I met with some calculator in a suit today. The purpose of the meeting was to tell me about the job opportunities for a resident completing his training. It was not very useful.

The Calculator was a financial advisor or something for the hospital. I believe he was my age but a bit older, maybe thirty. He had a slim frame with a huge Neanderthal brow. I could see him calculating how many minutes I was going to waste of his pencil-pushing day. His tailored dark suit and test pattern tie scoffed at my ruffled whitecoat and my expressionistic “Chinese store”-bought tie.

After hearing him tell me my options and then adding “by the way, that option is gone too,” I sliced through the subcutaneous crap and dissected for the jugular. I had heard a rumor about an opening in Clarkston (fro Giovanni). My knowledge didn’t phase his microfiche-like stare. He just told me that’s been filled too. Seven minutes after it began, it ended. I was left just as lost as before.

I’m still considering calling Dr. Goodhumor about that position in his clinic. I don’t know what to do. I’ve always pictured myself as an internist, dealing with just about any problem or disease in some way … ever since medical school. Now I have to decide whether I want to put all that knowledge away into the attic and limit myself to specializing in high cholesterol and prevention.

This is so far the most difficult decision of my life. Deciding to get married to Amy wasn’t nearly so difficult. I just kind of flowed into that one. I’ve sort of just drifted into every pathway in my life. I didn’t steer, I just rowed the boat, and there I was. Now I have to chose.

Which way? I just don’t know.

Time to change the subject….

Here is the picture I drew for my talk last Friday about “myotonic dystrophy.” Her name is Maya Tanya Dystrophy.

I spent so much of my college years feeling lost and uncertain. Only when I was drawing did everything seem to come together, and make sense … on paper, at least. These imaginary females would simultaneously dance and fight for me, maternally-protecting that part of my psyche besieged with doubts, insecurity, and fear. They still do the roundhouse-waltz for me — whether I’m pencilling in their nude forms, or covering the last soft curve in thick ink. All paths lead back to their prophesizing acrobatics.

Dance for me again. Show me the way.