This just in: it is certifiably impossible to walk into a room with a smiling baby without your maternal or paternal instinct immediately raising the pitch of your voice at least two octaves. It is simply uncontrollable.

The first week of my neurology rotation was incredibly dry. It consisted mostly of library time, awaiting the consults that never really came. The week was slow, and seeing as though it was the first week, I naturally felt stupid, frustrated, and lame for asking seemingly obvious questions. After a nice mature little internalized tantrum last Sunday (“I hate neurology! This is so stupid! Waaah!”), things are starting to make sense and get busier. Not a whole lot of sense, but plenty busier.

The problem with all of this, however, is the selection bias. Because only the really sick people end up in the hospital, you get a very skewed view of the population. While most of us will remain fairly healthy throughout our lives (minus some high blood pressure, high cholesterol or weight problems), the medical student and the resident see the worst of the worst. Since every patient we’ve seen so far in the hospital has been for a seizure workup, I’m thoroughly convinced that every child has had a seizure in their lives. (Time out for reality: a febrile seizure occurs in 2-5% of the population, but 2/3 of those kids never have a second seizure, so neurologists don’t generally get their panties in a bundle about a first-time seizure assocation with fever. Then again, 80% of neurologists prefer boxers to panties, so pantie-bundling isn’t all that common among neurologists, anyway. Surgeons, however…)

So I’m somewhat convinced that I had a seizure, and my parents are keeping it from me. That, or the old evil babysitter they hired named Alva Camp that made my brother and I eat only rice cakes and choose between taking a nap or cleaning our rooms while they chilled in Barbados just never told them about it. (And they say psychiatrists’ children are neurotic. Clearly I’m an exception to the rule.)

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