Dear Friends,
The Hard Taco Song for March is called "This Library Isn't Big Enough." This song subverts and disrupts all of the norms. I'm having some problems uploading large files on the new Hard Taco site today. The link to the song still works, but the file is in Dropbox rather than the Hard Taco site. I hope to have this fixed within a few days, so we can all go back to propagating and engendering norms, rather than subverting and disrupting them.
Do I Pimp? Indeed, I do. I certainly don't engage in it every day, but I muster up a good pimping at least twice a week.
If you've ever been a medical student, or had to sit next to one on a long bus ride, you are familiar with this terminology. Pimping is when the teaching physician peppers you with questions to test your knowledge, usually in a public setting. Here's an example:
Med Student 1: Dr. Gelb likes to pimp people about tropical camel pox, so be sure to read up about that before you work with him.
Med Student 2: I'll have to read about it online. My pimp doesn't let me pay full price for textbooks.
(In this scenario, Med Student 2 is also an actual prostitute.)
No one has ever explained to me what pimping has to do with medical education. Exposing a student's ignorance of rote facts can be humiliating, but I fail to see the parallels with facilitating business for a sex worker and demanding a percentage of the earnings. True, doctors and pimps both wear shin-length coats, but one is white polyester and the other is exotic fur and purple velvet. True also, the reflex hammer is the functional equivalent of the leopard glass pimp cane, but beyond that, there are few similarities. I predict that one of the two meanings of pimping will fall out of favor in the coming years, but which one?
Anyway, one of my most embarrassing moments as a medical student was a time I got a pimp question right.
I was on my obstetrics and gynecology rotation. It was my first true overnight call, and I was thoroughly uncomfortable with everything. In order to look busy, I spent the early evening going from room to room and asking pregnant women if they needed more ginger ale.
At some point, the attending obstetrician recognized that I was actively useless and told me to tag along with her. Unbeknown to me (or "unbeknownst to me" if you're reading this aloud at a Ren Faire), this attending was essentially a pack of flashcards with feet. Clearly, she had spent years elevating her pimping game to new levels of speed and monotony.
What is HELLP syndrome?
I'm not sure.
What is Chadwick's sign?
I've heard of that...
How do you calculate the amniotic fluid index?
The volume of the amniotic fluid divided by... I'm not sure.
What are the signs of ectopic pregnancy?
Um. Shouldn't I go see if the patient in 314 needs someone to top off her ginger ale?
I was batting 0.000. I literally knew none of the answers, and she just kept going. In the midst of this, we walked into a room where an expectant mother was actively pushing. The obstetrician put on a fresh pair of gloves and got down in the hoo hoo area to take a look. (As you can see, I truly learned nothing on my obstetrics rotation.)
Things were happening down there, but the obstetrician just kept pimping like she had rack of 24 karat teeth.
What are the three types of decelerations on a fetal heart monitor?
Mild? Is mild one of them?
Meanwhile, the miracle of birth was unfolding before us. The baby was crowning, the mom was clenching and hyperventilating, and her husband was standing off to the side with a video camera, clearly indecisive about where to point it. He kept going back and forth between her face and crotch, obviously aware that neither subject was really looking its best at that moment.
Finally, the obstetrician pulled the whole baby out, lifted it up, and said in a cheerful voice, "Okay, Dad, what is it?"
And before she could even flip the baby over to face them, I yelled, "It's a BOY!"
The obstetrician handed the baby to mom, looked at me and said between gritted teeth, "I was talking to him, Dumbfart." Except she didn't say fart.
To be fair, every sentence out of her mouth up until that point had a been a pimp question directed at me. And to be even more fair, "Okay, Dad, what is it" sounds a lot like "Okay, Zach, what is it," although the odds that she knew my first name were precisely zero. Still, I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to get one right. I saw this baby before anyone else and I immediately recognized that it had a penis. I knew this one! I got this! In my mind, I was finally going to redeem myself for hours of ineptitude.
That baby is probably graduating from high school this year. I didn't stick around long enough to learn his name, so I'll address him as Boy.
Boy, I was there when you came into this world. Assuming your parents haven't shown you the video of your birth, let me play spoiler for a second time in your life. Here's what happens in that home movie: Your mom's face, your mom's crotch, your mom's face, your mom's crotch, lots of screaming, lots of swearing, lots of mucus, and a big popping sound. Some lady who looks like she should have a gold dollar sign necklace starts holding you up, Simba-style.
Then, in an extraordinary display of perception, a young stranger quickly synthesizes three years of intensive medical training, and loudly deduces a very compelling explanation for the appearance of your genitalia: You are a boy.
The obstetrician then deduces that he is a dumbfuck. End scene.
With warmest regards,
Zach
Showing posts with label medical school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label medical school. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Halloween in Hawaii: The Legend of Sleepy Mahalo
Dear Friends,
Aloha from Oahu! It is November where you are, but here in Honolulu, it is still October 31, so I wish you a very happy Helewi! If you can't deduce the meaning of that word from context clues, just remember that Hawaiians treat their consonants like lazy teenagers: They never finish anything and aren't allowed to touch each other.
Goodnight Tushy
This month's Hard Taco song, "Can We Please Just Hang Out Now?" touches on the subject of Hawaii. Here's how it came to be:
Young Malcolm is a typical kid with a typical bedtime routine. He puts on pajamas, brushes his teeth, reads a story, and begs me to pile all of his stuffed animals in a different room because they are possessed by evil spirits. Then, I tuck him in, scratch his back, and turn the lights out. As I walk out of the room, I shake my butt like a Tahitian dancer, and he says, "Goodnight, Tushy." We have imparted a sense of finality to that statement. Once he utters those two words, the day is officially over and he is forbidden from getting out of bed until morning.
Not surprisingly, he has tried everything in his power to postpone saying goodnight to my butt.
"Daddy, I'm thirsty!" Sucks to be you.
"Daddy, I heard a creepy noise!" If you survive until morning, you can show me your scars during breakfast.
Then one day, he strung together a series of words that successfully deferred my rump-shaking. "Daddy, let's write a song together!"
Aw, how can I say no to that? The product of that procrastination session is this month's Hard Taco song, "Can We Please Just Hang Out Now?" Malcolm wanted to explore the subject of friendship. Specifically, the theme is the urgency of wanting to hang out with your friend immediately when he returns from vacation to Hawaii. Malcolm knew that we were planning this trip to the Aloha State, so perhaps he wanted to write a song that his friends could sing to him.
Get That Grizzly a Coconut Bra
This reminds me a comic strip I once read in the University of Wisconsin student-run newspaper, The Daily Cardinal. When I was a med student in Madison, The Cardinal was four pages long, and nearly 20% of its ink was wasted on feeble student-drawn comic strips. These strips consistently managed to be both disgusting and migraine-inducing, like a pile of poop in a strobe light. Here's an example:
Stick figure 1: Let's go to the mall.
Stick figure 2: Okay!
Stick figure 1: (Getting attacked by a bear) Aaaahhh!
Stick figure 2: I thought you said, "Let's go to M-A-U-L."
I remember reading this, and actually becoming angry at the young cartoonist who brought this strobe-lit dung into my life. The art, setup, and delivery were pathetic and the pun didn't even make grammatical sense.
But then, a miracle happened. A Labor Day Miracle, you could say, if we were to name miracles after the most proximate holiday.
With a few quick pencil strokes, the comic transformed into this:
Stick figure 1: Let's go to the mall.
Stick figure 2: Okay!
Stick figure 1: (Getting attacked by a bear in a grass skirt) Aaaahhh!
Stick figure 2: I thought you said, "Let's go to M-A-U-I."
Suddenly, this comic was ver funny. If it had been drawn this way in the first place, it may have been worth a chuckle. What made it sidesplittingly, life-alteringly hilarious was the net change in funniness, the humor delta, if you will. The transformation from a negative black hole of failure to something slightly whimsical was such an massive and dramatic shift, my system was unable to handle it.
I erupted in laughter, right in the middle of class. Pushing my lips together in hopes of suppressing the sound only led to mirthful, spasmodic snorting. I had never lost control of my diaphragm before, but I was out-of-control and I actually had to get up and leave the room because I was disrupting class.
Aloha from Oahu! It is November where you are, but here in Honolulu, it is still October 31, so I wish you a very happy Helewi! If you can't deduce the meaning of that word from context clues, just remember that Hawaiians treat their consonants like lazy teenagers: They never finish anything and aren't allowed to touch each other.
Goodnight Tushy
This month's Hard Taco song, "Can We Please Just Hang Out Now?" touches on the subject of Hawaii. Here's how it came to be:
Young Malcolm is a typical kid with a typical bedtime routine. He puts on pajamas, brushes his teeth, reads a story, and begs me to pile all of his stuffed animals in a different room because they are possessed by evil spirits. Then, I tuck him in, scratch his back, and turn the lights out. As I walk out of the room, I shake my butt like a Tahitian dancer, and he says, "Goodnight, Tushy." We have imparted a sense of finality to that statement. Once he utters those two words, the day is officially over and he is forbidden from getting out of bed until morning.
Not surprisingly, he has tried everything in his power to postpone saying goodnight to my butt.
"Daddy, I'm thirsty!" Sucks to be you.
"Daddy, I heard a creepy noise!" If you survive until morning, you can show me your scars during breakfast.
Then one day, he strung together a series of words that successfully deferred my rump-shaking. "Daddy, let's write a song together!"
Aw, how can I say no to that? The product of that procrastination session is this month's Hard Taco song, "Can We Please Just Hang Out Now?" Malcolm wanted to explore the subject of friendship. Specifically, the theme is the urgency of wanting to hang out with your friend immediately when he returns from vacation to Hawaii. Malcolm knew that we were planning this trip to the Aloha State, so perhaps he wanted to write a song that his friends could sing to him.
Get That Grizzly a Coconut Bra
This reminds me a comic strip I once read in the University of Wisconsin student-run newspaper, The Daily Cardinal. When I was a med student in Madison, The Cardinal was four pages long, and nearly 20% of its ink was wasted on feeble student-drawn comic strips. These strips consistently managed to be both disgusting and migraine-inducing, like a pile of poop in a strobe light. Here's an example:
Stick figure 1: Let's go to the mall.
Stick figure 2: Okay!
Stick figure 1: (Getting attacked by a bear) Aaaahhh!
Stick figure 2: I thought you said, "Let's go to M-A-U-L."
I remember reading this, and actually becoming angry at the young cartoonist who brought this strobe-lit dung into my life. The art, setup, and delivery were pathetic and the pun didn't even make grammatical sense.
But then, a miracle happened. A Labor Day Miracle, you could say, if we were to name miracles after the most proximate holiday.
With a few quick pencil strokes, the comic transformed into this:
Stick figure 1: Let's go to the mall.
Stick figure 2: Okay!
Stick figure 1: (Getting attacked by a bear in a grass skirt) Aaaahhh!
Stick figure 2: I thought you said, "Let's go to M-A-U-I."
Suddenly, this comic was ver funny. If it had been drawn this way in the first place, it may have been worth a chuckle. What made it sidesplittingly, life-alteringly hilarious was the net change in funniness, the humor delta, if you will. The transformation from a negative black hole of failure to something slightly whimsical was such an massive and dramatic shift, my system was unable to handle it.
I erupted in laughter, right in the middle of class. Pushing my lips together in hopes of suppressing the sound only led to mirthful, spasmodic snorting. I had never lost control of my diaphragm before, but I was out-of-control and I actually had to get up and leave the room because I was disrupting class.
In case you don't appreciate why this is funny, let me explain it to you: It is preposterous that someone would travel all the way to Hawaii because of a misunderstanding, only to be attacked by an animal that isn't indigenous to the area, but is trying to fit in by wearing the traditional costume of local...
Sorry, I can't finish that sentence, because I'm snorting again and have to excuse myself from the computer room.
With warmest regards,
Zach
P.S. During this trip, I learned a traditional Hawaiian Halloween joke. I don't remember the setup, but the punch line is, "The SPOOK-ulele."
With warmest regards,
Zach
P.S. During this trip, I learned a traditional Hawaiian Halloween joke. I don't remember the setup, but the punch line is, "The SPOOK-ulele."
Sunday, March 1, 2015
21 mg Transdermal
Dear Friends,
It takes an astute doctor to distinguish a touch of the winter doldrums from a case of the winter blahs. Both cause mopeyness, that draggy feeling, and episodes of down-in-the-dumps. Whichever you have, the treatment of choice is the latest Hard Taco song, “Surfing Instructor from the 1960s.” This drop of concentrated sunshine will alleviate all but the most intractable eruptions of the winter ho hums.
Biographies of Vice, Part A:Trysts with Tobacco
A recent study suggested that the human nose can distinguish one trillion odors. If we took a moment to arrange these smells from most pleasant to least pleasant, cigarette smoke would fall towards the bottom of the list.
Okay, fine, Memoir Police. Maybe I didn’t have three girlfriends in high school. The person I’m counting as number two portrayed my girlfriend in a play. She smoked, and I’m counting it.
Anyway, Smoker GF#1 enjoyed the fact that I was the last tobacco-naive person in our friend group. Before high school graduation, she hatched the following plan: She would spread a rumor that I was planning to smoke my very first cigarette at a friend’s graduation party. Then, the day before, she would teach me how to smoke, first with a twig, and then with a genuine secret practice cigarette. I would show up at the party, casually burn through my alleged first cigarette without coughing, everyone would be amused and impressed, the girlfriend and I would never fight, and we would go to college together and/or elope.
And what a plan it was! Seamlessly it worked, up to and including the “without coughing” part.
Smoker GF#3 was the real deal. Not as a girlfriend, but as a smoker. Her brand was Marlboro Reds.
We were both summer camp counselors. Most Friday nights, after the kids were asleep, we would go down to the storage area with one her friends. The three of us would sit on an overturned rowboat, and I would watch the two of them smoke. Sometimes (but no more than once a week), I would take a single slow drag and tell them how high I was. I was being funny, and they appreciated that, but this is one of those things that was funny because it was true. To someone accustomed to nicotine-celibacy, a Marlboro Red might as well be speed.
“They’re funded by the KKK, you know,” she told me one night, pointing to the red chevrons on the Marlboro box. Sure enough, they looked like the letter K, and if you rotated the box, there were three of them.
"It's true," said the friend.
I was skeptical. I didn’t know much about the Klan or their 501c3 status, but I suspected that they were primarily donor-funded. It just didn’t seem fiscally responsible to funnel their limited assets into subliminal advertising on cigarette boxes. Plus, smokers were not really the KKK’s target demographic... the masks didn’t even have mouth holes.
“And check this out,” she said, “If you turn the Marlboro logo upside-down, see what it says?”
I didn’t.
“It spells out OROBLJeW. It’s HORRIBLE JEW without the H.”
"It's true," said the friend.
Holy cow, they were right. Orrobl Jew! There’s absolutely no way that could be a coincidence. “Then why do you still smoke them?”
Both of them just rolled her eyes at me. “I’m addicted, you idiot.”
Oh, my poor summer fling. I knew I would be out of the picture during her (yet inevitable) battle with lung disease, but it was still sad. What made it worse was that the CEO of Philip-Morris was apparently some kind of cockney bigot, who took pleasure in the infirmity of my people. He probably had a giant projection TV in his office that would cycle through a morbid slideshow of my cancer-stricken ex-girlfriend and her co-counselor. I imagined him prancing back and forth in front of the screen, pointing and howling with delight.
‘Orrible Jew! ‘Orrible Jew!
A few years later, I had my last memorable cigarette-related incident, and it didn’t involve tobacco. I was a first year medical student, and we had a lecture about how to discuss smoking cessation with patients. The speaker brought a sample box of nicotine patches, and passed them out for us to look at. I decided to try on a 21 mg patch, the highest available dose.
Real smokers know that 21 milligrams of transdermal nicotine confers absolutely no benefit. I have since seen patients with a patch on each limb running out of the hospital, dragging iv lines behind them, so they could get back to their smokes.
That was not my experience. By the 1-minute mark, I was frankly lightheaded. By 5 minutes, I felt like there was a wind tunnel running between my eyes and my throat. I started pacing. I started grabbing my classmates' wrists and telling them that they were my best friends and that I really meant it. When I would turn my head, the their faces had vapor trails. By 7 minutes I was kneeling in front of the toilet.
That was my last nicotine high, and I haven't missed it at all. By then, I was dating the love of my life, and coffee breath had replaced smoky sweatshirts as my olfactory turn-on.
With warmest regards,
Zach
It takes an astute doctor to distinguish a touch of the winter doldrums from a case of the winter blahs. Both cause mopeyness, that draggy feeling, and episodes of down-in-the-dumps. Whichever you have, the treatment of choice is the latest Hard Taco song, “Surfing Instructor from the 1960s.” This drop of concentrated sunshine will alleviate all but the most intractable eruptions of the winter ho hums.
Biographies of Vice, Part A:Trysts with Tobacco
A recent study suggested that the human nose can distinguish one trillion odors. If we took a moment to arrange these smells from most pleasant to least pleasant, cigarette smoke would fall towards the bottom of the list.
- (998 billion smells....)
- Primordial cesspools
- Infected glands
- What it would smell like if an egg farted
- Cigarette smoke
- Cigar smoke
- Cat poo that makes you run outside and scream because you smelled it
- When you find a hiker who has been dead for a month and light her hair on fire
Okay, fine, Memoir Police. Maybe I didn’t have three girlfriends in high school. The person I’m counting as number two portrayed my girlfriend in a play. She smoked, and I’m counting it.
Anyway, Smoker GF#1 enjoyed the fact that I was the last tobacco-naive person in our friend group. Before high school graduation, she hatched the following plan: She would spread a rumor that I was planning to smoke my very first cigarette at a friend’s graduation party. Then, the day before, she would teach me how to smoke, first with a twig, and then with a genuine secret practice cigarette. I would show up at the party, casually burn through my alleged first cigarette without coughing, everyone would be amused and impressed, the girlfriend and I would never fight, and we would go to college together and/or elope.
And what a plan it was! Seamlessly it worked, up to and including the “without coughing” part.
Smoker GF#3 was the real deal. Not as a girlfriend, but as a smoker. Her brand was Marlboro Reds.
We were both summer camp counselors. Most Friday nights, after the kids were asleep, we would go down to the storage area with one her friends. The three of us would sit on an overturned rowboat, and I would watch the two of them smoke. Sometimes (but no more than once a week), I would take a single slow drag and tell them how high I was. I was being funny, and they appreciated that, but this is one of those things that was funny because it was true. To someone accustomed to nicotine-celibacy, a Marlboro Red might as well be speed.
“They’re funded by the KKK, you know,” she told me one night, pointing to the red chevrons on the Marlboro box. Sure enough, they looked like the letter K, and if you rotated the box, there were three of them.
"It's true," said the friend.
I was skeptical. I didn’t know much about the Klan or their 501c3 status, but I suspected that they were primarily donor-funded. It just didn’t seem fiscally responsible to funnel their limited assets into subliminal advertising on cigarette boxes. Plus, smokers were not really the KKK’s target demographic... the masks didn’t even have mouth holes.
“And check this out,” she said, “If you turn the Marlboro logo upside-down, see what it says?”
I didn’t.
“It spells out OROBLJeW. It’s HORRIBLE JEW without the H.”
"It's true," said the friend.
Holy cow, they were right. Orrobl Jew! There’s absolutely no way that could be a coincidence. “Then why do you still smoke them?”
Both of them just rolled her eyes at me. “I’m addicted, you idiot.”
Oh, my poor summer fling. I knew I would be out of the picture during her (yet inevitable) battle with lung disease, but it was still sad. What made it worse was that the CEO of Philip-Morris was apparently some kind of cockney bigot, who took pleasure in the infirmity of my people. He probably had a giant projection TV in his office that would cycle through a morbid slideshow of my cancer-stricken ex-girlfriend and her co-counselor. I imagined him prancing back and forth in front of the screen, pointing and howling with delight.
‘Orrible Jew! ‘Orrible Jew!
A few years later, I had my last memorable cigarette-related incident, and it didn’t involve tobacco. I was a first year medical student, and we had a lecture about how to discuss smoking cessation with patients. The speaker brought a sample box of nicotine patches, and passed them out for us to look at. I decided to try on a 21 mg patch, the highest available dose.
Real smokers know that 21 milligrams of transdermal nicotine confers absolutely no benefit. I have since seen patients with a patch on each limb running out of the hospital, dragging iv lines behind them, so they could get back to their smokes.
That was not my experience. By the 1-minute mark, I was frankly lightheaded. By 5 minutes, I felt like there was a wind tunnel running between my eyes and my throat. I started pacing. I started grabbing my classmates' wrists and telling them that they were my best friends and that I really meant it. When I would turn my head, the their faces had vapor trails. By 7 minutes I was kneeling in front of the toilet.
That was my last nicotine high, and I haven't missed it at all. By then, I was dating the love of my life, and coffee breath had replaced smoky sweatshirts as my olfactory turn-on.
With warmest regards,
Zach
Sunday, January 1, 2012
The Sorcerer's Kidney Stone
Dear Friends,
The Hard Taco song for January, "Kentucky," tells the touching story of a journey home at the end of one's life. Traveling great distances to die at home is common to both Kentuckians and salmon. Here are some other similarities: 1. Often raised on farms. 2. Bite anything shiny.
There's Talent, Oh Yes, and a Thirst to Prove Yourself. But Where Shall I Put You?
There was a lab section during the renal pathophysiology course in medical school that had achieved quite a bit of notoriety. We heard rumors from the class ahead of us, rumors which filled us with wonder and fear. The students, they told us, would be divided into four groups: beer, Pepsi, water, and broth. We would be obligated to drink as much of the assigned beverage as we could endure, collect our urine, and run tests on it. Through this, we would learn about how the human kidney handles alcohol, caffeine, and salt.
Also, we would get to see what our classmates' pee looked like, so there was that.
When we got to the renal unit, the lab instructor read off our libation assignments. He used carefully placed pregnant pauses, ushering our anticipation to a fever pitch.
Jason Baker... Beer!
Peggy Berdelman... Water!
Jason and Peggy pumped their fists and ran over to their lab benches where their new beverage buddies waited with cheers and high fives.
Zach London....
I had recently read the first Harry Potter book, so I tried influencing the outcome the way Harry would have. I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated. Not broth, not broth.
Are you sure? You could do great with broth. It's all there in your kidneys, and broth could help you on the way to greatness... there's no doubt about that.
Not broth, anything but broth.
Okay, if you're sure, better be... BROTH!
The real Hogwarts Sorting Hat wasn't a jackass, but I wasn't so lucky. And so, for an entire afternoon, my six comrades and I guzzled cup after briny cup of room temperature beef bouillon. We were soon nauseated, our mouths were tacky, and our bladders were bursting with all sorts of unnatural electrolytes, but we soldiered on. When the need arose, we excused ourselves, filled up our flasks, brought them back and emptied them into a giant communal beaker reserved for broth urinators.
The short walk from the men's room to the lab was particularly humiliating. Acquaintances passing in the other direction kept surreptitiously checking out my Erlenmeyer, probably taking note of my color, volume, turbidity, and specific gravity. They were judging me. On exactly what basis I didn't know, but I could tell by their deriding glances that something about my urine was not cool. I had the urge to stop each of them and say, "It's all the powdered meat I've been drinking, dude! That's why the pH is so low. I swear it's not usually like this!"
But the beer group, wow. They didn't seem the least bit self-conscious about any of this. They were an animated circle of good-looking, racially diverse 20-somethings clinking High Life bottles together, enjoying life and doing plenty of what beer drinkers do best... pissing a whole lot. Other than that last part, they could have been a Miller commercial. They waved their flasks around confidently, as if each of them had brewed a unique single malt, and when they proudly pooled their efforts in the giant volumetric beaker they had concocted a fine blended whiskey.
Then there was the Pepsi group. They were energized, focused, and completed their work quickly and accurately. Encouraged by their success that day, many of them would go on to become nephrologists.
There was no swagger in the broth group, though. We couldn't even look at each other. I quietly trudged through the urinalysis, occasionally rubbing my eyes to wipe away the thin film beef stock that had begun to coat them. In the end, the tests confirmed what I had feared... my bladder was an environment conducive to raising saltwater fish.
The seven of us never spoke of that day to each other again, and ever since, I cringe a little when a waitress asks me if I want soup with my entree.
No, salad, please. Definitely salad.
With warmest regards,
Zach
The Hard Taco song for January, "Kentucky," tells the touching story of a journey home at the end of one's life. Traveling great distances to die at home is common to both Kentuckians and salmon. Here are some other similarities: 1. Often raised on farms. 2. Bite anything shiny.
There's Talent, Oh Yes, and a Thirst to Prove Yourself. But Where Shall I Put You?
There was a lab section during the renal pathophysiology course in medical school that had achieved quite a bit of notoriety. We heard rumors from the class ahead of us, rumors which filled us with wonder and fear. The students, they told us, would be divided into four groups: beer, Pepsi, water, and broth. We would be obligated to drink as much of the assigned beverage as we could endure, collect our urine, and run tests on it. Through this, we would learn about how the human kidney handles alcohol, caffeine, and salt.
Also, we would get to see what our classmates' pee looked like, so there was that.
When we got to the renal unit, the lab instructor read off our libation assignments. He used carefully placed pregnant pauses, ushering our anticipation to a fever pitch.
Jason Baker... Beer!
Peggy Berdelman... Water!
Jason and Peggy pumped their fists and ran over to their lab benches where their new beverage buddies waited with cheers and high fives.
Zach London....
I had recently read the first Harry Potter book, so I tried influencing the outcome the way Harry would have. I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated. Not broth, not broth.
Are you sure? You could do great with broth. It's all there in your kidneys, and broth could help you on the way to greatness... there's no doubt about that.
Not broth, anything but broth.
Okay, if you're sure, better be... BROTH!
The real Hogwarts Sorting Hat wasn't a jackass, but I wasn't so lucky. And so, for an entire afternoon, my six comrades and I guzzled cup after briny cup of room temperature beef bouillon. We were soon nauseated, our mouths were tacky, and our bladders were bursting with all sorts of unnatural electrolytes, but we soldiered on. When the need arose, we excused ourselves, filled up our flasks, brought them back and emptied them into a giant communal beaker reserved for broth urinators.
The short walk from the men's room to the lab was particularly humiliating. Acquaintances passing in the other direction kept surreptitiously checking out my Erlenmeyer, probably taking note of my color, volume, turbidity, and specific gravity. They were judging me. On exactly what basis I didn't know, but I could tell by their deriding glances that something about my urine was not cool. I had the urge to stop each of them and say, "It's all the powdered meat I've been drinking, dude! That's why the pH is so low. I swear it's not usually like this!"
But the beer group, wow. They didn't seem the least bit self-conscious about any of this. They were an animated circle of good-looking, racially diverse 20-somethings clinking High Life bottles together, enjoying life and doing plenty of what beer drinkers do best... pissing a whole lot. Other than that last part, they could have been a Miller commercial. They waved their flasks around confidently, as if each of them had brewed a unique single malt, and when they proudly pooled their efforts in the giant volumetric beaker they had concocted a fine blended whiskey.
Then there was the Pepsi group. They were energized, focused, and completed their work quickly and accurately. Encouraged by their success that day, many of them would go on to become nephrologists.
There was no swagger in the broth group, though. We couldn't even look at each other. I quietly trudged through the urinalysis, occasionally rubbing my eyes to wipe away the thin film beef stock that had begun to coat them. In the end, the tests confirmed what I had feared... my bladder was an environment conducive to raising saltwater fish.
The seven of us never spoke of that day to each other again, and ever since, I cringe a little when a waitress asks me if I want soup with my entree.
No, salad, please. Definitely salad.
With warmest regards,
Zach
Sunday, May 1, 2011
You're Going to Feel My Finger Now
Dear Friends,
On December 7th, 1941, a Japanese fighter pilot crash landed on Ni'ihau, the smallest and westernmost Hawaiian island, mistakenly believing it to be uninhabited. The remarkable events that transpired on that tiny island over the next six days have become known as "The Ni'ihau Incident." I'll let Wikipedia tell you the story. Since reading this, I have been obsessed with the idea that this needs to be made into a stage play. I couldn't write a play to save my life, but I can write songs (especially if lives are on the line), so I composed a song about what it would be like if there was a play about the Ni'ihau incident.
The Boggy Man
I was 19 years old and seriously considering medical school, so my dad made arrangements for me to spend an afternoon shadowing a colleague of his in the family medicine clinic. The first patient we saw was an elderly gentleman presenting for a routine health maintenance examination. Dr. Bower wasted no time introducing me as "Student Doctor London," and announced that I would be assisting him with the rectal exam.
The misleading title made me a bit uncomfortable, but I loved the idea of "assisting." It implied that a good rectal exam requires teamwork, and I was part of that team!
So here I was, snapping on a latex glove and squirting lube on my right index finger. This is how the first patient encounter of my life would begin.
"Do you feel it?" Dr. Bower asked, "Do you feel the prostate?"
"Maybe," I said, "Actually, I'm not sure."
"You'll know you're there, because it feels just like the tip of your nose."
I carefully brought my ungloved left index finger to my nose and gently rubbed it back and forth. I was surprised to discover that the tip of my nose had a subtle divot that I had never noticed before.
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