Author: Mindy N

You can call me Dr. Mindizz now!

Stolen Joy

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30 years old.

Block 3 of my third year of residency.

According to Numerology, the number 3 has ” a powerful need to express feelings, ideas, and visions of the imagination”. And isn’t it beautiful that I felt the need to start blogging again? When the number 3 is repeating itself so much in my life right now.

I’m laying in my bed, and all I can think about is how much I was afraid to turn 30. Afraid to be a senior resident. Afraid to not live up to my own ideal of what I was supposed to be when I turned this milestone.

As a child, I had a clear vision. By 30, I would be a successful doctor, married to the love of my life, and mother to two cute but sassy children. I would be an attending, saving lives and taking names at work but starting to think of academia or administration. I would have a loving husband who also had a good job and had the same values as me. We would have one night a week carved out for “date night” in which we would go out to dinner or cuddle up on the couch and watch movies. I would have a house that had a big kitchen with an island in the middle. Seasonal flowers would constantly be on that island that over looked bowls of cereal. Happy memories to go with those two children who bounced off to preschool and elementary school. I would be the mom that had it together, remembering when the bake sale was and who had practice at what time. I would be an adult. A real adult. An “adultier adult”.

Instead, I’m a single woman who lives in a one bedroom apartment who is trying to find time between ER shifts to make sure my laundry is done. I have a cat who I’m still surprised to find her cat bowl empty sometimes. I swear I refill that thing at least three times a day! How can it be empty? I’m smelling scrubs before I put them on again to work. I’m the one eating cereal over the sink – not those two children.

Because of that beautiful daydream that has stuck in my head, and so closely tied to my 30th birthday – my summer was rough. Full of transitions. I transitioned from a junior resident who could always think “well there’s going to be someone more senior-y than me” to the senior resident. I transitioned from a young adult who could always think “well there’s going to be someone more adult-y than me” to the adult. And constantly seeing how different my real life was from my daydream.

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Theodore Roosevelt said that “Comparison is the thief of joy”. And let me tell you, I lived in that comparison all summer. I bathed in the sadness that came with seeing how much I lacked in my life compared to that daydream. I sat rooted to the spot and watched the seconds count down to my birthday, each second like a timer on a bomb. Tick, tick, tick. With each second, I could feel myself become older. With each second, I could feel myself become sadder. With each second, I could feel myself become farther and farther from that daydream. So I sat some more. And let more seconds pass. And let more distance come between my current state and my daydream.

And then it happened. My birthday happened. Luckily, I was at work on trauma and had patients facing life and death to distract me. But I looked at the clock and it was already 1am. I had been 30 for a whole hour and nothing bad had happened. The bomb didn’t go off, the skies didn’t tear apart, no fire came raining down from heaven. I was still breathing, walking, and talking just like I had been an hour before. I hadn’t suddenly aged to a wrinkly, old woman who was unable to remember her name or what year it was. I hadn’t suddenly become less of a woman or a doctor. I hadn’t suddenly become anything. I was still me.

My celebration was quiet and uneventful; I went home and had a piece of the cake the ER nurses had been so kind to get me. My cat came up and cuddled up to me. And I went to sleep watching a murder documentary on Netflix. Like any other day.

So how had this “monumental” occasion, which had been the obsession of my mind, come and gone with not so much of a whisper?

How had I become an adult, a real adult, with no big consequential change?

Because I was still me. Turning 30 hadn’t really meant anything, really. True, it meant that I had been on this Earth for another year. But it didn’t change who I was or what was expected of me. The comparison between my real life and that daydream – the one I was sure everyone else could see and judge – had robbed me of celebrating. Of celebrating the joy of being another year older, wiser, and being the senior resident. My mother and father didn’t care that I didn’t have those children yet. In fact, their daydream of what my life was to be like by the time I was 30 was vastly different than the daydream I had. My attendings didn’t care that I was suddenly a senior resident. They just wanted to continue to see my grow and learn. My friends didn’t care that I didn’t have a husband who doted on me. They just wanted to see me happy. No one cared that I was an “adultier adult”. They just wanted to know that someone else was eating cereal over their sink too.

So I woke up the next day, I put on those scrubs (with the habitual sniff test), tied my shoes, and walked out the door. The sun was still shining, the heat was still unbearable, the hospital still smelled like antiseptic. Everything was the same.

My daydream is still what I want to have – I’m very much looking forward to wiping milk off of faces who are smiling at those seasonal flowers on that big kitchen island. But it doesn’t have to have a deadline. That daydream doesn’t become any less special or beautiful because it happened when I was a little older. Those children aren’t going to look at their mom and think “if only she had this when she was 30”. That husband isn’t going to be less because I found him later in life.

So maybe I did change when I turned 30. Maybe I did become an “adultier adult”. Or maybe I just learned that life doesn’t listen to deadlines. And my joy is too important to be stolen.

 

The Quiet Smile

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As every EM resident, I LOVE outside rotations…..and by love, I mean we absolutely dread spending time out of the ER. It’s almost a constant reminder of why we picked the speciality that we did; I don’t want to manage high blood pressure long term, I don’t want to be in the OR where I have to worry about what I can and cannot touch, and I for sure don’t want to spend all day in clinic. However, some outside rotations are better than others. In surgery, I got to see and participate in the surgeries that I daily tell people they need in the ER. In cardio, I got to read EKGs until they became less scary and more routine. In anesthesia, I got to tube and tube and tube until I felt like I could take on any crashing patient. But then…..there are some rotations that just kill.

My program’s second year is very EM heavy and outside rotation light. I spent the beginning of my year in the ICU and then spent one month in a pediatric ER (so still very homey). Both of which were informative, useful, and full of valuable teaching moments. My predecessors have complained about the rotations that didn’t seem to fit those standards and our curriculum has been changed a lot to make sure that we spend time in ways that is beneficial to our education. Except for this one. And I’m just finishing week 1 out of 4 of this dreaded, spiteful rotation. And I’m about ready to jump ship and forget about being a doctor!

Let me preface that I had been warned about this physician by every single one of my co-residents. I have had experiences with him myself with phone calls in the middle of the night discussing a case in the ER. I have even seen patients cry after he has walked out of their room. I was prepared for this to be a tense month. I was prepared for his hearing impairment and need for me to shout (when he deems it appropriate for me to speak). Hell, I was even prepared to have to be silent for a month and just look pretty (which, happily, I have been told that I am a lot in the last few months). But I wasn’t prepared for what this rotation is actually like.

First, and the most bizarre thing that I have ever experienced, is how he is referred by all of his staff (clinic and surgery). He is referred to as “Doctor”. Not “Dr. [insert last name]”, “the doctor”, or even by his name. As in, “Let me see what Doctor wants”, “You can’t have certain foods here because Doctor is sensitive”, “Don’t speak when Doctor is speaking”. It’s like he’s this weird god-like figure in the people that surround him. They cater towards him like he can do no wrong. They contort themselves to make sure that he is happy at all times. Even hearing this behavior, witnessing it, I feel like I am some outsider that was allowed into a cult for a brief visit. I am as foreign to them as they are to me. I can answer their smiles with a smile of my own, but we both know they are as fake as the pedestal upon which he stands. As a physician, I cannot even fathom trying to make this kind of environment for myself. I am not a crazy god-like creature just because I went to school and learned some advanced biology. I am not a person to be tip toed around just because of some initials behind my name. ER is a team sport full of doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, and emergency medicine technicians. We each have a skill and knowledge that is needed to make sure our patients get the best care. And that is the kind of environment that I want to practice medicine in. I don’t want to balance on a slippery pedestal built from my ego and hubris.

Secondly, he is just an asshole. I could try to sugarcoat it and talk about how he is just very blunt and rude. But let’s be straight, he’s just an asshat. He does not allow others to speak while he is speaking, thinking, or performing surgery. He does not call people by their names. He does not attempt to teach – he just boasts. In fact, I have been handed laminated newspaper articles praising him to read while he sees a patient. I have been asked, in front of patients who are there for a pre-op visit for the same procedure, to confirm that it was the best surgery I have ever seen. I have been prey to his endless rants about how incompetent our ER and the physicians who have welcomed me, loved me, taught me, and praised me, are. So with a silent mouth and a fake smile, I have nodded my head and felt a little piece of me die inside.

And I think that is the part that is bothering me the most – this requirement to be silent but still dying inside. Anyone who knows me can tell you that being quiet or being silent when I feel like injustices are being done are not my strong suit. As a child, most of my report cards had “exceeds expectations but could learn when it is appropriate to talk”. And my mother probably would have been happier if I hadn’t learned about feminism and social justice in 5th grade. I have always been the girl that is not afraid to speak or afraid to stand up for someone who cannot. Part of why I picked medicine as a career and emergency medicine as a specialty was because of that fact — I wanted to be a voice for people who do not have ready access to medicine. And in this rotation, I am expected to nail another board of praise to his pedestal. I am not expected to learn, to grow as a physician. I am expected to contort myself into this weird cult member for a month. I am not expected to see a patient or make a single clinical decision. I am expected to be a quiet smile in the back of the room.

Well, we’ll just see about that.

Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered!

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Even as a young child, I was always interested in True Crime. I was morbidly fascinated by “Forensic Files”, “Cold Case Files”, and other TV shows that documented rapes, crimes of passion, and carefully planned murders. As an insomniac, I would watch these well into the night, and my dreams would be punctuated by talk of gunshots, blood spatter, and fingerprints. And I was hooked!

Now, as a young adult, my true crime obsession has lead me to friends, historical information about society and culture, and deepened my love of science. My current past time is to listen to a podcast by two amazingly smart, witty comedians from California who talk about their “favorite murder” for the week. My Favorite Murder is my escape when I’m driving to and from work, no matter how bad my shift was or how much I feel like an imposter, those two women understand me. And the legions of followers (lovingly dubbed “murderinos”) are largely female. And up until recently, hiding in the shadows about their interest. Much like the actual serial killers these women love to learn about. But what makes this podcast so different, so fresh, is that they use humor to mitigate the horror that accompanies being a woman in this world — where even your own bed isn’t safe. But mixed into all of that humor and jokes, they have investigated the psychology behind some of our nation’s hardest and scariest murderers. They have praised women who said “fuck politeness” and went against societal norms to make sure they were safe instead of the nice, young woman helping Ted Bundy with his packages. [In fact, the podcast has spurned many catchphrases – “Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered”, “Stay out of the Forest”, “Fuck Politeness”, etc all aimed at giving women the power and confidence to stay safe] Or the woman who wouldn’t let a security officer from her apartment building into her apartment after she had been near-raped — only to find out he was the rapist. They have championed for mental health awareness and getting help. Those two women are friends who see their interest in true crime as a way to help other women from being victims. All while making us laugh while doing it.

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It took me a long time, and in truth it took the podcast hosts a while to figure out too, that many true crime “fans” are female. Not because we want to kill, we love the men that do it, or because we are “weird”. Most are true crime fanatics because we want to make sure we understand how and why men would like to kill or rape us, so that we can protect ourselves. Story after story, Georgia and Karen recall the accounts of women being murdered or raped for a multitude of reasons — some having origins in the murderer’s childhood, some just because the victim happened to be in the wrong place in the wrong time; but in truth, crime against women can happen to anyone and at any time. In fact, according to RAINN, 55% of all rapes happen in the victim’s home and 48% were sleeping or doing another activity at home when the rape occurred. And according to the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime 2015 report, about 95% of homicide perpetrators are male. They also noticed that young males aged 19-25 have the highest rates of murder (largely due to gang violence targeting other young males), once the murder happens in a home — female victim rates go up as well. The gender discrepancy also changes once the perpetrators relationship to the victim is analyzed. Female murder and rape victims usually know their perpetrator — either as an acquaintance or even a current boyfriend/husband. The story, over and over again, is that we are not safe.

This weekend, on Twitter, illustrated that point even more. With the #metoo movement, with victims of sexual harassment or sexual violence, standing up and saying “Me too”, Number_of_People_Victimized_Each_Year 122016the expanse of the problem was made to have a face. Over 500,000 people tweeted #metoo, some with a story, some with just those two words. Females in all walks of life, all ages, all races stood up and made their voice heard – some for the very first time. I spent all weekend watching these brave victims talking about their experiences. And often, how the victims felt like they couldn’t do anything either to protect themselves or to get justice. Likely with good reasons too, according to RAINN, 99% of sexual violence perpetrators do not get convicted. Stories of backlash, people not believing them, people blaming them popped up so quickly that I didn’t even have time to finish reading the first before another showed up. Women stood up and shouted “Me too!”. No longer were they afraid of what could happen to them in retaliation. No longer were they afraid of how people they would view them after their disclosure. No longer were they afraid. If I have ever seen people exemplifying “Fuck Politeness” and the sense of “My Favorite Murder” it was this weekend!

They always say, to start a movement, you just need one little spark. And I hope that this weekend, and the multitude of injustices that have yet to have a witty hashtag attached to it, is the start. It is time that we are no longer just prey or victims. And it is no longer appropriate that we only teach young girls self-defense, to dress modestly, to pretend like we do no like sex, to watch out for your surroundings, to have escape routes. It is time we teach young boys (and some adults too….) that females are not property to be owned or used. Violence against another person is not acceptable and will not be tolerated in our society any longer. It is no longer acceptable that women have to figure out the minds of serial killers and rapists to stay safe in their own houses.

So, fuck politeness, This woman isn’t going to a victim any longer. And neither should you.

Match Day 2016

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When I thought about re-starting a blog, I thought about the blog I had in medical school. It documented and chronicled the fear, anxiety, and feelings of being overwhelmed that myself and my peers were going through. But it all culminated in one day: Match Day 2016. The day that decided our futures — everything from what speciality we were going to pursue every day for the rest of our lives to where we would live. My relationship at the time was even hanging on what that meant. And it all culminated at 4:30am on February 8, 2016. With one email. That decided the rest of my life.

Spoiler alert: I got Emergency Medicine. And I moved to Michigan/Ohio.

Now, as a second year, I have settled into my position as a resident. I walk into the hospital with a smile on my face (most days at least) and a feeling of belonging. But there was still something missing. And that’s where this blog comes in – how to fill that creative space, how to process such a demanding time in my life, and how to coincide the need for social justice that has spurred me since I was in fifth grade.

Spoiler Alert: I got Emergency Medicine. And then….Michigan. What now?

So I thought I would post my blog about that first day when I found out where I was going to go. That first day when I realized I was actually going to be Dr. N. That first day that I started to think that about becoming that #torpedointoledo.

“For the last half of third year and for all of fourth year so far, I have focused on today. I have spent many nights, awake in my bed, tossing and turning, obsessing over getting an email at 4am stating if I can actually become an emergency medicine physician. I have cried over this day. I have worked my ass off working towards this day. I have put my all into making sure this day isn’t the absolute worst day of my life.

And now it’s here.

I thought I would be fine. Just a little anxious, like I always am, but able to function. I thought that after I got the email that I would be more excited (hopefully) than anything and ready to celebrate for the rest of the day. I thought it would be a happy day.

But then the day happened. And I knew my life would be forever different. I just wasn’t expecting how.

But let’s go back to how that day started: I fell asleep the night before, with the help of some sleep-inducing fun for the Superbowl, around 11pm. I had originally decided that I was going to tough it out and not sleep until I got that email, anytime between 4am-9am. But that fantastical idea, along with my roommates, mother, and a friend who was there for moral support, slowly faded into real dreams. And around 2am, I awoke with a start.

“Did I rank the right places?” “What if they don’t really like me?” “Do I really want to be an emergency medicine physician?”

All of a sudden, every single fear I have ever had during medical school came rushing back! Thankfully, my mother was sleeping next to me and was easily awoken by my rushed, panicked breathing. And for the next two hours, my mom tried to usher me back to sleep, hoping that I would relax. Sadly, for both of us, my breathing might have calmed, but my mind did not. I laid in my mother’s lap, while she stroked my hair, listening to Michael Scott orchestrate another “Conference Room Meeting” on “The Office” and trying to focus on his shenanigans. I hoped that Michael’s hilarious, delusional interactions with his co-workers would be comforting enough (since I can watch “The Office” all day every day) to distract me. However, even Michael couldn’t help me that morning. It seriously might have been the longest two hours of my life.

Around 4am, my heart skipped a beat and I sat up quickly. It was like my semi-unconscious body could tell time! I knew that the emails could have been sent out as early as 4am, but knowing my luck — and how tired I was–I knew the email would come later. But that didn’t stop me from opening my computer and my email. So while my mom laid next to me and my friend snored quietly at the foot of my bed, I logged into my email….and nothing. So I refreshed. Again, nothing. So I tried to focus my attention back on Michael, Dwight, Jim, and Pam. And I succeeded, for a whole two minutes and then hit refresh again. My entire being was focused on this little routine: hit refresh, register that there was no email yet, and then try to focus on “The Office”. Wash, rinse, repeat. Only it was refresh, nothing, “The Office.” For 45 whole minutes I repeated this routine (if I ever did this to my hair, it might be more than just a frizzy curly mess but that’s a whole different story). And suddenly: it was there! I hadn’t even opened the email before the shriek came out of my mouth. My mother and friend suddenly woke up and looked at me expectantly. My fingers were frozen, unable to actually click the message to see what it said, it was actually here! It took a few seconds for the immediate shock to wear off and my fingers to process functional movement again. There it was, in black and white, my future:

CONGRATULATIONS. Emergency Medicine. Promedica Monroe.

My eyes went straight to those words and I shrieked again. My mom grabbed my computer and then started laughing. My friend looked at me expectantly, and when she saw the joy in my eyes, jumped up and hugged me. My roommate in the next room peeked her head in and smiled. This was it! I had done it!

And then my next thought was “Ohhhhhhhh great, what the fuck do I do now?”

My entire life, all 27 years of it, had culminated in this moment. I had worked so hard for it, sacrificed friendships and relationships, gotten into massive amounts of debt, and it was finally here. It’s like when Olympic hopefuls who have spent countless hours reaching for that gold medal finally attain it or that actor finally wins an Oscar. Now what do you do?

And I think that was the hardest thing I’ve had to deal with. No one talks about this moment, or the many after, in which you sit there, basking in the glow of your achievement, and wonder what the next step is. As an overly ambitious young woman, my life is measured in working to achieve goals and achieving goals. However, previously, my goals were just stepping stones to another goal. First, I had to get into a good college, then it was perform well on the MCAT, etc etc. Each goal just got me another step closer to this goal. Even getting accepted into medical school was just a stepping stone. But this particular goal seemed more like a finish line than any of the previous achievements/goals. And even after a marathon runner finishes a race, even though it took them months to prepare and hours to complete, crosses that finish line and STOPS RUNNING. They put a very futuristic silver blanket on and collapse on the ground. But they stop running.

And I have stopped running.

And I keep wondering, “now what?”

-April 2016