Wal-Bride…

I went to David’s Bridal today for the first time. I was to be fitted for my first real bridemaid’s dress. I walked in and found myself in a huge room filled with rows and rows and rows of dresses. I shivered in the air conditioning. One side was for bridemaids and the other side for brides. It was an overwhelming swarm of purples, blues, greens, blues, oranges and pinks in contrast to egg shells, cream and white. I was absolutely overwhelmed by the selection and by the sheer majesty of a sacrament/rite of passage/etc supersized and Americanized! stood there for a minute and waited to be directed to the blue light special on aisle 8. It took me 10 minutes to wade through the forest of dresses to find someone who worked there. I told her I needed to be fitted for a dress. She found the bride’s name in the computer and pulled a dress from the forest of a different shade but the same model as my dress. I tried not to think about the 1700 other size 6-8 girls who had worn this generic 100+ dollars worth of satin to be fitted. It reminded me distinctly of buying a car, I was test driving and then sending away for the right color. I was led to a changing room. It fit although it will need to be hemmed. I looked at myself in the giant mirrors up on a stool they use for altering and felt overdone, on display and well ridiculous . Is this beauty? Is this what I am supposed to want? Is this what every little girl dreams of? Walking into a store like this, pulling the magical white dress from the plastic hanger and then standing up here for everyone to see how beautiful she is?  This is one of the ultimate displays of love between two people?

10 minutes later and 150 dollars later I have a brown satin dress on order.

Where is the sacred in this strange form of marriage? In all the money we spend? In the party we throw? In the gifts we receive? There is celebration and love of course but where is mystery, the divine in all the fluff. What am I really doing…Am I assisting my friend by standing with her, affirming her commitment, her love? That I think I can do, the rest of it well I dont quite understand. I know very little of these things of love, of romance, of glamor, of marriage . But the glimpses of what I see I find disappointing.

I love my friend and I will do my best for her.

and so I enter into to this strange cultural ritual.

cherry obession

I was doing really well with the whole living in America, being a med student living in the now, being content till about 2 days ago. I was in the grocery store minding my own business and then from no where they appeared a bag of cherries. BIG RED CHERRIES…. Way back when I was a wee 19 year old kid full of idealism right after I stepped off of American soil for the first time I found myself surrounded by cherry trees ripe with cherries. I spent a good portion of the nicer days that summer picking cherries and taking them as gifts where ever I went. But there were this bag of cherries sitting ther ein the middle of the produce section next to the grapes looking forlorn and out of place. And I suddenly had a longing for a great big sticky handful of fresh Romanian cherries.

I’ve tried to substitute with American summer staples like ice cream sandwiches and Popsicles. I went swimming in a clean pool with other Americans. I went to the beach a few weeks ago and am going again. I wore a tank top and and read on my porch. I’ve savored air condition. But it just doesn’t feel right. I haven’t spent a summer in America in 4 years. I don’t know what to do with myself.

Today I hung out in the special needs eye clinic. You know you would think that I would love love love American health care with all its technology and solutions for these kids. It just also makes me all the more aware of how much my people in Eastern Europe suffer. Its as if I do not understand their nakedness entirely until I see the full beauty of clothes. The more clothes I encounter the more I am ashamed of their nakedness.

yeah I keep sort of deep down wondering if I will grow out the whole e. europe thing…like if this will be some sort of phase of my life that will fade out like that time I used to sing in the choir. but it seems to be here to stay, it seems to have taken hold in strange ways.

I think I shall make a cherry pie this weekend when i go home.

the not so sacred sacred moments

Why does the sacred have to be confined to places of worship? I recently realized my most sacred moments in life rarely happen in church. For example recently…

Holding the hand of a child as they fall asleep.

Watching my grandparents celebrate 50 years surrounded by their children and grandchildren. Listening to their stories and remembering the miracles of the past 50 years.

Singing and laughing tucked back in a grove of trees with the same folks as the sun sets.

For the first time, diagnosing a child (a 9 mon old) with cancer and hoping and grieving with her mother.

Waking up and finding this in my garden. I didn’t plant this. I have been so busy, I haven’t had time to weed….

Sitting on a stoop in hot, humid, sultry SC with old friends from the other side of the world. Laughing, talking and just simply enjoying the company of people interested in living beyond the America bubble.

Holding my very first well child check patient and watching her eat her first birthday cake. (no HIPPA in Romania mission clinic)

That’s whats up in my life. That and lot of studying for the surgery shelf (not really so sacred).

Protected: the hopeless ones

the 3rd Degree

Every culture has its rites of passage, its traditions. Moments shared by all members even if they are separated by the span of time. These rituals provide a point reflection, a sense of belonging. Some of these rites are light and easy others are a bit harsher. In these later cases the community is united not simply by unity of purpose but also by shared trenches of life in their culture.

Let me be plain beyond all the religion academia flowerily language. Hazing is alive and well in the medical profession. I am sure I will become more acquainted to its many forms. Yesterday I had my first initiation rite. On the schedule it said Wed was devoted to INFECTION CONTROL which apparently is a cover for to learning how to do five basic procedures: lumbar puncture, IV insertion, central lines and port cath care, Arterial Blood Gases and Foley catheter insertion which is a further cover for medical student HAZING.

My group’s afternoon started out fairly mild. We all managed to obtain a syringe of pink Kool Aid from a mannequin’s radial artery. Feeling pleased with ourselves we marched on to central lines and port cath care and flushed with the best of them. With our confidence we walked into the Foley catheter insertion.

We knew of course what a Foley catheter was (bladder catheter used to help very sick folks pee) but I don’t think we had fully taken in account the fact that we would be clumsily manipulating various, life like model organs of the pelvic region in a large group setting. While we tried desperately to be mature and professional, it was hard not to at least step back and think of the sheer absurdity of the moment. Particularly when we were told to grasp and don’t let go. COMMIT, COMMIT, they cried. What a strange way to make a living.

Next was IV insertion, we were expecting mannequins and Kool AID but rumors from previous groups has spread that we were sticking each other. As we walked into the room and found no mannequins, we knew the rumors were true. Anxiety spread through the crowd like wildfire. It should be noted at this point that my closest friend in medical school nearly passed out the previous day during our routine communal PPD (TB) testing. I told K and J we could be a group of three and they could each stick me because I’ve been stuck a million times. That way K didn’t have to pass out in front of everyone (and I didn’t have to be the cause of it). This seemed like a good plan as we settled into our sits. Our group of three was spotted by one of the nurses and we explained K’s situation and she said it was fine.

She then went to covey this news to the nurse in charge. The nurse in charge came over and knelt down next to us in that somewhat patronizing way people do when they are talking to little kids and explained that EVERYONE STICKS and EVERYONE GET STUCK. She explained that several of our classmates had cried already that day but ALL of them had been stuck and had stuck. We do this, she says, so you can relate to your patients. She pats K’s arm and tells her if necessary they could lay her on the floor and stick her from that position so she didn’t injure herself if she really did pass out.

K is of course somewhat shocked, embarrassed and terrified, two other classmates already look near tears after this speech. The charge nurse got up and described the details of the procedure and as she did I couldn’t help but wonder how many other professional schools require communal blood letting? I mean its one thing to take blood for the purpose of making someone better in the long run its another to force healthy people to undergo it at the hands of extremely inexperienced students somewhat against their will ….number 478 why Divinity school probably would have been less painful.

The patient part of me for a split second pondered the irony of the a bunch med students terrified of IVs but over eager to stick others. But I suppressed these thoughts because it would reinforce the us vs. them mentality which I despise. And frankly the point of the exercise was to show how similar we really were to our patients.

I got stuck and my partner J managed to find my vein after 60 seconds or so of moderately, uncomfortable digging. Then it was my turn, I looked around the room and many of my classmates were struggling to get a vein. They all had average hands with normal biomechanics, the odds were against me. I apologized to J in advance as I tied the tourniquet. I COMMITED and stuck praying that the blue line would stay taunt nd still, I went too deep, then nearly came out (would had to start all over again), then all of the sudden dark blood spilled into the catheter I looked around wildly, what, what do I do now I asked? I managed to slightly screw up the needle retraction because I was so darn shocked I got it.

K managed to avoid the sticking by sheer luck, we had an odd number of people, so she managed to sort hide in the corner for the duration of the class. We were preparing to leave when all of the sudden someone asks if K has stuck anyone. We answer honestly and I offer up my arm praying that we will run out of time before I have to return the favor. At the other end of the room, the charge nurse is comforting another classmate who is now crying softly as a panicked classmate tries to no avail to get a vein. I sincerely hoped that would not be me and K in five minutes. We were saved by the clock, the next group arrived after 20-40 seconds of K digging in my other wrist. We waited outside for the distressed classmate and her partner and practically ran to our last seminar.

Today the entire third year class have matching bruises on our arms….its like my naval officer father always says The Beatings will continue till Morale Improves. For better or for worse we have been initiated now into some strange fraternity.

…And no I can’t tell you the secret handshake