I went out with some friends last night - all but one who are also med students. We had a great time catching up, dancing, buying each other drinks and generally trying to prove to ourselves that we are still fun, young and good looking people (that's right: med students are hot!) somewhere underneath those dirty scrubs, hideous white coats, and bloodshot sunken eyes.

We had a blast, though it was obvious that we didn't fit in, outside the fact that we were 7 straight males and females + 1 ring-leading gay male in a gay Sacramento bar. We looked like an odd bunch, every major ethnicity fully represented, dancing ethusiastically (some of us frighteningly so), in a wide circle, occasionally sharing some dance moves with a wandering cross dresser who looked like someone's grandma. And we talked about delievering babies, frustrating or inspiring patients, exciting surgeries, or the schizophrenic who swallowed the avacado pit.

This is an exciting, scary and stressful time in our lives and last night it was obvious both how bonding these experiences can be, and also how much we are becoming isolated in our world. I think it is only natural, and it is bound to change, but for now, it is startling to see. Several of my classmates lost their first patients over the past week, and it is a strange experience that each person goes through differently. Some deaths were expected, some were not, and some were just too young in any case. Each time someone loses a patient, the word spreads. First in technical jargon, "...she desat'd, possibly temponade, they intubated her still in her room, but she coded in the icu...", and then to what is really more important to us in the end, "Are you OK? How are you dealing with it?" And because our lives are so packed and intense and our boundaries have been lost to the need for efficiency and practicality, these conversations can and do take place pretty much everywhere, even when dancing, drink in hand, under the strobe light of a gay bar's dance floor.