The long slog

Everything willing, I will be in my fourth year of medicine very soon. Yesterday I went for a drink with a friend during a revision sesion at what used to be my local bar when I lived in halls. I don’t know if it was the vision of all the young prospective students walking by, or the summery sweetness of my Malibu and coke, but it made me think about times past, and the direction I’m heading in now.

I often feel very restricted in the course I’m doing, but I knew when I started that was the lifestyle I had chosen and that was to be expected. I made the decision to become a doctor on a serious level when I was 16-17 and I can’t comprehend now how anyone can make a decision like that at such a young age. I don’t think people in their late teens and early twenties are necessarily the best equipt people to start medical training, but that’s how doctors are prepared and cooked in our society and for the time being there’s little good to be done arguing otherwise.

In the 5 minutes of ‘worry time’ I allow myself each night, I worry about what’s going to happen if I fail and if I would want to carry on if I did. I honestly don’t know, and despite deep concentration, I can’t for the life of me think of anything else I’d be happier doing.

For the time being, I feel weary, weepy and fed up. The next 7 days are going to feel very short and very long.

Fat in a jug, please!

Aside from my subscription to Women’s Health magazine, I try to steer clear of women’s magazines. I wouldn’t call them magazines as such, more like insecurity and consumerism in 100 glossy pages (yes you are fat and your boyfriend wants to cheat on you). The geek in me always preferred the New Scientist, Economist and the student BMJ.

On the front of a glossy this week, I saw a front page picture of various celebrities, discussing the eternal struggle for them to keep their weight down in light of releasing numerous fitness DVDs. Their body mass goes up and down like a yoyo. 2 inches across from was the following, “The milkshake diet. We tried it, it works!”

Do you think the irony came and stabbed the editors between the eyes?

“I will burn for you, feel pain for you”

I was preparing a butterbean/runnerbean salad for supper to the sound of #1 Crush by Garbage. The song is particularly bittersweet for me as it marked a dark time in my life during my A levels where I had hit rock bottom. All my teachers thought I was a foregone conclusion. I remember my form tutor saying to me, “I don’t know what else to say. I am very sorry.” My politics teacher talked to me about the pressure young women put on themselves and that I’m only hurting myself by putting myself down, oblivious to the fact that in the height of summer I was wearing a long black cardigan hiding the bandages which in turn were hiding the fresh cuts on my arms.

I digress, I still absolutely love the song. I was preparing some garlic to add to a simple dressing and the knife slipped (not exactly what most prospective doctors would admit) and I cut my thumb just under my nail bed.

For a split second, I thought about what would happen if I dipped my thumb into the lemon-based dressing. After a momentary lapse, I realised that the thought didn’t appeal at all. Possibly an indicator that I’m ready to explore the small sadistic side rumbling in my psyche. Or (more likely) I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good dressing.

Jumping through hoops

Feminists: look away now!

One symptom (or sign?) of looming exams that I suffer from is that I suddenly want to get back into the kitchen. During long revision sessions I procrastinate by thinking of new utensils I’d like to go and buy, recipes I’d like to try and ignoring the ‘instinct’ that’s telling me to abandon any career plans and go somewhere warm and comforting. Or perhaps being in biomedicine is the best thing for me, after all, “Let food be your medicine…”

So… on my list of the ‘post-exam kitchen retreat’ includes:

* buying beautiful glass containers for me to store whole grain items

* bulk cooking several recipes from ‘Indian cooking made easy’

* explore my family history and delve further into Sicilian cooking. I don’t know what my dad’s favourite dish was, the anniversary of his death is coming up so now will be a good time to start.

Sigh. It seems like the light at the end of a tunnel is a pin-prick. Not that I want it to go too quickly. I should go and do some surgical revision.

iSwitch

Friday morning, and I woke up in a blind panic. This used to happen frequently a few years ago when I had to deal with exam stress and anxiety, and it was a pretty horrible feeling to wake up to. The cause of my panic was centred around the OSCE that I’m soon to take, but somehow it must have been cluttering about in my subconscious before I woke up. I was also meeting my consultant to have my final forms signed off, so it wasn’t going to be the most stress-free day.

I considered taking some propranolol in the morning, I ususally keep my stash aside and take a couple of pills before my first exam, but I forgot to. A blessing in hindsight.

Went to the gym, and had a nice workout (didn’t feel nice at the time). Came home, cooked, sat down with some books and realised how totally and utterly chilled out I was feeling. My heard rate was normal, had no butterflies or feelings that adrenaline was rushing around my system. I was like a sponge and the gym squeezed out any tension, just like a light switch that had been flicked off. Twas an awesome feeling. Better than propranolol.

The search for a squash

The mission to find spaghetti squash in the UK has been pretty difficult. I haven’t yet asked at the Whole Foods Market if they plan on getting some in, but I found one site in Bognor Regis which appear to supply them. Driving all the way down kind of stomps all over the idea of locally sourced food, but I’d really like to make the recipe featured on GN with bolognese sauce.

I am also feeling mildly broken from a rather excellent party last night. I had the opportunity to get my red seam stockings out for public viewing, I’d definitely like to buy the raspberry coloured pair on my next outing.

Memories

This isn’t the only blog I keep, I used to write a lot in another one not too far away from the blogosphere, but it is not public. Every now and then I go back and see what I was up to in the past.

On this day 3 years ago: I was contemplating dating a man who previously worked as a girl-on-girl porn cameraman. We never went on that date.

On this day 5 years ago: The night before my A level chemistry exam. It seems so long ago now. I was pretty miserable back then. Very, actually. Exams in medicine seem like a breeze compared to that. As my exams are approaching in 6 weeks, will the exams ever end?

On this day 6 years ago: I was discussing Kirsten Dunst’s breasts with a kiwi friend of mine.

And it was all yellow

I’m finding it increasingly difficult to call myself a feminist. Well, perhaps that part isn’t true; I’m finding it increasingly difficult to associate myself with feminism as a movement and other feminists. This has been mulling around for a while, and for some reason it came to light during a time when I should be focusing on more important things than ideas flying around in my head.

The library is my home this weekend. Just a shame that the Victoria line is off limits, but it means a nice bus journey around Hyde Park.

I have been cooking with yellow courgettes recently. My grandmother used to cook with them a lot, I absolutely love the heady aroma, I’m thinking of throwing them into a curry with some chickpeas.

3 chin-ups. Almost happened. I’d call it a 2.8, I’m sure it will happen next time.

Dairy Kween

My head is a spinning mass of medicine at the moment, there’s not time for much else, and I occassionally get bouts of thinking I have done nowhere near enough to pass the end of year exams, then they pass, and I just keep working. I qualify as a doctor in 2 years and I’m still not quite sure what I really want to do with myself. I decided to go into medicine at 17, how anyone can really make such decisions at a young time in their life is beyond me.

There have been more women using the free weights room recently. I’m always happy to see more women doing weights, I have become friendly with one of them and we occassionally have a quick chat about routines and things. Must get her name next time though.

After today’s gym session (no strength gains made, but I feel absolutely shattered after the attempt at pistol squats) I went on a bit of a dairy splurge. Mascarpone for protein bars, gouda for omelettes/tortillas and butter for buttery goodness.

The chick or the egg?

I have been pondering a few things about my life lately, and today the universe threw a bit of a riddle at me. I was standing at the platform of the train station, when I noticed a perfectly hollowed out little white egg. I wondered to myself if the perfectly demarcated border was due to a preditor slowly picking away at the contents little by little until there was nothing left, or whether the chick in question managed to hatch, get out and live.

My train arrived 2 minutes later.