Two Hundred and Five, The Alaskan is in a Movie

Go watch Up. City of Ember wasn't too bad either. I swear the girl in City of Ember looks a lot like the Alaskan, even if she disagrees! Speaking of, it's her birthday tomorrow, so even if I forget to call her and wish her a happy birthday, I get credit for this entry!...Because I say it is so!...Ok, so maybe not...but at least I put forth this little effort compared to my measly contact with others throughout the year.

One Hundred and Ninety-nine, 1812 Overture

I had a really bad weekend a long time ago.  September 7th - September 9th, 2001: I first got caught for going 30 over the speed limit in a residential zone--a mandatory court date--and then I proceeded to twist my ankle on a putt putt green.  Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't that big a deal with the following Tuesday to come but at that point in my life, it sucked.  My ankle healed well enough.  I learned that I really did NOT have the upper body strength to walk all the way across campus on crutches without stopping for a break every hundred feet.  But as the week wore on, I began building up some strength and I managed to go two hundred feet without stopping by the time I finished with them the following week.  The anxiety from the speeding ticket, however, did not cease.  The court date was set for Oct 22nd or 23rd--somewhere around there.  Court was in my hometown, school was over an hour away, I had no car.  Oh, and I never told my dad who pays my car insurance.  Yeah, I was freaking out.  I turned then to those who I go to when I'm in trouble--the Beatnik, Lord Chaos, and the Engineer.  They helped me crack a plan where Beatnik and Lord Chaos' older brother came down Sunday night, took Monday off to drive me to my hometown and court, and then return me to my schooltown later that day.  

The elder brother--Politico for short--and I really grew close that day.  He helped coach me on dress as well as making sure to show the proper respect to the judge.  On the way up north he had classical music playing to help relax me.  It didn't really work.  I was a nervous wreck all the way up.  Getting to the courthouse, we went in and sat down--us in our suits, everone else in their everyday clothing.  I might have been self-conscious about it except again, I was a nervous wreck.  Then he called me up...incorrectly saying my name.  My brain went into auto-pilot as I stood up and walked to the front; I corrected the judge on the pronunciation.  Part of me cringed as did Politico back in the benches (I learned that later).  He spoke the offenses then reduced them on the basis of it being my first one.  I believe I said guilty when he was done talking and he then told me I had the choice of points on my license or driving school to rescind them.  The rest is a blur in the courthouse except for the stop at the payment desk where I shelled out court costs of around $76 from my carefully collected rainy day fund.  Then Politico and I began our trip back to schooltown.

The Beatnik is the English major, but storytelling runs in their entire family.  For some reason, Politico began the story during the start of a Tchaikovsky piece.  Both the story and the music began softly enough up to the point of the cop pulling me over.  There a major musical announcement came forth.  Again the music quieted down and proceeded along with the story in much the same fashion that I simultaneously ignored the situation with moments of utter terror for the next month.  Then the planning stages of the court date were upon me.  Slowly all the pieces began fitting into place as odd as they might have seemed and the situation promised to move forward as smoothly as we could manage.  The drive up to the courthouse was a tense, advice-filled time and proceeded up to the entry into the courtroom.  Then the great battle (ok, this part was slightly off between the story and the music) during which the decisions for my mistakes were made.  Then, as we left, great relief!  Wave after Wave, Bombardment after Bombardment, everything was finishing up and the pounding noise massaged my relaxed self having survived the ordeal.  That song is now forever associated with that event and with the Politico in my mind.  In the grand scheme of things, not a big deal, but to me at the time, it was my world crashing down.

I realized then that if I ever got a chance to do something similar for someone else, I wouldn't hesitate.  The world gave me the company of people I needed at the time and I wouldn't hold myself back for my friends if such a time came for them.

Thank you my friends.

One Hundred and Ninety-four, Cardiac Arrest

I have been remiss from this forum for quite a while mainly because I did forget about it in the jumble known as life.  This entry doesn't herald my sudden return to all things blog but it is to point out a small event that occurred earlier today.

A patient in the hospital for whatever reason stopped breathing and pumping his own blood.  Doctors rushed in along with nurses, I stood outside the room with my three colleagues.  I hear different orders being shouted through the air, "Get the crash cart!" "You start compressions!" "I'll get the kit" "Push another atropine!" "Stop! Does he have a pulse?" "Rotate on compressions" "We have a pulse!" "Ok, he's stable" "I lost the pulse!" "Quick, start compressions again!" and on and on.

At one point, one of the residents turns to me, points, and beckons.  As I near him, he tells me to leave my white coat outside the room.  I hurriedly rush in sans white coat and grab the gloves he gives me.  

"You're going to relieve the guy giving compressions."

My mind's jaw drops.  My physical body continues as directed to the side of the room where the folks giving compressions are standing and doing their job.  As I stand behind the fellow whose shoulders are heaving as he pushes heavily onto the old gentleman's sternum, someone tells him to pause to check pulses.  They find one!  Everyone relaxes (again) as the people in the room prepare to move the bed to the ICU.  As the connections are dropped, they notice his pulse is gone again.  Matt, my resident, turns to me and points me in.  I step up, place my hands as taught and practiced on rubber dummies, and start counting while doing my job.  I count ~50 compressions when the lady next to me says, "I can feel your compressions, stop so I can see if he's beating on his own."  I halt.  She still has a pulse.  I step back after glancing at Matt as the bed is wheeled off.  As I exit slowly behind the bed and its horde of people, my two colleagues come up to me and congratulate me on saving a life.  I stutter like I always do when I get a compliment.  Jokes continue into the night about using the story to score chicks at the bar.  I'm just happy he lived.  And constantly reminding myself in my mind about how oddly the feel of the elderly gentleman's chest felt just like the mannequins we practice on.  The only odd part was the face staring up at me slowly turning first purple, then pink with compressions, and with a mouth slightly parted in the agony of the situation...

One Hundred and Fourty, Dazed and Not Confused

I love moving my body to music. But having had little experience in unknown crowds with it, I get a bit apprehensive about it. Amongst people I know and care about it's much easier and if they happen to be dancing as strangely as I manage, even better. The Beatnik has a saying, "Indians dance whiter than white guys." I think that says it all. Yet whenever I'm with him and the others that comprise my companionship and we're all being goofy, I don't care as much; and it's awesome.

Eighty-nine, Wunderkind Johnny Lee

Today some of my friends and I perused Johnny Lee's website. Lord Chaos fell in love wished to conquer universes with him his Wii Remote usage. Additionally, he has some neat photography. I'll admit that even I really like a lot of the stuff he does. And he has an uncanny resemblance to Hiro Nakamura (no, I'm not saying that because he's Oriental but because they both have a similar facial build). I admit, if I didn't have school, I'd be somewhat interested in fooling around with his technologies.

Seventy-eight, Estrogen

I have some great friends, there's no denying that. But I realize that over the years I've slowly had an increase in the number of friends who are women in my life. This is all good and fun until one weekend when you realize that two of your guy friends are out of town and two of your girl friends are coming into town (one of them bringing another friend--also a female).

[pause]

I have come to realize that talk of dresses, hairstyles, shoes, & make-up interest me none-at-all. Maybe if somehow they changed who I was or what I was capable of accomplishing, I might take heed, but since to me they are all cosmetic, outer changes, they don't add up to much for me. I'm glad that they were able to bond and that they felt special that I was there to enjoy the evening with them. But a part of me wishes that I'd gracefully stepped out and gone off to shoot or hack things.

On the plus side, I met someone new and got to see "I Am Legend."

Seventy-four, Observation

"oaf" looks similar to and sounds a lot like "oeuf"

Seventy-two, And They're Off!

Apparently the process towards next November's election day began this past week with the start of the "primaries." I'll admit that until "The West Wing" came along, I had practically no idea how the guys that showed up on the presidential ballots got there. And then I grew a small interest in that show because of the Beatnik's mom. The public library began carrying "The West Wing" DVDs and I got hooked. That's where my education on our nations political system came from. I realize something thinking back over Jed Bartlett's campaigns and the final campaign between Jimmy Smit and Alan Alda's characters and comparing them to this year's election: We don't have the same information input from the real candidates that we did for "The West Wing" candidates. I don't mean positions on health-care, education, or the workforce but rather the kind of person that the candidates are and if we feel they can accomplish what they claim.

It's one thing to know a person based on positions and plans for their execution; it's another to get to know someone as the person they are and get a feel for how they will work with the hundreds of different people they will have to get along with. I'm not saying to make it a popularity contest and vote for the one who gets their face shown the most (as I believe presidential elections are right now) . I'm saying to talk to the people who ask for your vote. Get to know them like you know your friends. And then come to a decision about how he/she will interact with other people. Because a job in politics boils down to just that--interacting with other people. And it doesn't matter how many plans a candidate makes up or how much money they have; without the charisma and force to convince other politicians to see his or her way, nothing will happen.

Now if only there weren't three hundred million people in this country for each candidate to become good friends with...

Seventy-one, The Cold Creepeth

It's neat how anyone can talk about weather (unless it's someone who has lived their entire life inside a building with no windows). Even if there are things on your mind that are worth talking about, weather, more often than not, is what comes up in conversation. Speaking of weather, I'm so glad it finally got cold. The big cold front that came through central USA was just what this winter was lacking so far.

Fourty-two, Ceiling Ridges

Whenever I'm in a room with the splotch ceiling paint (you know what I'm talking about, round or amorphous splotches that have little ridges sticking outwards so when you rub your hand up there you feel all the texture) I will stare upwards in low-lit areas and imagine that the miniature mountain ranges have turned into gigantic canyons. It's a simple trick of the light to do really, then the ceiling looks all wrinkly.

Four, Twenty-five

At some point, I realized that the world wasn't going to let me be a kid my whole life. Yes, everyone will constantly tell me how much like a child I can be and I can enjoy events from a child's perspective, but demands will be made of me more and more. When I turned twenty-five, I had lived for a quarter of my life and accomplished a lot of things of which I was proud. And really nothing that I could shout out to the world and to get its approval. And somewhere at that point, when medical school finally accepted me, I knew that who I was mattered not to random people compared to who I appeared to be.

Could make a cynic of anyone, right? Instead, I went off and enjoyed the next month of flying kites and eating good food. Truth is, until telepathy is invented (or rediscovered), John Doe won't know a thing about Mary BoBoberts. So that's why I hope that in the field of Neuroscience, some genius will come up with a telepathy-enhancing thing so we really can share who we are with whomever we wish or that they find a section of our vast set of neurons that could grow during childhood to send and receive wireless signals from other humans.

In an odd aside, Blogger's dictionary apparently doesn't recognize "Neuroscience" as a word. Instead, as a correction, it offers up Pseudoscience as the number once choice. Silly Blogger, Trix are for Hindus!

Back to the point. I don't know if I will ever be the person who makes a difference that the world notes. I don't care that whatever achievements I am recognized for also include the name of my medical school. But I do know that I will matter in hundreds of thousands of lives and that their feelings towards me will be more treasured than the feelings of administrators for getting more research funds or schoolchildren 100 years into the future who have to recite my name because it's in some history book for some award.