MM 101, Lesson 6: On the Defensive

It's about time for another lesson in medical matrimony, don't you think?

Picture this: You are the partner of a medical student, and you are completely mad about this person.  They are pretty much the greatest thing since Mickey Mouse key chains (or some other really awesome thing---I just say the key chain thing because at the time I met Dr. D when I was 10, there was really nothing greater than any sort of Disney kitsch that I could affix to my backpack).  You are supportive of their career choice 100% and think they are seriously going to change the world, one patient at a time.  It so happens that you are also fairly confident that you will make your own equally important, unique mark in the world.  You just won't be doing it with a ", MD" behind your name.

You're meeting someone at work for the first time.  Or maybe you're at dinner with a new group of people.  Or at a bar.  Or making small-talk in line at the grocery store.

{small talk ensues}

You: "Blah blah blah [insert partner's name off-handedly here] blah blah."

Fairly uninterested, but socially polite person you've just met: "Hmm, really?  That's great.  What does [partner's name] do?"

You: "Oh, he's in medical school.  But anyway, blah blah bl---"

Now surprisingly interested, kind of judgey person you've still only just met: "---Oooh, a doctor, huh?  Well that must be nice..."

So here's our next lesson in medical matrimony: prepare to periodically go on the defensive when it comes to your partner's chosen career and your presumed motives for loving them.

Unfortunately I've had some variation of the above conversation on multiple occasions.  I'm never really sure at first what makes me more indignant: the insinuation that Dr. D is only studying to be a doctor because he wants to line his pockets and use Benjamins as toilet paper, or that I've only chosen to be with him because I'm some kind of talentless, motivation-less gold digger who's hoping to rake in some cash so I can buy myself butt-loads of diamonds/cucumber facials/catty friends.

Pardon me, is my bitterness showing?

Truth is, I loved Dr. D even back when he thought he'd probably go to film school.  Truth is, the only butt-load of anything we're going to have for a while is debt, but we're both completely okay with that because we can live modestly.  Truth is, I happen to be in love with a fantastic man, but I am a strong and independent woman and there isn't much that can piss me off more than implying that I'd be lost without his financial support.  Truth is, it's the Mrs. who is currently bringing home the bacon, and glad to be doing it.  And I think he's glad, too.

Can I get an Amen?

MM 101, Lesson 5: Almost

My husband is a lot of things.

Witty, charming, handsome. Disciplined, motivated, intelligent. A force to be reckoned with in the kitchen. A converted dog person. A Mac person.

One thing Dr. D is not, however, is a doctor. Not yet, anyway.

That's right, my affinity for alliteration (see what I did there?) led me to create for him a pseudonym that he has yet to fully grow in to. But "Dr. D" just rolls off the computer screen so much easier than "Medical Student D." It's kind of like buying shoes for a baby---you might as well buy them a couple sizes too big, because you know they'll grow in to them eventually.

Dr. D is an almost-doctor. And having a partner in medical school has taught me that the concept of "almost" can be two very different things.

In the "not quite there yet" sense of the word, this is what "almost" looks like for us:

• Him: Knowing he has the knowledge and skills to do doctor-like things, but having to put up with being the bottom-feeder in the clinical pecking-order. For example, just the other night when we were out with some friends, we were introduced to someone who is a nurse at a local hospital. Upon finding out that Dr. D was a medical student, she wrinkled her nose and said, "We hate med students, no offense." None taken, I'm sure.
  

• Me: Living in a weird world of homemaker limbo (I'm gonna give you a second to realize that I'm not talking about the cruise-ship/party kind of limbo so you can shake away that mental image of a lady in an apron shimmying under a bar... okay, ready?) where I avoid home decorating and big-kid purchases like furniture because I know we'll be moving, so I might as well wait.
  

But on the other hand, "almost" can also mean "close enough," which results in:

• Him: Getting cornered by family and friends at parties or during vacations, and being asked his "professional opinion" about a variety of ailments and maladies. Listening politely and sympathetically as people (over)share, and then watching faces fall and dodging eye-daggers when he replies with, "Yeah, you should definitely have that checked out by your primary care physician." {gulp drink, make b-line for finger food}

• Me: Doing things like whining "fiiiiiiiiiiix meeeeeee" at Dr. D when I'm sick, fantasizing about the scholarship fund that I want us to create when we eventually don't have to spend our entire income every month on this little ol' thing called living, entertaining the idea of starting a family someday (without hyperventilating), and... well, referring to my husband as "Dr. D."

I think we're both looking forward to a time in the near future (14 months, to be precise) when we can put this "almost" phase of our life behind us. But at least we're having some good times along the way.

MM 101, Lesson 4: The Danger of Differentials

Over the past two years, I've heard some pretty freaky medical stuff. I'm talking weeping pustular wounds, anus-dwelling worms who lay eggs at night, African sleeping sickness... the stuff nightmares are made of, for the medically overly-informed.

Is it really any wonder at all that I've become a bit of a hypochondriac?

I'm not quite sure that hypochondriac is the right work for it, actually. It's not like I'm constantly telling myself that I'm sick---in fact, I do my best to tell myself I'm not sick until it's absolutely apparent that I am. So I guess I'm not really sure if there's a word for it...

Let's just put it this way, in terms of medical matrimony: Marrying a med student means you'll often assume the very worst of your ailments, thanks to a handy thing called a "list of differential diagnoses."

Differential diagnosis is just fancy doctor-talk for "shtuff that might be going wrong." It's something that doctors use to move from a patient's chief complaint or symptoms to an actual diagnosis. Every symptom you can think of---runny nose, blurred vision, swollen fingers, you name it---has a differential diagnosis, a list of things that could be wrong with the patient. All of my medically inclined readers will probably balk at this statement but, yes, it's kind of like the list of illnesses you get when you fill out WebMD.

So, I'm sick. Last weekend, I started to get a sore throat and a runny nose---signs of my first cold of the year. However, in true married-to-a-med-student fashion, my first thought was that I might have strep throat. But THEN... I remembered I had been fatigued lately. Fatigue has a huuuuuuuuge differential diagnosis, and one of the only things I can really remember being on that list is mononucleosis. So then I start thinking, oh man... I have mono. And then after a couple days I start coughing, so I'm like, this is definitely bronchitis. Or maybe whooping cough. Tuberculosis?

Thank goodness I'm not a doctor, or I'd have everybody thinking that their runny noses mean they've got TB. Dr. D tells me that I've probably just got some viral upper-respiratory infection, which should clear up in the next week (phew!).

That's the danger of being only slightly informed about differential diagnoses, though. I know just enough to scare myself, but not enough to really know what I'm talking about. Thankfully I've got Dr. D here to tell me I'm not dying.

I think I'm gonna go back to sleep.

MM 101, Lesson 3: Canis Fidelis

You may have gathered that there have been many quiet evenings spent at home for us over the past couple months; Dr. D at the kitchen table with his books, and me on the living room couch with my laptop. By no means have we been complete shut-ins--we've still managed to do a little traveling, had some meals out on the town, some drinks with friends--but we're nowhere near the social butterflies we were before this boards business started.

As someone who identifies as a bit of a home-body and who has taken multiple personality assessments that label me an "introvert" (although I prefer to think of myself as a situational extrovert), I really haven't minded the social down time. I've managed to adjust to sharing my husband with textbooks and Dr. Edward Goljan, and I've avoided going completely stir-crazy thanks to a certain fuzzy creature in our home who provides endless amounts of entertainment.

This brings me to my next lesson in Medical Matrimony: Get a dog. Preferably a dog that thinks you're fan-freaking-tastic.

For those of you who may be thinking, Who has the time for a dog?, I'll have you know that while Dr. D is a busy med student and I have a full time job, we share equal responsibility for this little fur ball and we've had an absolute blast with him over the past 2 years. (Disclaimer: the puppy/potty training stage was a bit of a struggle so if you're a full time student and you don't have a partner living with you to help split puppy duty, I'd suggest adopting an older dog). Don't let the time commitment scare you off! Dr. D and I have learned that the benefits of loyal dog companionship (canis fidelis, if you will) far outweigh the disadvantages.

I'd like to share a few reasons why having J-dog around has been such a hoot in our household:

• Witnessing a dog's range of emotions helps you appreciate and experience those same feelings more deeply in your own life, especially when you find yourself jaded after a long and arduous day. For example, I don't think any of us truly understand just how FREAKING AWESOME it is when we come home from work/school every day. According to J-dog's perky ears, tongue-lolling smile, and frenzied propeller-like tail motion, coming home is an event worthy of pure joy, and thanks to him I now feel that joy every time I walk in the door. Also, if I could bottle up and give away the unquenchable hope that J-dog displays every time I open the peanut butter jar, I think antidepressants would be rendered useless.
• Dogs can learn to do things about 5 million times faster than babies. This is great not only because they can do a lot more than just lay there, eat, and poop for the first months of their lives, but because you can teach them to do silly and fantastically entertaining things without getting CPS called on you. If I were to teach my baby to fall over and play dead when I yelled "BANG!" at it, I'd be deemed an unfit mother. But when my dog does it, it elicits applause. Booyah.
• I typically plug in my headphones and mess around on my computer while I wait for my baking to finish, which could easily spell crispy, burnt disaster since I can't hear the oven timer. However, J-dog always lets me know when the oven beeps at the one-minute mark with an earnest nose to the arm followed by a "rally the troops" lap trotted around the couch where I'm sitting. I have no idea how he learned to do this, but batch after batch, he never fails me.
• J-dog is the best remedy to a stressed out/studied out/burned out day. Whether it's cuddles or wrasslin' you're after, this dog's got both in spades. Dr. D is now in the habit of taking what he calls "Poodle Breaks" during high-stress study sessions, which usually involves a little bit of chasing, some tug of war, a dash of capoeira style sparring, and typically ends with J-dog hitting Dr. D in the crotch. And yet, miraculously, the Poodle Breaks continue. I'm a bit more partial to the cuddling.

It's quite possible for me to go on forever about this awkward, fluffy, mess-of-a-dog we share our home with, but I'll spare you for now. Just know that I would highly suggest canine companionship for any young couple that is faced with a lifestyle-changing situation like medical school, grad school, or the professional world. I've found that it's helped us stay grounded in our home life, and we've grown closer by learning to love someone/something besides each other--it's also an affordable alternative to parenthood. It's giving us some time to warm up to the idea...

...in the future, Mom. The waaaaaaaaay future.

MM 101, Lesson 2: Battle of the Snooze

"What time did you set your alarm for?"

So begins our routine nightly conversation, post-pillow adjustment and pre-lights out. It has the pretense of being a very delicate operation: the answer to this question stands to dictate not only who gets first dibs on the bathroom, but what time breakfast will be (or if there's any at all) and who will take J-dog out for his morning business.

Notice I say pretense and stands to. The morning alarm could very well determine the course of the entire day, and there was a time in my life (when I didn't live with Dr. D) when that was most certainly the case.

But that was before the Epic Battle of the Snooze slithered its silly little way into my mornings. Yes, friends, my husband has a snoozing problem. "Problem" may be too mild of a word. Dependency. That's more like it.

And here's my next lesson in medical matrimony: you cannot win this battle against a med student.

Oh, how I've tried. When the snoozing began during the first week of Dr. D's first year, I dismissed it as a fluke, rationalizing to myself that he wasn't used to getting up before 7am and he'd adjust eventually. As the snooze attacks continued, however, I realized I had to take some sort of action. Return fire. I discovered that there would rarely be a time when my alarm was set to go off before his, so measures had to be taken or I would be forced to repeatedly listen to the "Awoooga! Awoooga!" of his alarm at 9-minute intervals, which is just long enough to doze back to sleep, mere seconds before being ungraciously jolted back into consciousness. Multiple. Times. My responses evolved over time:

• Hoping that Dr. D might not realize that I, an innocent civilian, was caught in the cross-hairs between his need for "five more minutes, Mom" and the unforgiving punctuality of his alarm, I started to make passive comments about the morning struggle. I tried things like, "Boy, rough getting out of bed this morning, eh?" and "You must have been knocked out! Didn't hear the first couple of alarms, huh?" This tactic failed miserably.
• Next, I tried the stir and pat method. This involved intentionally stirring when his alarm went off (to signal that the alarm had worked on me, so maybe it should work on you too?) and then rolling over and patting him on the shoulder in an okay-time-to-get-up-please manner, which, if you're wondering, consists of two pats and a small counter-clockwise rub (repeat as necessary). This was met with limited and sporadic success.
• Alright. Hardball time. ...otherwise known as the "grumpy wife" maneuver. This one typically only came into play if I realized that he'd snoozed all the way from his original alarm time to a few minutes before mine was set to go off, eliminating any chance I had of getting back to sleep before my alarm. It's too ugly to go into much detail, but suffice it to say there was a lot of violent blanket yanking, angry rolling over, audible sighs of frustration, and even a stray kick or two aimed in Dr. D's general vicinity. Only ineffective on really snoozy mornings, but never a pleasant way to start the day.
• Finally, I played the pity card; something to the effect of me whining, "I can't handle the snoooooooze! It's not faaaaaaiiiiiiir!" And to my dear Dr. D's credit, he awarded me with a period of detente.

Ah, but old habits die hard. I will say it again: you cannot win the battle of the snooze against a med student. The snooze stealthily crept its way back into my life and eventually (please brace yourself)... I was taken prisoner. That's right, I am now a prisoner of war in the Epic Battle of the Snooze. I've even assimilated into the snooze culture.

I am a snoozer. I am an epic snoozer of med school proportions.

Sigh.

Medical Matrimony 101: Lesson 1

In the scheme of things, my marriage to Dr. D is in its infancy. However, I’d like to think that over the past two years (which, by the way, has anyone read or heard anything recently about time moving roughly 2.54 times faster than usual? Because, hot dang!), I’ve learned quite a bit about being married to a medical student.

I thought it might be fun to share this wisdom with you all, because even if you aren’t a med student/professional, or married to one, you might at least know one… or maybe you will someday? At the very least, if you find yourself in a bar near a hospital and it’s after 10pm, the knowledge I impart to you now may come in handy.

So, first lesson:

Watch Grey’s Anatomy.

Stop rolling your eyes. No really, stop—they might get stuck that way. Okay, not really. Dr. D tells me that’s a lie… unless you're taking anti-psychotics. See how helpful it is to know a med student?

But seriously, folks, for those of you who find yourselves in the midst of a gaggle (it’s a word, look it up) of med students, it may be advantageous to have a six-season arsenal of Grey’s Anatomy plot line knowledge at your disposal, as I do. Why?

• You can (sort of) speak their language. At the very least, you’ll know to make a frowny face when you hear them say that a patient had a “cardiomyopathy,” and you won’t embarrass yourself by casually commenting “Oh yeah? That’s cool” when they tell you they witnessed a patient go asystolic. (<--Not ringing any bells? How about “beeeeeeeeeeeeeep…”? Yeah, now you’ve got it.)

• You’ll understand what they mean when they tell you exactly where they are in their journey from lowly med student to big-shot doctor, because whatever term they use (intern, resident, chief resident, attending, chief of surgery, etc.), you’ll be able to equate it to a character: “Oh, you’re an intern about to take your medical board exam? Man, hope you don’t pull a Karev a bomb that sucker!” Season 2, baby.

Okay, fine. Maybe you just don’t have a stomach for all the romantic storylines and double entendres, or perhaps you can’t suspend disbelief long enough to go along with the fact that all of the doctors’ sleeping around with each other hasn’t given them all some sort of disease—fast forward through those parts and KEEP WATCHING because…

• You can gain some serious “med cred” (how stoked am I that I just came up with that?!) by knowing about some of the more ridiculous conditions that are featured on the show, especially if the med student/doctor you’re talking to doesn’t know that it was a plotline on Grey’s. Because believe it or not, most of the medical cases on the show are based—sometimes more loosely than others—on real medicine. For example, those of you who watch the show might remember the dude who kept eating cotton balls and other medical supplies when the doctors' backs were turned… I dare you to bring up Pica Disorder in casual conversation with a med student. Minds will be blown.

Class dismissed.

Medical Matrimony, et al.

I have this crazy idea. Or maybe it's less of an idea and more of a theory, since "idea" implies a sense of originality---and let's face it, blogging hasn't been original since, what, 1997? I was 12 at that time, and let me be honest: in sixth grade I was too busy collecting key chains, sketching Disney characters and ignoring the fact that poor Dr. D (my husband) was in excruciating puppy love with me, to ever have the expendable brain waves to create the idea for online diary-writing. Let alone to think of calling it a "blahg." I mean really.
So my theory is this: I am going to want to remember this. What is "this," you may wonder? (I do realize that posing this hypothetical question assumes a readership greater than zero, which may be somewhat arrogant and misguided on my part, but I digress...)
When I say I want to remember this, I mean these early years of our marriage, and how we (Dr. D and I) got to this point in our lives, as individuals and as partners. I want to remember the big things and the little things, because sometimes the little things have an even bigger influence on the road ahead than all of the big things combined. For instance, one day when Dr. D was in grade school he was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. That was a little thing, a moment in time. But because of his answer to that question, we're where we are now and Dr. D is halfway done with his medical degree. We've had the chance to build a home together and learn to rely on each other and trust in our love. We're also farther away from our family and friends than we ever expected to be, so it's my hope that this can be a way to share our lives with them despite the distance.
Woah... that got heavy for a second, didn't it? Let me lighten the mood a bit with the thing that I'd like to remember today:
Dr. D and I frequently have deep, existential conversations. On one such occasion, we posed to each other the question: if your spouse was a vegetable, what vegetable would they be? My loving husband eagerly blurted out his answer first: "You would be a GREEN BEAN!" I must not have been able to mask my disappointment and rising body-image sensitivity fast enough (I mean c'mon! Long, skinny, limp green beans?!), because he hastily added: "I mean... you're a well-proportioned green bean! With all the curves in the right beany places!"
He's a keeper.