Nothing like Turkey Day to get a girl thinking about all the good things in life: application deadlines, statements of purpose, transcript requests, and the impending doom that is the GRE.

I found out on Tuesday that despite my well-laid plans to remain in the warm fuzzy land of the undergrad forever, I will be graduating in May 2006. My inital response was gleeful relief, followed quickly by a sinking sense of dread that I am now exactly one YEAR behind in my grad school planning. I apologize in advance now to my loyal readership – this next week is either going to be full of nonsensical 3-am postings (result of sleep deprivation as I hammer out essays and complete forms and study for the GRE) or NO postings whatsoever (perhaps better, since I will be getting more sleep then.)

One of my top two choices had a December 1st deadline and the clock is ticking… why, Berkeley, WHY? Everyone else, including #2 (Emory) doesn’t want the goods till February 1st, but you…oh, go ahead and exploit the childhood dream of a little girl who has dreamed of being a Golden Bear since sixth grade. Gaaaaah!

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

I can apply to my top choice public health program and roll out an education initiative and commandeer a unit-based isolation awareness program in one week. I can do this. I can give myself a crash course in the GRE and take the test next Friday afternoon.

I must remember to breathe.

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Today I Feel: skeeeeered
Now Playing: “The Italian Job,” on telly at mom and dad’s house while we all lay around digesting.

“You’re the only person I know who can sew.”

This is perhaps an odd thing to hear from a person who works in the company of some of the best surgeons in the world. But nonetheless, my friend Ben called me with a desperate plea for sewing help the other day. He’s not exactly a surgeon, but he’s an ER doc and he’s done general surgery rotations – the man can close an ex-lap with a reasonable amount of precision. I wondered what he needed me for.

There were feathers EVERYWHERE. Ben’s new puppy had gnawed a hole in the feather duvet while her hardworking master was asleep and Ben, unaware of the damage, tried to fluff the comforter and released a cloud of white goose down into the air. Further inspection revealed that part of the comforter was shredded, a pillow was missing a corner, and the center of Ben’s bathrobe now sported a snout-shaped hole. Bad dog.

I walked into the room and burst out laughing. Not at the feathers or the hole or the evil snarl on my friend’s face, but rather at the way he had obviously tried to repair the damage himself. He had several packets of sterile ethylene sutures out on his dresser – one open – curved fascia needles, and a needle driver. The smaller holes in the duvet were clamped shut with kelly clamps to prevent further blood – er, feather loss. And there was Ben, still dressed in the scrubs he’d been sleeping in, fuming as he picked goose down off his glasses.

I announced that his duvet would be receiving a free flap and demanded a donor site. Ben produced an old t-shirt and with his trauma shears I harvested the flap. I found the tiniest needle he had (fortunately, he had a REAL sewing kit tucked away in a closet) and began the transplant.

This was very delicate reconstructive work – especially since I didn’t want to leave much in the way of visible scarring. So I threaded and tucked and sewed tiny stitches all around the patch. “Needle driver?” Ben offered, noting that my needle had gotten stuck in a feather shaft.

“Thank you, doctor,” I said, accepting the proffered instrument.

I finished the last side of the patch and began to tie the thread in a knot. “No, let me do that,” he said, prying the needle from my hand. “I’ll show you how we’re supposed to tie off.”

“I already saw how you were supposed to sew,” I said smartly. He stuck out his tongue at me and did a couple of quick little twists of the needle, and the knot disappeared from view. “Not bad,” I conceded. “See, you’re not so terrible at this. I’m sure you can fix the pillow on your own.”

He threw it at me and another explosion of feathers burst forth. The dog began to bark gleefully, and we began on our second patient. The pillow needed a partial resection at one corner – the puppy had almost amputated a section and we were only able to salvage part of it. It didn’t LOOK pretty, but it was functional – like most partial amputations.

“What about your bathrobe?” I asked as we closed off the pillow sutures. “Do you want me to patch this as well?”

Ben looked at the hole in the middle of the robe and shook his head. “DNR,” he said sadly. “He’s terminal.”

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Today I Feel: nervous. Exam tonight!
Now Playing: “This Love”
Maroon 5 Songs About Jane