So as I start writing this, I'm hoping that in a few years I'll be able to change the title of this blog. Meaning, I won't jump quite so forcefully or feel the hairs at the back of my neck prickle when someone turns and addresses me as "doctor". But right now, on my fourth day as a first-year internal medicine resident, hearing the word oddly attached to my last name still elicits a knee-jerk reflex to scurry away in fright, or contemplate snitching my patient's pm dose of Valium.
The first t
ime I heard "Dr. K", I was standing on a stage in front of about 1,000 people in Michigan, in a beautiful auditorium decked with flags and ornate paneling. Around me were beaming physicians, wearing beret hats and colored sashes. I remember thinking I had arrived because finally, I got to wear one of these awesome, huge black pouffy robes with velvet detailing on the side (see picture) - the robe that just screams "I'm damn smart and I got Education with a capital E". As if that wasn't enough, after hearing the deliberate, microphoned intonation of my name - version 2.0, M.D. - I then got to walk acoss the stage to applause and flashing cameras, accept a scroll of parchment (okay, it was paper, but still) tied in gold ribbon, and then bend my head as a silk, multicolored sash ceremoniously was placed over my head.It was sneaky, really. Who could possibly get scared when our medical school had put into place so many tricky little details designed to make sure you felt absolutely Awesome and Special? With all the fanfare and unsubtle theme of the day that Our Students are Fantastic, you could have called me the Pope's physician and I would have thrown my head back, laughed in utter confidence, and coolly uttered, "Why, of course. All in a day's work."
It didn't hurt, either, that this moment of glory was framed against the end of the bumpy journey that is medical school. People often ask me, "What was it like, being in medical school?" Taking the journey analogy a step further: Medical school is sort of like driving from New York to California in a 12-year old Saturn sedan with 5 people; a radio that plays only a mix of Easy Listening and static; an arthritic, sometimes incontinent labrador retriever; 2 overripe bananas and a tub full of wasabi-salt-and-hot-chili-pepper cashews with 1 shared, lukewarm 8-ounce bottle of water to wash it down - and making the trip twice a week. On this journey, then, fourth year is like the Year of the Rest Stop....or like someone taking pity on you and saying, "Hey, I don't need my Porsche anymore. Here are the keys. Have fun."
Sure, I had a few weeks of vacation after the day I officially became a doctor to let it sink in, to practice writing out "Dr.K, M.D." (and ponder if that was too redun
dant), to come up with my own unique style of undecipherable handwriting and sloppy signature, to rehearse my professional sounding introduction with just the right gravitas and ego, to buy my "Trust me, I'm a Doctor" baby-doll t-shirt at Charlotte Russe. Instead, I decided upon a circumpsect, carefully-thought-out strategy of denial and embarked on a shopping spree that included assorted purchases of cognac stilletoes, flowy skirts and a really cute cropped jacket with bell sleeves. (This, by the way, is one of my most tried and tested strategies/therapies: there is always a reason to shop. Why else would the astute soul have called it "retail therapy"?)Which brings me to here, acrossthe country in a little studio in San Francisco, about 0.8 miles north of a pink building that is the hospital I now call home. (The hospital, not the studio.) I'm four days into the year that is notorious - courtesy of such shows as Grey's Anatomy, House, and Scrubs - for gobbling up a well-rested, bright-eyed, cheery and optimistic young'un and spitting out a chewed-up, crabby, caffeinated, dehydrated, sleepwalking grouch with undereye circles big enough to serve as basketball hoops and a skin tone that screams "I Only Eat Refined Sugar Because I'm Too Tired To Care." (Except, of course, the Grey's Anatomy writers work in a magical hospital wherein all scrubs magically fit, sleep deprivation and surgical masks make you instantly attractive, and undereye circles are extinct.) I speak of, of course, Intern Year: the first year of residency.
So that's where this little project is born...a little peek into the life and times of that person wearing the white coat (not so white, if you look closely...I blame it on gel pens and leaky coffee cups), who still secretly gets a little visceral chill when she looks at her name followed by the letters "M.D." Hopefully, you won't get quite such a chill when you think of yourself as a potential patient of mine (ack! why am I getting the chill?) or realize just how human the person behind that pompous-looking white coat really is. Unless, of course, after intern year I can no longer accurately be classified as "human" and more aptly fit a category like "overworked breathing corpse".
So with that, here's to Intern Year.
Posts
