Monthly Archives: March 2010

People love to give you advice when it comes to dating. Here are some classic advice lines from my dating-discussion-posse:  “He might grow on you, you never know,” and “There’s no such thing as a manicorn, no guy is perfect!” and my personal favorite, “Don’t be all negative, give him a real chance and try, for the love of God, to be excited.”

Truth is, they’re right. I am kind of a commitment-phobe. So when I started dating a new guy last December, I brushed aside some eyebrow-raising things (such as the fact that he brought his laundry home for his mom to wash over Christmas) and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. In the end, I realized I should have trusted my gut. Chances, schmances.

Let’s just say it didn’t work out. The details of why don’t matter. But I want to share how things went down because in the process of trying to be nice, I kind of felt like I got slapped in the face. And while it did make me a little angry, it also cracked me up. Seriously. This guy was clever, a little stalkery and a whole lot of drama for just 5 dates.  

So here’s how I ended it in Jan 2010:

“I hope you’ve had a nice week. I haven’t gotten a response to either my email or call, which is pretty telling. I get it – you’re upset with me. I’m not sure I really understand why, but I guess what matters is my expectations for what dating is and yours seem to be different, unfortunately. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you again for all the times you took me out. I did have a nice time getting you to know you.”

To this he responded:

“Hey, I texted you back. And I thought you said not to worry about the e-mail. Anyway, I am not mad at you. To be completely honest, I’ve started seeing someone else and I want to see how it goes. Of course, we can be friends. Hope you have a good holiday weekend.”

No, this is not the slap in the face. I was fine with his reply, although it was a little jerky in its tone and made me hesitate to see him again even as a friend.

But was that the end? Hell, no!

I got text messages from him every third day for the next three months repeatedly asking me to hang out “as friends.” Then, out of nowhere, he writes to me this past weekend:

“I hope you’re excited about Obamacare. I haven’t seen you in three months and you seem to keep waffling about meeting, which is pretty telling. I get it —  you’re upset with me. I’m not sure I really understand why,  but I guess what matters is my expectations for what friendship is and yours seem to be different, unfortunately. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you again for reconnecting with me. I did have a nice time getting you to know you.”

Ooooh snaaap! I couldn’t believe that he actually used my own email against me. Bastard! Yes, he seriously did this. Who does this?! This guy, that’s who.

I should have let it go…I know I should have. But I couldn’t. My reply:

“Hey, I texted you back! And I thought we said something about meeting in April. Anyway, I am not mad at you. To be completely honest, I’ve started making some new friends and I want to see how it goes. Of course, we can be acquaintances. Hope you have a good Easter Holiday.”

I see your hand and raise you one  bitch-slap. Hell, yes.

The email looked like spam. It was from a sender I didn’t recognize, and had a bunch of numbers in the subject line.

“The attorney at __ Hospital would like to speak with you regarding the above patient case.”

That’s all the email said. But it was enough to make me feel like I had been punched in the stomach. Which patient could they be talking about? How bad was it? What did I do?

The life of a medical resident is hard. There are the long hours, a poor diet, afflicted relationships, and of course constant sleep deprivation. When you sign up for it, you know more or less that this is what is involved. But no one tells you about the worst part – that you will be plagued with a constant, gnawing sense of self-doubt and concern that you will do something, or not do something you should have, that will be the cause of someone’s life ending.

In pediatrics, we don’t lose that many patients. In my hospital it was maybe 5 a year. I remember every patient whose life I worked to save and was not able to, and I have played over and over in my mind the sequence of events – the medications, drips, intubations – to see if I could have done something differently.

I remember many times, after a long night of call, when I would not be able to stop thinking about that patient who was really sick and wondering if I did the right things that night. Should I have adjusted the ventilator settings more aggressively? Did I miss any signs of a brewing infection?…I would second guess myself all the way home, and then some. And what was worse were those times when I knew my mind was not fully functioning, when I had become a little dulled – that’s when you really feel unsure of yourself. Fatigue often had me teetering on the edge of indifference. Had it ever made me cross the line?

Reluctantly, I called the attorney. The case is about a baby who suffered from complications during his delivery. The mother is suing all the doctors involved in that process, including the pediatricians who were called down to resuscitate the baby.

As the attorney told me the synopsis of the case, stumbling over the medical terms in the lawsuit claims, I knew I would never remember the patient. I had probably run down to resuscitate newborn babies in delivery rooms well over 50 times in my years of residency, not to mention that it has been almost three years since I finished residency altogether.  But, while I knew that it was not uncommon for doctors to be sued in cases of brain-damaged babies (Does your child have cerebral palsy? Could your doctor have caused it? Call us now to file your lawsuit!), I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Was I responsible?

In the end, it turns out that I wasn’t actually involved in this particular case. The event had taken place a month after I had finished my residency. The email was sent to me in error…

I have no doubt that sometime again in my career I will be involved in a lawsuit. And I hope I will be able to say I did all that was proper and necessary to care for my patients. But I also know that tonight at work, I’ll listen extra long to all my patient’s heartbeats and double-check every dose of medication I prescribe.

And leave nothing, I hope, open to self-doubt.

I actually almost laughed out loud when my poor date told me about his interests. It was our second date, and I had picked Cafe Leon not just for its oh so perfect French snootiness, but also for its proximity to the L train. My date was a Brooklyner, you see. So there we were, sipping our glasses of Pinot Noir and feeling very sophisticated, when we started talking about cities. Somehow, as it almost always seems to, we began to compare San Francisco and New York.

Let’s take a step back here. San Francisco, to me, is a really interesting and beautiful city. Culturally it’s not New York, but I have to admit that over the years I have come to appreciate it for what it has to offer. There really is no comparison – they are two entirely different types of environments. And, I’ve decided of late, you can like them both. As long as, ultimately, you choose to live here in New York. Just kidding. Sort of. Okay, not really.

Going back to the date. It turns out that my date had lived in San Fran for a few years. And even though he claims that he feels at home here in New York, he also stated that he learned a lot of new things in San Francisco. For example, what liberalism is exactly. And what the organic food movement is all about. And, much more important in his life, barefoot boogie dancing.

Yes, this is the point where I almost literally laughed out loud. But I quickly ascertained that he was not kidding and covered it up with a cough.

It seems that my date actually did find the act of gathering a random group of people (approximately 40-50), playing “world” music (can you hear the sitar and mandolin?), and letting the spirit move you as it will, to be an enjoyable activity. To him, it was part of finding a sense of belonging. All the while he was talking about it, I kept picturing this tall, lanky, rather nerdy looking guy dancing barefoot with his pleated Dockers rolled up above his ankles, his blue button down shirt untucked haphazardly, and a bright green bandana tied awkwardly around his head. For some reason, I also pictured him chanting something incomprehensible and being in a trance of some sort. I tried to snap out of it and focus on what he was saying, and asked appropriate questions to seem polite.

First, let me say that this was definitively the point at which I decided there would be no third date.

But at the same time, I couldn’t help but envy that he had found his niche, his “community” as he kept referring to it. I had to applaud that, since I don’t have that feeling of belonging at work, with a particular social circle, or even really in my family. For my date, there is a solid group of people in his life that do these same things – eat organic food, dance barefoot, live in Brooklyn – and he is at home with them. And I think that’s great. It’s not for me, but still cool. For him.

I am down with the live in Brooklyn and eat organic thing. But barefoot boogie dancing – really? That crosses some kind of line…not a conga line, but something equally absurd.

Am I right, people?

In a recent conversation with a friend who is house hunting, she told me she had to rule out any home that involved a lot of stairs in case her mother was going to live with her someday. And this is not just a possibility, but almost a certainty, that one day, her mother will need to move in with her. I admired her for her foresight, but felt a little sad that she had to have it.

It made me think, are we already here? Is this what it means to be an adult? When did that happen?

The more I thought about it, the more I started to believe that the day you start to worry about your parents really is the day you step over into official adulthood. It may not be a defining moment per se. For me, it’s been a gradual realization that decisions I make about my own life – career, finances, etc. – actually affect more than myself. And the tide changes from you causing them concern and grief to the other way around. I worry about my parents. About their happiness, their health, if they are eating well. And while I don’t think they expect or maybe even need anything from me at this time, I still feel guilty for not doing more…or doing something. Although I don’t know quite what.

Earlier today my mom called to tell me that she and my father have booked tickets for a trip to India. My initial reaction, internally, was not good. In fact, I hate the idea that they are going to risk their lives on a plane (I know, statistics blah blah), then spend six weeks in a country where if they get sick or hurt I can’t be there to help. And who doesn’t get sick in India?

You see, other than the one, rather huge trip in their early thirties when they immigrated from India to America, my parents have rarely travelled. We never went on vacations when I was younger. There just wasn’t enough money for that. Occasionally we’d pack up the old station wagon with seven or eight people and visit family in Pennsylvania, but we wound not often stray beyond that. In fact, the highlight of the trip would be if we stopped at a service station along the way where we could chat with the locals or get some McDonald’s fries – you know, real American road trip goodness.

I always think that I could literally pick out any place on earth and successfully plan a trip there on my own. But my parents – how will they know how to get around? I mean, sure, they speak the language and have a ton of family in India, but still. What if they get lost? Who is going to stop my dad from drinking the bacteria and virus filled water? Or remind them to take their malaria medicine? See, there is a lot to think about.

Anyway, I blame their lack of travel experience as the source of my concern, but it’s more than that. I just worry. I want to beg them not to go, but I know that would be so hypocritical. After all, imagine what I must have put them through when I travelled to Thailand and Peru – alone nonetheless. But then again, I’m invincible. After all, what could possibly happen to a young girl alone in Bangkok?

It’s such an uncomfortable feeling, being scared about something happening to your parents. It’s unsettling in a vague, hard-to-define way. You get to a point of life where you no longer depend on them, but can’t comprehend not having them around. And you start to factor in all the things that they will soon need to depend on you for, like avoiding houses with stairs.

So to my friend from the aforementioned conversation – yes, it seems we have arrived. Cheers to adulthood.

My upstairs neighbors, I’ve decided, must be newlyweds. Or have a cleaning-sex fetish thing going on. The couple moved into the 400 square foot studio right above mine a few months ago, and since then I hear them often walking around in what must be nothing short of lead-soled boats. But in addition to the constant thud-thud-thud of their footsteps, there is on almost a daily basis the noise of a vacuum cleaner generally followed by the squeek-squeek-squeek of box springs getting a workout…

Yeah, it’s time to move.

I’ve been at my apartment for almost six years now. A small, quaint little studio in the heart of Murray Hill. And while I have appreciated it for its layout and great sunlight, I have to admit I’m tiring of the little things that make it, well, a shit-hole. Like the kitchen faucet, that no matter how often it’s been “repaired” seems to always spray as much water horizontally as it does vertically. Or the crumbling paint. There’s the old school water heater that, when it comes on at 6 am in the winter, sounds like someone is taking a wrench with all his might to it. I think the heater has to work extra hard because over the years, the contractors have plugged up all the heating vents with globs of paint. But don’t worry they left globs of paint spattered over most of the floors as well, adding to the charm of the place.

And then there are the chipped, what probably used to be beautiful wooden floors. In 1907. (When they said pre-war, I didn’t realize that meant pre-WWI). I remember one night when I spent an hour watching a 2-inch Chinese water bug come in and out from a crevice in one of the cracked planks near the kitchen, paralyzing me with fear and disgust. Then, after mustering up some courage, I cried like a little girl while spraying the poor bug to death with Raid, all the while thinking of Gregor (from the Metamorphosis) being pelted with apples by his family.

Yeah, it’s time to move.

Now I’m looking for a more growns up apartment. One with an actual, separate bedroom. And maybe a kitchen with a dishwasher and nice countertops. A place where faucets actually work the way they are supposed to, and where I don’t have to be an unwilling eavesdropper into the scandalous lives of my neighbors.

I will miss this place in some ways, though. Afterall, it was my first real home. And there were some redeeming qualities. Like the fact that if I accidentally locked myself out, I could easily pick the lock with handful of Chinese food menus from the lobby. (For some reason, the sushi menus – not good enough.) And of course, I saved a lot of money since the apartment was rent stabilized. And heck, the bathroom ceiling only collapsed into a pile of brown water, plaster and piping twice in those six years – that’s probably not bad for a building this old!

Yeah, it’s time to move…