A Cartoon Guide to Becoming a Doctor

Hiatus

2020-04-14T18:42:00.001-07:00

Taking a hiatus from blogging for now. This coronavirus thing has been really hard, both as a parent, as a daughter, and as a physician. It's hard watching patients get sick with this, and it's scary to know taking care of them means I could get it. But I'm going to keep doing what I do, as long as I still can.

Stay healthy, everyone!

You're a doctor?

2019-11-12T01:30:00.000-08:00

The other day I was with my daughter at a play date with one of her friends. I’ve known the parents of this friend for close to a year. I happened to mention I will be working the next day (it was Saturday).

Mother: “ I just realized I don’t know what you do.“

Me: “Well... I’m a doctor.“

Mother: “You are? Oh my God, I had no idea. Usually when people are doctors, I find out about five minutes after meeting them.”

I had a few other similar experiences recently, where it turned out somebody I knew for a long time didn’t realize I was a doctor. I guess this is information I don’t put out there too quickly. It seems odd though. It’s not like my career is a secret, but maybe I feel that people make assumptions of me once they know I’m a doctor.

The water bottle

2019-10-28T03:00:00.000-07:00

OK, I need your advice.

I started bringing a water bottle to work, because I believe wholeheartedly in the amazing power of WATER. So I like to drink a lot of it during the day. I rinse it out every day and wash it with soap twice a week.

However, a week ago, while I was drinking from the water bottle when I noticed there was some black crud in the drinking straw. This inspired me to grab some cotton-tipped applicators from the supply closet and clean out the straw. The cotton came away BLACK. I used six of them, then washed again with soap, and then christened the water bottle as clean.

But when recounting this story to a coworker, they said I should have thrown it out and bought a new one. That no matter how much I cleaned, it was not clean. But to be fair, this coworker spends about ten minutes wiping down her work station every morning. (I'm not saying she's wrong to do that, but that's a level of disinfection I don't embrace.)

What do you think? Can I still use my water bottle? Is there a way to prevent this from happening again besides the cotton tips?

Have you ever done this before

2019-10-21T02:00:00.000-07:00

This amazing cartoon was drawn by my daughter, who is only TWELVE! Clearly, she is way more talented than her mom.

Little girl

2019-03-25T02:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was at a drug store and while i was shopping, a preteen girl approached me.

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm collecting money for my soccer team. Are you able to make a donation?"

I was really surprised. I've never been asked for money randomly while shopping at a store. I told her no, mostly because I was upset she interrupted me (I had my headphones in and I had to remove them to hear her). But part of me was tempted to either tell her what she was doing would get her kicked out of the store, or else let the management know.

Then I thought I'd seem like a horrible person if I did that. So I didn't.

What would you have done in that situation?

Cabbage

2019-03-07T02:00:00.000-08:00

I was dictating an H&P about a patient who had a CABG, and I was amazed at how Dragon translated me saying "cabbage" into "CABG."

Me: "But what if I want to say 'cabbage'?"

My colleague: "Maybe if the context is right, it will use cabbage."

Me: [dictating] "'Patient has an allergy to cabbage. Patient likes to eat cabbage.' Nope, still CABG."

My colleague: "But to be fair, how often do you want to dictate cabbage?"

Me: "Watch. My next patient will have choked on a cabbage."

Slamming the door

2019-02-26T02:00:00.000-08:00

Recently, I was getting up to get ready to take my daughter to an event when my doorbell rang. I got up and answered the door. A woman was standing there with a clipboard.

Woman: "Hi! My name is Christina!"

Me: "Um, hi?"

Woman: "What's your name?"

Me: "Who are you?"

Woman: "Oh! I'm with Amnesty International and I--"

Me: "Look, I'm sorry, but I'm in a rush to take my daughter somewhere and I don't have time."

Woman: "Well, let me just tell you for thirty seconds about Amnesty International..." [goes on for about ten seconds while I'm standing there, trying not to be outright rude and also cold because she's letting all the cold air into the house and I'm in a short-sleeved shirt]

Me: "Look, I don't want to slam the door in your face, but I told you I'm in a rush to get somewhere, so I'm going to close the door."

The whole interaction really pissed me off because I've heard Amnesty International isn't a bad organization, but she got me so angry in that minute of interaction that I would never consider giving them money ever. I assume this pushy approach must work on some people, but seriously, at the point that I said I needed to go, did she really think I was listening or going to hand her money?

I give a lot of money to charity, but I would NEVER give money to a solicitor who showed up at my front door.

Lovenox

2019-02-21T02:30:00.000-08:00

Me: "Hi, this is Dr. McFizz calling from My Hospital about a mutual patient RareFirstName RareLastName. I have a question about the patient."

Receptionist: "Okay, can you spell his name?"

Me: [spells name and gives date of birth]

Receptionist: "And can you give me his home address?"

Me: "No, I don't have that."

Receptionist: "Well, we need it to make sure we have the right patient."

Me: "You mean there's another 81-year-old man in your system named RareFirstName RareLastName?"

Receptionist: "We need it for security."

Me: "Fine." [I find a computer, log in, get the address, and read it to her.]

Receptionist: "And can you verify his phone number?"

Me: [reads off phone number]

Receptionist: "And can you verify his insurance?"

Me: "No. I will not. This is ridiculous. I have never once had to give this information to speak with a doctor's office to get medical information. I just need to know how long your office would like him be on Lovenox for."

Receptionist: "Well, that's a pill, right? I don't see anything about it here, so he should continue it till his appointment."

Me: "Lovenox is an injection."

Receptionist: "Well, it doesn't mention anything about it here. So I'd say continue it until his appointment next month."

Me: "So you're saying he needs to inject himself with a blood thinner every day for the next month because you can't be bothered to ask anyone about it."

Receptionist: "Ummm.... let me get you his nurse."

OMG, I try not to yell at people on the phone, but seriously, if you don't know the answer to a medical question, don't just make something up!

Help!

2019-02-20T05:11:00.000-08:00

Please help me!

If you read and enjoyed my new book, The Ex, would you consider leaving a review?? I have had multiple people tell me they left reviews but not even one of them has shown up yet in Amazon. I think my book may be broken or god knows what. So if you are at all inclined to help me, please do this and let me know if it posts! I’d be eternally grateful!

Here's a helpful link.

The Yearbook

2019-02-08T10:44:00.001-08:00

My medical school didn’t have an official yearbook.

For this reason, one of the students in our class, let’s call her Donna, decided to lead us in creating a yearbook. We all wanted a yearbook, so everyone was very eager. I myself dedicated a lot of my time to help work on the pictures and the design. We also sold advertising space to local businesses and a lot of people’s family members bought ad space to congratulate the graduates.

When graduation came, Donna told us that the yearbooks were not ready, in part because it significant number of people had not paid for them on time. So she didn’t have enough money and they missed the publishers deadline.

Over the next year or two, we got intermittent updates from Donna about the publishing process and had to keep giving her updated mailing addresses for when the book was finally ready.

It is now over a decade later, and I still have not received the yearbook that I worked hard on and spent $50 for.

At this point, I’m not going to make a thing of it. Donna is my Facebook friend, but not actual friend, and I can’t imagine bringing that up to her. And sadly, I’ve not really kept in touch with any of my med school friends. So I suppose it’s possible some people did get the yearbook and it was actually printed. But the last time I asked somebody about it, which was years after graduation, nobody had.

So I have to wonder, what happened to all the money? I mean, we are probably talking about $10,000 or so. Where are our yearbooks?? I don’t even want it that much at this point, but I’m just curious what happened!

An apology?

2019-01-15T02:30:00.000-08:00

I have this friend who I’ve known for several years, who I would consider one of my closest friends. But recently, she’s been acting a little bit… To put it simply, mean. She’s been making some hurtful comments that have come out of nowhere, but I tried to ignore them because we were such good friends and I didn’t want to throw it away. And I also sensed she might have been going through something she was keeping to herself.

Anyway, the two of us often carpool to book club together. Because she doesn’t like to drive and has frequent issues with her car, I often pick her up and bring her to book club. It is in the opposite direction of the restaurant where we usually meet, so it’s an extra 20 minutes of driving for me in either direction, but I didn’t mind doing it and I never made a thing of it. And if I ever had an issue where I couldn’t drive, she would pick me up, but 90% of the time, I was picking her up. Ditto when we got together to go elsewhere.

Recently, I texted her to find out if she could be the one to drive to the next book club, because for reasons I don’t want to get into, I wasn’t sure if I was going to have my car available. She didn’t respond, so I sent her another couple of texts, thinking maybe she hadn’t seen my first text.

When she finally responded, she sort of blew up at me over text message. She told me I was selfish for asking her repeatedly to bring me to book club when she had been ill the last few days (which I didn’t know). I showed her text messages to my husband, and he was totally shocked, especially given how many times I have driven her. After some of the complaints I had lately about her, he said that I shouldn’t speak to her anymore.

But after years of friendship, I felt I couldn’t do that. So I basically wrote her an email explaining to her nicely that what she had written had hurt my feelings and why. A day later, she responded:

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. We will always be friends no matter what.”

That response really bothered me. Because she didn’t apologize, first of all. Saying she didn’t mean to hurt my feelings is not an apology. An apology involves the word “sorry.“ She didn’t even offer to drive me to the book club to make amends. Furthermore, I didn’t write to her to be reassured that we would be friends. So the second statement was odd, especially considering it’s been weeks since then and I haven’t heard from her so I am feeling like if I don’t reach out, we are no longer friends.

What do you think? Did her response count as an apology?

FML(A)

2019-01-07T02:00:00.000-08:00

A colleague of mine was recently asking me this question and I couldn't figure out how to answer it...

As doctors, filling out paperwork for patients and family to get Family Medical Leave is something we sometimes have to do. My understanding (from the times I've done it for patients and taken it myself when I had a baby) is that it guarantees when you take no more than 12 weeks leave, your job will be safe.

My colleague was saying that if he discharges a patient to a nursing home or assisted living, he won't fill out FMLA paperwork for family members. Because the patient isn't going home, so why do they need to take a leave? They're taking advantage of the system!

I'm not sure how to respond. This isn't like giving someone a handicapped placard. This is an unpaid leave. A lot of people can't even afford to take 12 weeks off without a salary. So I figure if they want that, it's for a good reason.

Thoughts?

I don't get it

2019-01-02T03:00:00.000-08:00

I recently wrote a new women’s thriller. I thought of this really great twist for the ending, and then kind of worked my way backwards.

The first person who read the book thought the twist was pretty cool. But then my mother read it.

“I don’t understand the ending,” she said.

“What part didn’t you understand?”

“All of it.”

I proceeded to try to explain it to her. And she still didn’t understand. After several minutes of this, she said she had a headache and walked away.

So I’ve come up with a brilliant twist. So brilliant, apparently it’s impossible to understand.

Cleaning dilemma

2018-12-10T02:00:00.000-08:00

I was wondering if I could get advice on this....

We recently moved into a house where laundry has become a huge pain in the neck. Our W/D is in the basement and our bedrooms are on the second floor, and since I injured myself twice trying to carry laundry upstairs, I've decided I'm not going to do that anymore. Part of having money is being able to pay people to do stuff you don't want to do.

So we have a cleaning woman to whom I pay $150/session, and she has agreed to do the laundry. But she feels our dryer takes too long, so last time I came home from an exhausting day at work to find dry clothes in the dryer, wet clothes in the washer, and ANOTHER load of wet clothes in a basket. I literally started to cry because I had a headache and I couldn't deal with three loads of laundry right then.

I don't know what to do. I feel like there must be a solution to this problem, but I haven't found it. I don't know if I'm expecting too much from our cleaning woman either. But I know I don't want to come home on her cleaning days to a shitload of wet clothes I then have to deal with.

Do I eat healthy?

2018-11-28T02:30:00.000-08:00

I've been looking at my diet lately and trying to figure out if I eat healthy or not-so-healthy. And I'm honestly not sure.

So one of my favorite things to eat is vegetables. Good start, right? I buy about 3-4 bags of frozen veggies every week. (I heard freezing them maintains the nutrients.) That said, I don't steam them or anything like that. I will put them in the frying pan with a little olive oil, some butter (maybe a tablespoon), and cook until delicious. I top it with a sprinkling of sea salt, and that's dinner.

What's the verdict? Healthy? Unhealthy?

Guest post: Adorable

2018-11-15T02:00:00.000-08:00

A senior doctor came home and told his physician wife about the adorable first year medical student who came to clinic that day. Quiet, in her little white coat, she listened attentively and ‘actually’ spoke up at the end of the discussion and made a valuable observation.

His doctor- wife was none too pleased. “Adorable? How could you even say that? At least don’t repeat it to anyone else.”

I already did,” he admitted sheepishly. “But it was to a woman faculty member, and I prefaced it by saying, “this might be inappropriate, but…”

It reminded her of her childhood when the mean girls would say ‘no offense, but…’ then follow with a totally offensive comment. She secretly hoped those girls googled her now. Anyway.

She pointed out how the desire to apologize meant you should keep your mouth shut. She then trotted out all the reasons why he should never do it again.

It is demeaning. Would he have referred to a male student that way? Yes, he replied. Even if they were 6’3” and ‘built’ (he is 5’9”). Yes, he replied. I doubt it, she responded sagely.

It implies naïveté. Babies are adorable, puppies are adorable. Both being tabla Rosa, unformed, certainly not learned. Which leads to:

It is disrespectful. Prior to arriving in his clinic, she had devoted at least 6 years of AP classes, SAT prep, pSATs, SATs, a pre-Med curriculum, extracurriculars, MCAT prep, MCATs, interviews. That’s not ‘adorable’, it’s impressive. Very impressive for a woman or man (another pet peeve, calling med students and residents ‘kids’, but that’s for another time).

Finally, she is not sure the student would want to be graded on a rotation by someone who thought she was adorable.

Stuffing emergency!

2018-11-13T11:47:00.001-08:00

Two posts two days in a row?? What's going on!

But I need help!

Thanksgiving is next week. And I'm not gonna lie, one of my favorite things is Stovetop Stuffing. I will eat it all year round. Usually I buy it in the canister and eat it over the course of a month or so.

Recently, I moved to a new town, and they don't have the canister at the grocery stores. So I got the box, which is also fine usually. Except when I made it, it tasted awful. It tasted like mushy bread with no seasoning.

That was the chicken flavored stuffing, so I then bought a box of savory herb stuffing, thinking that might taste better. It was not.

Now it said it was savory herb, but here is a sampling of stuffing from the box. See if you can spot the ONE herb. It's harder than finding Waldo. It basically just tastes like flavorless chunks of bread.

What is going on here??? Why is all the stovetop stuffing I buy awful????!!!!!

Don't stop reading

2018-11-12T08:32:00.002-08:00

I was reading some old blog entries I'd written here ages ago. It shocked me how brazenly I criticized my co-residents and attendings. I was fearless and/or stupid.

I didn't care if they discovered those posts. In fact, I hoped they would. Because then they would see what a jackass they were for complaining to the female resident who had to take time off to have surgical repair for her fourth degree tear during childbirth that "you just had a vacation!" (Vacation = maternity leave)

But now I care. I wouldn't insult people from my current job or even my last job. It's a small field, and I respect those people too much.

And I don't want to just talk about my family. This is not a Mommy Blog. I don't want to be the author of a Mommy Blog.

So the only thing left to write about is how my cat writes emojis in her litterbox:

(Honestly, I always felt like my cat isn't that playful, but this litterbox winky face proves me wrong.)

Fortunately, I recently made an online friend who is a female physician who expressed interest in writing some guest posts. And she's at the end of her career, so she does not give a shit who she insults. That must be nice.

So stay tuned. I should have a post from her this week. Or failing that, more cat poop emojis.

Excerpt

2018-10-17T01:30:00.000-07:00

In the next twenty-four hours, I will be arrested for first-degree murder.

I don’t know how this could be happening. I’m not the kind of person who goes to jail for murder. I’m not. I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket. Hell, I’ve never even jaywalked before. I’m the most law-abiding citizen who ever was.

“They have a pretty solid case against you, Abby.”

My lawyer, Robert Frisch, does not sugar coat things. I’ve only known him a short time, but I already know he’s not about handholding and gumdrops and lollipops. He has spent the last twenty minutes enumerating all the police department’s evidence against me. And when I hear it all laid out for me like that, it sounds bad. If I were some neutral third party listening to everything Frisch was saying, I’d be thinking to myself, That woman is definitely guilty. Lock her up—throw away the key.

The whole time I was listening to Frisch, my heart was thumping wildly in my chest. It actually made it a bit hard to hear him for stretches of time. To my right, my husband Sam is slumped in his chair, a glassy look in his eyes. Sam was the one who hired Frisch. He’s your best chance, Abby, he told me.

So if he can’t help me, that means I have no chance.

“It’s all circumstantial evidence,” I say, even though I’m not certain that’s the case or even exactly what circumstantial evidence is. But I know one thing: “I didn’t do it.”

Frisch lets out an extended sigh and folds his arms across his chest. “You have to understand that if this goes to court, you’re going to be convicted.”

“If this goes to court?”

“I’d recommend a plea bargain,” he says. “When they arrest you—”

I imagine the police showing up at my door, snapping metal cuffs on my wrists. Reading me my rights. You have the right to remain silent. Is that something they really say in real life? I don’t want to find out.

“If they arrest me,” I correct him.

Frisch gives me a look like I’m out of my mind. He’s been a criminal attorney for nearly thirty years. One of the best. You can tell how successful he is by the leather sofa pushed up against the wall and the mahogany desk where he’s got a photo of himself shaking the hand of Barack Obama. I’ve got money, but the length of a full trial might bleed us dry.

“Second degree murder is fifteen years to life,” Frisch says. “Whereas for Murder One, you could get life without possibility of parole. If you plea down to Murder Two—”

“Fifteen years!” I cry.

I don’t want to go to jail for fifteen years. That’s a lifetime. I don’t want to go to jail for one day, but fifteen years is unthinkable. I can’t wrap my head around it. I can’t make a plea bargain that will guarantee me fifteen years of prison. I can’t.

I look over at Sam, hoping for an equally indignant expression on his face. Instead, he still has that glazed look on his face. He’s staring at the wall behind Frisch, and even though I’m trying to catch his eye, he won’t look at me.

Does he think I did it?

Does my own husband really believe I’m a murderer? He knows me better than anyone else in the world, so if he believes I’m guilty, what chance do I have with a jury?

But I’m not guilty. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill anyone…

Did I?

One Year Earlier

At this moment in time, my life is just about perfect.

A couple of years ago, I couldn’t have said that. A couple of years ago, I would have rather slit my wrists than stood up in front of a room full of executives from Cuddles, “the new name in diapers,” and presented them with a new ad campaign filled with dozens of pictures of cherubic babies with halos on their heads and the tagline: “Because your little angel is worth it.” I would have done the presentation, of course, but the smile on my face wouldn’t have been genuine, the way it is today.

But right now, everything is exactly the way I want it to be. Well, not exactly, but very close. I have the job I always wanted. I’m married to a wonderful man. And in a few short weeks (depending on the whims of the Labor Gods), I’m going to become a mother for the very first time.

You might say I have a glow about me.

“This new campaign,” I say, as I gesture at the projected image on the screen, “has the potential to propel Cuddles into the same league as Huggies and Pampers.”

I turn my gaze to Jed Cofield, the executive VP of marketing at Cuddles. Jed is in his forties with thick, chestnut hair, penetrating dark eyes, and a suit from Hugo Boss. Even though he wears a gold band on his left hand, in the two years I’ve worked with him, he always stands a bit closer than he needs to when we talk—close enough that I can accurately identify what he ate for his last meal. Even now—even with my impending motherhood—I notice his eyes traveling down the length of my body.

Back before I was promoted to my current position as Director of Content Strategy at Stewart Advertising, I learned a lot about how to appear confident. Eye contact is key. So I lock eyes with Jed, straighten my posture, and throw my shoulders back.

I have every reason to be confident. I know my campaign is fantastic. I worked my butt off making sure of that.

“How did this campaign perform with the twenty-five to thirty-four female demographic?” Cofield asks.

It’s an excellent question. In the diaper market, twenty-five to thirty-four females are essentially the demographic, as far as Cuddles is concerned. Few sixty-year-old men buy diapers for babies, no matter how compelling our commercials are. Of course, I’ve aged out of this key demographic, yet I’ve got a package of newborn diapers stuffed in the closet, but no need to point that out.

Denise Holt, the Chief Marketing Officer and also my boss, opens her mouth to answer the question. Three years ago, I might have let her. But part of being confident is you don’t let your boss answer questions for you.

“They love the campaign, Jed,” I say before Denise can get a word out. I click on a button on my remote, bringing up a screen of data. “After viewing our campaign, they were fifty-three percent more likely to choose Cuddles over the other leading brands.” I watch his eyebrows raise and add, “And in addition to your original target group, this campaign also resonated deeply with women aged thirty-five to forty-four. As you know, older mothers contribute at least thirty percent to the diaper-purchasing market.”

Cofield nods, impressed. “Very true.

I make eye contact with him again. “We’re going to crush it.”

Cofield is smiling now, but Denise isn’t. I’ve known Denise Holt a long time, and I know she doesn’t enjoy being upstaged. Denise was the one who hired me way back when—over a decade ago now. I still remember stumbling into her office and being terrified by her ice-blue eyes and blond hair swept back into a perfect French knot. I fiddled with my suit jacket collar as I fumbled through my rehearsed list of reasons why I wanted to work for Stewart Advertising and specifically for the infamous Denise Holt.

She hired me. Then she taught me everything I know, including how to tie my jet black hair into a French knot, which is apparently called a chignon. (Who knew?) It wasn’t until she found out I was trying for a baby that our relationship deteriorated.

“They love it, huh?” Cofield says.

I nod. “They do.”

His smile broadens. “Well, so do I. I love it. It’s brilliant.”

Outwardly, I remain calm, but inside, I’m doing cartwheels. The VP of Cuddles loves my idea. He loves it! He says it’s brilliant!

I can’t help but flash a triumphant smile at Denise, who has been nothing but negative during the entire time I’ve been working on this campaign. As recently as yesterday, she was urging me to postpone this meeting because “it’s not nearly ready.” When I insisted on going forward, she accused me of having “baby on the brain.”

Denise has chosen to remain free from maternal obligations. When I started out as her assistant, she drilled into me time and again that nothing wrecked a career faster than popping out a couple of rugrats. Denise’s career means everything to her, and she’s been extremely successful. Back then, I thought my career meant everything to me. Then Sam came along and convinced me otherwise.

I have no regrets. Everything is working out perfectly for me.

“Tell me, Abby.” Cofield raises his eyebrows at me. “Will you be purchasing Cuddles for your baby?”

“Of course,” I lie. “I want the best.”

Yeah, there’s no way I’m putting those shoddy diapers on my own child.

We iron out a few more details, then shake hands all around. Jed Cofield winks at me when we shake, and I squeeze his fingers firmly in the way Denise instructed me years ago. His warm fingers linger on mine for a beat longer than necessary. Cofield has been my biggest fan since I started working on the Cuddles campaign, so I won’t begrudge him a handshake that lasts a second or two longer than I’d like.

But if he thinks he’s getting anything more out of me, he’s sorely mistaken.

“Congratulations,” he tells me.

I’m not sure if he’s referring to my successful pitch or impending motherhood, but I simply smile and say, “Thank you.”

As Cofield and his associates clear out of the room, Denise and I are left alone. There was a time when I got a thrill out of any chance to be alone with my role model, but these days, I avoid it like the plague. Given how well everything went in the presentation, it would be appropriate for Denise to say something positive or even complimentary, but there’s a sour look on her face that tells me I will not be receiving any praise today.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you, Abigail,” she says.

Denise is the only person at work who calls me “Abigail” rather than “Abby.” I used to like it—the name made me sound like an executive, rather than a girl at the playground with freckles and pigtails. (I used to have freckles and pigtails.) I tried to get everyone at work to call me Abigail for a while, but it didn’t stick. Now the sound of that name on her lips makes my skin crawl.

“What about?” I ask. I plaster on that fake smile I now use when I talk to my boss, although it gets harder every day. One day, I will be speaking to Denise and simply won’t be able to smile. It will be physically impossible.

Denise eyes my outfit. My suit jacket and skirt are from Armani. In the month I made the purchase, Sam came to me with the credit card statement and a horrified look on his face. “Someone stole our credit card, right?” he said. “We didn’t actually spend this much, right?”

I had to tell him that yes, we did. I absolutely did spend that much on a single outfit, and it was worth it. Sam claims his suits from Men’s Wearhouse look identical to anything he’d get at Armani or Prada, but he’s wrong. Maybe there’s no difference across a lecture hall, which is all that matters to him—but close up, anyone worth their salt can tell an expensive suit from a cheap knock-off. And the executives I pitch to respect someone who dresses well—in that sense, my clothes pay for themselves.

Another lesson I learned from Denise.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“Good,” I say cautiously, because anything more positive than that is a cue for Denise to make my life worse.

“Wonderful, wonderful.” Denise taps a dark red manicured finger against her chin. “Remind me how long you’re planning to take for your family leave? Eight weeks?”

A muscle twitches in my jaw. “Twelve weeks.”

“Twelve weeks?” Denise eyes widen in astonishment, despite the fact that we’ve had this exact conversation nearly a dozen times. “That long?”

The muscle twitches again. I had my first migraine earlier this year following a particularly tense discussion with Denise—I can’t let her get to me.

“Twelve weeks is allowed as family leave,” I say.

“I realize that.” Denise’s ice-blue eyes narrow at me. “But that doesn’t mean you must take twelve weeks, does it? It seems like an awfully long time. Your clients will be disappointed.”

“I can do some of my work from home during the last month,” I say. That’s a compromise we’ve worked out. “Everyone is going to take on some of my workload. And of course, my assistant Monica will be around to help out.”

“Monica will be around to help,” she repeats in a vaguely mocking tone. She blinks a few times. “Well then, perhaps we should give Monica your position?”

If I slugged her in the face, I’d get fired. I have to remind myself of that. Again and again.

“I’m just kidding,” Denise says, even though she’s not smiling. “Of course, you are entitled to your twelve weeks, Abigail. I was just hoping you might reconsider.”

I will not reconsider. I love my career, but I have thought long and hard about my priorities. I will not rush back to work. I don’t care if Denise hates me because of it. And let’s face it—she wouldn’t hate me any less if I took four weeks.

“Anyway.” Denise pats her flawless chignon, which makes my hand go automatically to my own French knot. I feel a strand has come loose and I quickly tuck it behind my ear. Denise must use a bottle of hairspray each day to keep hers intact, but it doesn’t appear that way. Her hair looks silky and perfect. “I believe Shelley has planned some sort of… party for you in the break room.”

I’m well aware that my best friend Shelley has scheduled a baby shower for me to follow this meeting—she would have preferred to surprise me, but given my tight schedule, that was impossible. It’s sweet of her, but after fifteen minutes, I’ll definitely have to make my excuses and slip away. My afternoon is packed—as it is, I won’t get home till eight or nine tonight.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it,” Denise tells me, which is no surprise. She’s made no secret of the fact that she does not approve of events that “waste everyone’s time” such as baby showers. “But please make sure you clear away all the trash from the room when you’re done.”

I bite my tongue to keep from reminding her that I am no longer her assistant, and she can’t tell me to clean up garbage anymore. But I keep my mouth shut, because I’m happy. I’ve impressed the Cuddles people, and I’m about to go to a baby shower in my honor. A baby shower. For me.

In the time I have worked at Stewart Advertising, I have made an appearance at roughly two million baby showers. Okay, that could be a slight exaggeration. It’s possible I’ve only been to one million baby showers. Maybe three-quarters of a million. Definitely no less than half a million.

But now, for the first time, the shower is for me. Not for Elsa in reception, who has had at least a dozen children in her time working here. Not for Shelley, who has had a more respectable two. This shower is for me. The finger sandwiches that will be piled in the corner will have been brought in my honor. The presents stacked neatly in the corner of the room will be for me. The first piece of chocolate hazelnut cake will be handed to me.

There’s only one thing different about this baby shower from all other baby showers thrown for the other women in my company:

I’m not pregnant.

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middle aged

2018-10-08T02:00:00.000-07:00

From a discharge summary:

"Patient is a 37-year-old middle-aged man..."

I was horrified to read that! 37 is NOT middle-aged!

Although then I told this to my husband and he argued that 37 very well might be the middle of your life. And it's almost definitely the middle of your productive life.

But I also feel like for someone with a career that requires education, the 40s should be the peak of your career. And as someone who is nearing that point, it's a lot of pressure. Maybe it would be better to be middle-aged now...

Starting over

2018-09-28T02:00:00.000-07:00

So I recently moved and have had to go through the process of meeting all new people again.

It’s so hard!

I am constantly approaching new parents at the playground and introducing myself, but I still feel like I am begging when I try to make a play date. It’s especially hard for me because I am not naturally outgoing.

Has anyone gone through this process recently? It’s really depressing to have to start over again.

What a shame

2018-09-17T02:30:00.000-07:00

I was recently advocating for a young patient who had been hit by a car to get more time in rehab. I was talking to the insurance company, and the second I got on the line, it was really clear they didn't want to hear anything I had to say. (Honestly, does it EVER work to advocate on the phone? Because whenever I talk to anyone, they already know everything in the notes, and they've already decided on a hard no. And repeating my arguments just ends up with a heated discussion.)

In this case, it was especially frustrating because the patient was, as I said, fairly young and really could have benefited from the extra time. I said to the reviewer, "It's really a shame he can't get more time because if he had another week, he could get home independently."

The response of the reviewer: "Well, it was a shame he got hit by a car."

Me: "..."

I mean, what do you SAY to something like that? Sometimes I want to say to them that I hope they have a better insurance than the company they work for.

You suck, Shutterfly

2018-09-08T07:27:00.001-07:00

When you've got kids, the tendency is to want to take a million photos of them. And this can quickly get out of hand.

So since my younger daughter was born, I've been diligently making a hardcover photo book on Shutterfly every six months, so I have the photos organized. And the photobooks are so small, so far they only take up a quarter of a shelf in my bookcase.

Lately, I've been noticing Shutterfly gives you more and more options when you make a photo album. Like you have the option to have pages that lay flat or a special cover or whatever. But this time, there was a new option that sort of pissed me off:

Basically, they are giving you the option to remove their crappy logo from the book and it costs TEN DOLLARS. To remove a tiny logo. I like how they mention that without their logo, the book has a "clean, sophisticated look."

Paint job

2018-08-27T02:30:00.000-07:00

Lately, I feel like every time I deal with people, I hate all of humanity.

We recently moved out of an apartment where we had lived for eight years. During that time, we never got a paint job. So I assumed any damage to the paint on the wall would be something we wouldn't be responsible for, given places need to be painted more frequently than that.

So I was really surprised when we got a bill for $140 for painting the apartment from the giant company that owns our complex.

When I called, they complained that there were stickers on the wall that were "difficult to remove" and had to be sanded off. I find it really hard to believe that a child's sticker required more than soap and water, but whatever. I didn't even think of it. Then they complained there was some crayon on the wall, so the whole place had to be repainted. I said that in eight years, weren't we entitled to ONE free paint job? They said no, that they expected the walls to be in the condition they were when we entered eight years ago, except for "minor touch ups."

Also, we paid to have the apartment professionally cleaned when we left, but I forgot to tell her to clean the fridge. So we got a bill for $130 for cleaning of the fridge and oven. Except the oven is self-cleaning. So it's $130 to clean a fridge apparently. I should get a job cleaning refrigerators.

Then they told us like they were being so nice to us that we didn't have to pay for them to replace the carpet, which wasn't even new when we moved in.

I mean, it's not a huge amount of money but it's the principle of the thing. We lived there eight years. I feel like we're entitled to one paint job, for god's sake.

IT help

2018-08-14T02:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I spent a whopping THREE HOURS on the phone with IT. I wanted to cry by the end of it.

The only silver lining is I actually really like the IT guys. They are centered in Alabama, and they all have these absolutely adorable Southern accents. Really sexy, actually. I want to comment on it to them, like, "I love your accent," but I suspect it will be taken the wrong way. I probably sound like I have an accent to them. I recently got told for the first time that I had a New York accent, which seems odd considering I haven't lived in New York for over a decade so how could I be getting a New York accent?

Anyway, I was joking with one of them about how hot it had been lately, and he was laughing at me and saying I didn't know what hot meant. Then he told me about how the whole state got shut down over half an inch of snow in January. I said that around here in January, that's just Monday.

That said, three hours on the computer helpline is beyond painful.