Groundhog Dengue Day

I never imagined going back to 1959, working as a “doctora” in a geriatrics ward in Habana, Cuba would become everyday-Dengue-Fever day, where my clinical training would be supplemented by the inhalation of asbestos and mold fibers in a basement, looking at an x-ray from 1966 or examing a CT scan on a computer similar to the one I played Oregon Trail on in the 3rd grade.  I have begun to question my decision to study in Cuba more than ever these past couple of months, throwing my hands in the air and screaming, “Where the f*&k am I?”  Although I am supposed to be in the midst of one of the most important clinical years of my medical education, some dumb ass bureaucratic decision has me becoming a specialist of Dengue Fever and/or a glorified secretary.  Glorified secretary scares me more than Dengue Fever Specialist, because the thoughts of continuing on in my life as a county secretary sent me running to Cuba in the first place.   I don’t think “Specialist of Dengue Fever” will count when I begin to apply to residency programs in the U.S., because Dengue Fever is basically non-existent in the U.S.  A long, warm summer/fall/winter with abundant rains has left a class of 97 third year medical students starving for any patient that does not have Dengue.  We are thirsty for illness.  Give us some sick patients!  I know, we should never be hoping for sick patients, but how else are we supposed to learn.  The first clinical year is supposed to lay the foundation of our career, where we learn signs and symptoms and become bad ass docs, the kind that can just look at a patient, ask a few questions and come up with a diagnosis.  Yeah…you know…wannabe “Dr. Houses.” 

I am grateful for the mental, emotional, and physical rehabilitation I have received during my holiday vacation, to feel two weeks of comfort and normalcy.  Do I stay, or should I go?  I shall return, to see what is in store for me.  Oh man…I am a glutton for punishment. But, oh wait, maybe it is not punishment buying ice cream for $0.15, drinking mojitos for $0.50, or having the satisfaction that even my new buddy/adopted street pup named Junior will not eat hairy pork fat (see...I am not alone).