I've discovered the key to excellent pesto sauce. I've made and eaten a lot of pesto in the firehouse. My favorite can be found at the Nob Hill Cafe in San Francisco, in -oddly enough- Nob Hill. Yesterday I experiemented. The secret ingredient is a little bit of cream. Yes, in addition to the olive oil and sausage. And Italians are slimmer than Americans? Hard to believe. It must be the wine. Also, the key to making good cranberry sauce from scratch is not necessarily adding more sugar, but a little orange juice. Of course, that has sugar in it too, but the OJ adds a little sumpm-sumpm.
My genetics professor really pissed me off. Today was the final exam. Her spelling and grammar were insultingly bad throughout the course - in the handouts and in the presentations. She didn't know how to punctuate either, and sometimes it would convolute the meaning of the sentence. If we are being held to such high academic standards, then the professors should be held to even higher standards. Medical school is supposed to be the pinnacle of higher education, so it's depressing that the faculty can't even spell. AND, she's from Britain! It's her first language! They're supposed to be the originators of the freakin' language! Rrrrgh. Poor spelling really makes a person look either stupid or lazy.
There are no good music stores in Orange County to go buy sheet music for my violin. The music library at UC Irvine is a joke - they have no music librarian, and all the music that they have is tucked away in some corner at the top of the library. Cal has a whole building dedicated to music, with its own librarians. I miss Cal. I didn't appreciate it as much as I could have when I was actually a student there.
I wanted to drive to Napa this afternoon, but it's too far. There's no place like that here that's within an hour's drive, like Napa is to Oakland. So I drove around the endless concrete jungle for a while instead, looking for a musical instrument store. It was rather unsatisfying. I miss Northern CA.
On a happy note... for our fake patient exams last week, we conducted a physical on a normal person who didn't have medical problems. I didn't do the reading beforehand, so I was winging it. The doctor who oversees me and my partner asked some questions to which I had no answer. I let my partner answer those questions and chimed in for the ones I did know from background knowledge. My partner had done the whole reading about how to do a physical exam. He is a very precise, intelligent guy with somewhat businesslike, but good bedside manners - he said "please" and "thank you" every time he asked the patient to do something. During the session, I could tell that the man was bored and not so impressed with what was going on. At one point as the doctor was rambling on about some technique, I quietly asked the man, "How are you doing?" with a slight smirk on my face, because I thought that the whole situation was rather silly, too. When we were finished, the doctor didn't single me out by name, but he mentioned, "...and you should always say please and thank you when you do something to the patient. They really like that." I didn't say please and thank you every time I had the "patient" do something; in fact, I didn't give him much direction because we were repeating what my partner had just done, and he seemed intelligent enough to get it. Plus we both thought the whole situation was rather silly. At the conclusion of the exam, as my partner and I were about the leave the room, the man asked, "What did you do before you came to school?" Taken aback, I told him I was a firefighter. "Paramedic?" he added. "Yes... You're good! How...?" He looked at me over his glasses and said, "It's the way you interact with people, the way you carry yourself. Keep up the good work." I know that there is more to being a good doctor than being a whiz in biochemistry, but sometimes you lose the forest for the trees. It was a nice reminder.
December 4, 2006
December 1, 2006
My Feelings Exactly
At the UC Irvine School of Medicine, we often send each other study guides in the spirit of cooperation. I received one such study guide today, courtesy of one of my classmates, Shaun Chung. (Note: it's not plagiarism if it's cited.)
Hey Mitochondronauts!!!
I know there are a lot of people right now throwing there hands up in the air in frustration concerning Wallace's material. Seeing that there is just way too much convuluted mitochondrial minutiae, Greg and I sat down today and made a pretty comprehensive yet concise Wallace review sheet. Hope it helps. If there is any confusion or if you disagree on anything please let us know. Thanks.
Enjoy your weekend,
Shaun and Greg
Hey Mitochondronauts!!!
I know there are a lot of people right now throwing there hands up in the air in frustration concerning Wallace's material. Seeing that there is just way too much convuluted mitochondrial minutiae, Greg and I sat down today and made a pretty comprehensive yet concise Wallace review sheet. Hope it helps. If there is any confusion or if you disagree on anything please let us know. Thanks.
Enjoy your weekend,
Shaun and Greg
November 28, 2006
Anatomy
Today was the first day of anatomy. More specifically, today we started cutting up people. It’s supposed to be the course that makes you FEEL like a medical student, because it is the hallmark course of a medical education, a rite of passage, steeped in the tradition of grotesque assailings on the senses. I certainly haven’t felt like a medical student so far. It’s all just been more biochemistry, yucky chemistry, in the same lecture hall, day in and day out. Finally I feel like this is something more suited to me. I hope my combined paramedic knowledge and time in anatomy lab from last year gives me a small advantage over my classmates. They all seem to know everything about microbiology and biochemistry because that’s what most of them majored in, while I run around in circles trying just to keep up. I’m tired of feeling stupid. I want this to be MY time. They picked me to be in medical school because of my background; it’s about time it came in handy somehow. So far, it seems promising. My first trick was instinctive - breathing through my mouth so I won’t gag on the smell.
My person died just three weeks ago. They preserved her not with formaldehyde, but with some new chemical that they are trying out. One of my classmates is very pregnant and can’t participate in lab until she has her baby, because inhaling formaldehyde while being with child is not the best idea. The reason behind the new chemical is to get away from formaldehyde and to something safer. Great idea, but the stuff doesn’t dry out the cadaver like formaldehyde does. Consequently, our lady is very juicy.
We started with the thorax (the chest), and began by cutting the skin over the breastbone. But wait! The incision was made by scalpel. This is huge! The scalpel is a forbidden tool for paramedics. The general school of thought in EMS has been that scalpels are for doctors, and needles are for medics. Give 'em huge needles, but by God, don't give 'em scalpels. Knowing the lot that make it into the paramedic field, maybe that's not so unwise. So anyway, today’s exercise with the scalpel should have had much gravity. Actually, it was like using an Exacto knife to cut open cardboard boxes. I don’t see what the big deal is. So the incision went. Our lady had quite a bit of fat. It looks like yellow blobs under the skin. It took a long time to scrape the fat off the appropriate layer of membrane, peel it back, dissect the breast, which is just a big hunk of more fat with some stringy stuff in it, peel back the breast, peel back the muscle, first the pectoralis major then the minor, to reveal the ribs. The firefighter was nominated to saw through the sternum. Because, of course, firefighters saw through people’s chests with hack saws all the time. So I dove in. As I sawed, the juice started pouring out all over the place. There was slight pandemonium as my groupmates ran to get the turkey basters and plastic tubs to keep her from flowing all over the floor. Scheduling the first anatomy lab to be AFTER Thanksgiving was probably by design. The more I cut, the more she leaked. But we completed our task, which was to cut through the ribs and the sternum to remove the “lid” to the chest cavity. Just think of cutting the top off a pumpkin to expose the inside when you make a jack-o'-lantern, and that's kind of what the objective was. It's pretty neat in there.
When I took anatomy last year, I remember getting all spiritual about the whole thing. The dissections were all done for us ahead of time because we were just undergrads, so mostly we just moved things around and pointed and poked. But once all the organs are taken out of the body, you realize that the body is truly a shell. Where is the soul? Is there a soul? What is the person thinking as we cut her up? Is there such a thing as bodiless thought? Is it an "it" or is it still a "she"? Is she watching us? Where would she be watching from, still inside the body, or floating around above us? Or maybe from below. Or maybe through one of us. Before she died, did she imagine she was donating her body to more serious, appreciative, thoughtful, mature students than us? Did they assure her that her body would be treated with the utmost respect, when really we laughed about how we couldn’t tell she was a she until we checked between her legs because her breasts were so flat? Is tasteless humor as a coping mechanism disrespectful, or is it acceptable because most people understand that it’s a shield from the strong emotional response that dissection elicits?
So far, anatomy is creating more questions than answers. I haven't really answered those questions I had from lab last year. This time, it is more involved, because we are actually starting with whole bodies and doing the dissections ourselevs. Perhaps I will become more spiritual, perhaps not. All I know is that I was starving by the time I was done.
My person died just three weeks ago. They preserved her not with formaldehyde, but with some new chemical that they are trying out. One of my classmates is very pregnant and can’t participate in lab until she has her baby, because inhaling formaldehyde while being with child is not the best idea. The reason behind the new chemical is to get away from formaldehyde and to something safer. Great idea, but the stuff doesn’t dry out the cadaver like formaldehyde does. Consequently, our lady is very juicy.
We started with the thorax (the chest), and began by cutting the skin over the breastbone. But wait! The incision was made by scalpel. This is huge! The scalpel is a forbidden tool for paramedics. The general school of thought in EMS has been that scalpels are for doctors, and needles are for medics. Give 'em huge needles, but by God, don't give 'em scalpels. Knowing the lot that make it into the paramedic field, maybe that's not so unwise. So anyway, today’s exercise with the scalpel should have had much gravity. Actually, it was like using an Exacto knife to cut open cardboard boxes. I don’t see what the big deal is. So the incision went. Our lady had quite a bit of fat. It looks like yellow blobs under the skin. It took a long time to scrape the fat off the appropriate layer of membrane, peel it back, dissect the breast, which is just a big hunk of more fat with some stringy stuff in it, peel back the breast, peel back the muscle, first the pectoralis major then the minor, to reveal the ribs. The firefighter was nominated to saw through the sternum. Because, of course, firefighters saw through people’s chests with hack saws all the time. So I dove in. As I sawed, the juice started pouring out all over the place. There was slight pandemonium as my groupmates ran to get the turkey basters and plastic tubs to keep her from flowing all over the floor. Scheduling the first anatomy lab to be AFTER Thanksgiving was probably by design. The more I cut, the more she leaked. But we completed our task, which was to cut through the ribs and the sternum to remove the “lid” to the chest cavity. Just think of cutting the top off a pumpkin to expose the inside when you make a jack-o'-lantern, and that's kind of what the objective was. It's pretty neat in there.
When I took anatomy last year, I remember getting all spiritual about the whole thing. The dissections were all done for us ahead of time because we were just undergrads, so mostly we just moved things around and pointed and poked. But once all the organs are taken out of the body, you realize that the body is truly a shell. Where is the soul? Is there a soul? What is the person thinking as we cut her up? Is there such a thing as bodiless thought? Is it an "it" or is it still a "she"? Is she watching us? Where would she be watching from, still inside the body, or floating around above us? Or maybe from below. Or maybe through one of us. Before she died, did she imagine she was donating her body to more serious, appreciative, thoughtful, mature students than us? Did they assure her that her body would be treated with the utmost respect, when really we laughed about how we couldn’t tell she was a she until we checked between her legs because her breasts were so flat? Is tasteless humor as a coping mechanism disrespectful, or is it acceptable because most people understand that it’s a shield from the strong emotional response that dissection elicits?
So far, anatomy is creating more questions than answers. I haven't really answered those questions I had from lab last year. This time, it is more involved, because we are actually starting with whole bodies and doing the dissections ourselevs. Perhaps I will become more spiritual, perhaps not. All I know is that I was starving by the time I was done.
November 19, 2006
A Journey in Time
When you take on a new interest, you generally learn things. Surprisingly, my new interest in pearls has led me to Japanese history.
I've been reading some Japanese web pages on pearls as well. I can't read like I did 15 years ago, but it always pleasantly surprises me that I can read at all after so long. Reading or speaking a rarely used native language is like an old song that you used to know by heart - you have a general sensation of the words that are about to come up, even if you can't formulate them, trapped and eager to pop out, but just stuck at the tip of your tongue. Immediately after you hear them, you think, "yeah, that's it!" and then they come back to you as if you had only forgotten them for a little while. You may have to relearn them to sing them by heart, but they are familiar and fit well, and you know that because you knew them before, they will come back again easily if you want them to.
I've been reading some Japanese web pages on pearls as well. I can't read like I did 15 years ago, but it always pleasantly surprises me that I can read at all after so long. Reading or speaking a rarely used native language is like an old song that you used to know by heart - you have a general sensation of the words that are about to come up, even if you can't formulate them, trapped and eager to pop out, but just stuck at the tip of your tongue. Immediately after you hear them, you think, "yeah, that's it!" and then they come back to you as if you had only forgotten them for a little while. You may have to relearn them to sing them by heart, but they are familiar and fit well, and you know that because you knew them before, they will come back again easily if you want them to.
November 18, 2006
The Power of a Compliment
My parents bought me a pearl necklace and earrings for my birthday. Actually, they sent me a check and I got to go pick them out. It was the best experience I've had in a long time.
I didn't know where to go, thought that an independent jeweler would be out of my price range, so after doing my online research, I went to Macy's for some clinical education on pearls. I was helped by a woman who was very nice. She didn't seem to mind my obviously un-millionnaire outfit, and spent time showing me several necklaces. I was only there to learn about pearls that first day, so I thanked her and left. I went back another time, but she wasn't there, and no one helped me or asked if I needed any help. I left again, a little disappointed. Today, I had decided to not let indecision get the better of me, and to go ahead and buy one. I headed to the infamous South Coast Plaza, thinking that they might have a larger inventory to choose from. I had been out to dinner and was dressed up a little bit, so I thought I looked rather decent. They say when you are going to buy quality items, you want to look the part so that they treat you as if you are a real potential customer, not a window-shopper or a dreamer. Or a thief. My outfit did nothing for me though, as no one even cast a glance my way in the ten or so minutes that I eased around the cases of jewelry. I left, somewhat bitter at the pretentious Orange County merchants who wouldn't even say hello to someone who might want to spend money. In the Bay Area, thanks to the dot-com boom, many merchants learned that they could never know which sloppily dressed Joe Shmoe might be some wealthy programmer that was ready to buy out the store.
Despite the snub at South Coast Plaza, I did still want to get my birthday gift, so I headed to the original Macy's that I had been to before. I found the nice lady, Valerie, still working late on a Friday night. She was very sweet again, helping me and letting me try on whichever strand I wanted. She was an older aunt- or a young grandmother-type woman. We looked at different strands and mused over them together, she calculated with the sale discount what my final price would be, and gave me time to make my decision. When it came time to ring me up and open a new credit card to get me that extra discount, she wasn't so keen with the computer. Her co-worker, a very bejeweled, make-up-wearing, perfectly coiffed man with a bracelet that declared him to be "Blair," took over the computer and impatiently showed her how to do the transaction. He was slightly curt with me as well, but Valerie didn't seem to pay much mind that he was trying to hurry her up, and happily wrapped the necklace up for me. She made the whole experience rather sweet and sentimental, like a motherly figure, celebrating with me and lending a symbolic bent to my purchase. As I left, I beckoned her to lean over the counter and whispered, "I'm so glad it was you that helped me." She gave a little squeal and squeezed my hand tight, delighted and a little flustered, and said, "Oh, come back and see me, won't you?" It made me nearly tear up later when I thought about it, she was so happy. On my way out, I asked to speak to the managers. When I told them that Valerie had been so wonderful, they all lit up - with real, genuine smiles - as if I had personally praised them. As I walked away, I could hear them saying, "Oh, how sweet!" and "What a nice thing to say!" It might be a sad commentary on the ordinary clientele that they were so excited about a simple compliment.
I have my hunches that Valerie is working at a department store because she needs to augment whatever Social Security income or small bit of savings she might have. She didn't seem like she was trying to ascend the corporate ladder or get extra commission by rushing me through the transaction. She was simply very sweet, and treated me like my purchase was special to me. It didn't matter to her that it might take a few extra minutes to help me. Unlike buying a pair of socks, buying jewelry is a personal experience. Blair was technologically competent, but the interaction with Valerie is what I am going to remember. I felt powerful that I was able to make a perfect stranger feel so good with just a few words of thanks. I'll think of Valerie every time I wear those pearls, and it will make me smile every time.
I didn't know where to go, thought that an independent jeweler would be out of my price range, so after doing my online research, I went to Macy's for some clinical education on pearls. I was helped by a woman who was very nice. She didn't seem to mind my obviously un-millionnaire outfit, and spent time showing me several necklaces. I was only there to learn about pearls that first day, so I thanked her and left. I went back another time, but she wasn't there, and no one helped me or asked if I needed any help. I left again, a little disappointed. Today, I had decided to not let indecision get the better of me, and to go ahead and buy one. I headed to the infamous South Coast Plaza, thinking that they might have a larger inventory to choose from. I had been out to dinner and was dressed up a little bit, so I thought I looked rather decent. They say when you are going to buy quality items, you want to look the part so that they treat you as if you are a real potential customer, not a window-shopper or a dreamer. Or a thief. My outfit did nothing for me though, as no one even cast a glance my way in the ten or so minutes that I eased around the cases of jewelry. I left, somewhat bitter at the pretentious Orange County merchants who wouldn't even say hello to someone who might want to spend money. In the Bay Area, thanks to the dot-com boom, many merchants learned that they could never know which sloppily dressed Joe Shmoe might be some wealthy programmer that was ready to buy out the store.
Despite the snub at South Coast Plaza, I did still want to get my birthday gift, so I headed to the original Macy's that I had been to before. I found the nice lady, Valerie, still working late on a Friday night. She was very sweet again, helping me and letting me try on whichever strand I wanted. She was an older aunt- or a young grandmother-type woman. We looked at different strands and mused over them together, she calculated with the sale discount what my final price would be, and gave me time to make my decision. When it came time to ring me up and open a new credit card to get me that extra discount, she wasn't so keen with the computer. Her co-worker, a very bejeweled, make-up-wearing, perfectly coiffed man with a bracelet that declared him to be "Blair," took over the computer and impatiently showed her how to do the transaction. He was slightly curt with me as well, but Valerie didn't seem to pay much mind that he was trying to hurry her up, and happily wrapped the necklace up for me. She made the whole experience rather sweet and sentimental, like a motherly figure, celebrating with me and lending a symbolic bent to my purchase. As I left, I beckoned her to lean over the counter and whispered, "I'm so glad it was you that helped me." She gave a little squeal and squeezed my hand tight, delighted and a little flustered, and said, "Oh, come back and see me, won't you?" It made me nearly tear up later when I thought about it, she was so happy. On my way out, I asked to speak to the managers. When I told them that Valerie had been so wonderful, they all lit up - with real, genuine smiles - as if I had personally praised them. As I walked away, I could hear them saying, "Oh, how sweet!" and "What a nice thing to say!" It might be a sad commentary on the ordinary clientele that they were so excited about a simple compliment.
I have my hunches that Valerie is working at a department store because she needs to augment whatever Social Security income or small bit of savings she might have. She didn't seem like she was trying to ascend the corporate ladder or get extra commission by rushing me through the transaction. She was simply very sweet, and treated me like my purchase was special to me. It didn't matter to her that it might take a few extra minutes to help me. Unlike buying a pair of socks, buying jewelry is a personal experience. Blair was technologically competent, but the interaction with Valerie is what I am going to remember. I felt powerful that I was able to make a perfect stranger feel so good with just a few words of thanks. I'll think of Valerie every time I wear those pearls, and it will make me smile every time.
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