tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70674572024-03-07T08:02:44.095-06:00The Hamster WheelEccentricities of a surgical residentTHWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comBlogger757125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-9537010237774017692010-04-28T08:54:00.001-05:002010-04-28T08:56:15.624-05:00One year old<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy0fsSojBANBQ6UdBFR_drMKY5Cnrwl-yJ1xQkp8nPhXP2-wHYB9AgnAzE1nLe427JoBSwUAOyQoarsuz5dPzyMM1Rk6aed4jMjPDlc-dODpM0d0rZjf4SmTuoq0nEuJTj7pFR/s1600/gabebw.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy0fsSojBANBQ6UdBFR_drMKY5Cnrwl-yJ1xQkp8nPhXP2-wHYB9AgnAzE1nLe427JoBSwUAOyQoarsuz5dPzyMM1Rk6aed4jMjPDlc-dODpM0d0rZjf4SmTuoq0nEuJTj7pFR/s400/gabebw.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465186824770360386" /></a>THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-58335429462012069732010-01-11T20:28:00.001-06:002010-01-11T20:29:37.649-06:00Gabriel's First Christmas<!a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNiMQPypBH1wdTfpLNydovhLgFMQ5X2mezdp2j9xrR0HZBHEQbxuaxYnBryGtM9udVI2HU8Mufn9zU4-3WZO_3qtw0ez1Bdl77Uz2_1muXqgFWFhaD8SdHjDphgd9LbgEOj2F/s1600-h/gabe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 339px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNiMQPypBH1wdTfpLNydovhLgFMQ5X2mezdp2j9xrR0HZBHEQbxuaxYnBryGtM9udVI2HU8Mufn9zU4-3WZO_3qtw0ez1Bdl77Uz2_1muXqgFWFhaD8SdHjDphgd9LbgEOj2F/s400/gabe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425674636285128450" /><!/a>THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-18615843616529848902009-08-06T07:06:00.000-05:002009-08-06T07:07:11.447-05:00Gabriel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieobZXrXA_sRCRJ1spQYZ7cM49VExa6znIZBPF7AfkSmLad906WU2FioVitSdUAYtyvn7rryhLqlQdgZNq_U8KNDZ0n-s_PeU1HOisl9XodVIBolJdEiFosmOpaUi9g_ckUDR1/s1600-h/6289_122601289984_619754984_2173863_2116290_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieobZXrXA_sRCRJ1spQYZ7cM49VExa6znIZBPF7AfkSmLad906WU2FioVitSdUAYtyvn7rryhLqlQdgZNq_U8KNDZ0n-s_PeU1HOisl9XodVIBolJdEiFosmOpaUi9g_ckUDR1/s400/6289_122601289984_619754984_2173863_2116290_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366821128346836690" /></a>THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-29466730569934229182009-05-07T22:14:00.000-05:002009-05-07T22:15:06.328-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFokjdAmAuVa3QSi4mzep6ANzeRL9I3mMbFy0_EQC4h5m119DxYV9Bt8IReYbEU-0P9ytP9OzghhTRpLNk0SFBeAsPQyZ7eOmNHqJjZLzjvFrZrpKcKKhrcrvOKkw8Ok-NQBfe/s1600-h/announcement.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 273px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFokjdAmAuVa3QSi4mzep6ANzeRL9I3mMbFy0_EQC4h5m119DxYV9Bt8IReYbEU-0P9ytP9OzghhTRpLNk0SFBeAsPQyZ7eOmNHqJjZLzjvFrZrpKcKKhrcrvOKkw8Ok-NQBfe/s400/announcement.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333286370756756994" /></a>THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-13486992993406278452008-06-10T22:08:00.005-05:002009-08-06T07:08:48.331-05:00Recrudesce<!a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGra();} catch(e) {}" href="http3dlVrCM0pUI/s1600-h/where_sidewalk_ends.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzTVWZXw-gKqNfgE0JDeChl1IOLJI2wpJwdMjjqjr0Ck7VzV7SXtjEPApCa-ww99Z1TEt8a1quRpTisFW6Ez-XoX-kgsLkJaQh77sXRTWtM7H8T7qd4uzIy6t38_5lD1se7QFr/s320/where_sidewalk_ends.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190222684707364658" /><br />In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love...<br />...and away from blogging.<br /><br />(OK, so technically we're closer to the start of summer, but it was spring when I started mulling this over in my head.)<br /><br />So it's happened. I could feel it coming on, but now it's really here. The end of the blog.<br /><br />Given my penchant for abandoning ill-kept journals with hardly a look back, it's quite a personal achievement that I've kept this blog going for as long as I have. One of our bookshelves houses a few of my past journals. All with only a handful of pages littered with writing, most with barely enough entries to warrant the captivation of any significant part of an hour. Yet this blogger counter indicates that I've posted over 800 entries over the past four years.<br /><br />I've been wondering when I was going to lose interest in this hobby and move on to another. Those urges to quit have come and gone from time to time, but have never persisted, usually quelled by one of your comments. But I think that the time for a final entry has finally approached.<br /><br />Maybe I need to find a focus for this blog on something else instead of Things Happening To Me, although I'd find it rather difficult to write about things not-happening to me with any real authority. Besides, as much as I enjoyed semi-anonymously expounding on various topics devoid of any erudite commentary, there's no doubt that a part of this has been rooted in narcissistic impulses. <br /><br />(Seriously, anybody who keeps a public journal but denies such a motivation is an outright liar.)<br /><br />It was just going to be a matter of time before I threw in the towel. Placing this blog on the shelf, next to my other hobbies that I've started, enjoyed, and then lost interest in. And so this becomes where the sidewalk ends.<br /><br />Or who knows, this blogging may actually be a more permanent hobby than I think. Maybe blogging is a little like joining the mob, once you're in, you never really leave The Family.<br /><br />Besides, without an obligatory post now and then, how else will I satisfy my narcissistic urges? Or share stories about the adventures of having a pregnant wife? (No, she's not, but I'm saying one day she will be and I'll likely use this blog for that.) <br /><br />Maybe I just need a break. I'll probably be back blogging again in a few weeks.<br /><br />I'll see you then.<br /><br /><br /><!a onblur="try {parent.des {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkEzjK_-sBlPM696FgrMWgKGKYP6dk489b053a4GF3SkhcLD3irNshn_jI2oikUQN3_oJqfLcdIDGyPnhOr9mK0Irkv6GHGPdQvHj9BNuyBoVMRuZj8VLsStZHrnYF9yzY_Mcl/s1600-h/Godfather007.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkEzjK_-sBlPM696FgrMWgKGKYP6dk489b053a4GF3SkhcLD3irNshn_jI2oikUQN3_oJqfLcdIDGyPnhOr9mK0Irkv6GHGPdQvHj9BNuyBoVMRuZj8VLsStZHrnYF9yzY_Mcl/s200/Godfather007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190363834512580418" /><br /><font size=1>Comments are closed. Email: miknosaj-at-gmail-dot-com</font>THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-56914671181911243432008-05-30T07:39:00.007-05:002008-05-30T08:22:22.919-05:00Eustacian<blockquote>Physician, heal thyself.<br /><div align=center><I>-Luke 4:23</I></div></blockquote><br /><B>Doctor:</B> [looking through an otoscope] Well, here's the problem. Your ears are filled with fluid. It's definitely your sinuses.<br /><br />Well, that was a relief... I guess. At least now I knew why I couldn't hear a darn thing.<br /><br />For the past several days, everything had been sounding muffled yet oddly loud. As if I was walking around wearing ear plugs, but someone had turned up the bass. It was as if I was living underwater. But I wasn't having any ear aches, or nasal drip, or fevers, or headaches, or any of the usual symptoms that would make you think you had a sinus infection. And since nothing hurt and everything else felt relatively normal, I planned to address it with the typical male solution: ignore it.<br /><br />Nathalie, being rational, thought my plan was stupid. So after a bit of prodding from her, I reluctantly went to see someone about my ears.<br /><br /><B>Doctor:</B> Well, even though your sinuses aren't infected, we need to drain the fluid. It's small, but there is a chance that you could permanently lose your hearing if we don't address this right away. So I'm going to prescribe you some medications.<br /><br />I nodded along.<br /><br /><B>Doctor:</B> One's an antibiotic. The other will be a nasal spray that you need to use twice a day.<br /><br />Ugh. Gross. Sticking things up my nose? I made a face at Nathalie, who had come with me to visit the doctor. She made a face back.<br /><br /><B>Doctor:</B> And I'm also going to give you a shot.<br /><br />Doh! I grimaced and groaned. Nathalie winced in sympathy.<br /><br />After doing some more paperwork, the doctor left and the nurse came in with the shot. I sighed and started to roll up my sleeve.<br /><br /><B>Nurse:</B> No... this shot needs to go in your butt.<br /><br />What? Really? Jeez. I looked over at Nathalie and gave her a bewildered look. She smiled back sympathetically. With even a bigger sigh, I dropped my pants and bent over the exam table. As I was contemplating the importance of always wearing nice underwear, the nurse stabbed my butt with a screwdriver.<br /><br />Well that's what it felt like, but Nathalie assured me it was simply the needle.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-57617405303717012012008-05-28T06:08:00.005-05:002008-05-28T11:15:33.790-05:00ShortiesI know I've must have mentioned this before. But if anybody plans on moving to New Orleans, my best advice would be to sell whatever car you have now and buy a truck, SUV, or something that can wade through water. Being that the majority of the city is below sea level, a quick downpour from a passing storm is all it takes to temporarily flood the streets and leave people stranded. If you can actually get a hold of those Ride the Duck boat/cars, that'll probably be best.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuP9UJZgYTm7S0TwkXo2AGwtBgdkuRkNCQldIcb4Vq-RXuZpOVtTdypgW1b_yjWjE8j3x-yuf-6UG3zchx8KzHs48un3z-5wjnGBmRSsJURPe9sdnPX4TW2Nx92B3a65jWByq/s1600-h/Ride+the+Ducks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuP9UJZgYTm7S0TwkXo2AGwtBgdkuRkNCQldIcb4Vq-RXuZpOVtTdypgW1b_yjWjE8j3x-yuf-6UG3zchx8KzHs48un3z-5wjnGBmRSsJURPe9sdnPX4TW2Nx92B3a65jWByq/s200/Ride+the+Ducks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204768213152830594" /></a><br /><br />Nothing is more depressing than being trapped at your workplace and unable to get home because the streets are flooded. Had I known this was the norm in this town, I would probably not have bought that sporty little car.<br /><br /><center>* * *</center><br /><br />Speaking of cars, I've been meaning to get over to the junkyard to find a seatbelt buckle to replace the broken one on the rear seat of my car for months. Being that the back seat on my car is too small to really accommodate anybody bigger than a 6-year old, nobody ever rides back there. Consequently, the seatbelt is never used and thus no real urgency in getting this done. Getting it replaced would mainly be for cosmetic reasons.<br /><br />I had finished my clinic a bit after 4PM one afternoon so I decided to see if the local junk yard might still be open. I walked over to one of the nurses stations to see if they had a phone book.<br /><br /><B>Nurse:</B> [looking for a phone book] Who are you trying to call?<br /><br /><B>Me:</B> [eyeing the clock] The junkyard. I want to see what time they close.<br /><br /><B>Nurse:</B> [looks up, shocked] The junkyard? Really?<br /><br /><B>Me:</B> Uh... yeah.<br /><br />I guess most people don't expect doctors to be rummaging around junkyards looking for car parts. Perhaps if I asked what time the golf course closes she wouldn't be so shocked.<br /><br /><B>Nurse:</B> Well, I'm pretty sure they're open until about 3 AM.<br /><br /><B>Me:</B> Really? Those are some strange hours.<br /><br /><B>Nurse:</B> Wait. You're not talking about that bar?<br /><br />Well, no wonder. There's apparently a sleazy bar commonly referred to as the junkyard where you can pick up drugs and prostitutes. That was definitely not what I was looking for.<br /><br />And unfortunately, the car parts junkyard was closed.<br /><br /><center>* * *</center><br /><br />While I had initially planned on grilling this weekend, much like the rest of the nation, I instead spent it in the kitchen perfecting a pizza crust recipe given to me by <a href="http://supervelma.blogspot.com/2008/05/heres-how-lazy-i-am.html" target="_blank">SinnerG.</a><br /><br />I had always considered making bread dough something of an advanced art and beyond my capabilities. But the recipe looked easy, and it came with her assurance that it was easy, so I gave it a shot... and the results were insanely awesome. <br /><br />Needless to say, Nathalie and I are a bit carb'ed out from this weekend. I tried to put a temporary moratorium on bread making, but with absolutely no ability to resist freshly baked bread, that failed miserably.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-37775062376990985842008-05-22T13:14:00.002-05:002008-05-22T14:11:22.724-05:00ReferralIt's too bad that car insurance isn't like health insurance, where the insurance company will pay for preventive care visits. Because handing over that $1085 for my car's 60k mile maintenance really hurt.<br /><br />But if this means another 6 or 7 years without any mechanical trouble, then I guess it's worth it. Especially given the state of that timing belt, I was probably looking at a major valve rebuild had it snapped anytime soon.<br /><br />I signed the credit card receipt, got my car keys back, and walked towards my car out in the lot. I had found this mechanic after an exhaustive search of reviews and recommendations, and I was happy with them. Not because they were all that cheaper than the dealer, but because they had given me their honest opinion on the state of my brakes. <br /><br />Finding a good, honest mechanic is more important to me than saving a few bucks from a shoddy one. I'd rather pay to get good quality work, than go to someone that will charge less, but trick me into paying for things I don't need.<br /><br />So I always use my brakes to test whether a mechanic is honest or not. I'm no mechanic, but I do know a thing or two about cars, and I know how to judge when brake pads need to be changed. <br /><br />Growing up poor meant our family couldn't afford any new cars. Or newer cars, for that matter. And since we couldn't afford what garages would charge, my dad did most of the work on our cars himself to keep them running. I remember many afternoons spent outside handing various tools to my dad who was either lying under the car or hunched over under the hood. This later evolved into me doing most of my own car repairs. <br /><br />But some things are better left to be done by guys that do it for a living. So whenever I go to a new mechanic for the first time, I act like I don't know anything about cars and ask them if my brakes need to be changed, knowing full well that they don't. Most places charge $20 to look at the brakes and give me their opinion. If they're honest, I say thanks and ask them to fix what really needs work. If they tell me that my brakes need to be changed, I tell them I can't afford it right now, give them the $20, and then go find an honest mechanic.<br /><br />So I was quite pleased to find that these new guys were honest. I made a mental note to come back to them if I ever need anything. I might even recommend them to friends.<br /><br />I get in my car and it fires up beautifully. A quick drive around the block and everything feels smooth... except that my AC doesn't work. <br /><br />I drive back to the garage, grab one of the mechanics, and they crawl all over my car trying to figure out why the AC stopped working. One of them eyes me suspiciously and asks if the AC was working prior to coming to them. "Yes, of course" I answer. But then I get what he's trying to get at. <br /><br />He thinks I brought in a car with a broken AC. I get them to work on the engine a bit. And then try to blame them for my broken AC and get them to fix it for free.<br /><br />Well that was insulting. After dropping over a thousand dollars at their store, you'd think I could at least get a little respect. But I guess when you run a business, you've got to be careful because everybody is looking for a way to scam you. My parents ran a dry-cleaners for a while. I remember how conniving some people can get trying to get the store to pay for things that we were not responsible for. So I just shrugged it off.<br /><br />A few minutes later one of the mechanics discovered a broken wire. He figures it must have got torn off while he was changing out the timing belt, and took fault for it. I couldn't help but give a look to the other accusatory mechanic, but felt good that these guys were honest to admit their own mistakes. Come back in an hour, it'll be fixed.<br /><br />So I leave happy and come back in a hour to pick up my car, except the clerk wants another $100.<br /><br /><B>Me:</B> For what?<br /><br /><B>Clerk:</B> Well, they fixed your AC.<br /><br /><B>Me:</B> But it was your fault.<br /><br /><B>Clerk:</B> Well, there's no proof that it was working before, so we have to assume it was broken when you brought it in.<br /><br />I opened and closed my mouth a few times, flabbergasted and at a loss for words. My mood instantly went sour.<br /><br />Unbelievable, isn't it? After much ranting, they dropped the charge by half. But it was apparent that they were not going to give me back my car keys unless they were paid. I couldn't believe that they had the nerve to charge me after all the money I just spent there. Especially for something that was their fault. This is the equivalent of me accidentally cutting off the wrong foot and then having the gall to charge them for that operation.<br /><br />I guess being honest has nothing to do with running a business.<br /><br />Disgusted, I paid the extra $50, got my keys, and stormed out.<br /><br />Those myopic fools. Sure they got my $50 this time, but they lost any possible revenue from all my future business and future referrals... <br /><br />So much for referring these guys to anybody else. And I thought I was so close to finding a good mechanic. <I>Caveat emptor</I>THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-6316464246051053222008-05-19T10:15:00.002-05:002008-05-19T10:48:53.067-05:00EquilibriumNathalie and I got to celebrate the sudden influx of cash into our checking account via the economic stimulus package for about... 3 days. <br /><br />Unfortunately, the wad of cash from the government sitting in our account completely offset the balance of the universe. And since the universe will always maintain a balance, it corrected itself by quickly creating avenues for the money to bleed out of our account in the form of a car repair and several other miscellaneous expenses.<br /><br />So we're right back to where we started. <br />So much for that short lived wealth.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-22119113146657515752008-05-14T13:10:00.004-05:002008-05-14T14:16:48.738-05:00GaugeIt seems that most medical disasters happen after the sun goes down.<br /><br />A corollary of this rule is that if I happen to make any plans when I'm on call, they will get ruined. But if I don't make any plans and decide to just sit at home and wait for my pager to go off, the ER will never call me.<br /><br />Go figure.<br /><br />One night I got called in to see a man that fell and sliced his wrist open on some scrap metal. It was a bloody mess, but his artery and nerves were undamaged, so there was nothing to do but clean out the wound and sew him up. A part of me wanted to know what he was doing climbing over a pile of junk at 10pm. Another part of me just wanted to get my job done and get back home.<br /><br />I often make small talk as I work, especially if its something as dull as stitching up an incision. I use it to both entertain myself and get to know the patient more socially as well as to put the patient's mind someplace else other than the fact that I'm sewing him up like a ripped pair of jeans. But I was tired from a long day, so I quietly stitched up his wrist while I contemplated asking about the circumstances of him being in a junk yard that late.<br /><br />Besides, the patient was on his cell phone talking to his wife, so I didn't bother.<br /><br />After I finished, I cleaned up his arm and wrapped it with a clean bandage. The patient had finished talking to his wife and sat there quietly watching me clean up. <br /><br /><B>Patient:</B> Doc, how many stitches did I get?<br /><br />I know most people not in the medical field commonly associate the number of stitches placed in a wound as a guide to its severity. But it really has no bearing. It's like me judging a restaurant by the number of bites it took me to eat an omelet. Or the quality of a gift by the number of pieces of tape I used to wrap it. <br /><br />And just as you don't pay attention to the number of sips it took you to finish that can of soda, neither do I pay attention to the number of stitches I place to close a wound.<br /><br />I tried explaining this concept to a patient once, but they just stared at me as if I told them I routinely drive blindfolded. I could literally hear my credibility dropping. To me, placing stitches is as mentally challenging as putting on your socks. I think most people expect me to put a lot more thought into it, thus the shocked faces when I tell them I wasn't really paying attention.<br /><br />So I've learned to just tell them a number, and that seems to satisfy most people. For most small incisions, it's not hard to remember. But for those longer incisions, like the 6-inch gash on this patient, I lose track.<br /><br />On average I find that an inch long incision requires about 3 to 4 stitches to close, so I use that to roughly guess.<br /><br /><B>Me:</B> About 20 stitches.<br /><br /><B>Patient:</B> [Eyeing me] About 20? Or exactly 20?<br /><br /><B>Me:</B> [Losing credibility] Uh... exactly 20.<br /><br />This guy is going to remove his bandages in 48 hours, count the number of stitches, and then think of me as a quack that can't count, or didn't really know what he was doing. Well, guess I won't be getting a Christmas card from this guy...THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-52505949881420654422008-05-12T18:24:00.002-05:002008-05-12T18:25:50.219-05:00Wallflower<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5RtRu__khyEArmejiehW7F4ejyP5vJ6lnQ1rTHt9Sx2zExGphOYQ9YYjlnXGYzYRGTgqGowzUsquYMqzKJDiHdxRN0rDMGp3qUmFakDkiTUIvD3N9IWnVXNILmhAjYUsfaFGF/s320/flowerwall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199636505492865810" />THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-46736673491753147052008-05-08T13:38:00.002-05:002008-05-08T15:11:03.801-05:00MattressNathalie and I plan to move away from New Orleans in the next year. In planning, we've been slowly taking inventory of what we can leave behind and what we need to take. Despite never buying souvenirs and avoiding frivolous purchases, we've still got tons of stuff. It's mind boggling how things accumulate. Looks like we'll be renting the really big U-Haul truck.<br /><br />And as much as I love moving to new cities and being in a new environment, I hate the logistics of the actual move itself. The packing takes forever. Every box, no matter how its packed, seems to weigh a hundred pounds by the end of the day. Every doorway becomes a new opportunity to put a new scratch or gouge in your furniture.<br /><br />And when it comes to moving, no other piece of furniture is as uncooperative and difficult to move as your mattress. Moving a mattress from one location to another is akin to getting a drunk buddy home. It's limp, heavy, and unpredictable. It takes two of you to lift it. The handles on the sides look like they would be helpful, but much like your drunk buddy's limp arms, they do nothing to make lifting it any easier.<br /><br />You try to lean the mattress against the wall, and all it does is just slump over and fall on the ground.<br /><br />Mattress, why can't you stay sober like your friend Boxspring?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN5F8xDIONbAHgb7cQBxYfvHTqqay4QvIAAR3gbmLjOYzCNdoZwITp4V6ZtsBfeInqoN1UFH_LM0Hd_IzyVi_rtWYsl2bbwtEvHpNsXIJUcWK6kK1-8sYQ3eetXDewUSx_BHNv/s1600-h/gd4.jpg" target="_blank"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN5F8xDIONbAHgb7cQBxYfvHTqqay4QvIAAR3gbmLjOYzCNdoZwITp4V6ZtsBfeInqoN1UFH_LM0Hd_IzyVi_rtWYsl2bbwtEvHpNsXIJUcWK6kK1-8sYQ3eetXDewUSx_BHNv/s200/gd4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198098217739159122" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIhQmpSUdIeVzILRje3Q8-HvOcoQ4b97peOMokImU6nmHyf8vnpP-u9Y6m3D-OtlwSzKKMZeHTDCfiyYXCITf7JHw4wUqI3PVgUpyHNKBp-4CNORqM6DFSE_hWK2UJk3_9i8P/s1600-h/gd5.jpg" target="_blank"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIhQmpSUdIeVzILRje3Q8-HvOcoQ4b97peOMokImU6nmHyf8vnpP-u9Y6m3D-OtlwSzKKMZeHTDCfiyYXCITf7JHw4wUqI3PVgUpyHNKBp-4CNORqM6DFSE_hWK2UJk3_9i8P/s200/gd5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198101872756328034" /></a>THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-2986094262770674982008-05-01T21:09:00.002-05:002008-05-02T08:26:44.521-05:00Karma<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6iYFW3Y7YHFPuUi4JFwsB6zm55_PnskCax5cJbOYVuP6nL36KYUKs4sgwX4xEwDJUFdZNN55_7U-tSRnoWJVdOVPKnbp5xNFSqKSBMN3J523OcudrObpLYgK2obtPXJ4JjRV/s200/mean-girls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194014799558541410" /><br />I've seen Mean Girls.<br />I've been to high school.<br />I know how girls can be.<br /><br />Nathalie and I attended a wedding recently of a long-lost high school friend of hers. Being that it was back in her hometown, Nathalie wasn't completely surprised to see that many of the girls she went to high school with were also in attendance. During the reception, all of them came up to Nathalie to greet her, gushing about how long it's been since they've last seen each other. <br /><br />The way they were acting, it seemed like these girls and Nathalie used to be the best of friends. But Nathalie confided in me that these very same girls acting so friendly to her now were quite mean to her in high school, picking on her and excluding her. Just the way high school girls can be. She wasn't sure why they were acting so happy to see her now.<br /><br />Well, that explains why Nathalie didn't seem all that happy to talk to these girls that were coming up to talk to her. Nobody is ever excited to see a previous tormentor.<br /><br />But Nathalie is sweet. And forgiving. And everything I've ever wanted a woman to be, so she talked to all these girls and was nice to them. Whereas I, on the other hand, being part evil, would have not behaved as civilized as my wife if I were in her shoes. In fact, I found myself giving these girls the evil eye after Nathalie introduced me to them.<br /><br />Overhearing their interchanges, I found out that most of them were still living in that small town. Many of them chose not to pursue any further education after graduating high school. Sadly, a good number of them had neglected to invest in their future, made poor choices (in education, career, men), and were now young, single mothers working in dead-end jobs. <br /><br />And nearly all of them had put on a considerable amount of weight.<br /><br />I'm not sure what their motivation was for coming over to talk to Nathalie. It definitely wasn't to make amends because I didn't hear a single one apologize for their past catty behavior. Perhaps to see if their lives were better than Nathalie's.<br /><br />But Nathalie had stayed in school, graduated college with honors, and is now a goal-oriented and successful medical professional, working on getting her Masters degree. She has also kept her figure. <br /><br />I am a bit biased, but there was no question that Nathalie was the prettiest one there. Prettier than the bridesmaids. Prettier than the bride. And from the limited eavesdropping, I'd say the most successful of them all as well. So I'd say that Nathalie got even. Oh man, did she ever get even.<br /><br />I could see the jealousy in those girls' eyes as they eyed her figure and listened to Nathalie talk about her accomplishments and her plans for the future. I'm not a vindictive type, but that gave me so much satisfaction I couldn't stop myself from smirking. And it took every ounce of willpower I had not to jump up and down, doing a little she-got-even dance in front of every one of Nathalie's former tormentors. Yeah, let's see you pick on my wife now.<br /><br />Success truly is the best revenge.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-75890911274520157682008-04-27T07:08:00.003-05:002008-04-27T14:27:49.657-05:00OpinionistaThe following is a scene from one of my favorite movies, Reservoir Dogs. Two guys are driving frantically to a rendezvous point after a botched bank robbery. Mr. Orange, covered in blood, has been shot in the belly and is bleeding to death. Mr. White, an accomplice, is driving and trying to keep his partner calm.<br /><br /><blockquote><B>Mr. Orange:</B> [crying, bleeding from a gunshot wound] All this blood is scaring the shit outta me, Larry! I'm gonna die, I know it!<br /><br /><B>Mr. White:</B> Oh excuse me, I didn't realize you had a degree in medicine. Are you a doctor? Are you a doctor?<br /><br />Mr. Orange writhes in pain.<br /><br /><B>Mr. White:</B> Answer me please, are you a doctor?<br /><br /><B>Mr. Orange:</B> [in pain] No, I'm not...<br /><br /><B>Mr. White:</B> Ahhhh, so you admit you don't know what the fuck you're talking about. So if you're done giving me your amateur opinion, lie back and listen to the news...<br /></blockquote>I like that last line said by Mr. White. <br /><br />It's not unusual to have a patient come to the office thinking they're going to undergo/receive a specific treatment for whatever is ailing them. It is, however, quite unusual for them to have the correct treatment in mind. So when I tell them what I plan to do, they're caught a little off guard.<br /><br />I expect questions from the patient to clarify and elucidate the treatment and how it will help them. And I am more than happy to spend the time explaining everything. But strangely, there are a few people that will argue with me about my treatment plan. "I don't think that's going to work." <br /><br />"Oh really? Based on what?" I want to ask. <br /><br />A Google search? Really? They're going to argue with me based on what they found on the internet? I don't care what they've found with a Google search. Unless Google's got a medical degree and finished a residency training program, I'm not interested.<br /><br />Intuition? I'm all for going with your gut feeling, but I'm not trying to sell you a used car. There are lots of places appropriate for debating and bargaining. I just don't see how asking a surgeon to compromise on something is the best way to go. Especially when it comes to your own body.<br /><br />I'm not the guy trying to trick you into an unnecessary major brake overhaul when you came in just to get your oil changed.<br /><br />It's terribly frustrating to get that obstinate patient in the office that comes with preconceived notions of what they need and only wants XYZ treatment done instead of the more appropriate ABC that I think is the best. And for some reason, they refuse to back down and accept that my idea is the superior choice. <br /><br />My plan is based on formal medical training, science, and the experience of many surgeons before me. Their plan is based on... something not as substantial. One day, it would be so refreshing to be able to say what Mr. White said up there.<br /><br /><I>"...if you're done giving me your amateur opinion, lie back and listen to the news..."</I><br /><br />With medicine, once you take on the responsibility of operating on somebody, you're stuck with them for the rest of your/their life. And I don't want to have to spend the next 20 years of my career stuck taking care of this argumentative, obstinate, ignorant pain-in-the-butt. I'd rather pass this patient down to another surgeon.<br /><br />So those visits often end with me saying "You're free to go get a second opinion. Here's a list of other surgeons..."THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-60250475906289053592008-04-24T10:02:00.004-05:002008-04-24T11:35:27.515-05:00IschemiaI knew before even laying my eyes on the bowel, that this patient was headed for the morgue. I could smell it.<br /><br />As we divided the muscle and fascia below the skin, that sickening stench of death escaped from her abdominal cavity and filled the room. I immediately suppressed a gag, and blinked my eyes as they teared up from that acrid stench.<br /><br />Sure enough, when the abdomen was opened, we could see that nearly the entire length of her small intestine had turned the color of rot: black, green, yellow, and gray. <br /><br />It was easy to figure out what had happened. After this patient's heart attack two days ago, a portion of her heart muscle died and the heart developed an irregular rhythm. This completely changed the fluid dynamics within the chambers of the heart, creating small eddies where blood would slow down and coagulate. This consequently developed small blood clots, and one of these clots had made it out of her heart, down her aorta, and got dislodged in the main artery supplying her small intestine, completely blocking any further blood flow past that clot.<br /><br />And with that blockage, the cells in her intestines suffocated from the lack of oxygen and died within several hours. And much like how shrimp kept in a warm room will quickly rot, so did her intestines. Within the warm cavity of her abdomen, kept at a stable 98.6 degrees, the bacteria in her intestines quickly grew and started eating away. She was literally rotting from the inside-out.<br /><br />We could remove the rotten small intestine, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that she would have been left with less than 8 inches of small intestine. Anything less than 36 inches is incompatible with life. Without the ability to absorb any nutrients from what she ate, she would simply starve to death... assuming she even survived this operation.<br /><br />Remove the rotten intestine, she dies. Leave the intestine in, she dies. A lose-lose situation.<br /><br />The resident across the table from me looked up, "Close?"<br /><br />I nodded my head. There was nothing to be done. The best thing for her at this point was to close that incision and take her back to the ICU so that her family could be with her the last hours of her life. <br /><br />I stepped away from the operating table, pulled off my gown, and went to the phone to call the attending surgeon to tell him of the findings.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-82805284496913673152008-04-21T06:03:00.002-05:002008-04-21T07:06:24.270-05:00UpstartBetween all the moving around I've done and by the nature of being a male, I've lost touch with most of my friends I had growing up. I do have a handful of people from waaaaay back (grammar school!) that I keep in touch with, but in all honesty, to say that we keep in touch would be a bit of a stretch. But we do maintain a relative awareness of each other's comings and goings.<br /><br />One of these friends have just started her own blog.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://thesockmonkeys.blogspot.com" target="_blank"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30754Ib3XEzwrUZYTb_R8o2zVk3ZvA9oFvfvn85ykKr-0nQubSFnXMuVNc7w_tkVGBY3_3F2PALayVZlIHBD6lzDTyezjCM2PkzZaht7KCLPuYH-HWzDOHzdO0N4dXtj-obNz/s200/SMONKEY.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191668347751763266" /><br />The Sock Monkeys</a></center><br /><br />Go click on the link. Go say hello. Look at the pictures of her cute kids. Leave a little note of encouragement (every blogger loves comments!). Maybe we can help her develop that blogging dependency, just like me/you/us.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-23162651659298149642008-04-17T08:36:00.000-05:002008-04-17T09:21:07.781-05:00StrawberryI've never given much thought to where strawberries are grown. Unlike peaches (Georgia), apples (Washington), or oranges (Florida), I don't recall any specific state that's associated with strawberries.<br /><br />Well I've learned that Louisiana is one state that grows strawberries. So much, that one local town near us has an annual strawberry festival with a strawberry King and Queen, baking contest, concert, parade, what have you. I've been meaning to go for years, but haven't had the time until this past Sunday. So Nathalie and I drove on over to see what all the ballyhoo was about.<br /><br />As expected, just about anything you can think of to do with a strawberry was done and being offered for purchase. Jam, jelly, pie, shortcake, smoothie, daiquiri, deep fried (this is the South, you know)... it was the Bubbagump of strawberries. Not to mention a mind-boggling assortment of strawberry themed knick-knacks.<br /><br />After a thorough afternoon of entertainment, we bought a flat of just picked, perfectly ripe strawberries to take home with us. And as soon as we got home, we melted some Hershey's bars and engorged ourselves with chocolate dipped strawberries.<br /><br />At about my 25th strawberry was when I started to wonder about the fiber content of a strawberry and how it would rank next to, say, a prune.<br /><br />Well, the answer to that question came the next morning.<br /><br />And I'll think twice before eating that many strawberries again anytime soon.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-32940623602501265492008-04-15T08:02:00.000-05:002008-04-15T09:26:25.305-05:00MouthwashThink back to the time that you were really sick.<br /><br />I'm not talking about sniffles, sneezing, and body aches. I'm talking about full-on you're-about-to-die sick. Like when you were feverish, having cold sweats, and hugging the toilet.<br /><br />Remember how miserable you were? How you didn't even have the energy to take a shower, let alone even wash your face?<br /><br />Brush your teeth? Bah! It'd be a lucky day if you got out of your pajamas and combed your hair.<br /><br />Well, multiply that a few times and that's probably where most people are after an operation.<br /><br />At my job, I make most of my "customers" look like this at some point during our professional relationship. And I get paid to do it. It's a strange thing.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-70826778009142084142008-04-08T07:57:00.009-05:002008-04-08T12:21:07.994-05:00Breaktime<Blockquote>You shouldn't hold in your farts. Because then they'll end up traveling up through your spine and into your brain, and that's where you get all your shitty ideas.<br /></blockquote>I heard that someplace, can't remember where, but it makes me laugh every time I think of it.<br /><br />The problem with being a surgeon is that you don't get to take a break in the middle of an operation. Once you start, you're committed to the operation until the job is done. Just as you wouldn't leave a toddler alone in a room full of knives, you can't leave a person with their guts all hanging out on the table while you go take a 15-minute break. There's no autopilot. There's no second string relief. It's just you.<br /><br />My mental preflight checklist includes "to do" items like greeting the family, answering last minute questions, reviewing the chart and diagnostic films, but most importantly, a trip to the men's room.<br /><br />Because every operation is semi-unpredictable and can easily turn into an 8-hour disaster, I make sure to pee before every case. It's hard to concentrate on the matter at hand if my brain is more concerned about peeing my pants instead of saving the person's life laying in front of me. There's always a way to get to a "stopping point" during an operation and pause for a bit while you do a mad dash to the bathroom, but that brings on a whole new level of anxiety.<br /><br />While there's a bit of physical relief, I'm plagued by mental torture as the whole time I'm in the bathroom I'm envisioning every conceivable nightmare happening back in the operating room while I'm out: Cardiac arrest. Bleeding. Contamination.<br /><br />Because of this, I just tend to hold it.<br /><br />Peeing before an operation helps, but I've had my share of 8+ hour operations and by that time I usually have to pee again. But over the years I've been able to train my bladder and have become quite adept at being able to go without peeing for extended periods of time... except when I'm on a road trip.<br /><br />For some reason, my bladder must shrink in size exponentially when I'm in a sitting position. I actually drink less coffee (and all liquids) when I'm driving than when I'm working in the hospital, yet it's a snowy day in Aruba when I can go more than a few hours without having to pull off the highway.<br /><br />The oddest thing is that it bugs me so much when I have to pull over and stop. It must be a guy thing. It's always an internal struggle in my brain: "I've got to pee" vs. "We're making such good time"<br /><br />"Making good time." I don't even know what that means. It's not like pulling off to a rest area for 10 minutes to pee will ruin anything, but my brain sure makes a big deal about it.<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> Hey boss, we've got to pee.<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> What? No way, you peed before we left the house. [looks at odometer] Besides, it's only been 110 miles. Hold it for a bit longer.<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> [dejected] okay...<br /><br />30 minutes later...<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> Hey man, we've got to go.<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> Look, we'll need to stop and get gas in about 150 miles or so. You can go then.<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> [whimper] okay...<br /><br />20 minutes later<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> Are we there yet?<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> No.<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> Are we close? Cuz we've got to go. It's getting pretty tight down here.<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> Can you hold it a bit longer?<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> We really need to go.<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> Just hold it. We're making great time. I don't want to stop now. We'll be there soon.<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> No we need to stop.<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> [ignores Bladder]<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> We're going to start pushing the panic buttons.<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> ...<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> Hey... we're not joking.<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> ...<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> Hey!<br /><br /><B>Brain:</B> ...<br /><br /><B>Bladder:</B> Hey... Hey... Hey... Hey...<br /><br />Usually at this point Nathalie looks over at me and asks, "Are you OK?"<br /><br /><B>Me:</B> [flushed and sweating] Yeah, I need to pee.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-30676881616033811232008-04-05T10:44:00.000-05:002008-04-05T21:52:24.227-05:00Socializing<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgC2CEuivfOqGVCAOToYzmW-Pi98y_mWE0rtUIl0hv7eW9UBQ8ckq3xjM3HYREaO801lD1IwjZsi_iHGzVxUNglHFSINOn76T2W7dXzlRzGlkK9ehqVq-Cq7JgUPVcIsD_u9vP/s200/Spaceballs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088566565751184994" /><br />Looking back, I think I've made quite a bit of progress from my humble beginnings as a little immigrant kid growing up in Kansas. I've travelled and seen beautiful places, educated myself, and hopefully have made a positive impact in some people's lives. But socially, I'm still as awkward and retarded as I was in highschool. <br /><br />I sit down and open up Blogger and a bazillion funny and interesting stories and thoughts come pouring out of my head so fast that I usually end up losing 95% of them before I have a chance to put it down on paper to share later. But I go to a party and all I can do is stand there in a circle with my other socially retarded friends and just stare at my bottle of beer as my mind draws a complete blank.<br /><br />But then after 4 out of the 6 of us move on to another group of people, and it's just me and another friend of mine, my brain kickstarts itself to ludicrous speed and I'm telling jokes and funny stories like I'm Larry the Cable Guy. <br /><br />So then people start to gather around us to see what the hell is so funny, and then I run out of ideas and I'm quiet and boring and socially defunct again.<br /><br />Rinse.<br />Lather.<br />Repeat.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-38653596053273595782008-04-02T08:59:00.000-05:002008-04-02T09:07:17.453-05:00AbstractionIt's strange that some people have no idea why they take certain medicines or what medical condition they have. It's usually multi-factorial. Either nobody has bothered to really explain their disease to them, or sometimes the patient isn't smart enough to comprehend, process, and remember that information, or in some cases, they simply don't care.<br /><br />How someone will gladly take medicines or undergo an operation without fully understanding the risks, benefits, and consequences of their actions is beyond me. Blind faith? Idiocy? Apathy?<br /><br />So I always try to educate my patients. But of course, occasionally their disease process is quite complex and it would easily confuse anyone not in the medical field. But I try nevertheless.<br /><br />I don't try to insult them, but I do "dumb it down" significantly, using common layman terms and concepts that I think will be easy to digest. I model my explanations on the way Stephen Hawking tried to explain the origin of the universe in A Brief History of Time. (A great book, btw.) There were a few concepts that I didn't really understand, but I got the gist of the thing.<br /><br />And I'd say about 60% of the patients understand what I'm trying to tell them. 39% feign understanding, but I can tell that some of the finer details are lost and they're just nodding along, but the overall gist of the matter is being understood.<br /><br />The other 1%? They don't even pay attention. I had one lady check her text messages on her phone halfway through one of my explanations. A little upsetting and frustrating, but what can you do? Besides, they're the ones doing funny/amusing things that I use as fodder for this blog.<br /><br />Occasionally I bring their xray or CT scan into the room to show them their cancer, or whatever disease I'm trying to cure with an operation. I point out various things that are very obvious to me, but I'm sure to them just looks like black and white abstract art.<br /><br />I can tell that I've used up all their attention span, because the patient will often interject with "Well, you're the doctor. Do what you think you need to do."<br /><br />That's my cue to stop.<br /><br />I equate this to Jackson Pollack trying to explain one of his crazy paintings to me, pointing out one paint squiggle after another, saying how one squiggle represents his faith in religion, and this other squiggle represents the sadness he felt when he lost a puppy, and that paint blotch represents his inner longing for stable companionship. <br /><br />I guarantee that I'm not going to understand what he's pointing at. I'm just going to nod along, and at some point, just give up trying to understand his painting and let him know I'm at my stopping point: "Hey, you're the artist. Paint what you think you need to do."THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-13329447178896445522008-03-28T10:32:00.000-05:002008-03-28T12:02:51.038-05:00CapsaicinNathalie and I decided that we needed pepper spray. No, nothing to do with cooking. More along the lines for self defense. Or possibly offense. Why Nathalie and I were out trying to buy pepper spray isn't all that important...<br /><br />I figured Wal-Mart would be the place to buy it. They have nearly everything else, including BB guns, real bullets, and scary Rambo looking knives, so I figured that is where I can get pepper spray. For cheap, too.<br /><br />But no, after a fruitless search and resigning myself to asking an employee for help, I learned that Wal-Mart doesn't stock pepper spray because it's too dangerous. Never mind that shotgun shells are just sitting on the shelves and bullets are behind an unlocked glass display case.<br /><br />So we went to a local sporting goods store that sells guns. I figured if a store sells guns, they'll sell pepper spray. <br /><br />Since Wal-Mart won't even stock the stuff because it's so dangerous, we figured this sporting goods store would keep it locked away. So we went to where we thought would be the most obvious place to keep it: next to the guns.<br /><br />But obviously, the managers at the sporting goods store think pepper spray is as dangerous as a bunny in a kitten costume because we were redirected to a different part of the store. The part of the store that sold jogging accessories like earbud headphones and iPod cases. No joke, there was a pink Hello Kitty iPod case for sale hanging right next to the mace and pepper spray.<br /><br />Their nonchalant attitude and stark contrast to the fear shown at Wal-Mart made me question the efficacy of pepper spray, and then question Wal-Mart's rationale for banning the sale of the stuff in their store.<br /><br />Regardless we bought one. The most menacing looking one, which came in a mean looking black can.<br /><br />Oddly, we also ended up buying an iPod case.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-16012820167998151522008-03-25T10:21:00.000-05:002008-03-25T11:20:04.978-05:00IdiocyThis is why men will never outlive women. It's because we're stupid.<br /><br />Example: Me.<br /><br />I decided to replace our back porch light with a new, technologically advanced one that will turn itself on at night and off during the day. No more leaving the light on all day because I forgot to turn the light off before going to work. Yay. Good for the checkbook, good for the environment.<br /><br />After coming back from the store, I open the box and read the directions. The first step instructs me to examine the contents to make sure nothing is missing.<br /><br />Nope, nothing missing.<br /><br />Second step instructs me to turn off the electricity at the circuit breaker. It's in ALL CAPS and in bold. In fact, I think the font was a size or two bigger as well. I pause and contemplate that sentence like a monkey would study Aztec hieroglyphics.<br /><br />I briefly think about the last time I was messing with 120 volts and the nasty shock I got because I didn't turn off the electricity. I then decide that going to the circuit breaker to find the right switch and turn it off is too much of a pain in the ass because with my luck I'll turn off the kitchen circuit, and then I have to spend an eternity resetting every stupid appliance clock in the kitchen. So I dismiss step 2 and move to the rest of the directions.<br /><br />After reading the directions I go out to the porch, dismantle the old light, and then stare at the bare wires. Probably just buzzing with electricity. Again, I consider turning the electricity off. But for some unknown reason, other than being a man, I continue with the installation of the new light. In blatant disregard for Step 2, which tried so hard to get me to do the right thing.<br /><br />I guess the part of my brain that's in control of "self preservation" got zapped the last time I messed with household current. I'm a college educated person, for crying out loud. A physician, no less! Yet here I am, working with metal tools and bare wires and live electricity because I'm too lazy to walk 10 feet to the circuit breaker and find the correct switch. <br /><br />Lucky for me, installation went without a hitch, which was what I was expecting. No electrocution.<br /><br />But in defense of my stupidity, had it started raining, I definitely would have turned off the electricity. Or at least <I>really</I> thought about it.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-8866402136105770172008-03-24T05:48:00.002-05:002008-03-24T08:09:34.225-05:00ExpensesIgnorance is bliss. And easier on your checkbook as well.<br /><br />Up until recently, buying loose tea leaves was something I thought about as much as I would think about buying a Greyhound bus ticket. Which is to say, quite infrequent.<br /><br />But recently I had an opportunity to try tea brewed from loose leaves (as opposed to the traditional tea bag which I've now come to realize is filled with left over leaf bits and debris) for a taste comparison. I was skeptical at first, but my eyes have been opened and now I've become a convert. Who knew there would be such a difference? <br /><br />It's not like comparing I Can't Believe It's Not Butter to butter, because they're pretty close. It's like when a restaurant tries to pull off giving you Diet RC Cola instead of Diet Coke. Immediate and profound difference.<br /><br />So now I put down an extra couple dollars for loose tea at the grocery store. Add this to the extra few dollars I pay for better coffee, better meat, better cheese, better beer... all of a sudden, I'm broke. I'm constantly walking out of the grocery store wondering how $100 worth of food could fit into just a few plastic bags.<br /><br />I think back to the days when I drank Maxwell House, ate store brand cheese, drank Milwaukee's Best (the Beast!), and thought things were great. A glance at my cart now and it screams that I've become one of those yuppie dorks: estate coffee, imported cheese and microbrew beer... <br /><br />Sometimes I get to wondering how much money I would be saving had I never tried new things and stayed with what I know. But then again, for a foodie, that's a question not even worth asking.THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7067457.post-1127673566301744772008-03-22T10:17:00.003-05:002008-03-22T11:03:03.362-05:00Uprising<blockquote><I>Over the years, I've amassed a fair number of half-completed and abandoned blog entries. Either I lost interest, didn't have time to complete it and never got back to it, or any number of reasons people give to explain their unfinished projects. Recently, I've been going through the "Drafts" folder, sorting through them and deleting them, trying to do a little blog spring cleaning. This is a post I wrote on Sept 25, 2005, a little after Hurricane Rita hit. I guess it got forgotten amongst the shoddy internet connection and the intermittent power outages associated with the general confusion and mayhem around that time.</I></blockquote> <br /><B>Sept 25, 2005</B><br />Being on the northeast side of Hurricane Rita as it made landfall resulted in a tremendous amount of wind and rain hitting the little bayou hospital. The surrounding low lying areas started to flood as a result of the rains, and it was going to be only a matter of time before the rising water would enter the hospital. The hospital staff scrambled to evacuate our patients to other hospitals. But where to? Whatever hospitals that weren't damaged by Hurricane Katrina now suffered some degree of damage from Hurricane Rita. And the surviving hospitals were now overloaded and understaffed.<br /><br />My team spent hours yesterday trying to find places for our patients to go. Relentless calling, pleading, and begging finally resulted in locating beds at several hospitals around the state for our patients to be transferred to temporarily. After spending hours on the phone to find every one of my patients a place to go until our hospital could get back to safe operating conditions, I went to each of their rooms to explain what was going on, where they were going to go, and who was going to take care of them once they got there. I saved Patient L to the very last.<br /><br />Patient L, a sweet but annoyingly simple bayou lady that has been in the hospital under my care for the past 33 days, asked me "Why do we have to leave the hospital?"<br /><br /><B>Me:</b> "Well, the flood waters are coming in to the hospital and it won't be a safe environment for you."<br /><br /><B>Patient L:</B> "So where's the water coming from?"<br /><br /><B>Me:</b> "I guess the bayous are oversaturated and the runoffs from the levees are not draining fast enough."<br /><br /><B>Patient L:</B> "So what's going to happen with the hospital?"<br /><br /><B>Me:</b> "I don't know. The administrators don't think it will be safe for you to be here."<br /><br /><B>Patient L:</B> "Why not?"<br /><br /><B>Me:</b> "I don't know. I guess they're afraid the building may not do well with flood waters in it."<br /><br /><B>Patient L:</B> "Why not?"<br /><br /><B>Me:</b> "I guess the building wasn't built to the modern codes."<br /><br /><B>Patient L:</B> "Why not?"<br /><br />[This interchange went on for quite some time, with each of my answers being returned with another exhaustive "why not?". I was already tired, hungry, frustrated, and stressed out, and as the minutes slipped away, so did my patience.]<br /><br /><B>Patient L:</B> "Well, when will the rain stop?"<br /><br /><B>Me:</b> [Letting out a blood curdling scream as I pulled out fistfuls of my hair] "AAAAGH!!!! I.. DON'T.. KNOW!! I'm not a frickin' meteorologist! For fuck's sake you've been lying here watching the TV all day, haven't they said anything about this on the damn TV?!"<br /><br />It would have been <I>so</I> refreshing to have been able to actually say that...THWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03504525925294159171noreply@blogger.com