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? How To Take Hubby Shopping5/14/2016 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.) Growing up with autism4/29/2016 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?)
Why my cats are the best3/24/2016 No surprise, but hubs and I loved every pound kitty we've owned. They’re totally a mess, semi-defective, and that's what gives them...character.
In case you think dogs are better than cats, let me describe my two current “preciouses” and change your mind. #1) They are automatic foot warmers. Even in summer. How fabulous... #2) We do not have to let them out to use the bathroom in inclement weather. They’ve got their own box. Indoors. We do not have to walk them. They wouldn't go, if we tried. #3) They stare at us adoringly for hours. Or maybe they’re plotting some sort of revenge. #4) Excellent actors. The younger, ridiculously hairy cat had us totally fooled by the look-at-how-sweet-I-am act at the pound. Now that she has a roof over her head and blankets to shed upon? She’s the devil. So, it was my first year scoring RITA’s for the RWA yearly contest. On the RWA website, there’s not a lot of explanation as far as what a 1, 5, or 10 means. Is it bad to get a 6? I don’t know. Can you only give out one 10 because that means “best book in the universe”? I don’t know. Is it only people with an average above 8 who make it to the finals? No idea.
Besides, who am I to be judging anyone, anyway? And don’t even get me started on decimals…which is like the ultimate splitting-hairs hedge option. An hour of my life disappeared as I grappled with “is it 9.4 or 9.3”? Yeah. In my day-job, the rule is to always give patients the benefit of the doubt. Easy enough. Sounds like a good rule to use for the RITA’s. Therefore, in all transparency, I present to you – how to score RITA entries – Dr. Jill style. #1) The scale starts at 5 and stops at 10. We’re going to call this the “RITA gonad” scale. You have to have serious writerly balls to simply enter this contest. If you have the guts to write, edit, publish, and enter an entire book, the contents of which are still glowing with the pieces of your soul that you ripped out and laid down on the page – that’s automatically worth a minimum score of 5. Just for making the massive effort and taking a risk. Sometimes writers are just too tired to write. Sometimes we have day jobs or families or general insanity that sucks up every last minute of the day. Well, now what? During this week's call block, I started thinking about everything I get done besides writing when I'm on call. Here goes... #1) Blogs. Ta-dash. Case in point. #2) Research. This activity fits well into small, interrupt-able attention packets, which is nice when the ICU + med-surg floor + Ob unit + ER + 5 nursing homes all have my number on speed dial. You know it’s been a bad weekend when the switchboard operator at the hospital begins her spiel with an apology. Sometimes a few minutes of research is nice. Like thinking about really hot men and how they might fit into a novel, hypothetically-speaking of course. Yum! Hate “springing forward”? Not me! Why daylight savings time is fabulous
It's understandable -- most people feel hung over on Monday from “springing forward”. Enter lots of grumbles. But here’s why I love DST…. #1) Taking hospital call on the spring time change weekend? 1 less hour of call is always a good thing! #2) The cats’ circadian rhythms are less aggressive at 5am. For a while. #3) Leaving work in the dark isn’t any fun. There’s something to be said for going for a walk after work. #4) I’m a morning person. #5) Who wants to wake up at 6 or 6:30 and it’s already light out? Not me. It’s nice to get some dark-to-dawn so as to ease into the day. |
Jillian DavidAuthor, daydreamer, and practitioner of trying very hard to duct tape folks together and help when I can. Archives
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