The Continuing Saga of the Lost Tribes

It's official. Cousin Dan is tracing the roots of many of the followers of Menno Simons. He'll start out by flying to a region of Paraguay known as the chaco, or, more properly, el chaco. From there he'll hit Europe  -- first the Netherlands and Switzerland, then on to west Germany and east Germany and the Ukraine and parts of Russia, then will fly (supposedly first class) back to North America via Canada, then down into the plains states and to Pennsylvania. Though he believes the Amish, who are also part of the same Anabaptist movement from which the Mennonites sprang (I believe the  Amish form of worship and of lifestyle came from Menno's teachings as well) re also a part of Israel,  he will not be concentrating on them on this trip. He has an idea that the Amish might be descendents of Levi, who doesn't technically have a tribe despite being a son of Jacob (Israel), but instead fills the large group's quota for priests, except that they're all lost . .  . in theory, anyway . . . What good is a priest to anyone if no one knows where to find him? 

Then Dan is coming to California. He's not coming all that close to where I live, though the timing is such that I may be on vacation and be a considerable distance away by the time he gets here, which is good, as he's probably prepared to drive half the length of the state to try to track me down in order to siphon money from me. He's not getting any [money from me] and I would have no problem telling him that in person, but I would just as soon not waste my rare free time telling him anything. He's traveling to the Fresno area because a particular denomination of Mennonites , the Mennonite Brethren, have a seminary in Fresno and are somewhat concentrated between Madera (north of Fresno) and Reedley  (southeast of Fresno), though the other major U.S. Mennonite denomination. Mennonite Church  USA, has a sizable chunk of membership in the central-to-southern San Joaquin Valley as well. (FYI. the Mennonite Brethren denomination exists in Canada as well as in the U.S. I believe the Mennonite Church USA has a counterpart denomination on Canada.

In any even, Dan is convinced that these people are all part of the Lost tribes, but he's not certain that they're of the same tribe. It's one of the mysteries he aims to solve on this mission trip, which may have him gone from just after Thanksgiving until possibly after Christmas. that seems awfully convenient, in my opinion. He's leaving it to his wife to worry about how to pay the rent and the gas bill while simultaneously coming up with something resembling Christmas gifts for their six offspring. I assume his parents will go into debt to get gifts for their grandchildren. Either than, or Mahonri will fall back on his old habit of appropriating the possessions of others. I don't really care as long as it's just Walmart from whom he steals. The owners of Walmart are every bit as bad as Mahonri. It wouldn't kill me to see a few toys stolen from them so my little first-cousins-once-removed get presents at Christmas. My mom says she'd love to fund their Christmas but that she feels that she's sending the wrong message to Dan each time she provides something for his family that he should be providing by his own labor instead of chasing (or pretending to chase if my good friend is right)  the Lost Tribes all over the planet.

The word on the street is that no one from the family funded Dan on this most recent venture. He supposedly found some Cliven Bundy wannabe with more money than brains, and this guy may very well prove the old adage of a fool and his money soon being parted by continuing to finance Dan on his harebrained ventures. Dan already has a few additional trips in the works -- all, after this one, conveniently located in warm-weather venues for the months of January through early March.  

My family, myself included,  plans to be in Europe in late December and early January. I shal be very quiet about my locations for travel, because I can see Dan showing up and pretending to be penniless (it may not even be an act; he's been known to go through money much faster than does the average traveler) on the doorstep of one of our European hosts' homes. They may feel obligated to contribute to his preposterous cause even if my parents tell them not to give him money.

I'm working the night shift and will leave shortly for work. Of late, my schedule has been changed at least as fast as cousin Dan's youngest baby's diaper is changed. I was to fo ahead with my pediatric oncology specialty. Now, since my dad told someone that he's checking on a few European hospitals while we're there , the powers that be have decided that doing that will be more instructional for me than spending the better part of two weeks in  the children's oncology ward here. We'll get most of Thanksgiving week off. I'll then spend the remaining weeks until Christmas break finishing up with Internal Medicine. As a specialty, it is foundational to much of what we do. If anything is to be cut short for me because of my various reasons for mission rotation time, Internal Medicine is probably not what I should skip. Besides, i'm enjoying the rotation.Then, after Christmas break, I'll get a fresh start with my OBGYN rotation. I'm very happy to start it after break and not to have it broken up by the holiday break. I'm most excited to fulfill my OBGYN clerkship. Who wouldn't be?

I've been plagued for the past couple of days with my second kidney stone of my life. i was a bit saddened by his development. A single kidney stone may be a fluke. If a person has a second stone, chances are he or she will have more. It hurts (really hurts) when it gets lodged somewhere and causes a blockage, and it hurts to some degree when it moves as well. A stone, or calculus, was the likely suspect to my discomfort and illness yesterday, but I already knew it was a stone. If a person has had one, he or she will know what it is when the next one hits. The presence of the stone was confirmed by a simple kidney-ureter-bladder x-ray. (I really didn't want a CT scan when i already knew what the problem was and that chances were that a simple x-ray would detect it. I've had and will continue to have enough reasons for excessive radiation in my lifetime without getting CT scans when a simple X-ray will do the job.

Some people have gall bladder problems. (My gall bladder was taken out when my spleen was removed because it looked as though it was going to be problematic in the future; I never had symptoms from it.) Some people are diabetic. Some people get cancer. Some people have horrible allergies.  Some have serious back problems. Some of us are healthier than others, but few of us escape everything. In addition to a bit of rotten luck in terms of injuries, which could have happened to anyone but did happen to me, I have colitis, a tendency toward croupiness, and occasional migraine, slightly low immunity, and now, it appears, a tendency to develop kidney stones. That's life. I would not be willing to be throw my list of maladies into a basket filled with the illnesses of others from any given group, and to take my chances on drawing out and dealing with someone else's conditions. I'll gladly live with my own. There are some narcotics involved with suffering through kidney stones, but I'm pretty good at monitoring my use of narcotics. The hospital monitors it for me when it's an IV thing (typically fentanil or dilaudid). When I'm out of the hospital, it's Vitamin V, also known as Vicodin. I don't take anything stronger (i.e. percocet or morphine)that is available orally. Vicodin in the recommended dosage has to do the job, and I'm careful even with the recommended dosage. My body is far from opiate-naive, but I understand that opiates at their recommended dosages are no longer effective if a person has become accustomed to taking them whether or not they're needed. 

I worked last night after taking the recommended dosage of Vicodin. My supervising resident gave me the equivalent to a field sobriety test, which I passed with flying colors. I had to take an anti-emetic along with the hydrocodone because I was having trouble keeping things down and didn't want a shot or an IV. The anti-emetic, ondansetron, can impair a person's faculties as well, but I functioned fine with it. She said I needed another field sobriety test following each dosage of either drug, and that if I were given anything stronger than Vicodin for pain, it was an automatic end to the shift.  I've missed enough work that I'm not eager to miss more just because of the drugs needed to maintain functionality during  a kidney stone, though I certainly don't want to jeopardize a patient. In all truth, I'm not actually given enough free reign with patients at this stage of my career to cause any real harm to them, but the same standard needs to apply to med students as to interns and doctors. Above all, patients shouldn't be worried that they're being cared for by loopy doctors or doctors-in-training.

I pay close attention -- actually much closer attention than most of my peers do -- to the yearly drug lectures. We're right now slightly less than two-and-one-half years away from the legal ability to prescribe medications of any type without supervision. We'll become MDs in just under eighteen months, but we will not be licensed physicians until we've completed a year of internship. As interns we will prescribe to some degree, though our prescriptions will need to be overseen by licensed physicians. We will not be allowed to prescribe for ourselves legally, but that sort of regularion is very easy to get sround. Doctos desiring to circumvent that rule prescribe for friends and family when it is they  themselves who need or want the drugs. Whether its antibiotics, benzodiazepenes, or narcotics, we have the power to cause ourselves irrevocable harm by freely prescribing medications we don't need.  Lives and careers have been ruined over this practice. i'm very much aware of the problem, and i take it very seriously.

Because of my various maladies, my shrink, Chairman Mao, holds my narcotics prescription form. I ask any doctor who prescribes a controlled substance to me to email him with the information. I also try as far as possible to use the same pharmacy, though such is occasionally not possible due to availability, though I report it to my home pharmacy and ask them to keep a record when I obtain drugs of any kind from another pharmacy.  I have conditions requiring (in my opinion according to my personal pain tolerance threshold) the use of occasional strong drugs.  This could be a problem now, but it's not because I am cautious as are all of my doctors. The peril will grow worse with my ability to prescribe, but with caution, narcotics or other substances need not interfere with any aspect of my life, including my ability to practice medicine prudently and safely. Pharmaceuticals exist to improve our lives. If we're sane about it, such will be the case. 

The Lost Tribes Aren't so Lost After All

It occurred to me that last night, in my discussion of my bizarre cousin who identifies the Lost tribes of Israel by praying while placing his hands on an inflatable globe that most people would simply use as a beach ball, I neglected to tell you where the tribes of Israel that have thus far been located can be found.  If I have access to such information, it is not right that I should hoard it and keep it to myself. the rest of you have a right to know where the progeny of Jacob ended up, at least as far as they have been identified to date.

The occupants of most of the islands of the Azores  are supposedly the descendants of Issachar.  One of the Islands of the Azores,  though  -- Pico, to be specific --- is populated mostly by the descendants of Simeon. Simeon's people may have wandered in small denominations to other Azorean islands.

Natives of  the Marshall Islands are the descendants of Simeon. Some of them wandered to and from other islands of Oceana, although much of the South Pacific was originally populated by descendants of Manasseh (son of Joseph), whose descendants also were the primary inhabitants of the Americas in the pre-Columbian era.

Joseph's other son, Ephraim,  populated much of northern Europe with his descendants. this isn't something we learned from my cousin's revelations, but is, rather, common lore among Mormons. My father has told me that it used to be thought that members of the tribe of Ephraim, of which most mormons are, were adopted into the tribe upon the declaration of their tribal membership  upon receipt of their patriarchal blessings. It should be explained that, according to Mormon tradition,  most non-Jewish people were adopted into  tribe upon declaration in their patriarchal blessings.  the "literal" membership in the tribes started with , in addition to the relatively few Mormons of jewish ethnicity,  those who were declared to belong to the Tribe of Manasseh.  When, according to book of Mormon lore, the ancient prophet Lehi left the mideast to sail to the Americas, it occurred to Lehi that it was of  great importance that he know of the lineage of his family. He then sent one (or two, perhaps; did Sam accompany Nephi on the voyage?) of his sons back to Jerusalem or somewhere in the general area to obtain the family history, for which they had to kill a supposedly bad guy named Laban in order to obtain the all-important records. The records that Nephi brought back to his father Lehi declared that Lehi's people were of the house of Israel through the loins of Joseph and had the blood of Manasseh running through their veins.  Because most Native Americans  are said to be descendants of Lehi through his son Laman  and to a lesser extent, his son Lemuel, (it used to be asserted that all native Americans descended from Lehi from Laman or his brother and were therefore, Lamanites, but DNA eventually proved that such could not be the case, so the LDS church had to back off on that particular teaching), people receiving patriarchal blessings assumed to be at least part native American were declared to be literal descendants of manasseh, and consequently also of Joseph, and of  Jacob [Israel].

The members of the tribe of Ephraim are said to be just a little bit superior to the rest of us. They are to be the leaders when the literal gathering of the tribes of Israel takes place, and they are the leaders of the LDS church at the highest level now.  They are the ones running the church at a world-wide level from their highrise offices in Salt Lake City, and who are paid for doing so. (The LDS church is fond of boasting of its unpaid clergy, but the men running the church at large from Salt Lake City are compensated handsomely in many ways for doing so,)  It didn't seem right to someone among them, or perhaps to all of them, that they, the church's elite, should be mere adopted members of the House of Israel, while the peons descending from Manasseh were literal descendants. Hence, someone among them received some sort of revelation that the church's leadership -- the members of the Tribe of Ephraim -- were literal descendants of Ephraim. Ephraim apparently took his peeps and settled in northwestern Europe.

Those who descend from the original inhabitants of the Basque regions of Spain and France are, according to my cousins, descendants of Gad and members of his tribe.

My Uncle Mahonri, who buys into his son's bullshit to some degree, has been trying to persuade his son to look into the possibility of the celtic peoples comprising one of Israel's tribes. Thus far my cousin has refused to consider it. He says that such debaucherous drunks could never be a part of God's chosen people. "Just pray about it!" my uncle has urged his son.  My cousin's response to his father thus far has been that praying about the Celtic population and any possible connection they may have to the House of Israel is akin to praying in vain, which is, according to the Torah, a sin.  A whole lot of things my cousin does, including eating roughly his weight in bacon and sausage anytime he has the opportunity to visit the infamous Chuck-a-Rama (the ghetto Utah version of Hometown Buffet, as though anyone knew there was a possibility of any buffet being more ghetto than the regular Hometown Buffet), would be considered sinful under the laws of the Torah, but nothing has thus far stopped him from eating pork or seafood or doing a host of things that would be considered in violation of Orthodox Jewish law. He's a Mormon, not a Jew. No one is sure where he got the idea that the Torah should govern any aspect of his beliefs or conduct. And it doesn't, really. He just doesn't like Scottish and irish people, for some reason, and refuses to consider the possibility of them being a part of God's chosen people.

The Metis -- the original settlers of Canada's northeast region, some of whom mixed and intermarried with the French who migrated to the area and became known as the Acadians -- including Louisiana and its surrounding region's Cajuns -- are said by my cousin to comprise the descendants of Dan. Incidentally, my kooky cousin who came up with the inflated-beach-ball method of locating the lost tribes is named Dan, and that side of the family came from the northeast region of Canada. On the other hand, no consensus exists as to whether or not anyone n the family was there before the French settlers came, and a least some of the French settlers who migrated across the Atlantic to Canada had Basque roots. For reasons I won't go into right here, Mormons are heavily into delving into their ancestry, so almost anyone with a Mormon relative has more knowledge of his or her roots than does the average person.

My cousin Dan's latest pursuit is related to determining if the branch of Swiss , Dutch, and Germans who followed Catholic priest Menno Simons across Germany and Prussia to  Russia and then to the New World to become what is now known as the Mennonites are a part of the house of Israel. The Spirit seems to be whispering to him that they may be descendants of Zebulon, though Dan is not yet certain that this information is not coming from the adversary.  He's still at the fasting phase of this one. Usually the entire family except for babies joins Dan in his fasts. It's odd, but Dan never seems to lose weight in these fasts. His wife and children, though, while normally thin anyway, tend to walk around looking like the ghosts of New Year's Eve during and following the obligatory fasts. My cousin Roger once came across Dan consuming an entire box of Little Debbie's pecan rolls during one of the supposed fasts. I have no problem with Dan eating pecan rolls or anything else while he purports to be fasting. My only grievance is that the other members of the family should be allowed the same privilege, and where the children are concerned, ideally they should be consuming foods more nutritious than anything found in Little Debbies' packaging.

My cousin Josh, who is being legally adopted by my parents even though though he's twenty-five years old, is a bright guy. He rather enjoys playing games with Dan's head.  He's working to try to convince Dan that at least par of the Lost tribes really did make it to the North Pole, find the opening, and journey to a comfortable location somewhere in the center of the Earth. He's exploring with Dan possibilities of finding the hole or holes that leads to  the civilization in the earth's core. his idea is that on the extremely unlikely chance that Dan were actually to drill enough of a hole to fall through to the Earth's core, his poor children might stand a chance of having a normal life.

Meanwhile the children fast right along with Dan and his brain-dead wife, and haven't eaten all that well when they're not fasting.  My mom, though, has threatened Dan and his brain-dead wife with a child welfare referral if any evidence reaches her that the food she is having sent to their home goes anywhere other than into the mouths of the family, and particularly to the children. People have been known to sell charitable contributions provided for the benefit of their children.  If there is a God who interferes in any way in the daily lives of humans,  the present time would be a great time for Him or Her to micromanage.

Locating the Lost Tribes by Praying Over a Beach Ball: And You Thought Your Family Was Psycho

This is much like what my cousin does except that he is the only one allowed to touch the ball. The beach ball sits in the middle of the living room, and all the children know they are never to touch it.

I really needed this weekend. I did have to do grand rounds at the hospital early this morning, but they weren't all that grand, plus I spent time that I had trouble sleeping on wednesday night studying up on cases, and I did the same last night. I was well-prepared with all the correct answers when most of my peers stood there slack-jawed. I probably didn't make many friends this morning, but some days are like that. I didn't wave my hand in the air wildly like Arnold Horshak, saying, "Ooh! Ooh! Mr. Kotter! " (actually a pretty funny if dated show), but waited each time until I was asked point blank. At that point, what was I supposed to do? Deliberately give incorrect answers and make myself look like a fool? Alexis does not do "foolish" on purpose. There are enough times when I unintentionally appear quite foolish that I don't need to manufacture artificial instances of idiocy. 

I made a mental note of who was there today. I'll go out of my way to do something kind for each of them in the next week or so, hopefully to let them know that I wasn't being, despite my nickname, a classic cutthroat bitch in pulling for them to screw up. I even whispered an answer once and wrote another one on my clipboard hoping a peer would see it, which she did. I don't think the attending or resident caught on either time. I feel that I can stand on my own two feet. I don't need them to f**k up to make myself appear better by comparison. Furthermore, any one of them may someday be charged with treating either me or someone about whom I care deeply in a life-or-death situation. It behooves me for them as well as for me to be as well-trained and prepared as possible. We're all in this together. 

This is especially true in that I personally believe that everyone still standing with the possible exception of a single cohort member will make it through and will pass Step 2 of the USMLE, which we take next year, and will graduate and go on to an internship or residency program. Any one of these people could potentially be your doctor or mine. All of us want to finish in high standing in the class. I've essentially written off the idea of graduating #1 in the class because of the bad luck of the draw I've encountered in being in the middle of a sexual harassment case and the situation that exposed me to HIV. Finishing numero uno is still not out of the question, but odds are stacked against me a bit, plus it's probably the very last thing with which I should be concerning myself right now. If I finish in the top ten, I'll be satisfied. If I finish in the top five, I'll be happy. If I finish in the top three, I'll be ecstatic, as everyone who matters -- the gate-keepers of residency programs included -- understands that within the top three, the placement is essentially arbitrary. With a slightly altered mood of a single attending or resident on a given day or even a given moment, #3 could have been #1 and vice versa. I'm cooperating (i.e. competing) with some incredibly intelligent people here. Other than when I'm with my dad and my Uncle Michael, I've never been in the midst of such brilliance as when I'm with my elite study group, and that includes the interview panels for the respective medical school programs with which I interviewed. Sometimes I have to push my brain to its limits to avoid appearing stupid within the group.

Perhaps I need to take myself out of the business of setting goals for Matthew, but the essentially conjoined placentae or whatever it was that connected the two of us in utero still binds us ever so slightly. I cannot quite leave him to his own devices yet. My goal for him is to finish in the top third of the cohort. He is not in the top third in raw intelligence within this group, though he was intelligent enough to be admitted to this program, but his work ethic is superior to all but a very few of us. I understand that I portray him in a most unflattering light on a regular basis, as common sense has been very slow to come to him, but he has the ability to absorb complex material and the willingness to work however hard he has to work to master it. And he did very well (not freakishly well, as I did, but he came through with a strong performance) on Step 1 of the USMLE. And he has amazing social skills and interview skills. Sometimes all he has to do is smile  to get whatever (or whomever) it is he desires. With his calm temperament, neurosurgery (his dream specialty) may not be an unattainable stretch for him. Time alone will tell. Regardless, it will be good for us to spread our wings and each to fly on his or her own. Perhaps his common sense will develop a bit faster for him without me standing by to solve the logistical angles to all his problems. And perhaps my social skills will improve at a more rapid rate without him needing to smooth things over for me on too many occasions.

On a totally unrelated note, and I was reminded of this in a brief conversation with Judge Ferrer, I've been hit up for money by a cousin eight years older than I. My Uncle Steve heard that this cousin was calling the younger generation because the aunts and uncles have grown weary of his rather dubious venture. Those of you who have a biblical background (Old Testament in particular) probably know that Jacob, who later changed his name to Israel, had twelve sons, named Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Dan, Naphtali, Gad , Asher, Issachar, Zebulon, Joseph, and Benjamin. (Off-topic, but he had them with different women, to whom he was married simultaneously. I'm not a staunch supporter of polygamy, but those who decry the practice on religious principle despite Old Testament precedence based on irrelevance in modern society while clinging to the religious correctness of other Old Testament principles [i.e. the iniquity of homosexuality] are indeed on shaky ground. One can look at the Old Testament as essentially a loosely based and perhaps even partly mythological history and literature text with a few great truths embedded in the massive amount of print, or one can claim that the Old Testament is the word of God as dictated by Jehovah himself to the prophets and scribes, in which case polygamy is kosher. Anything much in between is hypocrisy.) The New Testament is a different matter, and while I still think it was written too long after the fact, what was included and what was omitted was too arbitrary, and it was, as would be any testament  written now, too much a product of the times in which it was written to be taken entirely literally. I can, nevertheless, get behind most of the words attributed to Jesus himself.

Getting back to the subject at hand, Jacob, later known as Israel, spawned twelve sons. Their progeny came to be known as the "Twelve Tribes of Israel." Things were changed up a bit. I believe Levi's progeny were removed as a tribe, because they were to serve as the rabbis or priests. Joseph's tribe was split, with his sons Ephraim and Manasseh having a tribe named for them. Otherwise, the tribes correspond with the sons of Jacob.

The progeny of Judah and Benjamin are considered to be the Hebrews or ethnic Jews of today. The remaining ten tribes are "lost."  They supposedly went somewhere to the far north and are in hiding. If I took any of this to be literal, I would think they were probably the people occupying the northernmost regions of the Earth. These people might include the northern Inuits, Scandinavians, or even just the Laplanders of the Scandinavian region, or something quasi-sensible. Mormons think they may have hiked up to the north pole and found a comfortable spot in the center of the Earth, or perhaps even settled another planet, or have dispersed all over the globe, or some combination of the aforementioned theories.

The cousin of and to whom I spoke believes that it is his mission in life to locate these people. He holds an inflatable beach ball globe (he used to use a standard globe, but it was too difficult for his pointing to be random with the structure of a standard globe)in his hands and turns it randomly while praying with his eyes closed. When he's finished praying, he places his right index finger on a spot. The hot spot he fingered may be the location of one of the lost tribes, or it may be the adversary at work. He fasts for a few days, then, if things are still looking like it's not the work of Satan trying to set him up, as soon as he can come up with the money, he travels to the region. Sometimes it's a bit complicated, as multiple ethnicities may be located in a single region. There may be Kurds as well as Serbs, or God knows who else. There he prays and receives confirmation one way or another.

If he wanted to do this in his spare time and on his own dime while holding down a reasonable job to support his ever-expanding brood, even though I feel that there is some major self-delusion going on, I'd still say more power to him. He doesn't want to do that, though. He went to BYU and obtained a degree that would qualify him to teach LDS seminary or institute classes, which ended up being a big fat waste of money because  he doesn't want to work a steady job; it keeps him from his true work, which is locating the lost ten tribes. The non-LDS contingent of the family (my parents, Uncle Steve and Aunt Heather, and Cristelle and her husband Mendel) consider this to be ridiculous in every sense. My mom sent him money a few times because she was concerned about how thin his children appeared. She now just sends food.

The rest send him nothing. His own parents, Marthalene and Mahonri, have run out of money to give him. Uncle Michael and Aunt Joanne and the other five practicing Mormon aunts and their spouses have each come to their own conclusion that if this was something so religiously urgent that he should be freed from the constraints of a day job in order to pursue it, the Big Boys in SLC would have sanctioned it and would be giving him a stipend to support his family. Hence, he's run out of sources of income from within that generation of the family. 

My grandparents have only sent holiday and birthday money from the very beginning, and are greatly embarrassed by his actions. It's not how the Mormon Church works. In the LDS church, an individual doesn't just decide he's called to perform some bizarre work, then ask others to support him financially. The Big Boys in SLC are supposed to call him to do this marvelous work and wonder. Then they either tell him it's a part-time calling, and he is to keep his day job, or they tell him he'll be stipended.  They're likely subsidizing nonsense every bit as ludicrous as this madness in which my cousin is engaged, but they want to be the ones to decide who takes on which crazy pursuits. So far they've shown no inclination to "call" my cousin to perform this work. My grandfather refuses to use any influence he may have to push anything through for my cousin. The whole thing is mortifying to him. My grandmother has threatened my cousin with a cut-off of Christmas and birthday checks if he does not cease and desist with requests and communications to the Big Boys in SLC.

Hence the contact with the next generation. Even though about 3/8 of my cousins are older than I, most married very young and began popping out babies before either party in their respective marriages had completed educations, so they're not in great positions to help this guy, and most of their parents are discouraging them from doing so. Mahonri and Marthalene are encouraging their offspring and the rest of us to support their son's cause, but they are voices in the wilderness. It's known by Mahonri and Marthalene that I have more disposable income than do any of my other cousins on that side of the family. (I don't know if the wife's extended family is contributing to this lunacy or not.)

Uncle Steve called me in advance to tell me I would soon hear from this cousin. He told me what I already know, which is that my money is mine, and that I'm free to use it as I choose, but that this would be an especially fool-hardy way of spending it. 

I said something in yesterday's blog about both the importance of generosity and of how a problem really isn't a problem if a person can throw a bit of money at it and have it disappear. Neither of those pearls of wisdom apply in this case. First, generosity is one thing, and donating money to a cause that ultimately allows a person to avoid facing reality is quite another. Yes, the children look underfed and probably are not receiving proper health care. If such is indeed the case, it may be time for someone in the family to pick up the phone and call social services. This man and his wife are free to behave as erratically as they choose as long as they are harming no one else. Once innocent children begin to bear the burden, perhaps outside intervention is indicated. I shall talk to my parents and the more rational aunts and uncles about this. Second and finally, throwing money at a problem to make it disappear is fine as long as the problem belongs to me or to someone close to me. This is NOT my problem. I didn't create it, contribute to it, or in any way perpetuate it. This problem belongs to my crazy cousin and his wife. They must choose to be responsible or possibly face interference from social services. I'm comfortable with such being the case. 

Doesn't this sound vaguely like a Lifetime movie?

Wouldn't my cousin's story fit right in this genre?

Cheap Thrills in a Valley Hick Town

the one who didn't show up

I'm tired after working a long day (we were open; the doctors in the practice are probably anti-Veteran) which was preceded by a train trip to a hick town in the valley from which people apparently go missing, never to be seen again. I made it back. While I was there, I stayed in a lovely hotel, and I watched and listened to a concert by some cute irish guys, the cutest of whom  was not there that night, but we all must deal with life's small disappointments. I later learned that he recently married the group's cellist, and the two are on a bit of a hiatus from the tour. I may have said this before, but cello players always get the cutest guys. I wish I'd picked up cello while I was young. I can play it a bit but don't enjoy it tremendously because the bowing action hurts my hand. If I'd learned it properly in my youth, things might have worked out better for me.

I picked up a small bit of wisdom while on my trip, which is that money in small quantities is easily replaced. A problem isn't a real problem if you can throw a small amount of money at it and make it disappear. Other problems in all our lives will be more difficult and more persistent, but  little things that cost far less than what is in a person's bank account shouldn't keep a person awake at night. Fork over the money and forget that it ever happened.

Even though the trip was theoretically comped, I'm a liberal tipper, so it didn't turn out to be totally free for me. In preschool, kindergarten, and a lifetime of living with a twin, I learned to share. Not everyone working at a hotel counter has either parents who will pay for all the education a young person needs or wants, or qualifies for as many scholarships as I did, some of which were given to me due less to any supposed brilliance I may or may not possess than because I had the right advisor handing my the best stack of applications to submit. I'm not poor now for a couple of reasons, but eventually I will earn a very comfortable salary and will be even less poor. If we all share when we can in small amounts, many other people's lives will be better.

I ordered an DNA kit from ancestry.com. This may have been a rather frivolous purchase, especially since my parents, whom I have good reason to trust are my actual biological parents, sent in for their reports last year.  Still, I'm curious, and my throwing money around stimulates the economy.

This is one of the songs that was performed. You may have to be at least part Irish to appreciate it.

Happy about Going to Work

This is not Glenn beck. It's Mr. Potato Head with his happy face.

Today I actually begin my clerkship in internal medicine. I've spent three of the past four weeks officially participating in the internal medicine rotation by taking medical histories and documenting symptoms in the E. R., but that wasn't real internal medicine. It  was the hospitals' and my program's very generous attempts to accommodate my situation. While my HIV exposure happened on the job, which made it somewhat their problem to find a way for me to participate in my program as much as possible as opposed to saying, "We'll see you in three months when your test results come back clean," my supervisors have gone far  beyond what they were legally required to do in order to accommodate me. Other than one doctor who yelled at me when I passed out -- but then quickly apologized when he was made aware that I had not violated agreed-upon protocol -- no one has complained when I needed extra breaks or was required to leave early for health reasons. (Every moment I was there, they were probably just waiting for me to collapse to the floor in a heap, and it was likely a relief to them each time I made it official by leaving early.) 

I don't think anyone expected much in the way of actual work from me since this debacle started. I promise to make it up to everyone involved and thus inconvenienced by working doubly hard in the upcoming months. I had my one-month blood draw yesterday (Sunday), and the results should be back by Tuesday, at which point I will be allowed at least to touch patients.  Tomorrow and part  of Tuesday will be a bit like the past three weeks have been, minus the frequent barf breaks, with regard to the "no-contact" rule. 

It has not yet been determined when I'll be allowed to give injections, insert IV's, perform exams involving body cavities, and the like. The original word I was given indicated that wouldn't happen until my three-month clearance, but I've been told since that the embargo may end sooner. At the very latest, it should end when the patient who was my source of exposure receives a two-month clearance, which will be in one month .In terms of exams of body cavities, if I double-glove and if I have no broken skin on my hands and if I continue to keep my nails short, there's no risk.  With regard to injections and insertions of IV lines, there's always been far more risk to the health-care provider than to the patient if even normal protocols are followed. At some arbitrary point in time after the lab results come back, I expect that I'll receive a memo lifting the ban on those procedures. The order in which my privileges are reinstated will likely follow no logical order. I'll go with the flow. Meanwhile, I'll consider myself lucky even to be able to palpate a patient's skin.

This entire experience, while largely a waste of my time and good health, has not been without value. As Jono said in the comments section of a previous blog, a doctor who has been a patient has much more empathy for what his or her patients experience.  I've been sick and injured before -- more than a person should be -- but still, it does not take a person long after the cessation of feelings of pain, nausea,  discomfort, or whatever symptom accompanied a particular illness or injury, for a person to forget all about those sensations and to no longer feel gratitude for the simple blessing of wellness. I hope to retain that feeling a bit longer this time than I have following previous instances of injury or illness. I wish to savor the good feelings this time, while understanding a bit better just what it is that a patient is feeling.

I'm also grateful for the expanded career options the negative HIV results will afford me. While either radiology or pathology might ultimately have been or might still be my specialty of choice, I won't be limited to those or to psychiatry by default because of an HIV+ diagnosis. The entire field of medicine is open to me, with the only restrictions being any physical or mental limitations I possess. That was the case from the very beginning of my pursuit of a career in the field of medicine.  I just never really appreciated the whole concept before this recent scare. 

As far as the "scare" goes, I understand why the professionals who handled my case had to present a worst-case scenario and a rather dire doomsday prediction. First, they couldn't have me taking unnecessary chances with patients or with anyone else had I been sexually active, which I was not and still am not, but they could not have known that to be the case for certain regardless of what I told them. Second, they needed to present a solid case to persuade me to go along with the post-exposure prophylaxis. I could have opted out (though I would have needed to opt out of my program as well for a minimum of two months) but it would not have been the safest choice for me to have made. Third, it's easier on everyone involved to give someone good news after the fact. Presenting nothing but a positive outlook, then hitting someone with a "Guess what? We were overly optimistic. You are HIV+ after all. Sorry!" would have been a lousy way to have handled this fiasco.

To those who have been a source of support with this issue as well as in regard to other matters, I cannot adequately thank you. To all of you online - Knotty, Jono, Donna, Jaci, OzDoc, Lil Gamble, Aunt Becky, Becca, Heather L.,  and anyone else I've forgotten -- who have offered words of encouragement, they helped more than you can know. Thanks to Judge Alex who spoke with me by phone, once even in the wee hours when I inadvertently butt-dialed him. To my possible source of exposure: you and I both know we would have done nothing differently, that it was for a very good cause, and that everything will be fine for both of us -- and thanks for being so accommodating where testing is concerned. To the doctors and faculty members who have been especially supportive, you know who you are if you read this blog, and you understand why I cannot use real names when I thank you. I will offer a shout-out to Professor Larry Bakman. Why you've been so nice to someone who was a bit of a pain in the butt during lectures is a mystery to me, but your kindness has not gone unnoticed. And to family members and the cohort mates who have become like family members, you've all gone out of your way far beyond what anyone could expect of his or her family and friends. Mom and Dad, I'm sorry for putting you through one more ordeal. You both owe almost every gray hair on your heads to me (Matthew gets credit for the remaining few). And to Matthew, thanks for what was no more fun for you than it was for me.

To anyone who thinks I'm being prematurely optimistic, all I can say is that there are some things a person just knows. Lab results will prove me right in due time.

It's Over, Thank God or the Flying Spaghetti Monster!

I do not own this video. to whomever does, I readily acknowledge your supremacy. Please allow me to keep it here if even only for a short time.

My final post-exposure prophylaxis injection happened just under forty hours ago.  I could not possibly be much happier than I am right now. I should be sleeping as most normal people who live in my time zone and are not working a weird shift are doing, but I'm too happy to sleep. I don't have to work today, anyway. When I get tired, I'll sleep. Matthew's working tonight, so I've even been afforded the luxury of playing my musical instruments throughout the night. If I were Matthew, I'd play them anyway (Matthew plays whenever he is inspired to do so), but somewhere along the way, I acquired a few social graces that Matthew did not, and other than the one time I pounded out a bit of post-midnight Rachmaninoff in my parents' home just to make a point, I play my instruments during normal waking hours or when no one else is home.

I've complained a great deal about the indignity, inconvenience, and discomfort of this treatment I have recently undergone with the anti-HIV drugs. I do not claim to have suffered in silence. Joan of Arc I'm not. Still, some of the more demeaning aspects of the treatment I've kept to myself.  I'll touch lightly upon aspects of it now. WARNING: This is neither for the faint of heart nor for the weak of stomach! 

Imagine that you've gone ridiculously long, as in 36 hours,  without eating anything because you  know there's an excellent chance that, contrary to Sir Isaac Newton's theory, what goes down will very likely come back up. You finally force yourself to eat because the will to live is stronger than the sickness brought on by eating seemingly anything. You heat up a pan of chicken noodle soup, and finish most of a small bowl of it along with a small glass of 7-up. You stay upright for as long as you can, but eventually when you can no longer stand or even sit, you go to bed and fall asleep. After an indeterminate period of time (post-exposure prophylaxis invariably induces a time warp) you wake to the sensation of worms crawling out of your nose. You pull yourself out of bed and stagger to the nearest mirror, wondering what could be the genesis of this most recent and most bizarre symptom. The doctors warned you about many adverse effects of the drugs you have been given, but having worms crawl out of your nose was not one of those side effects about which you were forewarned. You pry your eyes open for a closer look even though you really don't want to see what it is that is causing the sensation. Upon closer inspection, you discover that the worms crawling out of your nose, two or three at a time making their way through each nostril, are Campbell's noodles. You pull the ones you can reach our of your nose and throw them into a wad of tissues. You lethargically make your way to the bathroom, toss the tissues full of Campells's noodles,  pull off your pajamas and leave them in a heap, and climb into the shower to rid your body of the consequences of this most recent repercussion of the medication, holding onto a railing in the shower. You silently express your gratitude to the people who designed and built the condo, who graciously put in features for senior citizens, such as grab bars in the combo shower/tubs. You toy with the idea of tossing your worm/noodle-covered pjs into the washing machine but instead leave them on the bathroom floor until you have the energy to carry them to the trash bin.  The same is true of the pillow on which you were resting your head when the phenomenon began. You know now that you will never, ever again eat Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup, nor, for that matter, likely any other brand of chicken noodle soup, for the rest of your life. (You, friendly reader, may not eat chicken noodle soup again after reading this account either. I apologize.)

What your doctor has warned you might happen has happened.  You've been stricken with the dreaded vomirrhea. Few things in life that aren't likely to kill you outrightly in short order are worse than vomirrhea. You must ensure that a receptacle for the oral aspect of the malady is constantly available. You have it with you at all times, and you have another receptacle waiting for you in the bathroom.  You could wear Depends, but that would force you to take a shower following each attack, and attacks may be frequent. Despite last year's el nino weather aberration, California is still in a drought pattern. You could single-handedly dry up a well or two by showering following each attach of vomirrhea.
This is far too much information, but the medicine you're being given changes the PH of  fecal output to the extent that it is extremely acidic. So even though you're trying not to single-handedly bring California's drought to more of a crisis level than it already is, you need to bathe in order to soak tender body parts after roughly ever third attack of vomirrhea. Sometimes another attack will strike while you're in the tub, so you'll need to hurriedly, whether or not you have the energy,  drag your self from the tub to the potty, while soaking and shivering and reaching for your barf receptacle. If you don't wish to undo what little good you've just accomplished by soaking in the tub, you will then need to climb back into the tub. You're feeling very weak, and you hope not to lose consciousness while in there, as Whitney Houston and her daughter Bobby Kristina Brown have more or less covered the recent quota for bathroom drowning deaths. You have to be really careful, as in using as little water as possible even though it causes your shivering to be worse, and being prepared to hit the "unplug" device at a nano-second's notice. As bad as all the other symptoms though which you are suffering are, and as benign as death may seem in the face of the symptoms,  you really don't want to drown in a bathtub.

Consciousness is a good thing, especially while one is standing. If you are much like me, you tend to take consciousness for granted. No one has any guarantee of maintaining consciousness, and such is especially the case while undergoing a post-exposure prophylaxis regime. Losing consciousness while standing in an E.R. cubicle while talking with a patient often shakes the patient up just a bit and tends to cause the patient to lose what little faith he or she already had in you, the third-year med school student. Once in awhile, a loss of consciousness on the part of the med school student when talking to a patient can have an unexpected benefit. Not every patient taking up a bed in an emergency room truly belongs there. Some patients are there for reasons that could be managed quite effectively the following day in a doctor's office or in an urgent care center or clinic during normal business hours. Other patients are at the emergency room with the intent of obtaining narcotics. In either case, sometimes having a medical student fall into a cold faint right on the floor beneath their beds will cause the emergency room's frequent flyers and others who really don't belong there to re-think the issue. Sometimes they will tiptoe around the med student on the floor and the doctors and nurses attending to him or her and quietly leave, not certain whether the fallen med student is dead or alive. (At other times they'll shriek like banshees because THEY are the sick ones, not the unconscious med students on the floor beneath their beds.) Another especially important time at which to maintain consciousness is while operating a motor vehicle. Each time a person undergoing a treatment producing side effects including loss of consciousness makes the choice to get behind the wheel of a vehicle, he or she must be certain as much as it is humanly possible to be certain that he or she can do so without the loss of consciousness being a factor. While there's never any guarantee that any one of us is not going to have a heart attack, a stroke, a diabetic issue even if he or she has never been diagnosed with diabetes, or a simple loss-of-consciousness episode, undergoing post-exposure-prophylaxis predisposes a person to the condition of syncope, or fainting. I did almost no driving for the past four weeks. There were a few times when I felt perfectly safe behn]ind the wheel for short trips, but those times were the exception and not the rule. One cannot take chances with the well-being of others even if one does not care about himself or herself.

This final indignity of the experience may seem to be no major issue to many of you, but to me it was a huge ordeal. Because my arms are thin, arms were unusable as a site for my injections. That left thighs, hips, and buttocks (two of each) as injection sites. They needed to be rotated in order because the injections were damaging enough that even being rotated through one site each six days that the site was barely sufficiently recovered when it was time for the site to receive an injection again. Furthermore, where my body is concerned, I possess extreme modesty. Most of us are not extreme exhibitionists, but I may be at the other end of the spectrum. I blogged about my dad having to bribe me the tie my perverted classmate peeked over a restroom stall, saw the bead-shaped red bruises on my bottom and thighs as i was trying to pull up my overalls, and ran to the office yelling, "Alexis has got the shingles." instead of asking the girl why she was climbing to the tops of restroom stalls to peer at other children, the school called CPS. two cPS workers showed up at my home the following day to investigate. i admitted that the marks had happened as a result of my sitting on my brother's Mardi Gras beads for the duration of a long drive across the Tehachapis during a snowstorm in a deliberate attempt to hide the beads from my brother. i had to produce the mardi Gras beads, and the CPS workers insisted upon looking at the marks on my things and bottom in order to compare the size of the marks to determine that the bruises got there as I said and not as a result of abuse with a torturous device. my dad even had to convince them that, had I been struck with the beads, the marks would not have been so distinct and would have blurred a bit depending upon the angle at which I had been struck. The main point here was, though, that two cPS workers -- a male and a female -- insisted on looking at my nude bottom. My dad tried offering me money as a bribe in order to get me to cooperate with the social workers, but even $50 dollars (a large sum for a nine-year-old), wouldn't persuade me. The CPS workers tried to restrain and disrobe me themselves, but were unable to accomplish the feat. My dad had to help them to restrain me even though it was against their policy for some reason. (They questioned me away from his presence before, and could have done so again; it was a silly policy.) he felt so terrible about it that he gave me the fifty dollars even though I had ot cooperated.  

Another time, when I was twelve, I was spending a few eeks with my pseudo-relatives in /utah when I developed a case of croup that caused my breathing to become sufficiently labored that I had to be taken to the local emergency room. When the physician in charge of my case sent a nurse into my cubicle with a syringe and hypodermic needle and she announce that the injection needed to be given yo me in my bottom, I bolted out of the cubicle barefoot and in a hospital gown, holding the ends together, and had to be chased down a hospital corridor, brought back to the cubicle, and restrained in order for the nurse to give me the shot. Had my breathing not been so severely impaired, I'm not sure I would ever have been caught. Nine years later, I might very well still be hiding on the edges of the forests of Utah County still wearing a hospital gown and sustaining myself from the fruit I managed to steal  from residents' trees. that's just how serious I was about protecting my right not to display private body parts.

I was forcibly disrobed in the restroom assault situation. That probably did little to turn me into more of an exhibitionist than I otherwise might have been, but the truth of the matter is that something in my nature, with or without the restroom attack, made me unlikely ever to apply for the position of a Playboy centerfold, which is probably just as well considering my build or lack thereof. 

As my disdain for nudity pertains to my post-exposure prophylaxis routine and the need for injections to occur in places normally covered by clothing, when I worked and was able to stay until the end or near the end of my shift, co-workers took care of the injections for me.  On nights when I had to come home hours early because I exceeded the three-barf-session-per-shift rule or when i was off, I had to receive the injections at home. A few of those times my dad was there. If those times I needed injections at home happened to be when it wasn't a day for a thigh injection, it wasn't a huge deal. My dad has provided medical care for me for my entire life, or, for that matter, I could have given the thigh injections to myself. While I'd just as soon not receive a Pap smear or any similarly sensitive and invasive procedure from him, having my hip or butt injected by him isn't the end of the world. He's good at it and gets through it as quickly and painlessly as possible. 

It was a different case when it involved my brother. Hip injections weren't such a big deal -- I just needed to pull my scrubs or pj bottoms down about an inch, and not a whole lot of nudity was involved. Butt injections were different. Think about it. Who wants her brother swabbing it and injecting a needle into her nude bottom? May I remind you that I live in California and not in some remote section of the Ozarks. I would groan at the prospect each of the four times it came up. Matthew would ask if I would prefer that he call ****** (Cool Guy), ****** (Handsome Hunk), ****** (Raptor Jesus), or any one of a number of guys to give me the injection in his place. I would say that such would only make things worse and, besides, we didn't have time for that. The injection really needed to be given within no more than a ten-minute window, and ideally almost to the minute. Matthew would remind me that he wasn't getting any more pleasure from the experience that  was. In the end, he'd just give me the stupid shot. I can tell you from personal experience, though, that getting an injection in one's bottom from one's brother is the very epitome of awkward.

Thank God it's all in my past. That which doesn't kill a person theoretically makes him or her stronger, though looking at myself in the mirror, I'm not so sure abut that. I'll gain the weight back, though, and life will go on. And I wouldn't have done anything differently in the situation even if I had do overs, which we never do in real life. 

This is the last time I intend ever even to look at the stuff in any form.

A Modern-Day Pioneer

It's finally lunch break time, but since food is out of the question for me when I need to go right back to work, it's blogging time. Fortunately for me, I have my private laptop here. I'm not supposed to use my work laptop for personal use. That seems unfair since I paid for it myself, and I could get away with a little personal use, I'm sure, without anyone ever being any the wiser, but I'm generally a rule-follower where it comes to my schooling and future career. I may someday become a rebel gain, but I will ensure that I have my MD and board certification before I once again allow my true nature to come through.

A fourth-year-resident gave me a ride home as my shift was ending yesterday because I was experiencing too much vertigo to drive safely. The residents and attendings have been most generous about offering rides when i need them. I don't even have to ask, and I've never had to call Matthew for a ride. My peers are not usually on my shift right new, or I assume they would help. Tney'd certainly be my first choice if I were in a position of having to ask. 

I really appreciate the offers of my superiors and of not having to beg for rides, as it would be a very awkward thing for me. I don't like having to ask for help. The way these people present it, they're not doing me any favors; it's society at large who is benefiting, as I'm not safe to drive on a lot of mornings or very late evenings. I'll be so incredibly glad when the last prophylactic injection happens tomorrow morning, and I'm theoretically feeling back to normal in another five to seven days or so after that. all except that I've taken off 8.5 pounds. I was all the way up to 96 lbs., which at just over 5'3"seems light, but I have bones like those of a bird, which I inherited from my mom. 

So now I'm a whopping 87.5, which is rather disgusting. We were asked to come to work in simple, easy-to-work-in costumes on the eve of the Halloween, which extended to the 31st once midnight hit as I worked graveyard. I wore a black glow-in-the-dark skeleton costume (with all the bones in the accurate positions). The physician in charge said he'd never seen a more realistic-looking skeleton and that I should perhaps hire myself out as a model to the anatomy classes. Another doctor said it would be a bad idea because I look so realistic that 1st-year students might pull out their scalpels and begin slicing into me.

This, too, shall pass. I'm not a huge eater even under the best of circumstances, but neither am I the anorexic that I was derisively accused of being in high school. I'll eat whatever I need to eat to look healthy as soon as I'm able to do so. I don't do well with Ensure or those other products designed to put weight on the calorically challenged. I'm going to have to gain the weight back eating real food.  One of the ER doctors, believing I need nutritional advice, has counseled me as to the importance of eating substantial and nutritious food as opposed to sugary and fatty junk. Right now I'm doing well to keep down soda crackers and seven-up; I don't know if she realizes that or not. I also don't know if she has forgotten that I had to take Nutrition 101 as a prerequisite along with everyone else, and that I did quite well in the class, but I'll give her a pass, as she's apparently concerned about my well-being. Nutritious food is obviously desirable, but it's going to take a few empty calories as well to get myself back to the whopping weight of 96 that I was before any of this nonsense started.

Almost all of us happen to have the night of the 8th off. We're having an election party, not that most of us are all that invested in the election. Four years ago, the outcome would have been far more interesting to me. Now, it's more of a social occasion. Ice cream in many forms will be one of the featured desserts. I'll try to eat as much of it as I can without overdoing it and undoing any good that I might have done.

The group wants to hold the event at my condo. I said no because I cannot manage the clean-up. Raoul says he has organize a clean-up crew and that he place will be cleaner when the event is finished than it was before. He says i can go to bed as soon as I'm tired and assume the cleaning will be taken care of, and that even Matthew will not be expected to do more than his share.

I will be working day shift in the office on the 8th and will be tired. The effects of the regime will be starting to wear off but may not yet be gone. My epidemiologist told me that while things will get better, I shouldn't expect to have my full strength back until I regain the lost weight. 

I don't work for two days later in the week. Once each year each 3rd and 4th-year student is assigned to attend some sort of culture event. I don't really know the point of it in terms of whether it's just a form of R & R or genuine exposure to culture. Someone in the student affairs office signs each of us up for an event, usually slightly out of the immediate area but not more than a few hours of travel away. A ticket to the event is procured, travel arrangements to and from are made, and lodging is arranged. We get a three-star hotel, which is OK, I suppose, considering it's free. When I was a kid, my family almost always stayed in three-star hotels, so I shouldn't pretend to be pretentious and behave as though I've never walked through the doors of such an establishment  and it's below my standards. I prefer four-star accommodations or better (who doesn't?), but when I have kids (I started to write "when I grow up and have kids;" I must stop speaking and writing that way. I am grown up) maybe it's best if they spend more time in clean three-star accommodations than in ritzier places so that they don't grow up feeling too entitled. An occasional splurge is fine, but I would probably be doing any future kids I produce a disservice by allowing them to believe that a Holiday Inn is beneath them. We get transportation to and from the hotel to the event. Then, after a late check-out, we're transported back.

For security purposes I cannot say any more about where I'm going, when I'm going,  and what I'm doing, but I must admit that I'm looking forward to it. The timing could have been better, but neither I nor my peers can complain, as all of our culture nights were scheduled months go. I'm just lucky mine wasn't scheduled for any point in the previous three weeks or even now. It wouldn't then have been enjoyable. 

Iv'e held out for nearly this entire blog before ranting about my major complaint. A fourth-year resident kindly gave me a ride home early Wednesday morning, then promptly left for a previously scheduled work-related engagement in another part of the state. I left my cell phone in her car. I didn't even miss it for almost three hours , but by then she was well on her way. Then I started to go completely bonkers over the loss of my phone, having no clue where I might have left it. (The drugs cause a bit of mental fog on top of the lovely digestive effects.) At about that point the fourth-year resident called Matthew to tell him my phone is in her car. He called on the land line to our house from his place of work. She'll be back tomorrow. She's busy enough that I didn't want to ask her to FedEx it back to me. I'll get the phone back early on Friday. We have a land line and I have an old cell phone that I can use to dial 9-1-1 in an emergency. Still, I admit that I have been going through withdrawal and that it has been rough.

Because I worked through high school and was forced to save most of my earnings, and also because I have grant money that in theory isn't restricted exclusively to tuition, residency, or practice start-up related expenses, plus I have another source of income, the specifics of which I do not divulge but that I could have eventually accessed to reimburse myself for the cost of the phone if necessary. Hence, in theory I could have gone out and gotten myself a new cell phone. Had I been in possession of ever-so-slightly more energy, I might very well have done so, but fatigue along with guilt over spending money frivolously forced me to make do with the land line and the old cell phone for 9-1-1 purposes for 48 hours or so. Life can be rough. I'm a pioneer of sorts.