Thursday, July 29, 2010

I was going to write a post every day. I was going to capture third year in all its glorious complexity, the mad fervor, the fear, the vindication.

Instead I ended up fighting off a sickening depressive episode, barely managing to secure an acceptable grade for my first rotation when in fact I thought getting through the six weeks without doing real, visceral damage to myself should be counted as an 'honors' of sorts. "Congratulations, you're alive, and not sobbing in the fetal position at the nurses' station or running down Euclid Avenue with nothing on but your scrub top and an isolation mask." You take what you can get.

It's not that I don't care. I do. But when I get depressed (not, 'oh, I'm having a bad day,' but really, truly depressed) I'm totally behind the eight ball. Screwed. Survival Mode.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Maybe I'm not as crazy as I think. For the past few weeks, I've occasionally been seeing my uncle. No, not in dreams. In Forest Park, or on the train, or in the hospital cafeteria. And not just a flash of him, either--not a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, not a matter of seconds. I see him clearly, looking at me, smiling, and then vanishing into thin air. Now you see it, now you don't--a sleight of hand at once both comforting and cruel--and, apparently, quite common (though no one talks about it).