menometrorrhagia

“Sir, what were you doing when you first felt the chest pain?”
“Masturbating.”

So the first part of the night of infamy that I have a vague memory of is Roy slapping my face repeatedly in the parking lot of the Windmill Country Store about a quarter-mile from my house. I guess he gave up, or I somehow managed to convince him that I was awake enough to go home. We pulled into the driveway and I was oblivious to the lights on in the living room. It had never dawned on me that my parents would wait up for me to get home. (As an aside, this is one of those fucked up double standards my parents had — they never waited up for Chris and pretended that his drinking in high school was not that big of a deal.) So I stumbled into the house with Roy helping propel me toward my room. Remember, I was wearing someone else’s clothes and was totally shit-housed. I tried to just slip into my bedroom without saying much.

But I failed.

I ran into the closed door to my bedroom, blowing my previously iron-clad cover. My mom said something and I replied “I had two beers right before we left, that’s why I’m like this.” Roy opened the door and we slipped in. Roy then locked the door as I proceeded to dry heave into a trash can. Roy even tried turning on the radio to drown out the retching. My mom made Roy open the door and asked me whose clothes I was wearing. I remember thinking she was a moron and replied that they were mine in as snide a voice as I could manage. I had no idea I had on someone else’s clothes. That’s all I remember from the night, but I guess eventually my parents convinced Roy he wasn’t screwed because his friend was an idiot and everybody went to sleep, ending the second worst night of my life.
(File worst night under: Donkey Show)

Denoument

The next morning Roy and I were getting ready for the basketball game we had to play. I was pretty oblivious to the scene from the night before but knew things weren’t cool. I’m standing there brushing my hair when my dad lays into me. He was going off about some cordless drill. To this day I have no idea what he was talking about. I never saw any fucking drill in that car. If it was in the car then somebody just stole it. He also went off about getting his suit wrinkled. Again I had no idea how the suit got wrinkled but I at least knew that a suit had been in the car. I told him I’d pay for the dry cleaning. He told me that wasn’t the point. (Speaking of point, at some time during this “conversation” he started poking me in the chest like he was trying to pick a fight with me. Which is exactly what I think he was trying to do. I mean he only outweighed me by about 50lbs.) I made the mistake of asking what the point was and he cuts loose with the greatest line in the history of parenting:

“You lied to me and you trashed my shit, you
                                                                        stupid,
                                                                                    little,
                                                                                             fuck.”

It’s even better if you are familiar with the look of complete disgust that my father has mastered. He’s like the Yoda of insulting facial expressions.

Epilogue

Roy and I went to our game. I remember we were playing Austin Hyde Park. They wore red and gold. In the locker room several people were shocked not only that I was there to play but that I was even alive. That game was one of the few high school games that I played without the absolute panic of making a mistake that normally consumed me on the court. I let the anger and hate kindled by my father dictate my play. I scored a couple of times on put-backs that I normally wouldn’t have fought as hard for. I threw some well-placed knees to cutters coming across the lane.
At one point I got a steal around half-court. I saw Roy streaking down the right side and whipped a bounce pass that he caught in stride and he went up for the lay-up. This stocky guy for Hyde Park completely took Roy out without 
even making a nominal attempt on the ball. I snapped. All the anger I had pent up from my dad’s questionable 
parenting style, not just from that morning but from my entire life to date, suddenly welled up and sent me into a 
blind rage. I hauled ass and tackled that chubby fucker into the wall behind the basket. We were quickly separated and I was tossed out of the game.
The varsity team for Hyde Park was all sitting together watching the game from about the third row of bleachers. They were 17-18 year old men. Clearly, and intimidatingly bigger than I was. They started heckling me as I stalked off the court. I did what anybody else would have done in that situation. I stopped and challenged them all to fight me. Raising my arms and beckoning them, I repeatedly shouted “Step out on the court. Right now, let’s go. Just step out on the court.” Eventually I meandered over to the bench where I kicked one of the chairs, grabbed a towel and hid my face in it so people wouldn’t know I was crying. I think Kyle Krejci knew because he was sitting so close.
Anyway, I was Ron Artest before Ron Artest was Ron Artest. I’m thinking of suing him for ripping off my schtick.

Over at the Snakedoggblogg Roy reminded me of another anecdote to avoid using in my personal statement. Another JV basketball game, this time against Yoakum. They beat us like Ike beat Tina. We were down by 25 in the fourth quarter and they had their starters in on a full court press. After the game we went through the “good game” line, but when I got to their coach instead of saying “Good game,” I said ”Thanks for pulling your starters, asshole.” I guess nobody heard me but their coach because when our coach burst into the locker room five minutes later screaming for somebody to take credit for saying it, nobody knew what the hell he was talking about. He even started going off about some broken soap dish in the shower, assuming that whoever said it was so pissed he would vent on the ceramic appointments of the Yoakum High School locker room. I didn’t know anything about the soap dish, but I fessed up to what I said. I can’t remember his immediate response, but ultimately I had to have a meeting with Coach Mares, the varsity coach at the time, and he dictated that I had to run 50 timed “horses” under I think 34 seconds. If they weren’t under they didn’t count. So for the next couple of weeks whenever everyone else got water breaks at practice I ran. One thing I’ll always remember is that Coach Mares warned me that someday I’d run into somebody who didn’t give a crap about me and they would shoot me for saying something like that. I still think that’s a bit of a stretch.

After convincing my parents to let us take the car, Roy and I headed off with high spirits despite our recent loss. Somehow we had procured vague directions regarding the number of cattle guards and gates we would have to cross to get to the pasture where the party would be. Had I been driving we would still be circling around Refugio trying to find the damn place, but fortunately Roy was the only one with a license and he found the right dirt road into the relative wilderness of South Texas cattle land.
Things were going smoothly. Roy and I were shooting the shit, probably listening to Tupac on the tape player with the bass pumping, cracking jokes about getting lost out in this dark deserted field. Because we were afraid of getting lost, missing a turn, or hitting a cow, Roy was driving pretty slowly. I mean, Oldsmobile Delta 88s weren’t exactly designed for romping through untamed grazing areas. As we rounded a corner the dirt path we were on began a steep decline for about 100 feet before bottoming out and heading back up at a slightly less acute angle. Roy was justifiably leary of bottoming out the Olds, cracking the oil plate, and having to answer to King. Because of this he slowed even further, creeping down the incline unaware that the pit at the bottom was 100% fine sand that could bury the wheels of a slow- moving heavy vehicle without the horsepower needed to escape. Unluckily for us, the Oldsmobile Delta 88 has often been described as a slow-moving heavy vehicle without the horsepower needed to escape.
After spinning the tires for about five minutes we realized we were only succeeding in burying the car further. We saw a house about half a mile in the distance and decided to head for it. We reasoned that even if no one was at that house to help us we could break in and use the phone to call for help. We walked about a third of the way when Roy spotted some headlights on the dirt road we had been driving on. They were headed for my dad’s car. We started running toward the headlights in an absolute panic. Roy absolutely smoked me, and by the time he reached the truck that belonged to the headlights I was about 100 yards behind.
Our savior behind the wheel of that Ford Ranger turned out to be the father of the kid who was throwing the party – Steven Tinsley. Mr. Tinsley was headed out to check on things. We jumped in the truck, went around the Olds, and quickly found the campfire with the high school ne’er do wells around it. The adult rounded up about six Stroman-looking bohunks and we went back to the Olds. With the help of all those guys we managed to get the car on more solid ground and went back to the party spot. Mr. Tinsley left shortly after that.
I bought a bottle of orange MadDog 20/20 from one of the bohunks who was playing with a shotgun. I claimed I
needed to drink to calm my nerves after freaking out about getting the car stuck. In reality I just wanted people to think I was cool.  Roy, who actually was cool, set about nursing a couple of long necks and talking to friends, probably making out with a hot chick somewhere along the way. I really don’t know because the rest of this story is basically second-hand information. I quickly downed the MadDog and proceeded to experience the first of what would prove to be far too many alcoholic blackouts — pretty much my signature move for about six years.
Here’s a list of a few of the things I am told I did at this party:
1. Played mock-football tackling drills on the shore of the creek with Clay Wiatrek. I’m pretty sure this was mostly him just pushing me gently to the ground to show how drunk I was.
2. Jumped back and forth over the campfire saying “Matt be nimble, Matt be quick, Matt jump over the campfire.”

Repeatedly.
3. Played mock-football tackling drills near a dilapidated picnic table with Clay Wiatrek. I’m told I blindsided him, sending him into this table that collapsed. A rusty nail went into his elbow and it immediately swelled up to the size of a softball. He would later go to the emergency room where he and Jack Hatley would instruct the medical staff not to do anything that cost money because they didn’t want his parents to find out.
4. Vomited all over myself, necessitating changing into someone else’s clothes.
5. Passed out in the backseat of the Olds, mindless of the business suit back there that I used for sheets.

For most people this would be enough for one night of adolescent stupidity. I mean, I sent a guy to the hospital for fuck’s sake. Alas, I am not most people. This odyssey of foolishness was far from over.

To be continued…

When applying to residency programs one must supply a “personal statement”, a term which is only vaguely defined by the programs demanding them. In the throes of panic one often will turn to the almighty Google for some hints as to the direction, format, and flavor these personal statements are supposed to take. For instance, after only 15 minutes of scouring the internet I realized that simply stating “To the window, to the walls, to the sweat drop down my balls” would not be a sufficient statement no matter how succinctly it encapsulates my personal philosophy.
Most websites that try to be helpful prior to selling their book, How to Write Your Way Into Residency: the 6 writing secrets that made DeBakey a success!, say to simply do three things in the essay: say what makes you great, say why you chose a particular field, and say what your ultimate career goals are. A few will go out of their way to suggest that you use personal anecdotes to give resonance to your personal statement. The following is an example of an anecdote I won’t be using, although if my dad were writing a personal statement I might suggest he use this story.
In November of my sophomore year at STJ I was on the JV basketball team and not playing that well after having to 
recover from an appendectomy at the beginning of the season. My coach routinely mentioned that 
someone who made grades as good as mine should have the mental capacity to avoid the types of mistakes I was prone to make on the court. His approach did nothing to alleviate the problem and only served to drive me into a shell from which I would not emerge until the summer I spent playing ball with Eugene the Machine at the park. At any rate, I was on the JV squad and shortly after my friend, I’ll call him Roy, got his driver’s license we had a Friday night game, the valiant foe’s identity escapes me now. Following this game there was to be one of the infamous Victoria “land parties”, which consist of a bunch of adolescents surreptitiously drinking a keg or whatever hooch they could lay hands on underneath the stars in the middle of some pasture spotted with cow patties while someone’s oversized stereo pumped Brooks and Dunn from their dually.
Whoever our opponent was that Friday night proved tougher than the mighty JV Flyers and handed us a tough defeat, though I didn’t play terribly. After the game Roy and I somehow convinced my parents that they should let Roy and I take my dad’s car out to this land party. I’m sure we lied like a couple of rugs, but seriously, who thinks it’s a good idea to let a kid who’s had his license all of three weeks take their car out to a pasture where adolescent hooliganism is bound to take place? My parents, alas, were dumbasses, and this night would prove me to be an even larger dumbass.

To be continued…

1. My current relationship is like the relationship between Magic Johnson and AC Green on the 1987 Lakers team. My wife is Magic — she drives Showtime to ever more dizzying heights. I am A.C. — a solid role player who performed adequately, but would never be confused for one of the stars of the team (also famously the butt of a joke from Charles Barkley mocking his devout Christianity: “A.C., if God is so good, why didn’t he give you a jump shot?”).
2. My current relationship could be likened to the initial incarnation of the Marvel Comics hero Speedball. Quirky with a smart aleck sense of humor that appeals to only the most hard core dorks, this hyperkinetic hero obtained his power from some vague other-dimension energy source. He has poor control over his powers; his chief attribute is the ability to bounce back from any blow with his “kinetic field” absorbing all kinetic energy and protecting him from harm. He’s hard to explain, but that doesn’t make him any less a hero.
3. My current relationship is like [censored]

Any winners? Back to the drawing board?

is not German scheisse videos as so many of you were just thinking. Instead I sort of collect metaphors in my head like a 17-year-old prostitute collects STDs. One of my favorites was given to me by my old college roommate, who likened the process of learning to play guitar to that of “shoving a fist into a vagina”.

I was reminded of this hobby this past weekend when I ran into my old high school girlfriend, TBTBMH*. I was reminded how vastly different we are and how we really never had anything in common with one another except for proximity. This brought to mind a metaphor I had developed in college to describe life in high school, and specifically this relationship. Life in high school is like being on a plane that’s spiraling out of control, headed for certain doom. You reach out for whoever is next to you not because you want to spend your final moments with that person but because they are simply there.

My current favorite metaphor describes my experience in medical school. Medical school has been for me similar to the experience of the guy who gets seventh in his heat at the Olympics. You always thought you were badass and had been successful at every level, until you came up against those who are truly world-class. A lot of people think just making the Olympics is a success but you still know you got blown out.

What are your favorite metaphors?**

 

 

*That Bitch That Broke My Heart

**I am fully aware that the examples mentioned here are all similes, but I don’t like the word simile, which is just a subset of metaphor anyway so put the nit-picking away. 

The top three bits of flotsam floating around in my head at the moment:

1. I realized yesterday that I’ve been immersed in internal medicine way too long. I initiated phase one of my “Back in shape over Spring Break” plan for world domination and found myself drinking my third pint of water in an hour. I immediately became concerned that I would be sending myself into hyponatremia due to polydipsia and forced myself to eat a handful of Pringles as prophylaxis.

2. I know I’ve hyped the firefox browser an awful lot in this space, but I’m close to withdrawing my support. The latest version sucks. I don’t know what they did, but it crashes a lot (especially when I check out cnn.com for some reason) and it allows a lot more of the ads to get through. Since avoiding advertising was far and away the biggest draw firefox held for me I’m thinking about switching permanently to Opera. Opera uses less memory, loads complex pages more quickly (especially gmail), has yet to crash in the few weeks I’ve had it, and has a better password saving system. The drag on Opera is the lack of extensibility that allows you to customize and add features at your whim. Opera seemingly blocks all popup ads, but you can’t get rid of embedded ads as some extensions in firefox (used to) allow you to do. It does, however, have a ton of cool themes (or “skins”). I’m not ready to completely jump ship yet, but I expect it will happen soon unless the next version of firefox is less buggy.

3. Phenie learned how to say mama and dada this week, but still just makes the noises without any meaning attached. Still, it’s awesome to hear her say “aaooyaayaa dada gablahfff”.

I watched the first three quarters of the UT-OSU football game on television at the student center this evening. They closed at 10, so I had to listen to the fourth quarter on the radio. What a fucking nail-biter. After the game I got online to look at the stats and what not. I had a pretty bad headache and joked to my wife about the high blood pressure the game had given me. I had to blow my nose while browsing the stats and there was fucking blood-tinged mucus. My blood pressure got so high the tiny capillaries in my nasal mucosa must have ruptured. Ah, sweet, sweet malignant hypertension. I should have a stroke any minute now. I’m sure my retinas are pooling with blood as I type. Luckily this is the only weekend I have off during College Football Season, so this won’t likely recur. I gotta learn to relax.

I’m finally getting my third year off the ground (8 weeks after most of my classmates). I’m starting on the Hematology-Oncology service at Children’s Medical Center. Today I met my first kid who’s going to die. And not in the sense that we’re all going to die. More in the inoperable brain tumor unresponsive to chemo/radiation, doing physical therapy so he can move well enough to go home and die in his own bed  at age 10 sense.

 

 

 

 

I miss my baby.