I admit, I have been hoping for a last-minute rescue--in that way you learn to do in early childhood, from watching too many cartoons--which would keep me at Gimbels. Well, none is forthcoming, and I have been busy devising the following back-up plan:
Here's an article about doctors from my residency alma-mater who provide free care to the homeless in Salinas, CA. I did a rotation at the free clinic when I was a second-year resident, and reading this article makes me homesick for those days.
Last Wednesday I was rounding on the hospitalist service and I got into one of those time-wasting gripe-fests with one of the general surgeons. He was beefing about an incentive spirometer he'd ordered for a patient the day before, which never materialized, and I told him I'd had to transfer a patient to Macy's in order to get an echocardiogram over the weekend, and then we both shook our heads and talked about how Gimbels was falling apart. This is the kind of conversation you have when you've decided to leave a job.
I haven't been in a blogging frame of mind lately, and I blame it on professional chaos. In a recent post I mentioned that my hospitalist colleague came very close to resigning from Xpress Hospitalists, the name I choose to use for the staffing agency who took over our hospitalist program when we could no longer staff it ourselves. Well, things have evolved since then. Here's a precis:
I've been through a bumpy ride professionally the past several months, and last week my colleague and I were on the verge of giving notice and looking for greener pastures, but a certain amount of ingenuity and iron nerve (mine) and a large amount of diplomacy (his) managed to save the situation, at least temporarily. I would say "phew" except I don't really feel relieved. Practicing medicine is difficult, but making a living, holding down a job, keeping one's foot firmly planted in the realm of acceptable working conditions is even more so.
Dear Hospital CEO,
A certain quiet has fallen over this blog in the past couple of weeks. There are a number of professional upheavals going on in Rural, none of which I care to broadcast here but all of which distract from the more pleasurable pursuits of life, such as writing. Have no fear, Noo is doing extremely well, the sun is shining, the cats are fat and sassy, and I think I'll end up on my feet after the smoke clears. Fingers crossed.
I've been following the news about the medical student accused of being the Craigslist murderer, Philip Markoff. The one thing that bothers me most about this case is this: How the HELL does a second-year medical student have time to solicit sex workers on an online classified service or gamble at casinos?
Yesterday was my birthday, and I hope you will forgive me for not having installed neon fonts or flashing banners on the blog for the occasion. After all, I merely turned forty-one, what's the big deal? My fortieth birthday had some gravitas behind it, but forty-one? It's a non-event, a prime number, not a big deal.
