​Oh, you moms out there (I now count myself a member of your prestigious ranks, so I can say that). You want the very best for your children. And I mean the very best. We’re talking champagne wishes and caviar dreams, ya’ll. And who could blame us?
 
Maybe you, like my amazing in-laws, decided to leave everything behind in your early thirties so that your five-year-old son and future children would have a better life in a country thousands of miles from where your ancestors were born.
 
Perhaps you quit a lucrative corporate job to stay home with your sweet baby girl. That’s what I did.
 
Or maybe you saved your pennies to send each of your kids to college debt free. That is a very special gift.
 
We want it all for our offspring, simply put. And we want them to find the right person to share their lives with.
 
We pray that our daughters will meet and marry a man who is loving, kind, patient, funny, good looking, and smart. Definitely not “The Bachelor”. Oh, god, no. Someone who has his s*** together, essentially.
 
If you think “Dr. Prince Charming” has a nice ring to it, you’re probably not alone. Just think of all the free medical advice! How should I treat a migraine? Do I need to be taking supplements? What shall I do about these warts? Oh, what fun!
 
I’m here to offer a bit of a reality check to mothers who aspire to have a surgeon-in-law (SIL):

• If you imagined getting out of those regular mammograms and colonoscopies, think again. Your SIL is going to make sure you get those done, come hell or high water.
• You’re going to have the safest grandbabies ever!
• You will get free medical advice, but it will sometimes irritate your darling SIL (especially if you constantly ask questions outside of his or her area of expertise).
• More than likely, your child and their family will be moving in order to advance your SIL’s career. Possibly more than once, and possibly for good.
• Your SIL will likely know more about your health status than you will. He/she can read between the lines.

 
My mom loves her SIL dearly and I’m sure she would carry the banner for other moms out there who want to join the club.
 
The club is pretty cool. The club comes with a free lifetime subscription to Men’s Health and Family Circle. Just kidding.  

TLC defined a scrub as “a guy that can’t get no love from me, hanging out the passenger side of his best friend’s ride, trying to holler at me” (TLC, 1999). Great relationship advice, even 16 years later.
 
I don’t want no scrubs, either. But I am talking about medical issue wardrobe, not broke dudes.
 
When we first started dating, I thought it was fun to wear Arun’s scrub bottoms as pajama pants, sometimes in public. Oh, look at me! I’m dating a doctor! Megan, you adorable idiot. I grew disillusioned when our condo became overrun with wrinkled, dirty masses of cheap cotton in various shades of steel blue and emerald green.
 
My first strategy was to wash and fold them myself. This was annoying, as it clogged our washer and dryer and overall seemed like an exercise in futility. And then, my moment of Zen: I realized that there is a service at each hospital that washes scrubs for FREE! Enough of this.
 
I then issued an official directive to Arun to start returning the scrubs to work for cleaning on a regular basis. What actually happened: piles of dirty scrubs in our condo, “ready” to go out the door. Ready and waiting. And waiting. And W-A-I-T-I-N-G…
 
So, they were moved to Trader Joe’s bags at the back of our parking garage space. Until the building got wise and posted a notice in the elevator to keep parking spaces clear. From there, the overstuffed Trader Joe’s bags traveled the short distance to the trunk of Arun’s car. Well, a car trunk only has so much room.
 
The scrubs eventually reached their final resting place: either the hospital from whence they came, or a dumpster (sorry! not sorry! you would do the same).
 
Arun’s fellowship program kind of had it right: in order to get new scrubs, you had to return the old ones via a vending machine, and you were only allowed three pair at a time. This institution clearly understood human nature. Our Pittsburgh apartment was always dirty scrub pile free!
 
My takeaway lesson? Scrubs can multiply faster than you can say “drawstring”, so new boyfriends and girlfriends of medical professionals, beware!

Want to read more of my book in progress? Click here.

​I totally get the concept of work shoes. Sturdy boots for firemen and construction workers, 7 inch clear plastic heels for strippers, and polished oxfords or Cole Haan pumps for the business world.
 
In the medical community, it’s all about the Danskos.
 
Danskos are perhaps the ugliest shoes to grace God’s green earth. They look like Dutch clogs and are worn as slip on shoes.
 
To add insult to injury, these suckers are expensive. The basic styles start around $120.00, up to $150.00. Granted, they do wear well and only need replacing every four years or so.
 
Danskos come in a variety of colors and styles, from patent leather to pebble leather to extra, extra shiny patent leather. Flowers, stripes, psychedelic swirls, sequins, spots, you name it. I guess that makes them “stylish”, or something. I’m sticking with something.
 
I wish I could tell you exactly how many medical professionals (medical assistants/nurses/physician’s assistants/primary care docs/surgeons/anesthesiologists/radiologists) wear Danskos, but I couldn’t find any concrete data. My guess is 70 percent.
 
When asked why he wears them, my husband said, “Because it’s easy to clean blood from them.”
 
Well, there you have it. The bloodless wonder shoes. They should advertise exactly that!

Want to read more of my book in progress? Click here.

It finally happened: the day my husband wore two different shoes to work. May 21, 2014. We hoped this day would never come, but fate had other designs.

Arun had been on call two nights ago. Call nights had been particularly painful as of late, since crashing with my parents 25 miles outside the city meant that he had to sleep at the hospital overnight. Luxury accommodations, they are not.

It was a largely sleepless night, involving an emergency slash trach and buckets of blood. An hour and a half total snooze time.

Then, the next day, he had an incredibly complex surgery that didn’t end until 10:36 pm. Catching up on a day’s worth of work since he’d been in surgery, I didn’t see him until after midnight. And he was exhausted, no surprise.

The next morning he woke around 4:00, as usual, kissed me, and headed to work.

A few hours later, Arun called me in between hospitals and gave me the news: he was wearing one brown dress shoe and one black dress shoe, a difference imperceptible in the dark of our bedroom. Shockingly comfortable, he said.

Of course, this happened to fall on the day of his weekly conference, when every attending and resident in the program is present. The residents mocked him mercilessly, taking photos like paparazzi in the midst of his tragedy.

Even worse, we had made fun of a former resident a few years ago for this very same offense.

I told him that his patients surely would be entertained.

Only time will tell the long-term impacts of this day. For now, we both just want to say, we’re really sorry for making fun of you before, Nikki!