A New Job and a Pee Cup

I don't wanna grow up!

(Summoned from the depths of my childhood...)

Anyway, it's not exactly that I don't want to grow up--I do. I want my own house decorated how I like, with an actual garage to pull in my own car. I want a real bank account that has more than $47 in it at a time. I want a refrigerator filled with food that I picked out and a kitchen that I can call my own. I don't want to report to anyone or be asked inane, parental questions every time I walk in the door. (I.e. Are you going to walk the dog? Where'd the cash go from the kitchen table? Have you eaten already? What are you doing tonight? Are you going to feed the dog? Argh!)

Dog.

However, I'm not so sure that I want to actually be an adult. I've just recently had my first foray into "Real Job" territory and I am not pleased.

A large hospital in my area was in dire need of OR staff after recently "cleaning house." They contacted my surg. tech teacher, who in turn asked a few of us from class if we wanted to interview for a job. She pulled me out of the OR last week with an application in hand and told me to get to the hospital as quickly as possible if I was interested. And because the other option was staying in the OR for 3 hours holding an elephant-sized leg up for a total knee replacement with Dr. Asian Prick-

Spacesuits and all- I hate ortho, I hate ortho, I hate ortho...

I decided to go interview for the job.

So, I interviewed with the Director of Surgical Services and felt pretty good about it. It was kind of nerve-wracking due to the fact that I've never had a real job interview, but I felt positive. A few hours later, even though I told them that I'm moving from the area in 87 days (not too early to countdown!), I was notified that I had indeed gotten the job and to meet with HR.

Oh, HR. Oh, the red tape. Oh, the forms. Oh, the signatures and dates. Oh, the HR women who seem to believe they've been cast in a Dolly Parton re-make:

Women of HR- Shoulder Pads are Out. 

I hate feeling like I don't know what I'm doing. It's the worst feeling to me. And that's how I felt trying to fill out the 59 pages of forms today, sitting in HR for an hour, with their greasy pens and itchy upholstery and HR people that freak me out.

While I was sitting in there, scratching out my last name and putting my first name and then my last name for the 40th time, a middle-aged woman was also filling out papers. She asked me how to spell "receive" and then a few minutes later, asked me how to spell "environment" and later, "clothes." So, in the middle of pulling my hair out, I'm being put through a spelling bee while also questioning our country and how it's possible that an adult doesn't know how to spell these words.

With all of the small font and big words on the forms, I really needed parental guidance, to be honest. But, I think I managed. Or I accidentally signed to opt into some hospital scam 401B or deferred my pay checks until 2050 or am now claiming 13 children via my W-2.

W-2.

401k.

401B.

W-4.

OMG.


WTF.

After that form-filling, stress-inducing debacle, I was dragged to another Office of Red Tape with another creepy, bouffant-style HR woman.  She demanded my drivers license, my social security card, my tag number, my immunization forms, my diploma, a voided check and my packet forms. I proudly handed everything over to her, patting myself on the back for remembering to bring everything.

She feebly held my FSU diploma still in its cardboard casket (which had been lain to rest under my bed last August) like I had just sneezed all over it.

"What is this?" Beady, HR eyes squinted at me.

"Oh! Well, the paper said to bring in my diploma, so...um."

With her eyes still focused on me, she let out a scoffing sound from her powdered nose. She dramatically flopped it onto her desk. I still don't know what the deal was with that. They asked for my diploma, so I brought my diploma. Whatever.

After more scoffing and heaving and squirming and sighing, I was released from HR and sent to do a drug test. I had exactly 10 minutes to get there or else the results would be void--and the world would cease to exist. I skidded into the parking lot and burst through the doors of the seedy little drug test place. And then proceeded to wait on another itchy upholstered chair for 40 minutes.

Finally, a blonde chihuahua of a woman barked at me from behind a glass window to come back.

Not exactly this, but just as 3rd world-ish. And Un-sterile-ish. 

...The blonde chihuahua leads me to a room and is like, "Go in the bathroom. Wash your hands. Don't throw away the paper towel." I oblige like the crack whore I apparently am. I come out with the towels- she inspects them. I stand there with my decently above-average IQ and try to figure out how I would cheat a urine test with a paper towel. Hm. She elbows me back into the bathroom and hands me a bucket-sized plastic cup. "Fill the cup to this line. Do not close the door. Do not flush the toilet. Bring it to me when you're done."

So, okay. I'm cool with medical stuff and bodies and the like. But, if Kevin's within a mile of the bathroom, I close the door. And we've been together for 3 years. So I go in and am trying to maneuver this large embarrassing pee cup and of course I can't go. I just can't. And I'm freaking out even more because I don't want her to think I'm taking so long because I'm trying to whittle a drug-free bag of urine out of paper towels. Many awkward minutes pass until I finally succeed. I hand her my cup, wanting nothing more than to get the heck out of that place.

"Sit on that chair. PPD." She motions to a dirty gray doctor chair.

Ugh, seriously? I've spent time at many different health facilities and each one has demanded a 2-step PPD, or tuberculin skin test, to make sure you don't have TB. Today, I had my 7th TB test. In two weeks, I'll have my 8th.

This test is every hypochondriacs worst nightmare because one- if the little pocket of TB they inject into you swells at all, they decide you've been infected with TB and ship you off to Sorok Island: The Last Leper Colony--or something like that. And two- if said hypochondriac develops any feelings of malaise or difficulty breathing, it is decided that the TB injection was not fully purified and now this person has TB. This said psychotic person will periodically check the arm lump every minute for the next month. Said person's stress level is already tipping the charts.

*Deep Breathing*

The next hoop I must jump through for my 4-month long, $12.58 job ($17 on the weekends!) is All Day Orientation on Monday. Business casual is required. Ughhh...give me scrubs or give me death!

SCRUBS.

DEATH.

I'm currently not sure how I'm feeling about being employed. I'm also currently juggling a million things at once. Overload.

But regardless, Erin to the OR in the AM!

3 Months to Live

So, I know I previously promised my experience at The Butt Hut, but I forgot about my first OR week in clinicals so I will just go through the highlights...can't leave any riveting moment out!

As a tech, we're responsible for setting up and opening the supplies for each surgery. This includes opening little packages of awkward-sized  objects in a particular, sterile manner onto a sterile-draped table. These awkward things come in "peel-packs" that are kind of like string cheese wrappers.

So, I'm at my first day in OR clinicals, awkwardly hovering in front of a sterile table being stacked with sterile stuff, not real sure what to do. No one's very friendly. One girl asks me if I can do anything and I jokingly say, "Well, I can't do much, but I can open packages!" She motions for me to proceed. I select a skin marker from the bucket and begin to carefully peel back the wrapper like I've been taught. The OR is silent, waiting for me to amaze them with my surgical tech skills...

Oh, crap. Too much wrist flick at the end of the peel. Rookie mistake. My stomach plummets to the sticky blue floor as the marker angrily arcs from its wrapper and pings off the back wall. The now-infected marker jets like a homing missile towards our sterile table piled with costly supplies.

The missile finds its target. Infected-to-sterile contact is made. Loud, frustrated sighs echo in the cold room. Everything on the table now has to be shoved into the trash, the process started anew. I am demoted to the nurse's prep stand.

FAIL. Multiply this scenario about 17 times. Biggest loser in room.

Later, I go to glove a rather large, impressive, intimidating surgeon. He towers over me with his hairy hand in the air awaiting its glove. He's saying something to me- I'm too nervous to comprehend so I just smile and nod- while I'm grabbing his glove and stretching the Latex open for him. He jams his hand into the glove in an authoritative, hurried manner and begins to extend his other hand. But, wait? What the--? Oh. Ha. Umm. Well. The glove is wonky, a thumb here, a pinkie somewhere else. He can't touch his other "un-sterile" hand to fix it, so it's up to me to awkwardly molest his hand and try to right the glove.

You are unintelligent. There, I said it. 

I pull the Latex this way and that, snapping his skin in the process and most certainly pulling a few hairs. The darn glove may as well be a 50,000 piece puzzle. A puzzle laying atop your boss's round, hairy stomach. It's difficult, sure, but mostly just super awkward to put together. It is finally declared that I have done the unthinkable. The Left Glove is on his Right Hand.

*Palm to forehead*

I also said a million stupid things that week...

"Oh! Hi Dr. A!" (I'm Dr. B...)
"Is that the ovary, Dr. C?" (Uhh no. That's the stomach.)

Needless to say, the week was long. Having my intelligence questioned by people I respect in a God-like fashion is tough. Wasting countless dollars of medical supplies due to my inability to open packages is difficult for this little Jew. A cloud of heavy failure followed me around the entire week.

So, when I was assigned a 6-hour long surgery on my last day, I wallowed. I wallowed like a self-absorbed, pathetic warthog. When I found out it was with Dr. Hairy Hands, it was all I could stand. Why ME?! Why is my life so cruel?!

The surgery was a Pancreaticoduodenectomy, or a Whipple, where part of the stomach, the gall bladder and duct, the duodenum, part of the jejunum, part of the pancreas and all regional lymph nodes are removed.

Although quite caught up with self-pity, I was also intrigued to see how this surgery would play out. My curiosity was peaked. So, after scrubbing, gowning and gloving myself, I watched the patient roll into the OR. He was a big, jolly man. He had cancer. We were going to cut it out. Once he was asleep, I stood at his side and looked into his open cavernous body. Slippery intestines and pulsing organs slithered like snakes in a hole. The room was much quieter than normal. I guess everyone knew what I didn't.

"Well, let's close him up."

Huh? It's only been 45 minutes! You got it out that quickly?! But where's my 6-hour long, impressive-sounding case?

The surgeon looked at my confused, naive face and told me that there was nothing they could do. He took my hand and wrapped it around something warm and hard.

"That's cancer. It's too far spread. I'll give him 3 months." And with that, the surgeon ripped his gown off and left.

My hand jerked out of the patient like he was on fire. Wait, what? 3 months? It was incomprehensible. This jolly man would not be here 4 months from now. The leg that I had rested my hand on for 45 minutes will not be alive soon. Gone. Forever.

KCi and JoJo's "All My Life" played almost imperceptibly in the background as the man was wheeled back out. (Wish I could make this crap up.)

I left the room in a daze. My thoughts vacillated between where good people go when they die and how much of a jerk I was for worrying about a darn glove being put on wrong. Like my gloving problems were actually important in a hospital full of sick or dying people.

To finish my week off, I went to have one of the staff sign me out for the week and he blew up on me in front of everyone about how I wasn't doing it right. He threw a pen at me.

<Insert the cherry on top.>

I made it hurriedly down the stairs in my new white coat before a tear pricked behind my eye. I burst out the doors to the hospital parking lot where I completely decomposed next to my car. Snot and audible sobbing were involved. I couldn't find my frigging keys. I looked up and saw a bleary image of a man sitting in a small truck in the spot next to me, watching me fall apart into a hysterical mess. I was psychotically flinging things from my backpack and crying so hard I was dizzy. I finally got into my car and called Kevin. I'm pretty sure he thought Tyson got run over or something.

As I curled up into fetal position on my bed that night, puffy and exhausted, I seriously questioned what the hell I'd gotten myself into.

Nurses: RESPECT

*This is the 2nd post of the day, there's one before this if you want to read it in order.

**Pretend that this post was written six months ago

***Also pretend that I'm an organized, efficient, good-time-management type of person who doesn't procrastinate**

To all nurses: After having endured three straight, 10-hour days on the ambulatory surgical unit (ASU) during my first clinical rotation, I can only say that you are special, special people.

For my first rotation, I was put on the ASU floor, which is where patients who are coming in for surgery and leaving that same day come. The ASU performs pre-op and post-op, outpatient care. This was the first time our surg tech teacher decided to place us on this floor, but her thinking is that she wants us to see what happens before and after patients are wheeled into the OR doped up on Versed.

My first day was on Tuesday (I have clinicals TWR and class MF) and I was to report to the floor by 6:15 am.

............WHAT? There's actually existence between the hours of midnight and 9 am?! Who knew? And more importantly, who didn't want to know that life exists between those hours of unholiness? Um, moi.

So, when my phone alarm exploded next to my ear at 4:30 in the morning on Tuesday, I did not hop out of bed like Christmas morning per usual. It was more like a full-body slither of malice a la The Grinch...

(I seriously just searched "Grinch slithering" and the above picture came up in .00346 seconds...thanks Google!)

Anyway, I was not happy. I was exhausted, anxious, grumpy, excited, nervous and seriously questioning the direction of my life. Could I seriously ever wake up this early again? Is becoming a PA worth it?! While pondering, I- for whatever reason- realized I was starving. I went out to the kitchen, located and kissed Tyson's perpetually-smelling-of-Frito's head and stood in front of the fridge. What in the heck do you eat at 4:30 in the morning. Isn't it a law or something that you don't eat eggs when the moon's still out?

Ew.

Normal breakfast items just seemed unnatural. So instead, I chose to gorge myself on cold leftover quesadillas and hot wings on the couch in dark silence. As I later pulled into the hospital parking lot that morning, under a sheet of stars and darkness, with my spiffy white coat on and my stomach full of nerves, I totally regretted my breakfast choices. Lesson learned.

I met my teacher at the front lobby so she could walk me up to my floor elementary-school style. So, so lame, but I had never been up to that area and could barely find my way to the main entrance of the hospital with its blinking lights and red arrows, so I'm glad she took me up there.

And I'd just like to say that this hospital is seriously designed with the intent to make you think you've lost your freaking mind. You turn down one corridor- door, door, green block, tan block, door, sliding door, round silver button- and turn down another corridor and it honest to God has the exact same pattern. Everywhere. Every hallway. Even the people look exactly the same. It's creepy, to say the least.

The (Hospital) Matrix 

So, as my teacher was winding me up and around and side-to-side to the ASU floor, I was freaking out because I knew that I'd have to find my way back out eventually...right? I can leave this place, right?!

I was quickly introduced to the Charge Nurse who- even though she was smiling- sorta scared me. I'm pretty good at picking up auras. And her aura was cage fighter.

After my teacher left me, Nurse Ratchet passed me off onto another nurse who was really nice and welcoming and all, but I totally felt like a chubby toddler on my first day of school. I want my mommyyyy. Who are these people???

Much of my time spent on the ASU floor was taken up with watching nurses chart on their little computers. They charted the patient's height, the patient's weight, the patient's Latex allergy, the patient's father's glaucoma issues, the patient's 37 meds he'd taken that morning, the patient's last bowel movement, the patient's favorite color ad nauseam. And I mean that literally- to the point of my feeling nauseous. Or was that the hot wings I ingested at 4:45 that morning? Hmm.

I did get to do a few exciting things while there. I made and brought multiple cups of coffee to Mr. Oldpervert in Room 17.

Mr. Oldpervert is ready for his Sponge Bath! 

Oh, and I was asked to bring a cup to Room 7 by one of the nurse assistant's. I distinctly heard two creams and two sugar. Not that hard.

  Well, I pleasantly delivered this coffee to Room 7, a nice elderly gentleman. Within seconds of me leaving I hear a booming voice summon me from the bowels of his dark cave room. "Is there SUGAR in this?!"

Err, yes. Apparently he was a severe diabetic. For the rest of the morning he glared at me through his bifocals.

Then I was miraculously upgraded from Coffee Girl to Wheelchair Girl.

Nurse: (standing in front of obese patient in wheel chair who was ready to leave) Would you take Ms. Only-Speaks-Rapid-Spanish down to the front of the hospital. Her ride is here.

Me: Um, well, I don't really know how to get-

Nurse: (exasperated) Down this hall, press the green button, through doors on left, turn right, jump through fire ring, while holding woman in wheel chair press the red button while saying, "abracadabra," when you meet up with the man with a long beard, tell him the meaning of life, he will then give you access to the elevator.

Me: Okay! Sounds great! Will do!

I smiled and dumbly said, "Hola" to the woman. I got behind the chair and tried to push. No budge. I pushed again with all of might- nothing. Ohhh, the chair's locked. Dur. After stomping my foot on the chair a few times, it released its grip. I leaned around to face the woman and gave a reassuring smile and thumbs up. She looked at me the way I would look at a red-eyed, stumbling pilot before take off. Terror. 

ANDDD we're off! (To our imminent death.)

I made it to the hallway and pretty much wandered around pushing this robust Latina woman into dead ends and down wrong elevator wings. I kept giving her reassuring smiles and thumbs up along the way even though I seriously had no *&^*^%* idea where we were. However, once we reached the morgue, I decided it was time to suck it up and ask for directions. By the time we felt sunlight on our heads, about 30 minutes had elapsed. I brought her up to the car and an annoyed little man got out, speaking Spanish rapido to the woman. She said something back to him and they both cast angry looks at me.

I was like, "Ohh Bien! Adios! Gracias! Chiquito chalupa!"

What I did like about being on this rotation was that I could be with a patient from beginning to end. There was an older patient who was having a bone marrow biopsy. I got to sit with her and her husband while they waited in pre-op and talk with them. And then she asked if I would stay with her during the procedure and OF COURSE I said yes. Warmed my heart (and I hadn't seen that procedure before).

We started to wheel her down as her husband asked me to send up prayers while we were down there. So I did. I'm not religious at all, but I prayed for them in my own little atheist way, truly hoping for their sake that someone was listening.

And it made me feel so good, like I was actually helping someone. Maybe there is something to this prayer stuff. When we brought her back up, I got to be there when they were reunited and see the relief that it was over and everything had gone well. They thanked me and she said she couldn't have done it without me there. She called me a "sweet girl." I'll never forget her.

It's a different world when your patients are awake. It's easy to forget that there are people under the blue surgical drapes of which I'm excitedly looming over. Another lesson learned.

Up next: My foray into the Butt Hut. You won't wanna miss that. Or maybe you will. I'm pretty sure I wish I'd missed it...

Bucking Bronco

I feel like for the past couple months I've been strapped onto a bucking bronco.

A bronco who just ate his oats. A bronco who just got slapped on the butt in tandem with a loud, cowboy, "YAW!"  

Mostly, this bronco called My Life sprints blindly towards a hazy horizon that seems to lie in the next universe. For long stretches, I just bury my head against the wind and brace myself for sudden impact into whatever it is we're racing towards.

Other times, I see our end goal- it's definite and clear and perfect- but it's perched at the top of a cliff, with 37 different ways to get to it. And all of the paths are risky to some degree and some may turn out shorter than others while some are filled with mines and Tracker Jackers and poison berries and I'm left poised, my arrow drawn back, frantically needing to make a decision, but paralyzed with fear about what new danger lurks around the bend.

Nerdy Hunger Games reference, anyone?

Anyway, the reason that I haven't updated my blog, cooked anything, begun a running program, lost 15 pounds, sent Kevin cookies or done anything productive is because my life has been really darn stressful. Still is actually, increasingly so because I may have...a new career plan!

(DON'T you roll your eyes, this is the last time!) 

But before I get into that I'd like to create a sort of saga of my surgical tech life where I left off. We will relive every moment in excruciating detail, filled with stories of other people's organs and me crying a lot...

You won't want to miss it.

...............


Still reading? No? It's just my mom out there?

Well then, I'll keep it short to just the highlights. Hmph. 

And before I begin, I do realize that there are people in the world who have it way worse than me. Whose lives are way more stressful and tiring than mine. I don't have a job, I don't have kids, I don't have a house or bills or health issues or really any other type of stress. But, it's my blog and I'll be dramatic if I want to!

With that disclaimer, I will tell you that being a low-ranking student on the OR floor between the hours of 6:15 and 3 is pretty darn stressful. Especially when you still can't remember how to find the bathroom or what a Harrington retractor is or how to tell your involuntary hiccups to cease and desist. *Quick story

*I was in surgery, gowned, gloved, the whole shebang, scrubbing one of my first cases solo with a crusty-ol' vascular surgeon when I got...The Hiccups. Not loud, open-mouth hiccups like some obnoxious people do- just regular hiccups. I was so nervous and so excited and so focused on the task at hand that I had probably not taken a breath in 45 minutes. So, naturally, my diaphragm began to spasm. However, after about six quiet hiccups while hovered over a pulsing endarterectomy,

I was quietly bellowed at by the surgeon (the patient's awake with a drape over their head) to, and I politely quote, "Get the F**K out of my OR and take your hiccups with you." In front of about nine other OR people. I backed away from my little instrument stand of which I had proudly stood next to and shriveled towards the door. Wahhhh.

So, ya. It's not all fun and games when you're poking people's carotid. It's still pretty fun though...

Up next: My experience on the pre-op nursing floor.

I'm not just "White!"

In order to apply to most PA schools, you have to register with CASPA, The Central Application Service for Physician Assistants. They're basically the middle-man between me and my applications and all of the PA school admission departments. It's completely computerized and *after giving them hundreds of dollars* they send my application to where ever I'm applying. (Which is every school in the southern hemisphere...)

So, I'll be applying for the 2012-2013 CASPA cycle, which technically doesn't open for me until April of next year. But, I just started going through all of the questions to see how much of a pain in the butt it would be and I began reading under the "Personal Data" tab. It began with this:

Physician Assistant programs fully recognize the importance of diversity in their student body and in the physician assistant work force. Accordingly, programs strongly encourage applications from persons from all socioeconomic, racial, ethnic, religious, and educational backgrounds and persons from groups underrepresented in health care. 

My skin started to feel prickly. I knew I wasn't going to like what followed...

Do you consider yourself to be of Hispanic origin?	Yes, Spanish/Hispanic/Latino/Latina Please check all that apply below:  Mexican, Mexican American, Chicano/Chicana  Cuban  Puerto Rican  South or Central American  Other Spanish culture or origin If other, please specify:  No, not Spanish/Hispanic/Latino/Latina
Which of the following best describe your race? Please mark one or more races.	American Indian or Alaska Native Please specify the name of your enrolled or principal tribe:  Asian Please check all that apply below:  Asian Indian  Cambodian  Chinese  Filipino  Japanese  Korean  Malaysian  Pakistani  Vietnamese  Other Asian If other, please specify:  Black or African-American  Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander Please check all that apply below:  Guamanian or Chamorro  Native Hawaiian  Samoan  Other Pacific Islander If other, please specify:  White

****WARNING: Erin's Soapbox****

Okay. I'm all about giving economically-disadvantaged people a chance at a better life. Truly, I am. But, why do the PA programs care where we're all from? Are all Pacific Islanders disadvantaged? Do all Pacific Islanders have a better chance at getting accepted? Because if that's the case, "TELOFA! O lo'u igoa o Erin and I'm from Micronesia!" 

I mean, who's to say I'm not?! Who's going to argue with me that this isn't my beloved family back home?!

 I mean, ya...my skin blisters at the thought of living anywhere near 0˚ latitude, but I don't plan on taking the admissions committees to the beach or anything! It's not like they'll ever know...

I just don't think it's right to ask ethnicity-related questions for admission to grad school because I don't see how it matters. It just perpetuates stereotypes. 

This majorly runs off of my page and doesn't exactly relate to what I'm talking about, but I think it's funny. From http://theunderweardrawer.blogspot.com/ (Love her blog!)

Anyway, I can see state schools needing to meet quotas and I do believe that- due to family financial difficulties, not race- some people should be allowed into school even if their grades/ volunteer hours/ SAT scores aren't as up to par as everyone else. Maybe they had to work full-time or take care of their siblings at home. But, I feel that we're all pretty equal once we're applying to grad school. 

And what really bothers me about this section is how they make picking the "White" box like it's something bad or like I'm already disappointing or boring them...

You're all just so...white!
Your class's grad picture is going to look like a trip to Whole Foods! Boo Hoo! 

Whole Foods Tangent...

And anyway, the "White" box is all the way at the bottom without any sub-categories like the rest of the ethnic delights, even though 73% of our population in this country is "white." I mean, they even have you put what principal tribe you're in if you're American Indian! Are there that many American Indians applying that they need to specify what tribe they're in?! They only make up 0.8% of our population! I find it ridiculous and unfair.

Well, guess what CASPA? 

I'm not just "White." 

I am Latvian...

 

I am Scottish...

I am Canadian...

I am Irish...

And I am Indian Princess...

(...Or maybe my mom just made that last part up when I was little because I liked Pocahontas...) 

Regardless, I am a lot of things other than a middle-class, "White," female and I feel like I should be able to express that to the admissions people. 

So, in conclusion, if CASPA is trying to be all politically correct and have a well-diversified class, then CASPA needs to add all of the other sub-categories for being "White." Just because you're Asian or Black or Hispanic or Samoan doesn't mean that you grew up poor, without a father, without an education or any of the other stereotypes. And just because I'm "white" doesn't necessarily mean that I grew up rich, or that I like picking my own fruit 

or that I like Sushi...

Or that I like Outdoor Performance Wear...

Well, actually, I do enjoy those things...

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/

but...um...well, you get what I'm saying...it's just not right. 

Diversity is good but the decision to accept someone into PA school should NOT be based on meeting some ridiculous racial quota. And the decision should not be swayed due to skin color. Because that's being racist in my opinion...and the Free Dictionary's opinion. 

rac·ism  (rszm)

n.

1. The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability.

2. Discrimination or prejudice based on race.

Although I understand the theory behind diversifying health care, I've worked *really* hard in school and I'm not going to feel badly for just being plain ol' white. 

School has been getting pretty darn intense the past few weeks! I had been coasting along, thinking it's boring and easy and that I was way overqualified, until all of a sudden, BAM!

We now have hundreds of instruments to know, thousands of skills to master and billions of tiny pieces of information to remember- ALL by next week!

Our Learning Curve is EXPONENTIAL! 

We've had some political/social/psychological unease go on within our program over the past few weeks that resulted in our lab coordinator leaving/being fired. We also had this -I'm embarrassed to even say- "talk therapy session" where all of the students in our program were able to air their grievances about each other in front of everyone a la the movie, Mean Girls. Apparently there had been a lot of vicious gossiping going on among the ovaries in our class. (Unbeknownst to moi because I live in Erin Land where I still don't know half the people's names...)

This is my literal video interpretation-

I. AM. NOT. KIDDING.

I'm all about therapy -I am a psych major after all- 

-but there were literally 45-year-old women in my class *bawling* because they had heard from one of the girls that another girl said that she talked too much during a certain lab exercise two weeks previously. (Granted- the woman does talk a lot...) A total of 5 women flat out cried that day. I was so uncomfortable with all of the emotions and the situation had become so ridiculous that I felt like I would burst from holding in my laughter.

My body ached it wanted to laugh so hard. And I was pinching the inside of my arm so forcefully and thinking about death and morbid things to distract myself from the hilarity that I almost didn't hear when my teacher honed in on me and demanded, "ERIN, we never heard anything from you! Do you have anything to add?" I looked that woman dead in the face and told her that I had no friggin idea as to what was going on. So *no* I had absolutely nothing to add.

Anyway, now we have a new lab coordinator and we all have to change seats every day so that we can all bond.

..........

Yes, we literally have to change seats in our lecture room. So now I can no longer sit next to Ylena, the Ukrainian woman who doesn't talk much, and instead I have to...bond...with my fellow peers. Am I in Middle School again?

Anyway, besides that whole fiasco, we've really been working hard towards preparing for our mock surgery. Mock surgery is when each person goes through everything we've learned in front of our teacher and gets graded. If we don't pass the mock surgery, we can't continue on in the program...

Mock includes:

Putting on appropriate attire (scrubs, mask, shoe covers, head cover, eye shield)
Setting up the room (basin set, back table, mayo stand, anesthesia carts, prep stand, instrument tray)
Opening the room (opening all packs onto appropriate places in the correct order/way)
Scrubbing (3-min. scrub at sink)
Gowning/Gloving Closed Method
Organizing Instruments and Counting with the Nurse
Setting up our mayo stand

A Mayo Stand with what looks like: a Richardson retractor, 2 Kochers, 2 forceps,  a Metzenbaum, a Kelly, a straight mayo, 4 criles, 2 curved mayos and some lap sponges...correct me if you can!

Gown/Glove the surgeon
Pulling it all up to our OR table
And then passing instruments to the surgeon

And we have to finish all of that, on our own, in one hour. Ahh! It may sound easy but it's sooo not that easy! And I won't lie- I went into this program thinking I'd sweep in there and show everyone how it's done...since I've been to college and I think I'm smart...but that has totally not happened. Everyone is way better at being techs than I am and I'm constantly asking for help. But, I'm starting to get it now!

Mock isn't until the week of October 17th, but by next week we're going to be doing "mock" mock surgery and I don't want to look like a fool, so this weekend is study. time.

Also! Within all of the craziness, we're also going to the hospital to shadow the week of the 10th!

That means Hallelujah in Jew...

I can't wait to get back into the OR and see some blood and guts!!!! ...I mean...see some medical miracles :)

That first day in the OR for me was like a pre-alcoholics first taste of whiskey. I want more! And I'm excited because we'll be going to a really beautiful, new hospital this time!

Can't wait!! And after I *pass* mock surgery in a few weeks, I'll get to start our clinical rotations which will be AWESOME. Just have to go memorize 600 more instruments....