Initiation

I'm "on call" this weekend, which means I saw one patient at one hospital with the attending on rounds. I did, however, get my first page this afternoon, and I'm proud to say I knew the answer all by myself.

No, don't stop the steroids. Never, ever stop the steroids. They fix everything.

That is always the answer.

Bethie the invalid

I should probably preface this post with an announcement. I am pregnant. I think most of you know that already, but just in case. Anyhoo. I told you that to tell you this...

I met up with my co-fellow this evening for the weekend pager hand-off. She told me about our consult peeps, and then she needed to show me where something was. I picked up the tackle box (full of syringes and steroids and stuff for our injections) since my call technically started at 5:00pm, which made it my tackle box. By the way, this is lighter than my purse.

Co-fellow: No, I can carry that.
Me: Why?
Co-fellow: Because, you're...
Me: I'm what?
Co-fellow: You're... heavy with child!
Me: What?! No, I am not. I will be eventually. In three months, I'll let you carry the tackle box.
Co-fellow: OK, ok.
Me: Heck, in three months, I'll let you push me around in a wheelchair!
Co-fellow: Yeah, we'd do that.
Me: Oh my goodness, no you're not.

I'm pregnant, not broken!

Hello, fellow

Good news, guys. One week in, and I don't hate my job. This is meant to be a positive statement, by the way. Nothing about the first week was particularly terrible, but the newness of it all still left me a little overwhelmed and stressed out. So I'm not ready to commit that I love or even like my job just yet.
But I don't hate it.
I don't hate that 7:30 am is my "early" day. Remember when I was an intern and semi-routinely arrived at the hospital between 4:30 and 5:00?
And I don't hate not admitting patients. People in clinic may be sick, but everyone is well enough to go home. Anyone who isn't gets admitted by someone else. I'll "follow along."
I surely don't hate skipping the health maintenance part of clinic visits from my days as a PCP. You know, the part where I tell you to stop doing everything you think is fun and start doing everything that isn't. Like smoking, drinking, eating fast food, eating vegetables, taking your pills, getting your colonoscopy, exercising, yes you have to take the pills every day for them to work. You get the picture.
I can't imagine I'll hate working one out of every six weekends. Two days off in a row for five straight weeks? And they're still paying me?! Suckers.
And above all I don't hate sleeping in my own bed every night. Now Nick might have a different opinion about that one (good-bye, days of q4 bachelor freedom), but this isn't about him, now is it?
Hmm. I think I'm not going to hate this at all.

When life hands you bananas

I found a steal on bananas at HEB last weekend. Like a gazillion of them for $0.72. Well, maybe not a gazillion. But 4 lbs at least. Insane, right? So what does one do with all those bananas. In the last 4 days, I've made...
smoothies
banana chocolate chip cupcakes
more smoothies
banana cream pie
yet more smoothies
Hmm. I am banana-ed out. I'm not even sad that the last six are passing the overripe stage and getting rotten so I have an excuse to toss them. Although banana ice cream still sounds good. I think I know what's for dessert tonight! Anyone wanna come over?

If you give Bethie a cookie

She's probably going to want to eat it for breakfast, with a glass of milk of course.
While chewing, she'll look out the window at her herb garden and notice it needs watering.
Then she'll bring the watering can to the sink (hose sprays everywhere except from the end, don't ask) and realize she can't fill it because of all the dirty dishes.
So she'll do the dishes, which will remind her the dishwasher needs emptying.
While unloading the dishwasher, she'll see the watering can and get back to the herb garden.
As she walks out the back door, she'll remember she needs to alter the re-purposed back door curtain.
She'll get out the sewing machine and sit down at the table. To do this, she'll have to move the pile of living room curtains that also need shortening.
When she drops her tape measure on the ground, she'll look down and spot the random middle-of-the-room box of miscellaneous objects.
After putting away said miscellaneous objects, she'll get back to the back door curtain.
Izzy will give her a pitiful look through the window, so she'll decide to take her on a walk.
Upon entering the closet to change into work-out attire, she'll see the overflowing laundry basket.
She will put in a load of laundry.
She will take Izzy on a walk.
She will come back hungry.
She will go to the kitchen and get something to eat.
And on, and on, and on...

Nick says I'm distractible. I call it task-oriented. Tomato, tomahto.

Man vs. machine

I noticed a strange sound emanating from the spare bathroom this evening - a buzzy, hummy noise. I walked in but couldn't readily identify the source; no lights, fans, or power tools to blame. I approached Nick.

Me: Do you know what the noise in the bathroom is?
Nick: Yeah, my electric razor went crazy. Won't turn off. I threw it away.
Me: Oh, ok. No batteries to take out, right? I guess it will die eventually.

Two hours later, it's still going.

I watch Nick pick up a hammer (we've been hanging lots of pictures lately) and head for the front of the house. Bang, bang, bang, then Beautiful Silence. He returns to the living room, victorious.

Me: Did you just smash your razor with the hammer?
Nick: Yup. It worked, didn't it?

And that is why robots will never take over the world.

Right at home and overwhelmed

Oh. My. Goodness. Well, I've landed in Houston. The Scholzes are back together again. So now it's boxes and dishes and curtains. And oh yeah, my new job. I started orientation this week. My department invited us to dinner with the program director and the fellows for a laid-back, informal orientation tonight. I think the point was to put us more at ease, but this is simply not possible.

Old fellow: Maybe you guys don't even need this. You're all so calm. I was freaking out last year.
Me: Oh no, we are. Fake it 'til you make it.
Other new fellow: Yeah. It's my poker face.

I know, I know. Life as a rheum fellow doesn't really sound that bad. Rare weekends, no nights, no admissions, etc. But that doesn't mean I'm not stressed out about some resident calling me to ask about giant pulse doses of steroids and then reporting back to his attending that "the rheum fellow said _____." Eek!
But I will say that Houston already feels like home again. Almost as if everyone sat around holding their collective breath while we were gone, waiting for us to come back. Even the crazy drivers are pleasantly familiar. I heart 288. And Prego. And Ruggles. And the Galleria. And most of all, HEB. Happy sigh.
OK. Time for me to hit the sack. Got a big, early day tomorrow. It's badge and parking day.