Not what you might call slick

We realized, about halfway through a busy clinic day, that a copy of a popular weekly gossip magazine was sitting in one of our exam rooms with the headline, "KANYE WEST'S MOM DEAD FROM PLASTIC SURGERY."

Although the article inside was actually informative - it did mention the importance of finding a board certified plastic surgeon - seeing that cover may have been more than a little anxiety-provoking for new patients...

The magazine was relocated.

Blogging is hard

I'll spare you the excuses, but I will say that every time I think about typing another post, it ignites a raging internal debate regarding professionalism and propriety versus the particular pleasure of putting it all out there. Working in the medical field in the era of HIPAA adds a bit of confusion to it all.

Instead, I think I will tread lightly around those sensitive issues. So here's a small peace offering, on a vaguely related topic.

Being a woman is hard, I think. Like one of my colleagues said the other day, we usually don't even notice there's a difference, being in a terribly male-dominated field where you're just expected to perform no matter how you look. But sometimes you're rudely reminded when it's rubbed in your face.

I was with my husband at one of his work functions a few weeks ago. He is also a resident, but in general surgery, and is a few academic years behind me in training (ahem, there was no cradle-robbing involved; I'm actually only three months older, but that's another story). But being there with him, as his wife, was an interesting experience.

As a young-appearing female, you get used to taking a lot of flack in the hospital; but you're also a doctor - a surgeon - who can commandeer a decent amount of respect. Day after day, this odd dichotomy becomes strangely ordinary. But since you're a resident and spend an extraordinary proportion of your life in the medical center, when you do escape, you forget that you're not wearing your name badge or your long white coat. So why would a perfect stranger suspect what you're about?

The work event was actually a luncheon for interviewees. Take a bunch of mostly male job applicants, clad in dark suits and conservative ties, and add a young woman casually dressed in jeans, here with her husband. There was one female applicant. I caught only one snippet of her conversation at the other end of the table, when she blurted out something about how it's impossible for female surgeons to get married...

Basically though, as the wife, I was totally ignored. But when it came out that I was a doctor, and a plastic surgery resident no less, people suddenly realized that I could hold a conversation.

What must it be like for other women out there? Maybe it's really not so bad. Maybe I'm being hypersensitive, but it is so frustrating to be automatically discounted because of your appearance and perceived position. There must be so many interesting stories and insightful thoughts that aren't even given a chance in an average social situation.

Or perhaps it is a blessing. Sometimes it's better to fly under the radar of pompous managers and boorish drones, so no one bothers you, leaving you to feel free to imagine yourself in a more interesting place, drink in hand.

Crushed, but hopeful

This week was incredibly brutal. I'm counting on a little overnight camping trip to help renew my spirits. I'll be back tomorrow, hopefully with refreshed insight into the narrow, narrow world of plastic surgery residency...

A compliment of sorts, I suppose

Patients often say funny things to you. It is a privileged situation, with the patient often literally exposed and naked before you. Things are said that would never be uttered in ordinary conversation.

Today, as I was changing a patient's dressing, he looked up at me and said, "No offense, doc, but you look like you're in high school." I laughed. He was certainly not the first patient to say this to me. I told him, "No offense taken, sir. I had thought things were looking up last week when someone guessed that I was a college student."

Most women, in most situations, would probably be flattered to be told day after day that they look young. In the hospital, it often works against you. Many patients seem to be reassured by the wrinkles at the corners of eyes, the grey hairs streaking the temple, those tells of age that signify experience, and in turn, excellence.

These comments about my apparently disturbingly youthful appearance used to bother me a lot. Now, I brush it off with a glib remark about the benefits of having great plastic surgeons as my colleagues, or I simply have curious patients calculate my age from the prerequisite years of education (college + medical school + residency equals... at least thirty-two?).

In the end, no one seems to object. Patients just want to know that as their doctor, you will do your very best for them.

270 days, 2 hours, 57 minutes

First days, always tough. A little nervous, a little afraid, perhaps to make a mistake or ruin the pristine appearance of a blank page with any less than perfect words.

But you have to start somewhere, sometime.

More to come, perhaps tomorrow - an explanation for My Plastics Life.