David

Confessing

Thu, 09 Oct 2008 19:41:51 GMT

I'm in between services for Yom Kippur today. There is nothing in the liturgy that says that one should feel guilty, however, we do repeatedly, both to ourselves and aloud, admit fault, accept that we are not only infallible but that we have done wrong and will continue to do so. In fact, the famous prayer that opens the evening service at the start of Yom Kippur _anticipates_ that, despite our best intentions, we will have short-comings and fail to live up to our promises in the coming year. With respect to admitting our wrong-doings, I've been thinking about this today.

Apologies. What's the hardest part about it? Admitting it to ourselves? Going before others and telling them we are sorry? I think it's usually the latter. But I've been reflecting today on several instances where I am sorry for things I've done. I've already apologized, told the people I hurt that I did wrong, that I know I was wrong, and that I am truly sorry for what I did. But when I think back about it, even though I've apologized, I still am uncomfortable facing it, admitting it to myself. And then I tried to picture writing out for myself some of these wrongs. When I thought about it, an idea crossed my mind... I can see myself sitting down with a friend, a confidant, and telling them what I did, and I feel like that would be a relief. When I picture myself writing down for _me_ what I did, I bristle; I am averse to facing it myself. Why is this? Why is it that I would rather confide in somebody else then simply admit to myself what I did? The apology is done, and for that matter, forgiveness has already been granted. And yet, I can't help but fear the experience of seeing my own confession.

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 18:59:57 GMT

I can't read enough these days. It's almost a compulsion. I want to keep reading. A few nights ago I read from three different books, and felt myself getting more frantic from one to the next until by the last one I was devouring pages. Why this drive? Partly emotions. I'm reading a book I relate to. I feel it. And the more I feel it, the more I wonder -- how much IS that me? It's not just reading, it's self-analysis. And partly it's fear. I'm reading and I love it. And I'm afraid of the day when I return to not being able to read. When I'm so busy that to take a walk is a treat. I know it's coming, and I don't want it to. So I just keep reading, on and on.

Reading poetry

Fri, 08 Aug 2008 00:21:00 GMT

There is something that happens
when reading poetry
where the mind switches
the language shifts
and all that wasn't becomes a poem.

The Times now has a cadence
and that spider
which I might have thought frightful
now becomes an aerial acrobat
set upon a backdrop of orange, pink, and purple.
The sunset is a painting
with an arachnoid interpretive dance
and prose prances across the page
all because I read Bukowski.

Home

Sun, 27 Jul 2008 01:48:34 GMT

Okay, so this is waxing deeply philosophical, but I've been thinking a lot about this recently. What is a home? What is home to you? It's been on my mind because of some visits I did to people's houses with hospice, and then also a house-call I made. When I think back about my own view of home, home for me has always been like a reprieve. Whatever happened during the day, I come home and I can close a door on it, be separated from it. Home has always been like... a shelter from badness.

Anyways, with hospice, I was trying to imagine what it's like having home hospice, having your loved one die at home. Does that necessarily change how you view home -- what home means? Will that room be a room of comfortable memories, or something that you can't face again, or at least not view in the same way?
And then I made a house call, and my patient who is 97 was talking about having raised her children in this house, having had multiple relatives die in this house, and it was as if this was home on a whole other level -- it was a central part of her identity, her life, it was where everything in life was experience.

I'm not sure how clearly I'm making sense, but I've been thinking about this a lot. What does home mean? And how do these sorts of things change what home is?

Update

Sun, 27 Jul 2008 01:34:07 GMT

I guess all y'all deserve an update on how things are going. I'm out in western NC on my family medicine rotation. The hospital is Murphy Medical Center, and the practice I'm working with (Chatuge Family Practice) has two offices, one in Murphy next to the hospital and one in Hayesville about 15 miles down the road. Murphy Medical Center can fit about 50 patients total, but runs about 25 usually, with two ~20-bed hallways, a 6-bed ICU, and a small nursery, with an 11-bed ER. This is minute by large academic-center standards, but Murphy is actually impressive in having a physician in the ER 24-hours a day -- that is in fact a big deal in this sort of setting.
I'm living with my preceptor in Brasstown NC, not even really a town but it's just next to Murphy, towards Hayesville. To illustrate the remoteness, we are in between the Asheville NC and Chattanooga TN NPR stations -- and therefore sometimes get neither. This area prides itself on being almost 2 hours from everywhere (Asheville, Chattanooga, Knoxville, Atlanta), but at the same time, although you can get many places within 2 hours, in _less_ than 2 hours there's not much at all.

I've done a lot more than just te clinic lately. Tuesday morning I attended the hospice meeting where cases are discussed. On Wednesday I did home visits with the coordinator of the local hospice. On Thursday morning I spent my time with a local pediatrician, then went to a stress-management group run by a psychiatric-services group, and then I made a house call.

Outside of medicine, I've been keeping busy in the cultural scene. Last Friday I went to a concert at the John C Campbell folk school, and afterwards, went to line-dancing / contradancing. And that started the ball rolling. Tuesday I went to free contradancing lessons, and then I got my violin because people were jamming afterwards so I jammed with them on jigs/reels and waltzes. And then Stephanie whom I met was jamming with them, and she's a classical musician, so we busted out old-school Telemann canonic sonatas. So then Thursday night was Morris dancing and more contradancing / line dancing and another jam session, and Friday I chilled with a bunch of folks finishing up their week at JCC Folk School. Tomorrow, there's another jam session to rock out at (if waltzes and country fiddle music is rocking out).

Then, beyond that, I've also gone on a few 2-3 mile walks around the local area, with a bigger hike planned for tomorrow. And we went rafting on the Ocoee River last weekend, which was the site of the 1996 olympic rafting competition.

All in all, an incredible experience out here.

"Calm down or else"

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 00:41:37 GMT

I stopped in Asheville yesterday for lunch and picked up a NYTimes. Coincidentally, Tuesday is the science times section, so it turned out that I had lots of interesting reading material. And this one piece caught my eye.

I spent a year after college becoming licensed as a teacher, and yeah, I had some problem students with significant problems. And just a few days ago I finished psychiatry. And I found this article that talks about the intersection of childhood psychiatry and the educational system.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/15/health/15restraint.html

I don't have anything to add. I don't know how to respond exactly. But it made me think.

Can't shake this feeling

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 02:36:21 GMT

Of humbleness. Of privilege. Of the opportunity to peer deeply into people's lives... to even slice through layers down to the very core.

And then I think about those I care I about, and it just hits home and digs down to my core.

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 01:09:05 GMT

I just arrived in far western NC. The hospital and one office are in Murphy, the other office in Hayesville, and I'm staying in Brasstown. These are all places close together, and.. Hayesville has 297 people, Murphy has 1568 people, and Brasstown apparently doesn't even have enough data to warrant collecting. Tiny areas. But what a feeling coming out here. I drove out, and I couldn't help but feel very moved. I get to come into this community and learn from them. May also contribute to patient care. Hard to know how much actually patient care I'll do, but even to learn from people... to come into a small community, as a radical outsider, and get to live there and know people and also, in the medical profession, know personal things about them, it's a very powerful thing. On the drive out, I felt very moved.

It's been an emotional day, in part because of the incredible feeling of getting to have this privilege and making the trek out here, and in part because of intense conversations I had with my mom today. We had a very long talk about a variety of issues, including a lot of difficult things in families and issues of the human experience. What it means to live with someone versus alone, what it means to have children, all sorts of issues that were just very moving.

And then there's psychiatry which I just finished. And it's still the most incredible, heavy experience I've had. I have been close to a number of people with significant psychiatric problems -- increasing numbers now that I'm more aware of it -- and I think I view their life experiences differently having done this now. I have all the more respect. I'm humbled by what people have overcome or continue to experience every day. And I also imagine their own experiences in the past, be it with the health system or within themselves, and what it must have been like, and what it continues to be like. Every day of psychiatry was meaningful, emotionally charged, and powerful. Never have I sat down and discussed these sorts of personal issues with people, completely openly and taking in stories of their lives. Or being there when life is at its extremes. I've been with people in absolute devastation.
I think I'm still not at a stage of entirely sorting out my thoughts. Things get jumbled between the intensity of what I experienced with my patients and appreciation of what's been entailed for those close to me in my life. And most of all, I seethe wth anger, more and more, at the state of mental health care. Funding is terrible, the societal commitment to it is terrible, and although some of the resources themselves are great, their support is terrible. A lot of our research data is bad and we desperately need more. The studies are badly done. But oh god the tragedies of our lack of commitment to mental health, and yes, I blame our society -- lack of funding and lack of infrastructure from insurance companies is because of our wonderful stigma. So what happens? Let's compare an internal medicine service and a psychiatry service. Internal medicine we admit a patient, run the tests we need to run, and some time down the line someone argues with the insurance company about payment, and maybe the hospital just takes the loss. What do we do in mental health? We say UPFRONT how many days someone will be admitted. We know the insurance comapny will give us 5 days, or 3 days, and so that's what we do. And then what? We hope they're well enough to go. if not? You can pay out of pocket (and you WILL have to pay), or you can go home and pray that your family, IF you have a family, can take care of this. How fucking awful is that? I can't even describe what I feel when I think about this. It's a tragedy. And it's also awful, and I blame us for it.

I've got a lot of intense thoughts. And I kind of want to cry. And there's not a single moment I'm not damn honored and fucking humbled as hell to get to do this.

Post Secret

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 03:18:36 GMT

I recently bought the first Post Secret book... a collection of post cards, sent anonymously, with someone's secret. They're artfully done, very creative, but they share all kinds of secrets, from the banal, to goofy, and then to tragic, or just heart-breaking.

Part of me feels like reading these is a journey through empathy. Somehow, I can connect with all sorts of people, take in the human experience. Part of me feels like there's something meaningful that I can take away from the lives of others.

And then, part of me just feels voyeuristic for having read someone's secret.

Lucky

Fri, 02 May 2008 03:16:55 GMT

I got to hear Beethoven 9 in the Duke Chapel. It was the most religious musical experience I can remember.

Congratulations?

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 05:33:44 GMT

I just finished two weeks on Labor & Delivery for my OB-Gyn rotation. I spent one day in the clinic, 2 days in triage/attending C-sections, and then 5 nights straight (including a final 23-hour nonstop stint) in triage/c-sections/deliveries/anything else. This rotation is strange because you see younger patients in general, and literally anybody from healthy people to medically-complicated people have babies, and they're people from all walks of life.
I've seen an enormous amount in the past few weeks that is hard to face -- scared patients, patients who are going to deliver a crack-addicted baby, and patients who may not even want their baby.

One thing really got to me though. No matter how you deliver -- surgically or otherwise -- there's pain , and it's scary. And there are lots of other emotions too. Which is why it's always nice to see someone else in the room with the patient, there to support them. But once in a while, although it's not very common, someone delivers alone. Entirely alone. No parents, no friend, no children, no partner (or in some cases, no-longer-partner but still father-of-the-baby): nobody at all. And that really made me wonder. The doctors are all encouraging and all during the delivery, but what happens? You deliver the baby, clean up the mom, say "congratulations" and walk out of the room. EVERYONE walks out of the room. Are there times when "congratulations" just isn't the right thing to say? Could there be times when someone just gave birth, it's not what they wanted in their life at this stage but they decided to stick with it, they have no family or friends or partner who will stay with them in the hospital, and so there they are, alone with a baby next to them, and a pile of people just said "congratulations" before leaving and closing the door after them. It left me thinking. A lot.

War deaths

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 02:54:00 GMT

There was a story on NPR this morning about the head of chaplaincy for a region of VA hospitals, and how he was notified of every military death for his region. It got me to thinking about death.... what it must be like to have a loved one die in a war zone.

"Men, women, young persons, middle aged, all persons who've left someone somewhere... When I am having a really bad day, and I think I'm about at my wit's end, I read those little emails, and I am reminded what a terrible day is just beginning for someone, someone who is getting a message that there will be no more visits, no more phone calls, no more listening to stories or playing ball on the front lawn, just a missing face at holiday gatherings and family meals and anything that seems to matter. Just memories."

I tried to imagine this. Having someone die in a war zone must be the most awful of deaths. You don't say goodbye, you don't have an illness to face, there isn't even the phone call from the police to come to the hospital... it's almost as if the person just disappears. And who knows how long it's been since they were last home. I can't imagine this idea. Maybe they were gone for 6 months, maybe a year, maybe more, and then the phone calls just stop.
What shook me the most was, when I thought of this, then I imagined what it's like to send somebody off, to say goodbye at green ramp or drop them at a base, or maybe even drop off at some meeting point not nearly as dramatic. I don't even know where you drop off a loved-one being deployed. But what can that goodbye be like? I can't fathom it. With all the possibilities... with the possibility that they will fly off and one day the calls will just stop... how can you say goodbye with that?

This isn't anything I can personally imagine. It's no experience I've ever had. But the idea filled my head, and I was moved, sitting in my car in the parking garage, hearing a chaplain speak, and imagining.... what do people go through?

At a loss

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 03:36:50 GMT

I'm feeling much more myself, and that's a good thing. But right now, I'm sort of at a loss for understanding the world. Stuff just keeps happening. My father was discharged from the hospital (those of you who don't know -- he had an abdominal abscess, is doing fine and will fully recover, but it won him 5 nights in the hospital with IV antibiotics) and on the same day, we learn of 3 other family members all of whom are facing serious medical conditions and hospitalizations. And I just don't quite understand it. How is it that everything can pile up like this? Things happen randomly, at any given moment something could happen, so why everything all at once? I'm really at a loss right now for understanding the world and understanding life.

Cryptic

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 05:58:46 GMT

I readily will admit that I'm being cryptic, and that's fine. That's what I want to be.

I re-found music this past week, which I'd been not as good about recently, and that's a wonderful thing to have re-found. It was entirely accidental, but it filled my week, and I think it helped me remember a big part of who I am.

I've spent all day today thinking. And I can safely say that a hero remains your hero regardless of what happens. So my hero remains my hero.
.

Music

Fri, 07 Mar 2008 17:39:16 GMT

Over the past week or so, I've been listening to more and more music. I've been playing violin for at least an hour a night if not more (thanks to midi files that let me delete violin solos and create my own piano accompanist) and listening to my iPod all the time.
It's interesting that it doesn't matter WHAT the music is. I can be listening to Aerosmith, Linkin Park, Goo Goo Dolls, Lucky Boys Confusion, or Rammstein, and still feel the same sort of satisfaction that I feel with classical music. ANY music works for me. But if I'm listening to something, regardless of what it is, I get lost in it. I focus in on the music and can filter out everything else. I guess classical music is different in that I analyze it more, but in fact, that's not always the case. Take "Slow me down" by Emmy Rossum. Random mellow piece of music, but it's rhythmically fascinating, and so when I listen to it, I actually sit there and analyze the time changes. And other bands I'll follow chord progressions and modulations. So to say that classical music is more intellectual to me isn't necessary the case -- apparently I'll analyze anything.
Sometimes analyzing music bothers me because I can't _just_ listen, but I think that in the end I find much more satisfaction from delving so deeply into the music that I'm lost in it.

In all of this, there was one thought that came to my mind recently. My senior thesis was pretty broad, but the biggest component of it was Beethoven 9. I essentially was able to spend the better of a year of my life digging into Beethoven 9. That's the only time when I really wonder about not going into musicology. Granted it would be selfish, entirely fulfilling my own intellectual desires and emotional wantings. But how tempting, to spend my life filled with this force that just pulls me in and can overcome anything.
Now in fact, I'm glad where I've ended up. I cannot describe the privilege, honor, and humbling responsibility of caring for people as a physician, even with it being years away. But at the same time, I did have that one thought earlier this week... I was able to spend a year of my life with Beethoven 9. What an opportunity.

I cannot wait, however, to get back to clinical care. I'll always have my life filled with music. But right now I want to get back to being a part of other people's lives in the hospital.

The perfect pause

Wed, 05 Mar 2008 03:46:08 GMT

Today was a long day. It's already been a long week. The past while has been a long while. But at this very moment, my entire life is paused and it's the most perfect moment ever. I'm sitting out on my porch right now with a thunderstorm around me. I've always loved thunderstorms, and as scarier as they were when I was young, I was always enthralled by them. At camp, the midwest thunderstorms at 2am were at once terrifying but yet exhilarating and exciting, even if I would have preferred to have something slightly higher quality than a wood shack for protection.

Right now the rain is moving diagonally away from my porch so I'm sitting outside typing, just watching the rain pour down. It tapers a little bit and then comes back stronger than ever. You can see the wind blowing sheets of rain -- literally sheets move by through the air. When it becomes a torrential downpour, it looks as if giant curtains are hanging down from the sky, drifting past one by one.
Now the rain has calmed to a gentler, steady rain, although still driven by wind. But it's almost disappointing. When the rain calms down, the awe disappears and the unexplainable force vanishes. And life keeps going. The awesome downpours are so wonderful because at their peak, they literally can fill up everything, take over one's entire consciousness, there's nothing else except the storm, the white noise of rain and wind. You can't look up to see the clouds because the curtains are so dense as they drift past that there's nothing to see but row upon row of water. Everything pauses, and life is perfect.

Lessons

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 05:16:51 GMT

Today we had a panel on ICU experiences, all of which were from a patient or family perspective -- even though some of the patients or family members were doctors themselves, they brought their perspectives from the non-doctor side. It was an enormously hard thing to watch actually, because these were all people who have been through unbelievable experiences. One doctor is actually herself an ICU doctor who has now ended up hospitalized in the ICU 20 times for a rare disorder, and her father was there today describing how the only time he had himself been hospitalized was in 1943, and that was his birth.

There's a tremendous rush of feelings that goes with seeing others go through seeing their relatives sick. I have always, always, always struggled the most not with patients but with their family members. I can face a sick child, but the distraught parents send me over the edge. I was in tears today when Dr. G talked about his experiences with his father being hospitalized and the struggles he went through, including some of the worst things anyone could ever say, such as "you're screwed." Sometimes it baffles my mind how people who are supposed to HEAL and harm others so much.

Another point that really hit me was Dr. G's statement: "What are the consequences of not listening to the patient?" It was in reference to pain relief, and I've lived through that myself less than 2 weeks ago, seeing someone I cared about lie in pain in an ER for hour upon hour not getting a single damn thing that worked. It is agonizing to watch someone be in excruciating pain, but even moreso when you are sitting in a hospital, surrounded by people who are supposed to be there to help, instead continuing to watch pain. It's a nightmare, truly, because it flies in the face of what we traditionally accept for how we treat people. Suffering is not something we are supposed to sit idly by and let happen.
Dr. G's comment goes beyond pain, though. What are the consequences of not listening to a patient? We might leave them uncomfortable. But we also might ignore an important piece of information for a treatment. With the best of intentions, if we don't listen to a patient, we risk not being the person that we want to be. I may want nothing more than to help, but how can I do what a patient needs if I don't listen? Or with my patients who refused treatment, how could I support them unless I listened?
It was a hard talk to sit through. Reliving someone else's pain is horrible, and I pray that I keep these lessons with me. I want to help, and I hope that I don't become blinded to how to do that.

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 05:25:30 GMT

In the past two months, I've spent a lot more time than ever before facing difficult, unpleasant aspects of medicine. That's not necessarily a bad thing. I always find it to be an enormous privilege to be present in people's lives during such events, and it carries a lot of responsibility, but it's truly a privilege. There's not a time that goes by, being in the midst of an emotionally difficult situation, that I'm not also struck by what an amazing experience it is to simply be there.

When medical school started, our dean described medicine as "the front lines in the battle between good and evil," and it's a remarkably true statement. Violence, anger, love, hate, joy, and sorrow are all right there. I've seen child abuse, drug abuse, and domestic violence... and then I've met some of the sweetest, kindest, warmest, and most righteous people I've ever met who, for no reason other than the world being an awful place sometimes, are stricken to suffer. Anyone who works in a hospital in any role knows that you see, on a daily basis, things that most others won't see but maybe a few times in a lifetime. You can't deny that it's a privilege to be involved in people's lives in the midst of it, but it can be so hard sometimes. There are times when you have to wonder how you can keep going through your own life when you are barraged on all sides by the worst of what the world can offer. And yet, you can and do keep going.

One of the hardest things I've faced has been patients who refuse care. I've seen it twice so far. Both times, I felt the need to see my patients before they left. I never gave any explicit opinion to them about their care. I think all I said was "please take care of yourself." But both times, I told my patients I supported their decision. And I did. It is very difficult to be following someone's care and know that, from a medical standpoint, their decision is not the best decision for their well-being. In the first patient, she could continue to be severely anemic and might need further blood transfusions, possibly having to undergo a treatment in the future anyways even if she didn't undergo it now. In the second patient, his decision to refuse therapy was more drastic -- he might well do okay, but he was insisting on leaving with remarkably dangerous and readily-infectable wounds and know infections. He might do okay, or he may develop a bloodstream infection and be dead before anyone can do anything. And yet, in both cases, I agreed... not the best medical decision but yes, the right decision for these particular people at these particular moments in their lives. It's such a hard thing to accept, but I think that people have very individual needs. Sometimes those are physical, and other times they are emotional, and either one can be of the greatest importance. For some people, physical health may NOT be as important as feeling like they can live their life as they wish, or even simply have control, regardless of the outcome. I see my duty as providing the best medical advice I can (more relevant as I move up in my career and have the knowledge to really do this) but, after doing that, to support my patients in whatever they decide to do. Perhaps if a patient who refuses a treatment feels supported in their decision, they just might be willing to return if things change in the future. And even if not, how can one care for others if their autonomy, and upholding their autonomy, isn't always first and foremost in your interactions?

Oops

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 17:03:08 GMT

I had overnight call and was sent to bed around midnight. I set my alarms (yes, alarms) for 3:45am and was going to head off and do my rounds. At 6:22, my pager goes off and I read "Rounding on 3100 asap!" Thanks to technology, I'd been fucked over. My pager is set on silent so it just vibrates -- a great way to wake up. However, although all pages are vibrating, the pager alarm is only a beeping sound; I'm relatively resistant to noise when asleep. oops #1. Then there's my cellphone with multiple programmable alarms which can also be turned off yet kept saved. Problem here: if you change the time of the alarm, it still can remain off and you need to turn it on under a separate menu. Oops #2.

So there you have it. I woke up 2 1/2 hours late, thanks only to Jeremy for saving my butt and paging me so that I didn't end up oversleeping the whole day curled up on a mini sofa in the student lounge. Fortunately, the fellow in charge of our team is demanding but a reasonable person: "Don't worry about it. You work hard, you get tired. It's going to happen again, too." By that she means it had damn better be rare... but we're all human, all the more so when sleep-deprived.

A death disclaimer

Fri, 23 Nov 2007 03:55:10 GMT

I flew home from NC to NH today, and on the second flight, the pilot made the usual announcement, including mentioning the weather in Manchester being foggy. Then: "Hopefully with the sun some of that fog will burn off, but if not, we have the equipment to handle it, so we should be okay."

We have the equipment and we SHOULD be okay? All of us were looking around confused and wondering... what is it he's trying to tell us?

As it turned out, damn densest fog I've ever landed in. I can see why he mentioned it, but... ahem... choice of words???

Parachutes -- do we know that they work?

Sat, 20 Oct 2007 03:55:21 GMT

http://www.bmj.com/cgi/content/full/327/7429/1459

Super weird dreams

Sat, 13 Oct 2007 04:42:44 GMT

Waaaayy too many things were intersecting last night. Apparently I was back together with my klezmer band and we were going to play a gig... in an operating room. So yeah, there's my klezmer band (from NJ) setting up in an operating room with one of my patients Isaiah (from NC) but yet Isaiah's parents were actually the parents of a different patient I had, but then I missed the gig entirely because I had taken a side trip down the street to Philadelphia (more than an hour away from either NJ or NC).

But seriously. Klezmer band. Operating room. wtf?

Revisionist?

Sat, 08 Sep 2007 16:13:45 GMT

I went to Akiba (Akiba Hebrew Academy) for 4 years: grades 7-10, so all of what was considered for me to be middle school and then the first half of high school. I won't go into the ordeals of the past, but just recently the school was renamed and is moving to a new site. Both fabulous things. I'm glad to see the place expanding out of an inadequate facility to a better location, and I'm glad they found a solid amount of money to facilitate both relocation and helping to fund students' education through scholarships.

Here's the weird part. The school has been the Jack M. Barrack Hebrew Academy for something like a month. And actually that's an overstatement, technically it's been JBHA for -2 days, since the official renaming is Sept 10. But now everything at the school has the name change. Including the history of the school. Apparently JBHA was founded in 1946, and the first class was graduated from JBHA in 1951. And that's just not quite true. They graduated from Akiba. The school was founded and named for a famous rabbi and scholar. The school was then renamed to honor a generous gift of commitment from another individual.

So why rewrite history? I find it unsettling. I'd much rather read about a generous gift and someone's pledge to help warranting a name change, than just that the place always had such a name. It just... feels wrong to retroactively change the name 60 years earlier... and maybe again that's just me.

Fri, 17 Aug 2007 09:53:30 GMT

I'm definitely in the right field, here.
Yesterday, my team had pediatrics night call, so I arrived there at 6:30am in the morning and left 11:15 at night. I get to be back there at 6:30am this morning too. And yet I can't wait. It's going to be a busy, bustling, and wild day, and I'm thrilled.

I will, however, admit a need for coffee in certain scenarios. This is one of them. So off to go make it before I run out the door!

Feeling reminiscent

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 02:40:00 GMT

So here's a blog from 2003:

The point at which I prided myself on ingeniously going into 4th species counterpoint wasn't quite that...it was reverse 4th species counterpoint.
A few other times I resembled Darius Milhaud; "if it's diatonic, it works." NOT in the style of Bach apparently. In fact, I was told that my honor pledge stating Bach didn't compose this was unnecessary--it was rather obvious this wasn't Bach. *sigh* I'm not Bach.
Oh, and there was that one spot where I was told: "That's f*cked up." Yeah, in those words.
Yeah, I definitely am no Bach. I still can't believe my pride and joy, 4th species counterpoint, was reversed.