The Journey

So, how did we get here? And, what has it all meant?

One month into my freshman year of college, I met W, a very tall, very handsome, very quiet senior. (Interestingly enough, I had seen him on Facebook a month before school started and had been stalking him ever since. I was so intrigued. Creepy, right?) He and I became friends, sharing long meals in the caf (he likes to chew and chew and chew his food). Facts I knew: he was a biology major; he wanted to be a doctor. Cool.

Skip ahead 10 months, and we were dating. (Interestingly enough, throughout those 10 months I often referred to him as my future husband. When you know, you know! Creepier though, right?) W was beginning his super senior semester, and I was entering my sophomore year. He still wanted to be a doctor. I still wanted to skip Spanish to get a sunburn on the beach. Priorities were fully intact. After that semester, W took a job at a local hospital.

At this point, what were my thoughts on a future with this man who wanted to be a doctor? Hmm... honestly? I never really thought about it. I like to live in the now. And right then, the beach, America's Next Top Model, and Moe's Southwest Grill (oh, and W's strong arms) were the only things I ever really thought about.

Skip ahead three years, W is proposing to me in the back of his SUV as our Valentine's Day picnic had been relocated due to torrential downpours. I said yes, of course. Wedding planning commenced.

This is probably the first time in our relationship that I really thought about medical school. W was then interviewing at schools. We wanted to get married before the end of summer in case he was accepted somewhere for the fall. He was wait-listed at his first choice.

Skip to July 25, 2009, we were married on the front porch of a plantation house in my hometown. We honeymooned and hoped to come back to the good news that a spot had opened up for him. We lived two weeks in his mother's basement, waiting.

No spots. But, one thing became set in stone. W would be starting medical school next fall. His place was guaranteed. We set up house in Columbia, SC, temporarily. W continued to work at a local hospital. He and I moved to West Virginia the following June where he started school in August.

Throughout all of this, what were my thoughts on medical school?

Did I consider the long and lonely hours I would endure as W forfeited his soul for excellent grades and a top standing in his class? Nope.

Did I ponder the mountain of debt we would accrue in the next four years? Absolutely not.

What were my thoughts?

Do you think it will snow a lot? Because I have only seen snow like four times. The heaviest coat I own is a rain shell. Will that be enough worn over a hoodie?
I hope we can find a cute place to live!!
I need a JOB there. There's a museum in town. Maybe if I continue to show up and volunteer, they will offer me a part-time job.
Is there a Chick-fil-a? A Moe's?
Will I find friends?
Should I be worried about meeting people with three eyes or tails?
What is a "holler"?
Do you think they have boiled peanuts there? I hope so.

You see, I am one of those people that the worry gene skipped over. This is not to say I don't have my moments. But mine tend to come once or twice a year, last for a few hours--heart racing, head cracking in two, dry mouth, trembles, moments of thinking the next second would be my last. I'm wild eyed and panting. "We have no money!!" "Can you feed us, W, because I can't!!" "There's nooooo moneeeeeeyy!!" And then, its over.

And, I'm like, "Let's go for ice cream, and maybe, I can get that skirt I saw last week!"

I swear I am not bipolar.

What I am, however, through and through is painfully practical. I believe--naively, I know--that good actions are rewarded with equally pleasant reactions. I would edit Newton's third law to say, "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." Put in good; get good out. This thought process allows me to sleep peacefully every night. (The only things that keep me up are caffeine and cocaine.)

There is also this other minor thing called DEATH. Yeah, that seems to keep most things in perspective for me. If you are going to sleep when you're dead, well, I am going to worry.

Skip ahead to the present. Two years of medical school are under his belt. I am still (incredibly) making it work in this foreign state. Things are just--dare I say it--great.

You must now be thinking that I am a complete fraud.

Why then, Bri, are you writing a blog about how to not murder your husband when it seems that everything is just GREAT and you have absolutely no issue with him or his life choices?

You see, I don't want to murder W because he is in medical school and wants to be a doctor. No way. But, I do oftentimes want to off him because of what medical school does to him.

Example 1:
The months preceding Step 1 board exams (he took both of them--DO & MD), there was this strange alien life form inhabiting W's body. This form hardly bothered himself with trying to imitate his victim and fool me into believing he was actually my husband. He was mostly mute; ate mechanically and without the robust appetite typical of W. The chewing rate was however normal. (FREAKY.) I often caught the form, looking at me oddly, suspiciously, like I might possibly be the alien being. I'm not entirely sure the form knew my name or even cared to know it for that matter. The form had this nasty habit of staring blankly at the space above my left ear when I spoke to him not hearing most of what I said. Grunting became an appropriate means of communication. This form had the worst memory I have ever encountered. This form was certainly not W. In short, I could have murdered him.

Example 2:
As I am sobbing through a segment of the Today Show (this is a very common scene in our house), I ask W to explain to me how someone could get leukemia.

"I mean, how can that just happen to someone?" SOBBING. "What does it actually do to you?" SOB.

(Asking a med student to explain anything medical is always a BIG MISTAKE, by the way.)

(Because:) W starts to explain leukemia to me, the least scientific person you've ever met, who hates hospitals, and still holds out hope that storks deliver babies.

"Leukemia" (this is the part where he stands up a little taller and assumes his calmest voice) "from the Greek leukos" (Suddenly, my tears have vanished. Cue eye roll.) "is a type of cancer in the hematopoietic" (huh) "compartment of bone marrow characterized by an abnormal increase of blasts..."

"Blasts?" I interject loudly, to bring him back from the God-I-am-SO-much-smarter-than-you doctorosphere of EW.

"Yes, mmhmm, blasts." This is where he would straighten his tie and pull at his white coat lapels if he were so clothed.

"Yeah, W, that was a question mark at the end of that word."

At this point, his eyes are focused on a point on the ceiling, as his mind retreats to doctorosphere, where he is still defining leukemia. He is even nodding his head in agreement, as he mentally converses with himself. But, startled from his mental decathlon by my snark, he responds, "What, babe?"

The heat is rising up my neck.

"BLASTS. WHAT ARE BLASTS. YOU DO REALIZE THAT I AM A NORMAL PERSON AND THAT NORMAL PEOPLE ARE THE ONES YOU WILL BE DIAGNOSING ONE DAY AND THEY DO NOT SPEAK MEDICAL-ESE EITHER. YOU NEED TO USE REAL WORDS. SMALL WORDS. FORGET IT. DON'T TALK TO ME. I DON'T EVEN CARE ANYMORE. SCREW LEUKEMIA. WHATEVER IT IS, IT SUCKS BALLS."

"Blasts are immature blood cells."

It is at moments like these that W should be very thankful that I do not leave sharp implements or heavy blunt objects lying around the house.

-b

Disclaimer: THIS BLOG IS NOT ABOUT MEDICAL SCHOOL

I think that it is very important to say first and foremost that this blog is absolutely not about medical school in any way, shape, or form. Sure, "medical" is in the title, but neither Cap nor I define ourselves by the choice our husbands have made to pursue a career in medicine. We are, however (and perhaps, unfortunately), affected by this choice and have had to adapt our lives accordingly.

And that, my friends, is exactly what this blog is about.

Maybe the title should have been, The C and B Chronicles: Adapting to Medical School. God, that's depressing. Besides that, its false. Maybe adapt wasn't the best word. The past two years have not been a story of adaptation. These two years have been about survival--of finding ways to entertain ourselves and enjoy life (with so very little money) as our husbands forsook us for medical school. These past two years have been a study in patience, understanding--virtues which do not come so easily to me--and have been a practice in the art of not murdering our husbands.

See what I did there?

THE STORY

Cap and I became friends out of circumstance. We met because our husbands were in the same class and studied together. Studying together in medical school constitutes as friendship (FYI). I guess at some point, Cap and I figured we should maybe hang out, too. Looking back, the early days of our acquaintance are a bit fuzzy.

Now, I think (and hope she agrees), Cap and I are friends by choice.

Uprooted from family and friends and all other familiar things, Cap (from Louisiana) and I (from South Carolina) have not--by choice--settled comfortably into life in the mountains of West Virginia. Our foundations in this state have been set very gingerly atop the ground, knowing full well that this is just a temporary stop along the way to wives-of-doctor-hood.

Cap and I have known each other for just over two years now. Our story could be long, is certainly complicated, and most likely absurdly boring, so I am just going to jump ahead to the present.

Three things you should know first as it will help you understand our friendship:

1. We are couple friends. Meaning that the four of us (Cap, husbands, and I) love hanging out together doing all sorts of fun things that we will thrill you with on here.

2. J (Cap's husband) and I are so very similar that it is creepy. On that note, W (my husband) and Cap are so very similar that it is ADORABLE. Probably the only things that J and I have in common are our shared loves for Cap and W.

3. The four of us were reunited this July after a yearlong separation. (That year is what could make our story long, so let's just leave it at that.)

 THE PRESENT

There have been many changes since before the "long story." First of all, W and I no longer live in the same town as Cap and J. We are all still in West Virginia, but are now separated by a harrowing 1.5 hour drive through mountains and valleys.

Three days after Cap and J moved back to West Virginia, they visited us. That's love! It was an epic weekend consisting of too much queso, margaritas, music on the river, a nature hike, running down a mountain, the farmer's market, grilling out in a downpour, bloody marys, and some mosquito bites. It was a perfect weekend. The boys incessant medical school chatter hardly dampened the mood, although we did break them up a few times.

Two weeks later, Cap was back and getting dolled up to attend a local fundraiser with me. It was a great time complete with lime-a-ritas, the longest bathroom lines you've ever seen, and dancing in the mist high above the city to the tunes of West Virginia's very own country music band, who was ironically (and thankfully!) covering such hits as the Doobie Brothers' "Long Train Running," MJ's "Billie Jean," and others that even inspired Cap to begin a congo line.

That very next day, W and I were on our way to stay with Cap and J in their adorable house, now forever known as the Hansel and Gretel Cottage. We ate Cap's delicious home cooking (she is quite accomplished in the domesticity department), drank lots of red wine, played Mad Gab (which I am awesome at!), went antiquing, farmer's marketing, and state fairing, where we all ate enough to feed a small village and leave leftovers.

THE BLOG

This blog was created at my insistence and has come into being because of Cap's very gracious acceptance of the task. I thought this journey was one that should be documented and surely one to laugh at later.

Cap and I now find ourselves planning and trying, in various ways, to fill our devoid schedules with as many activities as we can find to do together, so that we don't, of course, murder the husbands.

I mean, we are talking about madly searching to do things like play Bunko with women 30 years our seniors, ballet classes with retired Russian ballerinas (not really, but it is my worst fear that this will be true), and anything else remotely interesting that will stave off the boredom.

Next Thursday, we will attend the local Junior League meeting with the hopes of joining. Believe it. Me in Junior League. That is if they'll have me, which is still out for debate.

-b