The Descent Continues

My medication change, my talk with the Site Director, my realization that if I just kept getting up in the morning, going to the hospital, coming home, taking Ambien, going to sleep, and getting up again, I could go on indefinitely. And that's what I did- I slogged back and forth between the student housing and the hospital. I ate, I slept, I did all the things and ordinary human being is supposed to do during his or her time on earth. And I fell into an equilibrium.

Realizing that things were better, but not great, I again called Dean Stewart to ask about taking time off. “Now that you’re psychiatrically stabilized, I don’t see that there’s any benefit to you taking time off…” I wanted her to understand that while I felt my feet were becoming more firmly planted beneath me, that things weren’t right. I was functioning in the hospital, puttering about, writing notes, presenting on topics; and while I wasn’t excelling, I was now certainly up to standards. She advocated self care, telling me that perhaps I should take a day off on the weekends as opposed to voluntarily going in to the hospital to see my patients.

I eventually finished my 5 weeks of internal medicine at Glendale and returned to my home hospital at [] medical school for the final five weeks of the rotation. When I arrived I’d been branded as a “student in trouble,” a distinction which awarded me “extra help” in the form of constant suggestions during my presentations. Were I not to have been branded, I believe, a lot of those little mistakes would have gone unnoticed, or would have appeared in my evaluation as qualifications to my otherwise stellar performance. But instead, my preceptor, desiring to “help” me decided to do so by bringing our preceptor sessions to a screeching halt when he sensed that I did not understand something. The other 3 people in the sessions politely waited as my presentations were drawn out and picked apart. Did I understand the difference between infection, and vasculitis? Yes, I stammered, turning red; the preceptor was doubtful that my response reflected true understanding and launched into a long explanation.

The Name

So, Emily Forest isn't actually my name- It's not that I'm ashamed of my illness; it's just that it's probably better not to advertise. Especially given my position as a medical student. If I ever become a world famous _________ then I wouldn't try so hard to hide it. But, right now I'm in a position where I, like all others in medical school, have to prove myself, have to come off as professional, able to handle pressure, enthusiastic, trustworthy... all of those adjectives they put on the evaluation sheet next to check boxes indicating "rarely observed" "sometimes observed" all the way to "always observed." And aside from not being professional, able to handle pressure, enthusiastic, trustworthy, you'd better not piss anyone off, particularly on certain rotations, such as ________ (it may be different at different schools- fill in whatever is relevant to you), or you'll end up with a check in the "rarely observed" box.

So, anyway, the name. It's actually my "porn name." One night at summer camp, after "lights out" when we were technically supposed to be sleeping, one of the other girls asked each of us the name of our first pet and the street we grew up on. Basically, if you combine these two entities, you get your "porn name." And, it's supposed to be something like Peppy (your first dog) LaRue (your childhood street). My first pet was named Emily, and I grew up on Forest Street, so I came up with Emily Forest.

And, that is the name I write under. So I can be enthusiastic, together, and trustworthy on the wards.

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