As my thinking has evolved, I’ve come to see that my classmates’ money concerns are indeed valid (though I still don’t think that salary should be the number one deciding factor when it comes to choosing a specialty). We spend four years of our lives toiling away to get our MD, accumulating a mountain of debt while we’re at it. Then we spend 3-7 years in hell residency being paid a paltry sum for being worked to death. Finally, after all of that, we’re finally able to start making real money. By that time, how old are we? How far behind are we compared to our lawyer and other professional friends? We want to buy houses too. Have kids. Maybe buy a new car since that one we’ve been driving since the beginning of college is starting to fall apart. These things all cost money. Money that we don’t have, even though we appear to “make a lot of money.” On top of that, I think that primary care physicians work very hard and deal with more than their fair share of difficult patients. I can’t imagine dealing with patients like my mother-in-law and her “I had surgery on my ankle, now I think I’m going to die from a heart attack and I can’t breathe,” “there’s blood in my stool, scope me NOW even though there are plenty of other patients who need a colonoscopy more urgently than I do” and “doctors give me substandard care because I’m poor and I don’t speak English” antics. I know that difficult patients exist in every specialty, but I think (and I may very well be wrong) that there are far more in primary care because of the primary care physician’s role as a gatekeeper. If anything, primary care physicians should be paid more because of their indispensable role. But in real life, primary care physicians are not paid as much as specialists because of the lack of procedures in primary care. I get it—procedures are expensive. But should specialties that aren’t so procedure-based not be compensated as well as those that are? I have to admit that this reality has made me think twice about neurology because of its relative lack of procedures. It’s a good thing that my love for the brain and the art of diagnosis wins out (at least for now) or else I’d be considering something else. How many med students think that same thing and choose money? Some say that this is not and will not be the case, but I’ve already seen some classmates choose their specialties based on that very thinking. Will there be more in the coming years? Who knows. I’ve met physicians who are well into their careers and still have a whole lot of med school debt left even though they probably came out with half the debt of the modern med school graduate. They’ve hinted at regretting their career choice. There are (costly) seminars on “careers to consider when you don’t want to be a doctor anymore.” These kind of things almost make me think twice about what I’ve chosen to do, but only for a split second because I know that there’s really nothing else that I’d rather be doing. I know that I would still do this even if the salary were half what it is now. But you young premeds out there should think really, really, really hard about whether it’s really worth it. Depending on your goals and motivations, it just might not be.

2. Arrive at lab to find out that I need to deal with some statistics for an animal protocol because my major professor is too busy doing nothing to deal with it himself (and maybe because he probably doesn’t even know any statistics).

3. Spend all day at lab doing nothing but coding my website because I don’t want to deal with statistics today only to realize that my ultimate vision is flawed so I have to start from scratch tomorrow.

4. Finally escape from lab only to get stuck in the worst traffic ever, turning a usual 20-minute trip home into an over one-hour long trip, complete with a large helping of the stupidest drivers ever just to test my patience as we all sit there at a dead stop in sweltering heat. And here all I wanted to do was make it to the Bath and Body Works sale before the after-work rush.

5. Go to Bath and Body Works anyway because it can’t possibly be that crowded in this small college town. Well, it can and it was. Search unsuccessfully for carrying bag for my more-than-my-little-arms-can-handle load of stuff. Debate whether or not to bother because I can’t find a bag. Decide that I’ve already invested way too much time and energy to leave empty-handed and stand in the obscenely long line with an armful of heavy-to-poor-little-me stuff for over 30 minutes with annoying entitled college kids yapping away loudly behind me as if they know everything there is to know about life while at the same time repeatedly bumping into me with the carrying bag that I was unable to get because they hogged them all. Fight urge to beat college kids over the head with my armful of heavy-to-poor-little-me stuff. Not to mention, these were the same kids who pushed their way in front of me to try all the products everywhere I went to try to avoid them. Seriously, just because you’re out spending your parents’ money while they think you’re studying doesn’t mean you have the right to act like you own the place. I’m so sorry I’m not spending my parents’ money—now can I please smell some lotion in peace?

6. Leave Bath and Body Works with sore arms from holding that armful of heavy-to-poor-little-me stuff to go to grocery store to grab some butter (an essential ingredient and the only thing I needed) for dinner only to find no parking. All I want is a stick of butter! And then of course, the 10 items or less line was not open.

7. Finally arrive home to find that my husband is lounging around munching (spoiling his dinner) and waiting for me to cook dinner instead of taking the initiative to at least get it started. It’s not that hard to cook rice, is it?

Me: “We’re not coming to visit you this weekend.” [We’re not wasting our time to come see your sorry ass bitch at us all weekend long.]
Her: “What, why?” [And this after my husband had already told her we weren’t coming.]
Me: “Because we’re busy.” [Yeah. Busy avoiding you.]
Her: “Why?” [What can possibly be so important that you can’t come worship my sorry ass because I think I’m the center of the universe?]
Me: “That’s none of your business.” [Duh. We simply don’t want to see you.]
Her: “What do you mean it’s none of my business? I can’t ask you what you’re doing?” [You mean I can’t pry and guilt you into coming? That just goes against everything I’ve been doing to my kids ever since they were born.]
Me: “No, you can’t. You need to respect our privacy. Besides, it’s because I’m planning to have wild monkey sex with your son all weekend long.” [Here’s hoping Mother-in-law understands the definition of wild monkey sex.]
Her: “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Why are you yelling at me?” [Damnit. She got me.]
Me: [wtf]

Her: “What? You mean I can’t even ask for a little help? I’m old.” [You mean I can’t be a baby and get you to do all the stupid shit I don’t feel like doing because I really like acting like a baby?]
Me: “You’re 50 years old. That’s not old. I’ll call you old when you’re 80.” [Which I hope I’ll never have to do because someone as negative as you just has to have a big nasty plaque in your coronary artery just waiting to rupture. Maybe I can help it along by having wild monkey sex with your son in front of you.]
Her: “But I’m sick.” [I purposely swallowed a rock just to get your attention.]
Me: “No, you’re not. You just want to be to get sympathy. Besides, you don’t ask for help. You demand it. And that’s not what we’re here for. Where’s your husband, huh?” [Oh shut up with your ploys for sympathy. I never have and never will fall for that act. I may just be a med student, but I’m not that dumb.]
Her: “I just need a little help. That’s all.” [By that I mean you must submit to my every demand. That’s all.]
Me: “It’s not a little help when you ruin our entire evening by making us do things you can do but just don’t want to do. That’s not asking for help. That’s being a baby.” [You fucked up yet another one of our evenings. I’m not going to forget it. Ever.]
Her: “Why are you yelling at me?” [Damnit. She got me again. Hurry, play dumb.]
Me: [wtf]

Her: “Because he’s my son.” [And because he’s my son, he owes me for life. He has to wait on me hand and foot. Forever.]
Me: “Just because he’s your son doesn’t give you the right to torture him. Besides, he’s my husband.” [I’ve never heard of such a sick reason for having kids before.]
Her: “But he’s my son.” [He’s mine, damnit. He’s my slave, not yours!]
Me: “But he’s my husband. Which means I get to talk to him. I get to lean on him. And I get to have sex with him. Get your own husband.” [Of course, she does have one. But he knows better than to go anywhere near her crazy shit.]
Her: Why are you yelling at me? [Damnit. Not again. I gotta think of better ways to play dumb.]
Me: [wtf]

So that’s basically how it went. Some of the meaning may have been lost in translation because this conversation did not happen in English. But I think you get the idea. Every single time I got her on something, she would simply accuse me of yelling at her. It was great. But at least I got to say my piece, even if it was to a brick wall. Only time will tell if anything will change (which I highly doubt).

Enter my dear (said with extreme sarcasm) mother-in-law. She is throwing a hissy-fit (to put it quite mildly) that we are not worshipping her because this Sunday is Mother’s Day. Yes, that’s right, I said worshipping. A card just won’t do. Nor will a gift (which she will gladly take even though nothing is ever good enough for her and it sure as hell won’t shut her up). We have to worship her. I’m not kidding here. She wants us to drop everything and visit her, which usually involves spending way too much money to indulge her in addition to that whole worshipping part. And that whole being nagged at until I’m-thisclose-to-going-on-a-murderous-rampage-starting-with-you-dear-mother-in-law part. And that whole not being appreciated part. And that whole being criticized part. The list goes on. The sad part is that maybe, just maybe, if she weren’t so busy being such a whiny…ahem…witch…I would have maybe actually visited her (Yeah, maybe when hell freezes over. But hey, I can pretend.). Doesn’t she realize that the more she whines like a 2-year-old, the less likely we are going to cave in and actually the madder it makes us? Apparently not. Of course not. Because she’s got several other kids to bend at her insane will. Well, then, why do you need us? I don’t recall ever agreeing to be her servant when I got married. I swear, this woman thought, “Whoo-hoo! New daughter-in-law = one more “child” for me to push around and extract money from (And she’s going to be a doctor, which means more money for me!) because I’m too lazy to get off my sorry ass and earn a real living.” Well, she never in her wildest dreams imagined that her new daughter-in-law was me, who bristles at the mere thought of being ordered around, let alone by such a woman as her. I’m sure she’s kicking herself everyday because she didn’t push her dear son to marry his psycho-ex, who was psycho, but much, much, much more submissive to her craziness. And we all know that submissive trumps pretty much anything else to these people. I think she only approved of me because psycho-ex was sure as hell not going to be making big bucks and she thought she could put up with me so long as she got her free money out of it. What a big mistake that turned out to be for her. I’m sure I could be an axe-murderer and she would love (If this woman is even capable of love, which I highly doubt. I think it’s more like tolerate and that’s already a stretch for her.) me as long as I submitted to her will. But here I am: a doctor-to-be and she can’t stand me. Well, I can’t stand her either, thank you.

Well, back to the story at hand. I have a strange personality quirk. When someone I have no respect for and who I don’t fear because they are in no position of power tries to make me do something, guess what happens. I do the opposite. I just can’t help it. And if there’s such a thing as less than no respect, that would be what I have for my mother-in-law. So how dare she try to order me to visit her? Not to mention that it is not a trivial trip for us. Besides, who wants to make such a trip, sacrificing valuable peaceful weekend time and money, to see the likes of her? We’re already paying more than enough in taxes to fund her (quite undeserved) Medicaid and welfare and the like. She wants us to waste precious gas money to see her only so she can grab us and shake us by the ankles until all our money falls out? And she wants us to put up with her bitching and give her money? Yeah, right, Lady. Who died and made you the center of the universe?

Now if only my husband were just a fraction as feisty as me (read: if only my husband weren’t brainwashed into being a big mama’s boy), we just might have a peaceful weekend. Well, I guess I can dream. And then watch House. We’ll be snarky together. And then I’ll use the snark on my husband when he tries to guilt me into going to visit his queen-of-the-guilt-trip mom. Yes, what a fun weekend it’ll be. I might as well go get a root canal while I’m at it. Make that two.