Aspects of Medical School: Overview of What I Hope will be a Series If Real Life Doesn't Interfere Too Much

I've  devoted considerable blog space to what I've experienced as a first- and second- quarter medical school student. I've shared some of the utter terror I felt when I had studied more than I thought a person could study but still didn't know if what studying I had done was enough. I've written about a particular professor who felt that the main purpose of his course was to let us know, in the event that we had made it into medical school actually believing that we were intelligent beings, that such couldn't have been further from the truth and that possibly, and only remotely possibly, the only individuals on the planet who might have been stupider than we were were the individuals who had been declared brain dead but whose machines connecting them to life in a technical sense had not yet been disconnected.  I've  told of peers who struggled to keep up with course work. I've shared stories of those who have gone out of their way to make me question everything about my own worthiness to occupy space on the planet, much less to take a spot in one of our nation's more prestigious medical schools. I've shared how, in my opinion, Karma frequently rears its head in such situations.

Still, there's a lot I haven't shared, and much of what I have shared could only be described as superficial.  Some of what I do on a daily basis will never make it on paper because I cannot walk around all day typing every single action as i complete it.  Or I suppose I could, but not without annoying everyone in my immediate proximity. Some things are too mundane to capture anyone's interest, including mine. Unluckily for me, however, interested or not, it's my life and my course of study until the practice of medicine becomes both my vocation and my avocation, and I'm stuck with it. 

Other things I deliberately have not  discussed, or at least have not done so with much detail,  because it's too difficult to discuss -- either too personal, too painful, or so cumbersome to explain that I scarcely know where to begin.

Still, if I hope one day to be not just a physician but also a writer, I cannot gloss over the parts of my story that are agonizing,  embarrassing, or simply tough to find the words to describe. In this series, which I really hope will be a series though I will not even pretend that its chapters will be contiguous, I will give my every effort to delve into those dark areas I've previously avoided. I've devoted reasonable space to my "Practice of Medicine" course, during a portion of which we medical students work with actors pretending to have ailments and injuries. The scary thing about that is that in less than two years, we will not merely see but provide initial service to some of these very same patients in the actual clinics and emergency rooms  for real pretending to have these same injuries and ailments. They've been trained to realistically portray patients who may need narcotics, and some of them will put that training to good use.  

For the most part, though,  "Practice of Medicine"  is the "fun" part of our education. No one will really live or die or lose a limb or section of gut based on an exam we did or didn't perform, or on a test  we did or didn't order, or, very soon, based on the treatment we chose or failed to choose on the basis of the results of those tests or exams. While a professor will come down hard on any or all of us for screwing up  -- usually he or she comes down hard on all of us when just one of us messes up -- and act as though it was an actual matter of life or death  when the "patient" lying on the gurney pretending to be dead is just a member of the Berkeley Repertory Theatre, the professors here are merely doing their jobs. Some do their jobs a little too well, in my opinion. I'm not sure that it's absolutely necessary that virtually every female student and half the male students be reduced to tears each time a "patient" is lost. Despite being one of the youngest student [my brother is technically younger by seconds] and despite being 100% female, I've grown surprisingly good at holding in my tears and staring professors down when they scream at me because one of my colleagues allowed a patient to "bleed out" on the fake E. R. floor. The physicians/professors don't want us behaving in such a manner when we're on an actual hospital floor, so I'm not sure why they're eliciting such responses now. 

Yes, we need to take the scenarios seriously even though they're now just practice situations.  It may not be life or death at this point, but all too soon it will be, and if we don't take our studies seriously now, we will not be able to perform our duties when  the real thing presents itself, nor will we be able to maintain composure when not everything goes as our textbooks say it should.

I've written in a facetious matter about the sheer futility of time in the in the actual E.R. and in the clinic.  I'll try to describe it in greater depth and, without violating anyone's confidentiality, recount what I've actually seen and experienced in my time there.

Early in my med school education,  I very briefly alluded to tossing my cookies in my initial encounter in human anatomy lab. I've otherwise avoided the subject at all costs other than describing  being into the place during my dream about Mitt Romney chasing me with the ebola-tainted syringe. As sensitive a subject as it will be for me, I will try to walk the reader through the very real process of cutting into human flesh for the first time  -- both the sheer terror of actually doing it and all the other emotions it brought to the surface.

Meanwhile, I'll need to intersperse these entries with my usual light-minded drivel, as doing so is what allows me to maintain what little sanity I have.

My Favorite General Conference Memory

Love Is a Battlefield

Sister Julie B. Beck appears to be in greater pain than my mom was when she fell and split her chin open.

My mom has a couple of glasses of wine a week, and she gets a bit beyond buzzed at the party she hosts each St. Patrick's Day, but she's otherwise not that much of an alkie, and is definitely the lighter drinker of the two of my parents. At least once, however, she deviated from her normally moderate approach to alcohol consumption. I'm going to make her sound like a complete lush in this post, but what the hell?

A few years ago -- I believe it was in spring -- my mom had several of her favorite friends and relatives over for brunch on a weekend for some unexplained reason. My dad was golfing at the time. I haven't a clue as to where anyone else's husband was. Two of the guests were practicing Mormons, though both had and still have -- at least as far as I know -- senses of humor. Four or five of the guests had somewhat direct Mormon connections, as in having married someone who once was or perhaps still was a practicing Mormon, or having a sibling who had converted to or had married a Mormon. A couple of the ladies had been Mormons in prior incarnations but had either officially or unofficially renounced  the faith.  The remaining few couldn't have distinguished a Mormon from a Hare Krishna  even if they'd had a picture of George Harrison back in the day in one hand and a relatively recent picture of Mitt Romney in the other hand to use as visual aids. The main point is that it was a rather motley crew gathered that morning in terms of the Mormonism factor  of the brunch attendees.

Because it was either the first Sunday in October or the first Sunday in April -- and again, I'm reasonably certain it was April -- the LDS semi-annual or annual (depending upon whether it was actually October or April, but I'm still pretty sure it was April) General Conference was on the BYU channel on TV.  Someone who had already been hitting the Mimosas quite heavily suggested that General Conference be turned on. My mom was sufficiently under the influence of mimosas and Bloody Marys to think it was a good idea.

My mom fiddled with the TV remote control until she had the TV so screwed up that all that could be seen was the full screen of the closed captioning for the hearing impaired of some program that was on a channel that should not have been in our TV lineup.  (My brother Matthew probably ordered it without my parents' knowledge.) 

To say that the closed-caption translation for the program was even as mild as R-rated would have been akin to saying that Bound & Gagged magazine (which I only know exists because I googled "list of pornographic magazines")  is intended primarily for children aged ten and under who desire to reaffirm their LDS or fundamental Christian religious beliefs. 

I never saw much of the actual program the sign language lady was translating, but the sign language alone for the content  was itself pornography personified. It would be indelicate for me to be more specific, but my hormone-surging brother excused himself from the room while holding the sports section of the newspaper in front of himself from the waist down to avoid humiliating himself or embarrassing my mother, though she was so far from rationality that I doubt she had the capacity to feel being hit over the head with a sledgehammer, much less to fell embarrassment that my brother's hormones were manifesting themselves in such an obvious manner. I share this solely to illustrate just how graphic the sign language was. 

My Aunt Joanne, as one of the two practicing Mormons present, was not bombed. She took the remote control, got it off full-screen closed-captioning (we got a tiny glimpse of the show for which we'd seen the rather intriguing ASL translation; the program itself was almost a disappointment after the tremendous build-up the closed captioning had given us had given us).

So Aunt Joanne found the BYU station, and our viewing of the One-Hundred-and-Forty-Somethingth General Conference began. The MoTab was caterwauling away about the prophet. Which prophet to whom they referred they did not specify. The ladies started some sort of drinking game, where everyone except those who didn't drink downed a shot of something potent each time a speaker used the word even. Mormons are fond of the use of the word even, as in even Jesus Christ, or even Joesph Smith, or even Thomas S. Monson.  I told my dad once that I didn't understand the meaning of the word even in the context that Mormons used it. He said not to feel bad  because they didn't have any idea what they meant, either.  They just like the sound of it.

At that point, Sister Julie B. Beck, General Relief Society president at the time, took the stand. Female versions of LDS General Authorities, while denied the priesthood, the mysterious General Authority stipend, and most other benefits afforded their male counterparts, do nonetheless hold the privilege of using middle initials. That almost evens things out, wouldn't you say? The men get to make all the decisions of importance, control all the money, receive all the money that is paid out, receive positions of authority for life, and gain access to the church-owned vacation spots. Perhaps the female "leaders" get to use the vacation facilities in off-seasons as well if the males don't want them at the time; I really don't know. In any event, wouldn't it be lovely to vacation in south Florida in August? THAT would certainly make up for second-class status, even if you were among the very upper echelon of that second class.

Anyway, as my mom saw Sister Beck take the stand to begin her talk --- I couldn't tell you if it was one of the more momentous diatribes, such as the "Mothers Who Know" speech about taking their daughters to church each Sunday with hair brushed to perfection and their sons in freshly ironed white shirts and ties with neatly combed missionary haircuts, or one of her more mundane ramblings. I wouldn't know, because my mom muted the TV.

My mom then stood atop the fireplace hearth right next to the large-screen TV and began belting out Pat Benatar's "Love Is a Battlefield" as though it was Julie B. Beck singing the song rather than ranting about the importance of homemaking or whatever the subject of her rant. My mom is a classically trained vocalist with a bachelor's degree in vocal performance. Stage tunes, too, are well within her genre. I could even see her trying to imitate Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, or even (may she rest in peace) the late Whitney Houston, but Pat Benatar was reasonably far from her range of credulity. Still, it was funny -- funnier than hell, even. That was, until my tipsy mother stumbled, fell to her knees onto the floor, and split the underside of her chin on the bricks or the raised fireplace hearth. 

Someone immediately grabbed a dishtowel, and someone else grabbed ice. My mother, quite well anesthetized from her morning mimosas, continued to sing "Love Is a Battlefield" the best she could with two people compressing her chin with a towel-wrapped ice pack. She was feeling little if any pain at all.  Miraculously, the only blood that stained anything was on a cheap throw rug we should have gotten rid if before we moved to our present house, anyway, as it didn't match the decor of our present house.

My Aunt Joanne, as one of the two  sober people present and as an MD  -- a dermatologist by training and board certification -- jumped into action. She raided my dad's emergency stash and expertly stitched my mom's boo boo. My Aunt Heather, a pediatric nurse practitioner, probably could have done the same thing with almost equal expertise had she not been even drunker than my mom was. 

I remember my Aunt Joanne commenting that the use of Novocaine was probably redundant but that she would inject my mom with it anyway. After the wound had been stitched, one of the drunks suggested that my aunt give my mom a Vicodin or two, but my aunt answered that doing such would be an especially bad idea considering my mom's blood-alcohol content, and that my mom didn't seem to be feeling much pain, anyway.

We all watched the rest of the particular session of General Conference. In the midst of a seemingly never-ending talk by Richard G. Scott, my mom, stretched out in a recliner, fell asleep right in the middle of her rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart." 

CalTrans at Its Finest

CalTrans workers in an unusually active moment

My brother and I are on our way home for the three-day weekend. It's a long drive, but we should have been home already except that we got stuck in some rather horrendous traffic due to road construction. I have strong opinions about road construction in much the way I have strong opinions about most matters,  usually whether or not I have any particular knowledge about said matters. 

Where road construction is concerned, though -- and particularly when CalTrans is somehow involved -- most of us who frequent the freeways of California have reached consensus regarding the overall operation of the system in charge of  the maintenance of state-operated roadways.  While the individuals in  the orange or neon-yellow vests and shirts who stand still watching other individuals in orange vests standing idly watching still other individuals in orange or yellow vests sitting atop machinery that sits motionless are mere pawns who need jobs to support themselves and/or their families. They're merely doing as they're told, which is basically to show up at a given location, don the neon clothing, and do nothing.

It's somewhere higher in the organization, at a level at which decisions are made,  where exists something or someone  more insidious, or at least something or someone bordering the maximum degree of incompetence conceivable without the assistance of supernatural forces. While I'm not above buying into the occasional  conspiracy theory (I'm not 100% convinced, for example, that Karl Rove wasn't somehow involved in or at least aware of the malfunctioning of voting  machines and re-routing of ballots to  out-of-state machines more favorable to his party's candidates in the Bush/Kerry election , nor am I totally convinced that he didn't unsuccessfully attempt the same thing in the 2012 presidential election), even I cannot reconcile the connection between supernatural evil forces and CalTrans operations.  Either someone in the governmental or private sector is  profiting financially through inefficiency in road repair, or, much more likely,  the  California Department of Transportation has in place an unwritten but utterly impenetrable policy of hiring only those with documented mental handicaps or verified levels of both physical and mental laziness. 

Let's face reality: essentially all factions of the mob, the Koch brothers, and  Karl Rove all have bigger fish to fry than the thorough decimation and consequent languid reconstruction of the U. S. 101.  

It's far more likely that it didn't occur to whatever person is in charge, if, indeed, there is actually anyone in charge of this operation, that it might make sense to tear up one lane at a time of a three-to five-mile stretch of freeway and repair it, then move on to the next  three- to five-mile one-lane stretch and accomplish the same thing with that piece of roadway until eventually the entire four hundred miles or so of three- or four-lane roadway had eventually been repaired. Instead, the MENSA members (and I'm communicating this  with far less sarcasm that is probably assumed; I'll give my dissertation on the organization of MENSA at some other time) masterminding the freeway reconstruction thought it made more sense to tear up nearly one hundred miles of to adjacent lanes while working on a tiny stretch of one of those two lanes at a time, thereby tying up traffic for literally hours longer than the cars should have been on that stretch of freeway. 

It shouldn't have taken a Rhodes Scholar to have determined that the earlier detailed method of road construction would have allowed traffic to move more efficiently along the interstate, but then, fewer CalTrans workers would have been available to stand making  GQ poses in their neon orange vests while watching  other workers watch still other idle workers watch machine operators atop their inoperable or otherwise idle machines.  There's probably a method or a reason for it, if only that more people are bringing home paychecks and therefore not using up welfare or state unemployment funds, but I still find it quite irksome when a five-hour trip turns into one that lasts over seven hours.

We took my car this time because it seemed wasteful to drive separate cars such a distance just for three days. I allowed my brother to drive my car because he dislikes driving less than I do. He's also a better driver. My driving is the epitome of caution - -perhaps even to the extreme --  but my reactions aren't quite so quick or automatic when another driver pulls a truly unsafe maneuver. We're safer with my brother at the wheel.

We won't make this trek again until spring break in March, but we'll probably leave at about 3:00 a.m. at that time so that we'll get through traffic leading into San Jose and those whole surrounding areas until long before commuter traffic arrives from its various directions. Once we get through Santa Cruz, the 101 south  is a breeze because it doesn't get hectic until south of San Francisco.

Perhaps it would be worth it to drive east just a bit and take I-5 on the way home. It's lovely [note the sarcastic font] terrain, but if it will avoid a two-hour delay, looking at what should be farmland lying fallow because of the drought might almost be tolerable,

Stupidity knows no bounds.

Today in my Immunology in Health and Disease  class, a peer asked a question that was a bit dumb in the sense that had he done the required reading, even if he hadn't known the exact answer, he could have asked a more pertinent question that would not so blatantly have exposed the fact that he either hadn't attempted the reading or was stoned or drunk when he read it. His normal words and actions are not indicative of a person of sub-normal intellect, so I would not write his question off to outright stupidity.

What he asked was a question pertaining to how leukemia in its various forms differs from aplastic anemia.  To someone who hasn't studied biology somewhat intensively , it might seem to be a logical enough question, but anyone who had covered the assigned reading should have known that the only commonalities between the two conditions are the  a) they both pertain to blood [DUH!] and b) as they both pertain to blood, both conditions quite likely have their onset in a person's bone marrow. 

In fairness to the student who asked the question, he had been dinged somewhat in an end-of-quarter evaluation concerning his lack of participation in lecture/discussion classes. I understood his concern and his sense of urgency, but still, a smart seventh grader in a life science course could have come up  with a more cogent question than the one he had asked. 

As our professor was staring somewhat dumbfoundedly at the normally at least passably informed if taciturn student, and as most of us were bracing ourselves for the tirade we expected to hear pertaining to students who don't complete their required readings, the ill-prepared student was saved by the class idiot, of whom I have written in a previous blog.

Ignoring or misreading the look of utter disgust on the professor's face, the winner of the Miss Missing Cerebrum Pageant of 2015 continued the previous questioner's line of questioning, but stupefying the matter further than previously believed to be possible. "Yeah, I wondered about that, too," she added. (This particular professor detests slang, as in yeah in place of yes.)  "And what I've really been wonderin'  about "[she also has a habit of dropping g's]  "is just what white blood cells or red blood cells or sickle cells or any of them have to do with people stealing things?"

By this time, the professor's jaw was hanging halfway to the lectern. Other students appeared equally confused. The only student I noticed whose expression did not indicate overwhelming discombobulation was the student who had asked the original question. He knew that he had screwed up, and he was glad that the floodlight, at least temporarily, had been removed from directly upon him. 

I've mentioned before that my mom is both an educational psychologist and a licensed clinical psychologist.  My brother and I have spent a lifetime of having to put up with her attempting to crawl inside our brains to figure out what it was we were thinking whenever we did or said whatever it was that we did or said. Consequently, having been the victim of such psychological intrusion on such a regular basis,  I've become more adept than the average layperson at doing the same thing myself. I gave my best shot, difficult as it was,  to place myself in the the mindset of a person whose IQ might very well not be as high as a number representing the temperature of a person with moderate to severe hypothermia. What could she have been thinking? The answer came actually so quickly that it  bothered me a bit, as in were my own thought processes beginning to resemble those of  the arguably least intelligent person in history ever to have been admitted to medical school?  

Seriously, even the doctors back in the days before they deduced that they should wash their hands before performing surgery or delivering babies had to have been smarter than this bimbo.  The thought that my brain might have anything in common with hers could give me nightmares -- and I already have a plethora of sources for nightmares.

I raised my hand. The professor weakly uttered, "What could you possibly have to add to this discussion, Alexis?"

"With all due respect, Dr. XYZ " [I always begin every comment with "with all due respect,"  even when what I have to say is with no respect whatsoever. I got it from some character on this TV show The White Shadow, from the '70's that my dad used to watch repeats from all the time. I've been saying it in class since about seventh grade. It's my trademark, and my classmates would have tonic-clonic seizures or cardiac arrest if I ever spoke in class without first speaking the phrase.] "I think she's confusing hemophilia with kleptomania."

"Someone, PLEASE, tell me this conversation didn't just happen in my class," the professor said.  She shoved her notes into her portfolio, picked it up from a chair next to the lecturn,  and stomped out the door of the stage area of the auditorium-style classroom as well as she could in stilettos. She left to dead silence in the room, which was broken only when the Rosa's Law classification case spoke.

The sub-moron defended herself. "They sound alike, you know.  Tell me not one of you has ever confused those two words."

One normally very quiet guy (his parents, both of whom are surgeons,  are from India, but he was born in the U. S., not that any of it really matters;  I'm merely trying to give you a visual; he dresses like any other guy in the class and speaks standard west-coast English when he speaks at all in our presence; I have no clue as to what he speaks to his parents) said in the flattest voice imaginable, "Not one of us has ever confused those two words."

The cognitively challenged student ran from the room crying. After a respectable interval of maybe ten seconds, the entire class burst into raucous laughter. The most intelligent of the class clowns (my brother is probably the third most intelligent of the class clowns) got up to fist bump the guy who had answered the brain dead classmate's challenge. I considered following the woman and trying to console her, but what could I say? "You were just born stupid. It's not really your fault. Maybe you should  try being a crossing guard," except that I didn't want to bear any responsibility for what happened when she held the green "GO" sign up to the cars as she sent a line of children across the street. Just imagining the scene horrified me.

The professor reentered the  room and again took her place at the lectern, at which point the laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun.  She opened her mouth to speak twice, but no sound came out.  Bravely or foolishly, I raised my hand again. "What could you possibly have to add to this discussion, Alexis?" the professor asked as she found her voice.

"With all due respect," I began as everyone I could see including the professor rolled their eyes, "I have a question. Actually, I have three questions. May I ask them?" Anyone who has read my earlier blog about the class sub-moron may be able to guess my three questions, as I alluded to them in that blog.

"Go ahead, Alexis. Ask your questions," she responded,  "but you've already expressed your due respect, so skip it this time, please."

"OK, "I began. That's one reason I like to start all classroom utterances with "with all due respect." Otherwise I end up starting with something so lame as "OK."  "To whom is she related? Or on whom does she have major dirt? Or with whom did she sleep? Nothing else could really explain her presence here."

The room was as silent as it had been when the professor reentered. Finally the professor  spoke. "I really don't know." She paused. "I'm through for today. If you haven't thoroughly read yesterday's assigned readings, read them. And read today's just as thoroughly. You will be quizzed on them in both oral and written form tomorrow. I will have no mercy." She gathered her belongings in a more poised and orderly manner than she had the previous time she exited the room, then turned and walked out the door.

"I have the whole damned book and every assigned journal article  outlined and practically  memorized," I said to anyone within earshot. (I only say "with all due respect" when class is in session.) "I'm going for a run."

"So do I. I have my shoes and running shorts in my locker. I'll meet you in ten minutes in front of the building," said the guy who had told the bimbo that not one of us had ever made the mistake of confusing the terms hemophilia and kleptomania.

It was a good run. We kept  decent pace but still were able to carry on a conversation. He actually talks, apparently, when he's not in class or a study group.

Raoul looked a bit jealous. 

The Mountains, Tule Fog, and Time

Eat your hearts out, Utards. this is what I can see with a forty-five minute drive to the east.

I can have this view with roughly a  thirty-minute drive from most parts of the the valley floor.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!  We're actually well beyond evening I suppose, and rapidly approaching those twilight zone hours or graveyard hours, or whatever one might care to call them. i don't believe there's a mutually-agreed-upon term for the hours between midnight and dawn. I googled but found that the several terms pertained more to dusk and dawn than to  those hours between midnight and that time just before - for my location, anyway -- the sun allows its very first rays to glow softly above the looming Sierras, before even the tiniest arc of the spherical sun makes itself visible -- if  -- and this is a BIG if --  the air is sufficiently clear to allow a view of the mountains themselves. When the night has passed, we see a soft glow peering at us regardless, and we can see that something occludes its total view from us. On our poor-air-quality days, that large presence blocking our view of sun's pre-dawn hint of rays might just as well be the Great Wall of China as the majestic Sierra Nevada range. 

I presently view the fleeting pre-dawn moments  from  a spot on the peninsula west of the San Francisco Bay, giving me a more distant and less clear view than that seen by those on the mainland, but even the mainlanders report that it's a rare day that they have a really clear view of the Sierras in their snow-capped glory.  I've had Utah natives tell me that nothing matches the Rockies, and in terms of sheer breadth, I suppose they're technically correct, at least as far as our North American continent is concerned. Where sheer beauty is the criteria by which mountain ranges are compared, however, I'd put my beloved Sierras ahead of the Rockies any day of the week or month of the year. The Sierras may not be purple, but they're utterly breathtaking in their magnificent splendor.

My mother tells me that when she was a young child and her father was stationed at Castle Air Force Base in the heart of California's San Joaquin Valley, she thinks the mountains could be seen from her part of the valley every day.She says she merely thinks this is true because it was so taken for granted that it wasn't something of which she made a conscious note. She simply recalls frequently looking to the east and seeing them in all their glory and thinking very little about it at the time. She believes that had the view of the mountains been an especially unusual occurrence, she would have remembered her views of the mountains as such.

The former view of the mountains from the San Joaquin Valley existed unless it was foggy, as it frequently was and still is in the winter there. The floor of  both the San Joaquin and Sacramento Valleys have this tule fog  thing that goes on in the winter. Officially it can happen from Halloween through the end of March, but it ordinarily peaks from mid-December though late Januray. When  a person tries to explain it to someone who has not experienced it, thr explainer may find the explanation impossible. The person will say, "Oh, I've seen fog before. I know  all about fog." Tule fog, however, is a whole different animal. It's the primary cause of multiple major automobile accidents each year, as in literally thirty (or more)-car pile-ups, and often with fatalities resulting. One does not want to be on a freeway in dense tule fog, as no matter how carefully one drives, there is perpetually one idiot out there who thinks it's perfectly reasonable to drive at a speed in excess of the maximum speed limit under optimal conditions despite the fact that her or she cannot see to the end of the hood of his or her own vehicle. 

With global warming and its effects, the valleys  don't see as much of the dreaded tile fog there as they used to, though I understand that January and even early February have been especially bad in terms of tule fog this year. It comes on in the evening or early morning hours. It doesn't typically remain in its densest form for an entire day,  but some days the sun never makes its way through the fog. They've had as many as twenty straight days where they couldn't see the sun -- and this is in supposedly sunny California.  When the tule fog hits in full mode,  driving, bicycle riding, or even walking is something one does at his or her own risk. 

Schools in the Central Valley have fog days the way schools in areas experiencing more classic winter phenomena, i.e. snow,  have snow days. Parents and children, each with differing hopes regarding the outcome -- watch public television or listen to designated radio stations to learn if their school's buses will run late and school will begin at later hours. If the buses run late, the children sit in front of their TVs crossing their fingers and praying that an update will appear, announcing cancellation of school for the entire day. Their parents, i'm sure, pray or cross their fingers with hope of the exact opposite result. if school is canceled, depending upon the ages of children, it becomes an impromptu "Take Your Child to Work" day, or normally supervised children become latch-key kids. Stay-at-home parents simply have the headaches associated with children being underfoot who normally would be the school's problem for at least six hours. It's  a major source of worry for parents, I'm sure, but it's the materialization of every school-aged's child's fondest dream.


Tule fog, school closures, and view of mountains and lack thereof, and absence of adequate nomenclature for my favorite part of the day or night notwithstanding, if I'm awake by totally by choice during the quiet hours when most of the sane people in any given time zone are asleep unless they're gainfully employed at a job that requires them to be up and alert, I cherish that time. I don't enjoy being awake in those no man's when hours I've worked or attended class all day and studied all evening and still feel as though I haven't mastered the material, forcing me to pull an over-24-hour work/study shift. On these wonderful days, however,  when i'm essentially free tomorrow minus a two-hour stint in the E.R., and when I've already studied  hard and productively, being awake in these quiet hours is a precious gift.  In many ways, there is no gift more precious than the gift of time. Not any one of us knows just how much of it we'll really have.

Bobbi Kristina, The Law, Common Sense . . . and Money, Which Is What it all Usually Boils Down to, Anyway

Get well if it's possible, or rest in much-deserved peace.

I'm saddened by the condition in which Bobbi Kristina Brown has found herself.. In addition to being saddened, I'm a bit skeptical and even suspicious.

I cannot rank the death of Bobbi Kristina's  mother, Whitney Houston, up there with 9/11 and  other major events of my life, but still, I do remember where I was when i heard the news. I was walking through a casino in Reno with some of my friends.  We planned a long weekend in the world's littlest big city. I didn't have any high hopes of doing any serious gambling; as even with my fake ID, a seventeen-year-old Alexis wasn't likely to fool anyone. (Hell, I'm 20 now and still doubt I could actually gamble or purchase alcoholic beverages with or without a fake ID in any place other than one of those operations that routinely sells alcoholic beverages to underage drinkers.)

Once I hit that magic number of 21, if I  hit any of the nation's gaming meccas, i may as well put my ID in one of those transparent plastic sleeves that pin name badges onto people.. It will save me the trouble of fishing into my wallet to prove my age roughly every thirty-seven seconds. Actually, at least according to my friend Meredith, they only card you when you're winning. Those running the casinos are happy to take the money of underage gamblers as long as all they're doing is feeding the kitty.  When I finally am legally allowed  to toss coins into a slot machine, (and I understand it's now a metaphorical thing; one now merely slides bills or a credit card into a slot) someone will be waiting with bated breath to confiscate whatever I am lucky enough to win. 

In another ten months minus a few days, the bouncers, floor bosses, mob-affiliated owners, or anyone else who tries to rob babes in the woods of their hard-earned allowance and birthday money multiplied by the electronics of the fates as indicated by the wheels pretending to spin on the screen display of each machine, will be sadly disappointed when all is said or done as he or she walks away after arguing the validity of my driver's license. But for now, I still try to slide in  a few bills sneak in a few and spins of the wheels of fortune when I find myself in a casino, that is if i'm able to breathe through the haze of cigarette smoke for long enough to do so.

That's what  I was doing on what was, if I recall correctly, the night of February 11, 2012, when I heard someone telling someone else at a machine near the one I was trying to surreptitiously feed dollar bills into while appearing merely to be walking to my hotel room.  I had attended a women's basketball game because the relative of a friend was playing in the game. But seriously, who other than a six-year-old walks through a casino without attempting to play a few slots. As I heard the news of the supposed death of Whitney Houston, however, my attention turned elsewhere. Quickly cashing out of the machine I had been using so that one of my of-age friends could redeem the ticket for me later, I moved to an area where huge-screened television sets were broadcasting news of Ms. Houston's untimely demise. Indeed it was true.

In the upcoming days and weeks, as additional information emerged, it became apparent that drugs were a factor in Ms. Houston's bathtub drowning. Later still, as autopsy results were reported, it was revealed that, while Ms. Houston had fallen forward into a bathtub filling with water, though drug-impaired, she was, horrendously, conscious as the water scalded her face and body as it made its way into her lungs, eventually resulting in diffusion, osmosis, and drowning. (We covered the physiology of drowning in one of my med school courses.)

Even though I'm neither a  druggie nor a heavy drinker by even the most stringent definitions of either term -- I do take prescription medications, including opiates, after surgeries, and I have been prescribed and have taken exactly as directed benzodiazepines  in order to cope  with the infrequent anxiety attack when it becomes almost unbearable otherwise, but have thus far, and I'm knocking on real wood that such continues to be the case for me as I advance to the point in my medical career when drugs become easier to obtain, managed to side-step any addictions. 

I'm not superhuman and, as such, am not immune to the human weaknesses that have brought down persons of character far superior to my own. There but for the grace of God go I.  Yet I've thus far managed to avoid anything even close to addiction to any chemical more potent than sugar, and my drinking is limited to half a bottle of Guinness twice a week as an appetite stimulant, which I don't actually enjoy while drinking, though I own up to reveling in the slight buzz  I usually feel half an hour or so after having gotten down the half-bottle of vile fluid. I hope and pray that alcohol and drugs will continue not to become a source of reliance upon or motivation to me or to my colleagues, either, and that none of us will succumb to the temptations of their easy fixes. This will become a more significant issue to all of us in our medical careers as we advance to thee point in  when facing the inevitable extreme sleep deprivation becomes a reality along with the territory of training to become a physician or a surgeon.

My mindset was, nonetheless, affected by the news of Ms. Houston's seemingly harrowing death. While not resorting to outright paranoia in terms of taking baths,  I became markedly more cautious in doing so. I became more careful in terms of avoiding slips and falls in the bathtub, particularly when no one else was home who might have head the thud of my fall and might possibly have come to check on me.   I began to force myself to be consciously aware of any drug, even one so seemingly benign as a single Tylenol PM caplet ,  that might have adversely impacted my ability to react or to right myself had I fallen face-first into water had I taken the drug prior to  bathing. Although relaxing in a tub is infinitely much more pleasurable than standing under a shower when one is bone-tired, I began to consider the possible impact of being overly tired while lying in a body of warm water. I'd like to think my body would wake me if my mouth and nose slipped beneath the surface of the water, but I don't know for certain that such would be the case. 

It would seem to me that if I --  an admirer of Ms. Houston's vocal prowess but barely a fan --  have been impacted by the manner of Ms. Houston's death, Ms. Houston's only child, in addition to being grief-stricken over the loss of her mother in the prime of her mother's life, might have been influenced all the more so to prudence in exercising common sense while taking baths in general, but particularly when alertness-altering drugs  might possibly have been involved.  I've heard conflicting reports as to whether or not evidence of drugs of the  mood-altering variety were found by investigators.

Actually, I've come across conflicting reports about a whole lot of things related to this case. I've heard that Bobbi Kristina was legally married to Nick Gordon, while Bobbi Kristina's father, Bobby Brown, and his attorney maintain that the two were never legally married and were essentially playing house. This one seems easy enough to settle. Either a signed marriage license has been filed in some courthouse somewhere following a ceremony, thereby making the marriage recognizable in the eyes of the law, or it hasn't.  Nick Gordon holds the power to clear this one up. Common sense would dictate that this conundrum be settled rather soon, as a decision as to whether or not to keep Bobbi Kristina on life support or to pull the plug may be looming on the not too distant horizon.

Then there's the colossal elephant in the room, which by now is probably past being ignored by the principals in this case. Bobbi Kristina very likely did not have a will.  If such is the case, and in absence of a prenup, her sizable estate will fall under control of her husband Nick Gordon -- if he  truly is her husband, which seems to be an issue at the center of the controversy. If not, Bobbi Kristina's estate would presumably belong to Bobbi Kristina's father. Her mother's side of the family, however, will presumably contest this on the grounds that since  executorship of Bobbi Kristina's estate inherited through her mother was not his in Kristina's life, why should control of the estate go to him in Bobbi Kristina's death? The explanation for  that is easy. Whitney Houston was divorced from Bobby Brown. The typical divorce is not a pretty thing. The bitterness of divorce, however, does not alter Brown's status as next-of-kin if the marriage  of Bobbi  Kristina and Nick Gordon turns out never to have happened.

Then there's one other pesky matter which is under investigation even as I type.
Was Bobbi Kristina Brown's death truly as a result of either a fall into a bathtub or of using drugs before falling into the water face-down, or was there more to it? Injuries prior to the bathtub incident have been reported. Just like Humpty Dumpty [sorry; I couldn't resist], did Bobbi Kristina fall or was she pushed or placed there? While it's possible she really did simply drown after  falling face-down in a water-filled bathtub, for reasons I've explained previously, it doesn't seem all that probable.  It all seems to be just a bit too coincidental to be credible as an accident.

Who stood to profit from Bobbi Kristina's demise? Who had opportunity? Who had motive? Who found the body? When the person who found the body -- Bobbi Kristina's purported husband -- found her in the bathtub, he had an acquaintance with him. i'd like to think that, were I to marry and were I then to take a bath, my husband would not initially bring a friend to casually check on me in the bathtub before ascertaining that a problem of some sort existed. So why was this acquaintance present in Bobbi Kristina's bathroom? Was he needed to provide an alibi of some sort, or might he even have had something to do with Bobbi Kristina's demise? The plot both thickens and sickens.

Even before her mother's death, Bobbi Kristina led an unconventional life -- one in which things were done for her so that she didn't have to learn how to do them for herself, as in  the simple things ordinary people do every day, such as ordering pizza and ordering airline tickets.  She also saw her mother taking both illegal and prescription drugs in their various  forms. This, combined with the privilege that comes with both wealth and with being the offspring of someone famous seemed to have altered Bobbi Kristina's sense of reality. She reportedly considered herself much more famous and talented than she would have been considered by the people who buy magazines, recordings, concert tickets, and the like.

In reality, she was the child of someone famous who had done little or nothing to perpetuate that fame to the next generation. The only thing truly noteworthy about her was the seemingly mile-wide gap between her two front teeth, which I found outrageous. Had these people not heard of orthodontia? The gap seemed to have been left in place to perpetuate her resemblance to her father, Bobby Brown.  If such were the actual case, I suppose we should all be grateful that Bobby Brown did not have crossed eyes, or, even worse, a cleft lip. That, however, is all superficial and only skin- (or teeth-) deep.

What is more than skin-deep is the brouhaha that is reportedly already taking place over Bobbi Kristina's financial holdings, and can only get worse if she passes on. (In fairness, not all members of the family have been involved in this.) Can these people not show  at least a modicum of respect? The poor girl isn't even cold -- or, for that matter, dead --yet.

I sincerely hope Bobbi Kristina wakes up, makes a full recovery, and walks out of that hospital with her estate intact. An aunt by marriage is reportedly the executor to the estate. Bobbi Kristina reportedly does not agree with some of her aunt's decisions regarding the dispersal of money and of the use of funds. For that reason, I feel that should Bobbi Kristina regain consciousness, she deserves a new executor of her estate: one in whom she will have confidence -- not necessarily one who will hand over as much cash as Bobbi Kristina requests, but one whom she trusts. Ultimately,  should she live, it's her money to spend wisely or to burn through as though it is firewood kindling. 

While she may need financial guidance for a few more years should she live to need it,  it needs to be provided by someone in whom Bobbi Kristina has faith and confidence, and funds should not be spent by the executor for anything Bobbi Kristina has not personally authorized, unless it's something along the lines of auto and health insurance, and if Bobbi Kristina is not sufficiently sensible to understand that such things are a necessity. Young though she may be, she's a legal adult, and it is her money.

If you can have any quality of life after this accident or whatever it was, Bobbi Kristina, get well. If not, then rest in heavenly peace.

Sometimes I'm very thankful that I'm firmly ensconced in the middle class and am not worth more dead than alive to absolutely anyone.  

Albertine, the Homicidal Future Physician

This is obviously not the real "Albertine," as I don't have a desire to be sued.

I'm probably being mean in sharing this here, but there is a female in my medical school cohort who is approximately twenty-eight years old. For the sake of argument, i'll refer to her as Albertine, although that's obviously not her real name. If she'd been allowed to pick her own name, however, she might very well have chosen something as stupid-sounding as Albertine***, as she's just that lacking in intelligence.

I cannot for the life of me figure out to whom she's related, with whom she has slept, or on whom she has some really amazing dirt that would allow her to have even been allowed to enter the building, much lest to have lasted a full quarter and not to have been invited to make a hasty yet graceful exit  out of the school.

This woman is so freaking dumb that today, with one fake patient presenting symptoms of  a fracture of the cervical spine (C1 through C3), she ordered him to be transferred by wheelchair for lab work - toxicology  for traces of opiates, etc., and didn't even communicate a radiology order, much less transport the poor hapless actor  pretending to be a patient to be placed on a stretcher and immobilized. That's probably because she missed the last four obvious drug seeking fake patients the prof threw at her, but still, you err on the side of caution where any broken bones are concerned, much less a suspected cervical spinal fracture.

Additionally, today she ordered an endoscopy for a fake patient with lower right quadrant pain. She would've had to cram that endoscope all the way down the poor woman's esophagus, through her stomach, and nearly all the way through the colon to gain any useful information whatsoever, and I don't think they make endoscopes that long, never mind that the minor sedation typically prescribed for an endoscopy would have been woefully insufficient  for essentially scoping a patient from mouth to bungholio in one fell swoop.  Albertine probably shouldn't have ordered anything more invasive than a simple digital rectal exam, which she herself wouldn't have had to actually perform, as we don't have to invade fake patient's body cavities in this phase of our training. It's all theoretical. What she should have ordered was a blood panel, and specifically a white cell count, in addition to the digital exam, to be followed by a likely CT scan. She likely would've killed the poor lady had it been for real.

I'm not nearly so "in the know" as some of my colleagues, who are keeping a body count on her, but Albertine is supposedly approaching triple digits in terms of numbers of patients she would have killed just through testing procedures alone.. That doesn't even count those she would have paralyzed, such as the C1 through C3 patient yesterday.We haven't even begun to formally diagnose, much less actually treat even the fake patients.

I'd REALLY like to know who or what  Albertine knows  that is allowing her to remain here. Perhaps she's just here for comic relief of the part of the professors and their assistants. I heard a couple of them laughing hysterically last week when she ordered  an MRI for an actor who was supposed to be impersonating a patient with either influenza or the measles.

If she somehow, through the grace of the anti-God of medicine, makes it through all four years here or anywhere else,  I'll email anyone who asks me to do so in order that you may avoid the medical facility at which Albertine completes her internship -- unless you're looking for a way to facilitate assisted suicide, in which case Albertine will most certainly assist you, intentionally or otherwise.

Updating of Playlist

how people apparently used to listen to music back in the day

I won't go so far as to say that i'm altering my list of the greatest songs ever to have been written or performed in my opinion. I will, however, offer an update of what I most frequently playing, either on my ipod or computer or literally playing with one of my instruments. i suppose that does make them my current favorites, though I'm not going so far as to say that my opinion of the world of music has changed so drastically that i've rearranged the sequence of thr quality of music in my probably-not-sufficiently-humble estimation. It's more likely a case of  what seems to suit my life right now,  The songs I'm citing [and posting where possible]  are in no particular order. They appear either as I think of them or in terms of convenience in accessing links.

I love hearing what others are playing [or singing]  with their own instruments, be they acoustic, electronic, and/or listening to with their more automated electronic equipment. automated, or whatever. please share your thoughts if you feel so inclined. Once again, the order is of no particular significance, though I suppose if I had to give the honor of a number one in significance at the moment, I'd give it to George.

1. "The Parting Glass" is a traditional Irish tune - a folk song with no known composer or lyricist or composer to the best of my knowledge.  other artists' rendering are a bit more famous than George's, though not as high in quality in my opinion. I especially like the cello work, and the piano accompaniment is perfectly understated.  George's voice is as it always was - deep, resonant, and beautiful. 

George Donaldson was a Scottish singer particularly popular in the glasgow area, though he was perhaps most well-known as the anchor member of the group Celtic Thunder. George passed away very unexpectedly one month and eight days shy of a year ago, leaving behind a devastated beautiful wife and adorable young teenage daughter, along with almost equally heartbroken musical colleagues and fans. my parents knew him better than I did, but I had the pleasure of meeting him on two occasions after concerts.  After one such concert, our family dined with him. He was a charming man who interacted with me me in an age-appropriate manner each time I encountered him despite my appearing considerably younger than my chronological age.

George [unbeknownst to himself, and he probably would have freaked and made every excuse in the book had he known he was on that motley assortment of unfortunate individuals designated by me]   was on my personal list of people who, as far as I was concerned, would have been allowed to adopt me had harm befallen my biological parents or had I simply decided they and I had experienced enough of each other at some point.

Someone compiled a memorial video of this recording with pictures of George in various facets of his life to accompany the song, but I prefer to see it and remember it the way George himself produced his own video.

I will not wax quite so loquaciously about each other entry on my list, but George deserves every word i have to say about him and many, many more. Rest in peace, George Donaldson. I and many others besides myself  miss you and will love you forever.

2. I seem to be channeling my inner Irish girl here. (I tend to identify more with my Irish side than with my French Canadian side, while I have nothing against French Canadians in general though my  paternal Acadian grandfather consistently ranks remarkably high on my $h!t list.) My next selection is also of Celtic origin. This one is "Isle of Hope, Isle of Tears," which evokes in me thoughts of my own maternal grandmother [who traveled solo to the U.S. from Ireland in her late teens] as well as my mother's paternal grandparents, also Irish in origin, all of whom entered the U.S. through Ellis Island before it ceased to operate in 1943. My own personal favorite version of this song was done by Celtic Woman.  As i'm not a major name dropper, and also because i'm semi-anonymous in this blog, I won't say which one, but I'm not terribly distantly related to a member of this group. My parents have done vocal and  instrument work with them (in addition to being a virtuoso guitarist, my dad is also a decent percussionist) on a couple of tours and concerts.

In any event, it is to me a beautiful song, and it surely must  elicit bittersweet memories in those relatively few individuals  processed into this nation through Ellis Island who remain with us today.

3.This is, i believe, my personal favorite video or recording of  "Landslide," by Stevie Nicks, although there's another video in which she dedicates the song to Lindsey Buckhingham for various reasons, which I find somewhat cool in its own right. I appreciate the idea that some members of various and sundry musical groups can form romantic attachments and even marriages which don't all that often withstand to trials of the world of rock music and the test of time, yt can retain love for one another and respect for each other as musicians.

i maintain that, despite Stevie Nicks [IMO] godawful voice, no one else  should cover this song. Even with her raspy, seemingly damaged voice, which was seemingly somewhat compromised at the height of her musical career, indicating that  something other than a lifetime of touring and performing created her trademark sound, the song is hers, and no one else I've yet to hear does it justice. Sing on, Stevie Nicks, though I'd personally prefer that you limit your public performances to this song.

4. Les Mis  has been stuck in my head more than usual lately. I believe, vocally anyway, that this is the best Valjean Broadwqay has yte to come up, with no disrespect intended toward Colm Wilnkinson. The vocalist featured here, Ramin Karimloo, has as fine a male voicde as I've hear at any tome recently and perhaps ever. His basic baritone sound with range extending upwards into the tenor territory, he may even have a leg up on Josh Groban, vocally speaking. Nor does it hurt that he's stunningly handsome. Karimloo is married, so he's out of the picture for me even were I in his league, which I most decidedly am not. Still, just how would Mom and Dad feel if I brought home an ethnic [ albeit Canadian-born] Iranian and introduced  him as my serious love interest. It would be a most interesting social experiment in the interest of science. We say we're liberal, but just how liberal are we, really?

"Bring Him Home" is my favorite of all the Les Miserables songs, and Karimloo, performs it with extraordinary sublimity.

5. Mozart Sonata 4 in E-flat Major is my favorite Mozart sonata of many. The numbering is arbitrary, as there's limited evidence Mozart actually attached numbers to his sonatas, and what's number four to one "expert" is number X, Y. or Z to the next. Still, this a nice work. Mozart isn't my favorite of composers of either the classical, baroque, or romantic genre, though he's second only to Bach in my estimation and is incredibly fin to play. Try to remain in an agitated state while listening to this work. i'm not sure it's possible.

6. I won't even pretend  Fun's "We Are Young"  in any way compares or ranks in the same league as the work's of the world's great masters of music, but it was Jared's and my song. Enough said.

7. Night Ranger's "Sister Christian" is quite far from what should be my genre, but I'm the daughter of a man qwho worked his way through medical school as a touring and recording rock guitarist. my musical exposure is thus a bit eclectic for my age. i watch this video more than I listen to the song in audio form. Sometimes I think I am Sister Christian though I lay no claim upon being one of the world's better Christians. I see this as being, with all due respect to the great master Billy Joel, a more melodic yet less rocking version of "Only the Good Die Young."

&. This - Handel's keyboard suite in G minor #9, is a work  I play on piano or harpsichord (if one is handy) far more than I've ever listened to it. I usually just play the final movement, which is the gigue. I've played it since my early days as a pianist. Truthfully, I had to listen to several Handel suites to find it. It wasn't easy to find, as any given Handel work, when written in  the same key, sounds much like any other Handel work. Handel was a well known plagiarist in his time -- back in the day when social norms may have frowned upon such a thing, but laws did nothing to  prevent it.  Handel was blatant about it, usually excusing his act of theft of song by any other name, probably in German, "I used it better than he [the original composer of a tune] did, anyway," and he was usually correct in his assertion. Still, theft, whether of property or of creative ideas, is still theft. Handel plagiarized from himself just about as much as he plagiarized from other musicians, which is why I had to listen to several suites to locate the gigue in question.

Anyone who has the idea that Handel was some sort of religious figure and highly moral individual  because he used scripture in composing religious oratorios is lacking in knowledge of the history of late baroque music. Handel was out to make a buck. He did many things passably well, but unfortunately in the case of much of what he wrote, someone else wrote the same form of music just a bit better than Handel did. Handel was forced to resort to showmanship (writing music to be played on boats while nearby boats set off fireworks, for example, which backfired when a boat with fireworks exploded during the second such concert) and other innovations in order to turn his rags into riches. Sadly for him, some sort of wrench often fell into his plans. Most of his life he existed in  middle class at best, though at times he was favored by royalty and was consequently rewarded financially.  He was innovative and perhaps a bit before his time, as most of his success was posthumous. His single greatest contribution to the world of music was probably the oratorio.

Still, the gigue from Suite #9 in G minor a is fun piece to play, which is why I'm still playing it roughly twelve years after I first learned it.

9.  I'm returning my Celtic roots again.  This is Emmet Cahill's version  of "Always There." It's the best version of the song I've found. I sing it to myself when times are tough.

                                
                                              Taylor's response


10. This is Kristen Chenowith's version of "Taylor , the Latte Boy"  which I occasionally watch for comic relief. I  have a friend who sings it at least as well as Ms. Chenowith performs it, but that's neither here nor there.  If you've ever heard "Taylor's" rebuttal, you probably found it even funnier.

                                          

11. I must once again channel my Irish heritage. Celtic Thunder does a nice rendition of this as well, but I'm partial to Celtic Woman's version.

Richard Sherman, Role Models, and the Cheat-a-thon That Was the NFL Championship This Year

The straight-on shot shown by the network last night was better, but this does give the essence of Sherman's dismay at the interception of the ball that never should have been thrown in last night's Superbowl.

Richard Sherman has redeemed himself  in the eyes of at least one sportswriter due to his "classy" tweet following his Seahawks team's demise in Super bowl 49 after it appeared as though the obese lady was in the final strains of her aria. 

I'll post the tweet and leave it to my readers to form their own opinions, though I will, of course, share my own afterward, as dispensing my opinions and philosophy is something I do almost as autonomically  as I breath and blink.

Eichard Sherman@Sherman_25

Thank you God for giving us the opportunity.... That's all you can ask for....Thank you everyone for the support all year

First and foremost, I am tremendously put off by anyone's implication that God takes an active role in the outcome of any football game -- Superbowl, playoffs, or otherwise -- or has any interest whatsoever as to which teams participate.. It would seem to me that if God were doing anything, he'd be creating new worlds or listening to the prayers of parents of children dying of cancer. So even if God is omnipresent and really hears everything everywhere and all the time, why would he care where football is concerned?  

I have a hard time accepting that he influences or even gives a rip about wins and losses when, in the course of games, players such as former New England patriot Darryl Stingley and Former Detroit Lion Mike Utley become paralyzed as a result of brutal hits in football games. Were Stingley and Utley children of a lesser God and of such little consequence to God that he ignored their well-being while otherwise meandering around the  heavens looking favorably down upon other players and their teams? I find that more than just a smidgeon hard to believe.

I'm actually a believer in God, as difficult as it may seem to believe when i write so cynically about god and his direct influence in the NFL. I could subject a reader to a treatise on my philosophy that god created the world and that he listens to prayers, but responds only by giving strength and sometimes inspiration to the one who prays and by trying to exert influence to do right into the hearts and minds of mortals without, on the other hand,  robbing them of their free will. To go any further into my theology would make this a sermon and not a blog. anyone who wants to hear a sermon can either go to a church pretty much any day of the week or tune in to the ubiquitous religious programming available on cable and some even on network and local television and radio. The religious talk stops here.

Sherman turned me into a more or less permanent non-fan with his outburst to Erin Andrews pertaining to  San Francisco 49ers receiver Michael Crabtree.  "Well, I'm the best corner in the game. when you try me with a sorry receiver like Crabtree, that's the result you are going to get," Sherman ranted, appearing to me to be foaming at the mouth as he hollered. "Don't you even talk about me!" [Andrews: "Who was talking about you?"]  " Crabtree, don't you open your mouth about the best or I'm going to shut it for you real quick!"

i understand that it was an emotional heat-of-the-moment sort of thing  for Sherman, but why not be elated about the win as opposed to exhibiting foaming-at-the-mouth vitriol? I expected a slightly classier response from a Stanford grad.

what it displayed was a disregard for a team victory and instead a response of "Me, me, me, it's all about me!" which is an attitude all too pervasive in today's team sports.  Due to the unfortunate example displayed by Sherman and by many others like him, this attitude is trickling down to the very lowest, youngest levels of team sports, where it's not uncommon for six-year-old T-ball layers to care little or nothing about the play of their teammates or of their team as a whole, but rather, focus upon their individual performances.

Whether Sherman and his counterparts consider that they are being good role models or they think, despite their multi-million-dollar contracts, they have no responsibility to act as role models, they offer a sad commentary on our society as a whole and on its priorities.  

Whenever I watch a televised sport, I typically hate it when a camera zooms in on the sad face of a member of the losing team at the conclusion of the game. I typically look away because seeing the sad face of someone who put his everything into a game and came out on the losing end causes me pain. Yesterday I deviated from my norm in that regard. I looked at Richard Sherman's angry/sad/bewildered face and smiled to myself with a bit of smug satisfaction. While I acknowledge that my feelings caused me to  deprive myself of just a bit of  humanity and made me a poorer person, for the time being I can live with that consequence.