Why Would you Want to. . .

I volunteer at an animal shelter for a few reasons, some of which are purely selfish. For one thing, I really care about the animals, and I try to give them my best, but I also understand that not every creature can be saved, and death is okay. I also climbed aboard because I want to be a surgeon, and I need a stronger stomach for nasty odors. This should do the trick nicely. I had no idea something so small and cute could smell so bad. There's the background - here's the story. . .

I went in on Sunday to do my normal rounds with the cats. I was merrily cleaning along, giving lots of love and making the cages as bright and happy a place as possible. I firmly believe a happy cat is a cat with something to cuddle and something with which to play. I get to my next cat - a pretty little petite orange tabby. Her cage says she's on medication, so I know to be gentle and patient. I reach in and lift her down, and realize she's peeing all over me!

My pants and shirt and shoes were all wet. It was already hot and humid there, but this was just gross. I was fine with it, because I know that nothing like that is ever deliberate, but it was a sanitation problem.

Then I notice my little one is bleeding - a lot. I couldn't tell from where, but somewhere in her nether regions. I ran to get the medical person (not a vet, but involved in medicine). In the meantime I went back upstairs to see if I could do anything. I noticed the blood was not very red, but pinkish.

I saw something that looked like raw flesh under her tail, and noticed she was cleaning frantically. Then I saw it - her very tiny fetus - she had miscarried. I should have known right away, since the fluids didn't smell like cat urine. I left her alone for a minute, and then gently picked her up and held her. I put her back in her cleaned cage, and took the kitten away.

It was neither traumatizing nor truly sad, but a moment of time stopping. I was amazed at the tiny little thing, and couldn't help but look at it. I felt sorry for the cat, but she seemed okay, and in some ways relieved, if I may personify this cat. This was my first experience with something like this, and it changed something in me, but I don't know what that is.

AMCAS

The applications are in the mail, along with my transcripts. It was actually a lot of fun filling out the application, because it was not just a boring resume-type of application. I had the chance to really think about me and the things I've done and put that on paper (screen?). I decided to show my personality a bit. When I wrote about my work/activities I added some detail that shows my character, not just what I accomplished. I imagine they get tons of those. . ."I was president of my class and graduated Summa cum Laude. . .," boring! I knitted mittens, wrote poetry, and tried to save the world through research and humanitarian aid.

My essay was also a lot of fun to write. I wrote several drafts. I changed topics. I tried all kinds of things until I found one that really reflected who I am. I condensed it down to one page. I tried to get as much information, as clearly stated as possible, into one very readable, and hopefully enjoyable page. Sweet.

At my work I pose as a chemist. No really, I am a chemist, but I don't tell them I'm going off to medical school in a year. It's so hard to kill myself everyday for the government and not talk about my future goals. Though I do have an awesome job, and it is the most stressful, horrible thing I've ever done in my life, I get to work with some fascinating stuff. . .damn I wish I could talk about it, but it's classified information. No really, it is. I think that's one of the reasons it's interesting - it's super-secret, and that's kind of exhilarating.

On a completely unrelated side note: my cats are precious, and my husband is the best.

The MCAT Bites Back

I often wonder what I did to deserve this. I'm now on strike two for the MCATs, but I think I'm going to go with it. I really don't think I can do any better. This makes me sad, because unless I'm a total fool and have no concept of myself and my abilities, I think I'd be a darn good surgeon. Such is the crisis of being a musician. I learn by watching and listening. I think I'd be great in my residency, but I have to get there first. My ability to abstract material from dense passages is marginal. The funny thing is, I don't think really brilliant people are happy as doctors. Take me! Take me!

So I was thinking, usually the people who post there gilded scores for all to see did a wonderful job. I, on the other hand, am utterly average. It hurts. My ego is wounded. I will never get to go to a really great school. One dream dashed. I know everyone says it doesn't matter, you can still be a doctor, but it still hurts. What do you call the person who finishes lowest in there medical school class? Yeah, I know. I'm not horribly upset, just sad - damn sad.

What about being a DO? I worry about that route, because I want to be a surgeon, not a GP.

Yet again I must wait. Will I get in? Will they take me? I hate feeling like a beggar, because I really feel like I have something to give. I was reading Dr. Atul Gawand's biography, and I can't help but think, "Did he really deserve all of that? Why not share a slice with me?"

So, do you have any great stories? Words of encouragement or consolation? Anybody in medical school score lower than me? I think I'll go pick weeds. . .

Vacation

I will be out of town this weekend, so alas, no witty scads will be written by me, and I will be unable to perch my comments atop of your posts. Have a wonderful weekend.

Surgeon

I want to be a surgeon. I've often wondered what makes a good surgeon? I heard about a hand surgeon that had OCD - not literally - but he would line up his pencils, a certain number, freshly sharpened (in a very specific way), in a certain location on his desk. Supposedly he did this with everything. He liked everything lined up, in a certain way, in a certain location. He did not deviate from his routine.

If this makes for a great surgeon, I'm sunk. Yes, I like things in certain ways, but I've got nothing on him.

What about the swash-buckler? I met him once when I was observing orthopedic surgeons. He swore the whole time and called everyone "Buddy." He pulled, he tugged, he swore some more. He demanded. He swore some more. And when it came time for the X-ray, damn-it if that leg wasn't perfectly straight. He did a little "end-zone" dance, and started closing up. He swore some more. He wondered why a "nice girl" like me would want to do this. He swore a bit more. He said I should just keep on playing my cello, because this job totally sucks.

If this makes for a good surgeon, I'm in trouble. I have quite a temper when pushed to my absolute limits, but never like that. Though I do cuss too much. . .

What about the old man who just smiled his way through life? He was so happy. Everyone is wonderful. The long hours and being on-call are just part of this great life. He had a big family and a stay-at-home wife. The kids were all brilliant and well-adjusted. His entire family, many brothers and sisters, were all physicians. He claimed that he wasn't that smart, but when I asked him about his education he said he finished his chemistry degree after two years having graduated early from high school. . .

I definitely don't smile all of the time. Not everything is perfectly great to me. I hate waiting in long lines. I most certainly am not as smart as he was.

Okay, let's analyze the women in surgery. Oh no, I'm in trouble. I've met several and very few were happy. Most were tired and fed-up. One missed her kid's first day of school, and she was totally bummed. Another was more man than most men I've met - she was rather happy in this profession. I imagine she threw rocks at kittens as a child. . .

I'm definitely a strong woman. I'm not a bleeding heart. I don't cry easily, but sometimes I shed a few tears.

I've heard horror stories about how awful men in surgery are to women who are also going into surgery. Really guys, we don't need much, but sometimes we do need someone to just nod their head, say, "I'm sorry," give us a hug, and send us on our way. I don't like being teased. I guess I'm a pretty serious girl, but I hear that men in surgery tease each other almost constantly. Hmm. . .maybe a back-kick to the groin might help boost my position in the guy-o-sphere.

However, most of my friends are men. Okay, I honestly have only one girl-friend. I don't care about most things women do; this has never earned me many points during a gossip-fest. I prefer working with men - they tend to get the job done and whine very little - my kind of people.

Well, I guess I'll just have to wait and find out. In the meantime, could the MCAT people please hurry-up. You're killing me!

Music School and Sex

People often ask me about the children that I don't have. "So, if you have children, would you have them play an instrument?" Tough question. If we did choose to pullulate, would I want my child to potentially end up in music school? No, and no.

Ever read Mozart in the Jungle? Unfortunately it's very accurate. It's about a rising young musician in music school. She talks about all the drugs, drinking, and strange sexual happenings. Now, to the outsider this sounds like heaven. It's not. You see, eventually we all grew up, and took our baggage with us. Professional musicians never seem to be able to cut the ties though. I can't think of any really world famous performers that don't abuse at least one of the the three biggies.

Thankfully, I managed to stay away from two of the three vices - mostly. It's extremely difficult to be moral in an environment that is supposed to encourage passion. When one is in the situation of proving themselves to be an artist, emotions get very messed-up.

In chemistry, I've been told, once you're in the professional realm, you prove your worth. Nobody cares if you're a hack, you just keep on doing what you're doing and nobody takes you seriously. This is similar to music, and it can be devastating. In chemistry you keep plugging away until you come up with something you can do. In music you either have enough talent and artistry or you don't.

I chose to leave the profession when I realized that the dishonesty and the very unhealthy lifestyle were part of the job description. I could sleep my way to the top. I could drink a lot, sell my soul, and take every gig that came my way. I could get a PhD to prove that I'm worthy of teaching a new batch of eager young students - only to get one or two in my lifetime that would ever "make it." It is a very depressing field. I had to get out.

Part of this emotional immaturity is the nature of art. Musicians are responsible for creating emotions. Their function is to move people. My teacher used to say, "It doesn't matter that your wife just walked-out on you. You still have a concerto to perform." It's so true. Awful things can happen, but the performance goes on. This is absolutely suffocating. The musician learns to not nurture themselves. Eventually this turns into reckless child-like behavior, and the longer one is in the profession, the worse it gets. The reason is this - just like a small child - musicians are crying out for attention, and they get it by doing everything imaginable.

The solution - music schools have a responsibility to turn down the ones who aren't going to make it. However, the programs would be tiny. I don't know how to counteract that. I know they have to make a profit, but they are doing it at a huge cost.

Incompetence in our Midst

This is too good not to talk about. So I went to a job interview this morning. A 20 minute drive during rush hour - job interview. You know how sometimes you just have a sense of impending doom? I did. I walked in the door and saw the place swarming with women over 275 lbs. Now, I have no problem with obese people, I have a problem with a job that seems to foster binge eating. So I am greeted with plenty of tight clothes with tacky cartoon characters on them. . .not a good first impression. The women were all complaining and whining from the time I opened the door. I fill out the application materials first. Why? Protocol. I don't even know what the position is yet. . .

So I finish with my paperwork and my interviewer comes out with more breast than I have ever seen in my life. She, in fact, was larger than life, and not in a healthy way. So she starts by asking me (from a script) why I feel I would be qualified for this job. I answer, " I don't know what the job is yet, we were going to talk about my options today." Well now I've gone and derailed her speech after using too many big words. "Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I'm sooooo sorry. Yeah, um, the positions are ____, ____, and ____." I ask, "Aren't those all the same position at different locations?" "Well, um, yes, but, yeah, that's pretty much it. I don't have any management positions open right now." Okay Anne, breathe, don't say anything you feel like saying. . .Shit too late -

"Look, I've run my own company for a decade now. I started a program similar to yours in the first grade. I am a college graduate with top honors. I gave you my resume ahead of time." She responds, "I'm sooooo sorry, I know, I know. This was such a waste of your time. I should have told you over the phone." Damn it, now I feel bad. "It's okay, you know, why don't you keep my resume on file and call me if a position opens up. I appreciate your time."

Any company that seems to have "emotional eaters" is not making their employees happy - I don't need that. I think I'll go paint my living room now. On a lighter note, my interview yesterday went really well. I hope I get that position. I just had to share that; it was too good.

Oy!

This whole being an adult thing really sucks. I've never been under so much stress in my life. Every day I sink deeper and deeper into debt. Selling a house in this market is nearly impossible, and everyone I owe money to is starting to notice. Also, the job market is not so good which is making me tense as hell. In fact I, Miss Stoic, had a very nice cry fest today.

Serendipity came to my rescue! As I was holding my little pity me party the phone rang. I have an interview tomorrow, and in my inbox another potential offer. Both sound like great jobs too. Perhaps I should have starting crying sooner. . .

Now my usually positive and self-ingratiating self would normally be thrilled, but I am a bit nervous. What if they turn me down? What if they only offer $7.50 an hour? What if they won't work around my class schedule? What if my skirt wrinkles in my non-air conditioned car?!

Every day I sell my soul to Home Depot in a desperate attempt to make our little abode look appealing. The credit card moguls are starting to tap their fingers together saying, "Excellent. . ." in that demonic and utterly terrifying sort of way.

I have only one pair of khakis! My cats need more toys! Damn I wish I came from a wealthy family. Okay, I did, but now my father's business is starting (has been) to take quite a hit in our, "Yeah Wal-Mart!" society.

When I was little I would read books and play with my dolls. I would cook and color and make clubhouses. Gone are those days. I still read, but not nearly as many books. I still cook and I still color (it's true). I write and practice my cello. Hmmm. . .I guess I have it pretty good. Now if only I could just relax. My back hurts.