Last night, John and I stumbled home exhausted, ate some fudgesicles and eggplant, and made a fire.

About 20 minutes into an old House rerun, “Honey, I think we have a problem.”  And a squirrel comes scurrying out of the fireplace!

Being deathly afraid of those needles they use to treat rabies, I, of course, shriek like a little boy as the squirrel beelines for the couch.  After I gather my wits, I proceed to defend the stairway as John swats the squirrel out the door with a broom.

We need a dog.

An observational note about colon hydrotherapy, in case you’ve been considering it: 1) it does not work; and 2) those warnings about risk of bowel perforation ain’t playin’.

This morning, my attending whipped through (literally, whipped) six colonoscopies in a little over three hours.  As I became a little dizzy from watching hours of bowels swirling about, I noticed an unexpected pause in the otherwise steady beeping of the heart rate monitor.  Then the anesthesiologist said, “Good, your eyebrows should go up when you notice a screen of flat-line.  So, what do we give her?”

“Atropine,” I blurted before I had time to process.  It’s an anticholinergic drug that, among other things, makes your heart rate increase, and I’m sure it would be the obvious choice for most of my colleagues.  Still, as someone who’s never been the first to respond, it’s reassuring to feel like some things are starting to really become ingrained.  While it’s crucial for physicians to continue to think and be mindful, I think it’s similarly important for some measures of patient care to be like reflexes.

Shit, I can’t believe we’re sped through most of January already.

God, it even makes Acute Kidney Injury better.  Studying, that it.  I don’t want to piece together what it does if you actually have AKI.

This morning, in the middle of the dark slush of the Presbyterian Hospital’s maze of driveways, a large coffee for $1.25 from Maria’s Lunch Truck felt as luxurious as the latte I indulged in at our local Town Hall Coffee this past Thursday.  The otherwise empty windowless work station where I’m currently reading patient charts is not quite as agreeable as studying at a table across from John at our coffee nook.

As we were wrapping up with her, she said, “Well, I’m off to meet the girls at a luncheon…if I’m going to be uncomfortable and miserable, I can just as easily do so at a luncheon.”

I’d like to see her in one of those spectacular hats the Brits wear; she could absolutely pull it off.

Conclusion: Some people just don’t like talking about poop.  Others simply cannot stop.

Saturday night, I had dinner with Ahmad, Steffi, and their smart little girl.  We were sharing some of the struggles we’ve had over the last couple years, and Steffi asked me if I was religious.  I am not.  I do, however, find a great deal of magnificence in the faith of a number of good friends.

My best friend from middle school has a beautiful, deep spirituality.  Her father passed away quite suddenly on Friday morning.  On her blog, she posted a simple, perfect verse: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4)

I was struck by those words when I first sang Part’s The Beatitudes, just as I am almost overwhelmed (in a great way) by them now.  A number of the patients I had the opportunity to know briefly in the last two weeks are likely to die in the next couple months.  I think about how much I love the hospital, it’s so easy to not always consider how absolutely un-comforting (to say the least) it is to so many.  I don’t know of a way to end this post without a weak platitude so, banally but sincerely, I hope their last days and those following include peace and comfort for them and their loved ones.  And, of course, for my dear friend, my heart is with you.

The fact that she used the word humanity struck me, and I couldn’t help but look at her sheepishly and say, “I have to confess to something…”

No more than two days prior, my resident had sent me to have the “first crack” at a patient on whom we were asked to consult.  For me, it was challenging.  She had a very long history of chronic conditions and transplants, the last one complicated by an odd aberration (“odd aberration”…redundant?).  Essentially, one of her glands was so used to compensating for a failing organ that, when the organ was replaced, the gland kind of went haywire.  Anyway, I was sitting at the nurse’s station in a completely foreign area of the hospital, frantically pouring over this patient’s chart, which was several binders thick, when someone approached me: “How do I get to room 4xxx?”

I was so engrossed in the patient’s story-line, I nearly jumped out of my skin.  I looked up and said, “I’m not in this department.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.  And then I heard a kind voice behind me, “How can I help you sir?”  Shit.  Not only was I a total ass, but I was an ass in front of one of my superiors (for lack of a better word).

A few minutes later, she lightly tapped me on the shoulder, “When you’re studying and working hard to become a physician, try to maintain your humanity.”

She was right, and this sent me into a tizzy over whether or not I’m only nice when people are watching.

So, after my attending patiently listened to my little confession, she kind of smiled and said, “Yeah…that’ll happen; it happens to the best of us.  Doesn’t change my opinion of you, but adorable that you felt compelled to tell me about it.”

I recently found out that he calls us as such so that he can say, when we graduate. that he was the first one to call us “Doctor.”

Yesterday she told me that she hasn’t seen her children since Monday morning, and that they feel more comfortable going to the nanny with their problems than to her.  When I said that I felt like I was sucking as a spouse, she commiserated: “Yeah, I’m sucking as a spouse, a mother, and a physician.”

Oy.  Guess this feeling of complete inadequacy never goes away, does it?