Burger King, Dr. Sanjay Gupta, Elvis Impersonators [Is the correct plural actually Elvi?], and the Justice System Hard at Work

He's for sure a hunk, but I never  ever applied to Emory University for him or for any other reason.

Note: with thanks to Knotty for inspiration

I admit to being a bit of a novice/moron when it comes to true crime and all the protocol surrounding it. My latest question in this regard is just one more piece of evidence that I'm not exactly the younger female counterpart of F. Lee Bailey, although I have a great-uncle who looks so much like the man that it's honest-to-God eerie. 

I do have a bit of experience with the legal system, as I've worked as a paralegal on a few trials. Paralegal certification isn't necessary in many states. As long as an attorney instructs the "paralegal" in proper courtroom protocol to the extent the the "paralegal" doesn't commit some sort of  faux pas to get himself or herself tossed out of the courtroom, the person can go right on being a paralegal to his or her heart's content until the trial ends one way another.

But I'm seriously digressing here. It's a particular case on which I'm obsessing at the moment. Kelly Renee Gissendaner was convicted in the death-for-hire murder and subsequent body burning of her husband and was condemned to death. The big date was finally set for Wednesday, as in three days ago, some eighteen odd years after the original crime. If the photos accompanying the article were any indication of the manner of execution, lethal injection was the method of choice. Then, mere hours before the execution was to take place, it was postponed until Monday, March 2. The reason given for the postponement was, of all things,  inclement weather.

Other than perhaps something like Hurricane Andrew occurring along an extremely low-lying coastal area (like maybe the Zuyderzee) where the execution was to take place, thus endangering the lives of the executioner(s) and/or legally necessary witnesses, precisely why would an execution need to be postponed due to inclement weather? Perhaps the bad weather might make it difficult for either the condemned's choice of witnesses or the victim's advocates to be there. Tough shit in my opinion. They could hear about it later. For that matter, such things are usually, as morbid as it seems to me,  recorded. Anyone that interested could actually see  the state-ordered  killing  later.

Ma. Gissendaner had ordered up quite the proverbial last meal, which included but was not limited to two Burger King Whoppers with cheese  (geez; if it's your last meal; at least request Red Robin or TGI Friday's) with all  customary condiments (which in Georgia may very well include pickled pigs' feet and crawdads; I've never been to a Burger King in Georgia), two large orders of fries, popcorn, cornbread, a side of buttermilk (I'd rather face execution, and I'm not even exaggerating in the least here, than be forced to drink a glass of buttermilk), a salad with lettuce, cherry tomatoes, bell peppers, cheese, onions, boiled eggs, carrots and Newman's Own Buttermilk (yuck once again) dressing. Also requested was a glass of lemonade. Ms. Gissendaner would need something to ease down all that hogwash. And, to top it off, she actually requested dessert, which was, I believe, cherry vanilla ice cream. Seriously, if I eat fries with my child's plate hamburger, I have no room for dessert. This woman is in a whole different gastronomic league than I could be in even if I tried.

Before this woman is executed, it needs to be determined for certain that some sort of eating contest hasn't been chosen by the host country as an event for the next winter or summer Olympics. Assuming Ms. Gissendaner actually ate all of this garbage -- and I never read anything to the contrary -- I question whether  there's anyone in the world who could possibly  compete with her with regard to the sheer volume of food [and I apply the term food loosely here]  the woman is capable of consuming.  We all know how the U.S. feels about athletics, Olympics, and its medal tallies. This woman might be worth more to us alive than dead. Crimes of equal or greater gravity than the one of which Ms. Gissendaner was convicted of committing (I'm not intending to make light of the gruesome manner of death of Douglas Gissendaner; I'm merely making an observation regarding justice when it comes to  athletes in this nation)  have probably been swept under rugs in the name of maintaining athletes' eligibility for competitions.

Gastronomy notwithstanding,  let's return to the topic of inclement weather as it pertains to executions. I suppose I would understand if the planned method of execution were electrocution and there were concerns of possible storms and power outages, and generators were not sufficient to deliver the voltage necessary to give a person his or her final jolt.  In such a case, perhaps postponement would be warranted. Then again, why not just anchor the prisoner to a tall metal pole outside and let Mother Nature take care of the job herself? A little common sense and southern ingenuity was all that was really needed here. Are they worried the power will go out during the lethal injection?   According to the last I saw in my "Practice of Medicine " course, injections and even intravenous drips can be and usually are delivered manually, not that my "Practice of Medicine" course specializes in any way in how to most efficaciously administer executions. Perhaps it should if it would prevent something such as this current fiasco happening in Georgia. 

Dr. Sanjay Gupta teaches and practices in Georgia. why isn't Dr. Gupta out there at that prison facility telling the Department of Corrections how executions really aren't dependent upon 70-degree weather with light and variable winds, low humidity, and cloudless blue skies.  Dr. Gupta is all over the world telling everyone else all about medical issues that don't necessarily connect in any way  to his specialty of neurosurgery. Why can he not tackle this one happening practically in his backyard?

On an unrelated note, no matter what my dad says, it is not true that  I applied to Emory School of Medicine because I have a serious case on  Dr. Sanjay Gupta. Yes, I'll admit Dr. Gupta is a pleasing man at whom to look, but A) he's married, and B)  I cannot spend even one week, much less four years, in a place where people routinely eat rabbit kidneys on toast.  If I do any time whatsoever in the state of Georgia, it will be because I'm attempting to reach either Florida or South Carolina by car, and from certain directions, it's impossible to reach either by car without passing through Georgia. I will not trust the food supply in Georgia and will eat only what I've purchased in the last state I departed before entering Georgia. I'll set foot in the state only if I need to use their facilities. Even World of Coca Cola cannot entice me there.

Anyway, even if the power goes out while a person is being killed by lethal injection and a prison lacks back-up emergency generators, there's this revolutionary invention called the flashlight. One employee could shine it upon the extremity containing the vain into which the lethal substance was to be injected while another performed the actual injection. It's neither rocket science nor even Dr. Sanjay Gupta's beloved brain surgery. It's something they've even talked about having to do  in my "Practice of Medicine" class. (To clarify, in our class we weren't being taught how to execute a patient by having one staff member hold a flashlight on some poor Berkeley Rep guinea pig while another injected him or her with a lethal cocktail, but the same principal applies.)  Anyway, the bottom line is that I fail to see what in the world inclement has to do with one's date of executions.

And, going back to the topic of the  last meal, does the Georgia Department of Corrections plan to starve Ms. Gissendaner until her execution on Monday? She had her last meal, after all.  Or are they going to keep her alive on bread and water or corn flakes until her next scheduled date with destiny? Or does she get another Last Meal? i think it's only fair that, since they're dragging out the process, they give the woman another Last Meal. 

What could she possibly request that would top the last one? Let's help her out a bit here. burger king for two Last meals from a Burger Kung is a bit redundant. I think she should go for Carl Jr's this time, except I think maybe they call it Hardee's in the South.  She should request for two double western bacon cheeseburgers with extra barbecue sauce. And Carl Jr's (or Hardees') fries aren't all that great, so assuming there's a Sonic within transporting range, she should get her fries from there. Better still,, since it's Sonic, take advantage of the Okie variety and order tater tots either in place of fries or in addition to the fries, both with fry sauce (another one of those foods I wouldn't eat even if I were in the Donner Party). I wouldn't expect that eating both would be a major problem for Ms. Gissendaner. Sonic also has the best drinks. I'd recommend a cherry limeade. One of Sonic's hot fudge sundaes would probably be preferable to plain old cherry vanilla ice cream any day of the week., and if she were all that set on cherries, she could request that an entire jar of cherries be dumped upon her giant-sized hot-fudge sundae. Since Ms. Gissendaner has an apparent interest in nutrition and in taking care of her body, as evidenced by the healthy chef's style salad she ordered, I would have for her a salad specially  hand-crafted  by Georgia's own Paula Deen, complete with all the ingredients requested in the earlier salad, plus real bacon bits - made from bacon fried and chopped by Ms. Deen herself, and, instead of Newman's Own Buttermilk Syrup of Ipecac or whatever that vile pseudo- salad dressing made under the late actor's label is called, since it's a Paula Deen Salad, just drench it with a cube or so of melted butter.

I would say we've just about covered Ms. Gissendaner's final meal . . . unless this one, too, fails to become her actual final meal. Perhaps Georgia's Department of Corrections will change it's mind again. Maybe an Elvis impersonator -- a really good Elvis impersonator --- will offer to perform at the facility at the precise time on Monday for which the execution has been scheduled.  Why should the personnel charged with carrying out the execution of Ms. Gissendaner, have to miss out on a performance from a really good Elvis impersonator just because of someone's lousy execution date? Executioners have as much right to attend  Elvis impersonator performances as do the next  people, including Dr. Sanjay Gupta, who probably wants to be at both the execution and at the Elvis impersonator performance.

If it sounds as though I'm making light at someone's very life, even be it that of a convicted murderer, I'm not. One can make that initial eye-for-an-eye argument, but once a state's Department of Corrections is waiting until within hours of a women's scheduled execution, then is deciding that inclement weather  has forced a postponement of four days, it's crossed the line into cruel and unusual punishment in my view. Yes, she was convicted of an unspeakable crime., Lock her up in a stark cell and put the key in a very secure place in which she cannot reach it.

The State of Georgia, however, would do well to consider the last woman -- the only woman they ever executed, seventy years ago,  Sixty years later, it was concluded that she was indeed acting in self defense hen she struck and killed with a metal bar a man who had been holding her against her will and threatening her life. She was pardoned!  A lot of good it did her after she was already dead. Chances are that old age would have taken her life by that time, anyway, but society and the Georgia Department of Corrections would have had a lot less blood on its hands had they collectively allowed Mother Nature to be the executioner rather than so willingly taking the task  upon themselves.

Perhaps there are cases in which capital punishment is fitting and even necessary, but such instances are few and far between.  And does capital punishment really say more about us as a society than it does about the person on whom the penalty is being inflicted?  I really don't know. It's just that death is so incredibly final.  No act of rectitude is possible if it's later determined that it was human  error that ultimately resulted in the placing of that final form of justice upon a person's head.

And if capital punishment must be done, pick a damned date and stick with it come hell, high water, or Elvis impersonator performances.




Disclaimer: I in no way condone nor excuse any evil act Kelly Renee Gissendaner has committed, and, if guilty as charged, may she rot in a dank prison cell.

It's alive!

Surgeons aren't necessarily pleased when their victims survive surgery in all cases.

I survived the surgery, as you may have heard if you read my twin brother Matthew's update. As far as that rainbow and pot of gold nonsense is concerned, I think they're all making every bit of it up. I don't remember one single thing about seeing any rainbows on the walls, ceiling, or anywhere else.

Regarding the rest of Matthew's post, it was most sweet and touching, and in it he revealed feelings I didn't know he had. We had our times growing up together as has probably every set of siblings since the time of Cain and Abel, but I think we've emerged from the typical childhood sibling rivalries relatively unscathed. If we're lucky enough to end up with spouses who get along with each of us and with each other, we'll be home free.

My dad is going home in the morning. If I'm able, I will move back into my upstairs bedroom. It may be up a flight of stairs, and it may be technically not quite as nice as the downstairs master suite in which I'm presently staying, but it's my room even though it's still a bit sparse and sterile and not very homey. My aunt has agreed to come and decorate it the first chance she gets, which she believes will be at some point in mid-March.

I "skyped" class today, though I ended up sleeping through most of Human Health and Disease and Immunology.  I managed to remain awake for Neurobiology. Sleeping through the earlier two classes wasn't a problem because I recorded them and went over them, and the material wasn't new to me anyway, although the professors may have taken my inability to remain awake personally. I  sat in on a few lectures on some of this quarter's classes last quarter when I had unexpected breaks, so I got a bit of a jump start on the curriculum.

Tomorrow  I will actually attend classes in the flesh. It's a shorter day - ending at 3:00 or so,  and one of the classes is "Practice of Medicine." In the practicum portion I'll probably just be observing or possibly answering the odd question or two, as I don't think the Powers That Be want to have me on my feet prodding fake patients on fake examination tables. I might fall on one of the patients and injure him or her, and then Berkeley Rep would either sue us, charge us more for their "actors' " services, or cancel their contract with us.

I haven't been able to figure out how the actors are being compensated. Surely they're not showing up on an almost daily basis to feign injury or illness out of the goodness of their hearts. It's not as though they're getting any real drugs out of the deal. I don't know if each one is paid union scale wages per hour, or of the theatre company itself is paid, or if the actors get free medical care when needed (none of them look like people who actually have medical insurance from any other source) for showing up and pretending to be fake patients at our clinic. 

I'm actually going to buy a ticket and attend one of their productions when I find out that one of our frequent flyer fake patients has a prominent role in the production. I'm going to sit somewhere very close to the front of the theatre so that the actors on the stage can see me clearly, and I intend to do everything in my power to get them to break character and laugh just as I successfully do every time I "diagnose" one of them with their pretend illnesses or injuries in "Practice of Medicine" class. It's a gift I have, apparently. God knows I'm no actress, but I can make real actors and actresses, if that's what you would call these people showing up in our fake ER and clinic, lose the ability to themselves act, if they ever indeed possessed the anility in the first place. The skills of a few of them I find a bit dubious, and wonder just how they conduct themselves on stage.

I could, in theory, drive myself to class tomorrow, as it's my left foot that has the fractures and cast, but I'm going to ride with my brother to class tomorrow  since our schedules are identical.  Despite the collective amount of time I've spent on crutches, I still feel shaky on them. I'm just as happy to have someone accompanying me from the car to the buildings and back. 

I'll spend the weekend ensuring that I didn't miss anything or fall behind. The quiet guy whose parents are from India and are doctors  -- my new, or former, running buddy; I won't be doing a whole lot of running for awhile  -- is coming over Saturday morning to study with me. He's staying to watch college basketball with Matthew and some other guys in the afternoon. 

I like seeing that my new running buddy is capable of socializing even though he's quiet. He reminds me somewhat of a young version of Dr. Kutner -- the Indian-American doctor from House who offed himself. In the TV series, it ended up after the fact that even though they all worked side by side almost every day, none of the other characters really knew Kutner. They thought they knew him, but there was a great deal to his life and to himself about which they had absolutely no clue.  Just because my new friend physically resembles and shares an ethnicity with a TV character who committed suicide is no reason for me to suspect he's at risk of offing himself, but just the same, I feel better about things if I think he has friends in our cohort.

Kal Penn, talented actor and underrated human being who happens to resemble my running buddy

Incidentally, Kal Penn, who portrayed Dr. Kutner, also played the part of   Kumar in  Harold and Kumar  movie series. His undergraduate degrees were in both theatre and sociology, and he has worked in the Obama administration as, among other positions,  Associate Director of Public Engagement. He's been a visiting professor for the University of Pennsylvania. I don't know if he's completed his program or is still working on it or has put the project on hold, but he was studying for some sort of certification in International Security at a university very near the place where I study. Perhaps I'll run into him (not literally, I hope, as he's larger than I, and I'd surely wind up on the losing end of the collision and end up with more fractured bones) some day when I venture over to the main campus. Or, more interestingly, perhaps my classmate and friend will run into him. It would be interesting if they noticed the resemblance between one another.

On Sunday both of my study groups plus Matthew's are meeting together for a session, then watching a movie together.  A bit of frivolity, or even alleged frivolity, is a necessity at times whether or not one actually enjoys it. Fortunately for me, the cleaning service will come on Monday.

Jared is visiting next weekend.

One of my professors allegedly covered one of my pet peeves while I was out. This is a mistake that might [barely] understandably have been made by a lay person, particularly one with extremely limited knowledge --  of medical terminology, as in the sort of person who might think a scapula is something you use to flip pancakes. Not everyone without a medical background would know that a scapula is one of two bones that form the back portion of the shoulders, but most intelligent people, when confronted with the term, would, if it was important, look it up rather than assuming it was synonymous with spatula.

Anyway, one of my less astute classmates asked a professor of my "Practice of Medicine" if my foot or leg had been broken or merely fractured. "Exactly what do you think a fracture is?"  the professor queried the student, who was not, incidentally, Bimbo of of the recent kleptomania/hemophilia confusion fame.

"A fracture is a crack, " the student answered with [misplaced]  confidence.

"No," the professor corrected the errant student. "A fracture is a break of the bone. A cracked bone is frequently referred to as a hairline fracture. A fracture, however, is a break."  The professor went on to review last quarter's Human Anatomy I curriculum, differentiating the types of fractures, much to the pococurantism [translation: tedium; lack of interest] of the rest of the class. 

I hope the cohort blamed the slacker and not me for the less than pertinent lecture, as I know that a fractured bone is not necessarily synonymous with a cracked one.  When one starts to add up just how much we're paying for our medical school educations, then one does the arithmetic to calculate the financial output on our parts for a mere three-minute digression in instructional time, one starts to resent those digressions just a bit. We could be learning something during that time, dammit! 

The only exception to that is if the digression is truly funny, in which case it is forgiven and is considered a necessary part of medical education. Without humor, what is medical school, or what is life, even, when you really get right down to it?

one of those things, along with running, that I took for granted but am not going to be doing much of in the immediate future

Big brother Matthew's Update on Baby Lexus

 note: this was written last night when I was on guard duty to keep Alexis from chasing the pot of gold from the imaginary rainbows Dilaudid was causing her to see off the walls and the ceiling.when my mom's shift came, I went to sleep before publishing. what you're reading was a middle-of-the-night work, so please read it through that filter.

Despite anything my mom may say to the contrary, I'm not so delusional as to believe that any physical resemblance between myself and the late JFK Jr. exists anywhere other than in the mind of my mom.

My little sister is offering proof that not only is she beautiful and intelligent, but she can also bake. Some guy will be very lucky someday,

   I'm writing this to the various anonymouses who read Alexis' blog, but also to some of her more regular readers and online friends, who include Knotty, Catherine, Aunt Jillian, Becca, primary literary agent Jaci, Jaci, Judge Alex, Marianne, Jono, OzDoc, Donna, Lil Gamble, Laperla, Eponine, Michael, Matt from back in the day, notamormon, catnip, fluhis, literary agent Uncle Scott,Amelia, and anyone else i may have inadverntently missed. I apologize if i mised you. It's a risk anytime one begins to specify name. Alexis appreciates all of her readers, anonymous and otherwise.

    Alexis would bristle at my having referred to myself as her big brother because she emerged from the womb maybe thirty seconds before I did. But since I have roughly twice the mass she does, I claim the title of big brother if not older brother. I also claim the privilege of using this space not only to alert readers t my ister's status following surgery and  tell of my sister in general, but to demonstrate that I sometimes get the shaft in her descriptions of me. Her friend Becca once commented something to the effect of, "The way you describe your brother, it's surprising that he can dress himself." I'd like to show that I'm not quite so doltish as Alexis would sometimes lead you to believe.

     Today Alexis underwent a surgical procedure that I actually understood because Alexis drilled anatomy into my head very thoroughly so that she wouldn't have to be embarrassed by her brother having the lowest score in our cohort on an exam. 

     Basically, a couple of screws were put into place because her fourth and fifth metatarsals, the bones extending up from the toes, were unlikely to stay in place to heal properly. This may mean that she sets off airport and courtroom scanners. The screws are small enough that their effect in that regard remains to be seen. Come to think of it, they pale in comparison to what she already has in her leg, so she's already having to go through the pat-down routine.

     She was correct when she blogged that it was never her clumsiness that caused an injury and it was always another person crashing into her space, stepping on her, or whatever. I've actually never seen her do anything clumsy in her life. I don't remember when she learned to walk, though I'm told it was well after I took my first steps, but I'm also told that her first steps were graceful and not those usual Frankenstein-like moves of most newly walking babies including myself.

     Alexis has alluded a few times to the infamous "rooftop gymnastics" bet that got her banned from any form of gymnastics or tumbling until she was eighteen and too old to be restricted from any activity by our parents. At face value, my part in that incident has me  coming across as a terrible brother and a terrible human being in encouraging my sister to risk her life over a stupid and highly dangerous wager. I'll own up to my culpability in the scheme. It was a horrible on my part to have encouraged my sister in any way to have taken part in such a foolhardy maneuver. Yet, and I know this sounds hard to swallow even though I swear it is the gospel truth, I never doubted her ability to pull the stunt off, the cartwheel and something else I don't even know the name of on the high beam of our roof, and I knew as soon as I made the bet that I would be paying up. She says it was five dollars. I say it was ten. There are several things about our childhood in which our memories differ.

     I've pretty much covered everything about her surgery that I know up to this point except to say that the drugs she is being given have made her delusional beyond belief. A video went viral a couple years ago in which a girl who had undergone dental surgery was babbling about unicorns and the land of blueberries. Alexis is now in that girl's league in terms of lucidity. She slept most of the afternoon, so she's now in a wakeful spell, and she's describing the rainbows all over the walls and ceiling of the downstairs bedroom in which she's sleeping. She has tried several times to get up to look for the pot of gold she knows is somewhere in the room. We're taking turns watching her and keeping her in bed. It's my watch now. 

     Her sort of boyfriend in this part of the state somehow convinced my parents that it would be OK for him to spend the night to help take care of her. I'm still not quite sure how he pulled that off. I can't imagine a girlfriend of mine being allowed to spend the night here for any reason when my parents were here. It happens on occasion, I'll admit, but not when my parents are in the condo. It has turned out to be a good thing regardless, as the sort of boyfriend is able to  talk to her and keep her in the bed to some degree so she won't get up to look for the pot of gold she's so sure is hidden in some corner of the room. My mom doesn't want to take any blame for Alexis's drugged-out psychosis, but it's  those Irish genes coming through. If Alexis drank more than the half bottle of guinness she consumes twice a week, I suspect we'd see a lot more of this sort of thing. Maybe it's just as well that she does not drink very much.

Since I've covered her surgery and even if I have  probably written more than I should have, I will take the opportunity to tell you a few things about Alexis that you may not know.

Alexis can do almost anything, and can do it very well. She doesn't play every musical instrument, but that's just because of time constraints. I'm convinced she could master any instrument she attempted. Her piano playing approaches the skill of my mother's even though my mom has a doctorate in piano performance and is a university music professor. Alexis plays violin better than my mom does even though my mom has been playing violin for most of her life. Alexis played low brass instruments to help out the high school band, and still can play any brass instrument, including the very difficult French horn, passably well. She plays a little guitar though her fingers aren't well-suited to it, but she's a hell of a bass player. She doesn't play bass often, but she's filled in for the bass player in my group, Feverish Pitch and the Useless Dominican Infield. We have a gig next week at a bar in Berkeley almost directly across the street from the Cal stadium. Come and bring your friends. Unfortunately, Alexis will not be subbing for our bass player that night, as she's twice the bassist that he is and we actually almost sound good when she's playing with us. Alexis will tell you she can't sing, but that's not entirely true. She just doesn't have my mom's voice, which everyone assumed she'd inherit. She has her own sweet soprano sound and is good enough to solo even if her voice isn't huge.

     Alexis is quite an athlete. She was approaching the elite level of gymnastics when her career was abruptly ended by our parents after the rooftop maneuver. She was a state champion hurdler, and placed at the state level in diving. Despite my much longer legs, I have to work hard to outrun her. I have a temporary reprieve with her broken foot, but she'll come back as fast as ever.
She doesn't have much of a throwing arm, but she can catch, footballs or baseballs, with the best of them. I'm convinced that if she were taller and bulkier, she could have been a Division I receiver. She certainly has the hands for it.

     She's intelligent beyond belief. I read in kindergarten, as in those "Bob" books and a bit of Dr. Seuss. Alexis was already tackling the both the King James and Catholic translations of of the Holy Bible by kindergarten, which we started at barely  4 1/2. 

     Our kindergarten teacher made Alexis do the same work as everyone else, but she finished it in a fraction of time it took the rest of us to do it, then spent the rest of her time authoring a comic book series called Protestant Pup and Catholic Cat. My parents have the entire series saved in a safe deposit box. I don't remember much other than it was poorly drawn, as even then she had no artistic skills whatsoever, but the dog had horns and the cat had a halo. We attended Catholic school that year. Protestant Pup and Catholic Cat traveled all over the nation and the world to the great cathedrals, waging wars of good versus evil. Every volume I recall ended with Protestant Pup lifting his leg to desecrate an altar or something else holy in the cathedral or shrine or whatever until Catholic Cat, who was something like a feline Church Lady from Saturday Night Live, would stop him, evict him in the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, from whatever premises he was about to desecrate, then do her own little victory dance. (My personal favorite was when Protestant pup drank every drop of holy water he could find in St. Peter's Basilica, then lay on his back with his male organ extended upward and attempted to extend his stream of pee all the way to the ceiling to desecrate Michealangelo's artwork until Catholic Cat came to the rescue. 

     Alexis would quietly read her finished product each day to our table in the kindergarten classroom. The teacher didn't want her reading her work to the entire class because the teacher found Alexis' writings a bit irreverent for general Catholic school curriculum. I do now that she took each day's copy to the teacher's lounge, where the teachers had a field day with them.  

     Alexis writes with ease, but math and science are really her niche. Things that I have to go over repeatedly are things she reads once, understands, and commits to memory. She speaks of going into radiology, pathology, oncology, and pediatrics. I have know idea what branch of medicine into which she'll end up, but she'll have her pick, and she'll brilliantly succeed at whatever domain of medicine she chooses.  

     The one thing she can't do is draw. No one in our family can. She's no better or worse than the rest of us. We all suck equally and can't even draw stick figures well enough to play Pictionary without screwing up the game for everyone else.

     Twins, while they share a bond in having been womb mates and having spent so much time together in their lives, also share a very natural competitive streak. They compete in the womb for space and nutrients. Then they come out of the womb and cry to compete for who gets mom's attention first when the two babies cry simultaneously. Then they fight over toys. Parents obtain two of many things, and other toys are owned specifically by one twin or the other, but some things are community property, and the competitive edge comes out as twins are forced to learn to share at an earlier age than are most siblings. Alexis and I have been no exception in this regard, although I feel that we have overcome it. We each have things that we do better than the other although she has me beaten in so many areas that it's not a fair competition. 

     My mom is a major Kennedy aficionado. She was fascinated by America's version of royalty as a child, and over the years has collected virtually every book that has been written about or by them. She can provide trivia on the subject of the Kennedys better than can most stalkers of the famous family. While this seems like a digression, my mom compares the two of us as twin versions of John and Caroline Kennedy, although, with no disrespect intended toward to Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg, and at the risk of sounding as though "Dueling Banjos" should be playing in the background, Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg could never have held a candle to Alexis in the area of physical beauty. Even though, because she is my sister, I can't view Alexis the way other guys see her, I hear their comments, and even I as her brother can see that she's blossoming into a beautiful young woman.

     What my mother meant by her comment comparing the two of us to the Kennedy siblings is that John was one with charisma but who had to take the New York bar exam three times in order to pass, where Caroline was the brilliant sibling who was a bit more comfortable in the background. (In the past Alexis might have been more at ease in the foreground but events that happened in our high school years made her reluctant to seek attention.)  For example, Alexis authored our high school valedictory speech but was not at all comfortable delivering it. I, while not at all confident in my ability to write anything that would hold a large audience's attention for five full minutes, relished the idea of delivering her brilliantly written work. It was hysterically funny without being overly unkind, yet it made its points. It took shots at the school system and at the administration (which is almost expected of a valedictory speech at our alma mater) and was, I've been told,  as good as if not better than not any valedictory speech ever been presented at our high school graduation. I received great praise from classmates, parents, and faculty members for the speech. While (I'm not overly modest) my delivery was probably better than average, the genius was in the writing, all of which came from Alexis. 

     You may have noticed that I used the word brilliant many times. Alexis would have come up with synonyms when writing about someone else. (She would never have described herself as such.) I'm neither so talented as a writer nor so motivated to use a thesaurus. Still, words such as  brilliant and genius, in addition to persistent, relentless, precise to a fault, and even cutthroat at times, fit any description of my little sister. She will stop at nothing to achieve a desired goal, though she's not so uber-competitive as to step directly upon others to get to where she needs to go.

     Too often, we say what we really feel about others when it's too late for them to hear the words and to know how we feel. It seemed an appropriate time to tell my little sister just how inimitable (I actually used a thesaurus for that one) she truly is. Once she's come down from her Dilaudid high, she will read this and probably will  be embarrassed and upset with me for having written it, but I hope someday she will appreciate what I have written just as I so incredibly appreciate everything that she is to me and take pride in the honor of calling her my twin.

I'll conclude with a video of one of her favorite songs.

Waiting to Go Under the Knife (i.e. pray for my surgeon)

essentially me, but not for much longer

Note: I asked for prayers for my surgeon. It's really my anesthesiologist who needs prayers. Unless it's a cardiac surgeon, the surgeon may maim you or, in the case of a neurosurgeon, leave you in a state of paralysis or permanently diminished mental capacity, but it's your anesthesiologist who holds the power of your life or death in his or her hands. The worst my orthopedist can do is to render me lame. My literal life is in the hands of my anesthesiologist, which is why I don't want to become an anesthesiologist.

WARNING: If you're squeamish or easily sickened, skip the first paragraph or so.

I'm still alive, or at least the machines tracking my vital signs indicate I'm not dead yet. The Nazis controlling such matters do not want to give me any pain meds prior to surgery, so I'm suffering through pre-op with a throbbing foot and a migraine to boot. When I tossed my cookies -- no actual cookies, as I haven't eaten for over twenty-four hours and have drunk only what was forced down me --  but the gastric system has its way of producing just enough fluids, for awhile, anyway, to sufficiently gross out the pre-op staff so that they were motivated to at least administer anti-nausea meds. Even those meds are making me slightly loopy, but not loopy enough.

I wouldn't be in pre-op right now had my father not sort of pulled rank (false rank, as he has no actual clout here, but his name alone is enough to make staff members who don't know any better quake in their shoes), and he not thrown a minor conniption fit in the E.R. last night. I went there [by ambulance because my dad didn't want me to be triaged behind such patients as a teenager having an anxiety attack who arrived in an ambulance on the dollar of the State of California*** (your and my tax dollars hard at work) and have to wait for hours, as happened when I had the initial injury because I had a severe migraine and was dehydrated, and there's a limit to how much migraine medication can be taken in conjunction with narcotics, or whether narcotics should be taken at all in the presence of a migraine unless it's the most severe of migraines that will be alleviated by nothing else. 

My parents will pay in a big way for the ambulance ride, as I don't think even my dad will be able to convince the insurance carrier that the ambulance transport was medically necessary, but it was well worth the cost, even though it was about a two-minute ride. By the time the ambulance crew did everything they were required to do or for some reason thought was necessary, it would have been far quicker to have put me in a wheelchair and wheeled me there on the bike path with an umbrella covering me, as it was drizzling outside, but what's a few hundred dollars when all is said and done?  I'll pay the bill myself if anyone complains.

My dad  looked at my Xrays for the first time and more or less blew up at the attending orthopedist who has been covering for the guy who is supposed to actually be handling my case but who has had more pressing matters with which to deal than reviewing my Xrays, reading the radiologist's report, or examining my foot (this applies both to the attending and to the guy who's actually supposed to be the attending). 

It was an ugly exchange. My dad berated the attending orthopedist, who was irritated as hell for having been called in at 11:00 pm, for not having personally examined the Xrays. He told the guy I would have received better care from a physician's assistant, or, for that matter, could have read and interpreted the Xrays myself, which I actually did. The orthopedist, or at least the man who calls himself an orthopedist, told my dad he was some sort of world-acclaimed oncologist who thought because of his status in his own field that he knew everything about everyone else's field as well. My dad countered that in addition to being an oncologist and hematologist, he was also a board-certified E.R. and trauma specialist, and he at least knew enough to 1) look at an Xray of a patient (if an injury is serious enough to require an Xray, a doctor treating a patient needs to personally review the Xray, or even if he's too lazy to do that, at least read the #$%^!! radiologist's report when it becomes available); and 2) to know when he's in over his head and to call in someone with sufficient expertise in the field.

The orthopedist blew up at the notion that he, Dr. QRS, lacked sufficient expertise in his field to handle my case or any other.

My dad commented that both the Xray tech and I, the patient who happened to be a 2nd quarter medical school student, had correctly noted the fractures the Xray displayed.

"Great. Your daughter's a genius just like you think you  are. She'll be a fabulous addition to our program!" he muttered. (Note: I may not be a genius, but my father legitimately is one.)

The nursing staff knew a major fracas when they heard it, so they had in the meantime called in another orthopedist -- a young woman one year out of her second fellowship but regarded as highly competent, and who must have already been on the premises to have arrived so quickly. She pushed the curtain open, introduced herself,  announced that, with the patient's consent, she would be taking over the case. The previous orthopedist, who wasn't even technically managing my case but was covering for the doctor who was supposed to be in charge, semi-roared at her, "And who the hell do you think you are?"

She extended her hand and said, "If memory serves me correctly,  I just introduced myself, and I believe we've also met previously on numerous occasions, but, for the record, once more, I'm Dr. XYZ. I'm pleased to meet you once again." Dr. QRS kept his arms folded, ignoring her extended hand. My prayer is that Dr. QRS doesn't get relegated to med-school faculty or even clerkship rotation supervision, because I'm sunk if I'm ever under his authority. I offer my praise to God, Karma, and everything else in the universe that orthopedics has never been my specialty of choice, because if it had been, my options would be to change specialties or risk being bounced from the program by an attending supervisor who clearly has it in for me.

I gave her my oral consent and told her I'd sign any needed forms indicating such. Dr. QRS gave my dad a prominent display of his middle finger as he practically tore the dividing curtain from its moorings, storming out. 

Cutting to the chase, the new orthopedist viewed the Xrays, agreed that I should have been admitted at the time of the injury and that traction probably should have been the treatment until surgery was possible. I spent last night with my leg in the air and some mechanism applying force to the bones in my foot. 

I'm now awaiting surgery. It's a heavy day in the O.R. Life-threatening emergencies take the numero uno priority, followed by diabetics, followed by children. Routine cases such as myself take the few remaining spots. Were I not related to someone at least semi-important, I would not have gotten even one of the very last slots.  If (God forbid) enough traffic accidents happen between now and the end of the day, I won't even get one of those slots. If all goes as planned, I'll go into surgery at 2:30.


*** I'm a child of privilege, and I readily acknowledge it. As such, I'm slow to criticize those whose health care is provided by the state, as there but for an accident of birth or but the grace of God go I. Still, I think it's too easy for a family whose medical care is entirely free to pick up a phone and dial 911 for an ambulance when they could easily load their fifteen-year-old daughter into a car and drive her themselves to the nearest hospital. I believe -- albeit without a whole lot of evidence to back up my belief -- that it was an attempt to circumvent triage and a lengthy ER wait, that they chose ambulance transportation rather than transporting their daughter themselves to the ER that motivated them to rely upon 911 and the ambulance service. 

The mother told the triage nurse that what she thought was wrong with her daughter was a gall bladder attack, which turned out not to be the case. (Those curtains in the ER may prevent other patients from seeing what happens, but they're far from soundproof.)  In most cases, even a gall bladder attack wouldn't merit an ambulance ride for an otherwise healthy fifteen-year-old.

If a family receiving public health benefits were charged a co-pay of fifty or even twenty-five dollars for an ambulance ride, they might consider driving their child to the hospital themselves. I know they have access to motor vehicles, as evidenced by the roughly fifteen relatives who found their way into the ER to take up all the available chairs (so that one was not available to elevate my foot while I waited to be seen) to offer profuse sympathy while the girl hyperventilated, probably causing her to hyperventilated all the more. 

Every so often, a nurse would make his or her way over to the spot where the girl's entourage had set up camp and would tell her to cut it out with the hyperventilation and to breathe normally. One nurse even told the family and friends that they were making things worse by enabling the girl in her belief that her situation was more serious than it actually was. A family member threatened to report the nurse to the higher-ups.

Even if the parents themselves lacked possession of a car, at least one of those concerned friends or relatives could have driven mija to the hospital. A twenty-five- to fifty-dollar co-pay would likely have eliminated the ambulance ride and would probably have prevented the fifteen-year-old hyperventilator from being treated before I was. If I sound a bit bitter, it's because I am.

Sayonara!

Alexis' Typical Bad Luck /Rears Its Ugly Head Once Again

how my foot and leg look now

The snake-bitten quality of Alexis'  typical life has reared its ugly head once again,  At the onset of  my lunch break today, I was minding my own business. I was carefully -- though not overly-cautiously BECAUSE I AM NOT A KLUTZ!!! -- walking down a set of I think eight steps just outside our main building. Every injury I have ever incurred has been as a direct result of someone else encroaching into my personal space or projecting himself  or herself into my body, whether it was the time a hurdler tripped over her hurdle, sent it flying ahead into my lane, them herself fell on top of me, or two times when drivers have crashed into me through no fault of my own, or one time when a large male character in a musical stomped on my foot in the middle of the wedding dance in Fiddler on the Roof (accidentally, but still, it was he who stomped on my foot and not vise versa). 

A person who shall remain nameless because it was an accident -- an avoidable one, but an accident, just the same; I'm covered by both of my parents' insurance policies and by school insurance, so i will incur no out-of-pocket expense. I suppose i could win a few bucks for pain and suffering if I cared to take this person to court, but I do not wish to do so. It was an accident, albeit a highly preventable one -- was in more of a hurry to make it down the steps than I was. Instead of going around me, she seemed to think going right through me would be a better idea.

 I was mid-step when she made contact with my body, which sent me down onto that foot at an ugly angle. There was no handrail to grab. I went from the fourth step on my left foot to the very base of the steps. I heard the crack of what was probably my fourth and fifth metatarsal bones breaking near their bases. I have a few visible scrapes and bruises in miscellaneous places as well, but they're of limited consequence in the grand scheme of things except that I had to get a tetanus shot, which added insult to injury..Somehow in the process, my navicular bone also managed to take a bit of a hit, suffering an evulsion fracture (in which the ligaments pull the bone apart).  The worst part of an evulsion fracture is not the break itself but the ligament damage (i.e. sprain  ) that occurs simultaneously. 

It's a not uncommon misconception that in general, a sprain is a more serious in jury than a fracture. Such is not generally the case. What is true is that unless you have a serious fracture, i.e. spiral or compound fracture, or a fracture f a difficult-to-heal bone such as a hip, the ligament damage may cause you every bit as much pain as does the fracture. Also, what is true is that fractures are typically treated more aggressively, a cast, a boot, or some other form of immobilization, that allows the body part to heal. Often such is not the case with a sprain, and patients are often not good about staying off the injured body part (foot or leg in particular) for as long as is needed for the body part to heal. Hence, what happens is usually a lingering injury that would have healed had it been casted or had the person followed orders and stayed off the foot or leg for the recommended amount of time.

While We're on the subject of misconceptions, let us address on additional common one: a fracture is a break. Some people think a break is a break and a fracture is a crack. a hairline fracture is a crack. A fracture of another type is a break. I've been asked already by three people - not medical personnel or med students, for example, if my foot was broken or if it was fractured. It was broken, which means that it was fractured. had it been cracked, it would have been a hairline fracture.

The first medical person on the scene after it happened was one of the "Practice of Medicine"  professors. She actually wanted me to wait around in excruciating pain for an hour until class started so that the class could use me as their first non-acting human guinea pig. Fortunately for me, another physician soon happened on the scene. He used his cell phone to call for for help and told the professor I was in far too much pain either to wait around for over an hour or to function as a human guinea pig.

Within two or three minutes after the doctor called, paramedic types (probably 3rd year medical school students) arrived on the scene with a wheelchair and supplies.The doctor himself splinted my foot and leg, loaded me into the wheelchair, and told the flunkies where i should be taken. He called ahead so that, he said, the staff would be ready with IV painkillers the second I walked through the door. Dilaudid is the Fluid of the Gods.

Xrays hurt but were more bearable with the Dilaudid than cold turkey. 

I was able to identify the fractured bones from the Xrays before any of the 3rd-year med school students could. One of them tried to make the excuse that I knew because I could feel specifically which bones were injured. The resident said "Nice try, but of anything, she should have a harder time because of the pain. She just has superior radiological skills t yours. he fist-bumped me.  and then gave me an extra infusion of Dilaudid because I really did feel like I was either dying or wishing i would die because it hurt so much.

I have a temporary cast-splint with fiberglass wrapped by ace bandages, which is itching so fiercely that I'm tempted to tear it off so I can scratch. I sent a friend out for knitting needles. Wal-Mart is open all-night here. WalMart is the AntiChrist in my opinion, but i'm so desperate for relief that I'm willing to deal directly with the Satan himself.I happen to know that i would have a tough time giving myself a case of sepsis by scratching my leg with the knitting needle even if I deliberately tried to do so. Furthermore, i'm having this thing taken off and replace by wither a  boot or a cast on Monday. Were I to show the slightest sign of sepsis, I'd seek medical care. so the knitting needles are getting full use, period. I'm also getting benadryl, which can be taken in combination with the prescribed Norco, which is barely making a dent in my pain.

My friends got to take turns skipping classes to stay with me today. Life otherwise would not have been bearable. My parents will be here tomorrow. My mom can only stay through Tuesday,  but my dad can stay longer if necessary. Hopefully it won't be.

I'm in the downstairs bedroom, which is normally my parents' room or the guest room, so I won't have to deal with stairs. I like my own bed better, but it's not practical. I have a couple of friends here because Matthew could easily sleep right through my screams if I needed something.

I told my dad to bring IV supplies and more Dilaudid tomorrow. He probably won't, but I can dream, or I could anyway if I could actually sleep. This is turning into one of the longer nights of my life, and I've had my share of long nights.  The sole consolation as I can see it is that I'm at home and not in the hospital.

For the record, I am accepting sympathy.

Close Encounters of the Mormon Missionary Kind

I had just finished a roughly twenty-four hour studying gig and had quickly fallen into am,ost blissful sleep on the sofa in my living room when i was most abruptly awakened by the ring  the doorbell.  i tired ignoring it, but the ringer 
was most persistent, and it eventually reached the point that i suspected i was going to be hearing the doorbell ring until I developed a full-blown migraine.

I made my way to the door in my pink and black dotted Swiss satin nightshirt and with un-matching black leggings, looking like the very antithesis of a fashion statement. God only knows now my hair might have looked. I was doing well to have brushed my teeth and washed my face.

When I put on a bit of makeup very strategically and actually comb my hair, I still don't quite look my age, but  i can at least  pass for someone who's nearly finished with high school if not even older. When i'm wearing pjs and no makeup, i probably look 14.  AS i opened the door, I saw two female Mormon missionaries standing on my doorstep. Their identity was apparent because of the name tags LDS missionaries wear at all times, but even had they ditched their name tags, I still could have identified them as Mormon missionaries in a nano-second. In a visual sense, they positively reeked of Mormon Missionaryanism. (Pardon me for coining my own words.). How in hell they got inside our gated complex is anyone's guess. I suppose God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. (For those of you OCD-type readers out there: "He plants His footsteps on the sea and rides upon the storm." )

The apparently older of the two missionaries --  the female missionaries can be as young as nineteen now --  spoke first. Ihe asked if my mother was home. i answered that my mother probably was home, but that home for my mother was hundreds of miles away from our present location. "Then you're  'Sister Rousseau,"  the older, more verbal, and apparently senior of the companionship spoke. missionary responded. "You look like you're about thirteen." This I considered very much an insult, in part because the removal of my braces had done much to give me a more age-appropriate appearance, and also because i prided myself, even on a bad day, in looking at least fourteen.

"Thanks," i muttered sarcastically. The sarcasm was lost on both of them If my reading of facial expressions is even close to as perceptive as i believe it to be.

"The church has you on our membership records," the loquacious missionary continued.

"It's a mistake,"  I disputed her allegation. "I'm Catholic and have been for my entire life."

"The church doesn't make  those kinds of mistakes,"   the big-mouthed missionary countered. Then she glared at the seemingly younger girl standing slightly to the rear in what seemed an attempt to hide behind her senior companion.  The senior companion then  pulled the younger girl's arm so that the other girl could no longer hide behind  her. "Say something, " the assertive missionary hissed at the reticent one. 

"I know the church is true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that we have a true and living prophet, Thomas, S. Monson, on Earth today" the younger missionary recited as though it was a line she had memorized from one of those annual Primary Sacrament Meeting programs in which the children sing inane songs and recite canned lines dreamed up by the great braintrust in Salt Lake City. and about as convincingly as one of my classmates had spoken the previous day when he had answered a particularly difficult question concerning the technique of harvesting cardiosphere and cardiosphere-derived cells in a post-mortem exam with with having  done neither the required reading nor having paid attention to anything that was said about the subject in the preceding minutes.

The sensible thing for me to have done would have  would have been to politely  [or otherwise] excused myself and closed the door on the lady missionaries. I've been known, however, not to act sensibly on the odd occasion, and this was one of those occasions when failure to think in a logical manner got the better of me. Something about the younger missionary looked not quite right to me, She looked maybe homesick and definitely hungry. I thought the very least I could do was to throw together a sandwich for the poor girl who was probably younger than I and probably at least a thousand miles from home. Against my better judgment, I invited them into my condo. 

Those of you who are unfamiliar with the protocol of LDS missionaries probably believe  I was basically asking to be killed by a couple of ax murderers in my own home. In any event, I know a Mormon missionary when I see one - male or female - and they were not going to bind me to a chair with an electrical cord and torture me until I begged for death. In a physical sense, i couldn't have been much safer. Those of you who are familiar with Mormon missionaries probably think it was committing figurative suicide of an entirely different nature. Once these people had gotten a toe-hold into my doorway, I might have gotten them out of my condo that afternoon, but I'd never truly be rid of them.

I do, unbeknownst to many of you, have an ace in the whole in terms of getting the lady missionaries our of my apartment when i consider that they've worn out their welcome. What I have is a brother who can be a bit crude at times, though he is, by all accounts-- I can't see it because he's my brother -- growing increasingly handsome by the day. All I need is to ask my brother to show up when the missionaries are present  -- ideally shirtless [ my brother, NOT the lady missionaries -- and grab a beer out of the refrigerator right in front of them, downing it in one gulp. He would then reach for another beer, at which time he could then sit down and attempt to make conversation with them. That would either scare them witless at the very least and hastily out of my condo if not out of the entire mission and back on the next plane home. Conversely  it could paradoxically have the opposite effect. A shirtless Matthew, with rippling pecs and biceps, and a full six-pack, courtesy of his spending as much time at the gym as he spends studying,  in full view of a couple of young women who have been admonished to turn their hormones off for the next eighteen months, might possibly cause the girl missionaries to rethink their commitment to the gospel and to their missions.  Either way, I was covered.

The missionaries came into my living room and sat on the couch, from which I had hastily removed and folded the blanket that had so snugly blanketed my slumbering body only moments earlier. i tossed the pillow behind the sofa.. i told the girls that I would be hapy to explain the mistake the church -- which apparently never makes such mistakes -- but firts, i was hungry, and I wanted to throw a quick snack together for all of us. The spokewoman of the two tried to protest, but the younger girl accepted simultaneously. the senior missionary's rejection of mu offer of food, as it turned out, was merely lip-service. she ate more than the younger missionary and me combined. 

They accompanied me to the kitchen  I asked if grilled ham and cheese sandwiches would be OK. i think missionaries are taught not to reject something so vile as boiled worm souffle when they are served such as guests in anyone's home, so they eagerly agreed that grilled ham and cheese would be just fine. i turned on the oven to preheat it because i keep cookie dough in my freezer, mainly for late-night study sessions when I might not otherwise be able to remain awake, but also for impromptu socail situations. I wouldn't exactly classify this as a social situation in anything but the most literal sense -- they were people, hence making the small gathering inherently social, and it most definitely was a situation.

I took white, wheat, and sourdough bread from the freezer, and removed deli ham, the butter,  and a couple of types of cheese from the fridge. We each assembled our own sandwiches and tossed them onto this cool bobby Flay grill that my mom picked up at [I think]  Kohls. As the sandwiches grilled, the smell of the baking oatmeal and chocolate chip cookies wafted from the oven, causing me to realize that I really was hungry -- may not as hungy as i was sleepy, but hungry, just the same.

In a token acknowledgement to nutrition, I even threw a quick tossed salad together, complete with lettuce, tomatoes, a few cucumbers, and croutons (no sald without croutons is worth eating, in my opinion.) I grabbed a couple of bottles of salad dressing and placed them on the kitchen table, along with plates and silverware.

I offereed the missionaries the option for for one or the other of them to say a prayer of blessing upon the food. The senior companion quickly jumped on my offer, although she kept it short and to the point. I've been present where LDS relatives prayed for so long that the meal got cold before we could eat it, so I appreciated her brevity.

 I offered my guests a choice between all the non-alcoholic beverages in our refrigerator, which included  Lemonade, chocolate milk, 1 % milk, Grape Crush, Orange Crush, Dr. Pepper, orange juice (which Matthew drinks by the gallon; he miraculously had yet to attack a recently purchased  plastic jug of the stuff) and Pepsi.  The look on the senior missionary's face  when the younger girl requested Pepsi rivaled any look Faye Dunaway, portraying Joan Crawford, would have given to  the actress portraying her young adopted daughter Christina in the movie Mommy Dearest.  This was most uncalled for, as the church has clarified its previously rather murky stance regarding which forms of caffeine a were and were nor allowed per Doctrine and Covenants Section 89, otherwise known as "The Word of Wisdom."  Pepsi had been most definitely give the green light. 

The more timid girl, to her credit, didn't back down as i placed the chilled blue can in front of her, along with a glass filed partially with ice. The girl didn't even bother with the glass or ice. She popped the can open and practically inhaled the fluid, almost in a manner I would expect that a cocaine addict might line up and inhale his or her first line of cocaine in a week or two.  Color, which had previously been absent from her ghastly, wan, and week-looking countenance, almost instantly materialized upon her skin. I quickly grabbed a second can of Pepsi, placing it in front of her. She drank this can more slowly as she consumed her meal. The poor girl had probably been suffering from an extreme case of caffeine withdrawal.

I learned in talking with the missionaries -- the junior conpanion became infinitely more talkative following the combination of Pepsi infusion and food intake -- that the younger of the two, following two weeks in the missionary training Center, had been in the actual mission field, i.e. our area of norhtern California, for less than a week. She was homesick. The combination of Pepsi, food, and non-churc h-related conversation seemed to temporarily relieve her of the worst of missing everything that was familiar to her - she came from a one-horse, one gas station town in Montana. Our urban section of northern California had to  have been a major source of culture shock to her. just allowing her to talk about home seemed to help. Her senior companion seemed at first reluctant to allow her to go on about her home and her previous life in Montana, but loosened up after her third grape crush, her second sandwich,  and  don't know how many cookies. i wasn't counting. Despite having been out in the mission field a bit longer than the other girl, she , too, was probably both hungry and homesick despite having been in the mission field for ten months.

While I'm typically loathe to defend the LDS church on many counts, i will say that it's not necessarily its intent to starve the missionaries. Their food budget, however, is barely adequate, primarily with the assumption that church members would invite the missionaries to their homes and would orovide dinner for them. This sometimes happens as intended. At other times, the invitations don't come as planned, and money intended for lunch and for essentials must go toward providing ramen noodles and other cheap meals.  Even worse, sometimes dinnner invitations are extended, but when the missionaries show up for dinner, their hosts are nowhere to be found. Consequently, missionaries are perpetually hungry. Sometimes they may even appear a bit chubby (neither did in the case of my two dinner guests) but their bodies probably are still deprived of many essential nutrients. Ramen noodles can only do so much for maintaining one's health.


Inevitably the subject of religion had to inject itself into the conversation. i told the young missionaries (the senior companion was all of twenty-two) the stories of my having been blessed without my parents' knowledge and of my having been baptized for the dead despite not having undergone an actual Mormon baptism on my own behalf because neither my uncle the bishop nor my uncle the stake president believed me when I told them I had never been baptized Mormon. I went through all the details of being dunked upwards of  one hundred times  because i was so light that I didn't tire out the man having to dunk me, until i finally got the man's attention and begged for a chance to catch my breath. The missionaries -- even the senior companion, who had previously seemed utterly humorless -- laughed as though I Stephen Colbert in a particularly hysterical comedic routine.

I sent the girls with another batch of cookies for each of them, plus a frozen lasagna my aunt had thrown together, a few assembled sandwiches wrapped and ready to be grilled, a loaf of sourdough bread, and  pound of butter along with a few Pepsis and Grape Crushes.

I suspect i'll see more of these girls than i would care to, ad not really because they want to eat my food. i wish it was just because they needed a good meal. That I could give them. What they most want -- for me to "come back" to the church even though i was never really there in the first place  --  is something that isn't even negotiable. i will feel as though I'm leading them on, as when i have a few spare moments, such as on Wednesdays, once I've completing my studying for the day, as I have no classes on Wednesdays, I'll probably let them in and feed them when they show up on my doorstep. 

i suppose there's another way to view the matter, which i hadn't previously considered.  Maybe missionary work goes both ways. Despite the facetiousness of my earlier comments concerning my brother with his exercise-defined upper torso leading the lady missionaries astray, there may be some seriousness to missionary work, Matthew notwithstanding, going both ways. Maybe i can show these two young women that it's possible to lead a happy, productive, essentially debauchery-free life without being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  Even if they never find their way out of the churhc -- and my goal isn't for them to find their way out of Mormonism if such is what truly makes them happy -- just maybe they can learn, as many members of their faith could stand to learn  -- that everything isn't black or white, good vs. evil, or Mormon versus Gentile. Perhaps Mormons can learn to be a bit more accepting of those who are not members [or practicing members] of their faith. It isn't beyond conceivability that I could help to bring about such change, even if only one or two  Mormons at a time.

Thank God it isn't I.

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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.