shallow end of the gene pool...

I am a drama queen.

I assume the worst, catastrophize, mad-crush, fetishize and over-indulge. Apparently this is a genetic advantage.

An article in the Age this weekend extolled the virtues of people like me; the idea is that those who fear the worst are better prepared for negative situations. I fear, therefore I hide, therefore I am.

I was reminded of this today, when I turned to my long-suffering buddy and said, "I think I have tonsillitis". She (sensibly) ignored me.

"No really!" I insisted, sniffing heavily. "I have a sore throat and I feel really tired. I'll probably have to go to Emergency for IV fluids and Prednisolone."

...silence...

Why does she ignore me?

2 weeks ago I was convinced I had HIV. Symptoms: Fatigue & muscle aches. Post-gym.
A month ago, I was sure I had Hanta virus. Due to the large population of South American deer-mice in the 'Bool.
Yesterday, my rumbling stomach was a clear sign of Crohn's Disease. Or cafeteria tacos.

This drama is a plus in my work-life: all my patients are seconds from death, even if they're just a little gassy.
It's less useful in my personal life: I seriously considered turfing my Liberal cos I got a cold this week. As far as my hysterical brain is concerned, this man is the Ebola Monkey.

Luckily, Buddy tuned in at this point.

"Sam, you work in a hospital, surrounded by sick people. It's much more likely you got your cold from them."
"But I haven't been sick all year, and now I'm on the cusp of death due to Liberal's Auswegian germs!"
"Sam, you can't blame him. And you cannot spritz people with antibacterial wash, no matter how much you like them..."

So, while I recognize the genius in the Marriage family motto (Cowardly at all Costs!) I think my melodramatic genes need to be paired with phlegmatic Kiwi DNA if I'm to have any chance of reproducing.

That's if the prostate cancer doesn't get me first.

Retraction

I take back everything I said about Rehab; now that I've experienced "life outside medicine" (a theoretical concept described by employers who's contracts you haven't signed yet) I may never go back.

I've been exercising.
Eating 3 balanced meals a day.
Interacting with both non-bleeding AND non-vomiting people.
We had an election party. More importantly, we had time to plan, shop for, dance through, clean up and rehash-over-brunch. I think people call this "living"?

As you are probably aware, the election has not had a clean result; this meant that our original plan of "wait for Labour victory, celebrate Green victory in Melbourne, drink, dance, repeat" was scuppered.

Instead, we had one half of the room focused on the results as they ticked in and the other half determinedly ignoring them. We had three heated arguments and two storm-outs (though one was related to brotherly ire re: sisterly pashing). And we still don't have a result.

Not everyone was so vehemently partisan though; Greens and Liberals were able to wake up and have a civilized breakfast before resorting to snide remarks and name calling. NB: A re-usable cup does not make me a dirty hippie.

Life in rehab is PROPER LIFE! This means less medicine, more scandal and SO much more bacon. Bliss.

False Modesty

I know what all the normal people feel like now.

I got up this morning, made my lunch, walked to work. Bantered with my co-workers. Sat through a meeting. Did useless paperwork. Had a lunch break. Came home. Ate dinner.

Nobody died. Nobody bled. I'm sure someone vomited somewhere, but I didn't have to smell it (or worse, examine it). And nothing I did today could have resulted in someone's accidental death. Accidental unnecessary x-ray, maybe. But NO DEATH!

Anyways, I hate it.

Rehab is touted as the perfect rotation for mid year. By now, we're all pretty burned out and tired, and rehab is mellow. Sedate. Coma-inducing. When we planned our year, buddy and I thought it would be ideal.

I am not enjoying it at all. It has all the drawbacks of gen med (interminable ward rounds, malingering patients, daily drug-charts) but lacks the glamour. You heard me. It lacks the glamour of GENERAL MEDICINE. Sigh.

Anyways, it's been good for my post-nights delirium, but please expect a rapid descent into madness. Rehab ward isn't even in the hospital proper, and every time I cross the chilly divide between acute and...brrr....subacute medicine, I feel a pang for emergency. 5 months to go.

Bacon Muffin Day

Game on, bitches.

One hundred dollars of my hard earned cash (it takes skill to tweet while hiding from the nurses) has been sent in to the Medical Council of Canada. They assure me that this money will be used for important things, like verifying my exam scores. The exams that they provide. That cost me 2000 bucks last year. But I digress...

Hitting "send" left me giddy! Even if I don't make it, even if they spit on my application and tell me I'm more suited to Koala therapy, even if they ban my descendants from applying based on my scores...Even if, I'm excited.

My worst case scenario is that I don't get a job which means:
- Morocco in January with Dan & co (no interviews = holiday time)
- A year of exorbitantly overpaid freelance work (including Warrnambool ED, where my boss forgives my use of the terms "retard", "strap-on" and "motherfucker")
- 2 months in Canada IN SUMMER, with a planned trip from BC, through Calgary (gotta meet Little Sammy) and on to TO for dancing with Ian, Rachel & Corey.
- the satisfaction that I tried something, even though it had an uncertain outcome.

See? Win win. Which is not something I could have seen 3-4 years ago. I am so glad I'm not 25 anymore. Which reminds me...

Happy Birthday Dan! Don't be afraid, it only gets better.

Eleventh Hour

I met a Kiwi doctor who working as the Orthopaedic resident in Warrnambool. I asked her if she was interested in pursuing surgery as a career (the only people who take these jobs voluntarily tend to be folks ready to sacrifice 6 years of life/happiness at the alter of SET training) and she said, "Oh, I don't know. I'm very laid back. I'll just see what happens."

I was immediately suspicious.

Anyone who says, "I'm really laid back" isn't. It's like someone telling you, "I have a great sense of humor", "I don't care what people think about me", or "I won't get emotionally attached if we hook up". Lies. All lies.

Cynical? Not even.

Part of it comes from observing patients who tell you earnestly that they're dieting/quitting/taking their meds. The desire to make it true translates into a wide-eyed avowal of honesty that is integral to their sense of self. (Challenge at your peril...)

I also recognize the tone of voice/innocent expression/defiant head tilt from years of protesting too much. In the years applying to Canadian medical school, I kept saying, "I don't care if I get in, if its meant to be it will happen..." And then I'd scream at my boyfriend for agreeing with me (sorry J).

So, with tomorrow being the kickoff for Canadian job applications I would like to get the following out in the open:
- I am freaking out that I will spend all of next year homeless and unemployed
- I care waaaay too much that my Canadian training wont live up to Aussie standards
- I am worried that I'm doing this cos I'm bored in Melbourne and will be bored in other cities too

There. It's out. Friends and relatives can breathe easy.

Anyways, the Kiwi doctor and I chatted on about job applications and prospects for the future. I ventured that it was quite stressful making decisions about the next year when the outcomes were so unknown. She looked at me and said, "Well Sam, it might be for you. But I'm very laid back..."

Then she told me a story about how her boss called her beautiful, which ended, "But I really don't care what he thinks about me..."

Amazing.
Maybe psychiatry does have some appeal.

Political

I had always considered my friends in Australia to be relatively apolitical. We don't generally gossip about politician's gaffes (Scores-gate! Budgie smugglers! Julia's roots!) and we're not likely to wake each other for breaking news in Government.

I didn't know we had a new Prime Minister until I got the the gym (house in Warrnambool had no TV, internet or radio) and she'd been in power for 7 hours already!

But. We are having a house party on August 21. Election day.

This party is bringing out the inner passion for Government. People want to come, "But only if you'll..."
a) NOT show the election
b) show the election results with the sound off
c) show the election with the sound on and provide candles for a mourning vigil
d) play the "moving forward" drinking game

And everyone has opinions on who will win, who should win and whether we should do a shot every time Mr Abbott gives Julia a "do me" look.

Australian politics are so much fun. In the last month we've had the usual baby-kissing shenanigans, but we've also had a "bloodless coup" that deposed a PM with 60% approval ratings, Kylie Minogue being hit on by leader of the opposition (who also hugged a puppet) and the local comedy troop offering Julia Gillard $2000 bucks for her Mining Tax. As part of her "Cash for Clunkers" plan.

The PM responded with, "Oh, thanks love, but you work for the public broadcaster; you need to keep every penny you have."

She's an unmarried atheist who's childless by choice and pro-work choices. I'm still voting Green, but I'm giving my preferences to her.

Also, Clarke and Dawe are back. On a frighteningly familiar topic.