Lessons learned from the sabre-toothed squirrel

Complete and total dedication to a task, with no thought of danger or self. Utter satori of purpose.

I have much to learn from the saber-tooth squirrel.

What should I do with my life?

I'm having the hardest time trying to figure out what comes next in my life. I've been through so many hats: priest, writer, teacher, doctor. I feel like I've lived several different lives.

Now I'm living the somewhat enviable life of a pensioner or trustafarian, with a stable medicine gig that allows me to work only a week every few months. I'm like a recessionista without the anxiety.

I'm getting ancy. Now what?


I've considered a number of different choices for my future career/life:

Adventurer! - learn how to kitsurf/climb mountains/track wild boars/etc and go around the world being bold, foolish and attractively useless

Volunteer! - build schools in Asia. Clinic in South Africa, or here in California.

Writer! - write down my innermost thoughts on a regular basis, publish occasionally, wear a black hat, perhaps start smoking?

Filmmaker! - nuff said. Documentary films about medicine. Narratives about anything.

Doctor! - go back into fulltime medicine. Become director of an ED, or hardcome academic medicine. Do a fellowship in Critical Care or Pediatrics.

Student! - go back for an MBA, PhD in Literature or hardcore science, MFA in creative writing. Or just take general ed courses in art, literature, history, quantum physics, etc.

Dilitante! - do some combination of the above very casually. - this is currently what I'm doing with my life, to greater or lesser success.

All of them seem equally engaging, but I'm having trouble choosing. It's what I call the 'tyranny of freedom', which is both wonderful and overwhelming at the same time. It's been fantastic to really examine my priorities and what I want out of life. They include, in no particular order:

Friends
Creative outlets
A girlfriend
Sensual delights - food, sex, beautiful surroundings
Play
Work - something worthwhile, fun and hopefully lucrarive
Adventure

I hope that all of you know the joys and horrors of this kind of freedom. If you have any suggestions, let me know!

Thumb-wrestling with death

Mrs. Mayer was big, flushed and sweaty in a red mumu stained with vomit. She was having the big one.

She asked God to watch over her family and closed her eyes. The monitors screamed as she lost her pulse. Her heart rate idled down. Her heart was failing. She had made her peace.

I limped over to her stretcher and ground my knuckle into her breastbone. Hard. Her eyes popped open in pain and I gave her the eye.

"You're not going into the light yet!" I shouted at her.

Yes, I actually said it.

I threw the kitchen sink of medications at her and called in the specialist. An hour later, the cardiologist sucked a clot out of her coronary artery and she survived.

A few days later, it was a little tyke breathing like a hummingbird until his lips were blue. He had the million mile stare like he was giving up. I hit him with intravenous steroids, adrenaline and antibiotics until he pinked up and screamed his fury at me. Before that, the diabetic coma in septic shock. And so on.

That was last week. Now I'm typing away in a little cafe in Budapest, drinking an espresso with Bacardi and ice cream...

...wondering if I'll ever be able to give up the life I've left behind. I've been a teaching doc so long, giving residents the glory of the save, that I'd forgotten what it was like to thumb-wrestle with death.

Can I give it up? Am I a living stereotype, addicted to the rush?

The Secret to Eternal Life and Shameless Plugs

Tiffany and I made this short strip, so it's worth another plug.

Was posted on Val's comic book blog: An Occasional Superheroine.

Probably best laid out on Tiffany's blog.

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

I'm sitting in the old town square of Prague, a little after midnight. Lamplights shine bronze and blue against the grand black church which looks as it it was carved from volcanic rock and boiled in history. Teenagers drink beer at tables in the outdoor cafes. Tourists stalk delicately underneath the clock tower, waiting to pounce with Nikon-fu at the miniature dolls that pop out and dance at lunar intervals. A parade of drunken Russians wield flags and song celebrating a soccer victory.

Here I am, typing away on my little computer, a million miles from the life I've left behind.

I have escaped the rat race. I have been working my tail off for the past ten years on the little hamster wheel of modern life: work-car-work-house-work-marriage-work-children-work-death. Now I'm ready to reinvent myself.

We'll see what happens.

Bring back the dinosaurs

Facebook addiction? Give me a break.

Social network withdrawl. American Idol. Obesity and sedentary lifestyles. Depression. Modern day ennui.

All cured by bringing back the dinosaurs. How could you be depressed because your-boyfriend-doesn't-love-you-as-much-as-he-loves-GTA4-
and-you-eat-becase-it-hurts if you were being chased by a Velociraptor?



Think about how much better life would be? No more three hour phone calls from your mother complaining about your father not taking out the trash? No more telemarketers: they'd be eaten first. As proven by Jurassic Park, T-rex prefers lawyer two to one over the leading other brand of white meat.

Think about it.

The secret to Eternal Life

Pretty lame title for a short, but I needed something.

Tiffany, sometimes med student sometimes artist, has illustrated this story into a cute little comic book.

You can see it here at www.tiffanykamerman.blogspot.com.

The actual story is here: (note this was written about ten years ago, so it may seem a little outdated)

THE SECRET TO ETERNAL LIFE

Old Man Time sat on the mountain, stroking his long white beard and grumbling. It was New Year’s Eve, and midnight was approaching. In the crook of his arm was the Great Clock of Time. It was shimmering white, a vibrant black hand. Gold numbers, from 1 to 365, were etched along the outside. The hand was vibrating, now past 365 and a hairbreadth from one.

Little Baby Time climbed up the mountain towards him.

The cycle of rebirth and renewal was as old as Time. Every new year, baby Time would come and take the clock of Time from Old Man Time, and start the new year.

Baby Time finally made to the top, panting, with a shit-eating grin on his face. He was wearing a pastel summer suit and mirrorshades. A CD-Walkman was on his belt, next to his pager and mobile phone. His hair was slicked back and there were gold rings on his fingers.

“So, daddy-o, ready to take the big plunge?” he said between breaths.

Cyber-punk little shit, Father time thought. These young ones, they have no respect for their elders.

The ancient one cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and stood up to his full, terrible height. His gaunt figure stood out harshly in the moonlight. His brow furrowed, attempting to summon all of the wisdom he had learned during his long life. “Let me tell you a story about responsibility...” His powerful voice echoed across canyons and valleys. The sky trembled and the clouds held their breath. “It is the same story that my predecessor told me before I took this important position. It starts a long time ago--”

Baby Time’s cellphone chirped, fracturing the moment. “Scuse me, dude.” He flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. “Hey, honey. Yeah, I’ll be with you tonight. Keep the fire hot for me, babe. I just got a little business to take care of. Call you later. Ciao.”

Baby Time turned off the phone and snapped his fingers. “Yeah, man, I hear what you’re saying. I can dig it. Fling me an email, give me a page, chirp me. IM, ICQ. We’ll do lunch. Now hand over the clock, gramps.”

Old Man Time looked at the young one with narrowed eyes, trying to summon great anger. Instead, he heaved a heavy sigh. His shoulders slumped, and he leaned more heavily on his staff. It was always the same routine. Gingerly, he raised the Great Clock towards Baby Time.

The baby smiled. Greed shone in his huge blue eyes.

Suddenly the old man pointed behind the child. “Look over there!”

The baby turned.

With a swift kick on the rump, the old man sent the baby over the edge. He watched the baby fall screaming and be swallowed up by the clouds.

“Sometimes the old tricks work the best,” he mumbled to himself.

Chuckling, he picked up the clock and wound it backwards to one.

“Gets ‘em every time. How do they think I got to be so old?”