Hubby and I were playing the hypothetical/impossible game of ‘what if’ a few nights ago.
 
To understand how ridiculous the game is, let’s call the proverbial spade a spade: Hubs and I are a short and stumpy match made in heaven. While we like to imagine that once upon a time we were ‘elite athletes’, the reality is much different. We’re okay with that fact.
 
But for funsies, let’s go through the list and see what sports might net these two hobbits a gold medal!
 
#1) Archery: Not really. I can’t hit a fly with an oversized flyswatter, and hubs would kill himself with the compound bow.
 
#2) Rowing: While it’s a point of dubious pride that I have pretty amazing, flabby man-arms, it’s a foregone conclusion that a few rows with the oars and I’d be done. Snack, please.

 Let’s explore what ended up as some truly awful decision-making.
 
It was a good day. I’d slept more than 8 hours. I had eaten at least one serving of vegetables and only went for the office M&M jar twice that day. So to cap off the new health kick, and spawn increased amounts of bad choices, I read a magazine article.

​It’s getting super close to vacation. How do I know? Because I’m this close to losing my mind due to crazy Day Job. That’s typically the indicator light, warning me that it’s time to get away for a while. Sure enough, Day Job stupidity is about to make me lose my mind.
 

Image by Kenji Yamamoto on flickr.


​​The grass is always greener elsewhere, you say? Of course it is. But that’s not the point of today’s blog. The purpose of today’s blog is as an indulgent compare and contrast time for Day Job (medicine) vs. Night Job (writing). Let us commence the therapeutic hyperbole, for I have 20 more patients to see on Monday and then I am On Vacation. (Why Monday and not Friday before? Well. Yeah. I never claimed to be a genius.)
 
 
Day Job = Miracle of life (baby)
 
Night Job = Miracle of life (book baby)
 
Day Job = People with very narrow job descriptions and smidgen of power who make doing our job difficult or impossible. Many decisions take place in dark, smoke-filled rooms, behind the scenes.
 
Night Job = Ok, yeah. This happens everywhere.

 #1) Think hard about laundry. It might miraculously get done on its own.

(image via Flickr and Wesley Underwood)

​
#2) Try to stay focused at work. This means no taunting, gloating, or loudly calling out how many days are left until vacation starts.
 
#3) Probably worth figuring out if I have a passport. Maybe also see if it’s expired or not.
 
#4) Plot numerous ways to sleep on the plane. Recognize that none will work and I’ll arrive jet-lagged no matter what I do.

​This week is a call block, which means yours truly is on call for 7 days in a row for Ob deliveries, if my colleagues need someone to do a C-section, and at times for all admissions to the hospital (adult or peds) and q15 minute calls from the nursing home. Call is always feast or famine. It could be boring. It could suck rocks. I work in a small, rural hospital, so FP’s do pretty much everything here.
 
If you live in a big city, then this job may seem like the unholy love child of Marcus Welby, M.D., Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, and Dr. Joel Fleischman (Northern Exposure). And you’d be correct. The net result when I’m on my call stint? Poor sleep, putting out fires in the office and all hours of day and night, and difficulty doing anything but sit around and wait for the next call to light up the phone.

​If you read the recent post about my abnormal mammogram, you’ll know the depths of crazy that an abnormal test like that can take a person.
 
I also discussed the fact that, as a physician, I know way too much about the process and the likelihood of Medical Things Happening. Look, if you see enough of these types of cycles, you know how the process typically goes. Testing, results. Re-testing, results. Biopsy, results. Answer, treatment plan.
 
So I fully expected to be finishing up this process with a biopsy, because 90%+ of the abnormal mammogram findings similar to mine end up going to biopsy. And often beyond the biopsy. As a result, all last weekend, my very rational, logical, calm, cool and collected brain just spun and spun.
 
It’s amazing how worry can suck the energy out of a person.
 
I got the repeat mammogram done this morning, and the tech (with whom I work) showed me the extra images and was like, “Um, yeah, the spot didn’t go away with the extra view. Let’s see what ultrasound says.” Thankfully, the ultrasound tech had an opening and got me right in for that step. That meant I would have results today, without having to wait another day. Good.
 
That afternoon at 2pm, I got the result. Normal. No biopsy needed.

​ Caveat: I might be a good doctor, but I’m not a great patient. And having knowledge about medical things doesn’t make anything easier when tests are abnormal. Maybe the opposite.
 
So here’s what happened. Last week, I got the standard mammogram, complete with uncomfortable chit-chat with the mammo tech who has chilly hands. You know the drill. Stand in an awkward position, let the tech scoot “the girls” between the plates, and hold perfectly still as the tech cranks down the vice to hold what little breast tissue I have in place. (Like I could go anywhere?) Repeat on the other side.
 
Please understand I’m not dissing mammograms. No way. Not even close. I believe strongly in mammography as an excellent way to pick up breast cancer in its earliest stages so patients receive the best treatment.
 
I just don’t appreciate being the one with the abnormal result. I’m the freakin’ doctor. Irony, much? Damn it.
 
The first result was “BIRADS 0” which means inconclusive or needs more views and an ultrasound. I’m told my breasts are “dense” which is hilarious if you consider #1) there’s not much there and #2) the damned things are drifting sideways and south – there ain’t much density to them from where I stand. But some guy in a dark room looking at my films says they’re dense and he can’t make a definite conclusion as to whether the nodule is something worrisome or not? Who am I to argue?

Please understand that my hubby hates shopping with a rabid, seething hatred the likes of which can only be imagined by mere mortals. And if you say anything about either shopping for or wearing a tie, his entire face will split down the middle, his head will rotate and the fires of hell will spew forth from his mouth.
 
So, it’s not a great idea, bringing up shopping, much less for normal, everyday clothing. But now we have a Family Trip coming up, with parents, aunts, and uncles, and it involves wearing more than camos and plaid shirts. (Yeah. He wears plaid and camo. Together. This is what I have to work with, folks. It’s not pretty.) 

​This is the post I didn't want to write.

When I sent out my last newsletter, as always, there was a health blurb. Since it was April, and that’s autism awareness month, I did a blurb on early detection of autism. A line in that article alluded to the fact that I grew up with two autistic brothers. Several readers then asked me to share more about that experience.

Please recognize this is one woman’s observations and path, and the interactions with my brothers and family should not be taken as a mandate, a proscription, or even as typical of experiences with autism. What I’m describing is how these two guys impacted my life, so it’s a very narrow field of vision, and purposefully so. If I sound in any way callus, please understand that’s not the case at all. It’s learned gallows humor and the ability to objectively look at things that might come across as somewhat less than introspective. Frankly, if I get too emotional about this topic, I will not be able to write this post. Period.
 
It's super personal stuff, and it’s rare that I talk freely about ‘growing up with autism’.
 
But maybe it’s time. Feels right. Seems like time to write this now that I've gotten some distance.
 
Since I love lists, and, well, they feel safe as a blog structure, then that’s how this blog post is going to go down.

Sleeping Beauty was my favorite Disney movie when I was growing up. Her hair! Her pretty dress! Her singing! And doggone it, she was the nicest person, too.
 
The scene where the prince (whatever his name – does he really matter?) kissed her and she wakes up? Perfection.
 
But as I got older, I started thinking about what happened after The End? Did Sleeping Beauty get a job or maybe crank out a passel of kids? Probably the latter. (It >was< set in medieval times, after all.) Did she and her prince go off on a bunch of adventures afterwards? Doubtful. Bet she got stuck pretending to enjoy embroidery instead of getting to race around on steeds or something awesome like that.
 
Well, that revelation was kind of a bummer.

(Uh, that's it?)