I was crazy busy, on cytology. Tons of needles. And we are going live, with PCR from H1N1. I was trying to compose a fastfax, for all the doctors. One that is legal, satisfying to both the lab and the hospital. We, meaning the micro lab, are happy, because we got a badass molecular machine that will do all kinds of other things to make our lives easier.
I found out I made a diagnosis, on a patient, that resulted in the wrong treatment. I am still reeling from this one. In my defense, I made the proper call at the time, and was backed up by an experienced colleague. All the ancillary tests fit. It was the right diagnosis, with all the clinical information, but time told a different story. The clinician was cool about it. But still - I made a wrong call. I learned that this happens, in my job. It is not a perfect science. I have heard other stories, from pathologists, about mistakes. This is my first. I lost sleep.
I made a comment, on my new blog at Mothers In Medicine, that was unintentionally viewed as racist. A smart Indian-American girl called me out on it. The last thing I view myself as, on the planet, is racist. But in retrospect, I could see where she was coming from. I need to be more specific, in writing. Because you can't assume that others will always share your background experiences, and know how you stand.
I haven't run in a week.
But none of this matters. Because Wednesday night, I got together with an old friend, a particularly musical one, and sang, to his guitar playing. I've never sang with an instrument before. I was inhibited at first, even though it was my idea. I loosened up eventually, and had fun. I think he did, too. We were all over the map - Kravitz to Loretta Lynn. We made a song list to start working on. I can't wait to meet again next week.
Off to Chicago in the a.m. Looking forward to some time away.