And it was a good weekend, O Best Beloved, a wonderful, magical weekend and I loved every second of it, but now my stomach aches and my heart twinges and I feel tears pricking at my eyes again. I'm such a baby. I don't want to start Neurology, don't want to go back to trying to sort out those four precious days off a month, to early-morning rounds and looking everything up not because I want to but because I'm forced to. I don't want to. You can't make me.
Thursday some poor kid - he couldn't've been older than about seventeen - pulled out of the drive-through line and nosed his corner into Shinkun's door. My brand-new car now has a lovely scrape in it, and I'm going to try and settle it with the kid's insurance, because I'm getting it fixed. It's ugly, and every time I open my door I see it there, scraped and dented, and it makes me growl inside with frustration.
Friday's exam was exhausting. Friday's evaluations were heartrending - but I want to make a correction to that entry:
I think, in reflection, that Friday afternoon and that evaluation was a low point the likes of which I have not seen in a very long time. A low point like the day I learned I'd failed Vertebrate Anatomy, my first year of medical school. I have written a letter to the head of the OB-GYN program, asking if he can get me any clarification. We'll see where it goes. What can I do, though, but suck it up and move on?
Went to dinner with my mentoring group, including one of the OB-GYN staff at Uni. He said to write about it, not to just let it slide. He and my faculty advisor and one other student comprised our dinner meeting; four souls at a Greek restaurant occupying a table for twelve. We slid to the end and they took the other two tables away; they were filled within moments. Santorini's is fun and yummy, with gigantic plates of food and a belly dancer who stopped to let me take her picture, and we had a great time as well as eating well. Fish kebabs that I just adored and a scrumptious custard. I was pleasantly full and already starting to feel better.
I met Angel at the Sheraton following that, after getting more than a little lost on the roads. Fortunately, I-465 encircles all of Indianapolis and I can drive in a straight line until I get there. The Sheraton had upgraded our $67/night Hotwire reservations to a suite, at no additional cost. We can only surmise they were overbooked or desperately lacking for business. Swam in the pool. Watched DVD's on Tinúviel with the little speakers set up around it, bummed around until we decided halfway through Thomas Crown Affair that we were too tired to finish it, and went to sleep in the giant fluffy king-sized bed.
I hate king-sized beds, because both Angel and I tend to roll to the sides of the bed when we sleep, and in a king-size that means I wake up, roll over, and can't find him, thus throwing my body into a panicky-lonely-state as it frantically searches for the warm and familiarly-sleepy-smelling person with whom I lost consciousness eight or ten hours prior to the current time.
We got up late, went shopping, bought the giant billion-card-crate edition of Apples to Apples and some fun tights, bummed around some more, and went out to The Jazz Kitchen to see Dog Talk. The waiter reminded us in some ineffable way of dayzdark and we tipped him 25%. He deserved it. The lady had the salmon. We had baked Brie with fruit for an appetizer, we split a lovely bottle of Pinot Grigio, we had desserts with ice cream and caramel simply drooling off them. We ignored the cost of it all and immersed ourselves in jazz and dim lighting and a beat that just went on and on and on...
It gets into your blood, O Best Beloved. Good jazz, and this was good jazz with a New-Orleans-flavour, is smooth and sexy and gets your whole body into it, blood, bones, heart and soul. It wrings you out and lifts you up and it was magic. I felt grown-up and fun, young and old all at once. And I came back to the hotel still feeling good. Real good.
It lasted until this afternoon, when we packed up and came back to S's, to an empty house with nobody but the stranger I am in it. The sheriff's department stopped by to make sure I was the person they'd told her would be staying there, a fact which only emphasized that I am not at home. And I cried when my Angel left to go back to our home, and I didn't want to make it harder for him to leave, I didn't. But I'm staring at a hopeless vista of loneliness once more. I don't want to go to neurology. I don't want to do neurology. I don't, I don't, I don't. But I have to, and so help me I am not going to see another evaluation like Friday's.
I'm going to put my best foot forward tomorrow. I'm going to enjoy myself if it kills me. And if it means I have to give in and see my doctor and ask her about medicating the ADD I'm certain I have, if that's the only way I can focus enough to get through lectures and long days and look good, then that's what I have to do. But I'm going to try it on my own, first. One more time.