Thinking about making a run for the border and I don't mean Taco Bell. I wonder how hard it would be to swim across the Rio Grande the other way and disappear into Mexico? I could make my way to the Riviera Maya and work cleaning luxury hotel rooms. I'd assume a new identity.
The sick thing is I'd do it if I could secretly spy on how upside down my family's life would become. Not from "oh how tragic the mother has disappeared" but the "what the fuck? Who has to be where and at what time and what's the passcode to the checking account and wait a minute, you have to file insurance claims and there is a birthday party when and who's gonna pick me up after school and buy me a new lunch box and make sure the dogs go to the vet and the tires get rotated and find all the tax deduction receipts....". I'd only have to think about me. Seems like a selfish fantasy but a girl can dream, no? Maybe I'd take my dogs, but only the one that doesn't shit in my closet. I don't even want to deal with that level of neediness.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Monday, February 9, 2015
Sunday, November 9, 2014
When Neighbors Move
I don't deal well with change. I never have. It's a character flaw, I know. The worst kind of change, for me, are departures. At this point in my life I'm closer to the grave than to the cradle so, by now, you would think that I have adapted, evolved, come up with coping mechanisms. That could not be further from the truth. As a matter of fact, I think it's gotten worse.
It's rather selfish, wanting things to always stay the same. Logically, I know this. I am fully aware that I am more interested in maintaining balance in my own ecosystem than the evolution of man. To be quite honest, I completely identified with the father figure in "The Croods" and I think the family kill circle is rational mechanism of protection.
I think (and I realize that this post is full of the work "I") I take all types of change personally. For whatever reason, I just can't shake off those last vestiges of deep-rooted insecurity and when someone leaves I don't know how to NOT take it as a ballot cast in the "loves me not" bucket. Is this thinking f*cked up, rudimentary and childish? Yes.
This January we'll have lived in our current house for 16 years. All 3 of my kids have been brought home to this house, we've buried dozens of pets (not in our yard...don't worry it's not a pet cemetery out there. And mostly it's been rodents. And amphibians. And 2 dogs.) and seen countless neighbors come and go. I've lived in this house longer than I've lived any where else in my entire life. We've done 2 additions and added a swimming pool. I've rearranged furniture so many times that recently I just either threw away or donated 90% of it. Lee and I have completed fellowships, modified our careers, gone through illness, taken care of parents in the setting of our home. Our kitchen table has been the epicenter of homework, projects, mentoring, finance summits, bill paying, cookie baking, late nights with friends, tamale making, picture drawing, Scrabble competitions, sandwich preparation, bacon and chocolate chip pancake consumption, family meetings to discuss disappointments and to gather for celebrations. Our kids have learned to read, done math facts, learned Texas history, written (not enough) thank you notes, eaten thousands of chicken nuggets, gallons of macaroni and cheese, been subject to inconsistent morning devotionals, left letters and cookies for Santa Claus, formulated Christmas lists, plotted illness to skip school, taken ibuprofen for actual fevers and have transitioned from diapers to puberty in the same 3 seats.
When I came to Houston in 1991 (that's right, 23 years ago!) I never, ever thought I'd call it my home. Up to the time that I arrived here for medical school, I had moved 13 times in my 23 years of life. My first year of medical school I changed apartments 3 times because I didn't bother finding housing before I left Atlanta (a symptom of my ambivalence and depression at the onset of medical school). It wasn't until I met my husband that I began cultivating any sense of stability. I've lived in 3 different places since we've been together; the apartment I was living when we met, our first rental home and now our current home. I attended a different school for kindergarten, first grade, second grade and third grade and in 3 different states. This isn't a criticism of my parents. They were young and it was the 70s. If I psychoanalyze my husband, he'd have a similar tale to tell (but he doesn't like to be psychoanalyzed and perhaps his moves weren't so extreme-in some ways. In others they were probably worse or at least different). Nevertheless, neither one of us thought we'd be in the same house 16 years later and certainly not in Houston, TX.
In the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life", George Bailey wrestles with whether or not his existence has mattered. It's the basis of the whole movie. I've probably seen that movie about a hundred times and it is one of my all time favorites. I remember sitting in my den on the sofa in my pjs with my mom and my brother on Greenhill Drive watching it during Thanksgiving and Christmas break. I love the underlying expression of loyalty and the emphasis on what really matters. If you know me on more than just a superficial level, for better or worse, I've become attached to you-like a barnacle. You have to scrape me off and I'm old and crusty. I'm not very good at expressing my love for you and your people in a vocal kind of way, but love I do. I love the familiarity of your proximity and all the comfort that proximity brings. Do you have an egg I can borrow? Can my dog(s) camp out at your house? Should we go walk on the bayou (the cement ditch with the gnats and the homeless)? The beer bottles that stack when our men-folk talk nonsense. The running back and forth of our children across yards. There have been lots and lots of you have that have come into my life, made it richer, and then continued on your own journey. We all have a different trajectory and I mourn when yours doesn't follow mine. It's because I love you and I value you. So please don't take my sadness as rejection or judgment or irritation. It's just plain old sadness because I love you and, selfishly, I will miss the familiarity and I suck at change. But I know that you have your own story to create and your own kitchen table that will be central to that story. So, even though I'd love to envelop you into my family kill circle or trap you in my basement, it is a wonderful life. But I will miss the shit out of you.
It's rather selfish, wanting things to always stay the same. Logically, I know this. I am fully aware that I am more interested in maintaining balance in my own ecosystem than the evolution of man. To be quite honest, I completely identified with the father figure in "The Croods" and I think the family kill circle is rational mechanism of protection.
I think (and I realize that this post is full of the work "I") I take all types of change personally. For whatever reason, I just can't shake off those last vestiges of deep-rooted insecurity and when someone leaves I don't know how to NOT take it as a ballot cast in the "loves me not" bucket. Is this thinking f*cked up, rudimentary and childish? Yes.
This January we'll have lived in our current house for 16 years. All 3 of my kids have been brought home to this house, we've buried dozens of pets (not in our yard...don't worry it's not a pet cemetery out there. And mostly it's been rodents. And amphibians. And 2 dogs.) and seen countless neighbors come and go. I've lived in this house longer than I've lived any where else in my entire life. We've done 2 additions and added a swimming pool. I've rearranged furniture so many times that recently I just either threw away or donated 90% of it. Lee and I have completed fellowships, modified our careers, gone through illness, taken care of parents in the setting of our home. Our kitchen table has been the epicenter of homework, projects, mentoring, finance summits, bill paying, cookie baking, late nights with friends, tamale making, picture drawing, Scrabble competitions, sandwich preparation, bacon and chocolate chip pancake consumption, family meetings to discuss disappointments and to gather for celebrations. Our kids have learned to read, done math facts, learned Texas history, written (not enough) thank you notes, eaten thousands of chicken nuggets, gallons of macaroni and cheese, been subject to inconsistent morning devotionals, left letters and cookies for Santa Claus, formulated Christmas lists, plotted illness to skip school, taken ibuprofen for actual fevers and have transitioned from diapers to puberty in the same 3 seats.
When I came to Houston in 1991 (that's right, 23 years ago!) I never, ever thought I'd call it my home. Up to the time that I arrived here for medical school, I had moved 13 times in my 23 years of life. My first year of medical school I changed apartments 3 times because I didn't bother finding housing before I left Atlanta (a symptom of my ambivalence and depression at the onset of medical school). It wasn't until I met my husband that I began cultivating any sense of stability. I've lived in 3 different places since we've been together; the apartment I was living when we met, our first rental home and now our current home. I attended a different school for kindergarten, first grade, second grade and third grade and in 3 different states. This isn't a criticism of my parents. They were young and it was the 70s. If I psychoanalyze my husband, he'd have a similar tale to tell (but he doesn't like to be psychoanalyzed and perhaps his moves weren't so extreme-in some ways. In others they were probably worse or at least different). Nevertheless, neither one of us thought we'd be in the same house 16 years later and certainly not in Houston, TX.
In the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life", George Bailey wrestles with whether or not his existence has mattered. It's the basis of the whole movie. I've probably seen that movie about a hundred times and it is one of my all time favorites. I remember sitting in my den on the sofa in my pjs with my mom and my brother on Greenhill Drive watching it during Thanksgiving and Christmas break. I love the underlying expression of loyalty and the emphasis on what really matters. If you know me on more than just a superficial level, for better or worse, I've become attached to you-like a barnacle. You have to scrape me off and I'm old and crusty. I'm not very good at expressing my love for you and your people in a vocal kind of way, but love I do. I love the familiarity of your proximity and all the comfort that proximity brings. Do you have an egg I can borrow? Can my dog(s) camp out at your house? Should we go walk on the bayou (the cement ditch with the gnats and the homeless)? The beer bottles that stack when our men-folk talk nonsense. The running back and forth of our children across yards. There have been lots and lots of you have that have come into my life, made it richer, and then continued on your own journey. We all have a different trajectory and I mourn when yours doesn't follow mine. It's because I love you and I value you. So please don't take my sadness as rejection or judgment or irritation. It's just plain old sadness because I love you and, selfishly, I will miss the familiarity and I suck at change. But I know that you have your own story to create and your own kitchen table that will be central to that story. So, even though I'd love to envelop you into my family kill circle or trap you in my basement, it is a wonderful life. But I will miss the shit out of you.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Grandmothers
I've spent dozens of nights in the Embassy Suites in Laredo and every time I'm here I wonder it it will be the last time I get to see my grandmother. Tomorrow she turns 94 years old. Her birthday has become somewhat of an international holiday. When she turned 90 there was a celebration in Mexico. Her 91st and 92nd birthdays were more low key, a backyard fiesta in Laredo. Her 93rd we were back down in Oaxaca. Her birthday coincides with Dia de los Muertos so it's always a fun time to go to Mexico. This year it was another back yard party complete with a piñata and pineapple upside down cake. I wouldn't miss this celebration for anything and whether or not my priorities are straight, I don't even care.
Actually, I have 2 grandmothers in Laredo. The other grandmother just turned a youthful 88 years old. She is mobile and seems to be closer to 70 years old than 90 years old. She just moved into her own 4 bedroom house, drives and reads voraciously. Whenever I get an opportunity to come to Laredo, despite the 6 hour drive, I hop in my car and go. My kids love coming here too. And they love the familiarity of the Embassy Suites and Abuelita Fina's backyard and Nana's irritable chihuahua and the routine of visiting; half the day at Nana's and half the day at Abuelita Fina's.
My daughter chose to stay in Houston with her dad so she could go trick or treating and I don't begrudge her that decision. In her 10 year old mind the benefits of limitless candy outweighed the benefits of a day off of school to travel.
Fina, my 94 year old grandmother, is pleasantly demented but still quick witted and sharp tongued. She vacillates between wondering when her deceased husband will return from work to delivering a razor sharp retort in a battle of the wits. My 71 year old uncle, her oldest son, teases her mercilessly and she loves it. The night we arrived we went to visit her and she was admiring my overly priced Louis Vuitton bag, caressing and coveting it. My uncle, in Spanish (she is wittiest in her native language and I can finally understand the back and forth), tells her that he will sell her my bag for $7 to which she responds she will only pay $5. They haggle over the price for a while and then when she begins to look at the contents of my bag my uncle scolds her and tells her not to be so nosy as his mistress' panties may be inside. I, however, draw a line at my Louis Vuitton bag. No matter how much I love and adore my Abuelita, she will never get my bag! I have real reason to be concerned as she is a bit of a hoarder and a thief. My 2 year old niece loves cell phones and the other night she cried when she had to return my son's cell phone to him, "Me pona!" This is my 94 year old grandmother as she is hiding my cousin's iPhone inside a jewelry box she just received and she becomes equally irate when my aunt, her youngest daughter, tries to take it away from her. To pacify her, I hand her my iPhone which she deftly squirrels away in the small jewelry box.
Magda, my 88 year old grandmother has no memory problems and hasn't regressed into a toddler. She is knowledgable in all areas and she can talk to you about politics and current events and she always has a new book to recommend. She married at age 15 and had her first child at age 16 and like my other grandmother, she has sacrificed. She has no bitterness or regret or anger, only calm wisdom. In talking to her, it becomes apparant that in the generation preceding mine and amongst your family, a tremendous sense of duty and obligation was cultivated. There was never room for individual rights and preferences. You did and still do what is right and best for the family, collectively. Brothers and sisters don't leave each other out to dry and they don't squabble over fairness. Personal rights take a back seat to family loyalty and honor and as I listen to her I am overcome with emotion. How can so much change in one generation? Suddenly my mother and her demands and her siblings and their acts of selflessness make more sense. This is how she and they were raised. You don't question your elders and you are your brother's keeper.
Some days I get frustrated with my own mother and her seeming demands on my time and my attention but in her generation's mind, this is what they are owed. They sowed their seeds and now they want to reap the harvest. We don't live in a world of honoring your elders above all else. We have our schedules and our activities and these win our attention time and time again and now I wonder what we are loosing in the process. This is why I love Laredo and my Abuelita and my Nana and my Tias and Tios. This place and these people anchor me.
Actually, I have 2 grandmothers in Laredo. The other grandmother just turned a youthful 88 years old. She is mobile and seems to be closer to 70 years old than 90 years old. She just moved into her own 4 bedroom house, drives and reads voraciously. Whenever I get an opportunity to come to Laredo, despite the 6 hour drive, I hop in my car and go. My kids love coming here too. And they love the familiarity of the Embassy Suites and Abuelita Fina's backyard and Nana's irritable chihuahua and the routine of visiting; half the day at Nana's and half the day at Abuelita Fina's.
My daughter chose to stay in Houston with her dad so she could go trick or treating and I don't begrudge her that decision. In her 10 year old mind the benefits of limitless candy outweighed the benefits of a day off of school to travel.
Fina, my 94 year old grandmother, is pleasantly demented but still quick witted and sharp tongued. She vacillates between wondering when her deceased husband will return from work to delivering a razor sharp retort in a battle of the wits. My 71 year old uncle, her oldest son, teases her mercilessly and she loves it. The night we arrived we went to visit her and she was admiring my overly priced Louis Vuitton bag, caressing and coveting it. My uncle, in Spanish (she is wittiest in her native language and I can finally understand the back and forth), tells her that he will sell her my bag for $7 to which she responds she will only pay $5. They haggle over the price for a while and then when she begins to look at the contents of my bag my uncle scolds her and tells her not to be so nosy as his mistress' panties may be inside. I, however, draw a line at my Louis Vuitton bag. No matter how much I love and adore my Abuelita, she will never get my bag! I have real reason to be concerned as she is a bit of a hoarder and a thief. My 2 year old niece loves cell phones and the other night she cried when she had to return my son's cell phone to him, "Me pona!" This is my 94 year old grandmother as she is hiding my cousin's iPhone inside a jewelry box she just received and she becomes equally irate when my aunt, her youngest daughter, tries to take it away from her. To pacify her, I hand her my iPhone which she deftly squirrels away in the small jewelry box.
Magda, my 88 year old grandmother has no memory problems and hasn't regressed into a toddler. She is knowledgable in all areas and she can talk to you about politics and current events and she always has a new book to recommend. She married at age 15 and had her first child at age 16 and like my other grandmother, she has sacrificed. She has no bitterness or regret or anger, only calm wisdom. In talking to her, it becomes apparant that in the generation preceding mine and amongst your family, a tremendous sense of duty and obligation was cultivated. There was never room for individual rights and preferences. You did and still do what is right and best for the family, collectively. Brothers and sisters don't leave each other out to dry and they don't squabble over fairness. Personal rights take a back seat to family loyalty and honor and as I listen to her I am overcome with emotion. How can so much change in one generation? Suddenly my mother and her demands and her siblings and their acts of selflessness make more sense. This is how she and they were raised. You don't question your elders and you are your brother's keeper.
Some days I get frustrated with my own mother and her seeming demands on my time and my attention but in her generation's mind, this is what they are owed. They sowed their seeds and now they want to reap the harvest. We don't live in a world of honoring your elders above all else. We have our schedules and our activities and these win our attention time and time again and now I wonder what we are loosing in the process. This is why I love Laredo and my Abuelita and my Nana and my Tias and Tios. This place and these people anchor me.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
A Day in the Life of an ER visit
I wish I was in a better mood, a joke telling mood. Normally I think I'm pretty funny. I can find humor in most situations. Right now I'm sitting in and ER with my middle kid. I don't think he is sick enough to justify a visit to the ER, but I couldn't take the moaning any more. It was more about my own self preservation than his illness. I know he's dehydrated and he won't drink so we're cheating and getting IV fluids. Because the resident found out my husband and I are teaching faculty my kid is getting the blood work they wouldn't normally get. I don't think it's necessary and they don't either but lots of times what dictates our actions in medicine is not what we think it is, but what we think it isn't. This is mostly so no one can turn around and claim we missed something. No one wants to miss a diagnosis on an attending's kid. Honestly, the moaning stopped as soon as we walked into the ER. "I'm in the hospital. I don't want to seem like I'm sick." he says. Really, we are in the emergency room. This is exactly the location you should be in if you're sick. Better to moan here than at home. Regardless, here we sit awaiting our thousand dollar work up to tell us what we already know; he has a viral infection and he's dehydrated. I do find solace in the other 80% of the families here who also have no business being in an emergency room. But it's probably worse that I'm a doctor. I should know better. I should be in an urgent care center and I thought this children's hospital had one, but they don't. So, I tried.
There weren't too many people here when we first arrived but they put us in a room with another family. It was a large family both in quality and quantity. Their noise level was out of proportion to the number present and it didn't help with the headache. My kid turned to me and said, "I hate them. I think they brought an entire continent with them." So I went and asked if they had a private room like I'm at the Ritz-Carlton or something. They obliged but I'm sure some snarky comments were made at my expense.
I told my kid that the triage medical tech had won the Miss Congeniality contest 3 years in a row. Normally people who work in a children's hospital are obnoxiously chipper but I get it; sick kids need distraction and ridiculously happy is distracting. This lady had the personality of the bottom of my shoe. I listened to the tech across the hall with envy. She was jokey and personable. Our lady seemed like she had suffered the effects of too much ECT. After triage where they took his vitals, they ushered us to some hard, plastic chairs where we sat till they called us to registration. "Would you like to pay your $100 co-pay?" I was asked. My own private thought bubble popped up and silently I said to myself, "No. Not really, but do I have a choice? It's either now or later." Then I handed over my already maxed out credit card.
After registration we sat in the lobby for a nanosecond. Just long enough for my kid to lie down and get comfortable and then get his name called again. At this point we were no longer audibly moaning in pain, but every little movement elicited grimaces (on the ride over he asked me to stop going over bumps b/c even riding in the car hurt. Since we live below sea level I could not accommodate his request). In the lobby I see lots of other kids who are playing on iPads and running around and looking too good to be here. Now we are just waiting, finally in our own, private, "suite" after completing the psychotic, virtual dot-to-dot ER process.
My other 2 kids have been left at home. This is okay with them because it means they can watch television for 8 hours straight with no one telling them to go do something productive. My daughter can watch YouTube video after YouTube video of teenaged girls singing the covers of sappy, Taylor Swift-esq love ballads and looking up decorating ideas for her room (because I am a sub-optimal designer in her eyes). And my oldest can play video games on his phone until his thumbs bleed. I've only gotten 2 phone calls from them and there was no panic on their end though they did express some concern regarding their brother's condition. "Overall his prognosis is good" I tell my daughter. "What does that mean?" she asks. "That he's gonna make it." Her response..."meh".
The sick kid is in heaven because he gets to watch Sponge Bob without having to compromise about the TV and he has a team of women waiting on him. I'm fighting off the final act of desperation...walking over to the McDonalds inside the hospital and getting him some curative french fries and myself a medium sized value meal...there is only so much Sponge Bob a grown woman can handle.
Well the resident is in here now and she's looking up his results (all normal) so I'd better go and act interested...
There weren't too many people here when we first arrived but they put us in a room with another family. It was a large family both in quality and quantity. Their noise level was out of proportion to the number present and it didn't help with the headache. My kid turned to me and said, "I hate them. I think they brought an entire continent with them." So I went and asked if they had a private room like I'm at the Ritz-Carlton or something. They obliged but I'm sure some snarky comments were made at my expense.
I told my kid that the triage medical tech had won the Miss Congeniality contest 3 years in a row. Normally people who work in a children's hospital are obnoxiously chipper but I get it; sick kids need distraction and ridiculously happy is distracting. This lady had the personality of the bottom of my shoe. I listened to the tech across the hall with envy. She was jokey and personable. Our lady seemed like she had suffered the effects of too much ECT. After triage where they took his vitals, they ushered us to some hard, plastic chairs where we sat till they called us to registration. "Would you like to pay your $100 co-pay?" I was asked. My own private thought bubble popped up and silently I said to myself, "No. Not really, but do I have a choice? It's either now or later." Then I handed over my already maxed out credit card.
After registration we sat in the lobby for a nanosecond. Just long enough for my kid to lie down and get comfortable and then get his name called again. At this point we were no longer audibly moaning in pain, but every little movement elicited grimaces (on the ride over he asked me to stop going over bumps b/c even riding in the car hurt. Since we live below sea level I could not accommodate his request). In the lobby I see lots of other kids who are playing on iPads and running around and looking too good to be here. Now we are just waiting, finally in our own, private, "suite" after completing the psychotic, virtual dot-to-dot ER process.
My other 2 kids have been left at home. This is okay with them because it means they can watch television for 8 hours straight with no one telling them to go do something productive. My daughter can watch YouTube video after YouTube video of teenaged girls singing the covers of sappy, Taylor Swift-esq love ballads and looking up decorating ideas for her room (because I am a sub-optimal designer in her eyes). And my oldest can play video games on his phone until his thumbs bleed. I've only gotten 2 phone calls from them and there was no panic on their end though they did express some concern regarding their brother's condition. "Overall his prognosis is good" I tell my daughter. "What does that mean?" she asks. "That he's gonna make it." Her response..."meh".
The sick kid is in heaven because he gets to watch Sponge Bob without having to compromise about the TV and he has a team of women waiting on him. I'm fighting off the final act of desperation...walking over to the McDonalds inside the hospital and getting him some curative french fries and myself a medium sized value meal...there is only so much Sponge Bob a grown woman can handle.
Well the resident is in here now and she's looking up his results (all normal) so I'd better go and act interested...
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Holes
I'm a hot mess right now. I can't control life circumstances so I'm doing the next best thing....trying to impose order into my surroundings. I have been attacking kids' rooms and closets like an vicious Mary Poppins. There is something about ridding your life of plastic and wire hangers that is cleansing to the soul. There are mountains of unwanted clothes, books and toys in every direction. You know how when you dig a hole at the beach and it fills up with water and the walls collapse so you just keep digging but really you are getting no where? That's what I feel like right now. If I could just have everything in my house exactly the way it should be, then maybe the things in my life that I can't control would pop back into place? The only problem is my hole keeps filling back up again.
I've returned to praying every morning because even though prayer won't immediately change my circumstance, it's a good way to start the day; a reminder that I'm not in control and that is ok. And a reminder that there is one that I can trust even if I don't feel that reassurance. He is there.
I read the following this morning in Streams in the Desert:
"Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak.(Genesis 32:24)
In this passage, God is wrestling with Jacob more than Jacob is wrestling with God. The "man" referred to here is the Son of Man—the Angel of the Covenant. It was God in human form, pressing down on Jacob to press his old life from him. And by daybreak God had prevailed, for Jacob's "hip was wrenched" (v. 25). As Jacob "fell" from his old life, he fell into the arms of God, clinging to Him but also wrestling until his blessing came. His blessing was that of a new life, so he rose from the earthly to the heavenly, the human to the divine, and the natural to the supernatural. From that morning forward, he was a weak and broken man from a human perspective, but God was there. And the Lord's heavenly voice proclaimed, "Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome" (v. 28).
Beloved, this should be a typical scene in the life of everyone who has been transformed. If God has called us to His highest and best, each of us will have a time of crisis, when all our resources will fail and when we face either ruin or something better than we have ever dreamed. But before we can receive the blessing, we must rely on God's infinite help. We must be willing to let go, surrendering completely to Him, and cease from our own wisdom, strength, and righteousness. We must be "crucified with Christ" (Gal 2:20) and yet alive in Him. God knows how to lead us to the point of crisis, and He knows how to lead us through it.
Is God leading you in this way? Is this the meaning of your mysterious trial, your difficult circumstances, your impossible situation, or that trying place you cannot seem to move past without Him? But do you have enough of Him to win the victory?
Then turn to Jacob's God! Throw yourself helplessly at His feet. Die in His loving arms to your own strength and wisdom, and rise like Jacob into His strength and sufficiency. There is no way out of your difficult and narrow situation except at the top. You must win deliverance by rising higher, coming into a new experience with God. And may it bring you into all that is meant by the revelation of "the Mighty One of Jacob" (Isa 60:16)! There is no way out but God.
At Your feet I fall,
Yield You up my ALL,
TO SUFFER, LIVE, OR DIE
For my Lord crucified."
I'm trying God.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I've returned to praying every morning because even though prayer won't immediately change my circumstance, it's a good way to start the day; a reminder that I'm not in control and that is ok. And a reminder that there is one that I can trust even if I don't feel that reassurance. He is there.
I read the following this morning in Streams in the Desert:
"Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak.(Genesis 32:24)
In this passage, God is wrestling with Jacob more than Jacob is wrestling with God. The "man" referred to here is the Son of Man—the Angel of the Covenant. It was God in human form, pressing down on Jacob to press his old life from him. And by daybreak God had prevailed, for Jacob's "hip was wrenched" (v. 25). As Jacob "fell" from his old life, he fell into the arms of God, clinging to Him but also wrestling until his blessing came. His blessing was that of a new life, so he rose from the earthly to the heavenly, the human to the divine, and the natural to the supernatural. From that morning forward, he was a weak and broken man from a human perspective, but God was there. And the Lord's heavenly voice proclaimed, "Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome" (v. 28).
Beloved, this should be a typical scene in the life of everyone who has been transformed. If God has called us to His highest and best, each of us will have a time of crisis, when all our resources will fail and when we face either ruin or something better than we have ever dreamed. But before we can receive the blessing, we must rely on God's infinite help. We must be willing to let go, surrendering completely to Him, and cease from our own wisdom, strength, and righteousness. We must be "crucified with Christ" (Gal 2:20) and yet alive in Him. God knows how to lead us to the point of crisis, and He knows how to lead us through it.
Is God leading you in this way? Is this the meaning of your mysterious trial, your difficult circumstances, your impossible situation, or that trying place you cannot seem to move past without Him? But do you have enough of Him to win the victory?
Then turn to Jacob's God! Throw yourself helplessly at His feet. Die in His loving arms to your own strength and wisdom, and rise like Jacob into His strength and sufficiency. There is no way out of your difficult and narrow situation except at the top. You must win deliverance by rising higher, coming into a new experience with God. And may it bring you into all that is meant by the revelation of "the Mighty One of Jacob" (Isa 60:16)! There is no way out but God.
At Your feet I fall,
Yield You up my ALL,
TO SUFFER, LIVE, OR DIE
For my Lord crucified."
I'm trying God.
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My Cousin
Major Depressive Disorder. Bipolar Disorders. Autism Spectrum Disorder. Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. Schizophrenia. Anxiety Disorders. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Anorexia Nervosa. Bulemia Nervosa. All of these labels come with a diagnostic code and they are all defined in the DSM V, The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders; the book that is the mental health professional's bible.
Yesterday, along with an intern, I treated a woman who clearly met the diagnostic criteria for MDD (major depressive disorder). She was adamant that she would not go to see either a psychiatrist or any other mental health provider. No amount of coaxing was going to convince her that she might benefit from talking to a trained, objective 3rd party. We finally compromised and agreed to start medication and she would return in 2 weeks to evaluate the effects of the medication and at that time we'd discuss therapy some more.
I'm going to out myself here. I've had the same mental health provider for almost 20 years. At times we've seen each other more frequently than other times; during and after pregnancies, major home renovations and treatment for breast cancer we saw a lot of each other. Now, I talk to her monthly whether I "need" it or not. I've decided that mental health maintenance is important for me and my family and the annual cost far outweighs any future cost from not going. Am I crazy? Aren't we all a little bit? I'll tell you one thing, after 20+ years of therapy I'm far less crazy than I might have been without it. Throughout the course of our relationship, this woman, who is an angel from God himself and like a second mother to me, has never told me what to think or given me the answers but she has listened and in listening she's helped me analyze situations and relationships clearly.
I first sought out help from mental health providers in medical school when I was clinically depressed. I had all of the symptoms, sleeplessness, anhedonia, decreased appetite, depressed mood, feelings of guilt and worthlessness. The scariest part was the suicidal thoughts that I was having. I never actually attempted suicide, but I had come up with several scenarios. You see, at this time, the pain was unbearable. There was no rationale explanation for my depression. I knew that my family would suffer but many times I thought this was the only way to escape the pain that I was feeling and to stop some of my destructive behaviors. I felt embarrassed about the way my brain was working, I felt defective and I didn't think anyone could help me. At that time I became friends with one of my clinical rotation partners and she was one person who couldn't see me through the same filter in which I was viewing myself. When you are depressed, the reflection you see is warped, like a funhouse mirror. Finally I mustered the courage to ask my primary care doctor for the name of a therapist. She gave me a list of names and I randomly picked a number and called.
Robin Williams' death is a tragedy. He was well loved and his legacy will endure through his family and his body of work. The conversation that needs to occur through all of this is that mental health disorders are real and they are treatable. No one chooses depression or autism or schizophrenia or bipolar just as no one chooses diabetes or cancer or asthma or heart disease. Mental health disorders are not a weakness or flaw in character. They are biologic disorders that need recognition and treatment. All this energy that we are spending remembering Robin Williams can be shifted towards education and ridding our society of any stigma that may be associated with mental health disorders. Would you judge someone for having leukemia? Would you tell your family member to avoid medications to treat their high blood pressure? Yes, we can honor Robin Williams but in doing so lets make mental health awareness a thing, a ribbon, a month...Suicide is a manifestation of an illness. People who commit suicide are sick in the same way someone with congestive heart failure is sick, it's just a different organ system. If you were feeling short of breath you'd call a doctor. If you had a fever that won't go away, you'd call a doctor. If you have sadness or mania or anxiety or any other brain based symptom and it won't go away, call a doctor! It's not shameful to have the symptoms or to make the call. What would be a shame is to let the symptoms go unrecognized or untreated. If you have a loved one and they have brain based symptoms, talk to them about it and don't judge. Identify the signs that you might be witnessing and encourage treatment. If your brother or sister or cousin or friend had a disfiguring rash that won't go away, you'd eventually bring it up and take them to the dermatologist or urgent care center or ER or make them seek treatment. Brain based symptoms can be just as disfiguring, altering the individual that you know.
My cousin committed suicide 13 years ago, August 8th 2001. I don't have any sisters so my step-sister and my female cousins are the next best thing. My cousin was 4 years younger than me, but we had spent many summers together and when I moved to Texas for medical school she was starting college and our worlds started colliding more and more. Austin and Houston are only 2 and a half hours apart so we'd see each other frequently and I was able to see her go through those late adolescent stages of individuation as she challenged traditional values and tried on different view points and ideas. In the summer of 1994 she and I both spent a lot of time together in Mexico in Oaxaca and Cancun. She and I were both dating boys that we liked and were in the same early stages of like in our respective relationships. I heard a lot about her future husband and she heard a lot about the boy that I dumped for my future husband. We were become adults at the same time. We were in the same cohort and we were thinking about careers and weddings and marriage and kids and mental health. She was bipolar and had a lot of anxiety and I had major depression. We both got it.
I'll never forget that day and that phone call. It is permanently etched in my mind. The days that followed seemed like I was floating through an alternate universe. The air was thick and I was moving through mud. She wasn't my sister or my daughter, but she was the next closest thing and most days I think about her and what life might have been like if she had traveled along a different trajectory. She left a giant hole in my life and in the life of so many others. It's a hole that can never be filled and at times is more gaping than others. Right now is one of those times. It's like a scab has been ripped right off and the wound is fresh again, except this time the scab covers the majority of the body. The wound feels deeper, more sensitive and the salt is raining down. Her younger and only sister, has been vocal about her anger at the romanticization of Robin Williams. It's not anger at the man but there is anger towards the action. Those of us who survive suicide have to relive the horrors and lasso the demons frequently and unexpectedly. This time it's different; it's in your face and it's everywhere. Every magazine, every radio DJ, every online article, every movie on TV....everywhere...it's all about remembering this individual. That is fine. I remember my cousin everyday in lots of little ways. It's vital to remember her and talk about her and tell stories about her. Last night when I was floating in my pool, looking up at the stars after I had exorcised and exercised out my hurt and pain and anger, I thought about heaven and I thought about who I was most excited to see and I know my cousin can't wait, in time, to see all of us. It will be the best encuentro ever.
We talk about everything in our family of five. Nothing is off limits. My kids know about my cousin and they know about suicide and death and all sorts of uncomfortable topics. They know that I talk to my psychiatrist, my second mom, once a month. All the news and media coverage has brought up lots of conversations. I'm grateful for sunglasses and exercise and God and my Bible and the ability to write down my thoughts. This is not an easy time and it will get easier. In the mean time I'll honor my cousin and all others by knowing its okay to address mental health and brain based symptoms. There is no reason to fear the conversations or the acknowledgement. Talk to someone. Talk about it.
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
www.afsp.org
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
National Alliance on Mental Illness
www.nami.org
Yesterday, along with an intern, I treated a woman who clearly met the diagnostic criteria for MDD (major depressive disorder). She was adamant that she would not go to see either a psychiatrist or any other mental health provider. No amount of coaxing was going to convince her that she might benefit from talking to a trained, objective 3rd party. We finally compromised and agreed to start medication and she would return in 2 weeks to evaluate the effects of the medication and at that time we'd discuss therapy some more.
I'm going to out myself here. I've had the same mental health provider for almost 20 years. At times we've seen each other more frequently than other times; during and after pregnancies, major home renovations and treatment for breast cancer we saw a lot of each other. Now, I talk to her monthly whether I "need" it or not. I've decided that mental health maintenance is important for me and my family and the annual cost far outweighs any future cost from not going. Am I crazy? Aren't we all a little bit? I'll tell you one thing, after 20+ years of therapy I'm far less crazy than I might have been without it. Throughout the course of our relationship, this woman, who is an angel from God himself and like a second mother to me, has never told me what to think or given me the answers but she has listened and in listening she's helped me analyze situations and relationships clearly.
I first sought out help from mental health providers in medical school when I was clinically depressed. I had all of the symptoms, sleeplessness, anhedonia, decreased appetite, depressed mood, feelings of guilt and worthlessness. The scariest part was the suicidal thoughts that I was having. I never actually attempted suicide, but I had come up with several scenarios. You see, at this time, the pain was unbearable. There was no rationale explanation for my depression. I knew that my family would suffer but many times I thought this was the only way to escape the pain that I was feeling and to stop some of my destructive behaviors. I felt embarrassed about the way my brain was working, I felt defective and I didn't think anyone could help me. At that time I became friends with one of my clinical rotation partners and she was one person who couldn't see me through the same filter in which I was viewing myself. When you are depressed, the reflection you see is warped, like a funhouse mirror. Finally I mustered the courage to ask my primary care doctor for the name of a therapist. She gave me a list of names and I randomly picked a number and called.
Robin Williams' death is a tragedy. He was well loved and his legacy will endure through his family and his body of work. The conversation that needs to occur through all of this is that mental health disorders are real and they are treatable. No one chooses depression or autism or schizophrenia or bipolar just as no one chooses diabetes or cancer or asthma or heart disease. Mental health disorders are not a weakness or flaw in character. They are biologic disorders that need recognition and treatment. All this energy that we are spending remembering Robin Williams can be shifted towards education and ridding our society of any stigma that may be associated with mental health disorders. Would you judge someone for having leukemia? Would you tell your family member to avoid medications to treat their high blood pressure? Yes, we can honor Robin Williams but in doing so lets make mental health awareness a thing, a ribbon, a month...Suicide is a manifestation of an illness. People who commit suicide are sick in the same way someone with congestive heart failure is sick, it's just a different organ system. If you were feeling short of breath you'd call a doctor. If you had a fever that won't go away, you'd call a doctor. If you have sadness or mania or anxiety or any other brain based symptom and it won't go away, call a doctor! It's not shameful to have the symptoms or to make the call. What would be a shame is to let the symptoms go unrecognized or untreated. If you have a loved one and they have brain based symptoms, talk to them about it and don't judge. Identify the signs that you might be witnessing and encourage treatment. If your brother or sister or cousin or friend had a disfiguring rash that won't go away, you'd eventually bring it up and take them to the dermatologist or urgent care center or ER or make them seek treatment. Brain based symptoms can be just as disfiguring, altering the individual that you know.
My cousin committed suicide 13 years ago, August 8th 2001. I don't have any sisters so my step-sister and my female cousins are the next best thing. My cousin was 4 years younger than me, but we had spent many summers together and when I moved to Texas for medical school she was starting college and our worlds started colliding more and more. Austin and Houston are only 2 and a half hours apart so we'd see each other frequently and I was able to see her go through those late adolescent stages of individuation as she challenged traditional values and tried on different view points and ideas. In the summer of 1994 she and I both spent a lot of time together in Mexico in Oaxaca and Cancun. She and I were both dating boys that we liked and were in the same early stages of like in our respective relationships. I heard a lot about her future husband and she heard a lot about the boy that I dumped for my future husband. We were become adults at the same time. We were in the same cohort and we were thinking about careers and weddings and marriage and kids and mental health. She was bipolar and had a lot of anxiety and I had major depression. We both got it.
I'll never forget that day and that phone call. It is permanently etched in my mind. The days that followed seemed like I was floating through an alternate universe. The air was thick and I was moving through mud. She wasn't my sister or my daughter, but she was the next closest thing and most days I think about her and what life might have been like if she had traveled along a different trajectory. She left a giant hole in my life and in the life of so many others. It's a hole that can never be filled and at times is more gaping than others. Right now is one of those times. It's like a scab has been ripped right off and the wound is fresh again, except this time the scab covers the majority of the body. The wound feels deeper, more sensitive and the salt is raining down. Her younger and only sister, has been vocal about her anger at the romanticization of Robin Williams. It's not anger at the man but there is anger towards the action. Those of us who survive suicide have to relive the horrors and lasso the demons frequently and unexpectedly. This time it's different; it's in your face and it's everywhere. Every magazine, every radio DJ, every online article, every movie on TV....everywhere...it's all about remembering this individual. That is fine. I remember my cousin everyday in lots of little ways. It's vital to remember her and talk about her and tell stories about her. Last night when I was floating in my pool, looking up at the stars after I had exorcised and exercised out my hurt and pain and anger, I thought about heaven and I thought about who I was most excited to see and I know my cousin can't wait, in time, to see all of us. It will be the best encuentro ever.
We talk about everything in our family of five. Nothing is off limits. My kids know about my cousin and they know about suicide and death and all sorts of uncomfortable topics. They know that I talk to my psychiatrist, my second mom, once a month. All the news and media coverage has brought up lots of conversations. I'm grateful for sunglasses and exercise and God and my Bible and the ability to write down my thoughts. This is not an easy time and it will get easier. In the mean time I'll honor my cousin and all others by knowing its okay to address mental health and brain based symptoms. There is no reason to fear the conversations or the acknowledgement. Talk to someone. Talk about it.
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
www.afsp.org
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
National Alliance on Mental Illness
www.nami.org
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Gypsies
I’m sitting on the floor of our rented condo. I’ve been awake since 5 am and we’re packed into this place like sardines in a can. There are sleeping bodies everywhere; 3 sweaty teenaged boys lie about 15 feet away on make shift beds because when you are 13 years old you can be made to sleep on a couch or a floor or an air mattress and be told to be happy about it. Upstairs, grandmothers are huddled with giggly, gangly granddaughters and great-nieces. In the room across the hall are the uncle and aunt splayed-out across 2, now obsolete, full sized mattresses with a helicoptering baby between them. My husband is knocked out in the master bedroom unconcerned about my sleeplessness and grateful that he has weathered another event with my family.
Doesn’t it seem like every time we conclude another _____ (birthday, holiday, vacation, dinner....) with family it’s as if we survived another round in the ring. We walk away winded, hands on our hips, swaying to and fro, slightly bloodied, knuckles bruised, faces swollen but victorious because this time, yet again, we didn’t get knocked down. And after a couple of months, once the post-pugilism amnesia has fully taken affect, after discussing with our agents, we sign up for another spot in the ring. Because in the end, we don’t remember if we win or lose, but we do remember that left hook to the temple or the upper cut to the jaw or the time we got back up off the mat. That’s what it is like with family, there might be that time when Great Aunt Gladys kept calling your wife the wrong name (your ex-wife’s name), or Little Johnny broke your great-grandmother’s heirloom vase (the urn in which you kept her ashes), or your cousin Bob drank too much and kept slurring his words (and you had to walk him back to his room and put him to bed), but you file that stuff away as family history.
Sure, family is genealogy-the whole big tree with all the limbs and branches and leaves and the trunk and the roots-but it is more than this. It’s shared experiences and collective history, both good and bad. It’s the reason God gave us families. We don’t get to pick them, we’re stuck with who we got and if you ever need a kidney, they are the people you are going to first (and not because they are feeling generous, but because you share DNA and they are the only match).
This is a long and winding road that we walk along, some of us with the good fortune of a longer journey. You pick up friends along the way and a few stay with you for the distance but most are only there for a short segment until their path takes them a different way. Per the wise, pot-smoking, guitar-picking, country music singing lyricist, Willie Nelson, we are a band of gypsies rolling down the highway. And while, at times, we might walk away and grumble, I am grateful that I am your pain-in-the-ass and you are mine. I am grateful that I wake up each day and that I have 2 legs that can take me places, 2 lungs that can fill with air without assistance or difficulty, the finances by which to stay in this over-stuffed condominium, family who will tolerate each other long enough to co-habitate together, an employer who allows me vacation time and a country that provides the liberties of free will and commerce and recreation and self expression.
Mostly, I am grateful for MY band of gypsies; all of you, our similarities AND or differences. I am grateful for my Abuelita and my Abuelito,and despite all of their short-comings, the two things they seemed to get right and pass on to my mom and my aunts and uncles, the things that matter most...the 2 commandments that Jesus said were the most important; 1) Love God your father and 2) love each other. Faith and fidelity. Remember this and give thanks. Life is a gift; choose gratitude.
Doesn’t it seem like every time we conclude another _____ (birthday, holiday, vacation, dinner....) with family it’s as if we survived another round in the ring. We walk away winded, hands on our hips, swaying to and fro, slightly bloodied, knuckles bruised, faces swollen but victorious because this time, yet again, we didn’t get knocked down. And after a couple of months, once the post-pugilism amnesia has fully taken affect, after discussing with our agents, we sign up for another spot in the ring. Because in the end, we don’t remember if we win or lose, but we do remember that left hook to the temple or the upper cut to the jaw or the time we got back up off the mat. That’s what it is like with family, there might be that time when Great Aunt Gladys kept calling your wife the wrong name (your ex-wife’s name), or Little Johnny broke your great-grandmother’s heirloom vase (the urn in which you kept her ashes), or your cousin Bob drank too much and kept slurring his words (and you had to walk him back to his room and put him to bed), but you file that stuff away as family history.
Sure, family is genealogy-the whole big tree with all the limbs and branches and leaves and the trunk and the roots-but it is more than this. It’s shared experiences and collective history, both good and bad. It’s the reason God gave us families. We don’t get to pick them, we’re stuck with who we got and if you ever need a kidney, they are the people you are going to first (and not because they are feeling generous, but because you share DNA and they are the only match).
This is a long and winding road that we walk along, some of us with the good fortune of a longer journey. You pick up friends along the way and a few stay with you for the distance but most are only there for a short segment until their path takes them a different way. Per the wise, pot-smoking, guitar-picking, country music singing lyricist, Willie Nelson, we are a band of gypsies rolling down the highway. And while, at times, we might walk away and grumble, I am grateful that I am your pain-in-the-ass and you are mine. I am grateful that I wake up each day and that I have 2 legs that can take me places, 2 lungs that can fill with air without assistance or difficulty, the finances by which to stay in this over-stuffed condominium, family who will tolerate each other long enough to co-habitate together, an employer who allows me vacation time and a country that provides the liberties of free will and commerce and recreation and self expression.
Mostly, I am grateful for MY band of gypsies; all of you, our similarities AND or differences. I am grateful for my Abuelita and my Abuelito,and despite all of their short-comings, the two things they seemed to get right and pass on to my mom and my aunts and uncles, the things that matter most...the 2 commandments that Jesus said were the most important; 1) Love God your father and 2) love each other. Faith and fidelity. Remember this and give thanks. Life is a gift; choose gratitude.
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