Ok, I just sent – and paid for – my ERAS applications. I can’t believe I’m applying for a residency. Time flies. This ought to be still a million years away.

Half the programs I applied to are plastic surgery residencies. What can I say, my father told me to. I am not into cosmetic surgery; that stuff is so fake. But he assures me, which I can see from the surgery schedule, that lots of it is really medically helpful. I suppose I can refuse to ever do any liposuction or tummy tucks once I finish residency.

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My grandmother is dying, we think. Half the time I’m thinking like a medical student: possible causes of decline, immediately helpful steps, ethics of starting ivs/feeding tubes/etc, following my father around as though he’s an attending while he talks to the nurses; and the rest of the time I’m just remembering how she used to be, and hugging my little sisters. . . How about if this just doesn’t happen, and we don’t have to think about it at all? How about if we stop time? How about if I knew how to do something really worthwhile, how to fix strokes and make them never happen and undo all of this. . .

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