Your people will think you're dead

Graci called me last night and said, "You remember when you first wrote about me in your blog? It was that one time when I told you that you had to write something or your people were going to think you were dead. Well, now they do. Have you seen those comments? They think you are dead."

And then, with her special brand of supportive encouragement, she said, quite simply, "BLOG, BITCH."

So here I am, a blogging bitch. After so much time you'd think I'd have a lot to talk about. But, as it always the case when I stay away for too long, somehow the more that happens, the less I have to say about it all.

Speaking of Graci, I'm getting ready for a little weekend trip during which I get to see her. The very thought of it makes me unbelievably excited--dance around your kitchen squealing like a girl excited--and a little bit scared. I say scared because I know how Graci hugs a person she hasn't seen in awhile. It's like handing a frog to a toddler. She'll squeeze me until my eyes bug out and I pee on myself a little. I'm looking forward to every incontinent minute of it.

In between getting ready shit (laundry, dishes, a haircut, and the like), I'm going to try to post a snippet or two--little pieces of things that have happened over the past few weeks.


And he's pretty much been ignoring me ever since

A funny thing happened on the way to Blake reading my blog...namely, a month of him not ever actually reading my blog.

On the morning of October 26th, just after I had written my I know you all think I'm one bad ass motherfucker but I'm secretly an intermittently lonely and incredibly vulnerable chick only cleverly disguised as a bad ass motherfucker post, I walked into work to get report from Blake who was working nights. He said, "I've been searching for your blog for the last hour."

I said, "What do you mean you've been searching for it...I sent you that text telling you where it was a month ago."

"No you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

"No. You didn't."

"Yes. I did."

"No. You didn't."... and on that went.

Awestruck witnesses could not help but draw comparisons between the brilliance of this riveting tete-a-tete and the famed Lincoln-Douglas debates. The former was made even more impressive by its accompanied feverish search through our cell phone text message records for proof that I had, in fact, told Blake about the blog.

"October 5th. There it is. You said, 'Evan said that I should be the sham wow guy and you should be the hooker that beat me up for Halloween.'

And then I said, 'Evan is a genius. That would actually make for a great blog post. Speaking of which...google Terroni and look for the one that's not an Italian eatery.'"

"Oh that? I didn't know what the hell you were talking about, so I just ignored that."

"Well, that will teach you to ignore me."


Stupid fucking pheromones

So, there's this guy. And something about him makes me stupid. I actually have to avoid thinking about him in detail now so that I can tell this story with a real subject followed by a verb sentence or two.

He works on Friday nights, supervising admissions in the ER. The rest of the week, he manages a primary care practice in the suburbs. He and I met for the first time months ago. It was a simple, straightforward case. Diverticulitis. The physical exam revealed left lower quadrant abdominal pain in a post-menopausal slightly overweight woman who probably hasn't eaten any real fiber since 1984. The patient said, "My primary care doctor said that I probably have diverticulitis." The CT scan reading said, Hey Terroni, your patient has diverticulitis.

Simple. Straightforward. A high school kid with access to Google and a Grey's Anatomy rerun could have treated this patient.

I walked out of the room and headed for a computer to enter my admission orders.

Then, he walked in.

I don't know what it is about him. He's cute, but not empirically beautiful. It's not like when he walks into a room 90% of the women and 10% of the men swoon. But, there's something there...a pheromone thing, perhaps?

He said, "Do you want to go over this admission?"

"Uh, sure," I said. So far, so good. Notice how I don't yet sound like someone who's recently suffered a closed head injury.

"So, what do you think is going on here?"

And this is where it all falls apart. "Uh...I don't know."

"Ok. Did you see the patient?"

"Yeah..."

"And, did you see the CT results?"

"Uh huh, I saw those."

"Ok...so do you have any ideas about what might be going on here?"

I was thinking, I know what I wish was going on here, and holy shit, lips that beautiful should not be allowed to be worn out in public. I stared at him. Studied him like he was a fucking piece of art.

He finally gave up on getting anything even semi-intelligent out of me and, a little deflated by his failed attempt at teaching, said, "Have you considered the possibility that she might have diverticulitis?"

"Uh...yeah," I said. "Sounds good."

We then painstakingly went through the patient's plan. A plan I had already written down but now could not articulate (or flip over my H&P form and simply read aloud) for the life of me.

Stupid fucking pheromones.

Fast forward several months to two weeks ago...

I was on call on Friday night and a had another simple, straightforward admission. I walked into the room, and there he was with the patient. I excused myself, pretending I had to answer a page. When he was done talking to the patient, I went in the room to do my history and physical.

A few minutes later, I headed back out with a simple, straightforward plan...and ran right into him. He was standing outside, waiting for me. We walked over to a tall counter next to some computers. He leaned on the counter and, as he did, bumped his head on a small overhead light. He laughed a little, looked at me, and said, "So...what do you want to do?"

I want to climb up you and lick your lips, I thought. That's what I want to do.

But a voice in my head screamed, "For the first time in your life, T, for the love of God, try not to say what you're thinking."

I stood there.
Silent.

He smiled and repeated himself, saying, "Tell me what you want to do."

At this point, I actually got a little annoyed.
Seriously, I thought, would it kill you to rephrase that question? How can anyone focus on a patient when you're walking around the ER with those lips saying things like that? Good lord, give it a rest already.

We eventually got through the admission. When he walked away, one of the other interns looked at me and said, "What the hell was that?" She had been sitting at a nearby computer, watching the whole thing.

"Shut up," I said, "it's not my fault. Stupid fucking pheromones."

She laughed.
She's been laughing at me for two weeks since.