Happy Holidays: Who Needs Barbados When You've Got the ICU?

I woke up the other morning and realized with a start: Oh-my-gosh-it's-already-December-how-did-that-happen? (This was after I did the whole mentally cursing at the 5 alarm clocks buzzing in succession at 4 am - see my earlier posts for more information/whining on that). This realization may not have occurred but for the fact that, for the past few weeks, my clock radio has been stubbornly, cheerfully featuring such saccharine ditties as the hot-chocolate-craving-inducing "Winter Wonderland", the never-fails-to-be-slightly-creepy "Santa Baby", or the theatrically diva-esque, classic Christmas earworm "All I Want For Christmas".

Even then, I'm a bit slow in the mornings. Luckily, I'm a dedicated Walgreens customer, and anyone who knows anything about Walgreens knows that this store is like America's weathervane. To wit:

• Pondering if a recession is looming? One glance at the teetering display of unsold nose-hair trimmers and As-Seen-On-TV Ab Rollers, and you have your answer.

• Trying to keep up with current city trends? Check out the ever-changing display in front of the checkout counter - here, a revolving display of San Francisco staples: canvas grocery/tote bags (the more in-your-face logos about recycling and environmental consciousness, the better), stainless steel water bottles (plastic and polycarbonate = decidedly c. 2005), petroleum-and-paraben free chapstick, mini-compost bins, umbrellas.

• Curious about the ethnic makeup of the neighborhood? Again, that friendly front counter, home to such clues as Yin-Yan sticks, dried seaweed snacks (endorsed by an evilly-grinning porcine cartoon man promising "Most crunchy Snack! Top quality!"), Thai Ginger Chews, Hot Tandoori Mix (which, in an embrace of the gaudiness-gets-dollars marketing philosophy, flashes a shiny lilac and tangerine wrapper showcasing a picture of tired-looking green peas, glistening oil-soaked peanuts and dangerously neon-yellow noodles).

• Wondering what contemporary songs the discerning music aficionado will soon blacklist from her MP3 player? Linger and listen in the aisles while listening to soulful crooners negotiate ten octaves in pleas for lost loves and one-more-chances - then give into your urge to buy earplugs STAT.

Anyhow, in line with my bustling social life as an intern in San Francisco, I end up taking several weekly jaunts to Walgreens - where I catch up on my "reading" by reviewing the packages of various OTC medications (one day, I will smoothly tackle those "Doctor, what dosage of Metamucil did you want to give now?" questions from pharmacy)...followed by a few more hours scrutinizing face creams in hope of finding the magic cure to hospital-inflicted Problem Skin....followed by a jaunt down the snack aisle to peruse the various metabolic-syndrome-inducing ethnic goodies...and invariably culminating with me buying some form of chocolate.

It was finally at Walgreens, after a few concerned mothers began steering their kids discreetly from my path, that I realized I was sashaying down the Foot Care aisle to the beat of Beyonce's R&B-ified "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer". (If anyone can R&B-ify Rudolph, it's Beyonce.) This, coupled with the appearance of Limited Edition white-chocolate-and-peppermint Ghirardelli Squares - and the stuffed reindeer that started screeching "Meeeerrrry Christmas, Baby!" when I accidentally knocked it from its shelf - jolted my being into realizing that Christmas was around the corner.

Spending the holidays in the hospital, a seemingly depressing prospect, is actually....indeed quite depressing. For every intern across the nation, it is a time of reflection; a time to ponder exactly what mind-altering substance s/he had ingested when making the decision to enter medical school; a time to ponder the feasibility of partnering with a gleamingly-white-toothed infomercial "M.D." and launching a career sponsoring Botox parties. After all, the holidays are when normal people are supposed to sup, laugh and relax with families - or, as the case may be, engage in passive-aggressive standoffs with in-laws, gossip about blatantly tacky re-gifted presents and office-party hookups, argue with the airport security guard about to confiscate the $300 bottle of Napa wine in your carry-on.

But there is a wisp of silver lining - or, at the very least, a Claire's-Accessories-esque, contact-dermatitis-inducing yellow-dyed nickel lining - to this sad cloud of intern drudgery. Which is: working over the holidays allows the intern-victim to lay legitimate claim to the title of Generally Good Person/Humble Hardworking Servant/Martyr.

It's the sort of thing that gets you admiring, sympathetic glances from, say, grandmothers, friends vacationing in Barbados ("You're working full-time on Christmas, Thanksgiving, Boxing Day, New Years' Eve, Kwanzaa AND New Years' Day? What kind of messed-up job is that? Oh sorry - got to go, our mai tais just arrived") and cashiers at Walgreens. It might theoretically work as a facilitator of chemistry/booster of perceived attractiveness in the Potential Significant Other/Hot Date marketplace, except said intern would actually have to be physically present at said marketplace, which is of course impossible to do when you're on call and in the hospital that day. (Thus, single readers out there, if an intern you meet in September 2008 happens to let slip the sexy fact that they are working in the ICU on, say, Thanksgiving Day 2009 - yes, they are indeed interested.)

Even if an intern's spending 99% of it in the hospital, and thus is determined to wear the sullen mask of Intern Slave throughout, December is one of those months that burrows its pesky snowflakes-and-sleighbells, cinnamon-and-nutmeg-scented way into your soul. And, slowly but surely, it began to finagle its way into my grumpy mind. Maybe it was the green and red tinsel festooning the "The 7 South Team Works To Help You!" bulletin board collage, featuring action-shot cutouts of sprightly nurses bounding to gather medications, beaming unit assistants holding up remarkably expediently-processed order sheets, and startled-looking doctors trying to untangle their stethoscopes out of door hinges (why does that always happen to me??), all captured in the candid glare of flash photography. Maybe it was Gus, the perenially cheerful janitor, whistling a soulful version of "Christmastime" as he cleaned up the remains of a low-salt, pureed-diet tray a psychotic patient had decided belonged on the floor rather than in his stomach (who could blame him?). Or maybe it was the sudden, unexplained appearance of an yellow- slicker-sporting stuffed bear in the resident lounge, which dutifully belts out "Singin' in the Rain" at oddly random, unprovoked intervals. (I'm not sure what the last one has to do with Christmas - but the notion of anyone singing anything in the resident lounge has to be associated with a special season.)

In any case, it wasn't long before I was idly humming the theme from Charlie Brown's Christmas as I recorded patient vitals ("The patient's bed alarm is going off, but I can't figure out why - we'll need to call maintenance," one flummoxed nurse told another as I passed by), or found myself moved to shed a tear or three as a black-and-white Tony Bennett crooned "My Favorite Things" on a Christmas CD collection commercial in a patient's room (only $12.99 + S&H! If anyone wants to buy me a Christmas gift...). My bah-humbug, I'm-a-grumpy-intern exterior had officially waved the white flag of surrender to the subliminal effects of seasonal marketing. And so in my first move of acceptance, I logged onto sephora.com to take advantage of my newfound elite shopping status, partaking of the joy of holiday sales. (Damn subliminal marketing.)

But the other "great" part about working over the holidays is that you instantly have a bond with all the other lucky souls who are sharing the hospital space with you: fellow interns, cafeteria cashiers, pharmacists, nurses, social workers, CT techs (okay, maybe not so much the CT techs. Since they are never working when you need to order a STAT CT on a sick patient over the holidays.) It's why you can walk by a total stranger vacuuming the corridor on Christmas morning and exchange a high-five and warm hello like you were old college buddies, or why you finally get to mooch some extra coffee from the notoriously eagle-eyed cafeteria ladies.

And people, need I mention the most obvious highlight of working the holidays? Quite simply: Chocolate. Don't even get me started on the chocolate. It's everywhere - ensconced in workrooms, randomly making appearances at conference tables and floor kitchens, burgeoning from boxes in the resident lounge - and it seems everyone is always offering you some. One nurse actually accosted me in the hallway, grabbed my hand and marched me to a potpourri-scented break room where she poured me cups of hot apple cider and warm baked chocolate-banana bread. (That bread was so good, I think it makes up for every hour of working over the holidays.) And one particularly devious resident, whom I will not name, has taken it upon himself to plant mammoth boxes of chocolate covered macadamia nuts in vulnerable interns' paths (Hawaii's annual economic boost in December, I'm convinced, must be attributable to this resident's mass purchase of macadamia nuts for us common folk). Anyway, I firmly subscribe to the philosophy that no obstacle is too insurmountable, no barrier too impenetrable, no task too monumental, no patient too complicated as long as you have a decent bar of chocolate at hand. And with all the chocolate that marks Holidays in the Hospital, I think I'm pretty set (unlike my scrub size, which I think may be on its way upward after this month).

So on Christmas Day, while rested folk celebrate good tidings and cheer (or at least try to prevent die-hard Republican Uncle Leo from provoking die-hard Democrat Aunt Betty at the dinner table and causing another one of those notorious family cold wars that had the children crying for hours last year, poor things!), look up at that stale bottle of Pepcid you're about to grab to treat that nagging heartburn (Aunt Betty never really grasped the term "cooking light", did she?) and think of me. For my scrubs-clad self will be marching resolutely to work at 0600 on Christmas Day, past shuttered store windows and rows of sparkling Christmas lights, bearing the tell-tale battle scars of cavernous undereye circles and alcohol-gel-dehydrated hands. But to be honest, it's not going to be that bad. Fun people + Official Stamp of Good Person from the Universe + TV in resident lounge + Enough Chocolate to Happify an Army = content, overworked intern.


And with that, time to get back to work - I think Tony Bennett's playing in room 56. Long live the holidays!