Friday, December 28, 2012

Eating as Hard as We Can

My wonderful father-in-law has a saying that always makes me smile. With his melodic southern drawl, he'll tell me, "Well, Emma... I'm eatin' as hard as I can."

To which I always reply, "Well, don't let me down, now!"

... And that pretty much sums up what we've been doing these last few days after the presents were opened. Sure there's been a movie, a trip to the mall to make our exchanges, some spirited card games, conversations filled with laughter, and even a visit from the Beau Hunk and the Eagle Scout...

But mostly...

We've been eating as hard as we can. 

Have you been eating as hard as you can?

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Anyone Ever Wake Up Like This Before?

{I wrote this post last Friday morning before the news of the Newtown tragedy broke. I refrained from posting it after hearing of the violence. While I still feel profound sadness over the deaths at a school, I am trying to get back to a new "normal", which includes laughing at myself. I encourage you to laugh at me and with me.}

How are you woken up in the morning?

Child crying?
Child jumping in bed with you?
Husband's alarm?
Husband's pager? {grumble, grumble}
Husband heading to the bathroom?
Your bladder wake you?
The dog licking your face?
The dog licking his balls?
Cat sit on your head?
Perhaps even an amorous husband?
Or maybe you were pulling the sheet up to your neck and your fists slips and you inadvertently clock yourself in your jaw?

Well, I have a new one to add to my list...

Roll over onto your back only to find the remote has made its way to a new resting space...
firmly in your ass.

So, I unwedged the remote and handed it to Doc H, told him where I found it, and asked him to turn on the news.

He didn't find that as funny as I did.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Death Hit Us

This weekend was marred with death.

Beginning Friday morning, death hit us in unfathomable numbers and ages.

For us, it continued throughout the weekend. Every beep of the pager, sent Doc H charging into the hospital only to return home each time with the same morbid news-- The situation was not salvageable.

Sunday night, Doc H turned to me and said, "I couldn't save one this weekend."

No. Not this weekend.

Many could not be saved this weekend.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Those Words Will Carry Me

Like I said yesterday, the Surgery Department Holiday Party started off with a bit of a hiccup, but we managed to turn Doc H's error to our own advantage.

Once the party was finally well under way, meaning drinks had been served, everyone had enjoyed their dinner, the gift exchange was complete, and the coffee served, Doc H left our table to do his duty.

Just as he does every year, he stood with mic in hand and delivered a thank you speech to all the Surgery Department staff and their plus ones. Everyone from the MA's and schedulers to the PA's are mentioned and thanked for their hard work and dedication to providing excellence in patient care. Then, he usually tacks on a quick thanks to the all doctor's spouses for their support and finishes with a big thank you to the party planning committee.

But, this year Doc H deviated from his usual speech and it meant the WORLD to me. While thanking the spouses and family, he took some extra time to especially thank ME for supporting his demanding job.  He said without my support he could not do the work he does. He mentioned how much he appreciates the work I do at home to hold down the fort and take care of the kids. In front of his entire department, he thanked ME.

I was so moved, I had break eye contact with him and look at the floor. I thought I was going to bust out my ugly cry.

It is that little moment I will carry around in my heart to erase every grudge I have against his chosen career.

THAT was the BEST part of this year's Surgery Department Holiday Party.

Blog-working Wednesday!

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

The Surgery Department Holiday Party

'Tis the Season, folks, and it kicked off for us this past weekend in the form of the Surgery Department Christmas Party.

Woo Hoo.

Same party, same people, same games, every single year. The party is so repetitive, I decided to pull a "Kate Middleton", and recycled the same outfit I wore to this shindig in 2007.  I just wasn't excited enough about the event to shell out a few hundred dollars for a new doctor's wife costume.

Lucky for Doc H, I have a sense of humor about these types of things.

I busted my butt to make sure we were on time. I skipped out on L2's cheerleading competition to make sure we had our White Elephant gifts. I shaved, bronzed, painted, primped and shellacked myself into a completely imaginary (read: delusional) version of Jennifer Lopez. This delusion works for me. Just go with it, won't you?

We arrived at our destination twenty minutes late. As we walked toward the banquet room, I spotted a gentleman manning the door who looked like he could just as well be hosting a holiday party for the Hell's Angels. My gut just about popped through my two pairs of spanx. I figured we must be at the wrong restaurant.

I knew this wasn't good as I stood back and watched my divinely dressed, handsome man question the weathered maverick sporting the grey handlebar mustache.


Right restaurant. Right banquet hall.

Just two hours early.

That's two extra hours in my spanx. Two extra hours in my shoes that were only meant to be worn sitting down. In two hours, my hair would deflate.

With a a comical glare, raise of my eyebrows, roll of the eyes, quick flip of the wrist, I mumbled out..

and began laughing at my husband.

Upon realizing his mistake, Doc H tried to play it off as no big deal. I reminded him we could've been home watching the end of the football game, or he could've taken a nap to make up for his continual lack of sleep, and more importantly, we told the kids we would be home for dinner. Now I had to call them to see if they could scrape together twenty bucks and call for pizza delivery.

In an attempt to make his bad better, the poor man resorted to what he only could to remedy such a situation.

"Let's go find a bar!"

So, we did. And there, dressed in our inadvertently matching black and red, dressy outfits, we drank our margaritas and caught up on all the past week had to offer. We shared the shannanigan's of our kids, his colleagues, a little business here and there, remembered past Christmas parties we had attended, and even laughed at our exes a bit.

I cherish that window of time we had together. It was almost the best part of the Surgery Department Christmas Party.

Come back tomorrow and I'll share the BEST part of the party...

Seriously Shawn

Monday, December 10, 2012

Life as Your Doctor's Wife: {Calling Doc H}

As noted, last week I found myself a tad grumpy. I was feeling lonely and annoyed at Doc H's work schedule. Yes, even I get a bout of hospital hatred every now and then.

Just as I was blogging out my grumpiness and venting my frustrations by banging them out on my keyboard, my cell phone dings signaling a voice mail. Thanks to caller ID, I noticed it was a long lost best friend from yesteryear.

Here's our background:
  • Best friends through elementary and junior high.
  • Always competitive with one another. 
  • Remained great friends through high school, but not as close. We branched out with other friends.
  • Stayed pretty close up until the last 5 years. 
  • Despite my calls to her, she never called me, but has sent me random invitations to big events in their lives. Since she lives over two hours away, I haven't been able to attend. 
  • Haven't seen her in over 4 years.
  • Haven't spoken or emailed in over 2 years.

Being in a grumpy state, I immediately wondered what she wanted.

I began to listen to her cheery voicemail, "Hey, there! It's Crissy! It has been way too long since we've chatted and I wanted to catch up with you!"


I immediately began to get the warm fuzzies, feeling guilty about thinking she wanted anything more from me other than to re-connect. She was my lifelong friend who always wanted to be there for me. She was the same sweet girl she always was... I luv her. Her voicemail and her desire to reconnect with me was pulling me up from the bowels of grumpiness!

I felt the warmth of happiness embracing my cold heart! Mmmmmm.... feels good! Feels VERY good!

She continued on, "...however, there is a specific purpose for my call (insert sarcastic "Surprise!" here). Max (her husband) hasn't been feeling well and is going in for biopsy and I just thought I should call you, so you could pass this information on to Doc H. I would love to have him take a look at it and have him refer some doctors to us. I am just trying to get the best medical care I can for my husband (as if I forgot how Max is related to her) and utilizing all the resources we have. Our consult is tomorrow, so I'd love to hear from you today or tomorrow morning."

How does one explain sinking lower that the bowels of grumpiness?? I sunk even further. Perhaps I passed through the crap filled bowels and was now found myself simply grasping, hanging on to the last hemorrhoid of despair before just plunging into the waste waters below.

She was not truly calling for me. She was calling for Doc H.

It truly was a sh@tty day.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Play It Again, Sundays {A Wife's Lesson Learned- The Hard Way}

Originally published on May 11, 2012

Lessons Learned:
  • Never trust your husband's memory (no matter how smart he truly is) when it comes to itineraries. You may find yourself circling the airport terminal waiting for your in-laws to get through baggage claim... a whole 24 hours in advance of their actual arrival.
  • Upon arriving at your destination, never walk away from the car until you are completely certain your husband (and driver) has locked the car... and turned of the engine.

{ my Doc Husband, if you're reading this, I understand these things happen because your mind is at the hospital with your patients. I'm so happy I have a sense of humor about these types of things. Aren't you?...}

Friday, December 7, 2012

The Doctor's Wife is Grumpy

It's begun to take its toll on me people.

It is now Thursday. I haven't seen Doc H since Sunday.

On Monday, he flew somewhere. I'm still not sure where. I just know the trip did not meet my requirements for companion travel. I thought it was Chicago, but I was mistaken. I'm thinking Charlotte, maybe Charleston, or Columbus. Those all sound somewhat familiar. He's been traveling so much lately, I can no longer keep track of the destinations.

He had one dinner meeting on Monday evening to prep for the one hour meeting Tuesday morning. It took him all Tuesday afternoon to fly home.

When he finally made it through our front doors, I was already sawing logs. However, I pity his hours and appreciate his efforts which support our entire family, so I got my ass out of bed to say hello and make him an organic, non r-BGH grilled cheese sandwich. We barely spoke. We were both too tired.

Yesterday, he left for the hospital at some un-godly hour for three cases. He called me around 9am. I knew before I answered the phone something had gone awry. He either forgot something, his case had to be delayed due to improper blood levels (or whatever), because he usually never calls on his days in the OR. He is just too busy.

My premonition was correct. After leaning over a patient on the table, he tried to straighten up and threw out his back... AGAIN. The radiologist raced to get him a heating patch and a nurse went on a hunt for ibuprofin. He called in pain and miserable, but determined to finish out all his cases. He did and, again, came home well after I had gone to bed.

For the second night in a row, I pulled my tired ass out of bed and warmed up a piece of homemade, organic, vegetarian lasagne I made for him, under the misguided hope we would be able to share a meal together. In my robe, I sleepily scooped a piece of lasagne out of the pan, slopped it on the plate, and threw it in the microwave. The man deserves a hot meal, at the very least.

As I waited for the microwave to ding, I watched Doc H hobble around the house with a bad back. He resembled the shape of a question mark.

I felt so bad for him.

And it made me grumpy. I am grumpy.

I am grumpy, because my husband works so hard to better the health of his patients. He works so hard in an effort to promote cutting edge medical technologies which will benefit patients. Yet, when it comes to his own health, he will work himself to the ground.

We had a four sentence phone call this afternoon.

I am certain Doc H will be coming home grumpy.

And that's okay.

'Cause, I'm grumpy, too.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

If You Don't Enjoy Medicine, Do Not Go To Med School

Just sharing a thought...

If you don't enjoy medicine,
Do not go to med school.

If you do not enjoy med school,
Do not become a surgeon.

You will be grouchy.
You will push cases onto your colleagues.
You won't carry your fair share of the work load
and it WILL be noticed
and it WILL be resented.

Find something you love.

If you don't love medicine,
DO NOT become a doctor.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Gifting Your Doctor

Around this time of year I always find myself perplexed at the amount of gifts Doc H receives from his patients.

I have been under the knife several times and yet, I'm embarrassed to admit, I never sent any one of my surgeons a thank you gift. I mean, that's their job, right? They are paid handsomely to cut their patients open and leave them with a scar. And, I most certainly never considered giving any of my doctors a Christmas gift.

While a fair number of Doc H's patients are no longer are under his service after their follow-up, he maintains a larger number of patients who are continually coming back to him for recurring problems or "tune-ups" as I like to call them. These are the patients who bear holiday gifts.

The gifts are varying in nature. We have received everything from homegrown fruits and veggies, homemade dinners, homemade baked goods, fine table linens from overseas, #2 pencils for the kids, handcrafted jar openers, smoked salmon, homemade sausages, dress shirts, and ties.

Additionally, we get tons of...

But, the ultimate kicker is...


He receives bottles and bottles of hard core cognac! It is the gift that baffles me the most. These patients must think Doc H is a lush.

So here's the more important question: Who would allow themselves to be sliced open by a lush?

Honestly? I don't get it.

But, I sure do appreciate it!

{Now, do I go on and post about the time we drank said cognac and got so lit, Doc H started bench pressing me on our living room floor? Now, those were the days...}

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Over-qualified and Over-supported


The word has a stinging power to it. I knew it was true.

The job interview was for a lesser position, but a part-time position. These days, part-time work is very doable in my current situation and I'll admit, being back in an office setting sounded appealing to me.

Yet, despite a clearly and concisely worded email outlining my part-time availability, I was called in for an interview.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited. I was! I woke up at 5am to have plenty of time to transform from yoga pants, shelf bras, stubbly legs, ponytails, and college sweatshirts to arched eyebrows, manicured nails, eyeshadow, hairspray, underwire and my most professional looking, designer shoes.

I was ready, prepared, and, if I'm allowed to say so myself, I was looking good. I was looking professional.

Apparently, I looked too professional.

Okay, yes, I was over-qualified for the job.

Within the first ten minutes of the interview, my gut was screaming "NNNNNOOOOOOOO!"

The position wasn't a good fit for me on several levels. Thirty-six hours a week, may as well be full-time. I was not available Monday through Friday.  I could not work evenings if needed, and, yes, I do like to take vacations every now and then.

52 weeks a year? 36 hours a week? Sorry. Not for me.

Then the unexpected. Not only was I overqualified, I was over-supported.


Excuse me?

They tip-toed around the subject, but let me boil it down for you and paraphrase:
Your husband is a surgeon. He makes lots of dough. We need someone in this position who needs to work as many hours as possible. We don't want someone who is likely to take a vacation. You have enough with just his income. 
At first I was sad. I had envisioned making the call to turn down the job. I wasn't prepared for their call citing over-qualified and over-supported as problematic and me unfit for the job.

I felt spanked. I felt defeated. That was the emotional me.

The realistic me... no matter what they said, I knew I would not be working that position.

It definitely was not the "win-win" situation I was hoping it to be.

Monday, December 3, 2012

Medical Monday! {December Edition}

It's the FIRST Monday of the Month 
and you know what that means?

It's Medical Monday!
{listen to the roaring applause!}

Medical Monday is an opportunity for any and all medical/med life blogs to link up and meet others. So join us!

Are you confused if you qualify for the party?

Do you work in healthcare?
Doctor? Nurse? EMT? Chiropractor? Vet? Dentist? Therapist?
Are you the spouse or SO of a healthcare worker/student?
Are you a nursing student? Medical student?
Intern? Resident? Fellow?

You get the picture, right? 


Our once a month bloghop for bloggers like yourself, where we can build a community of support and friendship, learn from one another and share our stories.

Here are the rules:

  1. Follow your co-hosts via GFC.
  2. Link up you medical/med life blog. If your blog name does not clearly state how you fit in to the med/med life world, please write a little intro or link up a specific post which clearly demonstrates your connection.
  3. Visit at least 3 other link ups, comment, introduce yourself, and tell the your stopping by or following from MM!
  4. Help spread the word by using our button on your post or sidebar, tweet about Medical Monday, or spread the word on Facebook! The more the merrier for all of us!
And here's a helpful tip. . .

If you haven't turned of word verification, it's ON. Please turn it off. We'll all LOVE you!!
Not sure how? Click here for instructions.

Complete step one by following your co-hosts:

Want to be awesome?
Post our button on you post or sidebar and help spread the word:

Want to co-host next month? Shoot Emma an email at

Now, link up below and have fun! The link up is open through Friday, so be sure to come back during the week to check some great reads!

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Medical Monday Link Up This Monday!

It's Coming!
Monday, December 3rd

Come hang out with on the grid.
We want to hear those crazy hospital stories,
hear your stress over training
(maybe someone will be able to help).
Tell us about the worst pager interruption you've ever experienced,
the most interesting medical fact you learned this month,
any new studies or information,
or anything else you'd like to share!

We love it all!

See you Monday...

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Another Tidbit of "Dr. Wife" Advice: Charity Donations

To my Dr. Wife friends,

When you and your Doc H find yourself in a place where your feel you can share some of your finances with charitable organizations, consider yourself warned...

Do not, Do Not, DO NOT EVER sign your names "Dr. and Mrs."

I made this mistake two years ago and it still haunts us.

The amount of mail we get around the holidays from various charities is overwhelming, and frankly, a waste of poor trees.

We all have causes that are near and dear to us for our own personal reasons. We give to those charities and causes because we WANT to support said cause. We don't give simply because some random charity mails us a request for donations. Do you?

On to my example....

Today, I received a mailer from Heifers International.

Excuse me?! Who's calling me a heifer?

I was completely baffled. Had no clue it was a charitable organization. I seriously thought it was a piece of mail connected to my Weight Watchers membership and I was annoyed and quite offended.

Upon closer scrutiny, I realized it was a charity pandering for donations to help supply villages in third world countries with goat and cow heifers in an effort to provide children and families with milk.

Okay, the hair on the back of my neck could stand down.

I flipped the mailer over and immediately recognized what mailing list they bought.

Two years ago, I made the mistake of donating and signing our names "Dr. and Mrs." rather than "Mr. and Mrs." as I normally do. This single, one-time mistake has clogged our mailbox worse than a tween boy and his commode.

Do yourselves a favor... when donating, stick to the "Mr. and Mrs."


Monday, November 26, 2012

It Was a Beau Hunk Thanksgiving

Doc H and I survived a milestone over this Thanksgiving holiday. We hosted our first holiday with one of our children's significant other... the Beau Hunk.

I've always had cherry-blossom visions of how this milestone would transpire. The house would smell delicious with scents of turkey, rosemary, cranberry, and citrus. Everyone would be dressed nicely. We would all enjoy a refined dinner sitting around a perfectly set table, complete with fine china, and a Pinterest-worthy centerpiece. However,  most importantly, we would all be excited to share the holiday together, evidenced by the the fun banter and laughter that would round out a fun day of good eats.

We were half there.

The house smelled divine. It was the first comment everyone made as they walked through the door.

Everyone was dressed nicely. Doc H expressed his concern of inappropriate dress to D2.  (If you are just joining this story, the Beau Hunk has a tendency to run around half naked the majority of the time.) D2 promised the Beau Hunk would be dressed. Word leaked instead of his favorite Jersey-Shore-ish tank, he would be sporting his Marine uniform. Overkill, but better that than sporting nipples at the dinner table with the grandparents and my brother's new in-laws.  He showed up in shorts and a tee-shirt. They were clean and with no holes. That was good enough in my book.

The dinner table looked lovely trimmed with my finest china. D3 made sure the place settings were set perfectly, complete with soup spoons, dessert flatware, and the crystal stemware.

While I wanted to seat everyone at one table, I just couldn't do it. I broke down and gave my cheery holiday vision no chance to come to fruition. I was unsure of my decision, feeling guilty of my inability to offer up the benefit of the doubt I had in the Beau Hunk. I was fairly certain the words which would fall from his mouth held the power to ruin my holiday. I instructed D3 to set a second table for the "kids".

The kid's table was set exactly like the "adult" table. I offered up profuse apologies to D3 and LB for sticking them with the Beau Hunk. They were both sweet about it and relented to my harsh request to eat with the lovebirds. I'm sure it will cost me later and I will, indeed, pay my debt to them both.

As the Beau Hunk walked through the door and greeted the family I noticed he had lost weight and is visibly smaller since I last saw him prior to boot camp. As the Beau Hunk greeted Doc H, he noted Doc H's weight loss. In front of the grandparents and the new in-laws, D3 explained to the Beau Hunk that Doc H has been juicing. His reply? "Are you using Dianabol or Deca?". D3 laughed it off and explained, "No! My dad's juicing vegetables!"

I had to walk away, before I found myself asking him if he found his testicles had grown back since he had joined the Marines.

And that was just in the first two minutes of his arrival. I figured if I hurried this all up, I only had one hour and fifty-eight minutes to go.

{Click here for the next installment of the Beau Hunk saga.}

Linked up with:
Just Write
Read some more fun stuff at...

Friday, November 16, 2012

The Ying to the Beau Hunk's Yang: Meet Eagle Scout

We have a second boyfriend looming around. D3's new boyfriend is the ying to the Beau Hunk's yang.  Polar opposites.

Let's call this boyfriend Eagle Scout. He is just that; an eagle scout. He is also a high school athlete in three sports, an excellent student, and incredibly thoughtful. I mean, how can any mom not like a boy who would think to bring their cold-suffering daughter a thermos full of hot chicken noodle soup for lunch to school?

But, most importantly, he doesn't mind hanging out around the parents. Sound the alarms! This kid doesn't feel the need to hide from parents. It's absolutely refreshing.

The icing on the cake? He has normal parents who actually "parent" him and have taken the time to teach their son manners. The first time his mother dropped him off at our house, she came to the door to introduce herself. Let me tell you... that goes a long way in my book.

One night, Eagle Scout came over and made us all peppermint hot chocolate.

Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner!!!

Hopefully, Eagle Scout will stick around for awhile.

I pray D2 finds her own Eagle Scout.  THAT would be phenomenal.

{Click here for the next installment of the Beau Hunk saga}

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Guess Who's Coming to Thanksgiving Dinner

Because the water in our swimming pool is way too cold, I'm seriously considering drowning myself in the dog's water bowl.

Apparently, I cursed myself with yesterday's post.

Guess who's coming to Thanksgiving dinner?

GAH!!! and WAHHHH!!!!

the. beau. hunk.

I was looking forward to the holiday. I was so excited I even started cooking side dishes last night. Now, my excitement has waned and I am seriously considering digging out an old sippy cup out of the recessed corners of our kitchen cabinets, filling it with some gewurztraminer, and curling up in the fetal position on my closet floor.

Of course, Doc H is taking this news all in stride and is rather calm about it. He suggested two dinner tables. One in a different room.

But, deep down inside, I know he's hoping his pager goes off.

{Click here for the next installment of the Beau Hunk saga}

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Coo-Coo for the Beau Hunk

{New to the Beau Hunk saga? Start here.}

So, D2's lost her cute little car again due to her defiance and disrespectful attitude towards her father and I when it comes to the Beau Hunk.

Even his stint in the military can't foil this toxic relationship. Instead, it's just brought more drama into our home.

We can't quite figure out what it is about this guy that makes D2 coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.  For two weeks, she has been sans automobile, and now we have allowed her the privedlege of driving Bessie, our fifteen year old pimped out minivan.

"Pimped out?" You ask?

Pimped out.

Bessie is 1997 metallic bronze in color with gold rims and definitely a lady with the black bra she wears  to protect her hood. Her age has begun to show as her letters have begun to fall off her back.

Old and pimped out; not cool for a high school senior to be driving around.

Worried that she might try to drive too many friends around and get distracted while driving, we yanked the back bench seat out. It now only seats four passengers instead of seven.

To add insult to injury, she is now paying for her own auto insurance to protect our dear beloved Bessie from harm.

Beau Hunk love = Coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs

{Want to read another installment? Click here.}

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

My Life on the Bookshelf

A school assignment sent me and D3 to our local mega-bookstore. 

While waiting for D3 to find her book, 
I meandered over to the "medical" section to see 
what was sitting on their shelves.

Along with many USMLE study guides and medical dictionaries, 
I found this beauty...

Yes, that's an anatomy coloring book for adults 
who might need a little helping differentiating 
the superior vena caval system from the inferior vena caval system. 

I bought it.

Just next to the medical books...

...reminding me continue with my effort 
to find more vegetarian recipes and feed the family healthier foods.

And mixed in with those..
...just to reinforce my love of chocolate. 
As if I needed another reason
 to break into the hidden chocolate stash in the pantry.

Then I turned to scan the books on the opposite side of the aisle 
only to find all these titles staring back at me...
Reminding me how being a "doctor's wife" is all smoke and mirrors... 
at least, it is for me.

And, last, but not least...
Yes, I felt it YELLING at me. 
A reminder.
Maybe the shoes are just not enough?

As I walked away I thought,
there it all was.
Almost my entire life 
in one single, short aisle of a mega-bookstore.

But, I shook my head telling myself
I was so much more then just one tiny section of a bookstore.

I have kids who are a great part of my life.
They bring me great joy.
They bring us great love.

Then I checked out the items at the end of the bookshelf...

Oh, yeah.
There it is.

My life.

Monday, November 5, 2012

Medical Monday Blog Hop {November Edition}

Holy Smokes!
It's Medical Monday Again and I Couldn't be Happier!

Are you living the med life? I sure am...

This is how I know I'm living a med life:

This past year, I didn't see Doc H on his birthday. We finally had an opportunity to cut into his birthday cake, FIVE days after the occassion. The cake was a dry mess.

When D2 fractured some bones, Doc H was in the OR. We decided to wait until the next day before getting some x-rays, so he would be available to consult with ortho.

When my sister-in-law was giving birth at one of the hospitals Doc H covers, I had anxiety about her care there. In my mind I had already decided how I would broach the topic and throw Doc H's name around without trying to sound too overbearing, but get the service she needed. Luckily, she was treated awesome and was very happy with her care! Phew! 

If you are, tell us all about it! 

Are you confused if you qualify for the party?

Do you work in healthcare?
Doctor? Nurse? EMT? Chiropractor? Vet? Dentist? Therapist?
Are you the spouse or SO of a healthcare worker/student?
Are you a nursing student? Medical student?
Intern? Resident? Fellow?

You get the picture, right? 


Our once a month bloghop for bloggers like yourself, where we can build a community of support and friendship, learn from one another and share our stories.

Here are the rules:

  1. Follow your co-hosts via GFC.
  2. Link up you medical/med life blog. If your blog name does not clearly state how you fit in to the med/med life world, please write a little intro or link up a specific post which clearly demonstrates your connection.
  3. Visit at least 3 other link ups, comment, introduce yourself, and tell the your stopping by or following from MM! 
  4. Help spread the word by using our button on your post or sidebar, tweet about Medical Monday, or spread the word on Facebook! The more the merrier for all of us!
And here's a helpful tip. . .

If you haven't turned of word verification, it's ON. Please turn it off. We'll all LOVE you!!
Not sure how? Click here for instructions.

Complete step one by following your co-hosts:

Want to be awesome? Help facilitate the hopping by grabbing this button and insert it on the post you link up. . .

Want to co-host next month? Shoot Emma an email at

Now, link up below and have fun! The link up is open through Friday, so be sure to come back during the week.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Tonight at Midnight! We Go Live! Medical Monday!

Just a quick reminder...

Tomorrow is the first Monday of the month and we want you to link up your Medical Monday blog post!

It all begins at midnight eastern time, so be sure to link it up! We are always looking to find more medical/med life blogs, so we can all connect.

Help spread the word, would 'ya?

More information is available here.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Play It Again, Sundays {A Surgeon's Mantra: "I Hope I Don't Kill Him"}

Originally published on May 4, 2012

Photo Credit

"I hope I don't kill him."

The first time I heard my husband utter this sentence, we were dating. Hearing it was a jolt to my system. Such a thought was preposterous. He was a doctor; a surgeon! He was not a killer. Killer equates murderer, and that was not the kind, gentle, intelligent man I was dating and in love with. This deeply concerned man standing in front of me captures spiders and releases them outside. I kill spiders right along with snails, slugs, and ants.

When he, and other surgeons, take ahold of the scalpel they cut into the human body with good intentions. {After hearing the "k" word, I'll admit, I was a little freaked out.  I verified Doc H's intentions by taking a sneak peak in his freezer for body parts. None found.} They cut to either improve a patient's quality of life, or extend his or her life. Where in the hippocratic oath does it mention a intent to kill? The oath reads:
Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty.
Perhaps if Grey's Anatomy aired prior to our dating days, I would have been more prepared for the thought of killing someone on the OR table. They like to throw that phrase in there every now and then.

Over a lifespan of a surgical career, it is inevitable a number of patients will never make it off the table. As a surgeon's wife, you hope that number is as close to zero as possible. When it happens, it affects our husbands. It rocks us and the "I killed my patient" wave reverberates through the household to our children.

Yet, I find it hard to accept it as "killing" especially when a number of patients lie on the table against the advice of their surgeon. Having gone through the loss of a loved one at a hospital, I understand the emotions and desperation a family feels. Hope is a powerful emotion and one which is easily embraced to when the only other option is impending death.

Here is a composite snapshot of the type of scenario my husband frets about: Eighty year old (and sometimes older!) patient, bad arterial disease, smoker, diabetic, comes in with a ruptured aneurysm. Against Doc H's recommendation, family wants surgery to repair damage with major surgery. Doc H has warned there is minimal chance she will make it off the table. Most likely she will die on the table. If nothing is done, she will die a natural death. The devastated family opts, presses, even demands surgery. It's their only hope.

I ask you, if she doesn't make it to the recovery room, is that "killing" someone?

Thursday, October 25, 2012


As Doc H left the house this morning at 6 am, he reminded me he was on-call until...


Rats. I'm on my own 'til then.

Time to ramp up and mentally prepare myself for attending the following in solitude...
One homecoming football game
One of D2's half-time performances
Homecoming dance pre-party
Chauffeuring kids to homecoming dance
LB's sport tournament
...and that does not include all the regular practices between now and then.

Although, it's not the driving that gets me. It's attending the events alone. And really, it's not just merely attending the event alone. I can do alone...when I don't know anybody there. I'm friendly. I'll make a friend or two. 

It's attending events when the ex's will be there... and worse... when they are there with a current BF/date that really puts knots in my thong. How's that for honesty?

It's just... AWKWARD.

But, like a soldier... I will continue on and do my duty and just keep chanting to myself..
I'm living a great life,
I'm living a great life,
I'm living a great life!
...and breath deeply and remember now matter how upset I am for having to attend these events alone, my Doc H is even more upset for missing them entirely.


Wednesday, October 24, 2012

A Pair of Idiots: The Stupid One

On our trip home, Doc H and I, both, had our idiotic moments. 

Lucky for him, his came off cute and even a bit charming. I wish I could say the same for mine. 

Here's some background you must know. For some strange reason, when I travel {no matter what the mode of transportation} my bladder shrinks to the size of a pea. Lucky me. Thank goodness, Doc H is a patient man and always willing to pull over at my bladder's beckon call.

Flying provides much planning on my part. Two hours before departure, I cut down on my liquid intake. Now, this provides an enormous problem. If you remember, I don't like to fly. I have self-imposed limits to my travel. Flights must be short and on jet planes. No props for me, thank you. 

And without adult beverages prior to boarding, Doc H may NEVER get me on that plane to Italy.  It's a problem. Poor man works like a dog and can't take the vacation he desires, because his phobia-riddled wife puts the kibosh on his dream vacation. Like I said, it's a problem.

I hit the bathroom just prior to boarding and pray we are not held up on the runway. 

Normally, when we fly, we are able to choose our seats. Doc H gets the aisle seat and I sit next to him. This time we flew an airline which herds its clientele like cattle {you know the one?} and we had pitiful placement in line to board. We were doubtful we would be able to sit together, yet we did. Me, in the middle seat, and Doc H in the window seat. Some stranger got the aisle. 

So, with Doc H squeezed into his seat with his knees buckled up around his ears, and me praying the rosary asking Jesus to get us home safely and keep my bladder in check, we lifted into the sky.

I was dreading having to bother Mr. Aisle on behalf of my bladder. It was a fortuitous moment when my bladder began spasming and he got up to use the facilities himself. The airline attendant warned him of the line for the lavatory in the back, and pointed out the vacant lavatory at the front of the plane. 

I watched Mr. Aisle enter the lavatory, and waited for him to exit, making sure I followed the TSA rule to not stand in front of the cockpit. Lord knows I don't want to be questioned or held up by an undercover air marshal. 

So, as I watched Mr. Aisle exit from the lavatory, my bladder propelled me off my seat quickly in an effort to beat anyone else to the front of the plane. 

As I approached the door which would provide my bladder's salvation, I noted the odd little red light and some strange looking buttons. Regardless, I was a woman on a wee mission. Ignoring the light, I turned the knob. It wouldn't budge. I tried turning it, sliding it... the damned thing was stuck. I turned to the back of the plane and noted the long line for that lavatory. 

I saw Mr. Aisle come out this door. I knew the lavatory was vacant. Being persistent, I decided to put some of my weight behind it. Turning the handle, I put some of my shoulder and hip into it. Nothing. Turn the knob, fiddle the knob, bang, and pound. Still... nothing.

My bladder about to burst, I hear someone walk up behind me. "You don't want to go in that door. It's the cockpit. We'd have to arrest you if you got in there" says the flight attendant. She points to the door to my left. "That's the door you're looking for, right?" She wore a concerned, but polite smile.

I turn to see a door which is clearly labelled "LAVATORY".

**Oh. Piss and vinegar. I'm a first class idiot sitting in coach.**

She gave me a pity smile as I opened the correct door. As I entered, I quickly poked my head back out and desperately begged her, "Please don't tell my husband!"

A few minutes later, she handed me and Doc H our nuts. My nuts were handed to me with a wink and a "it's our secret" smile.

After a second, the incident replayed in my brain and I couldn't help but to begin to laugh at myself. It was at that time I had to come clean with Doc H and share my moment of utter brilliance with him. 

He shook his head and began to laugh at me.

**I am the stupid one.** 

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

A Pair of Idiots: The Cute One

I realize I’m not telling you anything new. Some days are just better than others. Some days, you’re just not on your “A” game. You might find yourself down on your luck, or just missing the obvious and looking like a first class idiot. 

Well, that was us on our trek home.

Unfortunately, my "idiot-ness" rose like a soaring kite on a windy Sunday way above Doc H's level of idiot-ness. Doc H's was cute, because it reminds me that despite all his diplomas, awards, and letters behind his name, he is just a regular, ole, imperfect human being, just like the rest of us. It went like this...

In the airport terminal, we got hungry and decided to hit up the pizza joint for a slice of veggie and a beer. Me... cheese and unsweetened tea.

I got the table, while he paid.

He brought the tray of food, settled it in front of me, made eye contact with me, and gave me a proud smile.

I raised an eyebrow.

Still smiling, he said, "I just got carded. I think you should post that on Facebook!"

I smiled back and obliged his request, posting the following:
Doc H asked that I share with all our FB friends that he was carded today at the airport. Apparently, he missed this sign at the cash register. I love my husband.

See what I mean? Cute idiocy at it's best.

Mine? Pure stupidity.

It's a longer tale... so tune in tomorrow for the rest of this story.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Do You See It? Am I the Only One?

Sometimes you come across the most unexpected items as you travel. 

Yes, we are attending ANOTHER medical conference. In case your counting it's my second in four weeks; Doc H's sixth in eight weeks. {Jiminy Crickets, that's a whole lot of travel.} This particular conference does not meet any of my conference criteria, so I am kind of kicking my own arse for coming along. 

I am here to visit my in-laws {And I am so grateful they traveled down to see me! Otherwise I'd be bored to tears!} And ultimately, at the end of the week, I came to visit D1 at her college. 

Therefore, my posts will be sparse this week. 

You’ll still recognize me when I come home, right?

I wanted to share this little goodie with you. I swear, sometimes you come across the most unexpected when you travel, like this...

It hangs in the bathroom of our hotel suite. I pointed it out to Doc H and asked, “Do you see what I see?”

He sprouted the Latin name for the species of the flower. Of course. Doesn’t everyone know the Latin names of all the flower species?

I must have either given him a crazed or confused look, or perhaps I may have just rolled my eyes demonstrating my awe of his big brain, because he asked, “Well, what do you see?”

To which I said very matter of factly, “Satan’s penis.”

I’ve named this piece “Satanic Porn”. 

I’m thinking of calling the front desk and asking if anyone else has seen it {or complained}. Because, from what I understand, I'm in the Bible belt of America.

I’m just curious. I’m I the only one?

Friday, October 12, 2012

I Don't Curse in Front of the Children...

I don't curse in front of the children, 
but some days I do find myself 
thanking my neighbor
for picking a breed
which allows me to yell...

as she walks it through the 'hood.


Tuesday, October 9, 2012


Yesterday, my morning started out as any regular Monday morning... slow and groggy. Don't we all start our Mondays like that?

And yet, something always comes along which perks us up.

My perk usually comes in the form of hot liquid in a cup. The bolder the better. It takes a mountain to move this mama on a Monday morn!

But yesterday,  it wasn't my regular cup of coffee that got my juices flowing. It was a comment.


It wasn't even a comment I received on my blog. It was on another blog which I just happened to stumble upon.

I felt bad for the blogger. She is an uninsured writer who broke her hand and took issue with the hardships and costs of getting medical attention. Ultimately, she ended up setting her own hand. That IS awful! No doubt about that, right? She shouldn't have been ignored or treated so poorly by the doctor who saw her.

But, here is the comment that woke me right up and out of my slumberous state of being...
"fuck the medical community...
it is a amazing how many years of education that doctors go thru to become such self-righteous dipshits.
i would think they could become assholes with a partial associates degree at the local CC...
at least you got some pain meds.
doctors for the most part are just highly or over educated guessers..."

I have so much to spout out at this guy that I can't even type straight.

So I'll leave it as this...

Dear Sir,
I hope one day when you find your self in an OR needing life saving surgery at 3 am, you'll be pleased know your surgeon came in straight from the local CC with his fresh 2 year degree when you see him wearing this..

Instead of this..

Should you make it off the table alive, I'm sure you'll be utterly pleased to know your urethra is now tied to your carotid.
This officially makes you a crippled pisshead.

So I hand it over to you, my friends... what would your reply be?

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