I'm becoming more and more interested in the idea of narrative medicine, storytelling in medicine, and what the humanities can teach us in general. Little things pop up in the hospital everyday that deserve to be written about. Even in our boring electronic medical records little gems pop up, like "the patient lives alone with her dachshund named Piper*."
There are a lot of physicians, other practitioners, and students who feel the same way, from journalists like Atul Gawande, to novelists like Abraham Verghese. I've been exploring a few outlets for medical professionals, one of which is in-Training, a sort of online magazine by and for medical students. They published a poem of mine a few months ago, and more recently an essay about I wrote about coping in the ICU. You can read it, and get a peak into the lives and brains of many other medical students, here.
*this dog's name has been change in accordance with the HIPAA pet privacy act ;)
Showing posts with label medical school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label medical school. Show all posts
15 January, 2014
14 November, 2013
stealing joy
Wow, it's been a while since I've posted anything here. The longest yet. I've been thinking a lot about writing lately - writing or reading poetry and short stories, writing as a means of understanding medicine and human interactions. I want to delve into the newly-discovered world of narrative medicine. I should have some time to do so in the coming months, so we will see how far that goes.
In the meantime summer ended. The farmer's market made it's transition from strawberries and asparagus, to every green thing imaginable and berries, to squash and apples, and now it's gone. A chilly August was followed by a warm September and October (relatively speaking), but November was ushered in with a freeze and I harvested all our potted herbs. The rosebush remains, two buds debating whether or not to bloom. My cooking followed the market trend. Transitioning from salads and things like these noodles to roasted squash, bean stews and all kinds of things with miso. The leaves turned and have almost all fallen, sweaters have migrated to the front of the closet, and I've initiated a daily ten minutes of sitting beside my SAD lamp. Autumn is verging on winter and I am determined to enjoy it by relishing in coziness as much as possible. I'm talking double socks, fun hats and scarves, casseroles and cookies, bubble baths, steam room at the gym, hot tea, poems like "November Night" by Adelaide Crapsey:
We already had our first snowfall, just a few days ago, it collected and stayed on the ground the whole next day, despite the brightly shining sun, deceptively not warming things up.
Actually, the first snowfall I saw was in October, but most people were asleep and it barely touched the ground before melting. I saw this beautiful snow - barely a fall at all, really a light drifting down, like a feather or crepe paper confetti - because I was up in the middle of the night on the labor and delivery floor of a community hospital, helping/learning how to deliver babies. Delivering a baby isone of the most magical experience I've ever had, and I struggle to describe it adequately. One doctor said it was like "stealing joy". There is something accurate about this, as it indicates that the doctor is still somewhat removed from this new family being formed. An integral part of the experience but ready to transform into bystander as soon as the whole visceral process is over. If you think of joy as something that is not diminished by being shared, but rather increases, then it sounds even more fitting.
But it's more than just the joy of new life (what a presumptive thing to say, just). It's the entirety of this most ancient ritual, born of complete necessity, drenched in blood and vernix (lit. 'fragrant resin'). The hours of the mother contracting, dilating, effacing, breathing. Teaching your gloved fingers to feel blindly for cervix and station, like digging through a bag of cotton balls trying to find the one that is slightly softer. The absolute miracle of a newborn maneuvering through the cardinal movements of birth, filling his water-clogged lungs with air, remodeling his entire vascular system. A fish becoming a bird. When things go perfectly smoothly, it's seems the baby would have slithered out whether your hands were there guiding him or not (which does occasionally happen even in a hospital!).
That night, minutes after the baby was born, the nurse looked out the window and remarked, we had a little snow angel on our hands. I've delivered four babies so far. And yes, I am most definitely keeping count.
In the meantime summer ended. The farmer's market made it's transition from strawberries and asparagus, to every green thing imaginable and berries, to squash and apples, and now it's gone. A chilly August was followed by a warm September and October (relatively speaking), but November was ushered in with a freeze and I harvested all our potted herbs. The rosebush remains, two buds debating whether or not to bloom. My cooking followed the market trend. Transitioning from salads and things like these noodles to roasted squash, bean stews and all kinds of things with miso. The leaves turned and have almost all fallen, sweaters have migrated to the front of the closet, and I've initiated a daily ten minutes of sitting beside my SAD lamp. Autumn is verging on winter and I am determined to enjoy it by relishing in coziness as much as possible. I'm talking double socks, fun hats and scarves, casseroles and cookies, bubble baths, steam room at the gym, hot tea, poems like "November Night" by Adelaide Crapsey:
Listen. .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.
We already had our first snowfall, just a few days ago, it collected and stayed on the ground the whole next day, despite the brightly shining sun, deceptively not warming things up.
Actually, the first snowfall I saw was in October, but most people were asleep and it barely touched the ground before melting. I saw this beautiful snow - barely a fall at all, really a light drifting down, like a feather or crepe paper confetti - because I was up in the middle of the night on the labor and delivery floor of a community hospital, helping/learning how to deliver babies. Delivering a baby is
But it's more than just the joy of new life (what a presumptive thing to say, just). It's the entirety of this most ancient ritual, born of complete necessity, drenched in blood and vernix (lit. 'fragrant resin'). The hours of the mother contracting, dilating, effacing, breathing. Teaching your gloved fingers to feel blindly for cervix and station, like digging through a bag of cotton balls trying to find the one that is slightly softer. The absolute miracle of a newborn maneuvering through the cardinal movements of birth, filling his water-clogged lungs with air, remodeling his entire vascular system. A fish becoming a bird. When things go perfectly smoothly, it's seems the baby would have slithered out whether your hands were there guiding him or not (which does occasionally happen even in a hospital!).
That night, minutes after the baby was born, the nurse looked out the window and remarked, we had a little snow angel on our hands. I've delivered four babies so far. And yes, I am most definitely keeping count.
16 August, 2013
veggie nachos
I took 4 weeks off from clinical rotations last month to study for Step 2 of the medical licensing exam. You might remember me talking about Step 1 last summer, which was much more traumatic. Step 1 seemed like a huge hurdle to overcome on this path to becoming a doctor. By the time Step 2 rolled around, I realized the whole track is filled with hurdles. To keep that metaphor going, it really does remind me of when I did the hurdles on my high school track team. The first hurdle was terrifying, coming out of the blocks and the brief seconds leading up to the first leap. But once I made that first one, I found this rhythm - step, step, hurdle, step, step, hurdle - and the hurdles became less of an obstacle and more just a part of the way I ran. In some ways, medical education is like that. I know that I will continue to face small daily challenges, occasional monumental ones, and everything in between, which allows a sort of rhythm and acceptance.
During that month of studying, alone, day after day, alone, I wrote this on the edge of a to-do list:
The more I think of this though, the more I think it's actually a sign of something really good. When we stand at the finish line and look back at the hurdles we crossed, they don't look nearly as threatening because we know we just made it over all of them. And it's natural to say that it was worth it all - the fear, the planning, the training, the sacrifices - because we are doing exactly what we were meant to be doing, what we signed up for, what we are called to. So now when I look back at my weeks of studying, I see that those days took on a beautiful cycle. Each morning I woke up, made a smoothie, studied, went to a yoga class, made a tomato sandwich or salad for lunch, studied, practiced mindfulness meditation, studied, made mushrooms and greens for dinner, studied, read something non-medical, went to sleep. There was very little variance to that schedule and that type of life works really nicely for me. I haven't made it to a yoga class since, and my mindfulness practice has nearly disappeared.
But I am not here to complain. I am here to remind myself that that was good, but impractical for today. I am here to say that I will find a way to keep some of those things in my life no matter what else is going on.
The one thing that is easiest for me to keep around, and to keep myself connected to a sense of wellness is food. Going to the farmers' market, keeping a fridge full of produce, and eating fresh wholesome meals at least twice a day are things that I have managed to maintain. One of my favorite meals this summer is vegetarian nachos. They are quick and easy, there is no need to follow a recipe once you get the idea, and it's an easy way to use up whatever happens to be on hand. The combination I had yesterday was particularly stellar, so I decided it was time to share it with you. And I'd love to hear, what is the thing that keeps you connected to yourself when life starts to get in the way?
Vegetarian Nachos for 2:
Blue corn tortilla chips
4 oz. ground seitan (My favorite is Upton's chorizo)
1/4 cup red onion, diced
1 handful chopped kale
1/2 a zucchini, sliced into thin half-moons
1 avocado, peeled & sliced
1/4 cup crumbled feta
Tomatillo salsa, to taste (I used this one)
Heat a bit of oil in a small pain over low heat and add the seitan, stir occasionally, cook until warm.
Meanwhile, spread some chips out onto a plate. Layer on the already chopped veggies, the seitan, the avocado, and the feta. Finally top with salsa to taste.
Enjoy with a Corona and lime on the patio and savor the remaining days of this fleeting summer.
During that month of studying, alone, day after day, alone, I wrote this on the edge of a to-do list:
I can already feelIn hindsight that sounds like a reassuring realization, but at the time it wasn't. At the time it seemed devastating. Because it meant that I would be brushing off one of those challenges as if I had accomplished nothing, telling my friends "you'll be fine, it's not so bad", and leaving them to feel alone when the the hurdle looked a little bit too high off there in the distance. We do this to ourselves over and over, and it's one of the unexpected ways that medical school has struck me as an emotional challenge.
how when it's all over
I'll look back
and say,
"It wasn't so bad, really."
The more I think of this though, the more I think it's actually a sign of something really good. When we stand at the finish line and look back at the hurdles we crossed, they don't look nearly as threatening because we know we just made it over all of them. And it's natural to say that it was worth it all - the fear, the planning, the training, the sacrifices - because we are doing exactly what we were meant to be doing, what we signed up for, what we are called to. So now when I look back at my weeks of studying, I see that those days took on a beautiful cycle. Each morning I woke up, made a smoothie, studied, went to a yoga class, made a tomato sandwich or salad for lunch, studied, practiced mindfulness meditation, studied, made mushrooms and greens for dinner, studied, read something non-medical, went to sleep. There was very little variance to that schedule and that type of life works really nicely for me. I haven't made it to a yoga class since, and my mindfulness practice has nearly disappeared.
But I am not here to complain. I am here to remind myself that that was good, but impractical for today. I am here to say that I will find a way to keep some of those things in my life no matter what else is going on.
The one thing that is easiest for me to keep around, and to keep myself connected to a sense of wellness is food. Going to the farmers' market, keeping a fridge full of produce, and eating fresh wholesome meals at least twice a day are things that I have managed to maintain. One of my favorite meals this summer is vegetarian nachos. They are quick and easy, there is no need to follow a recipe once you get the idea, and it's an easy way to use up whatever happens to be on hand. The combination I had yesterday was particularly stellar, so I decided it was time to share it with you. And I'd love to hear, what is the thing that keeps you connected to yourself when life starts to get in the way?
Vegetarian Nachos for 2:
Blue corn tortilla chips
4 oz. ground seitan (My favorite is Upton's chorizo)
1/4 cup red onion, diced
1 handful chopped kale
1/2 a zucchini, sliced into thin half-moons
1 avocado, peeled & sliced
1/4 cup crumbled feta
Tomatillo salsa, to taste (I used this one)
Heat a bit of oil in a small pain over low heat and add the seitan, stir occasionally, cook until warm.
Meanwhile, spread some chips out onto a plate. Layer on the already chopped veggies, the seitan, the avocado, and the feta. Finally top with salsa to taste.
Enjoy with a Corona and lime on the patio and savor the remaining days of this fleeting summer.
24 June, 2013
artichokes for 2
I've been wanting to follow up those last 2 posts with a recipe but it's been a hectic few weeks. But now summer is here, and I kicked it off with my family, gazing at the super moon, and admiring some photography. Believe it or not, I'm looking forward to a month of studying and a break from the hospital. A cup of coffee and sunshine streaming onto my textbook instead of three-hour morning rounds, a load of online practice questions instead of the daily public questioning that one can never be adequately prepared for, and the freedom to step away from it all in search of inspiration, a wholesome meal, or a few sun salutations.
In that spirit, here is a nice simple recipe, perfect for sharing with a friend.
My mom always served steamed artichokes with Hollandaise sauce, which is delicious but full of fat and its need for precise, careful preparation intimidates me. This is a healtheir, easier alternative but just as full of flavor. Eating it is messy and completely occupying, so there's no room for multi-tasking or any distraction greater than a pleasant conversation.
Artichokes for 2:
2 artichokes
6 cloves garlic peeled
olive oil
balsamic vinegar
a few springs of rosemary or thyme
Cut the stems off of the artichokes so that you have just about 1 inch remaining and a nice flat bottom. Pull the leaves open a bit so that you can shove the garlic cloves in, scattering them through 3 different layers and 3 different areas of the artichoke.
Fill a pot with about an inch of water, add a good pinch of salt and the fresh herbs, and set the artichokes in it. Ideally, the water won't quite reach the lowest leaves, the artichokes will balance well on their own, and a lid will fit over them without touching. But if any of those don't quite work out, it will probably still all be just fine.
Bring the water to a simmer, cover, and let steam for 30 minutes - 1 hour, depending on how small and tender the artichokes are. I usually try to pull out a middle leaf at around 30 minutes to see how well-cooked it is, just be careful not to burn your hands! Just put it half-way in your mouth and bite down softly with your front teeth; it should be soft enough that the meaty part near the base easily scrapes off.
When they're done, place each artichoke in a bowl and drizzle with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, as well as salt and pepper if desired. Serve with an extra bowl or plate for discarding the leaves.
In case you haven't eaten an artichoke before, you should know that the center is the best part! When you get to the point where the leaves become translucent and prickly, stop eating, scrape those leaves and the soft fuzzy stuff underneath them out with a spoon, and eat the heart just as it is, sopping up any of the olive oil and vinegar that remains.
In that spirit, here is a nice simple recipe, perfect for sharing with a friend.
My mom always served steamed artichokes with Hollandaise sauce, which is delicious but full of fat and its need for precise, careful preparation intimidates me. This is a healtheir, easier alternative but just as full of flavor. Eating it is messy and completely occupying, so there's no room for multi-tasking or any distraction greater than a pleasant conversation.
Artichokes for 2:
2 artichokes
6 cloves garlic peeled
olive oil
balsamic vinegar
a few springs of rosemary or thyme
Cut the stems off of the artichokes so that you have just about 1 inch remaining and a nice flat bottom. Pull the leaves open a bit so that you can shove the garlic cloves in, scattering them through 3 different layers and 3 different areas of the artichoke.
Fill a pot with about an inch of water, add a good pinch of salt and the fresh herbs, and set the artichokes in it. Ideally, the water won't quite reach the lowest leaves, the artichokes will balance well on their own, and a lid will fit over them without touching. But if any of those don't quite work out, it will probably still all be just fine.
Bring the water to a simmer, cover, and let steam for 30 minutes - 1 hour, depending on how small and tender the artichokes are. I usually try to pull out a middle leaf at around 30 minutes to see how well-cooked it is, just be careful not to burn your hands! Just put it half-way in your mouth and bite down softly with your front teeth; it should be soft enough that the meaty part near the base easily scrapes off.
When they're done, place each artichoke in a bowl and drizzle with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, as well as salt and pepper if desired. Serve with an extra bowl or plate for discarding the leaves.
In case you haven't eaten an artichoke before, you should know that the center is the best part! When you get to the point where the leaves become translucent and prickly, stop eating, scrape those leaves and the soft fuzzy stuff underneath them out with a spoon, and eat the heart just as it is, sopping up any of the olive oil and vinegar that remains.
17 February, 2013
a poem
It's not something that comes up in everyday conversation, but I really love poetry. I love how reading so few words can have such power, thanks to careful choices and strategic arrangement. I also write poems from time to time, but rarely share them with anybody other than Ian. However, I submitted a few to the William Carlos Williams (an amazing physician poet) poetry competition, and received honorable mention for one. I'm thrilled! And it gave me the extra bit of confidence I needed to share it online. I hope you like it.
-->
-->
Fluid Crystals
“Why do we have membranes?”
asks my professor
who is a bit too cool for us
with his unnamable accent –
“Because life is compartmentalized.”
But I don’t want my life to be compartmentalized.
I want it to be fluid,
like the bilayer lipid membrane itself,
so that every component can translocate
and interact with the others.
So that holding the hand of my cadaver
triggers poetry,
rather than disgust
or detachment.
Because art and anatomy collide on the street,
each four-chambered heart pumping,
each brain full of memories
and twelve cranial nerves.
The winter trees are skeletons,
but they will reflesh themselves.
29 December, 2012
looking at art
A few weeks ago I went to the Chicago Art Institute. I
always feel rejuvenated after visiting an art museum. It pulls me out of my
head and distracts me from all the mundane things I worry about unnecessarily
on a daily basis. This trip seemed long over-do, and somehow reflecting on it
now makes me realize how much this past month was recovering from the prior
five.
I began by studying some photographs, comparing the
differences between printing and developing methods, reading the name of each
artist, title, and materials. Then I set out through the contemporary building
and decided that I was not going to read anything. Instead I would just focus
on the painting itself – I could only take in so many words and changing my
focus constantly was becoming somewhat dizzying. Often though, I couldn’t help
myself and I needed the curator’s enlightening descriptions. I made my way
through a few connected rooms and, quite pleased with what I had seen, stepped
back into the hallway. Suddenly overwhelmed by how much was housed in a single
wing of this building, I considered calling it a day - until I thought of all
the beautiful paintings that would be in the next room over, so many artists I
love. I decided that I had to walk through a few more rooms, just to be in the
presence of such beauty and wonder. I stood to look at a painting, but rather
than study it I let the whole room flood over me, with such richness that it
far surpassed any one masterpiece.
Somehow my few hours immersed in artwork mirrored my recent
experiences as a third year medical student, at least in sentiment. I have many
stories to tell, each of them great on their own, but all together they make up
something greater. Something I don’t yet have the words for and maybe never
will. But it is wonderful, this mixture of excitement and anxiety, sadness and
relief, complete engagement and detachment. And there has been an overarching
sense of being overwhelmed. Not in the way I felt overwhelmed by the massive
amount I had to learn in anatomy, not a sense of something being unconquerable
or time being too short, but such a flood of experience that I will need some
time to pull myself up out of the water before I can reflect on it all.
In contrast to all that, my few days of Christmas vacation
have been so beautifully simple. I’m back in Texas, and I think that adds to
the feeling, both for its reminder of my youth as well as the basic kindness of
strangers that goes hand in hand with southern hospitality. I’ve been relishing
in walks through the neighborhood, blue skies, green leaves still hanging to
trees, and lazy mornings with my family. I think it’s the perfect transition
into the new semester, with a new confidence that I know what I want to do with
my future, and a renewed connection with the idea of becoming not just a doctor
but a healer.
I saw some art again today. This time it was the Menil Collection, a much more manageable, focused collection of art. I walked through
the naturally lit rooms, surrounded by beauty, and felt like I was able to take
it all in and process it to some degree. My last stop was the Rothko Chapel,
and left with a profound feeling of peace.
I hope you have all had a wonderful Christmas and are filled
with love and joy as we begin to look towards the new year.
14 June, 2012
step one
Step 1. Completed.
In the meantime, life kept going on. Ian completed a couple translations and his first syllabus; my sister threw the shot put for 4th place at nationals, graduated from college and got a job back in Houston (I'm so proud & happy for her!); my grandmother got a new aortic valve (!); Egypt had elections; France has a new president.
I'm so happy to re-join the rest of the world again. Well, at least until my surgery rotation begins...
I'm so happy to re-join the rest of the world again. Well, at least until my surgery rotation begins...
15 May, 2012
highlight of my day
This really did just happen to me, and it really was quite exciting. (pitiful). So, for all the other medical students out there studying for boards, here's a question for you:
While flipping through flashcards on a rainy afternoon, I fell asleep curled up on an arm chair, with my right arm, held in flexion, between the chair and my body. When I woke up and stretched, I realized that part of my right hand felt tingly and my 4th and 5th digits did not extend with all the rest. Name that brachial plexus lesion!
While flipping through flashcards on a rainy afternoon, I fell asleep curled up on an arm chair, with my right arm, held in flexion, between the chair and my body. When I woke up and stretched, I realized that part of my right hand felt tingly and my 4th and 5th digits did not extend with all the rest. Name that brachial plexus lesion!
31 August, 2011
return to italy
I took my first combined neuroscience & pharmacology exam of the year on Monday. Tuesday it was right back to classes from 7:30 am - 1:30 pm, followed, of course, by more studying. I feel like I'm still recovering, but at the same time I'm already worried about getting behind on this next chunk of material. Ahh, medical school. I know, this is what I signed up for. I just need to get over it and stop feeling sorry for myself.
One good thing about an exam is that it gives you a reason to celebrate. I celebrated by bringing a bit of Italy to my kitchen. Right now, the best part of Italy to revisit in my mind is Sora Margherita in the Jewish ghetto of Rhome. I have definitely added this to my list of favorite eating experiences. We ate lunch there on a hot, sunny day. I was very excited to try this restaurant, described as a hole-in-the-wall joint that officially registered as a "club" rather than a restaurant in order to avoid stricter regulations. We knew not to bother looking for a sign and spotted the red curtains across the square. In front was a woman feeding pigeons and a few wooden chairs for waiting customers. We waited on those chairs in the brilliant sun for a good thirty minutes before there was space for us inside.
We walked to the back of a warm, cramped restaurant, past white paper table cloths and full, satisfied faces. In the back corner of the restaurant we started by ordering much-needed cold beers. The waitress didn't speak much English but we managed to understand each other well enough to agree to her suggestion that she bring us the day's specials. This sounded like fun to me, and I would have approximately forty-seven questions about the menu if left to decide for myself. We started with some kind of frittata and an amazing artichoke that had been fried until the leaves were crisp as chips. This was followed by several more plates: a meat ravioli with fresh ricotta and lots of black pepper, giant meatballs with sweet green peas and gravy that happen to be the best meatballs I have ever tasted, a lasagna with red sauce, and I don't remember what else. We joined the ranks of full, satisfied faces.
While Ian and I were in Italy this summer we saw and ate zucchini flowers everywhere. Of course, I had heard of them before but don't think I had ever eaten a zucchini flower or seen one in a grocery store before then. This past weekend Ian spotted some at the Oak Park farmer's market and snatched them up. Perfect timing. I read about many ways to enjoy these treats - raw, torn into a salad, made into pesto, cooked with a soup, roasted... We went for the traditional (decadent) version: stuffed with cheese fried. Yum! It was actually very easy and after glancing at a few different recipes we were able to make them without any direct instruction in front of us. If you have a plant of your own or see them at the market, I would definitely give them a try!
Stuffed Zucchini Flowers Recipe:
12 zucchini flowers
1 egg, whisked
1/4 cup all-purpose flour (whole wheat)
fontina cheese
fresh herbs, chopped (like oregano, parsley, and basil)
salt and pepper
olive oil
Wash the flowers as well as possible and remove the inner pistil.
Fill each with a pinch of cheese and herbs.
Add some salt and pepper to the flour in a shallow bowl.
Dip flowers in egg and then flour so that they have a light coating.
Heat olive oil in a large pan. Cook over medium-high heat until flowers begin to look a bit crispy.
One good thing about an exam is that it gives you a reason to celebrate. I celebrated by bringing a bit of Italy to my kitchen. Right now, the best part of Italy to revisit in my mind is Sora Margherita in the Jewish ghetto of Rhome. I have definitely added this to my list of favorite eating experiences. We ate lunch there on a hot, sunny day. I was very excited to try this restaurant, described as a hole-in-the-wall joint that officially registered as a "club" rather than a restaurant in order to avoid stricter regulations. We knew not to bother looking for a sign and spotted the red curtains across the square. In front was a woman feeding pigeons and a few wooden chairs for waiting customers. We waited on those chairs in the brilliant sun for a good thirty minutes before there was space for us inside.
We walked to the back of a warm, cramped restaurant, past white paper table cloths and full, satisfied faces. In the back corner of the restaurant we started by ordering much-needed cold beers. The waitress didn't speak much English but we managed to understand each other well enough to agree to her suggestion that she bring us the day's specials. This sounded like fun to me, and I would have approximately forty-seven questions about the menu if left to decide for myself. We started with some kind of frittata and an amazing artichoke that had been fried until the leaves were crisp as chips. This was followed by several more plates: a meat ravioli with fresh ricotta and lots of black pepper, giant meatballs with sweet green peas and gravy that happen to be the best meatballs I have ever tasted, a lasagna with red sauce, and I don't remember what else. We joined the ranks of full, satisfied faces.
While Ian and I were in Italy this summer we saw and ate zucchini flowers everywhere. Of course, I had heard of them before but don't think I had ever eaten a zucchini flower or seen one in a grocery store before then. This past weekend Ian spotted some at the Oak Park farmer's market and snatched them up. Perfect timing. I read about many ways to enjoy these treats - raw, torn into a salad, made into pesto, cooked with a soup, roasted... We went for the traditional (decadent) version: stuffed with cheese fried. Yum! It was actually very easy and after glancing at a few different recipes we were able to make them without any direct instruction in front of us. If you have a plant of your own or see them at the market, I would definitely give them a try!
Stuffed Zucchini Flowers Recipe:
12 zucchini flowers
1 egg, whisked
1/4 cup all-purpose flour (whole wheat)
fontina cheese
fresh herbs, chopped (like oregano, parsley, and basil)
salt and pepper
olive oil
Wash the flowers as well as possible and remove the inner pistil.
Fill each with a pinch of cheese and herbs.
Add some salt and pepper to the flour in a shallow bowl.
Dip flowers in egg and then flour so that they have a light coating.
Heat olive oil in a large pan. Cook over medium-high heat until flowers begin to look a bit crispy.
29 July, 2011
recipe sharing
I'm really gearing up to get back to school, which means a delicate balance between having as much fun and as much relaxation as possible, as well as eating really good, fresh, personally-prepared foods. My go-to recently has been interesting salads, because it's too hot to use the stove, because I could not safely eat lettuce for the five weeks I was in Bolivia, and because it's summer and the produce is amazing. Last night it was arugula/kale/radishes/radish greens/cilantro/fresh corn off the cob with a dressing of olive oil/lime juice/agave nectar shaken in a practically-empty jar of salsa, topped off with coriander/cumin/feta and bits of blue corn tortilla chips. I was really just throwing together the last bits of what was left in my fridge, but it was phenomenal. I love cooking this way - experimenting with flavors based on what I have, turning something simple into something delicious. It also is a wonderful creative outlet for me, as well as quicker and easier than following a recipe. If you ever need some inspiration, this fun blog has had a lot of really interesting salads lately.
I feel like eating well and fueling my passion for healthful living will give me the energy I need to get through this year with a smile, and I'm psyched about the new Interest Group for Integrative Medicine that a friend and I have started. We have a lot of really fun ideas, including a nutrition week with a cook-off and recipe-sharing fundraiser, as well as a regional conference that's a pretty big deal. I believe that sharing recipes is a great way to start encouraging one another to invest in the health of our friends, family, and ourselves. It's a big part of why I started this blog.
Of course, now I have to share a recipe with you. I didn't measure anything as I made it, so I'll just be giving rough estimates, but feel free to play around with it or to ask me if you want more direction. I'll be bringing this to a barbecue lunch tomorrow at Loyola's day of service, but it makes a great lunch on its own. In fact, this follows the ideal skeleton of a one-dish meal: grain + protein + vegetable.
picnic salad recipe:
grain + protein:
1 1/2 cups quinoa
1 cup corn kernels (I used frozen but fresh would be better)
1 can garbanzo beans
crumbled feta cheese
vegetable:
1 bunch radishes
1/4 of a red onion
handful fresh basil
handful fresh cilantro
dressing:
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp lemon juice
1-2 tsp honey
pinch cayenne
salt and pepper
Start by cooking the quinoa according to package directions. When it's done throw in the corn, so that it gets a bit cooked (or thawed). Salt and pepper to taste. Stir in garbanzo beans. Set aside or in fridge to cool.
Meanwhile, Dice the red onion. Cut the radishes into cubes/chunks. Throw out the stems but keep the leaves, stack and roll them like a cigar and slice into thin ribbons. Do the same with the basil leaves. Mix all of these together, along with the cilantro.
Mix dressing ingredients in a glass jar and give it a good shake. Taste and adjust as needed.
If you're eating right away, go ahead and mix it all up, sprinkling feta cheese on top. If you made it ahead of time or are traveling, add the cheese to the bowl with the quinoa/beans/corn, leaving the dressing in the jar and the vegetables in a separate bowl. Toss all together just before serving, or set them out separately and let everyone do it for themselves.
I feel like eating well and fueling my passion for healthful living will give me the energy I need to get through this year with a smile, and I'm psyched about the new Interest Group for Integrative Medicine that a friend and I have started. We have a lot of really fun ideas, including a nutrition week with a cook-off and recipe-sharing fundraiser, as well as a regional conference that's a pretty big deal. I believe that sharing recipes is a great way to start encouraging one another to invest in the health of our friends, family, and ourselves. It's a big part of why I started this blog.
Of course, now I have to share a recipe with you. I didn't measure anything as I made it, so I'll just be giving rough estimates, but feel free to play around with it or to ask me if you want more direction. I'll be bringing this to a barbecue lunch tomorrow at Loyola's day of service, but it makes a great lunch on its own. In fact, this follows the ideal skeleton of a one-dish meal: grain + protein + vegetable.
picnic salad recipe:
grain + protein:
1 1/2 cups quinoa
1 cup corn kernels (I used frozen but fresh would be better)
1 can garbanzo beans
crumbled feta cheese
vegetable:
1 bunch radishes
1/4 of a red onion
handful fresh basil
handful fresh cilantro
dressing:
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp lemon juice
1-2 tsp honey
pinch cayenne
salt and pepper
Start by cooking the quinoa according to package directions. When it's done throw in the corn, so that it gets a bit cooked (or thawed). Salt and pepper to taste. Stir in garbanzo beans. Set aside or in fridge to cool.
Meanwhile, Dice the red onion. Cut the radishes into cubes/chunks. Throw out the stems but keep the leaves, stack and roll them like a cigar and slice into thin ribbons. Do the same with the basil leaves. Mix all of these together, along with the cilantro.
Mix dressing ingredients in a glass jar and give it a good shake. Taste and adjust as needed.
If you're eating right away, go ahead and mix it all up, sprinkling feta cheese on top. If you made it ahead of time or are traveling, add the cheese to the bowl with the quinoa/beans/corn, leaving the dressing in the jar and the vegetables in a separate bowl. Toss all together just before serving, or set them out separately and let everyone do it for themselves.
14 July, 2011
anatomy and art
This summer has been a whirlwind. I feel like I have been not just in multiple countries or continents, but in multiple worlds. Now I'm back in Texas, visiting my family and trying to soak up enough heat and humidity to get me through my next Chicago winter. I'm also trying to mentally prepare myself for second year, about which I have only gotten scary warnings. Actually, I should probably say prepare myself emotionally because I am not planning on doing any studying during these last 2 weeks of summer. I heard one friend mention his plans to review anatomy and physiology this month, while another one spoke of getting a head-start on studying for the Boards. I wish I had never heard them say these things - every time it crosses my mind I feel a tinge of both guilt and panic. Nevertheless, I refuse to pull out any textbooks or old powerpoints until at least the day before classes start.
Okay, now that I'm through with that, here's an attempt to push my mind back towards medicine. A vacation in Italy is actually a great place for this when you think of the earliest anatomists like Leonardo da Vinci. I even got to visit the church where Michelangelo studied cadavers, hiding himself from the rule of the Catholic church with the help of a priest. It is obvious that Michelangelo's anatomical knowledge allowed him to master the human form in sculpture and painting, but that wasn't enough for him. He wanted to show off a bit, so he snuck some neuroanatomy into the ceiling of the Cistine chapel. The amazing thing is that this was not noticed until the end of the 20th century. In 1990 a paper was published, noting that the cloth around God in the image of God Creating Adam is shaped like a sagittal cross-section of the right brain. More recently, it has been noticed that God's neck in The Separation of Light from Darkness is an uncanny depiction of the brain stem. For pictures and more, read this.
I love it when art and anatomy collide, and it's funny how medicine has changed the things I notice in art. For example, the veins of David's arm are much more interesting than I'm sure they would have been a year ago, and I was really excited when I noticed that this statue had a traumatic auricular hematoma, also known as "cauliflower" or "boxer's" ear.
In fact, it's something you can find all over the place. I came across a fun blog called Street Anatomy when I attended the opening of an art gallery that they hosted at the Museum of Surgeons last year. (I especially enjoyed this post.)
Here's another fun one that I noticed a few years ago on Gaudi's Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.
Okay, now that I'm through with that, here's an attempt to push my mind back towards medicine. A vacation in Italy is actually a great place for this when you think of the earliest anatomists like Leonardo da Vinci. I even got to visit the church where Michelangelo studied cadavers, hiding himself from the rule of the Catholic church with the help of a priest. It is obvious that Michelangelo's anatomical knowledge allowed him to master the human form in sculpture and painting, but that wasn't enough for him. He wanted to show off a bit, so he snuck some neuroanatomy into the ceiling of the Cistine chapel. The amazing thing is that this was not noticed until the end of the 20th century. In 1990 a paper was published, noting that the cloth around God in the image of God Creating Adam is shaped like a sagittal cross-section of the right brain. More recently, it has been noticed that God's neck in The Separation of Light from Darkness is an uncanny depiction of the brain stem. For pictures and more, read this.
I love it when art and anatomy collide, and it's funny how medicine has changed the things I notice in art. For example, the veins of David's arm are much more interesting than I'm sure they would have been a year ago, and I was really excited when I noticed that this statue had a traumatic auricular hematoma, also known as "cauliflower" or "boxer's" ear.
In fact, it's something you can find all over the place. I came across a fun blog called Street Anatomy when I attended the opening of an art gallery that they hosted at the Museum of Surgeons last year. (I especially enjoyed this post.)
Here's another fun one that I noticed a few years ago on Gaudi's Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.
19 May, 2011
22 January, 2011
the anatomy lesson
This is Rembrandt's Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulp:
It pictures many of the things we expect to see in such a painting: men with beards, exquisitely dressed, huddling around a dead body in a dark room, intently listening to Dr. Tulp. The instructor is demonstrating how when he pulls on the flexor digitorum muscles it will cause the fingers to curl, and he is mimicking this action with his own hand at the same time. This is something I found myself doing repeatedly as a student of anatomy. Moving my own body that is, in order to picture how the inanimate muscles would function. Sometimes I even tried to imagine staring down at myself lying on that table, in order to keep right and left in their appropriate places. So, are we using ourselves to understand that body and science, or are we using science to understand ourselves?
It is interesting to note that the men are not looking at the cadaver, but just beyond his feet, perhaps at an anatomical atlas. Rembrandt alone is focused on the body of the dead man and the shadow of death cast over his eyes. A little bit of research will reveal that the cadaver is a criminal that has been recently executed for multiple charges of theft. This may explain why it is his hand that has been dissected first. In those days the guts were usually removed first to get the gross part over with before it really started to decay. Today we start with the back, where amateur medical students are less likely to slice through arteries, nerves, and tendons that must be preserved and studied.
The dissected hand also appears to be quite out of proportion, larger than the right hand. And there is an anatomical mistake - the muscles in the painting originate on the lateral epicondyle, but they should originate on the medial (the side of the elbow nearest the torso). We certainly don't want to assume that this was actually a mistake. Rembrandt was a meticulous artist and he was likely in that room himself. In his lecture "Observing Reason: Critique of Scientific Stance", J.M. Bernstein of the New School for Social Research suggests that Rembrandt purposely drew the faulty anatomical details based on the illustration of the opposite hand in the atlas these other men are looking at. He further proposes that this illustrates how science attempts to understand our world and, therefore, ourselves. I must admit that at some point I find it difficult to follow what Bernstein is saying because I am not familiar with Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit. Nonetheless, he raises a point that we can all think about. Perhaps the fact that we get caught up in this anatomical error further emphasizes what Rembrandt wanted to show us. The men in the painting see the atlas, the instructor sees the mechanics behind the movement, we see the dissected right arm, but nobody sees a man who has just died.
It pictures many of the things we expect to see in such a painting: men with beards, exquisitely dressed, huddling around a dead body in a dark room, intently listening to Dr. Tulp. The instructor is demonstrating how when he pulls on the flexor digitorum muscles it will cause the fingers to curl, and he is mimicking this action with his own hand at the same time. This is something I found myself doing repeatedly as a student of anatomy. Moving my own body that is, in order to picture how the inanimate muscles would function. Sometimes I even tried to imagine staring down at myself lying on that table, in order to keep right and left in their appropriate places. So, are we using ourselves to understand that body and science, or are we using science to understand ourselves?
It is interesting to note that the men are not looking at the cadaver, but just beyond his feet, perhaps at an anatomical atlas. Rembrandt alone is focused on the body of the dead man and the shadow of death cast over his eyes. A little bit of research will reveal that the cadaver is a criminal that has been recently executed for multiple charges of theft. This may explain why it is his hand that has been dissected first. In those days the guts were usually removed first to get the gross part over with before it really started to decay. Today we start with the back, where amateur medical students are less likely to slice through arteries, nerves, and tendons that must be preserved and studied.
The dissected hand also appears to be quite out of proportion, larger than the right hand. And there is an anatomical mistake - the muscles in the painting originate on the lateral epicondyle, but they should originate on the medial (the side of the elbow nearest the torso). We certainly don't want to assume that this was actually a mistake. Rembrandt was a meticulous artist and he was likely in that room himself. In his lecture "Observing Reason: Critique of Scientific Stance", J.M. Bernstein of the New School for Social Research suggests that Rembrandt purposely drew the faulty anatomical details based on the illustration of the opposite hand in the atlas these other men are looking at. He further proposes that this illustrates how science attempts to understand our world and, therefore, ourselves. I must admit that at some point I find it difficult to follow what Bernstein is saying because I am not familiar with Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit. Nonetheless, he raises a point that we can all think about. Perhaps the fact that we get caught up in this anatomical error further emphasizes what Rembrandt wanted to show us. The men in the painting see the atlas, the instructor sees the mechanics behind the movement, we see the dissected right arm, but nobody sees a man who has just died.
03 December, 2010
the heart of the matter
When I took Organic Chemistry I was fascinated by the fact that so many reactions were in fact poorly understood or controversial. This weak grounding was only subtly noted and quickly skimmed over. I noticed a similar thing while reading about how to perform the cardiovascular physical exam in Bates' Guide to Physical Examination and History Taking:
Then Bates goes on to offer a simplified explanation, which is perfectly fine for the purposes of this textbook. It would have been so easy to pass right over this little bit, and under other different circumstances I might have done so. Fortunately, I picked up on it and gave myself a moment to be struck by wonder. I never knew there was still such mystery surrounding the heart. We can make mechanical replacement heart valves and recognize their clicking in chests. I am quite sure we know exactly what causes that clicking and the precise moment at which it occurs. But we cannot completely account for the natural heart sounds? The very same heart sounds that we can hear when we lay our head on the chest of our lover? The very same heart sounds that have been heard for millennia?
We could certainly take this in all kinds of mystical and romantic directions. The human heart is more than it appears to be... man is an unfathomable creation... maybe the answers to our questions about love lie in those heart sounds.... But without going that far, we can simply appreciate the wonder. It may not hold as many questions for the world as it did before da Vinci drew it, or before Netter drew it - or for me before I held one in my very own hands - but there still is some mystery in the human heart. And a little mystery is a beautiful thing.
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science." - Albert Einstein
"An extensive literature deals with the exact causes of heart sounds. Possible explanations include actual closure of valve leaflets, tensing of related structures, leaflet positions and pressure gradients at the time of atrial and ventricular systole, and the effects of columns of blood."
 |
| Netter's Atlas of Human Anatomy |
Then Bates goes on to offer a simplified explanation, which is perfectly fine for the purposes of this textbook. It would have been so easy to pass right over this little bit, and under other different circumstances I might have done so. Fortunately, I picked up on it and gave myself a moment to be struck by wonder. I never knew there was still such mystery surrounding the heart. We can make mechanical replacement heart valves and recognize their clicking in chests. I am quite sure we know exactly what causes that clicking and the precise moment at which it occurs. But we cannot completely account for the natural heart sounds? The very same heart sounds that we can hear when we lay our head on the chest of our lover? The very same heart sounds that have been heard for millennia?
 |
| Leonardo da Vinci: The Anatomy of Man |
We could certainly take this in all kinds of mystical and romantic directions. The human heart is more than it appears to be... man is an unfathomable creation... maybe the answers to our questions about love lie in those heart sounds.... But without going that far, we can simply appreciate the wonder. It may not hold as many questions for the world as it did before da Vinci drew it, or before Netter drew it - or for me before I held one in my very own hands - but there still is some mystery in the human heart. And a little mystery is a beautiful thing.
 |
| Auguste Rodin. The Kiss |
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science." - Albert Einstein
31 October, 2010
my nightstand
We all go through periods of time where something seems to consume our entire life - a heavy semester, a project at work, a difficult family situation. Some of us have just resigned ourselves to lives that will always be busy and filled with working and caring for others in some shape or form. I challenge you to think of one thing that brings you peace or joy or fulfillment and make that a priority, and then set aside ten minutes for it every day. It will be a daily gift to yourself. I bet you will be able to find the time, at least on most days, and that it will help you to remember there is a whole world outside of whatever it is you are usually caught up in.
For the past 3 weeks I have been caught up in anatomy. I have learned so much in that short amount of time that it feels as though I had been studying this for much longer. The price (aside from medical school tuition) is a world consumed by anatomy. My brain wakes me up in the middle of the night because it can't quite trace the path of the vagus nerve in my dream and needs some consciousness to figure it out. This blog is one attempt at remaining connected to the world outside the anatomy lab. Another one is keeping a book on my nightstand and reading something other than a textbook just before I fall asleep each night. I don't usually manage more than 2 paragraphs at a time, but it allows me to hold onto something that I have loved since I was a child.
What do you do to stay balanced? What's on your nightstand?
For the past 3 weeks I have been caught up in anatomy. I have learned so much in that short amount of time that it feels as though I had been studying this for much longer. The price (aside from medical school tuition) is a world consumed by anatomy. My brain wakes me up in the middle of the night because it can't quite trace the path of the vagus nerve in my dream and needs some consciousness to figure it out. This blog is one attempt at remaining connected to the world outside the anatomy lab. Another one is keeping a book on my nightstand and reading something other than a textbook just before I fall asleep each night. I don't usually manage more than 2 paragraphs at a time, but it allows me to hold onto something that I have loved since I was a child.
What do you do to stay balanced? What's on your nightstand?
24 October, 2010
hands
I have decided that the hands are the most intimate part of the body. I am getting to know an old man's hands very well. He is (or, was) eighty-three years old and his hands are large, the hands of a man who has used them for many years. I am getting to know these hands so very well, beneath the skin, discovering what makes them tremble or sends blood through the arteries or causes the hairs of the dorsum to stand on end. But that is all I will learn about these hands. They are the hands of my cadaver, so I can only wonder about the rest. I find myself occasionally holding his hand to reposition his arm, as if it were that of a living person, and I wonder who the last person was to hold it before me.
As I migrate through the lab, studying the bodies my classmates have been assigned to, I am not impressed by the faces nor the genitals of the cadavers. The hands carry more meaning to me. One woman has fake nails, painted barbie-doll-pink.
I picture the hands of people who have been important in my life -
my mother's precise hands that bring instant comfort with their touch;
my father's wide knuckles, that I inherited, and that can tickle so well;
my husband's careful hands with long nails for strumming nylon strings;
his grandmother's hands that were crippled from arthritis but perfect for stroking a cat's head;
my friend's talking hands that are excited about life and spread their wanderlust.
I also remember the hand of a man in the ER that had gotten caught in a corn mill. As he revealed it to the doctor, holding it with his opposite hand, lest the finger completely fall away without the supporting bandage, the man stared at it in awe, wondering if this destroyed appendage was really his own.
I remember the hand of a woman who came to the ER that, despite the IV in the same arm pumping in man's greatest attempt at a miracle, despite the hands of a nurse crushing her sternum, forcing the blood to circulate through her body, fell limp. Even when we all admitted she was dead, I was oddly captivated by her slender, beautiful hand. I wanted to hold it, but did not.
I can understand why people believe their fortune can be seen in their palms. Those dermatoglyphs are indeed unique, formed in the womb, a product of epigenetics.
I look at my own hands and I see an old scar from playing hide-and-seek, another that will soon fade because it's young, because I'm always running into things, nails that are smooth but will never hold nail polish for more than an hour without chipping. A new freckle. A broken pinky, recalcified. These hands take a scalpel and peel back the skin of another's, with the hope that one day soon these hands will heal.
31 July, 2010
and so it begins
What do you get when you combine 150 new first-year medical students, beer, and one last week of freedom? A very strange social situation. That's because there is no common mold for student doctors. We are quite the diverse group, ranging from the East coast frat boy to the shy first-generation American. Also, none of us knows exactly what we are getting into, but we do know our lives are about to change.
The week of orientation began rather anticlimactically, with lines and paperwork. The second day included fun pep-talks and boring safety speeches. On the third day, however, the tone changed. We heard from the top guys at the medical center. Students no longer let their eyes close heavily, nor whispered plans for the evening to their new-found potential soul mates. We sat up straight and at attention as we were told that we are on our way to becoming doctors. This means making sacrifices, we were told. One must be willing to work long hours and give up the idea of going home early for a birthday party. One should participate in many admirable organizations, become involved in research, sit on important boards, etc., even if it means one's spouse may threaten divorce. One should expect one's liver enzyme function to decrease, as there will be little time for drinking. Fortunately, we were also told that medical school will not only teach us science, but also how to function while fatigued, because we will almost always be fatigued.
But there is one more presentation, and I must tell you about it because it explains why we are all here. The doctor in charge of our curriculum walks to the podium and kindly asks, "How many of you woke this morning and thought, 'Wow! I'm a medical student.'?" He then begins what is known as the "First Patient" lecture. One of his patients, Mr. A., has agreed to come speak to us. The doctor asks him questions, as though he were a new patient of his, regarding a previous injury. Then we are called upon to ask questions. I am impressed by some of my classmates' questions. Mr. A. answers them all kindly, clearly and honestly. I am even more impressed by his knowledge of his condition.
You see, Mr. A. speaks simply, with imperfect grammar, but thoughtfully. He tells us that he has to use the dictionary when he goes home from the doctor's office in order to understand everything. That's a fine quality to find in a patient. He also tells us that his doctor really listens to him and discusses treatment options. He tells us that this is what we should learn from this doctor, because it will allow our patients to trust us. The doctor blushes. Mr. A. is a proud man, in the most positive sense of the word. I would guess that he has always worked blue-collar jobs and that his family is grateful for the life he has allowed them to realize. He is proud to have a wife and sons, who help him when his pain is most severe. Although he has not been able to work for over a year, he has not signed up for disability privileges because he is proud of what he was able to contribute to his community in the past and he is hopeful that he will regain those abilities. I find that to be quite respectable.
I hope that someday I will work with a patient like Mr. A.
You see, Mr. A. speaks simply, with imperfect grammar, but thoughtfully. He tells us that he has to use the dictionary when he goes home from the doctor's office in order to understand everything. That's a fine quality to find in a patient. He also tells us that his doctor really listens to him and discusses treatment options. He tells us that this is what we should learn from this doctor, because it will allow our patients to trust us. The doctor blushes. Mr. A. is a proud man, in the most positive sense of the word. I would guess that he has always worked blue-collar jobs and that his family is grateful for the life he has allowed them to realize. He is proud to have a wife and sons, who help him when his pain is most severe. Although he has not been able to work for over a year, he has not signed up for disability privileges because he is proud of what he was able to contribute to his community in the past and he is hopeful that he will regain those abilities. I find that to be quite respectable.
I hope that someday I will work with a patient like Mr. A.
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