It's gray and bleak. I'm at a computer station at Stanford, between student doctors. The first one of the day, frankly, kinda sucked. I feel bad for him because he was very nice, and trying to do his best, but his spoken English was rather limited and his comprehension of other people's spoken English even more so.
So we spent a very, very long time endlessly discussing every minute detail of my psychosomatic stomach pains, a very long time on my sexual history (bless the student doctors, they're all so happy to get to this part because it's a nice simple checklist of unambiguous yes/no items; even when they're embarrassed about having to say the words, they're just delighted with the yes/no-ness of it), about 2 minutes on the physical exam, and about 90 seconds on my social and family history, at the end of which he said kindly but bluntly, "I think you are involved in a case of domestic abuse. I will send the nurse in. You are in a safe place here." I blustered and denied, as I was supposed to, and he said, one eye on the clock, "I think you are a victim of violence. My nurse will come in. It was very nice to meet you!" and bolted.
I'm fairly certain that if I'd been a fearful and shame-filled abuse victim, I'd've bolted too at that moment. Well-intentioned guy, genuinely compassionate, and probably a superb physician in his home country, but oh so unready for clinical work in the U.S.
beth, the swing dancing sounds extra-nifty and I am covered in jealousy. And how funny that the 15-year-old outdanced the others; lots of times it's the other way around, with the 60-70-year-olds for whom this music was their crazy rebellious "Fuck you, grown-up world!" dance music, who dance the spry young people into the ground.
I am not jealous of anybody's snow, and I mourn that Teppy's coffee is all iced and uncomforting.
Checkbook is now reconciled. Unfortunately.
The unexpected 4 new tires threw me further into the red than I thought I'd be, but I think if I live like a hobo for a while, I should have my checking account more or less at a zero balance (versus a negative balance) by June.
I seriously have to pay closer attention to this stuff. Jesus.
I think I'm going to fold laundry and cry into my nice clean towels.
Oh Steph, I'm sorry. That is so of the suck.
I hope Franny gets better quickly too. Poor baby.
JZ, oh dear. I hope he learns quickly. Do you evaluate them? Does someone watch them? How does that work?
Deena, darling, do you have time to jump on AIM for a minute?
I do! I'm having my first cup of coffee and feeling positively decadent. I didn't have to feed anyone this morning. Yay!
Deena, we evaluate them. We've got a patient history and a checklist of exams they're supposed to perform and pieces of our history they're supposed to ask about, and we also get to write a few sentences directly to them saying what worked and didn't (and a blunter and colder assessment to the doctor running the program so he knows what the red flags are).
t waves to vw
t hands Teppy a box of tissues so she doesn't get her nice clean towels all drippy and snotful
Aww. Here's hoping JZ's next doctor-cantidate is better.
I'm trying to decide how much I want to get done today. Originally, I had big plans to get shit done yesterday. That didn't happen, so I figured "eh, I can do it Sunday". Now I'm thinking "hmm...". Go to the gym, the medical clinic for vaccinations, the used bookstore, the thrift store, dinner with friends, AND laundry? Seems like...a lot. It could happen. But I may be punking out right now. I *should* go to the gym....
Also, the travel meds? Freakin' expensive! $50 for the visit (so they'll stick me), $90 for hep A, and $75 for typhoid. YEESH. This trip may have a free ticket, but it's becoming a very expensive trip!!
Next doctor? Such better English. Such better verbal communication. So much better about doing things like summarizing and paraphrasing the patient's responses so that it was clear that she understood everything I was saying. Great physical exam. Great bedside manner. Sweet, compassionate... and when I said that the big honking bruise under my ribcage came from whamming myself on the high-armed couch while picking up the kids' toys, smiled and nodded and didn't ask one single more question about the kids or the home or the father of the kids.
It just amazes me how fucking easy it is to lie to people. Even to doctors. If you were afraid and ashamed and deeply invested in protecting the kids and not leaving, it would be incredibly easy to lie and lie and lie and never be challenged or even questioned.
