(Second) 24 Hours in Chicago

The following morning we paid our debt to our hedonism. Barré opened the curtains and flooded the room with a menancing, bright, white sky and John Hancock much to the chagrin of my no sensitive eyes. The following hour was nebulous. I spent it drifting in and out of consciousness, tearing myself between the need for more sleep and the desire to reconquer Chicago. I tried to recall if I had done anything suitably embarrassing the prior evening and was sweetly soured that I had not.

As any good young professional, I quickly checked my email on my shiny Treo and made sure the world wasn't falling apart in my absence via my beloved Washington Post. By this time, Barré was finished with 90% of his grooming and L'Évêque was finished with 90% of his swooning. Thus, we gussied up and layered to prepare for those bitter glacial gales that Chicago, in all of its glorious hospitality, shared so readily with us.

Now, I really haven't been to Starbucks since that one chick on Westheimer nexus-of-the-universe Starbucks got that paper stuck in her cheeks (especially since I found Inversion), but of course when its 25 outside, any heated place with hot beverages will do. After a blizzard of text messages, L'Évêque joined us for light fair and we formulated our next plan...more clothes.

The Magnificent Mile provided us with no shortage of places to browse all sorts of cold weather garments. We envied their style and the warmth they promised, and lamented that we would wear such fare maybe twice a year. Thank you balmy Houston. In any case, L'Évêque of course caught no shortage of attention from passersby. I'm going to assume it was his cologne. We walked along the Chicago River, pretended the snow was cocaine, and tried to retain any heat that we could. This was rounded out by another stroll through the eerily familiar Halstead and its galleries. Modernist oil paintings corn fields, cowboys, and coy boys captured l'Évêque's heart or the very least attention. Unfortunately, a gallery owner wasn't able to capitalize on l'Evêque's receptiveness given his abrassive and less than sincere nature. This was juxtaposed by other new friends later that evening.

We later joined a friend of l'Évêque and her boyfriend. We'll call her Mittens. Mittens hails from l'Évêque's days at Rice. We arrived at a gorgeous condo on Lake Short Drive, quickly waved goodbye to our Nigerian cabby, and were whisked up to a deluxe apartment in the sky. As we walked out the elevator, the ebullient and equally sharp-tongued Mittens greets us at the glossy, and newly painted door. L'Évêque and Mittens had their requisite excited exchanges of past, present, and future, wine was poured and hearts were opened. Oh, yeah. I'll introduce you guys to HAM. If it is any reflection of Mittens, HAM is the acronym that she had given her boyfriend. It stands for Hot Asian Man. There are rumored to be sections of Chicago that don't know her Asian adonis' real name (and quite honestly I've also fallen victim as well).

In any case, we made dinner plans down the street, braved the newly falling snow, hailed a new Nigerian cabby, and arrived with new exchanges of accounting, Bangkok, and psychiatry. Dusk had apparently pounced our quintet without warning and we were once again enveloped in a inky night and snow glowing orange under the street lamps. We arrived at our restaurant. In very much the vein of the evening, we introduced ourselves to the waitress who was cousins or something-or-other with a bartender in Houston that l'Évêque and Barré knew. This didn't necessarily speed the wait for a table, but at the very least gave us no excuse for declining a round of aperitifs. The evening flowed fluidly...as did the increasingly worrisome curtains of snow outside.

"Any plans tonight?" Mitten's inquired

"Uh, yeah, we're going to take it a bit easier tonight; we're going to Second City." L'Évêque responded in a tone that lightly alluded to his valiant defense of youthfulness the prior evening.

With the assistance of Mittens we grabbed another cab (not a Nigerian) and headed to Second City. Second City is a venerable Chicago institution that serves as a feeder school for Saturday Night Live. Live comedy sketches and improv. Oodles of fun. We were fortunate to grab some tickets for "The Pratfalls of Civilization." Per usual in my friendly nature, with heaps of goodnatured sarcasm and a hope, with our tickets in hand, I asked the Matre d', "So are you going to give us some good seats?" Add wide, toothy, puppy-dog smile here.

She straightened her back, peered above her black-rimmed glasses, and loosely grasped her wax pencil between her fingers as a night-walker would a cigarette in front of her john. With a startling sobriety and a Midwestern economy of words she responded, "You know we don't give good seats when people ask for them." Add the nervous laughter of our Houston trio here. Fortunately, my apparent faux pas was not punished, and received what could be described as three very decent seats. We close enough to the stage to fear involuntarily participation but were thankfully not subjected to such. The show was hilarious and random. My favorite was the unrelenting (and of course, cute) Niki Lindgren, the hilarious jihadi "comedy terrorists," and what can only be described as a miraculous impromptu opera performance from a visiting Japanese audience member with a shirt that ready, "I'm kinda a big deal." Agreed. The couple in front of us reeked of first-date. She was tepid and less than engaging thin blonde who managed to keep her coat on the entire performance. I'm sure she thought of it as her armor against her date. He was a docile (and terribly hopeful) 30-something that smelled of Old Spice and defeat. When the show had slow spots, it was at the very least entertaining to watch those two. Despite their somber mood, the rest of the show was hysterically funny.

For those in the know, I have this habit of crying when I laugh too hard, and I was in no short supply that evening. I worried that my hard lemonade would dehydrate me, but fortunately it didn't have nearly enough alcohol to be in any real danger. We glowed after the show and were off like a prom dress.

"Damn."
We gazed outside to what can only be described as Siberia. The earlier fiercely billowing snow portended the oppressive and unrelenting force just outside the theater. Each yard seemed like a mile. My initial frivolity hardened to memories of shoveling these blankets in front of us, slipping unexpectedly to find the bottom of my shoes acquainting themselves with the brisk air, and the odd sensation of not having sensation or control of my previously dexterous fingers. We trudged through the stuff and eventually found (read as stole) a cab to our now beloved homebase Sofitel Water Tower. As it was about 2am or so, we quietly retired to a well-deserved slumber.

The next day?

We fed our exhaustion at a New Orleans style brunch, had a quick tour of the impressive Art Institute of Chicago, and of course bade farewell (for a few days) to l'Évêque as he was to stay for a little more business and pleasure.

Clearly the best three day weekend I've had in these 6 months as "Dr. Webster."

First 24 Hours in Chicago

As on homage to the New York Times' "36 Hours in ____"I thought I'd share similarly for my rather impromptu getaway to the Windy City.

I must admit I was a bit reticent at the thought of a rather rash decision to go to Chicago. Usually my trips are planned a bit more methodically. However, given my new modus operandi of Do if you have no reason not to do, I surrendered my compulsions to control to a really exciting prospect.

At my favorite wine bar, La Carafe, my favorite pedigreed PMB4 and I were joined by the gregarious Barré. As the Malbec flowed, so did conversations about life as a psychiatry resident, an amazing free party Barré scored with, and of course travel. Travel is a recent sore spot for me as my ex-lover wanderlust has been malevolently murdered by my beloved and jealous Menninger Department of Psychiatry. My stories of Bangkok and Beijing, Buenos Aires and beautiful Paris are the only remaining vestiges of a life once lived with a well-worn passport. But I digress.

"Yeah, I'm going to Chicago in two weeks...Hey, you wanna go?"

Add the startled, faltering thoughts of yours truly. "...Chicago. What reason do I have NOT to go...nope....nothing yet..."

An abrupt "Yyy..Yeah!" freed itself from the cold grip of my superego and leaped from my tongue joyously in an octave unfamiliar since 8th grade.

And thus 60 Hours in Chicago was borne.

I nervously filed for my first vacation day since starting residency six months ago and thus, Barré and our friend l'Evêque set off to a road less traveled. Actually that's a bit untrue. They've got Continental Elite status, and were bumped to First Class, and Chicago is nothing less than a thoroughfare.

"Um...excuse me. Yeah, someone in First sent you a screwdriver...I mean, you can have it if you want. They already paid for it." A rather reluctant stewardess intimated as my fellow coach passenger in the aisle seat casually glanced at his watch.

Yeah, I know its 8:20, but you know its been that sort of week.

After we braved an hour subway ride into town, given Barré's amazing rewards points we were able to drop our bags at the ubermodern and swank Sofitel Chicago Water Tower. Though cabbing it was clearly the yuppie thing to do, slumming it to the Sofitel seemed to ironically delicious to pass. Our eyes widened as we were accosted by a huge window that seemed to leap to the street and invite the terrifyingly large Hancock building intrusively close.

"Damnit."

Barré hit his head on the glass.

"Did you see that?" An incredulous Louisiana native points to the evidence of his miscalculation , a small smudge on an otherwise immaculate window pane.
First? Deep dish pizza of course. Our waiter was slower and more elusive than information from the Bush Administration. Drinks at the John Hancock Building? Of course. Why pay $20 for an imbibeless observatory when you can get $12 drinks at the bar above it? Food coma followed, a preparatory nap was ordered, and then off to have tapas with my med school campadre and Nashville-London-Saudi Arabia native, Dr. Mathew (she's the one with the staw in her mouth). She and her more-than-enjoyable co-resident joined our Houston-based trio for tapas at the delicious Café Iberico. Sangría flowed as did sentences like "One of my favorite Ugandan pop stars...," "She's so not Mexican...", and "In my unbiased opinion as a mental health professional, he's an asshole because..."

Bliss.

Bliss was followed by a rather cozy ride to Lincoln park to hang with l'Évêque's former co-worker's friend's birthday party. Yup. That's how we roll. Fortunately my attentions were concentrated on learning about life in Chicago from the two emergency medicine residents and of course singing along to the one-man band with a spars coterie of corn-fed Anglos. This is John Mayer country.

We parted ways with my fellow brown people, and the trifecta cabbed it suitably to Halstead. Although partially out of my element, I had an amazing time. The music was somewhere between P. Diddy and Daft Punk but my friend Tom Collins took care of that. Of note, never accept drinks called "Screaming Nazi" from even your closest friends.

Relatedly l'Évêque found true love on the dance floor in the form of a rather youthful looking 29 year-old with convenient digs around the corner. I must say, I've either underestimated l'Évêque's cologne or overestimated his superego.

"Did you see that?" An incredulous Maryland native points to the evidence of his miscalculation , a small smudge on otherwise immaculate Carmex. Clearly some of use know how to have more fun than others.

The 27 degree wind seemed naive and coquettish as Barré and I stumble blissfully to the street buzzing with new pairs. It seemed the intoxicating mix of music, frigid temperatures, and Chicago sensibility allowed for hasty excuses to begin parties of their own. Houston sensibility allowed us to hail a cab to be whisked warmly to homebase, the Sofitel.

That was just the first day.

Non Sequitur

Absolutely ecstatic. Hopefully this photo will one day be used as a photographic metaphor for two future Menninger Department of Psychiatry graduates. Certainly its got to be a lot more compelling than those stodgy Freud photos. Kheli khoob Arashjoon!

Joie de Vivre

First and foremost, its been quite the hectic few weeks. Here are some of the highlights:

1. Fender bender mi madre's Mercedes (fixed).
   
2. More call than the law allows (three left).
   
3. Patient's that won't talk to me, or talk FAR too much (committed, and medicated)
   
4. Triple booked appointments (mercifully canceled)
   
5. Ms. Ella's passing (expected and cathartic)

Fortunately, its also been amazing:

1. 60 amazing hours in snowy Chicago with Barré and L'Évêque (that I can recall)
   
2. Balmy December evenings in Houston (merci à Inversion Coffee and my parents above)
   
3. A thoroughly polished pecan pie recipe (merci à Mme Ella)
4. Amazing post-Grand Rounds conversations (19th century French artists' depictions of the mentally ill)
5. Great new additions to our class next year (gotta love those Persians)

So in short an absolute whirlwind. The recent passing of my grandmother certainly has put in focus the fragility and preciousness of life. As such, I've redoubled my efforts toward the pursuit of happiness. Its amazing what can be done when your thinking shifts from, "Why?" to "Why not?"

The result has been an amazing macroweekend (read three-day weekend) in Chicago; this was my first vacation day in 6 months. Increased efforts toward writing with Psychiatric Journals in mind. More meetings with faculty for career development, and meeting with friends for social development. Lastly, and most importantly, more savory and satisfying morsels of the marrow of life.

I've got three more psychiatry calls left before I head to the dark side (6 months of non-psychiatry) and I'm trying to convince myself that these endeavors will not fall victim to rotations that do not value quality of life. In any case, I'll certainly try. At the very least, my fellow psychophile, Leroy will join me on Neurology come January.

I certainly hope the future remains as bright as it seems.

Shut Your Pie Hole

These beauties were courtesy of my grandma's recipes. My contributions to what will no doubt be a part of a memorable meal tomorrow. Yuuuum. Mom is buzzing away in the kitchen downstairs, dad has tucked away to bed after his apple cake and prep work. I've stolen a moment before sleep, blissfully away from the constant frenetic motion that is my life in Houston's Texas Medical Center. The life of an intern.

Non Sequitur

Things are pretty fluid right now so it only seemed fitting to post this picture of a fountain outside the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires.

Baba Yega and Sunshine

This is the view I had from my blanket in Hermann Park. This is why I love Houston.

For a city that can be plagued by the most distressing adjectives and the unfortunate association with petroleum economy, it certainly has the best fall, winter, and spring.

Today, I had the pleasure of sharing a wonderful brunch with Renu, Dowin, Lindsay, and Kay ay are aye tee ayche (he likes to spell it) at Baba Yega. Like Houston, Baba Yega is made up of a seemingly unwieldy patchwork of parts, is defiantly cheap, and is absolutely delightful in the fall. We were ushered to the second level which looks into the oak and palm shaded courtyard and its merciful and beautiful fountain. A nice breeze swept its way through the wood floors and conversation. We must have eaten ourselves silly with the omelettes, quiche, smoked salmon, bacon, but our collective creativity gave way to a novel Houston experience.

"Yeah....we should go to the park."

And thus we went as a matter of course, after of course a round of mimosas. These are the days that I covet. Plenty of sun to bronze and warm the skin, awkward water foul wandering about, and the music of ticklish leaves vibrating with the autumn zephyr. Sigh.

The hours slipped by under the oak canopy by Hermann park lake. I didn't clutch to my James Baldwin novel as closely as I thought I would; it was simply to gorgeous to ignore such beauty around. Instead, I only made it through a couple dozen pages and spent the rest of the time gabbing it up with my favorite South Indians, Nashvillian, and the premier Blackmanophile this side of the NBA.

KC and I were later joined by his petite amie and her incredibly high energy Jack Russell Terrier that I inadvertently christened "Fancy" versus his more aptly designated name, "Turbo." Relentless this little bugger was. Every dog that passed, Fancy felt that it was his personal responsibility to fervently demonstrate his enthusiasm with the most remarkable display as follows.

1. An imperceptibly quick turn and subsequent silent glare to confirm the presence of a fellow canine approaching on the walk.
2. The most tense and spring-loaded launch from his hind quarters that would with a torrent of barking that would make any White House spin doctor green with jealousy.
3. Subsequent vain attempts a quieting and calming Fancy followed by apologetic smiles and shrugs from our blanket.
4. A good laugh and repeat.

Afro-Mexicano Party

So first, off there are no pictures. Sorry, somehow I managed not to take a single picture of the twin birthday party of Leroy and myself. Although I would like to say that it was simply to avoid future political liability, our little fete was in fact fairly tame.

Fortunately, given my OCD hosting tendencies, I was not a casualty of the lychee martinis, the birthday cake shots, the pomegranate margaritas, the Red Stripes, the Moscato d'Asti's, the Gevurztraminers, or any of the fancifully named libations of that evening. Thankfully however, others did not share my fate. It was quite the motley mix that evening of hetero/queer, brown/white, and med/anything else. Certainly these are the places that I find myself most comfortable, so it was a suitably enjoyable evening.

I found some clever inspiration and decided to have some random artsy photos you may have seen (for example 1, 2, 3, 4, 5) displayed on my beautiful 32" Samsung. Pretty fitting given that most there were fairly random and at the very least interesting. There were the incredibly lively coterie of small Asian women of Leroy's partner, the random Houston energy workers, physical and occupational therapies finest practitioners, and of course the nations next wave of surgeons, psychiatrists, pediatricians, and goodness knows who else.

The best part? A very awkward cake cutting (with pictures I've yet to verify) after a lively late 20s rendition of "Happy Birthday to You." This was immediately followed by a quick retreat by yours truly of all things that pertain to marriage. Conversation of my colleagues' past relationships, Eddie Murphy's early music career (see below), and Red China (the unfortunate consequence of ethyl alcohol and our Chinese friend Ben).

Overall a GREAT night without wincing from the politely invited and delightfully absent neighbors. 26 it is.

¡Feliz Compleaños! Friday

26? I thought the view from up here would be a better, but I can't say I'm disappointed.

Courtesy of a beautifully flexible call schedule, I've managed the near impossible: a gorgeously sunny and warm, call-free weekend. Usually, I can squeeze out warm but not call-free, or oppressively hot and call-free. Gorgeous (read as upper 70s accompanied by a cheek kissing breeze) is hard to come by when I have the time, but alas I digress.

It was my birthday! And what a birthday it was.

Let's start with Friday. Friday, the venerable Colonel and his missus joined the ranks of Houston's restaurant goers to celebrate the anniversary of my birth and newly complete financial freedom at the tastebud bewitching Hugo's. Let me not misguide you; while we've established a pecuniary independence, this was on their dime, their very generous dime. In any case, as has been the case since I've been able to make restaurant recommendations, I attempted to pick a place that would please the most picky of palates (read as the Colonel) or one most suffering from ennuie (read as my more adventurous mother). Several weeks ago at a resident gathering at the posh Bustamante-Barré's, PMB4 and I were discussing his recent experience at Hugo's. You could practically see his pupils dilate with the gastronomic memory, and thus my decision was made. Authentic upscale Mexican it is.

So, my (as usual early) parents arrived, swiftly began taking the first photos of me in a long white coat, danced a bit, joked a bit, and finally we were off for our rather difficult 6:30 reservation. The woman over the phone offered us a patio seat (remember that its a gorgeous weekend), but Texan sensibility overcame us all and we opted for an interior table, by a very busy and jovial hostess.

"You're waitress will be right with you."

Immediately the coolness of the vent began to wear out its welcome. Mom quickly requested that the colonel navigate valet and obtain her scarf, and then just as quickly we then requested another table. And thank goodness too. The second table was near a thoroughfare, but at the very least our eyes could venture through the windowpanes to enjoy the beauty of east Westheimer and the 1970s minimall across the street (who is blissfully camouflaged by trees and lights). My eyes are always a bit hungry for dynamic scenes, so this suited me nicely. My parents are always a bit hungry so this suited them as well.

"Hmm...how about this one. " I chose a nice aperitif before deciding on a course, and as a matter of course, my mom chose to join me in my drink, with a reluctant "I'll have one too" from my dad. Minutes later these words were regretted by their pseudo-retired owners as the drink was not in fact iced tea as my mother originally surmised. Hilarious.

"Oh my goodness. I can feel it burn my chest." The irony of my mom feeling warm did not escape my father and we had a nice laugh as usual. Conversation swirled around their recent 30th anniversary trip to Rome, recent events on the ranch-ito, plans for a family trip, dad's shiny Canon SLR, psychiatry, and of course, like all good Black people, the ridiculousness of "compassionate conservatism" and its loathsome father, Republicanism.


We shared the most delicious ceviche I've had since Panama, cochinita, barbacoa, salmon, mexican hot chocolate, churros, crepes con leche, and some really great togetherness that my residency schedule has made a bit more rare.

Memories of grade school confession flooded me as my tongue was absolutely nonplussed with the most deliciously sinful flavors it has experienced in a while. Roasted cocoa beans, chipotle pork, salmon that melts and entrances. I needn't waste time with what cannot be adequately described, but needless to say, it joins some other pretty notable dining experiences.

Without question on e of the best evenings I've spent with our trio of Websters and certainly one of the more delicious. With half-open eyes, a suitably lazy gait, and beautiful smiles, we made our way to the valet. Hopefully we'll be able to recreate the experience in the near future. I also hope this bodes well for 26. In the meantime...thank goodness for family.

Best Meals...EVER:
Peking Duck - Beijing China
Medallón de Lomo Tenderloin at Cabañas las Lilas in Buenos Aires
Confit de Canard - Paris
Glâce Bertillon (Citron vert) - Paris
Pomegranate Sorbet One Midtown Kitchen - Atlanta
My Uncle Wayne's Barbecue - Brenham, Texas

Orange Wheels of FIRE

Despite spending more time with these guys than Tyra's legion of pseudo-ingénues on America's Next Top Model with eachother, we still want to spend more. Last week we had a psychiatry resident retreat (i.e. a day off together). Entire hospitals were sans residents for we were at...guess where...a ROLLER SKATING RINK. I can't begin to tell you for how many weeks I looked forward to that glorious day.

After an incredibly awkward period of group activities that these things necessitate (believe me, I can't even BEGIN to tell you), we were accosted by a 6in taller, rolling fourth year resident fresh from an empty floor.

"Are you guys going out to skate?"

Everything within me tried to hold back from running to the rental desk as I rather briskly walked toward an impossibly far counter. The rental guy asked, "What size?" to which I cooly replied, "Hmm...11.5. That should do."
"Oh we don't have half sizes."

(flash images of less than elegantly rapid turns as I gaze toward rows of hypnotizing orange wheels)

"Oh wait, you want the standard four wheels? Oh."

(flash images of beautifuly elegant rapid turns of my grade-school youth)

"SWWWEEEET."

As I pushed past pleasantly bemused future mental health professionals the smell of rented leather and plastic quickly brought me back to at least a dozen birthday parties for the brace-laden, at least three of those parties were mine. How great. I fantasized about the turns, ducks, swishes, and of course aborted falls of the YMCA, Carousel Skating Rink, and many others.

My age betrayed me.

Apparently 25 year olds are much less malleable than 10 year olds so I thankfully aborted an immediate attempted fall. After 10 minutes of reintroducing my 4th grade fearlessness to my higher center of gravity and earnings potential, I was good to go. Much to the chagrin of Candace and Jenn I was turning, ducking, swishing, and of course aborting falls...which of course led to their own. Sorry guys. For the next couple of hours, we were playing pop the whip with people who normally would consider such a phrase a sexual fetish or satomasochism. There were relay races with the admirable efforts of our binary residency directors. I miraculously won a race against an intern, a second year, and a fast looking child and adolescent psychiatry fellow. The second year had a bit of a spill of the floor and as such I was obliged to replace him as the leader just before the finish line.

And the steal.

A great time by all. We interns topped it off with an afternoon of margaritas at Jenn's house so as to forget about the rapidly approaching soreness from the days activities. If I hadn't already begun planning my birthday party I would SO rent out the place for a birthday.

CLARO.

$3 a month

Actual conversation:

Mama Hoang: There's a benefit for old poor people at Kim Son. Would you be interested in going? You know you can feed them for $3 a month.

Leroy: Really? We should go there.

Good thinking Leroy.

Non Sequitur

Yeah, I don't get it either. I spotted these at the Labor Day Classic with Prairie View A&M University vs. Texas Southern University.

Let Me Ex-spain.

So its official. We're Spanish. ¿Qué sorpresa?

So, as some may know, my dad's family, the venerable McAfees, trace their history in the Americas to Atlanta (then Terminus) in the early 19th century. We all get together every year around the country to celebrate our shared heritage and of course our rather idiosyncratic proboscis. This year, apparently, they decided to do a little ancestral digging, Watson style.

So there has been some talk of using DNA testing to discover what would otherwise be, impossibly difficult to attain African ancestry. Fortunately, the McAfee's have been blessed with pretty solid records of our ensalved African ancestors, and of course our European forefathers. Native American? Well, they're in there somewhere. In any case, this year they decided to do a some DNA testing, which is apparently quite popular, to see where in Africa we all come from.

Guess where?

Apparently, a little known part of Africa called Spain. Kinda of a surprise. Not that it means so much, but apparently our Spanish nucleotides are quite obstinate. Anyway, just thought I'd share. Unfortunately, this has done little to sharpen my Spanish language skills.

Somos españoles.

Non Sequitur

Ah the country. It serves as a good counterpoint to the hustle and bustle of work. I didn't get a chance to go recently but CLEARLY I've got a nice weekend approaching rapidly. Maybe, I'll see you there at the Webster ranchito, Dancing Oaks. You can smell sweet sunshine there.

Hurricane Engagement.

Finalmente.

So, My closest Morehouse friend and Boogers got engaged. Unfortunately I was in such a rush to get over there that night after brunch (yeah you read right), that I completely neglected my camera.

Sigh.

In any case, I'll post the photo of the two I framed for them; it was the first evening they were all googly-eyed to each other in public. Think David Beckham and his paycheck.

Admittedly, I clearly was the last to know about the two being an item. I've known DB since college (way back when) and I've seen my dearest Malyalam Bedford-native vomit in one star southern Egyptian 'hotels.' The odd thing is, my relationships with them were completely independent. I'd shoot the Scheiße with DB over some sort of organized sport, esoteric indy film, or some delicious multi-culti food. For the flaca South Asian we'd play ping pong ad nauseum, feign resistance to game night at the Afropersian's place, and globe trot together. Great stuff, eh?

Then they had to get all lubby dubby. I'd call one and get the other. I'd want to go out mysteriously they'd be unavailable during evening hours. Then the most miraculous thing happened.
Hurrican Rita.

I know, I know. Acts of God generally aren't thought of as blessings. Especially hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico circa 2005, but let me explain. As any logical human being would, I decided to evacuate, mercifully ending my surgery rotation. So who do I take with me to inland Texas? DB and Flaca of course (Kevin my roomy declined a speedy logical exit for other reasons).

People reported spending 18 hours in traffic, suffering from late summer Texas heat reflected by a rivers of concrete highway. Others say they siphoned gas just to get going given the shortage. We shopped for routers and were greeted by my grandmother's pie. With some creative motoring and back roads we were 100 miles inland in two hours.

Essentially we made an extended weekend of the ordeal and got allot closer (in a non-biblical sense). Our trio traded stories, ate delicious food, watched movies, soaked in some cool night air, and star-gazed. Since then the whole DB-Flaca thing was demystified and any question of how and why was replaced by "finally."

Two years later I still feel this and am terribly grateful that I will forever be able to see them together. We toasted the couple after a emphatic 'yes' response earlier that Sunday evening. In any case, congratulations again! My your new relationship be as delighful as our Hurricane...and less initially anxiety provoking.

Incognegro

I promise I'm still alive. Many many things to talk about. Fortunately things have gotten a bit more busy than my beautiful lazy days of fourth year medical school. So, alas, patients (there is a not so subtle pun in there).

Just so you know, I'm not near the picture above, but think of it quite often. Its no Shetland Islands but everyone needs something, eh?

Just a moment

That first day in July

With what I can only accurately describe as an absolutely miraculous white coat, I entered blazing, sunny court besides the garage. Patients, physicians, and nurses seemed to slowly vibrate and swirl around me as my walk to the building seemed imperceptibly slow; like mountains or childhood. The wind flickered the heavy fabric that would be my shield (the shield is a reference to our white coat ceremony speech given by an amazing pedi surgeon).

...as for the ides?

My shield, it wears the scent of veterans, evening travails, 2am tears, and my favorite and very carefully chosen indefatigable micro ballpoint pens. It protects my path as I glide through the Commons, down the halls, and through daily allegory. Its tightly woven cotton paradoxically shines to the deepest corners of my new sense of profession and warms my clumsily honed practice of empathy.

Though at the end of the day, when I exit the building and take the same path through the court, my miraculous white coat scrubs away any (for now, gossamer or forgotten) frustration and makes indelible those reasons I deftly and delicately placed in the interior of my heart. It oddly, but perhaps appropriately, reminds me of those ubiquitous intensely sweet and glowing countenances emblazoned on new mothers that betrayed even the most pain-replete and exhausting births. Though these two weeks are but a moment, a few grains of sand in the glass, I certainly hope I can always revisit this place in time. Its bliss, its mine to share, and we're just getting started.

Non Sequitur

My favorite Houston haunt, La Carafe, with some friends. David and Kiran are pictured, but sheepish Ina declined the photo (by declined I mean repeatedly put her hand on the lens). A very recent pre-residency Tuesday night.

Anxiolytic Calls

"I've got a suicidal patient on the line, would you mind if I merged the call?"

Yeup. I was to manage a suicidal call into the hospital. Compared to the fake Code Green of earlier today, I must say that my heart rate went astronomical. How was I, a novice intern on his first night of call, going to talk someone out of lethal action and get them to the hospital? Huh. Quite the formidible challenge. Thankfully, again for training call, I had my now favorite Atlantan by my side to coach me through with rapidly written questions on some loose leaf.

We'll call the guy Mr. Sad.

"Mr. Sad this is Dr. Webster, can you tell me what's going on right now? Alot of people are worried about you."
"Well. I just want to end it all. Its too much."

Thus began our talk. I clearly donned my most calming, empathetic voice and prayed my anxiety would not bleed through the line. Think, midnight slow jams DJs on R&B stations.

Mr. Sad talked of his recent failure out of college, his loss of a job, loss of financial security, and the threat of being kicked out of the house by his mother. Apparently, he had been experiencing a debilitating depression since his December despite taking his medications.

"I just feel like everything makes me snap...I just...feel low and stuck."

Well, as for the latter half of his sentence I must admit that he was not the only one that felt a bit low and stuck. All I could think about is just keeping the guy on the phone and trying to organize a way for him to get to the hospital.

We spent about 20 minutes chatting while we (the nurse on the phone and I) located his brother to get him to our ER (he declined an ambulance or police officer ride). He seemed to finally be letting off some of his steam and simmering down a bit. Similarly the newness of the situation melted off a bit and I found a warm compassionate place to come from. It worried me that there were firearms in the home (as so many vets have), but I was comforted by the arrival of his brother to his house and hearing his mother in the background.

"Alright. Its absolutely important that you come to the ER as soon as possible. We'll all waiting for you so we can help you through this difficult time. I'll be waiting for you at the ER."

Those were a long 30 minutes. Mr. Sad lived far from the city and although my sense was he would definitely be arriving there is always that fear. We eventually saw in the ER and admitted him to the ward. He seemed deeply thankful for our visit. The nature of psychiatry is such that you never really have control. It becomes painfully more clear when your twiddling your thumb on the cord as you stare at a computer screen tens of miles away from a very acute situation.

My Atlantan training wheels put my mind to ease and congratulated me on a fine job.

"Your voice. You'd be a great psychotherapist. Its just so relaxing. It just makes me want to go to sleep."

Let's hope so. Speaking of which I hope I can pack in some sleep. The blood pressures on the floor have cropping up again. Let's hope the night staff is resilient and my drug choices adequate.

One life saved.

Code Green

"Code Green Unit 5A, Code Green Unit 5A"

Thus began my first Code Green (i.e. psychiatric emergency). As this is my first call, I've got a set of beautiful training wheels, a very capable and calming third year resident. As I was, ahem, updating the blog (after a looong break courtesy of orientation week), the words above dispassionately filled the room from the intercom and drowned out Venus Williams' vocal serves on the waiting room television. We briskly exited the clinic.

"Is your heart rate up yet?"

Yup. Certainly was. Remarkably though I was still grasping calm. I was desperately trying to clear the clouds of our orientations to think of exactly what to do. Thankfully, I had the fast-walking Atlantan by my side to elucidate the details. What level of Haldol? How much Ativan? I'm not supposed to use Benadryl, right?

This was quickly replaced images of what awaited us on internal medicine's fifth floor. Images of a charging half-naked, obese, gray-haired veteran came to mind. Then there was the thought of a feces-flinging new schizophrenic break. By the time I had psyched myself out (no pun intended), we arrived to hear an exasperated :

"Yeah, no problem now. He was just trying to leave AMA (against medical advice) and with his IV still in his arm (a big no no). His doctor told him that he can't be discharged right now; he's in an emergency surgery."

That's it? Huh. So, we enter this patient's room to find a IV-less ornary old man with an incredibly appropriate hat that read, "Dysfunctional Veteran, Leave Me Alone." Will do. After some coaxing, and of course the arrival of half a dozen police officers, he calmed down a bit and was allowed to leave donning a scruffy disposition with his physician's new blessing ten minutes later.

Apparently the threshold for calling for a Code Green on the internal medicine ward is a bit lower than I expected. The rush melted away, and I've retreated to the clinic.

Chuy Margaritas

A whirlwind. This is how I can best describe my transition between Cecil Webster, Medical Student to Cecil Webster, MD.

We might as well start at the beginning. As you may know last week was the official start of orientation. Five days of orientation. Nine fresh new interns, two second year residents and myself were to arrive at the formidable MEDVAMC (Michael E. DeBakey Veteran Affairs Medical Center) a hospital as large as its name. While some love the VA with its design-by-committee color scheme and federal-government-mauve tile, I admittedly was a bit reticent about beginning my psychiatry career here. So, after finding some parking I walked past a river of muddy flag-adorned trucks, Buicks, and of course the gaggle of valets that attended to them.

I got lost of course somewhere on the cavernous sixth floor, but I did bump into Leroy, a fellow intern. With a bit of walking, and my apologies for not being better oriented to the building, we made our way to the bright, albeit windowless, orientation room. After a steady stream of smiling faces, and introductions we got down to business. As anyone that has worked for the federal government knows, there was a deafening bureaucracy to wade through. Patience and enthusiasm was still fresh so we tolerated this 10 hour imposition. This was followed by the public hospital's orientation, BCM's orientation, the Department's orientation, and of course the orientation for psychiatry specifically at each of those hospitals. Sprinkle on some Compliance training (still think of that as an odd choice of words) and voilà. Orientationed out.

Thankfully, my fellow green colleagues are really cool. We're quite the motley crew. There are New Jerseyans, Tennesseans, Floridians, Marylanders (I suppose I can still count myself as one)and of course Texans near and far. The program director, at an evening party at her house, described us "quite a fun group" hopefully not euphemistically as we stayed about 45 minutes past the scheduled party's end. One of the very things that attracted me to the department was the sense of togetherness (not a stuffy remoteness that I experienced frequently although not invariably in the Northeast), and it seems like we'll have no problem with that. Already we've had a casual happy hour at Amazon Grill and an inaugural round of margaritas at Chuy's. We learned a little more about eachother. Jenn is uber-eager to buy a house, Alauna is hilarious as all hell, and Ben flushes at a quarter of a margarita. Nice.

Besides this there are other tidbits. There are former Nepal Peace-Corps members, siblings of spellers featured in Spellbound, and well-worn passport porters.

After a mercifully restful Sunday (my patients were seen by the soon-to-be-offservice second years), coupled with the arrival of my roomate back in town, and a visit from my mother, all was well. I pressed my gorgeous white coat...and its quite the handsome medi-cape. Laid out my best I-promise-I'm-older-than-I-look shirt, tie, and slacks. Tucked myself in to my newly cleaned bedroom and blissfully dreamed of sunny days with fanciful well-managed, compliant, schizophrenics. While I do not doubt that may I come up a bit short in regards to my career-eve dream, I do think that I will don a drowsy smile for the next four years. C'est commencé. Wish me luck.

Mon Mal

Okay, so I haven't been updating so often, I know. But its not my fault, promise. I've been in a tireless streak of orientations, departmental get-togethers, dinners, and happy hours. So, alas, today is the last day, and I begin real life on Monday. I WILL update properly I promise, but in the meantime, I've gathered the following information during this week.
1. I've got free healthcare insurance!
2. I'll be working hard. HARD for the next two years of my four year residency.
3. I'm going to LOVE my fellow residents, they're hilarious, fun-loving and incredibly interesting.

The rest will fill itself out. In the meantime, gotta get back to the orientation.

Whoa

First day of orientation. Its mere minutes before I head out for the first of five days of orientation (read insatiable boredom). Though there are some butterflies in my stomach that feel remarkably like the first day of school circa 1994. This time, however, I have neither a hypercolor shirt nor watertight Trapper Keeper to take the edge off. Wow. A doctor? Me? Here we go.

UPDATE: I love my fellow interns. This is going to fun. Hectic, but fun. More to follow in a bit.

crw,sr.

Happy Father's Day dad. May your days be filled with endless outdoor projects, and well oiled tractors. Love you.

Havenwood

Wow. So this deserves note. The strangest drunk dial I've ever received.***

First some background. As many of you know, I had quite the nomadic childhood. At the end of college (which is probably the last bit of childhood I can squeeze out) I'd lived in about 7 states and a Canadian province. Fresh from the Ottawa winter of 1994 I arrived in Huntsville, Alabama. Yeup. The Rocket City (so called because the insane number of rocket scientists and ballistic missile programs of the US Army). With a flattop and my best Hypercolor shirt we moved to Havenwood Drive, right next to who would become my best friend in the neighborhood Raj.

Raj was cool. We would hike on the mountain where we lived, catch frogs, play in the rain, and compete in any number of Sega or Nintendo games. During the blizzard of 1996 we spent the week sledding down our driveway with terrible abandon. We discovered that Raj was immune to poison ivy and I was not. We also had the most amazing games of Frisbee football on Havenwood's beautiful asphalt. So why all the Raj talk?

Raj just drunk dialed me from a bar in Birmingham. Nice eh? Thank you Facebook. Seeing a 256 number flash on my Razr, I of course thought it was my cousin David returning my call at an appropriate 1:30a. Nope.

"Hey man. Its Raj. I'll be in Houston in the next six months. I'm at a bar in Birmingham. Let me let you talk to Ian."

After talking to a very bewildered Ian, and recommencing my late night snack and Soul Train viewing (God bless Soul Train), I realized we live in a crazy crazy world where 8th grade friends can drunk dial you at 1:30a a decade since you last spoke.

As a random tangent: Given the recent flurry of weddings I have been delighted to attend I must say that I have been thinking about what my would be like. I've decided it must include a Soul Train line. This necessitates a Soul Train Scramble where various wedding attendees would unscramble the name of music artists currently playing on some sort of festive board.


***With the notable exception of a 2002 drunk dial received from a Spelman College Caribbean native.

Isla Africanos

Ribka and Aman's wedding. I've finally whittled my 700 photos (yeah, I know I have an addiction) down to a manageable 200 on my site. Just follow the link here. As this was a Jewish/American/Ethiopian wedding in Isla Mujeres, México it was more than a bit unusual, engaging, and no less than amazing. I'm not sure words would ever be able to describe the incredible collection of people, conversation, and emotion. Apparently one of the taxi drivers on the island said, "Muchos africanos hoy." Yeup. That's us.

Jewish Ethiopian Eritrean Weddings in Mexico

Much more to come after oodles of uploading.

Sushil! Chai kabe?

Another amazing weekend in a painfully overcast and mercifully cool Atlanta. What was on the agenda?

1. Wedding reception: Ayan, his Asiastani family, his friends, and of course yours truly came for a great reception. Its was soooo wonderful to see my Kolkata family who christened me "Sushil" five years ago. MUST return to Kolkata. How I miss them.
2. Temorary Insanity: Skydiving? Yeup. More on that bit later, but needless to say its been crossed off the list for now.
3. Obscenely priced (in my last-minute favor) hotel rooms + upgrades: I'm SURE I didn't pay for an apartment at the Georgian Terrace. But I'll take it.
4. Morehouse Redux: Rawle, Shanoor, and I together again. Oh the fun. Old haunts, and new eats.

More to come on this weekend after I get done running around.

South Park Cecil

As Is apparently en vogue these days, I've recently received a South Park version of myself using this handy website. Thanks Dallas. I had tremendous pleasure receiving this emailed gift so I thought I'd pay it forward a bit.

Here's Sasha. She was so kind as to share my 'South Park Character'

Here's Kevin

and of course Renu.
Enjoy.