Welcome to a new series that will start after Match Day. Some of us have been through an exhausting, grueling interview season of fake smiling, wearing uncomfortable polyester-blend suits, and asking nonessential questions about programs that are all essentially the same. During these 3 months, most of us have probably encountered an awkward moment with an interviewer - whether it be on our parts or the assistant professor of [insert medical specialty] or current resident. And we want to hear about it! We will compose a blog about the most awkward moments we encountered on the interview trail 2009-2010. All submissions will be anonymous, and don't fret, overly cautious MS4s, this blog will not go up until everyone has matched. Blog readers, come out of the woodwork, and participate - send your most awkward interview moment to mariamq786@yahoo.com.
-- By Mariam, who will scream if anyone ever asks her, "Do you have anymore questions for me?"
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Critical Analysis of a Tile: Part IV
The interview season is winding down, and while I have a pile of 15 thank you cards to write, I am taking a break to provide more blogging entertainment. So now back by popular demand, another critical analysis of drawings on tile.
Farrah: The size of these kites couldn't really generate enough lift when compared to the placement of the string and the size of the bows. The message of "be free" doesn't exactly make sense in a hospital setting. What is this child trying to imply? Be free of medical treatment? The parents who avoid vaccination aren't setting anything free other than a new epidemic of mumps. Be free of disease? How is being free of disease related to kites? If you set a kite free, it doesn't have a brain, and it can't feel the importance of its liberation. It might even land in a local river, suffocate a swan, and leave a baby swan behind who thinks it's ugly while it is raised amongst the ducks! Finally, these supposed "kites" look strikingly similar to a spermatozoa with a crude drawing of the mitochondria in the tail. I don't know where these sperm are going to "be free," but I do know it's inappropriate for children.
*= Against medical advice
--By Mariam and Farrah, who spent this past week making jokes about Dr. Spaceman.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
How to tell a residency program "I want to go to there"
When I was applying for medical school, I turned to the internet for help. For those frequent readers of this blog, we know how that turned out from Traumarama: Cake does not get you off the waitlist. However, I made it through, and now almost four years later, I am ready to take my next step of training by applying to residency. After the personal statement, the CV, and the interviews, I find my self agonizing over what to put in a simple thank you note. How personal should it be? Hand-written or e-mail? Who do I send it to? The program director? The program coordinator? The chair? My interviewers? I turned to the internet once again for help, and returned to the dreaded Student Doctor Network forums to find what the average gunner was doing these days. I then stumbled upon the following advice designed for the international medical graduate. It's actually pretty standard advice, but it does contain language that although entirely English, still distinctly reads as foreign. I've highlighted my favorite parts.
Writing effective Thank You Letter
You may wish to thank the program coordinator before you leave for the well organized trip. It is a very good idea to remind about yourself with a thank you letter sent to everyone you interviewed with. It is going to be much easier if you write your thank you letter right after the interview while everything is fresh. Touch the subjects you talked about, that will make it more personal and your interest more genuine. Use the forms you completed to refresh your memories. It is also a good idea to ask about a possibility of a "second look" interview.
A sample Thank You Letter
Dear Dr. XYZ:
Thank you for the courtesies extended to me during my interview yesterday. Your program's atmosphere was inviting and warm, despite of unusually cold weather. I appreciate the way you made me feel at ease with informal conversation about the program as well as lifestyle in ZZZZZ. A site of the state capitol has impressed me.
I especially enjoyed learning about research opportunities at the program.
I liked a lot rounds with ward team directed by Dr. YYYYY. Her non-pressing style lets residents think and express their thoughts freely.
I was particularly impressed by the satisfaction of the current residents with the program. I feel like I definitely can fit into the team.
I strongly believe that I would be an excellent trainee. I really think that the program may benefit from my experience. Even though I had an interruption in practicing medicine, my current position helped to bring my skills up to speed. Whatever I could have missed prior to that, I will catch up by hard work.
I hope to successfully match with your program. Since it was my first interview I can definitely say that I rank your program as number one. But seriously, I will give you an update on my ranking in January. I am sure that the program will be at the top of my list.
Sincerely,
AAAA BBBBBB, M.D.
--By Farrah, who is in Mariam's home town, which is smaller than you can possibly imagine and contains an abandoned gas station converted into a Jesus figurine and fruit stand.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Poltics of Naming
When a group of 20-something girls congregate together, the discussion always veers towards baby names - what names we have picked out for our hypothetical kids regardless of our marital status. And my contribution to this conversation is invariably, "I will pick a name that is pronounced the same in Urdu and English so my kid won't have a weird name complex."
This is because I suffer from a so-called "name complex" because (Cosmo Confession) my name is actually pronounced Mur-ium, not the Anglicized Westernized version: Mary-am. When I was a teenager, I had no problem introducing myself to white folks as Mary-am. I didn't think twice about the identitarian politics associated with assimilating ones name to ease social interactions with mainstream society. I just wanted white folks to have an easier time with my foreign name, and so I was "Mary-am Qureshi." In fact, my Carlisle friends would tell me, "I love how your mom says your name: Murrrrium! Murrrrium!!" as they rolled their "r's" as if my mother was a sassy, sharp-tongued, South American tango dancer. Back then, I didn't have the cojones to say, "Yo, my mama says it the right way!" Instead, with a subservient smile, I would say, "I guess it's cool."
When I got to college, though, the politics of assimilating ones name became more complex. At Carlisle School, the vast majority was of Southern white people, whose only interaction with Pakistan or its people had been through a copy of National Geographic at the local library (sigh in the pre-9/11 days). At UNC, though, brown folks abounded - there were academics in every department.
When I took a women's study course my junior year of college, I discovered two horrifying facts: 1) my professor was a short, thin Indian lady named Dr. Chatterjee and 2) class participation abounded and this was just the type of subject where I'd be continually raising my hand. The first time anyone wanted to participate, Dr. Chatterjee would say, "Your name, please?" Even though I really wanted to participate in some of the riveting discussions about the gender politcs of the egg and the sperm and how scientific language made menstruation seem so wasteful, I held back for fear of how to say my name. Should I say "Mary-am" to appease my classmates or "Murrium" for the Indian professor? Now, at this point, dear blog reader, I can literally hear the groans from people like Amar or Erik Peterson as they collectively sigh, and say, "JESUS, why is this such an issue for you Mary-am? I mean, seriously, who cares? Can't you make fun of sick children or the homeless some more?" And in my defense, I can only say, yes, this may seem trivial, but it still haunts me to this day, and the egalitarian nature of self-publishing on the Internet allows me to post absolute shit if I want to on this blog.
In the end, I decided to raise my hand and participate in a discussion about women working "pink collar" jobs in the West Indies for Western companies and pronounced my name is "Murrium." I figured that a women's studies professor whose particular interests are in colonization and post-colonial gender studies would notice me selling out to Western hegemony.
However, the problem persisted, especially in medicine, where every rotation I had was filled with some brown person. I got confused literally at the start of every rotation. And so, I came up with some general rules to live by:
1) Say "Mary-am" to patients because usually they are small town white folks who have never seen a Pakistani and would get really confused if I said my name the right way.
2) If there are only white doctors around and white students, pronounce it "Mary-am."
3) If the doctor is Pakistani/Indian and everyone else is white, then pronounce it "Murrium" because the highest authority figure who is grading you matters the most, and you don't want them to think you are an Oreo (white on the inside, brown on the outside).
4) If the team is a mix of Pakistanis/Indians and white people, pronounce your name both ways depending upon whether the person is brown or white. I have to make sure that the other members of the team can't hear me during each introduction though. That leads to confusion within the team and no one ever saying your name because they don't know which way is the right way and are too lazy/embarrassed to ask. This happened to me during my pediatrics rotation in my 3rd year when the team was a mix of Bengalis, white people, Hispanic people, Indians, and Persians.
And so, this is what happens to you when you are a first generation American - I have now realized that straddling both your parents' culture and being an American is not as easy as they make it seem in heartwarming immigrant movies or that documentary they show you when you visit the Statue of Liberty. It involves a lot of complicated, minor and major compromises with your identity continually in flux as you negotiate the Old World and the New.
--By Mariam, who is so sorry she hasn't blogged in so long, but life got in the way.
This is because I suffer from a so-called "name complex" because (Cosmo Confession) my name is actually pronounced Mur-ium, not the Anglicized Westernized version: Mary-am. When I was a teenager, I had no problem introducing myself to white folks as Mary-am. I didn't think twice about the identitarian politics associated with assimilating ones name to ease social interactions with mainstream society. I just wanted white folks to have an easier time with my foreign name, and so I was "Mary-am Qureshi." In fact, my Carlisle friends would tell me, "I love how your mom says your name: Murrrrium! Murrrrium!!" as they rolled their "r's" as if my mother was a sassy, sharp-tongued, South American tango dancer. Back then, I didn't have the cojones to say, "Yo, my mama says it the right way!" Instead, with a subservient smile, I would say, "I guess it's cool."
When I got to college, though, the politics of assimilating ones name became more complex. At Carlisle School, the vast majority was of Southern white people, whose only interaction with Pakistan or its people had been through a copy of National Geographic at the local library (sigh in the pre-9/11 days). At UNC, though, brown folks abounded - there were academics in every department.
When I took a women's study course my junior year of college, I discovered two horrifying facts: 1) my professor was a short, thin Indian lady named Dr. Chatterjee and 2) class participation abounded and this was just the type of subject where I'd be continually raising my hand. The first time anyone wanted to participate, Dr. Chatterjee would say, "Your name, please?" Even though I really wanted to participate in some of the riveting discussions about the gender politcs of the egg and the sperm and how scientific language made menstruation seem so wasteful, I held back for fear of how to say my name. Should I say "Mary-am" to appease my classmates or "Murrium" for the Indian professor? Now, at this point, dear blog reader, I can literally hear the groans from people like Amar or Erik Peterson as they collectively sigh, and say, "JESUS, why is this such an issue for you Mary-am? I mean, seriously, who cares? Can't you make fun of sick children or the homeless some more?" And in my defense, I can only say, yes, this may seem trivial, but it still haunts me to this day, and the egalitarian nature of self-publishing on the Internet allows me to post absolute shit if I want to on this blog.
In the end, I decided to raise my hand and participate in a discussion about women working "pink collar" jobs in the West Indies for Western companies and pronounced my name is "Murrium." I figured that a women's studies professor whose particular interests are in colonization and post-colonial gender studies would notice me selling out to Western hegemony.
However, the problem persisted, especially in medicine, where every rotation I had was filled with some brown person. I got confused literally at the start of every rotation. And so, I came up with some general rules to live by:
1) Say "Mary-am" to patients because usually they are small town white folks who have never seen a Pakistani and would get really confused if I said my name the right way.
2) If there are only white doctors around and white students, pronounce it "Mary-am."
3) If the doctor is Pakistani/Indian and everyone else is white, then pronounce it "Murrium" because the highest authority figure who is grading you matters the most, and you don't want them to think you are an Oreo (white on the inside, brown on the outside).
4) If the team is a mix of Pakistanis/Indians and white people, pronounce your name both ways depending upon whether the person is brown or white. I have to make sure that the other members of the team can't hear me during each introduction though. That leads to confusion within the team and no one ever saying your name because they don't know which way is the right way and are too lazy/embarrassed to ask. This happened to me during my pediatrics rotation in my 3rd year when the team was a mix of Bengalis, white people, Hispanic people, Indians, and Persians.
And so, this is what happens to you when you are a first generation American - I have now realized that straddling both your parents' culture and being an American is not as easy as they make it seem in heartwarming immigrant movies or that documentary they show you when you visit the Statue of Liberty. It involves a lot of complicated, minor and major compromises with your identity continually in flux as you negotiate the Old World and the New.
--By Mariam, who is so sorry she hasn't blogged in so long, but life got in the way.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Hospital on a Hill
There are many reasons that I think a hospital on a hill is a bad idea. Here are my top 5:
1) Sick people don't have the strength to climb hills
2) Parking
3) Ambulances are not the best vehicles to speed up winding steep roads
4) Earthquakes + Gravity
5) When the fog settles around the hill, and a patient unfortunately has end-stage disease, they may look out their window and have a terrible existential moment. Am I already in Heaven? Is Hell this hospital room where I have to see the same residents everyday, much like Sartre's play No Exit? No joke, the following is a picture from the hospital on a hill.
--By Farrah, who is now giving bonus points to non-hill hospitals when comparing her residency choices
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Well Portland Oregon and sloe gin fizz, if that ain't love then tell me what is
I am currently doing my fourth month-long away elective in Portland. I now realize that while I know I don't want to stay in Ohio for residency, getting out of Ohio for 4 whole months probably wasn't the best plan. I was exposed to H1N1 in multiple hospitals. I lived in environments that involved sharing bathrooms down the hall with french scientists, hippie medical students, and occasionally a lizard. I had to buy both warmer and cooler clothing depending on my location and inappropriate packing (how could I predict what I would need for the next 4 months when I left Toledo?). I had to shop in weird unfamiliar grocery store chains. Today, I felt homesick and trekked down a steep hill to get some Chipotle like they have back in good old Colorado. I got back to the co-op where I am currently staying and settled down to watch yesterday's episode of 30 Rock. As I watched Liz Lemon substitute a scented candle for deodorant, I saw myself in her character.
Later when she went to Georgia, I was reminded of how uncomfortable I am in the unfamiliarity of each new location I visit.
I feel unkempt, and less organized in general in all these new locations. While I really enjoy visiting lots of new locations, I am afraid I may have tired myself out too much before interview season. Here are a few things I learned about each of the cities I visited. This information does not include any opinions about any of the residency programs because it's interview season and I'm not stupid.
San Francisco: Expensive city. Don't go into the woods in golden gate park after dark, and also before dark. I don't like Ethiopian food. I really like "hot chocolate" brownie desserts.
Tucson: Really hot. Lot's of different desert wildlife: snakes, lizards, scorpions, coyotes. The desert museum is not actually a museum - it's a zoo. A cactus can be pretty. Also, when I said there were scorpions, I want to emphasize that they were IN the house, yuck.
Denver: Best city ever. I love being home.
Portland: I've only been here for a week. I live right next door to the hospital so I don't really get a chance to explore. I am excited to see what the city is like this weekend. So far I only know that it is wet, the fall trees are really pretty, and there is a pretty high chance that there are bed bugs based on the bites on my legs and arms. :( Also, there are a LOT of hippies here, and that's saying something from a girl who went to college in Boulder.
--By Farrah, who never thought she would admit that she misses Toledo. Also, bonus points to anybody who recognizes the lyrics in the title.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Singles Vs. Marrieds: A Comparison Study
In the Sex and the City episode "A Woman's Right to Shoes," Carrie attends her married friend's baby shower. The host insists she take off her Manolo Blahniks upon entering her penthouse apartment. But when Carrie leaves, the Manolos have been stolen, and the hostess refuses to pay the exorbitant $485 to replace them. At the end of the episode, Carrie registers herself for the same shoes she lost at the Manolo Blahnik store and announces her marriage to herself. After all, she reasons, "Think about it. If you are single, after graduation, there isn't one occasion where people celebrate you. ... Hallmark doesn't make a "congratulations, you didn't marry the wrong guy" card. And where's the flatware for going on vacation alone?"
I never really thought there was much of a difference between married and single people. Weren't we still a part of the human race? Recently though, after spending quality time with married people and observing them in their natural habitats - one-dish dinner parties and Ikea - I have realized that singletons and marrieds have diverged into two different species - call it homo marritus vs. homo singletus. The question remains - can we still co-habitate?
Recently, I was sitting at a table with married people who were slightly older than me, but not so old that they wouldn't get the Jesse Spano, "I'm so excited!" reference. As I sat there, attempting to make conversation, I realized that for the first time I was at a loss for words. One girl discussed the difficulties of building a home - picking out the tiles, the sinks, the appliances etc. I had been renting since I was 18 and would probably continue to do so until the age of 31 when I finished residency (i.e. when I could finally afford anything that didn't have linoleum floors and a shared wall), so I merely said, "Yeah...Home Depot is a confusing place" awkwardly.
Another girl discussed how her son had just gone for his first soccer practice and how confused he had been by the concept of kicking the ball into a large net and had merely wandered off to pick daisies instead. I didn't have a 4 year-old son or ever play soccer, so I merely "awwww'ed" accordingly as is customary to do so when someone tells you an incident about their under the age of 10 child.
Another day at a post-Ramadaan brunch, I once again found myself at a table full of married folks. The restaurant was taking a long time to fulfill everyone's orders, and one girl's husband rushed to her side and gave her a Danish pastry he had ordered so that she wouldn't get hungry. "Awwww!" the other marrieds cooed, "My husband doesn't do that ever!" they said with mock-jealously. There was congenial laughter about how sweet this said husband was and how their own spouses were too busy watching football to care that much. I was the only single girl at the table and by this point, I had learned the value of silence.
During my one-month stay amongst the Marrieds, I felt less like the independent Miss Mary Tyler Moore with her "you're gonna make it after all" attitude and more like an old unmarried lady with other unmarried lady doctor friends who only had a wealth of arcane medical knowledge and a litter of cats for company. Even Carrie who felt inferior to the smug married people got her Manolos at the end of the episode and could drown her sorrows in her fabulous wardrobe. But where are real single people supposed to find solace? In their crappy H&M and Banana Republic-on-sale button downs and poly-blend work pants (which is all one can really afford on a resident salary)? Or perhaps we can find silver lining in that our conversations haven't solely degenerated into the chemical composition of baby vomit and home moldings. Yet.
--By Mariam, who feels bad because she hasn't blogged in so long.
I never really thought there was much of a difference between married and single people. Weren't we still a part of the human race? Recently though, after spending quality time with married people and observing them in their natural habitats - one-dish dinner parties and Ikea - I have realized that singletons and marrieds have diverged into two different species - call it homo marritus vs. homo singletus. The question remains - can we still co-habitate?
Recently, I was sitting at a table with married people who were slightly older than me, but not so old that they wouldn't get the Jesse Spano, "I'm so excited!" reference. As I sat there, attempting to make conversation, I realized that for the first time I was at a loss for words. One girl discussed the difficulties of building a home - picking out the tiles, the sinks, the appliances etc. I had been renting since I was 18 and would probably continue to do so until the age of 31 when I finished residency (i.e. when I could finally afford anything that didn't have linoleum floors and a shared wall), so I merely said, "Yeah...Home Depot is a confusing place" awkwardly.
Another girl discussed how her son had just gone for his first soccer practice and how confused he had been by the concept of kicking the ball into a large net and had merely wandered off to pick daisies instead. I didn't have a 4 year-old son or ever play soccer, so I merely "awwww'ed" accordingly as is customary to do so when someone tells you an incident about their under the age of 10 child.
Another day at a post-Ramadaan brunch, I once again found myself at a table full of married folks. The restaurant was taking a long time to fulfill everyone's orders, and one girl's husband rushed to her side and gave her a Danish pastry he had ordered so that she wouldn't get hungry. "Awwww!" the other marrieds cooed, "My husband doesn't do that ever!" they said with mock-jealously. There was congenial laughter about how sweet this said husband was and how their own spouses were too busy watching football to care that much. I was the only single girl at the table and by this point, I had learned the value of silence.
During my one-month stay amongst the Marrieds, I felt less like the independent Miss Mary Tyler Moore with her "you're gonna make it after all" attitude and more like an old unmarried lady with other unmarried lady doctor friends who only had a wealth of arcane medical knowledge and a litter of cats for company. Even Carrie who felt inferior to the smug married people got her Manolos at the end of the episode and could drown her sorrows in her fabulous wardrobe. But where are real single people supposed to find solace? In their crappy H&M and Banana Republic-on-sale button downs and poly-blend work pants (which is all one can really afford on a resident salary)? Or perhaps we can find silver lining in that our conversations haven't solely degenerated into the chemical composition of baby vomit and home moldings. Yet.
--By Mariam, who feels bad because she hasn't blogged in so long.
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