I've been haunted by a patient that I helped admit to the hospital awhile ago. He was in his early 20's, and almost unbearably handsome, with a halo of floppy brown curls and a chiseled face resembling Billy Crudup's. He noted that one of the other doctors was a musician by looking at his fingers, and revealed that he was a musician himself. He had a website with his music on it, and encouraged us to check it out. The guy had advanced cancer which had spread to his brain, and his prognosis was poor, but this was the first time he needed to be admitted to the hospital. I could tell that he was not yet used to being sick, or thinking of himself as sick, despite his diagnosis. I reacted to this by making my demeanor particularly friendly, and tossing some jokes at him. He had an intense gaze that locked onto me, and he interrupted my medical questioning several times to ask me personal questions. His facial expression gradually changed from frozen and anxious to mischievous, and he then began to openly flirt with me. He even sang some goofy song phrases inspired by things we spoke about. As someone who is very conscious of being professional at all times, and maintaining proper boundaries with patients, I had to sort out in my head what the appropriate response would be. Ultimately I flirted back just a bit, primarily because I sensed that he wanted to be distracted from the shittiness of his situation. Given how cute and charming he was, it wasn't a struggle...at first. When he revealed that he was voting for McCain, and wanted to talk politics with me, I had to bite my tongue, although he visibly perked up when he saw that he had struck a nerve and continued to try, in vain, to engage me in a political discussion. I later found his website and listened to his music while writting my admission note into his chart, which was a bit surreal.

He was in the hospital for awhile afterward, and ultimately underwent major surgery. I wondered about visiting him, about getting to know him better, about perhaps discovering some of his hopes and dreams which will be lost to the world when he dies. But as someone who was no longer part of the medical team taking care of him, I thought it was inappropriate to do so. I did not see him again after that first night. I'm not sure whether this was the right or wrong decision. But the memory of him will stay with me, as the memories of other patients like him stay with me.

The 4th of July fireworks were like speckled jellyfish hallucinations in the sky.

I need to go beyond potential, and become realized.


I'm waking up again. I've been asleep for too long. Scary to think that I've been doing the work I do, and have been asleep almost the whole time.

Maybe this reveals a lack of development, or a perpetual adolescence, but I recently listened to the album which inspired the title of this blog (Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane over the Sea") and was blown away once more by how beautiful it was. I'm now thinking about another tattoo, of an old fashioned early 1920's-1930's-ish airplane (reminiscent of the one that Antoine St Exupery flew), with a sprinkle of ashes drifting from it. Maybe or maybe not with an abbreviated sea beneath. Maybe or maybe not incorporating the words "on to glory." (A nod to my favorite cadaver in my medical school gross anatomy class--he has the words tattooed on his penis.) I'm just not sure where to put it...I love the spot where I put my first one, and am hard-pressed to find another spot which can be easily concealed, will not likely sag with age or stretch with pregnancy (if I do ever spawn), or will not clash with my current one. Hmmm.

Awesome post-call moment: Exhausted, I get into my car, thirsty as hell. I grab the Sprite bottle which had been bouncing around in my overnight bag on the way from my call room to the garage, open it, and proceed to spray myself and the car interior with massive amounts of Sprite. I sit there, dripping, with a dazed look on my face. I had spent the night keeping people with no immune system alive, and yet I'm dumb enough to open an agitated bottle of soda and suffer the consequences. Ha ha?

Yes, I am partly non-white and a product of a liberal arts education. I am overly analytical about everything, including race issues. But the comments that fly out of people's mouths here (in the South) drive me crazy. Granted, such comments may also fly out of people's mouths in the Northeast. But I don't think I would encounter such comments as frequently there. The other day I was hanging out with a couple of girls (Girl A and Girl B) who were nice and friendly. Unfortunately, Girl A began to talk about an argument she had with another girl (Girl C), who accused her of being racist. (Both girls are 100% white.) Girl A had spoken with a black guy about an event she had attended which had been sponsored by her favorite radio station (top 40/light alternative-ish), and when he expressed enthusiasm for the event, she suggested that he set up a similar event which could be sponsored by a hip hop or rap station. Girl C became angry and accused Girl A of being racist. Girl A, recounting this story, huffed and puffed about how she was SO not racist. I didn't necessarily find Girl A's comment to her black acquaintance racist, but I did think that she was stereotyping. How can you know what music a person likes simply based on what race he or she is? As a Eurasian person, what radio station would she assume that I listened to? However, I also thought that it was ridiculous that the other girl became so self-righteous about it, since it was a soft call, and a white person is certainly not the authority who can deem such a comment racist or not. I laughed a bit and mentioned that it amused me when white people became offended on behalf of non-white people by a comment as innocuous as that one. Girl A then became indignant and said that she knew first-hand what racism was like. I asked her for an example, and she described how a store employee made a nasty comment about how she didn't think that different races should mix, pointedly in front of Girl A's brother and Hispanic sister-in-law, as well as their biracial little girl. Girl B then said it made her so happy whenever she saw biracial kids and biracial couples, and when she was younger she wanted to have biracial kids too, because they are just so beautiful. Because I was not in the mood to get into a huge argument, I changed the subject. (Hmm, is that a compromise of my idealistic former self, who would have insisted on sharing her opinions, or simply a sign of maturity?)

But here are my thoughts. NO. If you are white, you DO NOT know what it's like to experience the same kind of racism that a colored person experiences. I don't even think that I can claim to have experienced true racism. I have to deal with little comments here and there about my ethnicity, but I have never been ill-treated because of my race. As a white person, you can feel sympathetic towards someone else who experiences racism (such as in Girl A's example above). If you travel abroad and suffer mean treatment because of your race, then that is certainly racism, but that's different. People of color who are citizens of the U.S. experience racism in their OWN HOMELAND, where they contribute as much to their society as anyone white. White people bitch about affirmative action, white girls bitch about black girls being mean to them when they date black guys. While I can see how that sucks, it pales so much in comparison to the racism that non-white people experience that I am not very sympathetic at all. And white people who argue over whether a comment is racist or not? Please. If you don't even know what racism is like first-hand, how can you make such a call when it is at all ambiguous?

I am also SO sick of the biracial and multiracial baby fascination. They are not symbols of racial harmony. They are not products of a selfless attempt on the parents to make the world a better place. They are just kids. Not any more or less beautiful than any other kids. They are not exotic toys made to delight you with their unusual conglomeration of features.

I am in the slow, gradual process of falling out of love with someone. It seems like I've been falling out of love with somebody for the past 15 years, but the identity of that person keeps changing, replaced by someone new. That is kind of a glass-empty view of things, eh? As opposed to viewing myself as always falling in love with someone new. But the periods of being in love are so fleeting in comparison. Perhaps I idealize love too much, and underestimate the true duration of "in love" time I have experienced...because only the blissfully happy times are logged into the "in love" periods. Anyway. It's a cliche, but it does feel like a slow, drawn-out death. I don't mean to trivialize true death, as well as the pain and suffering that precede it. But (to be all emo and shit) I do feel like something is dying inside of me. Falling out of love is a strange limbo, when you still feel this strong emotional tug towards someone, because of shared giddy memories and trembly vulnerable words, but you also feel emotionally remote, because you know that they can't give you what you need, and can't make you happy. And all the silly dreams you had about yourself and him turn out to be as formless as clouds which drift away from your reach.

Damn. Can't believe a year has gone by so fast, and I'm just now catching my breath, remembering that I used to write things other than history and physicals, daily progress notes, and discharge summaries.

I'll share some choice quotes from the past year:

Cantankerous horny patient who openly made lewd remarks to me in front of his wife: "Are you gonna vote for Hillary to be president? I agree that she needs to be back in the white house...so she can return all the silver she stole!"

Another gem from the same guy: "If we elect Obama to be president, we can't call this country the United States no more. It will be Obama-nation!" (pronounced Abomination)

Guy who came up to me at the Red Door Salon: "You know, you're not the kind of girl that most of the guys here go for. But I like your type."
My response: "What do you mean, 'my type?'"
Guy: "Well, your skin is a little browner, you're darker, you know. But I just moved from California and there were a lot of girls who looked like you there, and I grew to like that look."
Gee. What a pick up line. I suppose I should have been thrilled that I found a guy who appreciated my browned skin? And ignore how hideous he was, both looks-wise and personality-wise?

Faux-martyr elderly male patient: "You know, owls and eagles are the only animals that mate for life. That's how it is with my wife and me. Once she died, I knew there would be no one else." He then made coy remarks about how pretty I was, and how he would snatch me up if he were younger. And then he promptly dropped his pants and asked me to examine his penis, because it was dribbling urine.

Manic obese female patient: "You see that girl over there"--referring to me--"she's dressed very nice, she has a pretty necklace. But without organic chemistry, she'd be a slut in a ditch smelling of Montezuma's revenge!"


There is a benefit to getting involved with a guy whose musical taste is totally different from yours. When the relationship ends, particularly in an ugly fashion, none of your favorite music is ruined by memories of him. You hear a shitty song that he liked, and you think, "Ah. Now I can really appreciate how shitty the song is, unobscured by any silly romantic associations." You hear a song that you've loved for years (like, let's say, old school R.E.M.) and you think, "Thank fucking goodness this song is not one that I shared with that guy, and I can still love it without reservations."

So what is it like to no longer be a medical intern? I'm still figuring that out, slowly remembering who I was, and the parts of me which lay dormant while I was an overworked automaton. When I was a kid, I thought it was so crucial to share myself with others--my flaws, my opinions, my beauty, my random musings about things. Now it seems strange and self-indulgent. Perhaps this means I finally am becoming an adult. But then, whenever I step into an art gallery, or watch a fantastic movie, or hear a perfectly crafted song, I think--that's what warms my insides and fills me with light. It's a bit sad that I feel more connected to humanity sometimes when experiencing art than when talking to a patient. But that's probably just exhaustion from work. I still do love learning the stories of people's lives, and getting glimpses into perspectives which are so different from my own.

It's strange, how while driving I'm full of things to discuss and anxious to write, and then I make it here in front of the computer, and the desire fades. My mind goes blank. Sometimes I wish I could attach something to my brain to record its thoughts when it's active. Unfortunately, it seems to be most active when my hands are occupied, and I'm unable to record what it's doing.

I reunited with an old friend last month. I hadn't seen him since 2001, when I was quite a different person--lost, aimless, uncertain about my future. At the time, he was presenting his fantastic senior project, a theater/circus/dance piece, which reminded me of our time in Paris, back in 1999. I responded most to a part of the performance which was about breaking out of routine to embrace freedom and childlike play. He seemed so powerful, so brilliant, so "together." I felt small, like a failure, in comparison.

So we met at the airport. We began talking, and talked through the next few days, into the wee hours of the mourning until we collapsed with fatigue. We spoke about the purpose of art. He was struggling with not knowing whether his art was just an indulgent intellectual exercise, or whether it truly affected, inspired, and touched other people. Whether his music could change someone else's life for the better. He wasn't happy with his job, and felt it was limiting, but he wasn't sure if he could take the step of leaving town, pursuing his uncertain dreams. In contrast, I seemed fulfilled and grounded and peaceful about my future. The next 3 years have been planned out, anyway. Sometimes a little voice whispers that I'm playing things too safe, that I've elaborately fooled myself into being happy with my current path, when I'm just setting myself up for regret later on. But then, my path gives my life meaning and purpose. If nothing else, I can be assured that I am doing something which will help other people, and will make the world better in a small way. I won't have the struggle about whether my work is worthwhile. It offers opportunity for travel and loads of experiences which can be funneled into art later on. The only things which might be missing if I pursue art in my later years are perhaps the zest for life, the wild experimentation, the self-importance of youth. I heard on NPR a few days ago that Einstein did pretty much all of his brilliant work in his early years, from his 20's-40's. I worry that my creative light will burn out before I can even make use of it. I'm reading Truman Capote's "Other Voices, Other Rooms" which he published when he was 24. I'm already falling behind! Sure, I'm filling my time with school and accumulating degrees and skills, but where's my book, my painting, my comic? Why haven't I done more with myself?

Oops. Tangent. So yes, hanging out with this old friend, I was struck by how easy it was to talk with him, and understand him. And he seemed to get me, or at least get me as much as anyone can. We were similarly frustrated with college, with all those people who seemed more concerned with grades and careers than with learning and creating. We have high standards that are constantly disappointed. I've lowered my standards--in fact, I don't expect much from anyone anymore, but he's urged me to reestablish them. Heh. We are "intense" because we push people to reveal themselves as much as they can, and reveal too much of our own selves as well. We're painfully vulnerable, but respond to this differently. I vigilantly protect myself from harm, but he leaves himself open, and uses pain to fuel his work. I described how I used to be in high school and college--obnoxiously challenging people, pushing them past their comfort levels, all because I arrogantly considered myself their liberator, the source of their enlightenment. I wanted to break open their colorless veneers, to reveal the ugliness and truth and authentic beauty which were lodged deep inside. But, not surprisingly, most people are not interested in revealing themselves to this extent. My friend expressed sorrow that I was no longer that person, and I wonder if I've compromised too much over the years. It was an inevitable loss while being groomed for a service profession, where I have to make others feel comfortable in order to take care of them, which means toning down my more abrasive and controversial qualities. There are some benefits to "selling out" in this way--I've been able to forge connections with people from so many different walks of life, which would have been much more difficult if not impossible if I behaved the way I did back in high school and college.

He reveres love almost with a sort of religious fervor. His heart has been broken, but I'm certain that he will love again, if only because he wants love so desperately. He truly believes that another person will make him whole. I, on the other hand, usually think that romantic love is hopelessly overrated. I'm sick of hearing about women who sacrifice their accomplishments for love, particularly since most of the guys turn out to be tools anyway. Why the hell do we always have to give up our dreams in order to sustain a relationship, while men get to pursue theirs unencumbered, whether he's with a partner or not? I'm not going to be one of them. I want to have adventures, to see the world, to have a long list of incredible memories to run like a film reel through my head when I'm an old woman with bad arthritis who spends most of the day in bed (until dementia takes those memories away). If I can finally become disciplined enough to accomplish something fantastic, I will do so. I'm tired of men taking credit for most of the discoveries and advances in virtually all fields. I'm tired of my own inherent sexism, in part fueled by the compromises that other womyn have made.

Even though I'm a feminist, and have been for years, I admit that I have internalized sexism. Almost all the writers and artists and thinkers whom I admire are male. Almost all the people I respect and want to emulate are male. I'm female. Science seems to show that there are inherent differences between men and womyn, as loathe as I am to admit. Does this mean that I can't emulate those whom I admire? Am I as capable as they are? Should I fight to accomplish as much as I possibly can, to prove that someone with my sex can? Or should I just focus on myself and my desires, without worrying so much about being a representative of the female sex? In the past, I believed fully in the ability of a person to create themselves and their reality, even though I knew that I was at least partly wrong. I treasured freedom of all else, and perhaps worshipped it with the near-religious fervor that my old friend worships love. I needed to believe that I was free from my biology, free from my own limitations, in order to avoid despair. I think that people need to believe in the impossible, or the near impossible, in order to accomplish great things...without being completely deluded or crazy, of course.

So yes, I thought that love was overrated, silly. I wouldn't be like all those other girls who relentlessly pursued it, who felt their lives were empty without it. And then I saw Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain , and felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Afterwards, in the rain, I wandered around Chelsea in a daze. John Donne's love poems have the same effect (which I think I mentioned in the very first post of this blog). Somehow, over the past few years, I had decided that love was possible, but could only occur through a very controlled process--kind of like some sort of chemical experiment, which would require specific reagents and conditions. It needed to take at least a year, and I needed to see how the guy would react in times of stress, and our conversations needed to be of a particular caliber, and so on. All these gradual steps were required for me to feel comfortable opening myself up, and allowing for love to happen. Granted, it's a movie, but Brokeback Mountain made me wonder if I'm completely wrong. The two lovers in that movie don't have fascinating conversations, don't challenge each other intellectually, don't go through a long process of deciding whether to risk love. They're just together, and very quickly, just love each other. It mystifies me. What causes people to fall in love? Is it a totally irrational process? Have I never been in love because I just haven't met the right person, someone with whom I connect in a simple happy coexisting sort of way? Or have I been so convinced that love can only happen in certain controlled conditions, that I don't even open myself up to its possibility when those conditions aren't present? Perhaps I pass by people on the street whom I can love, but don't even notice, because love isn't supposed to happen on the street? I don't know. But I do love that movie, and feel so deeply for the characters in it. (It's a definite triumph for Ang Lee after his shitty Hulk movie.) Although homophobia has not disappeared entirely, thank God men can now love each other, at least in some parts of the country, without so much social and physical backlash.