Sitting at my regular corner table each day allowed me to work in relative privacy and people watch the 4th and 5th semesters that frequented the cafeteria during my normal work hours. Today was no different. At the table directly to my right sat a group of students I’d seen every day for the past two weeks and they were discussing that mornings ICM’s. Hearing them laugh and make fun of the guy in the striped shirt, I started to listen.
Striped shirt guy, “Everything was going fine until she started talking about the fried chicken.”
Huh? I now deemed this kid Fried Chicken Guy – much more appealing.
Kid in the hat, “What about the fried chicken? Was that even in the script?”
When the medical students practiced interviewing patients, the ‘patients’ worked off a script with very specific details about their complaints to help students get ready for what would someday be real patients.
Fried Chicken Guy, “No, man. She told me that she’s got pain in her chest that radiates and I started thinking angina. But, then she said it gets worse when she eats fried chicken.”
The other students sat in silence, and so did I, waiting to hear where this was going.
Fried Chicken Guy, “I asked her if it was homemade fried chicken, if it came from KFC or if it was from some other place on the island. I got so hung up on the chicken that I lost track of the time and then I hear the knock on the door signaling my interview is over. Bomb. No clinical decision.”
While the Fried Chicken Guys friends laughed at him, I could totally relate. If someone started talking to me about soy lattes my mind would spin out of control and I’d temporarily forget where I was. I packed up my stuff and headed down to the guard shack. Hopefully I’d catch Ja on his way to anatomy lab.
I was sitting on the bench waiting and I could hear students talking about yesterday’s Block Exam. Jameson had one more Block Exam and then an Anatomy Shelf and he’d be done with first semester. Apparently exam three was surprising for many med students – or so I heard as they rushed past me. I had no idea what any of the classes were because the names all sounded the same. Ology this and XYZ that. Two guys walked up and stepped just in front of me to discuss the latest block scores.
Guy A was explaining to Guy B, “Dude, I failed my XYZ block. That shit was reedic.”
Mental Checklist: Urban Dictionary reedic. Is that supposed to mean ridiculous in young trendy urbanite?
Guy B, “What, dude? No.”
Guy A, “Yeah, dude. I failed. Gonna have to take this class again, dude.”
Guy B, “Dude. You failed.”
Guy A, “Yeah, dude, that’s what I said.”
I was listening to Smokey McPot and Johnny Potsmoker. This was literally an episode of ‘Dude, Where’s My Car’ meets Medical School. I would have laughed except that I knew how much school cost and that just made me sad for Smokey.
That moment Ja rounded the corner in his scrubs talking to a couple of his classmates. I caught his eye and he slowed down only to tell me he couldn’t talk because they were all heading to BB’s, the local watering hole, to study what was up next in lab. At some point he’d mastered eating right before anatomy lab. Don’t know how that happened, I looked at one photo of a hand in his book and couldn’t eat chicken for two weeks. I sighed and headed back to our condo crossing my fingers that the internet was back up. Medical school was busy but successful for my husband and the adjustment for me was only becoming a bigger pain in the ass.
Mental Checklist: What would Tracey do? Dance. Google island dance studios, start class and get out of my funk. This MISadventure is wearing on my pocketbook and my nerves. Oh, and buy some Nutella. That hazelnut goodness is ‘reedic!
2 comments:
My biggest concern is that Smokey M and Johnny P will someday actually be doctors who make critical decisions affecting the health and wellness of others!
True, dude!
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