Certainly it must be 5 o'clock somewhere

It feels like it's been a month since I posted last. That is to say, it's been a long week. I was in New York at the beginning of the week for a second look at one program and an interview--my LAST interview--at another.

The second look went very well. I had a lovely chat with the chair and program director. The chair of the department asked if it might be okay if he just asked me to be his chief resident now. I said, "Oh, come on now...you probably say that to all the girls."

The program director, whose mouth fell open when the chair asked, said, "No. No, he really doesn't." So, that was nice.

This program is not my first choice. But, it did move up several spots on my list after that visit. My mom called me later that day and asked me about it. I said, "It's not the best program I've interviewed with, but I would be well-loved here. And that's not nothing."

The interview the next day did not go so well. I should rephrase that... The interview was fine. They seemed to like me. I think that if I really wanted a spot there, I could probably have one. But, I wasn't impressed. They spent all day reminding me where I was interviewing.

This is IVY LEAGUE PROGRAM.

It was there answer to everything from Do you see much trauma? to Where's the bathroom?

Honestly, I think that they missed their true calling... We should hand them a bunch of red markers and let them write YOU ARE HERE on subway maps and mall directories.

This is IVY LEAGUE PROGRAM was quickly followed by We're the best. They started to sound like those people who think that the dinner portion of a date is an opportunity to talk about how good they are in bed. I have learned that this actually code for Prepare to be disappointed. And, extrapolating from said dating experiences, I suspect that I would leave the residency exhausted and annoyed.

Since returning from New York, I have been back at work, rounding on nephrology patients in the ICU. I have spent most of my time trying to keep from screaming LISTEN TO ME, DAMN IT at the residents.

Yesterday, it was, "T, what happened to that patient?"

"She died."

"When?"

"This morning at about 10."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"I did tell you."

"When?"

"This morning at about 10:05."

"You told me?"

"Yes. Remember when I showed up five minutes late to rounds and said that I was doing chest compressions in room 75 but she didn't make it?"

"You told me that?"

"Twice. I was going to say it a third time but decided that when we got to the room and you saw the empty bed, it would sink in."

"Wait...so she died?"

The whole week has been exactly like that.

I just got a call on my cell phone from one of them...

"Where's my note?"

"What note?"

"The note on Mr. Smith."

"The last time I saw it, the fellow was carrying it in his left jacket pocket."

"He doesn't have it."

"Did you check his pocket?"

"No."

"Check his pocket. If it's not there, check his other pocket. Then, I'd look in his socks. If it's not in either of those, you should consider the fact that he's European and may carry a man bag or murse. If such an accessory exists, I would rummage through it. Beyond that, I'm not sure what to tell you, but I wish you the best of luck."

Because I sure as hell wasn't going to drive back to the hospital to strip search the fellow to find a piece of paper that the resident should have left in the chart. Where charting belongs.

Like I said...a long week.

Tomorrow, I fly to Atlanta to take the part of the boards where they videotape you examining 8 fake patients. They want to make sure that you can (a) speak and understand English, and (b) keep all of your psychotic/douche-bag tendencies on the inside. Where they belong.

Wish me luck.