anna in med school

As it happened, I had a very romantic Thursday evening with Stephanie, Nathalie, Julia, and Nana.  We snacked under the stars at Bistrot la Minette while watching an outdoor projection of Le Placard.  Bret was our waiter and, as I think we were a welcome change from the perhaps potentially stuffy clientele, I’ll venture to say that he was quite charmed by us–a dessert or two might have been omitted from the bill.

Unfortunately, I came home to maybe my least favorite job in the world: packing.  I am horrible, horrible at packing.  And it drives John nuts.  Well, let me rephrase: I am fantastic at packing for trips longer than two weeks (I once studied overseas with only a carry-on to last me a couple months); I am terrible at packing for weekends.  I procrastinate; I engage in anything else, until I absolutely must pack, and then I pull the most pathetic all-nighter in the hopes that I might actually make my bus/train/airplane on time.  One day, I’d love to learn how to be one of those adults who can function in society…pipe dreams, I guess.

BTW, John, you’d be pleased to know that I did not, in fact, just throw clothing into my suitcase this time.  I do not exaggerate, at least two-thirds of packed items are actually folded, with creases no less.

Doria had never dyed eggs.

I love us.  Only table six could succeed at making such exquisite feasts, block after block, that are both completely vegetarian and gluten-free.  Potlucks, arts and crafts included.

I think it’s worth saying twice: I love us.

I’m exhausted…in the very best way.  I might not have known repro and endo as well as I would have liked but, if I could relive the last five weeks, I would make the same decisions.  Every weekend of this block was something to which to look forward.  I had a wonderful weekend visitor (who just finished post-bac and the MCAT–double woot!) for weekend one, took my second mediation intensive with the bioethics department over the following two weekends (and didn’t feel like I was completely flailing–just moderately so–this time around), sang in eight sold-out concerts with the Philadelphia Orchestra for the last two, and had weekend study retreat with Eric (I didn’t cry once…that has to be a first for the weekend before exams, right?), only leaving the apartment to throw on my black old maid’s garb and sing a few tunes.

Well, I was going to go on about some of the details of this block (like learning how to perform manual vacuum aspiration on a papaya), but I think paragraph one already has me coming off as somewhat of a pompous ass.  Forgive me, I don’t care enough to infuse a demure tone into it.  I’m just ecstatic that everything worked out.

In another post, I’ll share some of the more challenging aspects of the last block (they’re interesting too, I promise!), but I’m still in celebration mode.  I got to see John for the first time in over a month after completing five hours worth of sorting through terrifying endocrine conditions and identifying different presentations of pelvic inflammatory disease (seriously, could someone open me up just to make sure I’m not covered with gross adhesions?–I’m mildly terrified).  And I was able to coerce Matt into another visit–for a night, it felt like it did when we all lived in the same city.  Last night was my last concert, made so much more special knowing that Christina and Kate were somewhere in the masses and Eric, after a 2.5-hour failed attempt to secure a student rush ticket, was watching the first movement from a monitor in the lobby–such thoughtful friends there are at the Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania.  At least it’s a pleasant lobby:

As Matt was leaving town this afternoon, before I retreated back to biomed for my failed attempt to catch up on GI, I hugged him goodbye three times…during the last of which I said, “Please keep hugging.”  95% of the sentiment was because he’s a dear friend and I hate living in separate cities.  5% was due to the fact that I am. really. tired.  It’s mildly uncomfortable to expand my rib cage to breathe.  And it was really nice to rest some of the weight of my body on a good friend.  Sorry, Matt; don’t hate me for using you.

Less than four weeks left of my first year of med school and until John’s graduation from residency!!!  I miss my husband.

I’m going to sleep, still three lectures behind.

A text from Matt A., sent from across the room in the middle of rehearsal, September 2009: “This piece = my favorite!”

To be honest, I wasn’t wild about Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms at the time.  I could appreciate it, for sure, but most of it isn’t exactly conventionally beautiful, and there were moments during the fugue of the second movement that made me want to put a screwdriver through my face.  It didn’t help that the concert series was smack-dab in the middle of med school interview season and I just wanted to go home to my husband of, what, five days.

But I’m pretty easily influenced by the people I love.  I think that it was largely due to Matt’s overwhelming enthusiasm for Symphony of Psalms that I gave the symphony a fair shake.  And now I can say with certainty that it’s one of my favorite pieces and that, like a favorite story or place, I love it more every time I return to it.

So now I’m in real trouble.  When the Philadelphia Singers presented me with the opportunity to sing this beloved piece with the Philadelphia Orchestra on the stage of the Kimmel Center, how could I say “no”?  Even if it’s the weekend before two finals (reproduction and endocrinology)?  Well, if I fail out of med school, at least I’ll go out in a blaze, with Stravinsky and Beethoven driving the flaming vehicle.  (BTW, the second movement has grown on me, but the third is still my favorite–it’s a mixture of peace and excitement, and it makes me think of summer.)

Tonight will be my first time ever performing Beethoven’s Ninth.  (My German…well, let’s just say it leaves something to be desired.)  I have a hunch that, after this post, many assume that I don’t have a spiritual bone in my body.  There’s a tender passage in the middle of the symphony that roughly translates to: “Do you bow down, millions?/ Do you sense the Creator, world?/ Seek Him beyond the starry canopy!/ Beyond the stars must He dwell.”  I don’t have a good comprehension of a God, but Beethoven’s is evident in the texture of the music.  It’s transcendent.  I could get to know Beethoven’s Creator.

Me with two of the gents who led me down this awful road of believing I could have  life outside med school, Tanglewood 2009:

One of them just took Step 1, the other is about to take the MCAT.  They’re both (frustratingly/inspiringly) brilliant.

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My posts have been pretty infrequent recently.  The last month has been uniquely both personally challenging and fulfilling…but my only real disappointment is that I really like endocrine and repro, and I wish I had more time to devote to learning them.  I’ll get back in the swing of things after Monday.  Wish me luck!

Today, with the Humanity Gifts Registry, first-year students from all medical schools of Philadelphia came together to pay tribute to the generous men and women who donated their bodies so that we could learn the human anatomy.  My dear friends Karthik and Rose presented heart-felt, thought-provoking eulogies, my peers in Music on Call and the Ultrasounds demonstrated humble appreciation through music, and a number of us read 10-12 individual names of donors.  I noticed myself clinging a little to the names of the male donors, wondering which one belonged to “Samson,” the man who so profoundly shaped the education of the ladies of table six.

It was a privilege to get to speak with many of the donors’ families following the ceremony, to hear a little more about their loved ones and the nature of their deaths or, more importantly, of their lives.  I’m still trying to figure this feeling-process out, but I felt comfort (and surprise) when I learned that many of the family members in attendance are donors themselves–one woman explicitly stated that she was proud to be a member of the registry; another said that donation was becoming a family tradition.  I suppose it’s some indication that we’re doing something right in our care and treatment of the donors and their families, that the respect and appreciation we feel is being appropriately conveyed.  The heart of the matter, however, is the spread of selflessness; I’m simply overwhelmed by the commitment to education, the generosity, and, quite frankly, the bravery of the donors, the future donors, and their families. 

Let’s not take for granted what it means to donate one’s body, a sacrifice not just made by the individual, but by his/her loved ones.  It’s not just about not having a person to bury, or going against the rituals of one’s faith (though both are excedingly important, and I do not mean to trivialize either).  A few years ago I told John that I wanted to donate my body to medical education.  He very respectfully, hesitantly said, “I really wish you wouldn’t.  At least, I hope you take anatomy and then make your decision.”  Having completely anatomy, I can honestly say that I think I would donate my body, though with some fear, certainly.  The idea of John donating his, however, is nearly revolting.

I like to think that these donors and their families knew what a donation entails.  I wonder if they were ever given the opportunity to explore an anatomy lab or get an accurate description of learning process.  As the eulogists so eloquently addressed, these donors were some of our most valued, selfless teachers who will impact our entire medical education and concurrent/subsequent patient care.  But, though stated in ceremony was not as emphasized (understandably), the donors and their families were/are courageous beyond words.

About a week ago, I found myself going on about some of my mother’s adorable/ridiculous idiosyncrasies…like the fact that she believed so strongly in the importance of properly recognizing and celebrating birthdays that she flat out lied about the date of mine, choosing instead to celebrate it on June 27th rather than December 27th, so that it didn’t get folded in and forgotten with Christmas/New Year’s festivities.  One of my friends chimed in that she would really like to meet my mom, that she sounded fascinating.  I smiled.  She really was.

She passed away a little over a decade ago, and I can honestly say that I think about her everyday–mostly fairly happy memories or fun ideas, like that I think she would be tickled pink that I still core and slice apples like her (there are many different techniques!) or that I’ve finally come around to hating the cold but loving snow.  Sometimes, out of nowhere, I get inexplicably sad.  It hurts my heart a little to think that she never knew John or the Y’s & Co. or my colleagues and mentors from college and beyond who did so much to, like her, shape who I am.  In the blur that was our wedding day, one interaction will always stand out for me: in the midst of drinking and revelry, Mr. W (our neighbor of 20+ years) pulled me aside to tell me that he and his wife were so happy for us, and that he knew my mother was proud.  Well, I know mom would decidedly not be proud of everything I’ve done in the last 10+ years (good God, she would cringe at the indiscretion of a public blog!), but in that moment I believed him.

Clearly, I could on for far too long on this subject so, in typical anna-fashion, I’m just going to resort to a top ten list (hmmm, more like “first ten”; I’m sure I’ll want to include another ten or twenty as soon as I hit “publish”)…I’ll try to exercise some amount of length restraint (I will fail):

1. Born in Czechoslovakia during WWII, my mother was named Gunda Carmela Sporer.  I swear she was the only Gunda out there who was not an Eastern European speed skater.  In response to a lifetime of people butchering her name, she chose to name all four of her children names that were easy to pronounce and easy to translate.
2. She had, no joke, actual synesthesia: she saw letters and numbers in very specific colors.  I remember once coloring in enlarged numbers in a coloring book and she looked over my shoulder and said, “Honey, the number 3 is always pink.”  I was four, and I still remember thinking to myself, What the f—??
3. Mom loved reptiles, amphibians, and tigers.  She would catch a frog just so that we could kiss him to see if he would turn into a prince.  For one of her last birthdays, Dad arranged to have a three-week old tiger brought to the house.  Mom got to name him (Amir), and he would suck on our fingers because he was teething…the jaw strength of a tiger cub is just a little unsettling.
4. Like I mentioned, she was born in Czechoslovakia, but her family moved to Southern France in 1945, where she lived until she received a scholarship to go to college…in Wisconsin (hater of cold that she was).  As a result, her cooking was a mixture of Mediterranean and good ol’ American home cookin’, with a side of spaetzle to give credit to her Eastern European roots.  When we ran out of deli meat, my mom would send me to school with a piece of dark chocolate shoved between two slices of baguette.  I was a lucky, albeit slightly chubby, child.
5. Gunda spoke seven (seven) different languages fluently, and.she had an accent in every single one.  She raised me speaking French, and she and I would flow in and out of French and English without realizing.  It drove my friends crazy.
6. She was a flippin’ amazing educator, teaching foreign languages (French, Spanish, German mostly) to all age levels (mostly second grade through college).  Parents would drive their kids from hours away in order to be tutored by her.
7. My mother had a special love of mixed tapes, especially ones that included classics by the Gypsy Kings, Dire Straits, and the Eagles (her favorite song was “Take It Easy”…go figure).
8. Mom would pull me out of school a few weeks early so that we could go to France that much earlier to hang with the fam.  “You’re in third grade…what are you really going to learn that you can’t make up with a couple extra weeks surrounded by French speakers?”
9. She loved gardening and art.  One year, the family went out to Monet’s garden at Giverny.  She pulled aside this man with a white beard because she thought he looked like Monet: “Excuse me, but would you take a picture with my daughter?”  So now, in our home in Virginia, we have an 8×10 of 10-year-old anna with a random old man in front of water lilies.
10. On mother’s day, it’s important to recognize the mothers who truly have, especially in the wake of my mother’s passing, treated me like family.  I know that I am likely forgetting someone in my rush to get back to studying the physiology of sexual response (tough life), so please don’t be shy and give me an earful.  Francoise, Teda, Genevieve, Leslie, Christine, Jean, Jill, Mary Ann, Pamela, Jane, Emily, Judy, Donna, Priscilla, Terry, Linda, Mieko: I am so very lucky to have your love and support.  Happy Mothers’ Day!

Let me tell you a little about John Rock.  You might have heard of him.  He’s kind of a big deal in the OB/GYN world.  A graduate of Harvard Medical School in 1918 (sadly, one of the few physicians I rave about who didn’t go to Penn…but I wouldn’t trade William Carlos Williams for the world), he was a pioneer in in vitro fertilization and sperm freezing, and he quickly became known as a “ground-breaking infertility specialist.”  Rock was a long-standing advocate of natural family planning and the legalization of other birth control methods (he literally wrote the book on voluntary parenthood), and he was recruited to lead the clinical trials of the oral contraceptive pill in the 1950s, even though he was approaching his 70s and had already attempted retirement.

Rock was also a Catholic.  Or, perhaps more appropriately: Rock was first and foremost a Catholic.  A father of five and a grandfather of fourteen, he attended Mass daily and kept a crucifix on the wall above his office desk.  Rock credited the Catholic Church with steering him to always, even in the face of opposition, follow his conscience.  Over the course of his career, he witnessed the suffering women endured from unwanted pregnancies (the collapsed wombs, premature aging, and economic crises), and he was guided by his humanitarianism.  He believed in the Catholic Church, and he believed in the importance of effective birth control.

If you’re anything like me, you might have dismissed those quasi-obnoxious Seasonique commercials (“Repunctuate your life with fewer periods!”) as the latest gimmick.  How were we supposed to know that we all just bought into the long-accepted, socially ingrained gimmick of the necessity of a monthly period, originally concocted by John Rock?  Those weekly withdrawal bleeds?–Solely an attempt to demonstrate to the Church how “natural” birth control could be.  It used the same natural hormones and, check it out, women still underwent the same monthly discomfort that they always did.  Does anyone else feel just a little uncomfortable with how easily the influence of the Catholic Church worked its way into our private lives?  Though, in all seriousness Dr. Rock, well played.

Pope Pius XII approved use of the pill to treat menstrual disorder in 1958, and Rock thought it was only a matter of time before the Catholic Church approved its use as a contraceptive.  In 1968, Humanae Vitae settled the matter: oral contraception would remain prohibited by the Catholic Church…period.  Dr. John Rock stopped attending Mass.

I can’t get over the name of the encyclical: “Of Human Life.”  Are we not considering the lives that already exist?  I have nothing really profound to say on the matter that hasn’t already been said before by physicians, scientists, activists, and friends who have invested far more time into understanding the nuances and can express the practical sentiments far more eloquently than I, but I leave you with this: 6 million women become pregnant each year.  Half of these are planned.  Unplanned pregnancy is a major public health problem…and I don’t just mean physical health, but mental health, social well-being, and economic security and safety.  The failure of any sect to support the benefits to humanity that could be obtained through the use of contraceptive technology is blasphemy.

an email to my physical therapist:

Hi Jeff,

How’s it going?  Thanks for asking about my follow-up x-rays.  The bone is completely healed.  When I asked Dr. G if I could wear a backpack again, he said, “Anna, you can do whatever the hell you want.”  (Hells yeah!)  “And I don’t need to see you ever again either, unless you want those screws out.”  (No, thanks.)

I am clear to do everything.  EVERYTHING.  And I have a new prescription to include as much strength training as you see fit.  This is all to say: give me your worst.

Hope you’re having a fabulous day!

a

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I’m not sure which part felt better: 1) hearing those blissful words from my surgeon; 2) getting to practice yoga for the first time in 12 weeks (even though my poses resembled that of a zombie just waking up from the dead, having not used her joints in several hundreds of years–kind of like BillyButcherson…you know, that zombie from Hocus Pocus who was Winifred the witch’s boyfriend in life…anyone?); or 3) receiving an email from that better half of mine after I shared my good news (“Awesome!  They were impressed with your range of motion and strength?  I certainly was – nicely done.”)

I know, it’s pretty immature of me to show off like this…but still, recognize:

I haven’t been able to do this in THREE MONTHS!  Yesterday John asked if I could also do a push-up.  To put it shortly: no, I definitely cannot…but it’s funny to watch me try.

This picture was taken by the lovely Lauren M, right before we devoured a vat of the best soup ever!  I most certainly could not get back into plank after dinner.

Now I’m just counting down the days until I can wear a backpack again.  Follow-up x-rays tomorrow!

You would think that we would devote a nine-week course to a biological system we knew something about.

Apparently, there is something to this whole “positive-thinking” thing (increased activity in the prefrontal cortex?)…so, as I rev up to take this second B&B exam, I’m going to give it a try.  What’s the harm, right?

Anyway, I can use all the positive vibes I can get…so will you join me?  Thanks!