Dear Dr. Bethie: Better living through techonology

So I've been sitting on this one for a while. It just seems so... inflammatory, as it were. But since months later it still makes me chuckle, I will risk public internet wrath to present you with another installment of "Dear Dr. Bethie."

Dear Dr. Bethie,
I think I have Behcet's* syndrome. What can you do about this?
Sincerely,
Yuppie and loving it in Utah

Dear YLU,
I'm pretty sure I'll regret this, but I'm gonna do it anyway... Why do you think you have Behcet's?
Sincerely,
Dr. B

Bethie,
I thought I'd go ahead and drop the whole "Dr." business and use a too-chummy tone to make you uncomfortable. It's my duty as an over-privileged WASP from the Hamptons. Anyhoo, I decided I have Behcet's while I was surfing the web on my iPhone while back-packing in Utah. I once had an ulcer in my mouth, and I'm so photosensitive.
Ciao,
Yups

Dear Ms. YLU,
There are lots of reasons to have oral ulcers. Like mouth herpes. Or biting your cheek. And turning red after spending all day on your yacht in Cape Cod is called getting a sunburn.
Cordially,
DOCTOR B.

Bethie dearest,
But how do you know it isn't Behcet's? The lupus test came back negative, so this really seems the most likely thing to me based on my extensive research.
Besitos,
Yups

Dear Ms. YLU,
Siiiiiiggggghhhh. You rrrreally have to be careful about how you interpret information on the internet. And the ANA is still not a lupus test.
If I'm lucky you'll get huffy and find another doctor,
Dr. B

(Silence)

Score one for Dr. Bethie!


*say bay-shets

The one where she caught me

So today is gonna be another kid post. Nothing particularly entertaining has happened at work. Well, not anything that is appropriate for publication on the internet at least. So a kid story it is.

Our church offers Friday night childcare once a month - Kid Parent Night Out. It's great - Nick and I love going somewhere by ourselves, and E thinks it's totally awesome to stay up late playing and watching a movie at church school. Nick and I were out for a recent KPNO and decided to pick up dessert from The Chocolate Bar (Uncle Darryl's, anyone?) to eat at home. So we stopped by the church to pick up the kids and got them all loaded and buckled and whatnot. I climbed into the front seat and picked up the cake container for safe-keeping on my lap during the ride home.

E: Mommy, what is that?
Me: Um, nothing. [quickly moves take-out container out of her field of vision]
E: No, Mommy! What is that?!
Me: I said it's nothing.
E: Mommy! Is that chocolate cake?
Me: What?! How did you know that?
E: Mommy, that's chocolate cake! That's the chocolate cake box! Can I have some?
Me: Oh, you're good. Tell you what. Since you caught me, you can have some when we get home.

She was very proud of herself. But I do have to admit that I'm a little proud of her, too.

The one where she argued back

Actual conversation between E and me last week in the car, driving home at the end of the day.

Me: Archer does have a race car toy. Gramzie gave it to him for his birthday.
E: No, it's a fire truck, not a race car.
Me:. You're not supposed to argue with me, remember?
E: I'm NOT arguing with you. You're arguing with me.
Me: What?! Are you being sassy-pants today?!
E: No. You're being bossy pants.

And that's the end of my story.

Remember when

On the eve of my birthday, I find myself reflecting on years gone by. How when you're young, you're always wanting to grow up, waiting for the next big thing. Seems to me a marker of actually being old is when you spend more time recollecting the past rather than anticipating the future, and by that definition, I think I'm just about getting old.
Whenever Archer runs in for a big hug or Nick tickles Ellison until she can't breathe, I find myself thinking that this must be as good as it gets - our Golden Age. I think about how I used to think that about those first wonderful months as newlyweds - how I could never have anticipated this completely different phase being just as good, just as satisfying, feeling just as much like home. But Ellison came, and then those felt like the best days of our lives. And now with Archer, our little family seems just right, and I never want these days to end.
And that brings to mind something my senior (high school) English teacher said to a friend and me as we were making plans (dreams really) about our futures at big, important places like college (as if we had a clue - I was still convinced I was Hopkins-bound back then). She told us that whatever phase you're in, that's the best time of your life, and she feels sorry for anyone who feels he must look back into the past for his Golden Years. For some reason I've remembered her words all these years, but it wasn't until just these last few weeks that I really understood them.
You were right, Mrs. McGough. You sure were right. And with that, happy (almost) birthday to me.

My new gig, overnight

Last weekend's moonlighting shift was a doozie. The kind that makes me threaten to myself not to sign up for any more shifts even though I know I will. There was a rapid response (think pre-code - meaning someone is tanking but still has a pulse), so I jogged upstairs. The situation was not looking good; the dude was obtunded (meaning totally out of it) without a readily apparent reason as to why. I requested a few studies and then leaned against the wall, waiting for the results. The overnight nurse supervisor was standing next to me.

Nurse: Don't worry, the hospitalist will be here soon to take over.
Me: I am the hospitalist.
Nurse: Oh, snap. You are the hospitalist. So I guess we're gonna do this then.

Just so you know, he ended up improving over the next hour or so. But if I'm totally honest, I don't really know how or why. But don't tell the overnight nurse; she thinks I figured out how to fix him!

My new gig

So I've started moonlighting at the county hospital. Basically, I work a 12-hour shift doing the exact same work I did in residency. "But, Bethie," you say. "I thought you hated hospital work?" You are correct, dear friend, but I have cardiology dreams on a rheumatology salary. So off to the hospital I go. One story from a day shift today, and another from last night's night shift coming soon.

There are 3 hospitalists on during the day. One of them left his hospital cell phone sitting on the desk next to me one morning, shortly after which multiple people tried calling. So he and I then played phone tag on our real cell phones (which get horrible reception in the hospital). I walked up to the clerk on the nursing unit where I thought he'd be and asked if they'd seen Dr. Smith recently. The clerk replied that he'd just gone down the hall that-a-way.

I eventually found Dr. Smith and returned his hospital phone to him. He laughed as he told me that he'd walked up to the same clerk a few minutes later, when the clerk informed him:

"Your intern is looking for you."

Intern. Hmphh. I ain't nobody's intern. Or maybe I should take it as a compliment that I still look young-ish enough to pass for an intern.

The end.

Not quitting my day job

I took E on a quick grocery run the other night. Incidentally, she was wearing her pj's, rainboots, and her work-out hoodie, which is a fashion only those under 5 can pull off. But back to my story. Oh, just kidding. I have to preface my story with this story:

E looooves Adele. I mean she's a real deal fan. Her favorite songs are The Rumor Song (Rumor Has It), Hello, and Water Under the Bridge. As I got the new Adele album for Christmas, we've been playing it pretty much non-stop in the car.

E: Mommy, can I have Adele singing Water Under the Bridge please?
Me: Yep, you certainly may. I like that one, too.
E: Mommy, can we go to Adele's house sometime? I want to hear her sing her songs.
Me: Um, Adele lives kinda far away. And we don't know her; she's a stranger. We don't go to strangers' houses.
E: No. Adele is not a stranger. We know her name.* So we can go to her house. And she can be my auntie.
Me: Well maybe we could right her a letter and tell her those things.
E: No. I don't want to write a letter. I want to go to her house and hear her sing her songs.


OK, so now that you know that here's this. We're in the car on our way to the grocery store.

E: Mommy, can I have Adele singing Water Under the Bridge please?
Me: Sure thing, kid. (I sing along.)
E: No, Mommy! You don't sing! You are NOT Adele.

I guess it's a good thing I have a well-paying day job that in no way depends on the quality of my vocal performance.




*I'm pretty sure daycare has defined a stranger as someone whose name you don't know. Not sure, but she frequently uses this criteria. Also, her grammar and enunciation has improved dramatically over the last few months, so I'm cutting back on the toddler-speaking typing.