distance friendships to fade to acquaintanceship do) over a short duration of time.  10 months.  I felt unwarranted in sharing an intimate and personal side of Tommy because so many others had the opportunity, the blessing of knowing him much longer.
Even when I went to Tommy's memorial service, I ducked out fairly quickly.  I drove 7 hours from San Francisco to Clairemont, CA.  And I had a biochem test and I had to eat and I couldn't.  I just could only drive.
But who was I to talk of Tommy, how he shaped much of my path to where I was, when he was gone, and he probably never knew himself.  He didn't; I made sure not to tell him.  That was too scary-to ascribe so much influence to a person and have them be aware of it.  To tell somebody that they are shaping you to be a better person.  At that point, to be a better doctor....even though I was sure I would never get there.

And perhaps it scares me a little because, it wasn't so much being with Tommy-in whatever sense of the word at any given time-that was so remarkable. It was more or less learning things about myself, about the good of others, about the potential for good, that was very enlightening to me. It was very unusual, and it was very promising.  And it was refreshing. I met someone who cared to change the world at it's most marginalized level, with the most overlooked people.  And I knew they were out there-the do-gooders, the eager-willed, the humanitarian poster children.  But here was one, so normal, so happy, who embodied something so naturally without expectation of recognition or applause that is so highly esteemed in a world where we freely and indiscriminately Acknowledge Everything With a Formal Certificate And/Or Prize.  To Tommy, that was not the point.

And tonight, while this memory that is keeping me awake at 1:43AM and its relevance to the testimony of his character are actually not all that evident, it is nonetheless on my mind.  And even my poor, perfectly spinning fan and blackout curtains can't get it out.  So, like most things, I'll write about it.  It's nothing that special, maybe not to you, maybe not even to me, seeing as I forget about it.  Realizing I forget about it is actually what makes me more sad.  Before I ramble any longer, cue memory:

We're at Trader Joes in Irvine.
V:"What are you buying?"
T:"I don't know. We'll see what's in the cart.  We need cheese."
I recall him picking out a bunch of cheese-like huge hunks-and an Aladdin/poor-man-style baguette.  It was sourdough.  So at least he had good taste in carbohydrates.
V:"This is dinner?  We don't need like....food-food?"
T: "It will be!  So impatient."
The rest of the conversation is blurry, I can't recall more without it being inaccurate.  Tommy had the world's oldest truck ever; if I recall, it was an uncle's?  An aunt's?  you always knew which ancient truck was his because 1)it was seriously made out of what felt like cast iron and 2)there was a dried rose on the dashboard.  I never asked about the rose because I was afraid of the backstory.

We drive to my apartment.  I do remember texting at least one or two roommates something analogous to "unusually hot medical student coming over to make dinner.  Don't freak out.  He's nice.  Too nice. We're taking over the kitchen."  I probably also said a million prayers in my head to not mess this up. God, I promise I will definitely try to never sin again if you let this go well.  I WILL OWE YOU.  He's one of the normal ones so don't freak him out the first time he comes over.

I remember he was slicing one of the million blocks of cheese. I remember he definitely broke my knife in half.  I remember that even after he left, our household still used that handle-less knife for at least another 3 or 4 months.

I remember we watched a movie entirely in Spanish called Rec, which had been adapted to some naturally awful English variation.  People quarantined in an apartment building, zombie-esque, yada yada.  
T: "You're the horror movie aficionado so you've probably seen this."
V: "Actually I haven't."
I had.
T: "Good.  We have to watch it on my laptop, which is like 11x13 inches."

That laptop looked like it had gone to Iraq and back, but I didn't care.  As anyone on a first date with someone way out of their league knows, it is never, ever, ever about the movie.  We could be watching amoebas asexually divide for all I care.

I remember thinking, Damnit.  I should have cleaned the bathroom. WHY DID YOU NOT CLEAN THE BATHROOM.
I also distinctly remember that unusually tense divide of space and palpable tension of said space between his hand and my hand and being like, no, too soon.  TOO NORMAL.  There must be something wrong with him. He is a serial killer.  There is no way.

But no, no serial killer.  No secret Madonna complex or five children. Just Tommy.
When my roommate and her boyfriend returned almost serendipitously as the movie credits were rolling, I walked Tommy out.  I actually really didn't want to walk Tommy out.  But I mean, it's really hard to look like you're an adult with big-girl priorities and big girl dreams when you share an 11 by 10 foot room with your best friend and more often than not, her boyfriend.  Yea, date was over.

So I walk him out, hoping he wasn't put off by everything that reeked of juvenile naivete in my room.  It's very hard and very weird to date people that are in a position you actively seek, a career you want so badly that it affects your personality and your lifestyle.  Sometimes, unfortunaely, it creates an unintentional dynamic of pity or envy, exploitation or a creepy sense of idolization.  But not with Tommy.  Yea, it was Tommy the medical student, the human rights activist, the unusually fluent Spanish speaker with Blonde hair and an "I love SF T-shirt."  But I only saw Tommy.

And I'm at his car and he says goodbye and he says, I'll see you this week?  But it's more of a statement and less of a question and already I can't speak English because I'm freaking out but playing it cool but probably look like I'm having an MI.  And I say, yea, I'd like that.  And remember when my internal monologue just hours before said, "Don't ruin it Veronica.  Don't be a creepy nube." Well, naturally, this story wouldn't be good unless I ruined it.  Because as Tommy-the-eerily-perfect leans in for a kiss I say: "You can't.  I taste like sourdough.  I literally taste like sourdough bread.  You don't want that."

....what. the. hell. Veronica.

And like I said, this wouldn't be a good story unless everything I did in self-demise to create a perfectly terrible ending wasn't overshadowed by an even better one.

With a loaf of bread in his hand, half demolished from our cheese-baked-tapas thing, he takes a bite out in the parking lot.
T: "Ok," crumbs flailing from the corner of his mouth, classic Tommy grin in full-coy-manifest, "Now we match."

.............................................................................................................................................................
It's 2:13AM.  Dude, I really need to sleep.  I think now, I can.  So if you made it to the end, congratulations, hopefully you didn't die of stale boredom.  But that is the story of my Sourdough first kiss with Tommy.  It isn't the hallmark of anything, it wasn't a milestone by any means, but today, tonight, it is what woke me up.  I'm tired, but I am happy it did.

Goodnight.

Incoming M1's Advice, Shameless Plugs for Vietnamese Food

Perhaps the most specific post title yet, I won't deviate far from what it implies.

Today is Saturday, but not for much longer.  A few hours ago Zack, Mark, Khevna and I ventured to find to Yelp-renowned Pho Xe Lua in Fishtown.   Well.....I assumed it was Pho Xe Lua.  It was Pho-Something-Something.  Totally specific, no room for ambiguity.

Back in California, post-post-bacc and pre-PCOM, I lived about 3 miles from Little Saigon (Westminster, CA).  PHO IS EVERYWHERE.  There was pho literally outside my house.  I walked there probably/unfortunately/shamefully about 3 times a week.  There was pho by UC Irvine.  There were pho establishments next to pho establishments that differed by one number.  My favorite place to date is still Pho 54.  Closely followed by 79, 71, etc etc.

Aside: if you aren't familiar with Vietnamese phonetics, pho is pronounced "fuh." Like...you know.

I construct most of my food adventures under the auspices of Yelp. I had been to this place once, with a mediocre date, and all I could remember was how amazing it was, and that they took debit.  Immediate Viet win.  So off we go, into the city, risking our lives as we drive through China Town and...nope. Pho Xe Lua is not the right Pho Xe Lua.

"This isn't it."
Poor Mark.  We make him drive us everywhere and yet it's never to a definitive place.  I really need a car.

"I don't know, how many pho places can there possibly be in Fishtown?"

For the record, there's a lot.  Like...Little Saigon-concentration-a-lot. 
Pho Ta.  Pho Hoa.  Nam Phuong. Pho Cali (what?)  Pho 75.
THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE.

I give a nondescript account about how it was definitely in a parking lot.  There were definitely some seedy stores nearby with/without English advertisements.  There is definitely a set of crack-house looking lofts that could be nice but not quite directly adjacent to it. 

PHO HA:  We find it.  45 minutes later and with a mandatory ATM withdrawal, nonetheless.  But we found it.
This isn't a food blog, so I won't write frivolously about the epicurian meal we just had with some highbrow company.  It's Pho: rice noodles, broth that probably has a ton of MSG, meat of choice (chicken or shrimp is probably safest if you're a gumshoe of Vietnamese dining), bean sprouts, random basil/lemongrass/onion/mint foliage assortment, tons of Siracha (if you're like me), medium-tons of Hoison sauce.  Add a Vietnamese coffee or Thai Iced tea and you've pretty much obtained your Pan-Asian dining badge of honor.  Order in Vietnamese, really blow my Mexi-Canadian socks off and I may just tell you Tôi yêu bạn".


Behold, our riches and spoils of Pho Ha (Washington Ave and...something else.  It's by Penn's Landing, if that helps).

A wild Zack in his native habitat foraging for Pho.

Mark is too cool for blogs.

Walrus or DO.  Walrus, DO.

Khevna lost her Boba Virginity today. I enthusiastically coached.

On a more relevant note.
The other day, I did that thing that I thought I wouldn't do, which was pay a visit to the incoming class of 2018 Facebook page.  I mean, I'm not an M1-to-be, I don't really have business there.  I solicit all my used books and stuff to ebay, people somehow buy it.  But I remember that feeling of ..."uh, so yea.  Med school.  What do I do when I get there?"  Perusing ensued.  The concerns were ubiquitous, general excitement evident, the questions pretty standard.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized a lot of the things I wish I had known were actually questions that had not been thought to be asked.  Moreover, I realize now in retrospect that while I was provided an infinite amount of resources, plenty of academic support, and lots of tangible how-to-guides....not many people really address the underlying, maybe even more integral component of your M1 survival guide: how to deal with the feeling of med school.

Essentially, I copied and pasted what I put on the Class of 2018 Facebook page, so for those of you who've seen this twice, I've taken out some colorful metaphors and made it a little more family-friendly.  (Kudos to you if you caught the Mister Spock reference).  As my friend used to say, if it wasn't for your sailor's mouth, you'd merely be an encyclopedia.
So, whether you're a new PCOMer or otherwise, here is the Veronica Manifesto of First-Year-isms.  I hope it helps you.  Have a great year.  It goes by so, so, so unbelievably fast.

M1's (soon!) of '18: When I started med school, I moved here from California and didn't know jack about this song and dance. I'm definitely procrastinating studying for finals right now but thought about the things I wish people had told me before school began. It's long, but hopefully it helps ya out. -Vee
1)Don’t buy everything under the sun.
….unless you want to! Everyone has their own method. People will say, “Use pathoma! It’s the greatest. Use First Aid for the USMLE as you study! It’s the greatest. Use Robbins and Guyton only! They’re the greatest. Use only this size 10 font chart with 12098310238 columns someone made from 2002! IT’S THE BEST.” You get it. I’d say, more importantly than impulse buying as suggestions come and getting inundated with a bunch of crap you don’t really need, ask 2nd years with similar learning styles what they used. For example, OMM makes a lot of sense to me. I don’t know why, it just does. But CMBM made me feel clinically retarded. Seriously, it was so hard for me. So I just asked my peers or 2nd or 3rd years who had similar issues (rote memorization, a weak background in the sciences, etc) how they did it. Trust me, you’ll save yourself a lot of time and $$. You don’t need an app for everything, but you may find a method or four that really works for you.
I like books, but that’s because I seriously don’t focus well off of a computer screen. Also I was born in 1820.
2) Per a previous post I creeped on…yea, I get it. The shameless plugs for “buy my stuff” get really annoying. But FOR REAL. When your loan money disbursement starts to dwindle you will wish you were that person to go pick up that ikea couch. And then, one day, you too will be a 2nd year trying to sling your stuff to incoming 1st years like yourself. Take as much cheap junk as you can so you can spend your money on beer and other important things.
3) Don’t buy your blood pressure cuff from the bookstore. Just…don’t. I use my crappy EMT one that was like 20 bucks and it works.
4) Some professors will throw you ridiculous hints in class as to exam material (cue: Young). Others will not. THAT SAID: I still stand by the fact that if you don’t understand something, or if you’re like me and every test is like “holy sh*holy sh*I have a 71 in the class and can’t fail an exam holy sh*” just ask them what they like to focus on. They may roll their eyes at you/secretly voodoo curse you if you just ask “what’s on the test.” Trust me, no sucking up required. When I REALLY struggled, I went to professor office hours. Sometimes it was just 5 minutes, sometimes more. If you need help understanding a concept, phrase it intelligently and politely. I know this should seem obvious but my advisor/boss is one of your soon to be professors, and trust me, nothing agitates them off more than some arrogant gunner who cited WebMD and wants to challenge their PhD, on top of trying to solicit answers. In sum: just be polite. Don’t burn bridges. Blah blah blah.
5) FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BE A NORMAL HEALTHY HAPPY HUMAN BEING. Sounds easy, right? Just wait until test one (which isn’t that bad-don’t worry). I’ve seen more people cry and crumble to pieces in med school than in a psychiatric ward. It’s really freaking hard but dangit, it’s not THAT hard. Take time for yourself, socialize, eat good food, go to the gym, be friendly to others. It’s hard to avoid the inevitable stomach-ulcer inducing stress…especially if you ain’t doing so hot in a class. But having seen it and experienced it, make sure you keep yourself sane. It will fare you very well in PCS, standardized patients, and of course, clinical years.
6) Don’t get too psyched out about other people’s grades. People will talk about a test ad nauseum (guilty). People will tell you about how they “wish they could have gotten that 90 percent instead of that godforsaken 82”…meanwhile you stuff your face with a gallon of ice cream because your grade is barely a C. Don’t worry about them. Worry about you. Whether the folks that do this are conscientious of it or not, it can shake your confidence and it’s kind of a jerk move. So if those people freak you out and give you needless anxiety…study with nicer ones! Or just run as fast as you can to your car/house after each exam. It helps. Really.
7) Don’t blow off OMM and PCS entirely. (you’ll see what I mean soon). Lest you forget, whether it was your first choice or not, you are at an OSTEOPATHIC school that teaches OSTEOPATHIC principles. Be proud! I am amazed at how many times I hear that people just didn’t go to their SP, or blew off studying for PCS documentation writing because of insert-other-class here (btw…that stuff count’s for like half your grade at the end of the year OSCE). I know, it can sometimes appear a joke the way curriculum gets structured or scheduling gets impacted, especially during exam weeks. It’s often lengthy and fluffy. But…dude. It’s essentially the class entitled “HOW TO BE A DOCTOR FOR REAL IN THE CLINICAL SETTING” and yet everyone’s like….psssh, it’s not important. It doesn’t carry the same weight GPA wise, correct. But if you fail it, you still have to remediate it. So make sure you at least prepare a teeny tiny itty bit. It will make all of the clinical faculty hate you less.
8)ENJOY YOUR SUMMER. DO NOT STUDY. DON’T. IT WON’T MATTER. YOUR MIND WILL BE BLOWN BY WEEK ONE ANYWAY. Just eat everything and drink everything you can and tell your significant other it’s been real (just kidding). Alright, have fun!Really, have all...the...fun.

xoxo,
Vee

Speakeasy, The End of Kidney, and Survivalist's Nostalgia

Renal is over.

I mean, okay, it's never really over. I remember our first acid-base lecture and thinking, "Chemistry?!  What am I, a scientist?"  But as fast as your can swing your bean-shaped organ in circles by its ureter, the "hardest" part of Cardio/Renal/Pulm was el fin.  I quote hardest because, well, everything is hard to me.

I wish nephrology was this organized.

I realize it's been about 4 weeks (HOW) since my last post.  Which, as you know, translates to about .025 seconds of perceived time in medical school.  I'll give you the Reader's Digest (does that even exist anymore?  I feel old) version of the last 28 days.

1)I passed Cardio Part 2!  Miracle of Miracles.
2)I passed Renal (barely)! Miracle of Miracle of Miracles.
3)I turned 25!  Anti-miracle.
Much of these festivities revolved around eating to excess, which of course is pretty easy for me to do. I haven't found a place in proximity that's a whole lot better than Chabaa for Thai, although Circles in Northern Liberties is probably home to the hottest green curry I've ever had in my entire life.  Seriously, the last time I was there, I kept unintentionally lacrimating and couldn't finish it because I felt like the inside of my mouth was on fire.  It was so amazing. 
4)In a moment of crisis and need for self-validation, I signed up for my first (regulated) USAT Sprint Triathlon, The Johnson & Johnson TriRock in Philly on June 21st. I've done those ridiculously unorganized and fun ones put on by moms and dads from Parks and Recreation departments, but in the advent of turning a quarter century and also being super mediocre at school, I decided to fill the void by registering for something where I can actually be remotely competitive at.  I know, it sounds terrible and really self-gratifying.  But it's true!  Sometimes you need to affirm you don't suck at a lot of things.  I definitely don't suck at swimming or running (biking, unfortunately, I anticipate mass injury), so it will be nice to be at the top of a performance distribution for once.  God, I'm terrible.  DON'T EVER THINK LIKE THIS.
5)I went a little over the top with seeking tests of athleticism and endurance.  I also signed up for the Philadelphia Marathon in November.
Which is not a first for me.  It's been over a year since my last marathon, and this will be my fourth.  However, it was immediately after I pressed "process my nonrefundable, nontransferable 110 dollar payment" that I realized this marathon is in....November.  Like fall.  Like potentially snow weather.  So there's that.
6).....and then I signed up for the Wissahicken Trail Classic on June 7th, the day after our CRP exam.  Then I checked my Citibank charges and decided that would probably be the last race for awhile.

Since you probably don't live under a rock, I'm sure you've seen how nice and sunny it has been outside.  It's crazy!  There were TWO WHOLE DAYS where our weather paralleled LA's (I check compulsively because I get a lot of "The east coast is always soooooo cold" haterisms from my Southern California friends).
It's fitting, then, that I make a shameless plug here for getting checked for skin cancer. I don't do this to indoctrinate you or because I think I know anything remotely about cancer or derm, but because, hey, it's super important. My family has a history of malignant melanoma and being biracial from the world's whitest mama and the world's darkest hispanic father left me with a pretty busy complexion of freckles everyyyyyyywhere.  I was getting OMT a few weeks ago when Dr. Noto Bell noticed an irregular mole on my hip (I've had it since I was a baby), but she remarked the borders and color were slightly heterogenous and probably warranted a visit to the Derm.
I feel like dermatology visits are probably really easy to blow off.  I mean, I've done it my entire life.  Perhaps because it seems superfluous, you really only think about them nowadays as your dealers of botox, maybe because your insurance is the worst like mine and costs you 60 dollars of a copay (!@#!@%$!@#), or maybe just because you don't want to know if you have skin cancer. Whatever the reason, if you're a older man or a young-adult female, your risk is particularly high.

Aside: The full-body screening for skin cancer is just that....full body.  Head to toe and everything in between.  Don't be too freaked out when your doctor starts vocalizing all the benign nevi on your butt to the medical scribe who stands right there as you're pretty much as naked as you'll ever be around people you just met 2 minutes ago.

Another fun fact/aside: According to Dr. Parish MD, JD, the most common place for malignant moles/skin cancer in women (mainly because they go undetected) are the inner thighs and soles of the feet.  For men, the back is particularly common.  So go once, get it over with, and slap on sunscreen.  It will make you feel accomplished for the day.

Lately, I've been trying to get more acquainted with this city that is my transient (maybe permanent?) home.  It's pretty difficult to do sans car, and hopefully that will change next when I finally have a set of wheels that don't constitute a road bike.  Much like my everyday initiative, I've made my impetus for getting out of the house finding better places to eat.  I'm still saddened by the fact that the east coast in general lacks Boba.
That said, last night Molly, her boyfriend, ancillary friend, and myself went to a Speakeasy.  In Los Angeles, my favorite place to go was the Edison.  The cocktails were way to expensive, the dress code was unusually meticulous,  and the bathroom was way over the top.  But dang, it was so cool.  It was very prohibition-era, high ceilings with lots of metal welding architecture juxtaposed next to ornate lighting, and cocktails with names so long you just pointed and said: "that one."  I'm pretty terrible at visual recounts so behold for yourself, The Edison:

The Edison: main lobby

Much to my satisfaction, there are actually many places like this in Philadelphia.  I took my best friends to the Franklin Mortgage and Investment Co. off Chestnut and 18th after white coat ceremony, and Molly and I decided it was time to repay it a visit.  The ambiance is still faithful to the prohibition theme, but far more understated than something like the Edison.  In many ways, this is actually much nicer.  The whiskey, the crazy punches, the crafted cocktails are all wonderful, but it's the intimate atmosphere and limited seating of 80 that really sells the place.  Do you know how wonderful it is to actually hear the person across from you say intelligible words?  Or to not have to fight or coerce your way to an open bar stool and wave dollars to elicit a bar tender's attention?  Unreal. Ah, growing up.
Here's some photos to illustrate our night, as they definitely provide a more accurate account than I could after a few Gin-Mint Mules (<-why are these so good?)

Courtesy: BBC Travel

Ew...adorable people. 

Beer in your ear.

Obviously we are very mature.

Apart from ongoing preparation for our final Pulm exam, my next week's goal entails finding a Cronut that has the potential for instant-Diabetes. I have a feeling immediate chest-pain post-indulgence is probably a good marker for how great it is.  I'm still a cronut virgin, and I hear Swiss Haus has ridiculously delicious croissant-donut hybrids.  Count me in.

On a final note, it's Mother's Day!  Call the mother in your life and tell her thank you for putting up with all your crap. Tell her thank you for making you eat your veggies, for making you feel better when you were an idiot and did something you weren't supposed to and hurt yourself, or for her unconditional love, even when it was tough love.  Even if the mother in your life is your Dad, or your Grandparent, or whomever.  My mom is pretty amazing.  She lives in East Texas, and I only see her about once a year.  She is a Registered Nurse, and a great one, which is something she pursued when I was a toddler and probably as needy as ever.  She taught me how to do my taxes when I was 16, how to change a tire (something I've watched her do in a grocery parking lot a few times; it's intense), how to be a good person to others, and how to be grateful for the opportunities, time, and resources you earn and are given.  She was a single parent, technically, but in my mind she was really two parents!  I'm proud of her and hope she's proud of me.  Thanks mom, for all you do!

I got it from my mama, making pixie cuts cool
since 1987.