Sacrifice

Posted on November 24, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

fullsizeoutput_1e43I believe that it is only through sacrifice that we truly find our purpose.  The purpose in all of our lives is to help another without reciprocation.  We don’t get anything in return except a feeling of great accomplishment and peace.  By giving away a piece of ourselves for the betterment of someone else, we become more complete.  We become whole.

Soldiers that leave their families behind to face uncertain death.  Soldiers that fight for the rights of the folks back home to take a knee or burn a flag.

Teachers that spend their own money on art supplies, notebooks, folders for their students.  Teachers that spend time before or after school with that one student that has no one else who cares if they succeed.  That one in a million kid that just might make it out and make something of themselves.

Nurses who take that extra moment to ease another’s pain.  Nurses that are often overlooked, undervalued, but are essential to the welfare of a patient.  They spend 12 hours on their feet despite the pain, full bladders, and growling stomachs, to do the work that is needed to help another.

There were times, I will admit, that I would hear the beeper at 2am, shattering my blissful rest and I would raise my eyebrows, eyes wide, lower lip bitten under my upper teeth, nostrils flared, and I would joyfully pump two middle fingers toward that sound in irritation.  I would begrudgingly walk the dimly lit hallways of the hospital toward the ER for an admission.  This was residency.  I would find one of the fluorescent lights blinking at me.  Mocking me.  And it got two middle fingers, too.

By the time I get downstairs, my irritation diminished.  Time to go to work.  Someone was sick.  In need.  And I was there for them.

If you find yourself feeling hopeless, restless, desperate.  Stop.  Look around.  Count your blessings.  Stop waiting for someone to save you, do something for you, sacrifice for you.  Do something for another.  See others.  A shut-in neighbor.  A single mother.  A soldier home from war.  A teacher friend.  The homeless.  The addicted.  The ill.  The poor.  The lonely.  The desperate.

And make a sacrifice.  Do something for them and expect nothing in return.  You will see a momentous change in your life.  When you think you have nothing to give, give it anyway.  When you have more than you need, you have no excuse.  Feel the guilt of that.

Make a sacrifice today for someone else.  For this troubled world.  For your very soul.

 

 

 

 

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One Year Anniversary

Posted on November 20, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

img_2206Time is relentless.  It races us forward kicking and screaming without our consent.

One year ago today, I published my first blogpost.  There was a mix of great excitement and great fear.  Could they be one in the same?  Before I started, I had written a list of possible blogposts, numbering greater than 30, just to make sure I would have enough to say.  I have never looked at that list again.  I just wrote whatever came to mind, whatever interested me.

Today I take a break and look back at some of my favorite  blogposts.  A lot has happened over the past year that I could never have imagined, like the loss of my mom and the gain of so many amazing blog friends.  You have all been there with me, encouraging me, listening to me, and sharing your own stories of loss and redemption.

Some of you have been with me since the beginning, but for those of you that haven’t, here is my first blogpost:

In the Beginning

One of my favorite moments was opening up my mailbox and finding a big manilla envelope addressed to me from Patch Adams!  What a delight!  I wrote him a letter, asked a few questions and he responded and graciously agreed that I post it on my blog.  I’ll admit, I wish I could be as brave as he is in the pursuit of his dreams.  He inspires me.

What Ever Happened to Patch Adams?

What Ever Happened to Patch Adams? Part 2

Of course, I think my blog rocks, so I sent a link to WordPress hoping to be featured and gain some followers.  Unfortunately, they didn’t feel the same and sent me a nice email critiquing my post.  They were a bit miffed that I mentioned the race of my patient in this post (at the end).  They didn’t understand what it had to do with anything.  OMG, I’m not a weirdo fixated on race, I promise.  This is how we talk in medicine.  Patient is a 55 year-old black female.  Or white.  Or hispanic.  I don’t know why we do it, but that’s how we are taught.  I was becoming a doctor and it was a realization in the moment.  An ah-ha moment.  I couldn’t defend myself.  There was no way to reply to the critique.  It just sat there and I couldn’t make them understand.  So I’m doing it now.  *deep breath*  I feel better now.

Death Becomes Her

One of my most personal posts is about the days after my mom’s passing.  My very soul felt stripped of its covering.  I was raw and dazed.  I was exhausted and spent.  What I didn’t expect was that her passing exposed things to me about my career that were quite surprising to me.  It opened my eyes to things I was ignoring.  I haven’t even begun to write about what happened at work because I’m still dealing with it, but once things settle, I will.

Waves

Thanks to all my readers and blog friends for an incredible first year.  For sticking it out with me.  For encouraging me.  For being there.  Out there in the ether.

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Distractions

Posted on November 15, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

_dsc0219The worst thing to happen to my blog is Netflix.

I discovered Netflix and Stranger Things and American Horror Story.  I am watching American Horror Story right now as I write this so I am kind of distracted.  I spend half the show cringing and fast-forwarding through the bloody parts.

I discovered binge-watching.  Where has this been all my life?  It’s awful.  I have wasted so much time!  But I can’t stop.  Of course, it is really cutting into my writing time.  That’s not good.

I also took a painting class.  And I made two quilts.  Work’s been busy.  There was Halloween and now Thanksgiving and Christmas.  The kids have been busy with kickboxing and soccer.  And then there was that fucking election.  I swear to God my mother turned over in her grave over that one.  I have a lot on my mind.  I’m trying to come to terms with how I feel about my career and what I’m going to do about it.  And coming to terms with the loss of my mom.

I’m on the last season of American Horror Story now.  But it seems the real American horror story has no season finale.  It goes on and on.  No one learns anything.  No one changes.  No one seems to care about anyone else but themselves.  I have this overwhelming desire to do good in the world.  Does anyone else feel that way, too?  Am I the idiot for not always looking out for my best interests?  Not always taking the biggest piece of fried chicken and leaving the smaller pieces for everyone else?  Clamoring for what I can get for myself?

The funny thing is, even as I write this, I know there will be folks on the opposite spectrum of politics agreeing with me and picturing monorities taking from them.  Sad.  Because that’s not even remotely my point.  Everyone takes from everyone for the betterment of themselves.  Some people are more privileged than others.  And those people should use that privilege to help others.

I will be back to my routine soon enough.  Back to reality.  Eat, sleep, family, work, write, fight.  In the meantime, I take the opportunities when I can to zone out and get out of my own head.  Find the quiet spaces and the freedom to just not think about anything.  I’m trying to find the quiet places to build up my reserves.  There is a lot of fighting behind me, but a lot more ahead of me.  The battles continue on all fronts.  There seems to be no end in sight.

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Quilt Therapy

Posted on November 12, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

IMG_2307It was my husband’s idea.  Make a quilt out of your mom’s shirts.  Brilliant.

As I was cleaning out her room, I couldn’t bear the idea of just dumping all of her things at the Goodwill.  There’s nothing wrong with the Goodwill.  I actually ENJOY shopping there. I just couldn’t bear the idea of her things, clustered together now, being diluted into the masses of clothing and house wears, like her ashes being scattered to the winds.  Ceasing.  Dust.  Gone.

My mom wore a type of uniform.  Ballerina flats.  Knee high stockings.  Slacks with an elastic waist.  Jersey tops with a little bling.  Flowers, beads, sequins.  Just a touch.  She never wore shorts, dresses, or skirts.  She knew what she liked, what felt comfortable.  She was not a slave to fashion.

She had dozens of these shirts.  I washed them and placed them in the dryer.  She NEVER did that.  She didn’t want to shrink her shirts so she air dried them all.

I boxed up all of her shirts and hauled them down to a local quilt shop.  A quilt shop filled with ladies all about my mom’s age.  They welcomed me with open arms.  I spent every Wednesday morning for the next several weeks hanging out with the quilt ladies (and guys) working on a quilt for each of my children made from my mother’s shirts.

I found it to be a type of therapy.  The quilt posse made fun of me, gave me nicknames, taught me their skills, shared their space, hugged me when I needed it, made me one of them, shared their stories of loss and redemption.  It was exactly what I needed.  They helped me take a tragedy to our family and make something beautiful.  A keepsake.  Something for my children.

There are still some shirts leftover.  The quilt ladies/guys say I should make a quilt for myself.  I will.  I wanted to finish the ones for my kids first.  Sometimes I borrow theirs.  It’s enough for now.

img_3472img_3473img_3469img_3471

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Moms

Posted on November 9, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

IMG_0251Please welcome my friend, Amber Fort, back to my blog.  She’s been on hiatus, but has decided to make an appearance with a post she wrote after a dream she had about our mother’s meeting in heaven and giggling and playing with our deceased pups.  Love you Amber, you make my heart sing.

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My fondest memory of my mother was as a high school senior:  I’d been bent over impossible calculus homework for hours.  She made me a tuna sandwich and a cup of coffee so I could catch a second wind.  I think of mom often.  I wonder how she is doing in the afterlife, whatever form that takes, and hope that she is proud of me.  I think she would have enjoyed seeing me graduate from medical school.  I hope that she has everything she ever wanted in heaven that wasn’t meant for her in life.  When I think of “Mom,” I think of hardship, curiously intermingled with culture, music, open-minded tendencies.  A desperate want for an alternate reality that could never match her unfortunate circumstances, and no realistic way to obtain it.  Unbreakable, iron resolve.  Which I inherited.  For better or worse. She catapulted me to the life she couldn’t have.

One of my very best friends in the world recently lost her mom.  Like mine, I’m fairly confident that her memories of her mom more closely resemble a “Twisted Sister” album then they do a “Run for the Roses”.   It’s something we have in common.  I’d wager our moms have gotten to know each other in the next life.  Wherever they are, they cackle over swizzle sticks and coffee, our former canine companions by their feet sniffing for scraps, watching our defeats and minor victories.  I imagine that they speak of their pride in us.  Their admiration for the lives we’ve created, the children we’re raising, and the work we do.  Learning from their mistakes.  Mostly, I imagine them speaking of their love for us.  Tapping each other on the shoulder, “Look! Look at your daughter now!”

More than anything else, I want for my own children to think of “Mom” in a very different way than I do.  I want them to think of love and food and home, comfort and wisdom and kind guidance.  The possibility in dreams.  I want them to see the value in hard work, a stable marriage, and emotional balance.  I want them to internalize that mom is demanding and mean addressing their wants, unselfish and patient in meeting their needs.  I want them to think of their mother as someone willing to stand for the right rather than the popular.  The thing is, though, I’m muddling through just like my own mother did, just like everyone else.  Just like my dear friend.

I picture our moms in heaven willing us to be and do all that they would have wished for themselves.  There’s no pamphlet, no manual, no set of policies and procedures.  No flexible social construct that defines what makes a good “Mom,” what gives a child the security inherent in the word.  But it seems to me, that when everything is drilled down to molecules, what’s left behind is a knowing that “Mom” means “love”.  I’m not sure we lived it.  But we’re trying our hardest to be it.

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Turning the Tables

Posted on November 4, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

Minolta DSCI wouldn’t say that I’m a super Christian, but I dabble.  I know some stuff.  I believe.  I’ve read The Book.  My favorite story in the Bible probably wouldn’t be the favorite of most people.  My favorite story is when Jesus goes totally ballistic.

Jesus has the unfortunate reputation of being kind of a wuss.  He is kind, loving, generous, pious, righteous, helpful, holy, wholesome.  He willingly walks to his death and carries a heavy cross on his back.  He doesn’t fight.  He obeys.  He doesn’t get angry.  Except for that one time when he loses His shit (metaphorically speaking) and it’s totally glorious.  It’s totally punk rock.

Mathew 21:12-14  And Jesus entered the temple and drove out all those who were buying and selling in the temple, and overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who were selling doves.  And He said to them, “It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer’; but you are making it a robbers’ den.”  And the blind and the lame came to Him in the temple, and He healed them.

John 2: 13-16  The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.  And He found in the temple those who were selling oxen and sheep and doves, and the money changers seated at their tables.  And He made a scourge of cords, and drove them all out of the temple, with the sheep and the oxen; and He poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables; and to those who were selling the doves He said, “Take these things away; stop making my Father’s house a place of business.”

The Jewish holy leaders allowed the merchants to invade the house of worship to make a profit in the name of God and Jesus wasn’t having it.  In fact, He turned that place upside down and ran out the merchants and livestock.  Then He got down to business and healed some folks because He is the Great Physician.

Is it no wonder that these verses resonate with me?  It reminds me of the current state of healthcare run by the profit hungry powers-that-be under the guise of making people healthier -of really caring about them.  They don’t.  They care about the money.  Doctors let it happen.  I let it happen.  I thought Obamacare would be like “turning the tables,” but it wasn’t.  It just got us in deeper.  In the moments when I contemplate the system that I find myself in, I ask almost jokingly-what would Jesus do?  I think I know what He’d do.  What better catalyst for change than righteous anger?  Sometimes you just gotta get mad, turn some tables, kick some ass (like a donkey), and clean house in order to make things right again.

 

photo credit:  Stephen J. Sullivan

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Decomposing Doctor

Posted on October 29, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

IMG_1568To say that I love Halloween is an understatement.

We play a little game in our house called, “would you rather.”  My son usually instigates the game at random times that make absolutely no sense.  While driving my firstborn to the dentist the other day he asked, “mom, would you rather celebrate Christmas every day or Halloween every day?”

I gave his question careful consideration.

That’s a no-brainer -Halloween, of course!

He didn’t agree.  He picked Christmas.

While waiting for his appointment, I had time to ponder the implications of a world with constant Halloween.  To celebrate Halloween every day would be a dream come true.  I would prowl around at night with a full moon illuminating my way, asking unsuspecting neighbors for candy.  The cool crisp night air, the chocolate high, the wolf howling in the distance, spider webs hanging from the windows of abandoned buildings, black cats crossing my path.  Oh the joys of Halloween every day!

I would have an enormous closet filled with costumes and everyday I would dress as something or someone completely different.  I would have wigs and jewelry and scary masks and a very cool pirate outfit and full zombie attire and a Marie-Antionette dress complete with a plate of cake.  My options would be limitless.

I suppose this is why people participate in Cosplay.  I never got into this.  Not sure why.  Maybe because sadly Halloween isn’t everyday and pretending it is kind of makes you a weirdo.  Now being a weirdo is very enticing to me, but I’m sure people coming to me for medical advice would prefer a non-weirdo.  It’s just more reassuring to them.  Their loss.

But thankfully, Halloween does exist and for one day out of the year, I get to be my inner weirdo.  I get to bring it out to the surface and it’s OK.  I can even go to work and be a doctor in full weirdo regalia on that day.  The best day of the year.  Halloween.

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I’ve Gone Men-tal

Posted on October 26, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

IMG_2826I think my husband walks on water.  I know that’s ridiculous.  No one is perfect.  No one is capable of such things.  And he really can’t.

He hogs the bathroom and stinks it up, seems to accumulate pens wherever we go, buys too many of one thing; 10 nightlights, 10 flashlights, 10 pairs of running shoes, 10 different kinds of earbuds, all tangled up and piled in drawers.  He has the most ridiculous collection of t-shirts dating back to college, some with armpit stains that he refuses to throw away and they all pile up in the drawers and you can’t shut them.  And when I try, sometimes I pinch my fingers in the drawers and say curse words.

God, I love that man.

He is just pure goodness.  When I think about the winding road that led me to him (have I just quoted a country song?  I might need to see a shrink), it absolutely throws me into a panic.  One wrong turn, one wrong move, one wrong decision, and the two of us would never have met.  A thought I just can’t bare.

Listen.  We are not swinging from the chandeliers over here.  Our lives aren’t like that.  It’s simple.  Sweet.  Joyful.  Watching TV on the couch, making dinners together, raising these two knuckleheads we call kids, laughing, singing, dancing, going on adventures.  It’s a good life.

It’s moments like being at a Journey concert together.  I look over at him, a huge smile on my face, because he’s singing at the top of his lungs with his eyes closed, “don’t stop believin,” like he’s the lead singer -and my heart leaps.  Knowing him makes me believe that anything is possible.  That life is good.  That there is a grand plan.  That I never want to be anywhere else, but right here in this life with him.

 

 

 

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Back on Track

Posted on October 18, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

img_0739I live with a 7 year old boy who has been in love with trains since just before he could speak.  He couldn’t say “train,” but he dutifully carried around a wooden train in each hand everywhere he went.  God forbid that he should be without a train.  I always had a backup close by, just in case.  It’s the secret to potty training him.  I used trains as a form of coercion.  Or bribery.  Whatever.  As he sat on his little potty, I waved a train that he coveted in front of him.  If you poop on the potty, I’ll give you Old Slow Coach!  And it worked.  He freaking bared down and produced the required payment for that train.  Right there.  Right then.

Everything that we do or say in this family is seen through the lens of the love of trains.  Whenever I see a train going by on a track, I want to yell, “TRAIN!!!” to no one in particular.  I just get really excited.  That would never have happened if it weren’t for my son’s enthusiasm.  It’s contagious.

We call him a trainiac.  I say he’s locomotivated.  We plan family outings to train museums both locally and afar.  We have been to every Thomas’ Day Out within a 100 mile radius.  We have spent more money than I am willing to admit on trains, tracks, and accessories.  I even have a stash of trains that I have collected to give to my son when he is older.  Collectibles.  Unopened boxes of his favorite trains and even some older than him that he doesn’t even know exist.

I know a lot about trains.  I know a lot about Thomas the Train.  A lot.  I wish Jeopardy had a category on this.  I’d amaze you with my knowledge.  I’d win that shit.

In the spirit of all things train, I’ll admit, I’ve been a bit off track lately.  I’ve had boiler ache.  I can’t shunt the trucks like I used to.  I ran out of steam.  I parked myself at the train yard.  And I just stopped.  Stopped exercising.  Eating right.  Sleeping well.  Giving a shit.  I got really, really off track.  Derailed.

I think I’m getting back on.  At least I am aware that I need to and I am working on it.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?

Hi, I’m Kim and I don’t give a shit.

Hi Kim.

As I type this, I have a plate of apples and carrots beside me.  It’s a start.  Except, I want chocolate cake.  I better get this train out of the station.  Time to go for a walk.

 

 

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Tragic Backstory

Posted on October 10, 2016 by deconstructingdoctor

crowd-1427879-640x480If you are lucky, you have one.  If you are lucky, the universe dealt you a shitty hand and you persevered.   You overcame.  You are a better human now.  Don’t harbor resentment.  Being in the shit -is the shit.  I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  Who doesn’t love a good, tragic backstory?  It’s what rips the human soul apart, leaving behind the remnants where something beautiful will someday grow.

I have heard so many stories.  So so many stories.  The human condition is such that it is equal parts tragically beautiful and painfully horrific.  Animals with the tastes of God.  Never satisfied, but completely inept.  Consuming relentlessly.  Other humans get in the way.  And they get consumed, too.  If you survive this, you would never do it to someone else.  At least you think you won’t.

People with a story, that’s what I love.  I love to hear their tale.  I love to follow the tragic thread to its final glorious conclusion.  They survived.  They made it.  I want to clap my hands with joy!  They deserve a standing ovation!  Evil did not prevail!  It’s like the epic ending to the Bible:  Evil loses, love wins.  Except this isn’t global annihilation.  It’s on a tiny microscopic scale of a single human on a planet of 7 billion.  And they told their one unique beautiful tragic backstory to me.  As if I’m worthy.

The stories that are hardest to hear are the ones where they are still mired in the shit.  It’s over, but it’s not.  They won’t let it.  They stay there and it makes them sick.  It turns them the color of formica in a 1970’s kitchen.  Bleached yellows and moldy greens, muted blues and rusty orange.  It’s along the edges almost beyond the ability of the human eye to see, practically imperceptible, but it’s there, staining them with the residue of a dreadful past.  There aren’t enough antidepressants and anxiety pills to wash away that stain.  They get sicker and sicker.  It invades the blood stream.  It infects the brain.  The soul is overcome.

These are the ones I try so desperately to save.  I try to show them that the world has good in it, too.  If they would just hold onto the lifeline I offer, maybe just maybe, we can collectively pull them out of the shit.  And it’s not just me.  It’s my staff.  It’s the nurses.  It’s my colleagues.  It’s the therapists and the pharmacists.  It’s a collection of the tiniest bits of kindness that string together over time and envelope them.  If they let it.  If they meet me half way.  If they let their tragic backstory become a source of strength instead of a noose around their neck.

 

Photo credit:  Abdulhamid AlFadhly
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