Matched

"Congratulations, you have matched."

I had been waiting to read that sentence since my rank list was certified in February. I hadn't slept well for weeks. I had been nursing a darling little stomach ulcer. I had been superstitiously afraid to jinx the process in any way, and so had forbidden anyone to say "when you match" in my presence. I had resigned myself to moving to Antarctica and working with a group recovering lost whiskey for the next year.

But one Monday, I got The Email.

Congratulations, you have matched. 

I wish I could appropriately convey the relief and elation that slammed into me at reading that one sentence.

I can't.

I spent the rest of the week wandering in a complete daze wondering where I would be moving in May. I forgot to eat. I forgot to return my library books. I remembered to brush my teeth. Thursday morning DH and I sat in our living room trying to ignore the fact our future would be set (for the next five years) in just a few hours. DH was doing a great job; I was failing miserably.

About 9 a.m. I checked my email for the eighty-sixth time that morning, and noticed a new message :

Congratulations! We are so excited that you matched with us here at World Famous Medical Center. (WFMC from here out.) We look forward to working with you in June. Let us know if we can be of any assistance in your upcoming move to The South.

I read it five times.

"We're moving to The South......oh my goodness, we're moving to The South!!"

Medicine can taste a little bitter...

If you aren't a medical student, a physician,  a friend or relative of a doctor, or sleeping with someone who is, the whole becoming a doctor process can a little bewildering.   The conversation I have with an uninitiated usually goes a little something like this:

“So you’re in medical school.  What are you going to be, a nurse?”

“No.  I’m going to medical school.  To be a doctor.  Of medicine.”

“Oh, that’s great.  How long does that take?”

“Eight years, usually.  Four years of undergraduate, and then four years of medical school.”

“Then you start practicing?  Eight years isn’t too bad.”

"No, but almost.  After medical school we go to residency – it’s like an apprenticeship.”

“Oh.  How long is that?”

“Three years for some specialties, up to six years for others.”

“Oh.  Then you start practicing?”

“Some people do.  Some others go onto special training called fellowships.  That’s how you become a heart doctor, a lung doctor, a heart surgeon…”

"So you get to pick where you do this residency then?  Where are you going?"

"You don't get to pick a place.  You pick the specialty you want to go into.  Then you spend a whole lot of money applying to programs across the United States.  Then you wait for some of them to give you interviews."

"That's great!  They fly you all over the U.S. to interview ~ how fun!"

"Well, not exactly.  You have to pay to fly there.  And for your hotel.  And for your rental car or taxi. A lot of people have to take out more student loans to pay for it."

"Huh.  Do you get to pick where to go then?"

"No, then you make a list of all the programs you interviewed at in order of how much you liked them.  And all the programs make a list of the people they interviewed in order of how much they liked them.  Then the lists go into a magic computer, and they match you with a program."

"So you find out right away?"

"Not exactly.  The lists go into the computer in February, and we find out in March."

"But everyone goes somewhere, right?"

"No, some people don't get matched and don't go anywhere."

"So let me get this straight.  You go to eight years of school.  You pay a lot of money to apply to residency.  You have to take out loans to go to places to interview.  You make a list and then wait a month to find out IF you have a job, and you don't get to pick where you will be moving for the next three to six years. Sheesh.  At least you'll be making a lot of money during residency."

"Around 40,000 a year for 80 hour weeks and three weeks of vacation.  It averages out to a little more than $10 an hour before taxes.  Plus we have to start paying back our school loans."

"Remind me not to let my kids be doctors."

Japan and Thailand

After C. picked us up and another obligatory round of hugging and laughing was taken care of, we went to the Japanese garden.  It closed at 5.  We arrived around 4:50.  So we peeked over the wall instead.

It was pretty.








Very Japan-esque.


We went to  Pok Pok for dinner.  Dear Lord above, was that good Thai food!  Imagine the best pad thai you've ever had. Take everything you know about Thai food in the U.S. Now forget all of it.

We had sil krohng muu yang - ribs marinated in whiskey, ginger, and Thai spices. Kai yaang - a roasted game hen with dipping sauces.  (I liked the vinegary one.)  The curry (kaeng om neua) was light and spicy, not heavy and milky. It was so good that we started dipping the other meats in the curry so we didn't wasted any. The papaya pok pok was cool yet very spicy.  We actually ordered to cool our mouths from the other dishes.  Poor planning on our part.  It was definitely the hottest dish we had.


Full bellies, delighted to be back together, we fell asleep scattered across C's apartment - a lovely start to a lovely week.

Staying Behind

Moving away is difficult.  Remaining behind seems like it may be even worse at times.

Because of a little snafu with a branch of the military last year, I ended up staying in The North for an extra year getting my master's degree instead of starting residency.  Most days I have a pretty cheerful outlook on it.  It may have taken me a month or so to get the outlook, but it's there now.  There have been many challenging things about this situation.  A medium sized one is the huge chunk of my friends who moved up, up, and away to start their residencies.  

Two of my best friends, J. and C., are in Chicago and Portland, respectively.  J and I promised to make a valiant attempt to get away together once a year.  She is infinitely more valiant than I, and so gave up a week of her vacation to meet me in Portland.  I gave up a week of studying and classes.  It was quite a sacrifice, but it had to be done.

I think when you haven't seen someone in awhile, they freeze in your mind. You maintain a snapshot of the way they were the last time you saw them.  That's why high school friends stay 18 and your great-aunt squeezes your cheek and tells you how much you've grown.  It's also why I really dislike funerals, but I digress.

The last time I saw J was at her wedding last fall.  My mental J was glowing and happy and beautiful.  The J I saw in the airport was tired and happy and beautiful.  Plus her hair was about six inches longer.  We squealed and hugged and laughed as women are wont to do when they reunite.

It took me two days to place what it was that was different about her.

She's a doctor now.

She has developed that lovely confidence in her abilities and decisions that make patients believe that you know best.  She's brilliant, of course, and that hasn't changed, and patients have always liked her.  (It's rather difficult to dislike the girl.)  But this...this is new.  I love it and am horrifyingly proud of her.  I am at the same time sad that I am missing out on a year of growing and developing as a physician.  It's a strange place to be.

Billy beer

My brother in law came up to visit DH and I a couple of weekends ago.  I really like that guy.  He's such a solid man.  Hard working, loyal, funny, resistant to change.  Everything my potential sister-in-law will love if he ever gets around to finding her.

M. and I had wasted a good hour of our lives one day watching VH1's "Best of I love the 70's".  It was our first introduction to Jimmy Carter's brother Billy and thus to "Billy Beer".  The slogan was (I may be wrong here), "I think it's the best I've ever tasted.  And I've tasted a lot."

The three of us were on our way to a micro brew party later that day and started talking about favorite beers we've had.  I'm not really a beer fan since I think most of it tastes like water that didn't make it through a properly functioning Brita system, but in Czech M. and I discovered something in common.  We loved Velkopopovický Kozel Cerny.  (It helped immensely that it was half the price of properly filtered water.)  DH prefers lighter beers and thus does not share our infatuation with this heavenly creation. (DH just informed me that he does NOT prefer light beers.  He prefers lagers.  I don't drink enough beer to know why this distinction is important, but the record has been set straight.) 

Talk naturally turned to our trip to Czech and the absurd amounts of alcohol that the locals consumed.

Which brings us back to M. who proclaimed, "People in America think they can drink.  They are wrong. Even if you took Billy Carter over to Prague - he'd never be able to hang.  And that guy looked like he was a serious alcoholic."

Unknown future sister-in-law, I'm glad you appreciate this guy as much as we do.


*Kozel picture is the property of Kozel's brewing company.  I did not take that picture.  I do love that beer though.  Sadly, it is unavailable in the U.S. as far as I know. 

Get off the plane

I thought there was an established etiquette about how to disembark from an airplane. These are the rules I thought were understood:  

Rule 1: We unload from the front of the plane to the back. Each row empties before the next row starts.  

This is slightly unfair as the people in the very front also got to board first. However, as they paid an additional couple hundred dollars to sit in plane seats with slightly more leg room and get free cheap alcohol, I can overlook this class seperation. This rule can be bent for the following subsets:

a) People who are in actual danger of missing their connecting flight. Few things are worse than dashing to your gate to watch your plane taxi away in front of you. These people can get off first. Pretending to have a close connection just to get off sooner is evil. I have faith these people will be punished at some point by actually having a close connection and missing it.  

b) People with screaming children. For goodness sake, let them off the blipping plane. They aren't making it more pleasant for anyone by staying on the plane, and if you had a bladder that small you would scream to go potty too.  

c) Medical emergencies and women who have decided to go into labor on the plane. They win. Always. It cannot be bent because you are in the back of the plane, impatient, and want to scurry off the plane in a sad attempt to 'win' by starting your three hour layover ahead of everyone else. 

Rule 2: Help old people, small people, and people carrying small people with getting luggage down.  

Don't look blankly at the four foot eleven eighty year old woman who is struggling to open the overhead compartment. Help her. Or else you deserve to have items that may have shifted during takeoff and landing fall on your head. Karma, my friend. Enjoy the reverse Samsonite logo tattoo on your forehead.  

Rule 3: If you have luggage stored more than two or three (although three is pushing it) overhead bins behind your seat, you have to wait to get it. You cannot elbow your way back through the crowds. This is only acceptable if you may miss your connection. See Rule 1. I understand it may not be your fault it is so far back. Maybe some other doofuses filled up the bins around you with their winter coats so you had to use one farther away. I understand, but I don't care. Wait.  

Rule 4: When it is your turn, get off the plane.  

This one sounds easy. It is apparently not. Please look for your keys/makeup/cellphone/flask, fix your hair/makeup/nails, and text/email your spouse/lover/friend/archnemesis after your feet have hit the actual airport carpet. Not in the plane aisle and, for heavens sake, not in the jetway as soon as you get off the plane. This makes me (and most everyone behind you) think thoughts that involve bodily harm to your person. I have to then repent of those thoughts. Which makes me angrier at you.  

Those are the main ones. Four rules. Teach your children, your friends, your sister. I'm pleading with you.