Puddles

Every so often, I get a taste of pure city life in Boston, with today being a good example of how adaptive one must be. I woke up this morning, sleepy-eyed from my lack of adjustment to daylight savings. Knowing that it poured rain all day yesterday and all night without a break, and that many places in the Northeast experienced tropical storm force or even hurricane strength wind and windgusts, I quickly got ready calculating the increased amount of time it would take to get to work. My normal 15 minute walk would be threatned by having to maneuver among puddles and trying to avoid speeding taxi cabs shoveling street water my way.

Armed with my water-proof Northface jacket and umbrella, I stepped outside and was greeted with a wind gust that turned my umbrella inside out. Strike one. I stepped back inside my building and asked the doorman to call for a cab. It would be a 15 minute wait, the doorman said, longer than usual because everyone in their right mind in the city was taking cabs to work. Strike two. I decided I'd rather get wet than be late to work. I crossed the street, hopping in between puddles and mini-lakes of water, and headed for a bus stop. There was a free shuttle that stopped across the street that I thought would help minimize the soaking capacity of this storm. I prayed it would come soon.

As I crossed the street, I tried multiple times to open my umbrella but failed. Sheets of water slammed into my pink jacket and my fully exposed, formerly neatly pressed Banana Republic trousers. I felt water soaking through my socks and squishing around in my shoes.

There was hardly anyone on the street. I did see another woman, who was fully armed with a full-length raincoat, rubber boots, and one of those reinforced umbrellas that's resistant to turning inside out. She looked oddly comfortable, and it was clear that she was not waiting for a bus but walking all the way to her destination.

I turned around, and saw the bus coming. I began to run for the bus stop, jumping over puddles. As I leaped and bounded for the bus stop, I felt a strong tail wind helping me. Finally, the bus arrived, and I got on completely soaked. My useless umbrella was soaked too, and made another small puddle beside me on the bus.

The bus dropped me off 2 blocks from the hospital. Two others got off along with me. We almost simultaneously and successfully opened our umbrellas together. I walked/ran the two blocks to work and when I arrived, I noticed that the others gathered for rounds were completely dry. The attending had driven to work and parked in a parking garage with an underground tunnel to the hospital. One of the other fellows found a cab. I eventually changed into scrubs... ahhh the feeling of dry, warmth in the middle of a storm in the city.

The scar

At home, my lips were still smacking at thoughts of penang curry flowing across my taste buds as I reached for soap to wash my hands after a grimy ride on the Boston T. Suddenly, the soap stung my hands, and I looked down to find a bloody scar on my thenar eminence, also known as the palm. My forehead wrinkled in thought as I tried to recall what had caused this scar. Was it a bronchoscopy later in the day? And then I remembered what it was.

I got home relatively early today, and my husband and I planned a trip to one of our favorite restaurants in Boston, My Thai Vegan Cafe, located in Chinatown. We stepped outside from our apartment, and I had noticed immediately that the temperature had dropped at least 10 degrees from when I had arrived home only an hour and half ago. The wind was picking up, and there were patches of ice on the concrete and tar on the streets and sidewalks.

We made it to Kenmore station, slipping and sliding along the way. We got off at Boylston, and on Boylston street, it was colder and windier. Some on the streets were prepared for the drop in temperature with puffy Down jackets. Others were caught off guard in lighter jackets and no hat.

As we walked toward the restaurant, the wind picked up even more, and we found ourselves caught in a rapid, swift wind that pushed us forward, involuntarily causing us to pick up our speed walking. But it never let down. Suddenly, I found myself running across the street, trying to stop, but my legs were somehow being carried by the wind. I tried to stop but I couldn't stop running across the street. My husband grabbed my arm and ran with me, trying to stop my momentum.

I was heading for a white car parked in front of the restauarant. The car was covered in small bits of iced snow. I realized I was going to slam into the car as the wind never let down. I hope I wouldn't fall on to the ground.

I reached the car and reached foward with my hands to break the collison. I didn't end up falling on the street, and almost instantaneously, the wind dissipated as suddenly as it came. I looked up to my husband, who started laughing at the whole situation. I too, burst out laughing. I ran across the street, not of my own will, because of the Boston wind. And I couldn't stop. And it scarred me.

To read again

I just finished the first chapter of Mountains Beyond Mountains. Last week, I attending a talk given by bestselling author, Atul Gawande, at the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge. I had just finished his book, Better, and bought, with the aid of a 33% off coupon, The Checklist Manifesto, at Borders on Newbury Street. Last Thursday, I attended a noon conference at the Life Sciences Building across the street from Children's. It was a seminar on social networking through blogging and other online media. There had seemed to a few writers in the audience, a few with their own blogs, and one attending from my own pulmonary department who writes book reviews for JAMA and has a sleep medicine blog with Psychology Today.

And this morning, I woke up, grabbed my journal, and wrote what was on my mind for 20 minutes. Now I'm blogging, after finishing that short, first chapter.

I love words, stories, and I love turning the pages of a book. I'm not sure I could ever be a loyal Kindle user, but I do think the idea is a good one. It's quite cold these days in Boston, and I'm rediscovering how reading a book enables me to leave my small Fenway apartment without having to brace myself against a windchill that strips away my body's protective layer of heat. I can escape, even without having to turn on the TV. That is the most remarkable thing of all.

I'm finally reading again. Not quite like I used to when I was a child growing up in Southeastern Connecticut, where I would check out piles of books from the Waterford Public Library, and go through them even at the dinner table. But even so, I'm slowly starting to make time for words that create stories. Words that do not begin with "The patient is a 14 year-old female with a history of...", but words that are chosen, then discarded, then crossed out, then chosen again. It's comforting.