The ICU is a horrible place, full of suffering. A place of weeping and gnashing of teeth. A place tainted by the stench of defeat and blessed far too infrequently with the perfume of triumph. It is a parasite that feeds on your soul. It grinds on you daily physically. It grinds on you daily emotionally. It grinds on you daily intellectually. If the ICU had its way, it would leave you as ashen and hollow as the bodies left by those that pass their final breathe there. It is a zombie, wantonly seeking brains only to leave a wake of pestilence and apathy.
As you can imagine, its can be quite an unpleasant dish. Especially when it’s served with sides of early mornings, call every third day, and only 4 days off out of 32. The piece de resistance, for me, is partaking in this smorgasbord of despair during Christmas.
While my wife, who is 716 miles away, opens gifts and plays Rock Band I get to gather a family and tell them we’re out of options. Their father is dying and there is nothing we can do to stop it. On Christmas day.
Today was an especially vigorous beating. The particularly beautiful sunrise left me optimistic that, despite having admitted seven new patients yesterday and discharged only one, Christmas day would be a day of celebration. I’ll spare you the details, but when I left this afternoon the overcast sky, sidewalk, and façade of the hospital were a pallid infinity of melancholy befitting of the events that unfolded in the interim of my arrival and departure.
My drive home was filled primarily with thoughts of Glenlivet and napping—an indifferent repose punctuated briefly by moments of terror related to esoteric diagnoses and outlier lab values that gradually submitted to rationalism. It was with this mindset that I crested the pass and saw, of all things, a rainbow. It was so cliché.
I’d like to tell you the rainbow engendered some epiphany and offered me the strength to carry on and fight the fight one more day. But it didn’t. It was just pretty to look at. The reality is I will fight the fight only because I’m forced to. It comes to me, and I either surrender or fight. That is the poignant reality of the ICU, which for me has become the allegory of life itself.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Dying Miserably.
Death is a funny thing. Well, not really funny “ha ha”, but peculiar. The afterlife is a topic addressed by every major religion. The Buddhist even wrote an entire book dedicated to guiding the recently dead from this world to the next. It’s a dilemma all mankind faces. I talked to a mentor who works in hospice. He told me that there are three kinds of people: those that die joyfully, those that die with indifference, and those that die miserably. The indifferent believe they die, go six feet under and that’s it. It’s final, which lends some comfort. The joyful believe in an afterlife, a Heaven and Hell, and know they are going to Heaven. The miserable are the ones that interest me. They fight for weeks, teetering on the edge, go with restlessness and have much fear of dying. These people believe in an afterlife, but don’t know where they are headed. My interest isn’t morbid or malevolent—I don’t enjoy suffering. My interest is because of an experience I had as a young man of 19 years.
It was a hot May evening. In Texas May is already hot, the two weeks of Spring passed months ago and the Summer’s oppressive heat is on full force. A week before I received my EMT-B license, something I got on a whim because it sounded fun, plus, it looked cool from what I’d seen on TV. I figured it would help me pick up chicks too! I went in to see if my local EMS provider was hiring and got, “Can you start tomorrow?” in response. This was my mindset that May evening. My job was an exciting TV show. It was voyeurism at its finest. And so I sat, on Medic 58, waiting for the commercials to give way to the action of the show.
Imagine my joy when, “Medic 58, five-eight, copy call,” crackled over the radio. “Priority 1 respiratory problem. Unknown age male caller states he can’t breath and hung up after requesting ambulance.” We were in the poorest part of the city, an area legendary amongst the veterans for drive by’s and death. Imagine my disappointment with a banal asthma call, a common affliction of the predominantly African American population.
We made the eight-block response in under 45 seconds. Barely over 2 minutes passed from the time Dispatch answered the phone to the time we checked “on scene.” I was the third man on the truck. That meant I was in the “hazing” phase of my training. For me, EMT really stood for “extra man on truck.” My job was to carry the gear. All of it. On every call, even if it was a stubbed toe. When I got to the patient I was then to take a blood pressure and start getting demographic data. My partners were at the door when I came waddling up with an ED’s-worth of gear. I could hear someone pleading, “Help I can’t breath!” It was like his mantra. “Ok, but first you gotta unlock the door, guy!” my partner pleaded half-heartedly. He too was disappointed with the Trauma Gods afflicting us with this medical patient. The mantra is all he got in response from the patient. In this part of town, everyone had bars on their doors and windows. Most didn’t have AC, so cast iron doors were locked with the wooden door open to allow ventilation with the 100 degree humid Texas air. This was our dilemma: we could see our patient, a black teenager, on his knees bent over with his chest on a couch not more than eight feet away. As we debated what to do, we noticed a coffee table pushed to the door with a key conspicuously placed at arms reach. We were in.
“Ok, calm down, lemme check you out, guy,” my partner said matter-of-factly as he turned the man around and sat him on the couch. “Shit. Damnit! He’s shot, get the fuck out!” Strong moments require strong language.
I stared at a still smoking gunshot wound. It stared back, like a big eye in the middle of his chest. More like a black eye, due to the large powder burn around it. This guy had been shot recently and at point blank range. I turned around and put my nose in someone’s chest. A big someone. Dressed in black. I could have made diamonds from coal in various parts of my body, but especially my ass cheeks. Every muscle clenched in an effort to ward off the bullet that was about to strike me.
“Whatcha got guys?” asked the oak-tree sized cop. The cops automatically get dispatched any time someone calls 911 and hangs up.
“Shot.” is all I could squeeze past my vocal chords, still locked down under the control of a near lethal amount of fear-induced epinephrine. That was the day I developed infinite respect for cops. That guy routed around that entire house, lit only by a 20-watt light bulb, gun drawn and ready to take life if he had to, by himself. He put himself in imminent danger so the scene could be declared safe and we could do our job. He put his life on the line for some kid he knew nothing of. Way cool, in my book.
Well, we worked this kid over. Darted his chest, started an EJ, we were even debating pericardiocentesis but decided bouncing around at high speeds in the back of an ambulance wasn’t the best place to try our hand at this one. At the ED, they cracked his chest downstairs in the trauma bay. Gave him cardiac massage, hit him with the internal paddles. I watched his lungs inflate—outside his body. This was the coolest job ever. The only thing that kept it from being perfect TV was that the kid died.
A few hours later we returned to the same ED with a boring CHF exacerbation. Bad television. As I took the stretcher back to the ambulance I passed a large group of screaming black people, all hugging and weeping. “Whats up with them?” I asked the triage nurse incredulously.
“Oh, that’s the family of that gang banger you guys drug in,” she replied casually.
It was like someone unplugged the TV. Suddenly the weight of reality crushed me. I imagine it would feel about the same as having the oak-tree cop standing on your shoulders. The suffering that surrounded me in the ED was for the first time exposed to me, uncensored for TV. No more was it a “great call.” It was now a kid, who was begging me to save his life, who I watched die. I was there for the last miserable, begging moments of his life. He died miserably.
That was the moment medicine became more than a TV show, more than a pay check. That’s when it became someone’s baby. Someone’s baby brother. The uncle that would never give their nephew a Christmas present. That kid could have been me had life gone differently. My job was life or death.
To this day, I take my work very seriously, if nothing more than out of respect for the babies, the brothers, and the uncles—the family—who’s lives and futures become my job. I wish I could have told that kid the effect his death would have on me and on the lives of those that I would treat in the future. Maybe he wouldn’t have been one of those that died miserably.
It was a hot May evening. In Texas May is already hot, the two weeks of Spring passed months ago and the Summer’s oppressive heat is on full force. A week before I received my EMT-B license, something I got on a whim because it sounded fun, plus, it looked cool from what I’d seen on TV. I figured it would help me pick up chicks too! I went in to see if my local EMS provider was hiring and got, “Can you start tomorrow?” in response. This was my mindset that May evening. My job was an exciting TV show. It was voyeurism at its finest. And so I sat, on Medic 58, waiting for the commercials to give way to the action of the show.
Imagine my joy when, “Medic 58, five-eight, copy call,” crackled over the radio. “Priority 1 respiratory problem. Unknown age male caller states he can’t breath and hung up after requesting ambulance.” We were in the poorest part of the city, an area legendary amongst the veterans for drive by’s and death. Imagine my disappointment with a banal asthma call, a common affliction of the predominantly African American population.
We made the eight-block response in under 45 seconds. Barely over 2 minutes passed from the time Dispatch answered the phone to the time we checked “on scene.” I was the third man on the truck. That meant I was in the “hazing” phase of my training. For me, EMT really stood for “extra man on truck.” My job was to carry the gear. All of it. On every call, even if it was a stubbed toe. When I got to the patient I was then to take a blood pressure and start getting demographic data. My partners were at the door when I came waddling up with an ED’s-worth of gear. I could hear someone pleading, “Help I can’t breath!” It was like his mantra. “Ok, but first you gotta unlock the door, guy!” my partner pleaded half-heartedly. He too was disappointed with the Trauma Gods afflicting us with this medical patient. The mantra is all he got in response from the patient. In this part of town, everyone had bars on their doors and windows. Most didn’t have AC, so cast iron doors were locked with the wooden door open to allow ventilation with the 100 degree humid Texas air. This was our dilemma: we could see our patient, a black teenager, on his knees bent over with his chest on a couch not more than eight feet away. As we debated what to do, we noticed a coffee table pushed to the door with a key conspicuously placed at arms reach. We were in.
“Ok, calm down, lemme check you out, guy,” my partner said matter-of-factly as he turned the man around and sat him on the couch. “Shit. Damnit! He’s shot, get the fuck out!” Strong moments require strong language.
I stared at a still smoking gunshot wound. It stared back, like a big eye in the middle of his chest. More like a black eye, due to the large powder burn around it. This guy had been shot recently and at point blank range. I turned around and put my nose in someone’s chest. A big someone. Dressed in black. I could have made diamonds from coal in various parts of my body, but especially my ass cheeks. Every muscle clenched in an effort to ward off the bullet that was about to strike me.
“Whatcha got guys?” asked the oak-tree sized cop. The cops automatically get dispatched any time someone calls 911 and hangs up.
“Shot.” is all I could squeeze past my vocal chords, still locked down under the control of a near lethal amount of fear-induced epinephrine. That was the day I developed infinite respect for cops. That guy routed around that entire house, lit only by a 20-watt light bulb, gun drawn and ready to take life if he had to, by himself. He put himself in imminent danger so the scene could be declared safe and we could do our job. He put his life on the line for some kid he knew nothing of. Way cool, in my book.
Well, we worked this kid over. Darted his chest, started an EJ, we were even debating pericardiocentesis but decided bouncing around at high speeds in the back of an ambulance wasn’t the best place to try our hand at this one. At the ED, they cracked his chest downstairs in the trauma bay. Gave him cardiac massage, hit him with the internal paddles. I watched his lungs inflate—outside his body. This was the coolest job ever. The only thing that kept it from being perfect TV was that the kid died.
A few hours later we returned to the same ED with a boring CHF exacerbation. Bad television. As I took the stretcher back to the ambulance I passed a large group of screaming black people, all hugging and weeping. “Whats up with them?” I asked the triage nurse incredulously.
“Oh, that’s the family of that gang banger you guys drug in,” she replied casually.
It was like someone unplugged the TV. Suddenly the weight of reality crushed me. I imagine it would feel about the same as having the oak-tree cop standing on your shoulders. The suffering that surrounded me in the ED was for the first time exposed to me, uncensored for TV. No more was it a “great call.” It was now a kid, who was begging me to save his life, who I watched die. I was there for the last miserable, begging moments of his life. He died miserably.
That was the moment medicine became more than a TV show, more than a pay check. That’s when it became someone’s baby. Someone’s baby brother. The uncle that would never give their nephew a Christmas present. That kid could have been me had life gone differently. My job was life or death.
To this day, I take my work very seriously, if nothing more than out of respect for the babies, the brothers, and the uncles—the family—who’s lives and futures become my job. I wish I could have told that kid the effect his death would have on me and on the lives of those that I would treat in the future. Maybe he wouldn’t have been one of those that died miserably.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Cheatin' the Reaper!
Very, very rarely do people that lose a pulse recover it. And when they do, its only for a short time and they eventually die or are left in a state where death might have been better. But every now and then, shit falls in line and you can walk in the room, point at the Reaper standing in the corner and say, "NOT ON MY WATCH, BUDDY!"
The other day just so happened to be one of those days. I was in the hall outside the guy's room when he went pulseless, I knew what was wrong with him and what I needed to do to fix it, and I was able to get the resources mobilized quickly.
The reaper put up a nice fight though--like hiding all the ET tube styletes forcing me to intubate with a flaccid ET tube. I also liked when he made the blood bank delay sending my blood up because they thought I wanted crossed blood instead of O neg.
However, in the end, I wrestled that mofo into submission and the reaper hung his head in shame and dragged his scythe down the hall.
So with that in mind, I leave you with the words of Sir Winston Churchill.
Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival.
The other day just so happened to be one of those days. I was in the hall outside the guy's room when he went pulseless, I knew what was wrong with him and what I needed to do to fix it, and I was able to get the resources mobilized quickly.
The reaper put up a nice fight though--like hiding all the ET tube styletes forcing me to intubate with a flaccid ET tube. I also liked when he made the blood bank delay sending my blood up because they thought I wanted crossed blood instead of O neg.
However, in the end, I wrestled that mofo into submission and the reaper hung his head in shame and dragged his scythe down the hall.
So with that in mind, I leave you with the words of Sir Winston Churchill.
Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
THE WAR IS OVER!
I'm declaring my war on nurses over! I know, its crazy!
The nurses I work with are some of the nicest, most respectful nurses I've ever worked with. They don't hate me, they don't try and (purposely) sabotage me, and they aren't complete bitches. Its pretty cool.
The other day my attending told me "get this guy out of the ED." I assumed that meant in a timely manner, not discharge him w/o any work up. So I ordered some stuff. When he realized I ordered some stuff he came to try and put his foot up my ass. I just kinda stood there and did the fight club thing where I go to the ice cave and slide around with the penguins. Just then, this nurse steps up and says basically says that she ordered it. The attending laughs and walks off.
That is just one of several cool thing nurses have done for me.
To be fair, some of them have accidentally fucked me. Like the one that kept pulling my nasal tampons out of this guys nose making it re-bleed and eventually requiring an urgent surgical consult and a transfusion. Or the other that "spaced" and forgot to check this guys blood sugar. When I was getting ready to intubate him later it was suddenly brought to my attention is sugar was 18.
Shit happens, and I'll gladly let it slide. Seriously, props to my nursing staff.
The nurses I work with are some of the nicest, most respectful nurses I've ever worked with. They don't hate me, they don't try and (purposely) sabotage me, and they aren't complete bitches. Its pretty cool.
The other day my attending told me "get this guy out of the ED." I assumed that meant in a timely manner, not discharge him w/o any work up. So I ordered some stuff. When he realized I ordered some stuff he came to try and put his foot up my ass. I just kinda stood there and did the fight club thing where I go to the ice cave and slide around with the penguins. Just then, this nurse steps up and says basically says that she ordered it. The attending laughs and walks off.
That is just one of several cool thing nurses have done for me.
To be fair, some of them have accidentally fucked me. Like the one that kept pulling my nasal tampons out of this guys nose making it re-bleed and eventually requiring an urgent surgical consult and a transfusion. Or the other that "spaced" and forgot to check this guys blood sugar. When I was getting ready to intubate him later it was suddenly brought to my attention is sugar was 18.
Shit happens, and I'll gladly let it slide. Seriously, props to my nursing staff.
Friday, August 1, 2008
How Herpes Can Do Good
Usually I consider myself a fairly heartless and calloused person, but every now and then something happens and I find myself unpleasantly surprised by my feelings of goodwill towards other humans or my clearly human side.
The back story.
Late Tuesday I had a strange feeling over my ribs where the serratus anterior muscle originates on the ribs. It felt a bit like a muscle strain, which didn't surprise me since I've changed my fitness goals and methods (more to come on this in a future entry). Wednesday night I noticed a few "bumps" over the 5th and 6th ribs on the mid axillary line. Over Thursday the bumps and pain evolved and it became clear late in the evening, near the end of my shift in the ED, I had fucking shingles, aka Herpes Zoster which is a reactivation of infection with the Varicella zoster virus--the little ass hole that used to cause chicken pox for those of us that pre-date the vaccination.
It is exceedingly painful. Burns. Itches. Hurts to touch. Hurts to move. Hurts to breath. It's awesome. Its not going to kill, just be a pain in the ass. But the physical pain isn't the reason it's a total (figurative) pain in my ass. See, Thursday was the last day of the month. That means Friday I'm supposed to leave the ED and start working in the SICU. This is a problem.
Why? Because while zoster is an inconvenience for me, it could be lethal to someone with a compromised immune system--you know, like critically ill trauma patients in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. The place I'm supposed to be working.
I had my attending in the ED contact the attending physician in the SICU who confirmed what we all knew, that I had no business being in the SICU. I contacted my chief resident who told me not to worry, and that we'd get it sorted out in the morning by shuffling me to another service.
I felt terrible for a couple reasons. One, I was going to fuck one of my fellow EM residents by ambushing them with a "surprise, you're not going to have an easy month you're going to the SICU." Two, I was going to fuck the SICU team. They have patients that need to be rounded on and expected me to be there to help with that duty.
So the lesson I learned from Herpes? I am some how "bonded" with people in the similar dire situation as myself (other residents). When I let them down, or make their lives more miserable, I feel bad about it. I imagine its a lot like being in the military. Many of those guys do their job as well as they do not because the money is so good (joke) but because they feel a sense of commitment to their fellow soldiers. I regularly hear extraordinary stories of bravery and heroism from guys in Iraq and the Afghanistan. While I certainly didn't do anything that compares to what they do, I think I better understand why they do it.
The "pack" instinct is tough to choke out, I guess.
Human nature always surprises me. Usually I'm surprised by how shitty humans can be to each other. But every now and then, I see something good in people. Additionally, its odd, to me, to see how life teaches its lessons to people. It has so many tools to use, and it often seems to pick the worst one. It has literally a lifetime to teach its lessons, but always seems to pick the most inopportune times. But I guess thats just the way we learn.
The back story.
Late Tuesday I had a strange feeling over my ribs where the serratus anterior muscle originates on the ribs. It felt a bit like a muscle strain, which didn't surprise me since I've changed my fitness goals and methods (more to come on this in a future entry). Wednesday night I noticed a few "bumps" over the 5th and 6th ribs on the mid axillary line. Over Thursday the bumps and pain evolved and it became clear late in the evening, near the end of my shift in the ED, I had fucking shingles, aka Herpes Zoster which is a reactivation of infection with the Varicella zoster virus--the little ass hole that used to cause chicken pox for those of us that pre-date the vaccination.
It is exceedingly painful. Burns. Itches. Hurts to touch. Hurts to move. Hurts to breath. It's awesome. Its not going to kill, just be a pain in the ass. But the physical pain isn't the reason it's a total (figurative) pain in my ass. See, Thursday was the last day of the month. That means Friday I'm supposed to leave the ED and start working in the SICU. This is a problem.
Why? Because while zoster is an inconvenience for me, it could be lethal to someone with a compromised immune system--you know, like critically ill trauma patients in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. The place I'm supposed to be working.
I had my attending in the ED contact the attending physician in the SICU who confirmed what we all knew, that I had no business being in the SICU. I contacted my chief resident who told me not to worry, and that we'd get it sorted out in the morning by shuffling me to another service.
I felt terrible for a couple reasons. One, I was going to fuck one of my fellow EM residents by ambushing them with a "surprise, you're not going to have an easy month you're going to the SICU." Two, I was going to fuck the SICU team. They have patients that need to be rounded on and expected me to be there to help with that duty.
So the lesson I learned from Herpes? I am some how "bonded" with people in the similar dire situation as myself (other residents). When I let them down, or make their lives more miserable, I feel bad about it. I imagine its a lot like being in the military. Many of those guys do their job as well as they do not because the money is so good (joke) but because they feel a sense of commitment to their fellow soldiers. I regularly hear extraordinary stories of bravery and heroism from guys in Iraq and the Afghanistan. While I certainly didn't do anything that compares to what they do, I think I better understand why they do it.
The "pack" instinct is tough to choke out, I guess.
Human nature always surprises me. Usually I'm surprised by how shitty humans can be to each other. But every now and then, I see something good in people. Additionally, its odd, to me, to see how life teaches its lessons to people. It has so many tools to use, and it often seems to pick the worst one. It has literally a lifetime to teach its lessons, but always seems to pick the most inopportune times. But I guess thats just the way we learn.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Doctor: Day 1
I worked my first shift as a real doctor in the ED. It was a Saturday night...trial by fire kind of thing. My very first patient ended up getting admitted. HOW AMAZING MY FIRST PATIENT WAS ACTUALLY SICK!
My second patient didn't go so well. All through med school I heard stories about, "wait until your first night when shit's hitting the fan and the nurse is asking, 'what should we do doctor!' and you realize 'doctor' is you and that you don't know what to do." HA! I always know what to do.
Well, that is except for when it comes to sedating little crazy fat kids.
I hear this screaming, realize its coming from my patient's room (who is a crazy little fat kid) run in and see a scene from the exorcist. Five people trying to hold her down while she screams, curses and arches her body. I was waiting for her head to spin around and for her to projectile vomit (I was careful to stay out of the line of fire) but she never did. So the nurse is like, FUCKING GIVE HER SOMETHING as she takes a fat little elbow to the stomach! And I'm thinking, fuck I don't know the dosages for anything to sedate kids off the top of my head. I reach for my PDA and realize I left it in the Physician's Lounge.
Then, this big bald murse (murse = male nurse) comes up and is like, "Dude just give her one of Versed." I gambled on his age being an equivalence factor for experience and knowledge, decided it was at least double mine, and went along with it. I figured at the worst I would kill her respiratory drive. I decided that was a problem I could easily deal with and pulled the trigger. Later I regrouped and augmented my Versed with a little Ativan and Haldol, which were probably more appropriate due to their longer action.
So, on my first day, I had the "first day" experience that seemed too cliché to ever actually happen, but in retrospect, given my inexperience, now clearly could never have been avoided and was certain to befall me.
My second patient didn't go so well. All through med school I heard stories about, "wait until your first night when shit's hitting the fan and the nurse is asking, 'what should we do doctor!' and you realize 'doctor' is you and that you don't know what to do." HA! I always know what to do.
Well, that is except for when it comes to sedating little crazy fat kids.
I hear this screaming, realize its coming from my patient's room (who is a crazy little fat kid) run in and see a scene from the exorcist. Five people trying to hold her down while she screams, curses and arches her body. I was waiting for her head to spin around and for her to projectile vomit (I was careful to stay out of the line of fire) but she never did. So the nurse is like, FUCKING GIVE HER SOMETHING as she takes a fat little elbow to the stomach! And I'm thinking, fuck I don't know the dosages for anything to sedate kids off the top of my head. I reach for my PDA and realize I left it in the Physician's Lounge.
Then, this big bald murse (murse = male nurse) comes up and is like, "Dude just give her one of Versed." I gambled on his age being an equivalence factor for experience and knowledge, decided it was at least double mine, and went along with it. I figured at the worst I would kill her respiratory drive. I decided that was a problem I could easily deal with and pulled the trigger. Later I regrouped and augmented my Versed with a little Ativan and Haldol, which were probably more appropriate due to their longer action.
So, on my first day, I had the "first day" experience that seemed too cliché to ever actually happen, but in retrospect, given my inexperience, now clearly could never have been avoided and was certain to befall me.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
WAR!
I'm at war.
With the scorpions.
Its quite simple. They must die. My wife says so.
See, scorpions bring my wife much distress. Understandably so. The little bastards walk around, tails curled, stinger glistening, pinchers held at the ready. They look fairly bad ass, I must admit.
My approach to defeating them is multifaceted. First, I must purify inside my house. They have likely infested my attic, which I have no access too. So I have to do what I can. That means applying liquid residual poisons followed by powdered residual poisons to all outlets, light fixtures, cracks, windows, and any other spots that might conceal a scorpion. Following that, I will apply vicious wicked poisons of several varieties to the perimeter of the inside of the house, under the sinks, in the bathrooms and all over my bedroom and along my bed. Most importantly, I'll apply generous amounts of poison in my closet. Scorpions like to hide in shoes. Fuckers. I also plan to drop numerous glue traps in the bathroom, my bedroom, and in my closet. Just as an added layer of protection. After that, I'll caulk every thing that I feel needs caulking. To bar their entry into my dwelling.
Following that, I'll begin cleansing the outside of my house. If I started with the outside I might risk driving the little fuckers indoors. My approach to the outdoors involves poison sprayed from the hose, more concentrated poison sprayed around the outside perimeter and on the rock wall around my yard, poison all along the walls of my house and on the flat roof (where I'll also spread the poison granules).
I call that Operation Shock and Awe. Its my air assault.
After that I begin open war. The ground assault. Every night, I'll gear up with a poison cocktail and black light. See, scorpions fluoresce under black light. Makes them easy to spot. The poison is because they give birth to their young live. And then they carry them around on their back. So if I just smashed them I might get stung and I might not kill all the little babies. The poison insures all hostile parties meet their end.
You also might be wondering why I don't just spread my poison and wait for them to die. Well, thats an interesting story. See, poison is notoriously ineffective on scorpions, hence the multi-poison approach. Additionally, scorpions can live 10 fucking years. So if the evil bastards in my attic decide to just chill in my attic, fuck, and never venture into my poison they can continue to spread their young which can then venture into my house, be spotted by my wife, and freak her out.
I do have allies in this battle.
Harley, my cat, is trained in the martial arts. He is particularly skilled in cat-to-scorpion combat. Just the other day, I was laying in the floor and he ran over, jumped me, and kung fu chopped the shit out of this scorpion that was on its way to destroy me. He was rewarded with tuna juice.
The battle ahead is long, but my cause is noble, and therefore I will continue to walk down this war path until the last scorpion falls under my stream of poison.
With the scorpions.
Its quite simple. They must die. My wife says so.
See, scorpions bring my wife much distress. Understandably so. The little bastards walk around, tails curled, stinger glistening, pinchers held at the ready. They look fairly bad ass, I must admit.
My approach to defeating them is multifaceted. First, I must purify inside my house. They have likely infested my attic, which I have no access too. So I have to do what I can. That means applying liquid residual poisons followed by powdered residual poisons to all outlets, light fixtures, cracks, windows, and any other spots that might conceal a scorpion. Following that, I will apply vicious wicked poisons of several varieties to the perimeter of the inside of the house, under the sinks, in the bathrooms and all over my bedroom and along my bed. Most importantly, I'll apply generous amounts of poison in my closet. Scorpions like to hide in shoes. Fuckers. I also plan to drop numerous glue traps in the bathroom, my bedroom, and in my closet. Just as an added layer of protection. After that, I'll caulk every thing that I feel needs caulking. To bar their entry into my dwelling.
Following that, I'll begin cleansing the outside of my house. If I started with the outside I might risk driving the little fuckers indoors. My approach to the outdoors involves poison sprayed from the hose, more concentrated poison sprayed around the outside perimeter and on the rock wall around my yard, poison all along the walls of my house and on the flat roof (where I'll also spread the poison granules).
I call that Operation Shock and Awe. Its my air assault.
After that I begin open war. The ground assault. Every night, I'll gear up with a poison cocktail and black light. See, scorpions fluoresce under black light. Makes them easy to spot. The poison is because they give birth to their young live. And then they carry them around on their back. So if I just smashed them I might get stung and I might not kill all the little babies. The poison insures all hostile parties meet their end.
You also might be wondering why I don't just spread my poison and wait for them to die. Well, thats an interesting story. See, poison is notoriously ineffective on scorpions, hence the multi-poison approach. Additionally, scorpions can live 10 fucking years. So if the evil bastards in my attic decide to just chill in my attic, fuck, and never venture into my poison they can continue to spread their young which can then venture into my house, be spotted by my wife, and freak her out.
I do have allies in this battle.
Harley, my cat, is trained in the martial arts. He is particularly skilled in cat-to-scorpion combat. Just the other day, I was laying in the floor and he ran over, jumped me, and kung fu chopped the shit out of this scorpion that was on its way to destroy me. He was rewarded with tuna juice.
The battle ahead is long, but my cause is noble, and therefore I will continue to walk down this war path until the last scorpion falls under my stream of poison.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Rio Grande Trip: Episode V - No Mas
This day got off to a roaring start. We got up, packed up our crap, got in our kayaks, and started paddling. For about 2 minutes. At that point we had to get out and drag our kayaks due to low flow. Then we got back in. Then we got back out. We repeated this for about 2 miles until we reached our pick up point.
Some stuff happened between then, though. First, we encountered a group of canoes heading up river. I imagine they did more dragging than paddling.
Then, as we got near the end of Santa Elena Canyon we got to a point where there was a multitude (ok, 3 or 4) of people. There were hiking trails with nearby road access that brought people to the waters edge. I suppose as the three of us navigated our kayaks down the river it made for a pretty cool picture with the canyon behind us. Luckily, Brandon and I realized this was an opportunity for us to ruin someone's day and began ramming each other with our kayaks engaging in a Greko-Roman style naval battle to the death. Unfortunately, the contest ended in a draw and neither of us died.
Shortly there after we arrived at the end of the line--a massive, exposed gravel bar on the Texas side with an imposing thousand-foot cliff on the Mexican side. As we sat baking in the sun, waiting for Bobski to arrive we met some bikers and some old people that looked upon us with vigilance and suspicion. I offered to take a photo for them which they promptly refused.
We decided to seek refuge from the sun and wandered up the road. We found some park composting toilets and Brandon decided it would be prudent if he donated some material for composting. As he sat down, a caravan of park rangers arrived to inspect the station and began banging around outside the toilets. This probably ruined Brandon's composting experience which brought joy to Justin and I, who had been chatting with the Rangers. They explained to us the river was low because the fucking Mexicans were stealing all their water. We all fell silent and mentally shook our fists in the direction of Mexico.
Once Bobski arrived we loaded our crap. He then said, "I've never had a traffic ticket, so why don't one of you guys drive."
Apparently he had trepidation regarding two of us riding in the back of the pick-up through the park.
Justin drove.
Poorly.
Over dustiest road in existence.
Fortunately I had my trusty bandanna and used it to cover my mouth and nose outlaw style.
We pulled out of Terlingua and headed for some spot Justin knew that had cool T-shirts. I wanted to buy one for my wife in order to please her and incur less wrath for engaging on a long trip out of cell phone range. We got to turn off only to discover the gift shop was like 15 miles out of our way. We made a consentual decision and said, "Fuck it."
We made a stop in Alpine for Mexican food and Margaritas--only to discover they were "wine based" Margaritas. We settled for Diet Coke instead. We queried the waitress on the issue of if Brandon's man-card should be revoked for refusing to sleep under the stars like Justin and I. She said, "I would have slept in the tent!"
That confirmed our suspicions that Brandon was acting womanish and promptly revoked his man-card indefinitely.
Then we drove a long ass way home and the trip ended. Successfully.
Some stuff happened between then, though. First, we encountered a group of canoes heading up river. I imagine they did more dragging than paddling.
Then, as we got near the end of Santa Elena Canyon we got to a point where there was a multitude (ok, 3 or 4) of people. There were hiking trails with nearby road access that brought people to the waters edge. I suppose as the three of us navigated our kayaks down the river it made for a pretty cool picture with the canyon behind us. Luckily, Brandon and I realized this was an opportunity for us to ruin someone's day and began ramming each other with our kayaks engaging in a Greko-Roman style naval battle to the death. Unfortunately, the contest ended in a draw and neither of us died.
Shortly there after we arrived at the end of the line--a massive, exposed gravel bar on the Texas side with an imposing thousand-foot cliff on the Mexican side. As we sat baking in the sun, waiting for Bobski to arrive we met some bikers and some old people that looked upon us with vigilance and suspicion. I offered to take a photo for them which they promptly refused.
We decided to seek refuge from the sun and wandered up the road. We found some park composting toilets and Brandon decided it would be prudent if he donated some material for composting. As he sat down, a caravan of park rangers arrived to inspect the station and began banging around outside the toilets. This probably ruined Brandon's composting experience which brought joy to Justin and I, who had been chatting with the Rangers. They explained to us the river was low because the fucking Mexicans were stealing all their water. We all fell silent and mentally shook our fists in the direction of Mexico.
Once Bobski arrived we loaded our crap. He then said, "I've never had a traffic ticket, so why don't one of you guys drive."
Apparently he had trepidation regarding two of us riding in the back of the pick-up through the park.
Justin drove.
Poorly.
Over dustiest road in existence.
Fortunately I had my trusty bandanna and used it to cover my mouth and nose outlaw style.
We pulled out of Terlingua and headed for some spot Justin knew that had cool T-shirts. I wanted to buy one for my wife in order to please her and incur less wrath for engaging on a long trip out of cell phone range. We got to turn off only to discover the gift shop was like 15 miles out of our way. We made a consentual decision and said, "Fuck it."
We made a stop in Alpine for Mexican food and Margaritas--only to discover they were "wine based" Margaritas. We settled for Diet Coke instead. We queried the waitress on the issue of if Brandon's man-card should be revoked for refusing to sleep under the stars like Justin and I. She said, "I would have slept in the tent!"
That confirmed our suspicions that Brandon was acting womanish and promptly revoked his man-card indefinitely.
Then we drove a long ass way home and the trip ended. Successfully.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Rio Grande Trip: Episode IV - Lez-tastic Lessons on Life and Love
This morning started a little different.
I woke up and realized during the course of the night both Justin and I slid about 2 feet down nearly to the edge of the grassy ledge we were on. The ledge was about 12 feet high and dropped steeply to a rocky beach. Basically, a fall would insure serious injury, but probably not death.
The ledge had a gentle slope. Just gentle enough to try and coax us to severe injury. Life lesson number one: beware of falling to painful injuries when you are many, many hours from help.
We had a casual start to the day. Ate a hot breakfast. At least Justin and I. Brandon bartered away his scrumptious Mountain House Egg meal for a free meal at the Mexican food joint in Alpine. Margaritas were part of the deal.
About 10 we finished packing up and were ready to get on the River. Before we did, we had to filter some water. We had consumed the 2 gallons we each purchased as well as the gallon or so we brought from home. I say we, and I mean myself and Justin. We both agreed that Brandon was likely hoarding water and only claiming to be out.
Well, Bobski had suggested that we allow the water to settle over night. This way, some of the silt would be at the bottom and we could filter the clean supernatant. Well, nothing really settled. We began pumping. After two gallons of water we noticed our filter was definitely at a decreased flow rate.
We sampled our filtered water and it tasted like the ocean. So here's life lesson number 2. If someone tells you the water isn't filterable, always err on the side of not having to drink foul tasting water.
Todays scenery was some of the prettiest. Beaches covered with thick bamboo and grass. Very green, which contrasted nicely against the red canyon walls and brown river water.
A couple miles down the river we finally encountered people. Well, we encountered their canoes anyway. We realized this must be the legendary "Fern Canyon." We beached our kayaks and started exploring. Soon we ran into a guide from another trip. He asked if we were camping there and we said, "not yet, but we will later." He said cool and began preparing a delicious lunch of fresh fruits, meats, and cheeses. We lusted.
I guess he noticed our lustful gazes and saw Brandon fingering his saber. Rather than offer us food he suggested, "you should explore the canyon, its a really special place." He then told us we could hike as far up the canyon as we could imagine. We should have known better.
As it turns out, Fern Canyon is a pretty cool place. Lots of scrambling up rock thats been polished smooth like glass and some clear spring fed pools. This provided us an opportunity to filter some non-terrible tasting water. We rejoiced. The slick rock offered us an opportunity to severely injure ourselves. We didn't rejoice.
On our climb up, we met a group of teenage kids led by 2 guides who couldn't have been much older. They had their ancient, out of shape parents lagging behind. We stopped and made small talk with the guides while I made fun of everyone shoes. Chuck's, Deck shoes, and Chacos.
As we scrambled up Fern Canyon we came to a large pool that appeared to have another pool above it, though we couldn't see for sure and were uncertain if the canyon became impassable or continued. We finally managed to coax Brandon into climbing up and seeing if we could advance further or if we had reached the end of the line. This required coaxing because it involved getting in the water near some concealed ledges. Brandon has a powerful fear of all things icky.
He scrambled up and assured us there was tons more canyon to explore. He goaded us with motivating words like "bitches" and "pussies." Soon, Justin caved in and scrambled up. At this point it was a matter of manhood, I had to continue despite my gut instinct telling me it would be a waste of time and that there was at most, 10 yards more canyon to explore before it was impassable; however, if this were the case Justin would almost certainly be beating Brandon for his deception.
Well, I must give Brandon credit. And Justin as well. First, Brandon was full of shit. There was a small pool and then a sheer wall about 4 feet away. He did a great job of selling it though. And kudos to Justin for climbing up. Seeing that he had been duped by Brandon but letting none of it show on his face. Needless to say I was not happy.
We scrambled back down the canyon. On our way we encountered the guide who sheepishly admitted we made it as far as we could. We briefly explored some good sized caves and then headed back down to the HUGE flat, grass covered landing at the mouth of Fern Canyon where we planned to camp.
At this point, Justin said we should leave and go find shade because the area we wanted to camp would DEFINITELY be sunny in an hour. We eventually settled down on some piece of shit rocky wash at the base of the canyon.
Soon I heard voices.
Raiders approached.
Brandon and I scrambled to go claim our spot. We were too late. Luckily, it was a group of women who said, "Its a big place, there's probably room for all of us." We agreed. We threw down our stuff about 50 feet from their camp and walked to see if there were another spot further away. Soon, they sent an emissary.
"Hey guys." She said with her annoying Midwest accent. "We were really hoping for some privacy on this trip. So, could you move. There's a beach just up the river" as she pointed to a rocky, exposed gravel bar. She finished with, "I'm sure you're nice guys, but, we just wanted some privacy."
As I removed my hat to reveal my Mohawk I replied with, "Well, actually we're assholes."
Brandon fondled his Saber.
The chick put on an "oh shit" face.
After about 15 seconds of her looking ugly and laughing uncomfortably while Brandon and I stonewalled it, we picked up our shit and left.
Justin received a severe tongue lashing from both Brandon and I for his lack of foresight and his failed prediction that our desired camp spot would be in the sun--because it spent the entire day in shade.
I headed up river to find a camp spot while Justin and Brandon filled up on water. I found a spot about a quarter mile downstream from the lesbians. It afforded excellent views of their campsite, was on a flat, grassy ledge, and was pretty much another bad ass camp site similar to the previous nights, but with out the slope.
We spent the rest of the day staring at the lesbians through our binoculars and waving to get their attention so that we could be certain they knew we were looking at them.
We watched one Kayak up river. She was wearing some ridiculously skimpy bathing suit that revealed her cellulite laden thighs and the majority of her cellulite laden ass. She ran into a husband and wife in a canoe and began to preach to them about the subtleties of whitewater kayaking from her rented kayak.
We then watched two others head up river in a canoe. They were unable to paddle against the current and were forced into a little area of backflow that didn't communicate with the other end of the river. As they struggled to drag their canoe over the gravel bar I offered them some advice, "You should have gone on the other side."
They gave us a "No Shit" look. As Justin and I watched them struggle and drag their canoe Justin confessed, "I would have carried that for them if they hadn't been such bitches earlier."
There's a life lesson for all you lesbians desiring privacy. Don't be bitches.
That evening was rather uneventful minus one UFO sighting and several loud drunken outbursts from Fort Lesbia. We went to sleep knowing that tomorrow we'd be enjoying margaritas and Mexican food.
I woke up and realized during the course of the night both Justin and I slid about 2 feet down nearly to the edge of the grassy ledge we were on. The ledge was about 12 feet high and dropped steeply to a rocky beach. Basically, a fall would insure serious injury, but probably not death.
The ledge had a gentle slope. Just gentle enough to try and coax us to severe injury. Life lesson number one: beware of falling to painful injuries when you are many, many hours from help.
We had a casual start to the day. Ate a hot breakfast. At least Justin and I. Brandon bartered away his scrumptious Mountain House Egg meal for a free meal at the Mexican food joint in Alpine. Margaritas were part of the deal.
About 10 we finished packing up and were ready to get on the River. Before we did, we had to filter some water. We had consumed the 2 gallons we each purchased as well as the gallon or so we brought from home. I say we, and I mean myself and Justin. We both agreed that Brandon was likely hoarding water and only claiming to be out.
Well, Bobski had suggested that we allow the water to settle over night. This way, some of the silt would be at the bottom and we could filter the clean supernatant. Well, nothing really settled. We began pumping. After two gallons of water we noticed our filter was definitely at a decreased flow rate.
We sampled our filtered water and it tasted like the ocean. So here's life lesson number 2. If someone tells you the water isn't filterable, always err on the side of not having to drink foul tasting water.
Todays scenery was some of the prettiest. Beaches covered with thick bamboo and grass. Very green, which contrasted nicely against the red canyon walls and brown river water.
A couple miles down the river we finally encountered people. Well, we encountered their canoes anyway. We realized this must be the legendary "Fern Canyon." We beached our kayaks and started exploring. Soon we ran into a guide from another trip. He asked if we were camping there and we said, "not yet, but we will later." He said cool and began preparing a delicious lunch of fresh fruits, meats, and cheeses. We lusted.
I guess he noticed our lustful gazes and saw Brandon fingering his saber. Rather than offer us food he suggested, "you should explore the canyon, its a really special place." He then told us we could hike as far up the canyon as we could imagine. We should have known better.
As it turns out, Fern Canyon is a pretty cool place. Lots of scrambling up rock thats been polished smooth like glass and some clear spring fed pools. This provided us an opportunity to filter some non-terrible tasting water. We rejoiced. The slick rock offered us an opportunity to severely injure ourselves. We didn't rejoice.
On our climb up, we met a group of teenage kids led by 2 guides who couldn't have been much older. They had their ancient, out of shape parents lagging behind. We stopped and made small talk with the guides while I made fun of everyone shoes. Chuck's, Deck shoes, and Chacos.
As we scrambled up Fern Canyon we came to a large pool that appeared to have another pool above it, though we couldn't see for sure and were uncertain if the canyon became impassable or continued. We finally managed to coax Brandon into climbing up and seeing if we could advance further or if we had reached the end of the line. This required coaxing because it involved getting in the water near some concealed ledges. Brandon has a powerful fear of all things icky.
He scrambled up and assured us there was tons more canyon to explore. He goaded us with motivating words like "bitches" and "pussies." Soon, Justin caved in and scrambled up. At this point it was a matter of manhood, I had to continue despite my gut instinct telling me it would be a waste of time and that there was at most, 10 yards more canyon to explore before it was impassable; however, if this were the case Justin would almost certainly be beating Brandon for his deception.
Well, I must give Brandon credit. And Justin as well. First, Brandon was full of shit. There was a small pool and then a sheer wall about 4 feet away. He did a great job of selling it though. And kudos to Justin for climbing up. Seeing that he had been duped by Brandon but letting none of it show on his face. Needless to say I was not happy.
We scrambled back down the canyon. On our way we encountered the guide who sheepishly admitted we made it as far as we could. We briefly explored some good sized caves and then headed back down to the HUGE flat, grass covered landing at the mouth of Fern Canyon where we planned to camp.
At this point, Justin said we should leave and go find shade because the area we wanted to camp would DEFINITELY be sunny in an hour. We eventually settled down on some piece of shit rocky wash at the base of the canyon.
Soon I heard voices.
Raiders approached.
Brandon and I scrambled to go claim our spot. We were too late. Luckily, it was a group of women who said, "Its a big place, there's probably room for all of us." We agreed. We threw down our stuff about 50 feet from their camp and walked to see if there were another spot further away. Soon, they sent an emissary.
"Hey guys." She said with her annoying Midwest accent. "We were really hoping for some privacy on this trip. So, could you move. There's a beach just up the river" as she pointed to a rocky, exposed gravel bar. She finished with, "I'm sure you're nice guys, but, we just wanted some privacy."
As I removed my hat to reveal my Mohawk I replied with, "Well, actually we're assholes."
Brandon fondled his Saber.
The chick put on an "oh shit" face.
After about 15 seconds of her looking ugly and laughing uncomfortably while Brandon and I stonewalled it, we picked up our shit and left.
Justin received a severe tongue lashing from both Brandon and I for his lack of foresight and his failed prediction that our desired camp spot would be in the sun--because it spent the entire day in shade.
I headed up river to find a camp spot while Justin and Brandon filled up on water. I found a spot about a quarter mile downstream from the lesbians. It afforded excellent views of their campsite, was on a flat, grassy ledge, and was pretty much another bad ass camp site similar to the previous nights, but with out the slope.
We spent the rest of the day staring at the lesbians through our binoculars and waving to get their attention so that we could be certain they knew we were looking at them.
We watched one Kayak up river. She was wearing some ridiculously skimpy bathing suit that revealed her cellulite laden thighs and the majority of her cellulite laden ass. She ran into a husband and wife in a canoe and began to preach to them about the subtleties of whitewater kayaking from her rented kayak.
We then watched two others head up river in a canoe. They were unable to paddle against the current and were forced into a little area of backflow that didn't communicate with the other end of the river. As they struggled to drag their canoe over the gravel bar I offered them some advice, "You should have gone on the other side."
They gave us a "No Shit" look. As Justin and I watched them struggle and drag their canoe Justin confessed, "I would have carried that for them if they hadn't been such bitches earlier."
There's a life lesson for all you lesbians desiring privacy. Don't be bitches.
That evening was rather uneventful minus one UFO sighting and several loud drunken outbursts from Fort Lesbia. We went to sleep knowing that tomorrow we'd be enjoying margaritas and Mexican food.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Rio Grande Trip: Episode III - Battling the Mighty Rock Slide
Day three began at the reasonable hour of 7:30 A.M.
I started the day by asking, "Why the fuck are we up so early?"
We broke camp and ate breakfast, coated ourselves in sunscreen and prepared for a long day of hiking. We were right at the mouth of the canyon and had been told there were ample trails to satisfy a full day, if not many days of hiking. Lie #1 of the day.
We managed to scramble our way up the side of the cliff. Along the way we found a geo cache that we pillaged...actually we pillaged nothing because it was the shittiest geo cache ever. Actually thats not true. As far as I know there are no cool geo caches. They are all shitty. This one contained: pictures of some douche bag and his friends, a rain poncho, artifacts indicative that the cache once contained a bottle of crown, mantles for a lantern, and a pencil. Rad.
Anyway, after getting up the cliff and taking some pictures of us standing on the edge of the cliff we continued hiking down the canyon. See, today we had a plan. We were going to scout out the infamous Rock Slide, the class IV rapid, from above to plan our line better.
Well, along the way Brandon caught a GIANT thorn through the foot. That was pretty awesome especially since only dirty fucking hippies hike in Chaco sandals.
We finally arrived at a completely impassable side canyon. Hiking around it was our only option. It appeared to run roughly a mile into the desert. We elected to call it a day of hiking after only about 3 hours. The main reason being the sun was already beyond oppressive and we realized we really didn't have the desire to do massive amounts of desert hiking after all. When we returned home we would later find out if we had walked around this canyon, Rock Slide would have only been about half a mile away. Oh well.
On the way back we actually encountered a path along the canyon rim which we followed back to where we scrambled up. Scrambling down took a little longer because Brandon had a few episodes of acrophobia induced paralysis while trying to down climb.
When we got back to camp, we packed the rest of our shit and hit the river. We had hoped the confined boundaries of the canyon would pile the water up some and provide us with some depth so we wouldn't drag ass as much. No such luck. This was a day filled with getting out of the boat, dragging it, and getting back in.
Before long, we had encountered Rock Slide which had been described to us as a class IV (which means pretty difficult) rapid filled with house sized boulders.
What we found was no rapids worth mentioning and closet-sized boulders. The first thing we did was enjoy a casual swim and play around in the legendary rapid. We were greatly disappointed.
The only challenge of the entire rapid was....actually nothing. Justin and Brandon managed to navigate fine. I took a hands off approach and allowed the river to ram my boat into the first rock of The Slide at which time I was pushed side ways and tipped over.
Just was standing near by and he and Brandon both agree I had a look of terror upon my face as I went over. This is probably accurate as I had a) about 1000 dollars worth of photo equipment with me and b) a strong fear of drowning.
After flailing around for a few second I realized I was in waist deep water. I stood up, quickly turned my boat right side up, and we continued the day. I did manage to successfully navigate the rapid on my second attempt.
Just past Rock Slide on the Mexican side we found a nice patch of dense Bermuda grass in the shade on a ledge over looking a rocky beach. We set up camp and had lunch. Brandon was really bitching up a storm about this campsite. His protesting stemmed from his fear of all things "icky." He was certain we would be consumed by snakes and scorpions living in the tall grass. He even claimed he would rather sleep on a gravel bar versus the pillowy Bermuda grass. Justin and I agreed he was a bitch, told him to pitch his tent like a bitch, and enjoy the night.
By the end of lunch there was no shade to be found on our ledge so we jumped in the river and started walking down stream. Brandon spent a lot of his time looking for round circular flat rocks he thought might make nice coasters while Justin and myself better used our time creating rock sculptures to please the God's of fertility.
Brandon then laid down on the rocks and took a nap. Justin and I walked back upstream and found a sandy bench cut out bellow a large boulder that created a nice shady area for sitting and relaxing. And thats about how we spent the rest of the day.
The evening was uneventful save a few satellites passing overhead and an occasional shooting star. We watched the bats (which numbered in the thousands) fly sometimes inches over our heads eating insects. It was pretty interesting watching them and listening to them echo-locate their prey. Justin and I once again slept under the stars (like men) and Brandon spent the night in his tent (like a woman).
I started the day by asking, "Why the fuck are we up so early?"
We broke camp and ate breakfast, coated ourselves in sunscreen and prepared for a long day of hiking. We were right at the mouth of the canyon and had been told there were ample trails to satisfy a full day, if not many days of hiking. Lie #1 of the day.
We managed to scramble our way up the side of the cliff. Along the way we found a geo cache that we pillaged...actually we pillaged nothing because it was the shittiest geo cache ever. Actually thats not true. As far as I know there are no cool geo caches. They are all shitty. This one contained: pictures of some douche bag and his friends, a rain poncho, artifacts indicative that the cache once contained a bottle of crown, mantles for a lantern, and a pencil. Rad.
Anyway, after getting up the cliff and taking some pictures of us standing on the edge of the cliff we continued hiking down the canyon. See, today we had a plan. We were going to scout out the infamous Rock Slide, the class IV rapid, from above to plan our line better.
Well, along the way Brandon caught a GIANT thorn through the foot. That was pretty awesome especially since only dirty fucking hippies hike in Chaco sandals.
We finally arrived at a completely impassable side canyon. Hiking around it was our only option. It appeared to run roughly a mile into the desert. We elected to call it a day of hiking after only about 3 hours. The main reason being the sun was already beyond oppressive and we realized we really didn't have the desire to do massive amounts of desert hiking after all. When we returned home we would later find out if we had walked around this canyon, Rock Slide would have only been about half a mile away. Oh well.
On the way back we actually encountered a path along the canyon rim which we followed back to where we scrambled up. Scrambling down took a little longer because Brandon had a few episodes of acrophobia induced paralysis while trying to down climb.
When we got back to camp, we packed the rest of our shit and hit the river. We had hoped the confined boundaries of the canyon would pile the water up some and provide us with some depth so we wouldn't drag ass as much. No such luck. This was a day filled with getting out of the boat, dragging it, and getting back in.
Before long, we had encountered Rock Slide which had been described to us as a class IV (which means pretty difficult) rapid filled with house sized boulders.
What we found was no rapids worth mentioning and closet-sized boulders. The first thing we did was enjoy a casual swim and play around in the legendary rapid. We were greatly disappointed.
The only challenge of the entire rapid was....actually nothing. Justin and Brandon managed to navigate fine. I took a hands off approach and allowed the river to ram my boat into the first rock of The Slide at which time I was pushed side ways and tipped over.
Just was standing near by and he and Brandon both agree I had a look of terror upon my face as I went over. This is probably accurate as I had a) about 1000 dollars worth of photo equipment with me and b) a strong fear of drowning.
After flailing around for a few second I realized I was in waist deep water. I stood up, quickly turned my boat right side up, and we continued the day. I did manage to successfully navigate the rapid on my second attempt.
Just past Rock Slide on the Mexican side we found a nice patch of dense Bermuda grass in the shade on a ledge over looking a rocky beach. We set up camp and had lunch. Brandon was really bitching up a storm about this campsite. His protesting stemmed from his fear of all things "icky." He was certain we would be consumed by snakes and scorpions living in the tall grass. He even claimed he would rather sleep on a gravel bar versus the pillowy Bermuda grass. Justin and I agreed he was a bitch, told him to pitch his tent like a bitch, and enjoy the night.
By the end of lunch there was no shade to be found on our ledge so we jumped in the river and started walking down stream. Brandon spent a lot of his time looking for round circular flat rocks he thought might make nice coasters while Justin and myself better used our time creating rock sculptures to please the God's of fertility.
Brandon then laid down on the rocks and took a nap. Justin and I walked back upstream and found a sandy bench cut out bellow a large boulder that created a nice shady area for sitting and relaxing. And thats about how we spent the rest of the day.
The evening was uneventful save a few satellites passing overhead and an occasional shooting star. We watched the bats (which numbered in the thousands) fly sometimes inches over our heads eating insects. It was pretty interesting watching them and listening to them echo-locate their prey. Justin and I once again slept under the stars (like men) and Brandon spent the night in his tent (like a woman).
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Rio Grande Trip: Episode II - A Case Study of the Suicidal Tendencies of Mexican Cattle.
This day began early.
Until you've seen a melancholy sun drag its ass out of bed over the West Texas desert with rain clouds on the horizon you really haven't lived.
We started the day a few yards down the road at the diner at the entrance of the Terlingua Ghost Town. We were the second customers of the day. Our hosts were not exactly amiable but they weren't exactly hostile either. They were clearly an old hippy couple who couldn't stand the heavy hand of the man on their shoulders any longer and so slipped away into one of the country's last frontier areas. They found asylum in a town that elected a goat as its mayor. Not because the goat was the most fit person to run the town, but more as a way to give the rest of our button downed society the finger and say, "we're different." I had expected my mohawk hair cut to earn me strange looks in tiny West Texas towns, but strangely I felt it won me acceptance here, which kinda left me with mixed feelings.
Breakfast was fabulous. It nearly got expensive as there is a $20 surcharge for jumping off the porch which Justin did. Something about "insurance." We had pancakes, various meats, and Tang. We sat outside--a wise choice. It had not yet gotten intolerably hot and the inside was so thick with smoke it was overwhelming.
After breakfast we headed to meet our chauffeur. We talked to a lady that gave us departure instructions. Tips on campsites, a warning about the highly dangerous class IV rapid "Rock Slide" that we would encounter a couple miles into Santa Elena Canyon, and the like.
A quick note about Rock Slide. We were originally going to rent canoes from another company, who I wont give publicity in my wildly popular blog. They wouldn't rent us canoes because they were concerned we wouldn't be able to navigate rock slide in them. Its THAT hardcore. So, we took our own kayaks.
Anyway, the last thing the lady said to us was, "we recommend you take a gallon of water per person per day of the trip." We said, "No prob, we have filters and are just going to filter water." The lady told us, "OH NO! You don't wanna do that. The river is so silty it will clog your filter really quick!" I wasn't convinced. I wandered off and let Justin negotiate as I didn't want to run my mouth and embarrass myself. Just conceded we would buy some water down road at the general store, which we suspected gave a cut of the water sales ($2 a gallon) to the outfitter. We bought two gallons apiece to appease them.
So a little about our chauffeur. I road up front and chatted him up on the way to Lajitas, the point where we put in. He told me he spent the spring and fall in Terlingua as a river guide. In the summer he headed to Alaska to guide rivers up there. He said usually during the winter he worked for ski resorts, but last year he lived in Georgia planting trees to help manage the wet lands. Damn hippies. Happily leading the life I wish I could.
By the time we made it to the river is was flippin hot. And the river looked like a muddy run off creek. Hardly the legendary GRANDE river of lore. Before we left we realized we hadn't gotten our chauffeur's name.
"Bobski" he replied.
Brandon shook his hand "Hi Bob, Brandon."
"Bobski" he replied.
Bobski it was.
Our first day was fairly uneventful. Save two incidents.
The first was just minutes after putting in. There is a golf resort thing in Lajitas. Apparently the golf course spans the river into Mexico. On the Mexican side they had some kind of large rock "ruins" constructed. Justin and I were climbing it so Brandon could get a picture. Just as we made it nearly to the top I noticed "the man" coming to get us on a golf cart. That cut short our fun.
On down the river we stopped for lunch. We saw some authentic ruins on the Mexican side. Probably a smugglers den. With No Country for Old Men fresh on our minds we went hacking through the Mesquite thickets to look for our millions of dollars and Mexican bodies. We found neither.
The second incident of note came further down the river. My kayak didn't track nearly as well as Justin and Brandon's, so when we hit flat water I rowed about double the distance they did trying to keep straight. Brandon said this was due to "poor rowing technique" however he declined to prove it by switching kayaks. Cause he knew he was a jack ass. But I digress.
Since I wasn't making forward progress as quickly as Justin and Brandon they soon were just dots on the Horizon. As the river took a bend I saw them pull their kayaks to the bank. I was acutely aware of this happening because on a previous trip under similar circumstances this behavior preceded a mud ambush. As I got closer I realized I was wrong.
See, the banks of the Rio Grande are coated deeply in silt. This makes for a slurry of "quick mud" that sucks your feet in and locks them in place. To my horror I saw a skinny ass Mexican cow stuck in the mud shoulder deep. On the one hand, I thought, "thats what you get for trying to violate the sovereignty of my Country's border." But on the other hand I realized this was bad.
We made a valiant effort to help pull the cow free. We were unsuccessful, but I did manage to get gored in the big toe. I was lucky it wasn't broken. We needed a Bobcat or an F350 or a fucking helicopter. We should have put two rounds through the cows head but none of us really had the stones for it. Instead we laid some foliage in front of it, which it ate, and headed down river. Circle of life, you know.
That night we camped at the mouth of the Santa Elena Canyon. We were beat down after 10 miles of paddling against a strong head wind through the desert heat. Brandon thought his straw cowboy had would protect him from the sun. He was wrong and his face was nicely toasted as was Justin's chest. We stumbled around looking for a campsite and finally found one on the Texas shore in some sparse Bermuda grass and sand that was protected on one side by a rock ledge and by several small Mesquite and Cedars on the other side. Justin and I bedded down under the stars. Brandon pitched his tent, like a woman.
As we watched the sun go down (with glee) we began to notice it appeared the sun was already rising in the east. We could see it shining over the canyon and lighting up the hills on the western side. We soon realized it was just the insanely bright moon coming back up. This made the sky disappointingly sparse of stars, only slightly better than in the city. Nothing like our nights at Caprock Canyon in darkness so oppressive it was palpable.
Despite sleeping in conditions similar to daylight, complete exhaustion coaxed us to sleep and our second day came to an end.
Until you've seen a melancholy sun drag its ass out of bed over the West Texas desert with rain clouds on the horizon you really haven't lived.
We started the day a few yards down the road at the diner at the entrance of the Terlingua Ghost Town. We were the second customers of the day. Our hosts were not exactly amiable but they weren't exactly hostile either. They were clearly an old hippy couple who couldn't stand the heavy hand of the man on their shoulders any longer and so slipped away into one of the country's last frontier areas. They found asylum in a town that elected a goat as its mayor. Not because the goat was the most fit person to run the town, but more as a way to give the rest of our button downed society the finger and say, "we're different." I had expected my mohawk hair cut to earn me strange looks in tiny West Texas towns, but strangely I felt it won me acceptance here, which kinda left me with mixed feelings.
Breakfast was fabulous. It nearly got expensive as there is a $20 surcharge for jumping off the porch which Justin did. Something about "insurance." We had pancakes, various meats, and Tang. We sat outside--a wise choice. It had not yet gotten intolerably hot and the inside was so thick with smoke it was overwhelming.
After breakfast we headed to meet our chauffeur. We talked to a lady that gave us departure instructions. Tips on campsites, a warning about the highly dangerous class IV rapid "Rock Slide" that we would encounter a couple miles into Santa Elena Canyon, and the like.
A quick note about Rock Slide. We were originally going to rent canoes from another company, who I wont give publicity in my wildly popular blog. They wouldn't rent us canoes because they were concerned we wouldn't be able to navigate rock slide in them. Its THAT hardcore. So, we took our own kayaks.
Anyway, the last thing the lady said to us was, "we recommend you take a gallon of water per person per day of the trip." We said, "No prob, we have filters and are just going to filter water." The lady told us, "OH NO! You don't wanna do that. The river is so silty it will clog your filter really quick!" I wasn't convinced. I wandered off and let Justin negotiate as I didn't want to run my mouth and embarrass myself. Just conceded we would buy some water down road at the general store, which we suspected gave a cut of the water sales ($2 a gallon) to the outfitter. We bought two gallons apiece to appease them.
So a little about our chauffeur. I road up front and chatted him up on the way to Lajitas, the point where we put in. He told me he spent the spring and fall in Terlingua as a river guide. In the summer he headed to Alaska to guide rivers up there. He said usually during the winter he worked for ski resorts, but last year he lived in Georgia planting trees to help manage the wet lands. Damn hippies. Happily leading the life I wish I could.
By the time we made it to the river is was flippin hot. And the river looked like a muddy run off creek. Hardly the legendary GRANDE river of lore. Before we left we realized we hadn't gotten our chauffeur's name.
"Bobski" he replied.
Brandon shook his hand "Hi Bob, Brandon."
"Bobski" he replied.
Bobski it was.
Our first day was fairly uneventful. Save two incidents.
The first was just minutes after putting in. There is a golf resort thing in Lajitas. Apparently the golf course spans the river into Mexico. On the Mexican side they had some kind of large rock "ruins" constructed. Justin and I were climbing it so Brandon could get a picture. Just as we made it nearly to the top I noticed "the man" coming to get us on a golf cart. That cut short our fun.
On down the river we stopped for lunch. We saw some authentic ruins on the Mexican side. Probably a smugglers den. With No Country for Old Men fresh on our minds we went hacking through the Mesquite thickets to look for our millions of dollars and Mexican bodies. We found neither.
The second incident of note came further down the river. My kayak didn't track nearly as well as Justin and Brandon's, so when we hit flat water I rowed about double the distance they did trying to keep straight. Brandon said this was due to "poor rowing technique" however he declined to prove it by switching kayaks. Cause he knew he was a jack ass. But I digress.
Since I wasn't making forward progress as quickly as Justin and Brandon they soon were just dots on the Horizon. As the river took a bend I saw them pull their kayaks to the bank. I was acutely aware of this happening because on a previous trip under similar circumstances this behavior preceded a mud ambush. As I got closer I realized I was wrong.
See, the banks of the Rio Grande are coated deeply in silt. This makes for a slurry of "quick mud" that sucks your feet in and locks them in place. To my horror I saw a skinny ass Mexican cow stuck in the mud shoulder deep. On the one hand, I thought, "thats what you get for trying to violate the sovereignty of my Country's border." But on the other hand I realized this was bad.
We made a valiant effort to help pull the cow free. We were unsuccessful, but I did manage to get gored in the big toe. I was lucky it wasn't broken. We needed a Bobcat or an F350 or a fucking helicopter. We should have put two rounds through the cows head but none of us really had the stones for it. Instead we laid some foliage in front of it, which it ate, and headed down river. Circle of life, you know.
That night we camped at the mouth of the Santa Elena Canyon. We were beat down after 10 miles of paddling against a strong head wind through the desert heat. Brandon thought his straw cowboy had would protect him from the sun. He was wrong and his face was nicely toasted as was Justin's chest. We stumbled around looking for a campsite and finally found one on the Texas shore in some sparse Bermuda grass and sand that was protected on one side by a rock ledge and by several small Mesquite and Cedars on the other side. Justin and I bedded down under the stars. Brandon pitched his tent, like a woman.
As we watched the sun go down (with glee) we began to notice it appeared the sun was already rising in the east. We could see it shining over the canyon and lighting up the hills on the western side. We soon realized it was just the insanely bright moon coming back up. This made the sky disappointingly sparse of stars, only slightly better than in the city. Nothing like our nights at Caprock Canyon in darkness so oppressive it was palpable.
Despite sleeping in conditions similar to daylight, complete exhaustion coaxed us to sleep and our second day came to an end.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Rio Grande Trip: Episode I - A Case Study of the Suicidal Tendencies of White Tail Deer.
The trip started like any other. Myself and two other full grown men piled in a single cab pickup and embarked on a 10 hour drive. About an hour down the road we stopped at Braum's for burgers. A wise decision. 30 minutes later we were back on the road. About 2 hours after that we stopped for fuel.
FUCKING 3.39 a gallon. Fucking OPEC. They're building fucking islands shaped like the world and I'm paying 70 bucks for a tank of gas.
Since we were already off the road we elected for another stop over at DQ (aka, Texas Stop Sign). These two locations were very important. You see, one of our good friends has moved to some place in the North (one of those states about the size of one of our cities here in Texas). They don't have good food up there, just expensive food with names I can't pronounce. So in order to make sure our friend was still a Texan with good Texas values we had to make sure he remembered vividly why he hated living up north--DQ serves ice cream only. No fucking steak finger or chicken finger baskets. No hunger busters. Also no Braum's. Also no Whataburger. Also, no decent Mexican food. One of the many challenges we presented him with was the consumption of a chicken finger basket followed by a large Snickers blizzard. He passed, but it made him nearly unbearably gassy.
Back on the road. I managed to endure nearly 3 hours riding bitch. For those of you that don't know what "riding bitch" is, its when you have to ride in the middle seat of the truck. You're not the driver, and you're not riding shotgun. You're riding bitch. Its called riding bitch for 2 reasons. 1) If you're bitch was riding with you she'd be snuggled up next to you in the middle. 2) If you're a guy riding in that spot, your just a bitch for not kicking the dude riding shotgun's ass and taking his seat. So after 3 hours I demanded a switch out. Seeing as Brandon, the guy I had allowed to ride shotgun thus far, was a solid 30 pounds lighter than me he didn't have much choice but to yield the seat. In fact, one of the saddest moments of the trip was when this guy pulled his shirt off. He looked like he'd been undergoing chemo. The food up north must be terrible.
Now, the funny part about this was Brandon said he couldn't ride bitch because of his "knees and back." What the fuck. You're 28 man. And you're getting ready to spend 4 nights in the wilderness. Not just any wilderness. The wilderness of the Texas-Mexico border in Brewster County (think, "No Country for Old Men"). In addition to that, just a few months ago we were hiking in Arkansas and pulled 4 20+ mile days back to back (NOTE: I only pulled 2 because I had to return home and work). So, you're knees and back can kiss my ass. Next thing I know you'll be demanding socialized medicine.
Finally, darkness fell. As we turned off the interstate near Monahans Brandon (The Neo-Yankee) was at the wheel. We began to all point at the large rabbits with their ginormous ears hopping across and along the road. Then we began to see deer alongside the road.
Then suddenly, Justin, the other member of our party and the owner of the truck we were driving pointed out a deer entering the road. Brandon proceeded on as if there were no deer. Justin once again pointed out the presence of the deer, this time with more zeal. Brandon sluggishly began maneuvering. He just missed the deer by about the margin of a gnats pubic hair (which isn't very much).
Shortly there after we arrived in Alpine, got fuel and food and took a whizz. Alpine has a school, Sul Ross University. It was amazing to us that the emo look and Holister clothing had infected even this remote town.
Once back on the road I was at the wheel. This was a bit sketchy because I didn't bring my glasses and don't see so well, especially at night, without them. Brandon and Justin complained I was a bit heavy on the break. About 15 miles down the road I showed them what "heavy on the break" was all about as I engaged the anti-lock breaks and executed an aggressive maneuver to avoid a large buck that apparently couldn't take living in West Texas any longer. Damn thing countered my evasive maneuvers by repositioning himself in my path. Luckily, the combination of ABS noise and horn shook him from his suicidal haze and he was able to cut the other direction before I struck him.
At this point I decided it might be better if Justin drove.
About 2 in the A.M. we rolled into Terlingua. A dusty little town run by a goat. We pulled in the parking lot of Desert Sports, the company that would be shuttling our car, and looked for a place to sleep. We bedded down in the back of some of their vehicles. It was difficult to sleep because the full moon illuminated the desert like day light. I've never seen anything like it.
And that completed our first day of the trip.
FUCKING 3.39 a gallon. Fucking OPEC. They're building fucking islands shaped like the world and I'm paying 70 bucks for a tank of gas.
Since we were already off the road we elected for another stop over at DQ (aka, Texas Stop Sign). These two locations were very important. You see, one of our good friends has moved to some place in the North (one of those states about the size of one of our cities here in Texas). They don't have good food up there, just expensive food with names I can't pronounce. So in order to make sure our friend was still a Texan with good Texas values we had to make sure he remembered vividly why he hated living up north--DQ serves ice cream only. No fucking steak finger or chicken finger baskets. No hunger busters. Also no Braum's. Also no Whataburger. Also, no decent Mexican food. One of the many challenges we presented him with was the consumption of a chicken finger basket followed by a large Snickers blizzard. He passed, but it made him nearly unbearably gassy.
Back on the road. I managed to endure nearly 3 hours riding bitch. For those of you that don't know what "riding bitch" is, its when you have to ride in the middle seat of the truck. You're not the driver, and you're not riding shotgun. You're riding bitch. Its called riding bitch for 2 reasons. 1) If you're bitch was riding with you she'd be snuggled up next to you in the middle. 2) If you're a guy riding in that spot, your just a bitch for not kicking the dude riding shotgun's ass and taking his seat. So after 3 hours I demanded a switch out. Seeing as Brandon, the guy I had allowed to ride shotgun thus far, was a solid 30 pounds lighter than me he didn't have much choice but to yield the seat. In fact, one of the saddest moments of the trip was when this guy pulled his shirt off. He looked like he'd been undergoing chemo. The food up north must be terrible.
Now, the funny part about this was Brandon said he couldn't ride bitch because of his "knees and back." What the fuck. You're 28 man. And you're getting ready to spend 4 nights in the wilderness. Not just any wilderness. The wilderness of the Texas-Mexico border in Brewster County (think, "No Country for Old Men"). In addition to that, just a few months ago we were hiking in Arkansas and pulled 4 20+ mile days back to back (NOTE: I only pulled 2 because I had to return home and work). So, you're knees and back can kiss my ass. Next thing I know you'll be demanding socialized medicine.
Finally, darkness fell. As we turned off the interstate near Monahans Brandon (The Neo-Yankee) was at the wheel. We began to all point at the large rabbits with their ginormous ears hopping across and along the road. Then we began to see deer alongside the road.
Then suddenly, Justin, the other member of our party and the owner of the truck we were driving pointed out a deer entering the road. Brandon proceeded on as if there were no deer. Justin once again pointed out the presence of the deer, this time with more zeal. Brandon sluggishly began maneuvering. He just missed the deer by about the margin of a gnats pubic hair (which isn't very much).
Shortly there after we arrived in Alpine, got fuel and food and took a whizz. Alpine has a school, Sul Ross University. It was amazing to us that the emo look and Holister clothing had infected even this remote town.
Once back on the road I was at the wheel. This was a bit sketchy because I didn't bring my glasses and don't see so well, especially at night, without them. Brandon and Justin complained I was a bit heavy on the break. About 15 miles down the road I showed them what "heavy on the break" was all about as I engaged the anti-lock breaks and executed an aggressive maneuver to avoid a large buck that apparently couldn't take living in West Texas any longer. Damn thing countered my evasive maneuvers by repositioning himself in my path. Luckily, the combination of ABS noise and horn shook him from his suicidal haze and he was able to cut the other direction before I struck him.
At this point I decided it might be better if Justin drove.
About 2 in the A.M. we rolled into Terlingua. A dusty little town run by a goat. We pulled in the parking lot of Desert Sports, the company that would be shuttling our car, and looked for a place to sleep. We bedded down in the back of some of their vehicles. It was difficult to sleep because the full moon illuminated the desert like day light. I've never seen anything like it.
And that completed our first day of the trip.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Where has The Balls been?
So I matched. In a town far, far away. I have been doing such things as house hunting, car buying, and kayaking down the Rio Grande. These will be topics I promise to cover THIS WEEK. Starting with a series about my camping trip.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Did I match?
From: NRMP Staff
To: The Balls
Subject: Did I match
Congratulations! You have matched!
In addition to that little gem of an email, I got my final set of board scores yesterday. Passed. I finished my last day of rotations on Friday. I am now a Physician. All I have left to do is vacation, pick up my diploma May 17th, and party like a rock star.
VERY GOOD DAY.
My most sincere wishes of luck to any scrambling tomorrow.
To: The Balls
Subject: Did I match
Congratulations! You have matched!
In addition to that little gem of an email, I got my final set of board scores yesterday. Passed. I finished my last day of rotations on Friday. I am now a Physician. All I have left to do is vacation, pick up my diploma May 17th, and party like a rock star.
VERY GOOD DAY.
My most sincere wishes of luck to any scrambling tomorrow.
The Match, or Why does the NRMP have to bust my balls?
Its 10 A.M. CST. I haven't slept in...about 2 weeks. Today is the beginning of "Match Week." Basically, the beginning of the next three years of my life. Allow me to explain.
I've been in higher education for about a decade now. The last 4 years have been medical school. After medical school I'll be a Physician, but I wont have any magic powers. I have to spend another 3 years as an indentured servant before I get my magic powers and become a "licensed" physician.
The process by which I become an indentured servant (aka, resident) is "The Match." To make a long story short, you apply to a ton of programs. Then you go on a ton of interviews (assuming the programs offered you an interview), pretend you like every program you visit, and spend tons of money traveling to these locations. Then, you make a list of your favorites, the residency programs make their list, and wherever things match up you go. So if you don't want to be a family practice doctor, you just don't apply to any family practice residencies.
So thats the match in the simplest of terms. "Match Week" is the week when you find out where you are going for residency. In about 50 minutes I find out IF I matched anywhere. Basically I log on a web site and see "matched" or "you're fucked, loser." After today I have to wait until Thursday to find out where I'm going. If I get the "you're fucked" message I have tomorrow and Wednesday to try and "scramble" into a position, which basically means beg my way into an unfilled position in some arm pit locale that no one else wanted to attend.
What makes no sense to me is why they can't tell me where I'm matched today. I don't understand why they need to prolong my suffering. I know the theory is so that the scramblers can do their thing, but why the hell does it matter if I know where I'm going for the dude scrambling.
Ridiculous.
I've been in higher education for about a decade now. The last 4 years have been medical school. After medical school I'll be a Physician, but I wont have any magic powers. I have to spend another 3 years as an indentured servant before I get my magic powers and become a "licensed" physician.
The process by which I become an indentured servant (aka, resident) is "The Match." To make a long story short, you apply to a ton of programs. Then you go on a ton of interviews (assuming the programs offered you an interview), pretend you like every program you visit, and spend tons of money traveling to these locations. Then, you make a list of your favorites, the residency programs make their list, and wherever things match up you go. So if you don't want to be a family practice doctor, you just don't apply to any family practice residencies.
So thats the match in the simplest of terms. "Match Week" is the week when you find out where you are going for residency. In about 50 minutes I find out IF I matched anywhere. Basically I log on a web site and see "matched" or "you're fucked, loser." After today I have to wait until Thursday to find out where I'm going. If I get the "you're fucked" message I have tomorrow and Wednesday to try and "scramble" into a position, which basically means beg my way into an unfilled position in some arm pit locale that no one else wanted to attend.
What makes no sense to me is why they can't tell me where I'm matched today. I don't understand why they need to prolong my suffering. I know the theory is so that the scramblers can do their thing, but why the hell does it matter if I know where I'm going for the dude scrambling.
Ridiculous.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
I've been purposely neglecting
I've been neglecting this blog. Most people that neglect things usually say, "OH! SORRY! I'VE BEEN SO BUSY!"
Whatever. I have been SO busy in the past, I know what its like, and you're not there. Deal with it. You just can't admit to people that you've purposely been shoving them to the back of your mind. I can, and freely do, admit this.
One of the reasons I've been neglecting this blog is because my life has been so damn dull. When I started this blog...well, when I started thinking about starting this blog, my life was busy and filled with hilarity and crazy tales from the hospital. I've got a lot of things I want to talk about here, recount some past stories, stuff like that. I just haven't. It's who I am.
One thing that is funny to me, and spurred me to make this entry, is another example of someone that was purposely neglecting. I had this patient the other day that came in for his diabetes. His hemoglobin A1c was 12% (very, very high, which is bad). The A1c is a way to monitor the average blood sugar over the last 120 days (the lifespan of a red blood cell). Say a patient hasn't been taking their medicine. The day of their visit they say, "shit, I don't want to look like a jack ass who is killing myself by neglect, I'm going to double down on the insulin and look like a shining example of what a diabetic should be."
I used to do that before I went to see my orthodontist. I'd wear my retainer on my way over there and writhe around in pain as it squished my teeth back into position. Orthodontist would look at them, tighten the shit up, and say "looked great!" Then I'd repeat the process in a month.
Well, the A1c tells us what the average blood sugar has been over the past 120 days and keeps diabetics honest. I can extrapolate back what your average blood sugar was despite what your current blood sugar says.
This guy doesn't seem to understand that. Last time he was in his A1c was 10, and his blood sugar was 57 (low, just above the point where people start losing consciousness). He was sweaty, and felt terrible. Basically he tripled down on his insulin to make his sugar low and overshot...then drove to the clinic probably with blurred vision.
Anyway, we explained to him how we knew he hadn't been taking his medicine. Well. He didn't get it, because he did the same shit at this visit. Came in with an A1c of 12 which is an average blood sugar of over 300 (again, really damn high). His blood sugar in the office today--87.
Purposely neglecting.
Its like the person that has started to have bad lungs from smoking. More cough, getting infections more often, gets winded walking up the stairs. But still, they continue to smoke. Today, one of my mentors told me how he deals with these people. "Either quit smoking or start doubling down so you can hurry up and get the process over with. There's no need to prolong the suffering."
So my advice to you today. Whatever it is you've been neglecting...either shit or get off the pot. No need to prolong the suffering.
Whatever. I have been SO busy in the past, I know what its like, and you're not there. Deal with it. You just can't admit to people that you've purposely been shoving them to the back of your mind. I can, and freely do, admit this.
One of the reasons I've been neglecting this blog is because my life has been so damn dull. When I started this blog...well, when I started thinking about starting this blog, my life was busy and filled with hilarity and crazy tales from the hospital. I've got a lot of things I want to talk about here, recount some past stories, stuff like that. I just haven't. It's who I am.
One thing that is funny to me, and spurred me to make this entry, is another example of someone that was purposely neglecting. I had this patient the other day that came in for his diabetes. His hemoglobin A1c was 12% (very, very high, which is bad). The A1c is a way to monitor the average blood sugar over the last 120 days (the lifespan of a red blood cell). Say a patient hasn't been taking their medicine. The day of their visit they say, "shit, I don't want to look like a jack ass who is killing myself by neglect, I'm going to double down on the insulin and look like a shining example of what a diabetic should be."
I used to do that before I went to see my orthodontist. I'd wear my retainer on my way over there and writhe around in pain as it squished my teeth back into position. Orthodontist would look at them, tighten the shit up, and say "looked great!" Then I'd repeat the process in a month.
Well, the A1c tells us what the average blood sugar has been over the past 120 days and keeps diabetics honest. I can extrapolate back what your average blood sugar was despite what your current blood sugar says.
This guy doesn't seem to understand that. Last time he was in his A1c was 10, and his blood sugar was 57 (low, just above the point where people start losing consciousness). He was sweaty, and felt terrible. Basically he tripled down on his insulin to make his sugar low and overshot...then drove to the clinic probably with blurred vision.
Anyway, we explained to him how we knew he hadn't been taking his medicine. Well. He didn't get it, because he did the same shit at this visit. Came in with an A1c of 12 which is an average blood sugar of over 300 (again, really damn high). His blood sugar in the office today--87.
Purposely neglecting.
Its like the person that has started to have bad lungs from smoking. More cough, getting infections more often, gets winded walking up the stairs. But still, they continue to smoke. Today, one of my mentors told me how he deals with these people. "Either quit smoking or start doubling down so you can hurry up and get the process over with. There's no need to prolong the suffering."
So my advice to you today. Whatever it is you've been neglecting...either shit or get off the pot. No need to prolong the suffering.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Road Trippin'
As I write this entry I am high.
So high.
34,000 feet to be exact. I gotta make one quick stop in Houston and then my time on the road is over. Before the sun sets I’ll be back home. This beat down started back in July, ironically, in Houston. Then Further south for August. Home for a few months, then back on the road for two months. All the while, making trips within trips to various cities for interviews. But finally, no more.
Add onto the general stress of traveling—airport security, delayed flights, catching cabs, trains, shuttles, and renting cars, sleeping in a bed not your own on a pillow not your own, getting lost in foreign cities, eating every meal "out"—the stress of having to switch from sleeping nights to days and back to nights. Plus jet lag. My circadian rhythm is shattered. Last night, I tossed and turned in my hotel room well past 1 A.M. despite having to wake up for a 6:45 A.M. shuttle to the airport. And despite the 3 beers I consumed between 10 P.M. and 11 P.M.
All this would be more tolerable if my wife were able to come with me. Ok, and the cat too. I miss them both tremendously. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I had a kid. I don’t understand why, but people seem to be pretty attached to them.
So kids and travel. Funny story. First, anyone that thinks traveling with an infant is a good idea is clearly fucking retarded. As I’m sitting in the airport I notice just such a retard. He’s dressed in his Dockers and denim button up shirt (I thought that went out of style in 1994) with his corporate man hair cut and “I’m important” PDA contraption strapped to his woven belt (once again, thought these went out about the time denim shirts did).
Well, guess who sits down on me behind the plane. Mr. and Mrs. Important Retard. And little Baby Retard. No big deal, I put the head phones on, put on my sunglasses and lean back for desperately needed nap. Just as I’m dozing off I’m snatched into the realm of wakefulness as my chair and body lurch forward. I look around and see Mr. Retard cruising down the isle. Whatever, accidents happen.
Back to napping. Then, he sits down and I feel something jamming into my seat back. Then out. Then back in. Then out. By this point I’m getting a little frustrated. I figure he’s trying to get something going to placate his kid and decide to let it slide—when the fucker, with his hands, pushes my seat into the upright and locked position. I turn around, give a dirty look and put my seat back.
At this point, Mr. Retard stands up and begins talking at me. I say at me because I have my headphones on and eyes closed so I don’t realize it. The gentleman next to me gets my attention and points to Mr. Retard who is now standing in the isle scowling at me. I take out an ear phone. “Can you give us a little space here?”
Oh. Dear. Lord. I tell him, “When you are asking people to inconvenience themselves for your convenience you should learn to be a little diplomatic about it.” I guess his ticket on the budget airline we were flying entitled him to more space than mine. At this point I decide rather than getting arrested and then miss an exam vital to fulfilling graduation requirements, I’ll just be the adult and concede half the distance of my chair’s recumbent abilities. Fortunately, the flight attendant intervened before I had a chance to run my mouth again and the douche returned to his seat in dejection. As he sat I reclaimed the other half of my lean. I guess they didn’t notice the PDA attached to his belt indicating he was an upper level sales guy, not entry!
Anyway, just one of the examples that has completely convinced me socialized medicine, or socialized anything, is not something I’m willing to pay for. I just don’t think the majority of my fellow humans are deserving of suckling at my motivated teat.
You never know when the guy in the seat you’re jacking with is teetering on the edge of a total freak-out.
So high.
34,000 feet to be exact. I gotta make one quick stop in Houston and then my time on the road is over. Before the sun sets I’ll be back home. This beat down started back in July, ironically, in Houston. Then Further south for August. Home for a few months, then back on the road for two months. All the while, making trips within trips to various cities for interviews. But finally, no more.
Add onto the general stress of traveling—airport security, delayed flights, catching cabs, trains, shuttles, and renting cars, sleeping in a bed not your own on a pillow not your own, getting lost in foreign cities, eating every meal "out"—the stress of having to switch from sleeping nights to days and back to nights. Plus jet lag. My circadian rhythm is shattered. Last night, I tossed and turned in my hotel room well past 1 A.M. despite having to wake up for a 6:45 A.M. shuttle to the airport. And despite the 3 beers I consumed between 10 P.M. and 11 P.M.
All this would be more tolerable if my wife were able to come with me. Ok, and the cat too. I miss them both tremendously. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I had a kid. I don’t understand why, but people seem to be pretty attached to them.
So kids and travel. Funny story. First, anyone that thinks traveling with an infant is a good idea is clearly fucking retarded. As I’m sitting in the airport I notice just such a retard. He’s dressed in his Dockers and denim button up shirt (I thought that went out of style in 1994) with his corporate man hair cut and “I’m important” PDA contraption strapped to his woven belt (once again, thought these went out about the time denim shirts did).
Well, guess who sits down on me behind the plane. Mr. and Mrs. Important Retard. And little Baby Retard. No big deal, I put the head phones on, put on my sunglasses and lean back for desperately needed nap. Just as I’m dozing off I’m snatched into the realm of wakefulness as my chair and body lurch forward. I look around and see Mr. Retard cruising down the isle. Whatever, accidents happen.
Back to napping. Then, he sits down and I feel something jamming into my seat back. Then out. Then back in. Then out. By this point I’m getting a little frustrated. I figure he’s trying to get something going to placate his kid and decide to let it slide—when the fucker, with his hands, pushes my seat into the upright and locked position. I turn around, give a dirty look and put my seat back.
At this point, Mr. Retard stands up and begins talking at me. I say at me because I have my headphones on and eyes closed so I don’t realize it. The gentleman next to me gets my attention and points to Mr. Retard who is now standing in the isle scowling at me. I take out an ear phone. “Can you give us a little space here?”
Oh. Dear. Lord. I tell him, “When you are asking people to inconvenience themselves for your convenience you should learn to be a little diplomatic about it.” I guess his ticket on the budget airline we were flying entitled him to more space than mine. At this point I decide rather than getting arrested and then miss an exam vital to fulfilling graduation requirements, I’ll just be the adult and concede half the distance of my chair’s recumbent abilities. Fortunately, the flight attendant intervened before I had a chance to run my mouth again and the douche returned to his seat in dejection. As he sat I reclaimed the other half of my lean. I guess they didn’t notice the PDA attached to his belt indicating he was an upper level sales guy, not entry!
Anyway, just one of the examples that has completely convinced me socialized medicine, or socialized anything, is not something I’m willing to pay for. I just don’t think the majority of my fellow humans are deserving of suckling at my motivated teat.
You never know when the guy in the seat you’re jacking with is teetering on the edge of a total freak-out.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Pain
The way people handle pain is awesome. Medicine as a field pretty much hates pain. Its too subjective. Consequentially, we had to try and make it more objective and the visual analogue pain scale was created. No one uses this, they just use the 1-10 scale. It doesn't work.
I think a lot of pain is actually cultural. Young Hispanic males and black females tend to vocalize and externalize their expressions of pain. Old white ladies tend to be exceedingly stoic. There are always exceptions of course.
My favorite is when I walk in a room and someone is sitting there, quiet, reading a magazine. Their problem--pain. Vital signs are all normal, not tachycardic, not hypertensive. So I start talking to them and they are telling me about how terrible their pain is. So I get ready to pop the question. "On a scale from 1-10 where 1 is pain that is barely noticeable and 10 is the worst pain you could ever imagine. As bad as you might imagine having an arm slowly torn from your body would feel." I literally describe the scale with those terms.
So this same person, then looks me straight in the eyes and calmly says, "my pain is a 10." Holy hell. My brief experience has led me to a couple realizations about the 1-10 scale.
1) If someone says their pain is 10 out of 10, its probably closer to 6 out of 10 at most.
2) If someone says their pain is 6 or 7 out of 10 its probably actually a 9 or 10.
3) Anything 5 or less is probably accurate.
As far as treating pain, this is what I've learned.
1) Vicodin is the most potent pain reliever known to man. More people with 10/10 pain say its cured by vicodin than any other substance. It does for pain what the "Z-pack" does for URI's.
2) If Vicodin doesn't work, Dilaudid and Phenergan will.
Ah, the drug seekers. I love them. My favorites are the ones that make God awful retching noises that everyone in the ER can hear but never actually bring anything up. The good ones will keep this up for hours, even after getting Zophran, arguably the most effective drug ever conceived to treat nausea. For a drug seeker, having a kidney stone is like winning the lottery. They come in writhing in pain, making the retching noise, and sure as shit have a stone that shows up every time on CT. How can anyone argue against treating that--especially when they tell you they are "allergic" to all NSAIDs. Brilliant.
I think a lot of pain is actually cultural. Young Hispanic males and black females tend to vocalize and externalize their expressions of pain. Old white ladies tend to be exceedingly stoic. There are always exceptions of course.
My favorite is when I walk in a room and someone is sitting there, quiet, reading a magazine. Their problem--pain. Vital signs are all normal, not tachycardic, not hypertensive. So I start talking to them and they are telling me about how terrible their pain is. So I get ready to pop the question. "On a scale from 1-10 where 1 is pain that is barely noticeable and 10 is the worst pain you could ever imagine. As bad as you might imagine having an arm slowly torn from your body would feel." I literally describe the scale with those terms.
So this same person, then looks me straight in the eyes and calmly says, "my pain is a 10." Holy hell. My brief experience has led me to a couple realizations about the 1-10 scale.
1) If someone says their pain is 10 out of 10, its probably closer to 6 out of 10 at most.
2) If someone says their pain is 6 or 7 out of 10 its probably actually a 9 or 10.
3) Anything 5 or less is probably accurate.
As far as treating pain, this is what I've learned.
1) Vicodin is the most potent pain reliever known to man. More people with 10/10 pain say its cured by vicodin than any other substance. It does for pain what the "Z-pack" does for URI's.
2) If Vicodin doesn't work, Dilaudid and Phenergan will.
Ah, the drug seekers. I love them. My favorites are the ones that make God awful retching noises that everyone in the ER can hear but never actually bring anything up. The good ones will keep this up for hours, even after getting Zophran, arguably the most effective drug ever conceived to treat nausea. For a drug seeker, having a kidney stone is like winning the lottery. They come in writhing in pain, making the retching noise, and sure as shit have a stone that shows up every time on CT. How can anyone argue against treating that--especially when they tell you they are "allergic" to all NSAIDs. Brilliant.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Armageddon
How much would you pay to sleep in a motel, taken over by a hospital as its campus expanded? Its amenities include those rock hard, pokey, vinyl hospital pillows which are too thing to adequately support your head but if you try stacking two of them they are then too thick, a 13" TV with cable, and regular "Armageddon" like events.
Let me explain.
My first day I got up at 4 A.M. and drove into the town where I'm currently working. Checked in at the hospital at 8 A.M. with the program coordinator, and discovered I was scheduled to work that very day! No big deal. Worked my shift, tried to figure out the flow of the department where things were located, etc., then headed to the satellite campus where my living quarters are located. I found my way there purely by accident as I didn't have a map. I took a winding course, only later to realize both hospitals are located on the same main street about a mile apart.
After I put my stuff down I grabbed my laptop. You can imagine my horror upon finding there was no wireless internet access. Why the hell would you design living quarters for senior medical students that didn't have net access? See, in your fourth year of medical school you spend the majority of the first half out of town rotating at places where you might want to go to residency. At the same time, you're also traveling to cities to interview with programs. This requires lots of schedule tweaking, most of which is done through careful email communications. So, again, why the hell would you design living quarters for senior medical students that didn't have internet access.
Anyway, Armageddon. I step outside and look down the street and see a Whataburger. I guess thats a plus. So I was full of fast food and exhausted. The perfect recipe for a good night of sleeping. I went to bed at about 11 and quickly fell asleep despite my pillow situation. Minutes later I sat straight up in bed...confused...disoriented...looking for the horsemen. The room shook. I heard the rumble of ghastly hooves.
Then I heard it. A train whistle. I was certain it had derailed and was probably crashing through the rooms at the opposite end of the building headed towards me. Death would come quickly. My funeral pyre would be of concrete and steel fueled by diesel fuel and whatever other hazardous materials the train brought.
I decided to look my death in the face. I flung the door open. To my surprise, there was no train headed for me. It was still on the track--which was located 50 feet behind the building.
These trains comes about every 50 minutes on average starting at about 10:30 P.M. Each time I am wrested from sleep certain Armageddon approaches. I get stressed out because I can't remember all the things I've meant to repent for but procrastinated on.
So anyway, how much would you pay? I paid 300 bucks.
Let me explain.
My first day I got up at 4 A.M. and drove into the town where I'm currently working. Checked in at the hospital at 8 A.M. with the program coordinator, and discovered I was scheduled to work that very day! No big deal. Worked my shift, tried to figure out the flow of the department where things were located, etc., then headed to the satellite campus where my living quarters are located. I found my way there purely by accident as I didn't have a map. I took a winding course, only later to realize both hospitals are located on the same main street about a mile apart.
After I put my stuff down I grabbed my laptop. You can imagine my horror upon finding there was no wireless internet access. Why the hell would you design living quarters for senior medical students that didn't have net access? See, in your fourth year of medical school you spend the majority of the first half out of town rotating at places where you might want to go to residency. At the same time, you're also traveling to cities to interview with programs. This requires lots of schedule tweaking, most of which is done through careful email communications. So, again, why the hell would you design living quarters for senior medical students that didn't have internet access.
Anyway, Armageddon. I step outside and look down the street and see a Whataburger. I guess thats a plus. So I was full of fast food and exhausted. The perfect recipe for a good night of sleeping. I went to bed at about 11 and quickly fell asleep despite my pillow situation. Minutes later I sat straight up in bed...confused...disoriented...looking for the horsemen. The room shook. I heard the rumble of ghastly hooves.
Then I heard it. A train whistle. I was certain it had derailed and was probably crashing through the rooms at the opposite end of the building headed towards me. Death would come quickly. My funeral pyre would be of concrete and steel fueled by diesel fuel and whatever other hazardous materials the train brought.
I decided to look my death in the face. I flung the door open. To my surprise, there was no train headed for me. It was still on the track--which was located 50 feet behind the building.
These trains comes about every 50 minutes on average starting at about 10:30 P.M. Each time I am wrested from sleep certain Armageddon approaches. I get stressed out because I can't remember all the things I've meant to repent for but procrastinated on.
So anyway, how much would you pay? I paid 300 bucks.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Reasons I know I'm more committed to my marriage than my wife.
There are many reasons, but here are a few.
1) Wedding cake. Tradition mandates that you eat a piece of frozen wedding cake on your 1 year anniversary. My wife had one piece. I ate an entire top from a frozen wedding cake.
2) The other day my wife asked me what time I was getting up to catch my flight. I said, "4:00 in the A.M." She replied, "Holy Hell! Thats early!! DON'T WAKE ME UP!"
Thats about all I've got for now. Please accept my apologies for the paucity of entries lately. I'm out of town, and the place I'm staying doesn't have internet access. More about this later.
1) Wedding cake. Tradition mandates that you eat a piece of frozen wedding cake on your 1 year anniversary. My wife had one piece. I ate an entire top from a frozen wedding cake.
2) The other day my wife asked me what time I was getting up to catch my flight. I said, "4:00 in the A.M." She replied, "Holy Hell! Thats early!! DON'T WAKE ME UP!"
Thats about all I've got for now. Please accept my apologies for the paucity of entries lately. I'm out of town, and the place I'm staying doesn't have internet access. More about this later.
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