How do you spell relief?

Rocking the Pre-K graduation cap but feeling like I deserve to!

Ding Dong! The witch is dead!* *(At least for ten years, she is.)

Just received notification that I successfully passed that heinous American Board of Internal Medicine recertification exam. While it may not mean much to you, to me it means a whole lot. It means I get to do my job without worry or woe or threat of losing hospital privileges. In other words, it means I'm officially sho' nuff and bona fide to do what I do for ten more years. (Which is quite a relief considering it's probably poor form to be an academic teaching physician that isn't board certified, don't you think?)


Speaking of the ABIM recertification test. . . . .

Did I mention that I was asked to stop talking during the actual test? Umm. . .yeah, I'm not exactly proud of it, but errr. . . .well. . . . I have a tendency to talk to exams. Especially difficult exams. It's like I prepare for them, and then attack them full-on Rambo style like they're the enemy. I load up the ammo, put on my game face, and throw on my mental camouflage. Depending upon how I'm feeling, I might even tie a headband around my head and let out a primal war cry. It's me versus the exam, and I like to win. And this enemy was a doozy. . . . an all day computerized, no-coffee, no-snacks, no-nothin', difficult doozy. There I was. . . lying on my side in the trenches. . . .ready to pounce at a moment's notice, teeth gritted and machine gun bullets flying everywhere. "Aaaarrrrggggghhhhhhhhhh!" (That would be my war cry.) Okay, technically my "trench" was a testing center, and I was more sitting on a quasi-comfortable office chair than exactly down on all fours wearing battle garments in a dirt mound--but you get the picture. In a throaty, fairly diabolical (yet what I thought was a quiet and not-so-intrusive) voice, I told that exam exactly what I thought of it every chance I got:

"Ohhhh? Ha ha ha. . . you think I don't know that one, don't ya? Pneumonia and a brain abscess? Come on, playa. That's Nocardia, man. Don't try to play me! But that's a dirty question, man. Low down and dirty, man!"

It wasn't until after my third outburst, that the proctor came into the computer testing room and told me to put a lid on it. I take that back--she was sort of nice about it: "Umm. . . doctor. . . . I don't know how to say this, but. . . . well, there's actually no talking during the exam, okay?" What? You mean I can't talk during this test that required me to be fingerprinted twice before entering? Really? I'm sure she was thinking, Who does that? Uh. . . Dr. Manning, that's who. I bet money that I was subject matter for her "You ain't gonna believe what happened to me at work today" conversation at the dinner table that night. If only she'd known that my life is like one continuous Seinfeld episode, she would have understood. The good news? I don't talk in movie theaters, just extraordinarily heinous exams. The better news? I won't have to get muzzled again by her or anyone else until 2020! Woo hoo!

Me after getting Georgia ACP Outstanding Teacher Award
(looking calm considering I hadn't gotten a verdict on the ABIM recert exam yet!)


*For those who weren't reading this blog during my board review study period. . .check out this post to understand how challenging it is to study for anything as an almost 40 year old full-time working mama. . . . . whew!