I've not been as prolific this year as in years past and I am okay with that. I just don't have as much to say, but I suppose that is how it goes with writing. There are bountiful periods and then there are droughts. Not having anything worthwhile to say has not negated my desire to be a writer. I still see publishing somewhere in my future, I just don't know when or what. I try not to be too expectant of myself because I don't want to manufacture something out of a preconceived notion I might have. I figure that it will be apparent to me when I am supposed to write something and when I am supposed to pursue publication.
Writing as an academician is not anything I desire, which, to some extent, is odd. There is definitely a career path that would allow me to write academically, but I find it stale and boring. None of the topics get me (as one who writes) really excited. I like writing about medicine and about the process of being a doctor and an educator because that is fascinating stuff. It's a strange concept to realize that I get paid to have people listen to me; people like patients, residents and students. Most of the time I don't sit and ponder how big of a responsibility it is, but when I do, I am infinitely grateful for the opportunity.
Right now I am feeling sad. Our neighbors, good friends, will be moving soon. We have lived in the same place for 10 years and these people have lived in their home longer than we have. Their 2 children are the same age as our youngest and our oldest and all 5 of our collective children play together all the time. We are close in the way that neighbors are close. I trust them completely with my children and my home. They have similar values that Lee and I have and they are raising good kids and, by all appearances, they (the husband and wife) have a solid relationship. It hurts my heart to see them leave and I truly mourn their departure for Lee and I and for our children.
In many ways, as you get older, it gets easier to make friends. You don't really care what other people think of you and you aren't trying to impress anyone and they either take you or leave you as you are. But the hard part is, as you get older, there are less and less people with whom you want to spend time or make the effort of friendship. And, no matter what anyone says, after friends move the friendship changes dynamics. You no longer have the luxury of proximity. Everything takes more effort and with busy lives it's not always anyone's priority to make an effort. You have to go to the grocery store or take the kids to the dentist or pay the bills or make dinner or help someone with their homework or take the clothes to the cleaners. When someone is just 3 houses down the street you see them when you take out the garbage or water the grass. You hang out in the street while the kids ride their scooters or climb trees. You take turns letting the kids destroy each other's houses and you've known their kids for so long that it's not weird for you to yell at them (and they ignore you in a way equal to the manner in which your own children ignore you).
Being neighbors with someone and being their friend means you avoid the ackwardness of having to let them know how much they mean to you. Everytime one of you takes each other's respective child to practice, you just know. You've been to every birthday party, every Halloween party, and block party. You've witnessed career moves, home renovations and you know each other's extended families. You've brought each other diapers or honey baked hams at the birth of new babies, you've thrown each other baby showers that mother to be wasn't able to attend b/c she had to attend the birth of the baby that was being honored. That same baby is now 5 years old and spends the nite at your house with your daughter. During the worst time of my life, they were there for our family in a way that no amount of gratitude will ever be able to repay. And just like that, situations change and they have to move on.
I think it is easier to be the leaver rather than the leavee. If you are moving you have all the giddy anticipation of the new house and the new circumstances. If you are left behind you are left hoping and praying that whoever moves into the house is remotely tolerable. And you know that however wonderful they might be, they'll never replace the original occupants. As the one's left behind, you feel a little like Jimmy Stewart's character in "It's a Wonderful Life"; consistent, yet uncertain of your personal value. It's almost like a relationship that you know is doomed from the beginning, you just don't want to be the one who gets dumped. It's always better to be the one who jumps ship first. And with any good neighbor, there is always that hidden fear of the other one moving first and the guilt that is felt by the ones who are doing the leaving. And the secret selfish desire by the one's left behind, that all real estate transactions will crash and burn thus forcing your friends to stay put (but knowing that they won't really be satisfied).
But I guess this all part of that circle of life thing. Friends come and go. Lee and I have become accustomed to being the ones left behind so we'll be fine in the end. The kids, they are new to this game and that is what saddens me the most. Their impending sorrow leaves me wishing I could find a way out of having to face it. No guide book can really prepare you to deal with your kids' disappointment. So we'll do what our parents did before us; make stuff up as we go along and pray to God that we are doing a good enough job. I know that it's something that they will have to face in life eventually, a transition like this. And they will be fine too. They'll learn from it and they will be more resilient. But, I still can't help feeling the saddness that comes from saying goodbye to people that you love.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Blessed Wal-Mart
It's just me and my dog sitting here in the house. The dog is going nuts because she sees her in-laws across the street and she wants to go and be with her beloved. She and the neighbor dog have a thing going. They are smitten with each other in a way I did not know occurred with canines.
I've been meaning to write about my most recent excursion to Laredo. The kids and I went for Easter and, like every other trip, we ended up at Wal-Mart. This is an observation that I have made and we are testing the hypothesis. Can we go an entire vacation without going to Wal-Mart? So far, the answer is no. This time my middle kid forgot to bring a pair of shoes. As the mother it should be my responsibility to make sure that everyone is properly packed. He started off with 2 pairs of shoes, but before we had even gone 100 miles he had busted his flip-flops and the cleats (couldn't find his sneakers) that I grabbed for him were actually his sister's. He could have made it the whole weekend shoe-less had it not been for the fact that we were going out to a ranch chock full-o' snakes and cacti. Sadly, I can't even blame the whole Laredo Wal-Mart experience entirely on him. By Easter Sunday I had already been there about 3 times.
The thing about Wal-Mart is that they are all exactly the same. I don't mean the physical lay-out, but I mean the ambiance. If you are in the middle of a Wal-Mart the city outside could be just about anywhere. There are never enough cashiers and the lines are always about 10 people deep. There are always women who should be wearing clothes larger than what they selected to wear (ample flesh pouring over the sides of their tank tops and jean shorts) and usually they have about 3 crying kids in their cart, especially if it is 10 o'clock at night. Even the ethnic mix is always the same; a cross-section of America. Maybe I always end up there b/c of the security in sameness. Sadly, the consistency of Wal-Mart comforts me.
I've been meaning to write about my most recent excursion to Laredo. The kids and I went for Easter and, like every other trip, we ended up at Wal-Mart. This is an observation that I have made and we are testing the hypothesis. Can we go an entire vacation without going to Wal-Mart? So far, the answer is no. This time my middle kid forgot to bring a pair of shoes. As the mother it should be my responsibility to make sure that everyone is properly packed. He started off with 2 pairs of shoes, but before we had even gone 100 miles he had busted his flip-flops and the cleats (couldn't find his sneakers) that I grabbed for him were actually his sister's. He could have made it the whole weekend shoe-less had it not been for the fact that we were going out to a ranch chock full-o' snakes and cacti. Sadly, I can't even blame the whole Laredo Wal-Mart experience entirely on him. By Easter Sunday I had already been there about 3 times.
The thing about Wal-Mart is that they are all exactly the same. I don't mean the physical lay-out, but I mean the ambiance. If you are in the middle of a Wal-Mart the city outside could be just about anywhere. There are never enough cashiers and the lines are always about 10 people deep. There are always women who should be wearing clothes larger than what they selected to wear (ample flesh pouring over the sides of their tank tops and jean shorts) and usually they have about 3 crying kids in their cart, especially if it is 10 o'clock at night. Even the ethnic mix is always the same; a cross-section of America. Maybe I always end up there b/c of the security in sameness. Sadly, the consistency of Wal-Mart comforts me.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
It's 4am and I Must Be Dreaming
Here an oink, there an oink, everywhere an oink, oink...Seems like swine flu is on everyone's mind these days. The reason that I am up at 4 am is due to guilt. I managed to make my good friend's 40th birthday memorable b/c I successfully caused enough paranoia in her mind that she has likely quarantined her entire family for the next 365 days. But, when she told me that her colleague just came back from Mexico and stayed home from work today b/c he was feeling fluish-well, I couldn't resist the "oh my god's" and the "are you kidding me's". I truly thought she was pulling my leg. Chances are it is probably nothing remotely related to swine flu, but that natural human reaction (which, if I may bash on my own gender, is often times more pronounced in females) to switch into hysteria mode kicked in. Normally I pride my self in being even-keeled, but she caught me in a moment of weakness when my mind was processing about 17 things at once and wasn't completely focused on the conversation. So, those interal thoughts that usually get filtered out before they leave your lips were given life. No time to think about implications of what I might say, the verbal diarrhea came bubbling forth! Then, in the hours that followed our conversation I got caught up in my own caca and forgot to call her back. Forgotten...until about an hour ago when, as I am peeing and in a fog like state, I think, "Oh no! I forgot to call her back!" So, knowing there is nothing I can do right now, I figure I might as well read everything I can on swine flu b/c 4 am is a really good time to make rational decisions! To avoid any other potential damage, I think I'll go back to bed!!!
Monday, April 6, 2009
Today Was a Tough Day
Is it March or April that is in like a lion and out like a lamb (or is it the other way around)? Whatever...March was a fairly dry month concerning bloggable insights and so is this month quite honestly. Mainly I'm writing because I need to clean out my 'closet of insecurities' and see if I can get these negative thoughts of imminent death from pinging around in my head.
This is a yucky feeling-fear. I just don't like it. I've been floating along, carefree, in my little bubble for a couple of months without too much preoccupation about cancer. I've enjoyed my time off. But doggone it if a series of events didn't cause me to come undone this morning. First I heard about another 40ish year old woman diagnosed about 10 years ago and with kids not much older than mine with widespread metastases and approaching death. Then I gave a lecture to the medical students about being a doctor and a patient. It was a small group and the discussion, using some of my own writing from my own experiences, was insightful and thought provoking. I didn't tell the students that they were reading about me and that I had written the stuff till the end of the session and I hadn't realized how much it would affect me. It made me sad to listen to some of my own story in the words that I had written. Not so much because I had been morose when I was writing, but more because I was completely open and exposed when I was telling about my experiences. Maybe I was mourning for myself. I think that process occurs in waves, self-mourning. Sometimes the waves are so big that they come crashing right on top of you and you feel like you might get knocked over and swept away. I think right now I'm trying to do what you are supposed to do if a riptide carries you out into the ocean. I'm just floating along in the current and trying not to struggle till I gather enough strength to swim back to shore.
After these 2 things I had a conversation with my brother about the likelihood of him having to care for our mother should we play the odds and assume that I go before him and my mom. I hadn't really been thinking about checking out anytime soon (minus the two events that I just described), but we started talking about him having to care for his mother-in-law eventually and in my already depressed state I decided, 'hell, why not take this scenario one step further' and gave him my cheery prediction that he would be the sole provider for two old ladies one day. He decided to top me on my gloom and doom report and relived his experience playing bingo with and feeding ice-cream to a some middle aged woman who had suffered a traumatic brain injury and now had the mental capacity of your common garden vegetable for some church do-good event this weekend. He said it reminded him to remind our mother to figure out some retirement plan for herself so he could afford to put her in a place as nice as the one he had been to if she ever suddenly became incapacitated. I think that bummed me out even more, because in his recollection to me of his conversation to mom, I was already out of the picture. He was providing for our proposed elderly and invalid mother all on his own and I hadn't even joked to him about this yet-that he would be doing it all on his own b/c I'd be dead. He'd already thought of that. I know that all of my friends and family probably already think it. Not that they wish me dead, but they probably have scenarios in their heads that don't include me. I just don't want to hear them. I only want to hear the, "Of course you'll be at your kids' weddings!" It's not denial. I can postulate what the actuarial tables calculate just as well as the next guy, but normally I figure that it's better to have hope than not and I want people around me to feed me hope. My brother wasn't being cruel. He probably didn't even realize how it sounded (it was kind of like when my middle son drew a picture of the family right after I was diagnosed and everyone was in the picture except me. I have-joked that he had some sort of grim-reaper 6th sense).
I got so worked up that today while I was shopping at Cosco I was convinced that I was having some kind of preseizure aura and I was about to fall on the ground in convulsions at any moment with my legs splayed wide open and my skirt all askew with my soiled undies showing for the world to see. I kept waiting for an arm to twitch or a facial palsy and the resulting public humiliation of having to get dragged out of Cosco on a stretcher after causing a huge spectacle in the middle of the clothes tables. The stress of all the worry caused a sharp piercing headache in my left occiput that I was convinced was a huge tumor from whence all the neurological symptoms were originating. The fact that I could massage away the pain was only mildly reassuring.
On the way home I called my dad for reassurance and he did his best, but no one really knows how to reassure you the way you need to be reassured, so I decided that I'd just try to brush it off and suck it up. You know, repress the feelings deep down as far as they would go. It seemed to work for a little while till I remembered that my good friend who also has breast cancer and 3 small kids was probably coming out of surgery for her 2nd mastectomy with plastic surgery & reconstruction (why do we have to be in this club?). And then the icing on the shit-cake was when I read that a Sunday School friend's mom (who is in her early 60's) has just taken a turn for the worst and is going to die imminently from pancreatic cancer. This friend has 2 kids less than the age of 5 years old and a year ago thought that her mom would be around to see her grandkids grow and now she's sitting at her mother's bedside waiting for her to die. The woman who brought her into this world is about to make her final exit.
I know that I need to just focus and get my eyes back on God. But every once in a while there will be a day like today and it just gets so easy to lose sight. Huh, interesting...right after I wrote that last sentence I read from Sarah Young's book, Jesus Calling this passage, "When you focus on what you don't have or on situations that displease you, your mind also becomes darkened. You take for granted life, salvation, sunshine, flowers and countless other gifts from [God]. You look for what is wrong and refuse to enjoy life until that is 'fixed'"
So I will do my best to give thanks even on days like today.
This is a yucky feeling-fear. I just don't like it. I've been floating along, carefree, in my little bubble for a couple of months without too much preoccupation about cancer. I've enjoyed my time off. But doggone it if a series of events didn't cause me to come undone this morning. First I heard about another 40ish year old woman diagnosed about 10 years ago and with kids not much older than mine with widespread metastases and approaching death. Then I gave a lecture to the medical students about being a doctor and a patient. It was a small group and the discussion, using some of my own writing from my own experiences, was insightful and thought provoking. I didn't tell the students that they were reading about me and that I had written the stuff till the end of the session and I hadn't realized how much it would affect me. It made me sad to listen to some of my own story in the words that I had written. Not so much because I had been morose when I was writing, but more because I was completely open and exposed when I was telling about my experiences. Maybe I was mourning for myself. I think that process occurs in waves, self-mourning. Sometimes the waves are so big that they come crashing right on top of you and you feel like you might get knocked over and swept away. I think right now I'm trying to do what you are supposed to do if a riptide carries you out into the ocean. I'm just floating along in the current and trying not to struggle till I gather enough strength to swim back to shore.
After these 2 things I had a conversation with my brother about the likelihood of him having to care for our mother should we play the odds and assume that I go before him and my mom. I hadn't really been thinking about checking out anytime soon (minus the two events that I just described), but we started talking about him having to care for his mother-in-law eventually and in my already depressed state I decided, 'hell, why not take this scenario one step further' and gave him my cheery prediction that he would be the sole provider for two old ladies one day. He decided to top me on my gloom and doom report and relived his experience playing bingo with and feeding ice-cream to a some middle aged woman who had suffered a traumatic brain injury and now had the mental capacity of your common garden vegetable for some church do-good event this weekend. He said it reminded him to remind our mother to figure out some retirement plan for herself so he could afford to put her in a place as nice as the one he had been to if she ever suddenly became incapacitated. I think that bummed me out even more, because in his recollection to me of his conversation to mom, I was already out of the picture. He was providing for our proposed elderly and invalid mother all on his own and I hadn't even joked to him about this yet-that he would be doing it all on his own b/c I'd be dead. He'd already thought of that. I know that all of my friends and family probably already think it. Not that they wish me dead, but they probably have scenarios in their heads that don't include me. I just don't want to hear them. I only want to hear the, "Of course you'll be at your kids' weddings!" It's not denial. I can postulate what the actuarial tables calculate just as well as the next guy, but normally I figure that it's better to have hope than not and I want people around me to feed me hope. My brother wasn't being cruel. He probably didn't even realize how it sounded (it was kind of like when my middle son drew a picture of the family right after I was diagnosed and everyone was in the picture except me. I have-joked that he had some sort of grim-reaper 6th sense).
I got so worked up that today while I was shopping at Cosco I was convinced that I was having some kind of preseizure aura and I was about to fall on the ground in convulsions at any moment with my legs splayed wide open and my skirt all askew with my soiled undies showing for the world to see. I kept waiting for an arm to twitch or a facial palsy and the resulting public humiliation of having to get dragged out of Cosco on a stretcher after causing a huge spectacle in the middle of the clothes tables. The stress of all the worry caused a sharp piercing headache in my left occiput that I was convinced was a huge tumor from whence all the neurological symptoms were originating. The fact that I could massage away the pain was only mildly reassuring.
On the way home I called my dad for reassurance and he did his best, but no one really knows how to reassure you the way you need to be reassured, so I decided that I'd just try to brush it off and suck it up. You know, repress the feelings deep down as far as they would go. It seemed to work for a little while till I remembered that my good friend who also has breast cancer and 3 small kids was probably coming out of surgery for her 2nd mastectomy with plastic surgery & reconstruction (why do we have to be in this club?). And then the icing on the shit-cake was when I read that a Sunday School friend's mom (who is in her early 60's) has just taken a turn for the worst and is going to die imminently from pancreatic cancer. This friend has 2 kids less than the age of 5 years old and a year ago thought that her mom would be around to see her grandkids grow and now she's sitting at her mother's bedside waiting for her to die. The woman who brought her into this world is about to make her final exit.
I know that I need to just focus and get my eyes back on God. But every once in a while there will be a day like today and it just gets so easy to lose sight. Huh, interesting...right after I wrote that last sentence I read from Sarah Young's book, Jesus Calling this passage, "When you focus on what you don't have or on situations that displease you, your mind also becomes darkened. You take for granted life, salvation, sunshine, flowers and countless other gifts from [God]. You look for what is wrong and refuse to enjoy life until that is 'fixed'"
So I will do my best to give thanks even on days like today.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sex Ed 101 for Your Elementary Schooler
The boys got a crash course in animal reproduction this past weekend. We were driving and it always seems as though all important conversations happen in the car when you can't see the expressions on their faces. I think they do this on purpose. I'm not sure how the topic turned to the mating practices of canines, but it did. My oldest was concerned that even though our dog has been spayed, more importantly, because she was not married it was inconceivable to him that she could become impregnated. Now Lee and I are pretty conservative, but practical. While we won't be advocating teen pregnancy in our home, the whole "wait until you are married" concept, though in a perfect world would be ideal, might be impossible to enforce. And we already know plenty of people who have conceived/had their kids outside of the "marriage bed", so to speak. So, thinking that the whole idea of tolerance is more important than idealism, I decide that 290 west is the optimal location to disspell the myth of not only dog matrimony, but matrimony as a prerequisite to childbearing in general.
"Son, dogs can't really get married."
"But then how do they have babies?" he asks, bewildered.
Thus, the sex education lesson begins. Already they are well versed in the correct terminology of male and female anatomical parts, so I explain that the male dog's penis goes into the female dog's vagina. Lee expounds and decides to make it relateable, "You know how it feels good to touch your penis and it can get hard? Well a dog's penis can get hard too." I remind them of the times that they have seen a dog's penis which leads them to recollect all the different times that they have seen various animal's genitalia. Collectively, the two of them can remember a fair number of animal gaint-testicle sitings. After the digression, my younger son wants to know about the mechanics of the whole encounter. He is puzzled as to how exactly a dog's penis can fit into another dog's vagina. The two parts just don't seem to fit. Then I explain "humping." This is a term that is not in their vocabulary, so I clarify things for them.
"Well, they can't lay down together, so the male dog kind of pounces on the female dog from behind and his penis can go into her vagina", I offer to them.
Since we've gone this far, Lee figures we might as well go all the way with our lesson and starts in on embryology. "The testicles have sperm in them, which are like little seeds and these seeds go out thru the penis into the girl dog's vagina. The girl dog also has a little seed inside of her and it's called an egg and the sperm and the egg join together and puppies grow from this. It's the same thing for humans. This is how they have babies too."
My oldest, Mr Concrete, dumbfounded, exclaims, "No way, the girls have eggs inside of them? How did they get in there?"
So, Lee backtracks and explains the difference between the eggs that are seen in a cardboard dozen and the eggs in a woman's body. The oldest seems satisfied with our lesson and is quietly pondering these things in his mind, though the concept of canine promiscuity is rattling his sense of right and wrong. I know he is still thinking, "Surely, they must get married before they have babies. Who would take care of the puppies? Just the mom?" He does't realize, in the animal kingdom, there is not an equal division of labor, with dad taking the pups to soccer practice so mom can make dinner.
Our younger boy gets it right away (mercifully, our daughter who is far more savvy than both of her brothers combined, is asleep in her car seat). In the rear view mirror I can see his wheels spinning and putting all the pieces of the puzzle together. Boy dog's penis in girl dog's vagina. Boy dog pounces on girl dog. Boy dog's seed and girl dog's egg combine and make a baby. And this is the same as humans! I can see the moment his little mind is screaming, "Eureka!" and with an impish look on his face and a glimmer in his eye, he raises his eyebrows and says to Lee, "So dad, is that what you did to mom? Did you pounce on her?"
I'm sure that we will have this conversation (or versions there of) time and time again, but I don't think that Lee and I will laugh as hard as we did on this occasion, with tears streaming down our faces and urine soiling our underpants. Hands down, that was one of the top ten moments of parenthood. I don't see how people can avoid talking to their kids about "sensitive subjects". They (kids) are so damn smart that you really aren't sparing them from anything and you, as the parent, are, at the least, withholding some really funny stuff from yourself. Child-rearing, no matter how exhausting it may be, is awesome!
"Son, dogs can't really get married."
"But then how do they have babies?" he asks, bewildered.
Thus, the sex education lesson begins. Already they are well versed in the correct terminology of male and female anatomical parts, so I explain that the male dog's penis goes into the female dog's vagina. Lee expounds and decides to make it relateable, "You know how it feels good to touch your penis and it can get hard? Well a dog's penis can get hard too." I remind them of the times that they have seen a dog's penis which leads them to recollect all the different times that they have seen various animal's genitalia. Collectively, the two of them can remember a fair number of animal gaint-testicle sitings. After the digression, my younger son wants to know about the mechanics of the whole encounter. He is puzzled as to how exactly a dog's penis can fit into another dog's vagina. The two parts just don't seem to fit. Then I explain "humping." This is a term that is not in their vocabulary, so I clarify things for them.
"Well, they can't lay down together, so the male dog kind of pounces on the female dog from behind and his penis can go into her vagina", I offer to them.
Since we've gone this far, Lee figures we might as well go all the way with our lesson and starts in on embryology. "The testicles have sperm in them, which are like little seeds and these seeds go out thru the penis into the girl dog's vagina. The girl dog also has a little seed inside of her and it's called an egg and the sperm and the egg join together and puppies grow from this. It's the same thing for humans. This is how they have babies too."
My oldest, Mr Concrete, dumbfounded, exclaims, "No way, the girls have eggs inside of them? How did they get in there?"
So, Lee backtracks and explains the difference between the eggs that are seen in a cardboard dozen and the eggs in a woman's body. The oldest seems satisfied with our lesson and is quietly pondering these things in his mind, though the concept of canine promiscuity is rattling his sense of right and wrong. I know he is still thinking, "Surely, they must get married before they have babies. Who would take care of the puppies? Just the mom?" He does't realize, in the animal kingdom, there is not an equal division of labor, with dad taking the pups to soccer practice so mom can make dinner.
Our younger boy gets it right away (mercifully, our daughter who is far more savvy than both of her brothers combined, is asleep in her car seat). In the rear view mirror I can see his wheels spinning and putting all the pieces of the puzzle together. Boy dog's penis in girl dog's vagina. Boy dog pounces on girl dog. Boy dog's seed and girl dog's egg combine and make a baby. And this is the same as humans! I can see the moment his little mind is screaming, "Eureka!" and with an impish look on his face and a glimmer in his eye, he raises his eyebrows and says to Lee, "So dad, is that what you did to mom? Did you pounce on her?"
I'm sure that we will have this conversation (or versions there of) time and time again, but I don't think that Lee and I will laugh as hard as we did on this occasion, with tears streaming down our faces and urine soiling our underpants. Hands down, that was one of the top ten moments of parenthood. I don't see how people can avoid talking to their kids about "sensitive subjects". They (kids) are so damn smart that you really aren't sparing them from anything and you, as the parent, are, at the least, withholding some really funny stuff from yourself. Child-rearing, no matter how exhausting it may be, is awesome!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Addictions and Missions
Our dog, Star, has a fondness for small stuffed creatures. Either the furry creatures that populate our daughter's room (more accurately, the four corners of our home) are little known canine delicacies or upon seeing them she enters into some sort of predatory mode and is simply protecting us all from the dangers of Beanie Babies and Webkins. My desk has become a make-shift stuffed toy infirmary. Cuddly dogs and cats, bears and wombats are lined up next to the computer, some with simple lacerations and others destined to be amputees. When my daughter sees one of her stuffed animals in the dog's mouth she feels betrayed by the dog. Like she, the dog, had promised my daughter that she would end her addiction, but then she is caught red-handed (or red-snouted to be precise). The look in my daughter's face is one of disgust and deep sorrow because she knows that she can't trust the one that she loves.
Speaking of addictions, my middle son has developed a fetish of sorts with temporary tattoos. I blame my aunt and uncle who sent him a book of over 500 temporary tattoos. Even though he is not quite 7 years old, his arms, neck and chest resemble those of a 42 year old biker. All he is missing is the motorcycle, leather apparel, long white beard and the bandana. His father and I are hoping that he gets the need to have body art out of his system while he can still remove them with a little soap and water. His addiction is like any other; it's done in secret and he is somewhat ashamed by it. We find wet papertowels and washclothes in unseeming places, evidence that he has been feeding his habit. Later, he wants us to remove them or he covers them with shirtsleeves. He is horribly fearful of having his classmates see them. If he weren't too young to understand the tenets of a 12 step program we might have to consider finding one is some church basement or school cafeteria. Either that or hide the book of tattoos.
I have much more to write, particularly about my soul-searching mission I just completed. Well, maybe I didn't complete it, but I did start it. Rather than journeying to the far east, I went southwest to Laredo, TX. If you can believe it, this trip to a border town was the trip of a lifetime. I credit God and my husband for forcing me to go on this pilgrimage. I must admit at first I was somewhat reluctant. More than anything, it gave me the opportunity to ask really difficult questions. But after I started talking, I realized the questions weren't all that hard to ask, they weren't all that taboo and most people wanted to (or were at least willig to) talk about the topics I proposed. Talk about clearing up a lifetime of misconceptions! Had I had these conversations 20 years ago I could have saved myself a hell of lot of time and money in therapy. But it was probably all those hours over all those years sitting in that chair that enabled me to get to the point where I was ready and preparred to ask the questions without judgment, anger or fear. It encourages me to tell others to do the same. Don't wait to ask the questions or have the conversations. You'll be suprised at what you may learn and mostly, even if it's not what you expect, it's all good.
Speaking of addictions, my middle son has developed a fetish of sorts with temporary tattoos. I blame my aunt and uncle who sent him a book of over 500 temporary tattoos. Even though he is not quite 7 years old, his arms, neck and chest resemble those of a 42 year old biker. All he is missing is the motorcycle, leather apparel, long white beard and the bandana. His father and I are hoping that he gets the need to have body art out of his system while he can still remove them with a little soap and water. His addiction is like any other; it's done in secret and he is somewhat ashamed by it. We find wet papertowels and washclothes in unseeming places, evidence that he has been feeding his habit. Later, he wants us to remove them or he covers them with shirtsleeves. He is horribly fearful of having his classmates see them. If he weren't too young to understand the tenets of a 12 step program we might have to consider finding one is some church basement or school cafeteria. Either that or hide the book of tattoos.
I have much more to write, particularly about my soul-searching mission I just completed. Well, maybe I didn't complete it, but I did start it. Rather than journeying to the far east, I went southwest to Laredo, TX. If you can believe it, this trip to a border town was the trip of a lifetime. I credit God and my husband for forcing me to go on this pilgrimage. I must admit at first I was somewhat reluctant. More than anything, it gave me the opportunity to ask really difficult questions. But after I started talking, I realized the questions weren't all that hard to ask, they weren't all that taboo and most people wanted to (or were at least willig to) talk about the topics I proposed. Talk about clearing up a lifetime of misconceptions! Had I had these conversations 20 years ago I could have saved myself a hell of lot of time and money in therapy. But it was probably all those hours over all those years sitting in that chair that enabled me to get to the point where I was ready and preparred to ask the questions without judgment, anger or fear. It encourages me to tell others to do the same. Don't wait to ask the questions or have the conversations. You'll be suprised at what you may learn and mostly, even if it's not what you expect, it's all good.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Just Another Day at the Office
I am sick. That is not meant as a judgement of myself, rather it is an actual physical description. My office mate told me that I sound like Brenda Vaccaro. I'm not sure who she is, but if she sounds like she's been a smoker for the past 60 years, then I sound like her. I have not been able to breathe out of either nostril in days and I bark like a seal when I cough. The reason I had been feeling like I couldn't breathe is because my body was getting ready to mount this assault on me with this horrific cold. Basically, I'm miserable and I want the whole world to know. I laid in bed for almost 3 entire days. The good news is that I finally got to watch "The Millionairre Matchmaker" on Bravo.
Despite my fragile state, ever the martyr, I went in to work today. The first part of the day was spent lying on a nogahide couch in the resident's lounge in the back of the ER. Every time the residents or students had a patient to discuss they would tiptoe back to where I was napping and gently rouse me out of my misery. They could have ordered an open-heart biopsy to be performed right there in the ER (just like they do everything in the ER on the show ER) and I would have agreed to it. After lunch I decided that I had better make an appearance and actually see a few patients. This was a critical error in judgment.
Mostly, I really like the ER. It is a fun, strange, surreal, crazy, hectic, humbling place to practice medicine. Occassionally you have to deal with the scourge of the earth and you want them to crawl back under the rock from whence they came. Today was one of those days. Maybe it was because I felt so shitty. Regardless, after my interaction with one of the patients I found myself wondering why I hadn't bothered calling in sick today. The man wanted cough syrup; prescription cough syrup. Well, no one gets a prescription for cough syrup with codeine from the ER. It just doesn't happen. Besides, I didn't hear him cough one time the entire 15 minutes I spent interviewing and examining him. His lungs were crystal clear and he was finishing a course of antibiotics his primary care doctor had prescribed for him. When I told him that I could give him a prescription strength cough drop, otherwise he'd have to buy over the counter cough syrup, he went ape-shit on me. He pulled out the race card. I had not seen this coming. He told me that I wasn't giving him prescription cough syrup because he was black and all white doctors thought that black patients "just wanted the syrup and they were all drug heads!"
His tactic backfired. It was all intimidation. He thought he could intimidate me into prescribing him narcotics by calling me a racist. This was not the most well thought out plan. After my initial desire to tell him to shut the f-ck up while biting my tongue so as not to call him a f---ing, sh-thead, a--hole and curbing my urge to spit in his face, I took a deep breath (through my mouth b/c, unlike my patient, I actually could not breathe out of my nose) and told him (with the utmost professionalism, of course) that he could not speak to me in that manner and if he continued to speak to me in the tone that he was using (by the way, when he told me I was racist, he was yelling at me and in my face) that I would be happy to call security to escort him out of the hospital. He didn't like this plan so he decided that he would leave on his own. Right then and there. I didn't go running after him, I'm not that much of a martyr, but I did offer, one last time, to give him the cough drops that he didn't want. He declined, though not politely.
I was hopping mad after that little interaction. I was like Deputy Dawg mumbling all sorts of things under my breath, "Sassen frassen...Scourge of the earth...syrup!...hah!...sassen frassen..." It took about 2 to 3 more patients for me to completely pipe down, but by the time the HIV positive lady asked me to look at her "27 vaginal warts", I was as cool as a cucumber. I guess it's just all in a day's work...
Despite my fragile state, ever the martyr, I went in to work today. The first part of the day was spent lying on a nogahide couch in the resident's lounge in the back of the ER. Every time the residents or students had a patient to discuss they would tiptoe back to where I was napping and gently rouse me out of my misery. They could have ordered an open-heart biopsy to be performed right there in the ER (just like they do everything in the ER on the show ER) and I would have agreed to it. After lunch I decided that I had better make an appearance and actually see a few patients. This was a critical error in judgment.
Mostly, I really like the ER. It is a fun, strange, surreal, crazy, hectic, humbling place to practice medicine. Occassionally you have to deal with the scourge of the earth and you want them to crawl back under the rock from whence they came. Today was one of those days. Maybe it was because I felt so shitty. Regardless, after my interaction with one of the patients I found myself wondering why I hadn't bothered calling in sick today. The man wanted cough syrup; prescription cough syrup. Well, no one gets a prescription for cough syrup with codeine from the ER. It just doesn't happen. Besides, I didn't hear him cough one time the entire 15 minutes I spent interviewing and examining him. His lungs were crystal clear and he was finishing a course of antibiotics his primary care doctor had prescribed for him. When I told him that I could give him a prescription strength cough drop, otherwise he'd have to buy over the counter cough syrup, he went ape-shit on me. He pulled out the race card. I had not seen this coming. He told me that I wasn't giving him prescription cough syrup because he was black and all white doctors thought that black patients "just wanted the syrup and they were all drug heads!"
His tactic backfired. It was all intimidation. He thought he could intimidate me into prescribing him narcotics by calling me a racist. This was not the most well thought out plan. After my initial desire to tell him to shut the f-ck up while biting my tongue so as not to call him a f---ing, sh-thead, a--hole and curbing my urge to spit in his face, I took a deep breath (through my mouth b/c, unlike my patient, I actually could not breathe out of my nose) and told him (with the utmost professionalism, of course) that he could not speak to me in that manner and if he continued to speak to me in the tone that he was using (by the way, when he told me I was racist, he was yelling at me and in my face) that I would be happy to call security to escort him out of the hospital. He didn't like this plan so he decided that he would leave on his own. Right then and there. I didn't go running after him, I'm not that much of a martyr, but I did offer, one last time, to give him the cough drops that he didn't want. He declined, though not politely.
I was hopping mad after that little interaction. I was like Deputy Dawg mumbling all sorts of things under my breath, "Sassen frassen...Scourge of the earth...syrup!...hah!...sassen frassen..." It took about 2 to 3 more patients for me to completely pipe down, but by the time the HIV positive lady asked me to look at her "27 vaginal warts", I was as cool as a cucumber. I guess it's just all in a day's work...
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