A Change

This is my last week as an official medical student "drop out." I'm dropping back in on July 5th. I'm excited. Anna comes home from the ICU and dazzles me with stories from the life in health care, constantly reigniting my desire to get back in the game.

Just for the sake of a personal accounting of my last year I want to catalog some of the fun I had, some of the things I did:

-Hikes with Anna all over Southern Arizona
-Campouts until 9 pm
-Pick up the guitar and learn the classical approach
-Play the piano any time I passed one
-Serve as a boy scout leader
-Play basketball
-Compete in road bike races
-Run a road race
-Work as a substitute teacher (One of the most fun things I did)
-Work with Jennifer as a punch boy in Mesa again
-Visit family in Thatcher, Lake Powell, and Salt Lake
-Read, read, and read (I'm a new fan of Newberry books)
-Publish in a radiology journal
-Eat good Anna dinner without having to pick up a medical book to study soon after
-Sunday walks with Anna
-Sleep in when Anna had days off (I feel guilty typing this)
-Write thoughts, figure out what I like to write
-Make sling shots and give them away to missionaries in the Tucson mission
-Go on exchanges with the Elders
-Go to Bookman's often
-Watch movies with Anna
-Drop off my brother at the MTC before he headed out to Cusco, Peru (a great highlight)
-Play tennis (watch out Rich!)
-Listen to NPR and Dan Patrick radio on many a morning (these two shows have a way of canceling out the flow of information in my head)
-Journal
-Look up family history
-Call family more often
-Learn about trees (there seemed to be a calming influence as I finally learned about these standing neighbors I pass everyday)

And there was more to bore. Oh! And I got to watch March Madness and the NBA Finals uninterrupted by study or hospital work. But trust me, I'm excited to join the human race again in the normal way of life.

But how normal it will be you can decide. Come back and check out the adventures of a fourth year medical student, which begin July 5th. My first clerkship (5 week assignment) is in psychiatry.

One Unfortunate Event

We drove home from Utah yesterday, into incredible wind. Gales, in fact. Also, much of the way down I-17, 89A and I-10 was under construction. At one place on the 89 between Lee's Ferry and Flagstaff we were forced to stop at a one-way section of road. The oncoming and outgoing traffic shared alternating turns of the one way stretch. We pulled right up into line to wait out turn. We rolled down the windows to get some fresh air. We were out in the middle of nowhere. The wind was blowing. Clouds were sailing their shadows across the hills. And the mood was calm. But then it stank like a mix of partially clean bathroom and partially messy bathroom. And there, upwind, on a solitary hill stood a port-a-john. The door was flapping open in the wind, sending the sweet smell of good stuff right into our car. We rolled up the windows and cranked up the A/C, in idle mind you! Gone are the last tracings of Grandpa's conservative influence on me and cars. Fear not though, I still drive 65 mph.

Anna is the most, most patient wife in the world.

The humble Noble

I attend a weekly neuro-oncology tumor conference. I can point out the brain on an MRI, and maybe a tumor or two, but beyond that I have no real expertise. But I like to listen, and watch. I am, after all, just a student.

Someday I want to participate in a meaningful way in one of these conferences. You know, House style. Wham! Bam! Slam!

That's the esprit de corp at this conference. You have the brightest of the brightest from disciplines such as radiology, pathology, neurosurgery and more, who discuss tough cases and create a management plan for patients. And they sometimes never have mercy on each other. The doctors seem young, vibrant, strong, and persuasive. You know your stuff if you wear this medical badge of courage. And if you're shot down with a whamable and slamable comment, you bite your tongue until it's your turn to strike.

These conferences are fun.

But...meaningful contribution. When am I going to make one? I would love to know it all. But today I saw something that reminded me of what medicine is all about and how I would hope to contribute. To establish context, the computer mouse and keyboard were malfunctioning, delaying the conference proceedings. So as each case was brought up on the computer, heads rolled and comments were made. "Why can't we fix this?" "This is unacceptable." "We can't go on this way."

But on we went, heads rolling. Off in the corner of the horseshoe arrangement of tables sat a retired surgeon. He had long, stringy white hair. He wore a long sleeve maroon shirt with khakis. And he had his black buckle briefcase that looked like it was from the seventies on the table, with a tooth-paste looking stain on it. He had two stacked cups that ten minutes before held his coffee, sitting in front of him. He attends these conferences, as some retired doctors do, for reasons unknown to me. I guess it's to keep up or to provide input.

As far as input goes, no one wanted to hear from him. I kid you not, when he would raise his hand to comment, the doctor as the lectern would look at his raised right hand and ignore him. No time for an old-timer who studied in the analog age with printed books and medical journals. But the old man stayed. After the third case, he got up and left. I was standing in the back and looked forward to taking his chair but thought I'd give it two minutes just to be sure he was gone.

Then, back in he walked - oh I forgot, he also had a cane - holding a mouse and keyboard he grabbed from a nearby vacant office. He weaved past the extended legs of the doctors right up to the lectern to replace the malfunctioning hardware. After the job was done, he walked back through the gauntlet of extended legs and sat down in his chair.

And the conference proceeded, in my mind, beautifully.

This retired doc got the job done, no matter how custodial it was. It was a simple event in the day but I want to remember this guy! Especially if I get in the habit of sitting back and rolling my head. Meaningful contribution.

The Fabulous World of Newberry

I like for people to tell me what is good. Trails to run, food to eat, movies to watch, and books to read. I like when they all have been critically reviewed and recommended. I'm not much of a cultural scout. And I've taken this preference to my book reading this last month.

I read three Newberry Honors in a month, and for not being a novel guy (pun perfectly intended) I can't get enough.

Newberry winners are fantastic authors. They write well. If I could ever write as well as them I would consider my skills to have maxed out. Think about it, their challenge is to engage the youth. You have to use words to make a kid stop, sit down, open a book, and read to completion. There is power in those words, especially if all the words you use for your boy scouts are "Shut-up!" or "sit-down." I want to learn a better method and I think those Newberry books have the answer.

The greatest of the latest:

The Bronze Bow

Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy

Wednesday Wars (which didn't win but got runner up)

I'm going to miss these reads when I pick up the stethoscope again...

The Man Who Killed Santa Claus

This is taken from "The Story of My Life" by Benner Azro Hall:

"In December of 1932, the local newspaper was a weekly, called the Mesa-Journal Tribune. John McPhee was the editor and publisher of the paper. Well, that year, he and some of the business men came up with a brilliant idea to add some excitement to the Christmas celebration. On Friday, December 9, the Journal had front page headlines which announced, 'Santa Claus Coming in Airplane'. The article went on to say that he would fly over Mesa, do a few loops, then jump out in a parachute to land in the arms of the waiting crowd.

Well, that should be really exciting. At that time there was only one airplane available in Mesa, a two-wing biplane, flown by Mitchell McFadden. They found a stunt man someplace, who agreed to dress up like Santa and jump out of the plane.

Unfortunately, the stunt man was one who was fond of alcoholic beverages and he started celebrating too early. When they were ready to load him in the plane he was so drunk he couldn't stand up. So, John McPhee came up with another idea.

They put Santa's costume on a dummy, put a parachute on it, and loaded it in the plane. McFadden was instructed to fly over the crowd, do a few loops, then push Santa out of the plane, so he would land in a field, just outside of town. The police car would drive down Main Street, with another man dressed as Santa.

Well, all went well, with lots of excited children as the plane flew over, doing its stunt; but then tragedy struck the great town of Mesa.

When Mitch pushed the dummy out, the parachute didn't open. You can just imagine all the terrified children, gasping as Santa's body tumbled to the earth.

But, a few minutes later, all were relieved when the police car came driving down the street, with Santa in the back, waving and throwing bags of candy to the amazed children. The Christmas spirit was renewed in the town of Mesa, but Mr. McPhee had difficulty living down the reputation as 'The man who killed Santa'."

Sedona

Here's to spontaneity pointing at Sedona. Thanks Craiglist.

Space to Grow

When I feel something, I write. When I write, I learn about about what matters to me. I recently wrote about homosexuality. And through the post I learned that what matters most to me are my relationships with others.

I have met so many amazing people in my life I can call friends; I feel like the richest man on earth. Over the last few days I've burned bridges with my words. How I would risk friendships to preach something I was never called upon to preach is beyond me to answer. I don't know. But I know more about the personal regression that comes from highlighting the mote in my brother's eye.

My beams are many. Big enough to support the biggest cathedral of self-worship sometimes. I want nothing more to do with motes. I need to work on my cathedral.

We are all walking the same road of choices no matter who or where we are. My choice is not your choice, but since when did that make me better than you? What would separate us would not be our choices, but withholding love from each other. Thank you for allowing me space to learn this, space to grow.