It was a typical Monday morning, I got the kids up and ready for school, dropped them off before the bell, and headed off to work. Halloween was still fresh in our minds, the candy piled high on the kitchen table, costumes laying clumped in piles in the kids’ rooms, skeleton decorations still hanging on the front porch.
As I drove into the small town that I work in, a glaring reminder that the holidays are upon us struck me like a slap across the cheek. A giant red glittery, metallic, shimmering “Merry Christmas” was strung across the entire street. Overhead, it glittered and shimmered overwhelmingly in the morning sun, almost blindingly. It was huge. Is it wrong that it felt like an assault? Not an assault like a gunman barging into a bar and spraying bullets into the crowd kind of assault. More like an assault of the senses, an assault on anyone who doesn’t celebrate Christmas.
I celebrate Christmas, I am a Christian, but even I don’t understand this war-like stance that Christians take about this holiday. This garish sign across the street heading into town might have well read, “Merry fucking Christmas” or “Merry Christmas, motherfuckers” or “If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then get the fuck out.” Yet, in this same small town, one might hear people sitting in the diner complaining about immigrants coming into our country, or how our taxes support all these lazy people on welfare, or how they support a man that tells it like it is, even when he says he grabs women by the pussy or degrades fellow Americans with disabilities. You can’t have your “Merry Christmas” sign and spew hate or support those that do.
The first Christmas was spent on the floor of a barn amongst the sights and smells of the beasts of burden. Immigrants traveling and not being welcome, a man and a woman in need of shelter, a human baby born without the comforts our humanity can provide. His birth, ultimately leading to his death for all of us, despite our depravity, ignorance, greed, jealousy, hatred, sin. The first Christmas was void of red, glittery, metallic signs. It was dark, cold, and dangerous.
Today’s Christmas is an assault. The quiet, solemn moment of the Christ child’s birth and the subsequent story of Jesus as savior is overwhelmed and outshined by the jolly round Santa, flashing lights, piles of presents that no one really needs, the bustling crowds selfishly hoarding their baubles amid immigrants seeking asylum, children living in poverty, and veterans living on the streets.
If someone doesn’t tell me “Merry Christmas” it does not anger me. I am not proud of what Christmas has morphed into. People wear bracelets that read “WWJD (What would Jesus do)” and I wonder what would Jesus think of what the celebration of his birth has become.
There are times when silence is necessary. Quiet reflection, stillness, exhalation. I found myself in a state of mind consistent with floating on the stillness of the ocean, buoyed by the salinity, the sun peaking in and out behind the clouds, shadows flickering behind my closed eyelids. It is absolutely blissful, however, not as conducive to angsty curse-filled blog accounts of the unfairness of a doctor mom’s life. I reached steady state. How does one rail against such peace and calm? One doesn’t. One just floats.
My 10th great grandfather and his family boarded a ship in Mannheim, Germany in 1663 bound for America. They came to Germany by way of Amsterdam and before that France, seeking refuge from religious persecution. Each new home offered only temporary asylum. During this time, and for reasons that are not entirely clear to me, the Catholics were persecuting the French Huguenots, murdering and torturing them, causing them to flee to the corners of the world.
I only know one person that committed suicide. He was a patient of mine. There were plenty of patients over the years that had tried, but all of them were unsuccessful. Except for him. Over the years, whenever suicide becomes big news, my mind often goes back to him. I search all of my recollections of meeting him in the office, talking about his job, his family, his military experience, and I never once suspected that he would take his own life. Never. Once. He never seemed depressed, never admitted to being depressed, never expressed any feelings of desperation, isolation, loneliness, sadness, or rejection. He was pleasant, likable, even a bit jovial.
I passed the boards, in case you were wondering. It’s a relief. I don’t have to think about that again for 10 years. Who knows, by then I may be retired. Or a famous writer. Or still doing the same thing I’m doing now, the job I love. I have found a new delightful rhythm in my work. It feels refreshing instead of draining. I am on the other side of something sinister. My steps feel lighter, my laugh less restrained, my love for this work blossoming. I have my favorite nurse back in a new place and it makes all the difference.
The unwind. That’s where I find myself right now. It’s this strange process, like a colon cleanse or some such shit, whereby I untangle myself from the trappings of my job, just briefly, while on vacation. This unwind doesn’t last. It really never processes to completion, anyway. In fact, it’s kind of a tease. I can never truly unwind myself from this work.
My favorite childhood book was A Wrinkle in Time. I don’t think it was because the story was anything special, but because my favorite person in the world told me it was her favorite story. She lowered herself to my level, looked me directly in the eyes, the eyes of a 10 year old who didn’t know anyone really even saw her and said, this is my favorite story ever, and I want you to read it. 
Every 7 or 10 years, I have to retake my medical boards. I am currently board certified, but have to prove it over and over again throughout my career. If I jump through a bunch of hoops, like taking certain designated classes, performing modest in-office studies, and accruing a certain amount of CME between board tests, then I get to retake the boards every 10 years. If I fail to jump through these hoops, then it’s every 7 years.
My daughter is 7. She is in the first grade. It’s a sweet time of life because she still likes me and she still wants to be seen with me. In fact, she requests my presence the mornings that I drop her off at school. She wants me to walk her to her class instead of dropping her off in the car line. I walk her to class and she always gives me an awkward side hug before she goes inside. It’s hip to hip with an arm barely slung over the back. It’s kind of pitiful as hugs go, but I don’t push it. I want to embrace her, even give her a kiss on the cheek, profess my undying maternal love for her, but I resist. I relent. She’s building street cred and I don’t want to get in the way of such important work.
Let me tell you why church is hard.
