Give me Comfort or Give Me….Never Mind, Just Give Me Comfort

Posted on April 8, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

fullsizeoutput_19f1Torture.  I’ve been thinking about that lately.  Not in a “50 Shades of Grey,” S&M kind of way, either.  If only.  

After giving it some thought, I don’t think it would take much to torture me or any other American for that matter.  We are so used to being comfortable.  It is our great quest in this world.  Complete and utter comfort.

I imagine not the worst possible scenarios, but even the simplest, and I think I would give in.  I think I would talk.

Just turn off the air conditioning on a summer day.  Give me water without ice.  Make me wear a headband that is too tight.  Or make me wear socks to bed (oh God, the horror!).  Or maybe an NRA hat and “I love Trump” shirt.  Make me listen to country music.  And I don’t even want to think about smells!  Pretty much anything that smells bad will do me in.  Like cat litter, farts, vomit, smelly feet, rotten meat, you get the picture (gag!).  Or what about something that smells good?  Like warm and squishy McDonald’s french fries?  Let me smell them, but don’t let me eat them!  None of these actually cause pain, so maybe a paper cut or dropping a can of soup on my toe!  I’m telling you, it wouldn’t take much!

But what about true torture?  The kind that any normal human would never even imagine?  Would never want to do to another living creature.  The kind that drops poison gas on children or locks dogs in cages for weeks without food or water.  Humans did those things.  Humans like me.

It was discovered this week that an animal trainer right next door to my medical practice, one that I took my dog to for agility training about a year ago, had abandoned at least 8 dogs without food or water in their building.  Only 5 remained alive when they were found and to be alive under those conditions is being incredibly generous.  Poisoned children and starved and neglected dogs all in one week!  It’s just about more than I can bear.  It’s like…torture.

The evil that can inspire such cruelty lives in me, too.  It’s in my human DNA.  It’s there, lurking.  If it were an appendage, if evil grew from my body and became my right arm, I would cut it off!  I would want nothing to do with it!  I would live the rest of my life without my right arm and without any possibility of associating myself with those kind of people, that kind of evil.  But alas, it is not that easy.  The evil within me, within humanity is a moving target, an ever changing amoeba, it can not be captured or removed.  And in an ironic twist, it can be justified and made righteous.

It’s war!  Innocent people will be caught in the crossfire.  It happens, civilian casualties are expected.  They are just dogs, there are children starving too!  You can’t save the world, you just gotta save yourself.  It’s God’s will.  

Justifying the evil that men (and women) do is really a way to provide comfort.  It is incredibly uncomfortable to face the evil in others because it means we have to face the evil in us.  Because in my mind, I’m one of the good guys.

 

(Please check out one of my favorite bloggers, themdmuse who in so many ways inspired this post.  He’s a fellow doc, on the other side of the world, hurried and worried, trying to make sense of the world and continuing to do good in spite of it all.  This is his response to the recent atrocities in Syria….
As a rule, I try not to watch gory videos. The news in print already stirs up my imagination in ways that scare the very underpants out of me. However, these videos manage to exceed my imagination in the length of their cruelty and the breadth of their heartlessness. I wonder how much wickedness it would take to come up with such acts. I wonder how someone could live like this. I wonder if these perpetrators have families- wives, sisters, children. When they look at them, how can they not see the dozens and scores of men, women and children they have wounded, maimed and killed? Such mindless violence scares me. I wonder if these people are human being like me, does that mean there is a part of me that is capable of this? The thought alone scares me silly. I’m sorry, I’m ranting all over your post, but I’m barely holding it together. And to think I’d already seen the very dregs of human decadence right here…)

 

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Un-Adult-erated

Posted on April 5, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

bee-1367663-639x808We have a lot of conversations on the way to school in the morning.  Maybe it’s the early morning; we seem to be morning people in this family.  Maybe it’s the twenty minutes uninterrupted by Minecraft or Teen Titans Go in the background.  Maybe it’s just the breezy light feeling of driving down the road, unhurried and unstressed.

Today we talked about bees.  My children are unnaturally afraid of bees.  Of course, it is natural to be afraid of bees as they can sting and hurt, but my children are unnaturally afraid.  Neither has been stung or hurt by a bee in their lives, but they have given it much thought, too much thought.

Why does God have to make bees, anyway?

Flowers have to be pollinated.  Then they can produce fruit.  Vegetables.  Seeds.  Bees are good for the earth and for plants.  And what’s more, every creature has a way to defend themselves.  Bees are so small and God gave them stingers for defense.

It made me think of the time the oldest asked me on our morning drive if it was hard to be a grown up.

Hmmm.  How does one answer that question?

Sometimes it’s hard.  But mostly it’s great, I get to go to work and help people.  I get to drive a car and read big books.  I have a bank account and I can buy things when I want.

I think I was feeling especially positive that morning, because this morning, being an adult was really hard.  Getting ready for school, the news was on and the oldest stood slack jawed in front of the TV, the color in his face drained.  What in the world was he watching?  I joined him and watched as scores of Syrian children were being carried, limp and pale, clinging to life after chemical weapons were used against them, likely by their own government.

What happened to those children?  Why would someone hurt kids?

This is the part of being an adult that is hard to put in words.  Shitty things can happen in this world.  Really shitty things.  Things that can not be explained.  Things that go against everything within your soul that tells you what is right.  Sometimes being an adult means you face the evil of the world and you have to find a way to keep going.  Keep loving.  Keep trying.  Keep hoping for a better world for your children and their children.  Hope in the face of complete and utter despair.  That’s what being an adult is like.  That’s when it’s hard.

A bee sting is nothing compared to what can happen to you in this world, children.  What is happening to children right now.  You’ll learn in time that being afraid of bees is silly.  You’ll learn that there are so many worse things to be afraid of and when that happens, I fear you will no longer be children anymore.  That’s when you’ll know what it’s like to be a grown up.

Photo credit:  Ericka Thorpe

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Runner’s Guilt

Posted on April 2, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

fullsizeoutput_1ffaThere is something inherently selfish about running.

It really serves no purpose to mankind.  At least not overtly.

I still haven’t gotten back into the running groove like I had intended.  There are reasons, so, so many reasons.  It’s cold.  It gets dark early.  I’m tired.  I keep blaming my deceased mother.  She lived with us for the past 3 years, passing abruptly in July.  Being her only child, she really doted on our children, her only grandchildren.  Anytime I wanted to go for a run, I could.  She encouraged it.  She watched the kids.  I never had to worry.

And then she up and died on me and I can not for the life of me get my bearings.  I’m still feeling lost.

The 40 minute drive to and from work is almost more than I can bear.  I don’t have any time.  I’m always rushing.  Rushing home to take the kids to ball practice, get their dinners ready, their book bags packed for the next day, get the laundry done, keep the dishes from overflowing the sink.  I’m not alone in this, my husband is right there with me struggling, too.

Today I had my running bag packed, the headphones and Garmin watch all charged up.  I had a half day in the clinic.  I’d change into my running shoes and dorky compression socks after work and go for a quick run before I had to pick the kids up from school at 2:45.  I was almost to work when I got the call, your son is puking.  You gotta come pick him up now.

Before, I would have called my mom, can you please pick him up?  Sure, honey, no problem.  Don’t worry.  I would have finished my clinic and had my run before coming home.

Of course, all of this is incredibly selfish.  And incredibly hard.  My work has certain expectations.  The patients, the corporation.  I should be available, dependable.  I had to cancel my clinic today, letting people down, diminishing my productivity.  It makes me feel a little guilty.  My son needed me.  I can’t let him down.  He’s just a boy and he’s sick, would anyone other than one’s own momma suffice in that moment?  I want to be there for him.  I haven’t been running, my little belly is pudging out and I just feel a little icky in my own skin.  I’m letting myself down, too.

Everything that we do requires putting something else on the back burner.  My children.  My work.  My duty to provide clean underwear for my family.  In order to run, something else has to give.  And right now, I’m not sure it’s worth it.  I don’t want to sacrifice anyone for my own well-being.

In the end, running may not serve any purpose for mankind.  But for this woman to remain kind, I know I’ve got to find the time for myself.  I need to figure out a way to get back to what gives me a sense of peace.  I really need to go for a run.

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When God Attacks

Posted on March 30, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

_DSC0227Uh oh, I’m going to get a little preachy….

I used to be under the impression that if God was mad at me for something bad that I had done, then He would fuck up my life royally.

He would attack.

I know what you are thinking, that’s silly.  Everyone knows that God doesn’t punish us for the wrong that we do.  He forgives us.  He uses bad things that happen to bring about greater good in the world.

Just kidding, you weren’t thinking that at all, you were thinking, holy crap, she just used the “f” word and God in the same sentence!  Lord help her, she’s doomed.  And you would probably be right, if God cared about the “f” word.

Now I can’t say that I know for sure that He doesn’t care about it, but I think it’s really low on His list of concerns.  I say the “f” word, so what.  God hasn’t convicted me of this offense yet, and when/if He does, I will give great and lengthy consideration to stopping.  But for now, fuck it.

I have been thinking about God a lot lately.  I have been immersing myself in study, trying desperately to make sense of the world from God’s perspective because nothing about the world makes sense to me.  People don’t make sense.  Their motivations don’t make sense.  Their twisted ideology, their hate, their bizarre misrepresentation of facts, all of it, doesn’t make sense to me.  I find myself turning away, turning inward, and looking for a more spiritual and divine connection.  I’m looking for a sense of peace.  I’m looking for a reprieve from the attacks.

It’s funny how people interpret God’s will.  I have heard people say that Trump’s election was God’s will.  I suppose that this is true, but in which way?  His will for good?  Or His will to use bad to bring about a greater good?  Is Trump God’s way of creating unity among us, united to fight against an ideology that is counter to God’s, a leader and a government that blatantly lies, robs, subjugates, conspires, manipulates, and hates?  Trump may possibly be the best thing to happen to this country, to Christians, to me.  My relationship with God, His expectations of how I should be has never been more clear.  Whatever Trump is, I am not.

What is clear to me, is that what God asks of me is simple.  Less of me.  More of Him.  Feed the hungry.  Heal the sick.  Don’t judge.  When I have plenty, then I should share.  Tell the truth.  Be fair.  Don’t take more that I need.  Don’t steal.  Don’t wish harm on others.  Be kind.  I am my brother’s keeper.  Be steadfast and persevere.

This is what I cling to in order to make sense of this world.  If I continue to follow these simple expectations, God’s simple rules for my life, and expect the same from those in a position of power and leadership, then I will be able to get my bearings again.  These expectations will be the lenses through which I will view the world and any deviation from this will cause me to question if it is truly God’s will.

People might attack, but God doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

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When you don’t see 50 patients a day

Posted on March 26, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

This blogpost was inspired by One Woman’s Quest who wrote in response to my blog Profit or Prophet:  Stick to your ideals! 25 people is more than enough, but 50? How is that supposed to be helpful? My doctor refuses to overwhelm herself and her patients by pushing the numbers and we patients are very appreciative.

img_2145What happens when you don’t see 50 patients a day?

People get pissed.

You don’t have any appointments left?  I can’t be seen today?  Can’t you just squeeze me in?  Well, then, I ‘ll just have to find another doctor.

OK.  Bye Felicia.

You won’t like me if I see 50 patients a day.  You won’t like me AT ALL.  I won’t be the same person.  I won’t be the same doctor.  I won’t have time to listen to you.  I won’t have the capacity to give a shit about your grandkids, your pet bird, the death of your mother last week, how your husband cheated on you, your kid getting into college.  Nope.  Don’t tell me anything.

Just the facts.  Where does it hurt?  Doesn’t matter that you haven’t slept in weeks because they are going to foreclose on your house.  I don’t have time for that.  How long has it hurt?  What have you taken for the pain?  OK try this, call me if you’re not better.  NEXT.

Consider a lifeboat.  There’s been a shipwreck.  The lifeboat can save lives.  Until it is overcrowded and people are scrambling to get in, they topple it over, overwhelm it, water enters, the lifeboat starts to sink, and everyone is screwed.  The life raft saves lives when it is not overwhelmed, once it is, all bets are off.

I am sure a robot/computer/cyborg could do a better job than me.  It could be programmed with all of the latest/greatest medical knowledge, perform around the clock for millennia.  It could see 50 patients a day easily.  No problem.  It would never tire.  It would never need to have a lunch break, a bathroom break, it never gets sick, it never runs late, it doesn’t have to take its kids to basketball practice.  It would only consider the facts.  There would be no room for art.  The art of medicine.

Art takes time.  Art needs to be considered.  All the aspects of a person’s life contribute to their well-being, I need to know the factors that could be contributing to their ailment.  Your blood sugar is too high because you can’t afford the right foods?  You can’t afford the right foods because you lost your job?  I need to know that.  It matters.  It changes the treatment.  It changes my approach.

If I am overwhelmed, truly overwhelmed, the human part of me begins to get angry, bitter, resentful.  I start to express those feelings to those that are overwhelming me.  I start to treat my patients differently.  That part of me that they love and seek out because I care about them, starts to die.  I no longer give a shit.  I no longer care.  And that’s dangerous.  I can still do my job, but that’s just what it will become, a job.  Not a career.  A work of art.  A mission.  A purpose.  A joy.  A life’s work.  Something to be proud of.

It will just be a shitty job, with shitty patients, who only give a shit if they get what they want from me.

So if you can’t get an appointment with me the instant that you want it, be grateful.  Be patient.  Know that I am doing what I can for who I can while preserving that thing that makes me  –me.  Know that I will be the doctor that you have come to love and trust because I get to take my time with you, too, when it’s your turn.

I think I’m worth waiting for 🙂

 

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Give Me Insurance or Give Me Death

Posted on March 25, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

If you haven’t found the Shinbone Star yet, check it out here.  I’ve reblogged a post I did about the Republicans failed attempt at repealing the ACA.  The folks at the Shinbone Star were spurred on to return to journalism by the Trump attacks on truth.  You see, most of them were retired, enjoying margaritas on the beach, until threats of Fake News ruffled their collective feathers.  Now they are back with a vengeance, setting the story straight, and giving us the truth.  Follow the Shinbone Star, you’ll love it!!

I don’t normally celebrate death. That goes against everything for which I stand. I celebrate, encourage, and delight in life, and took an oath as a doctor that states I will uphold the values of life and first do no harm. That’s why I am so very happy to hear that the Republican response to […]

via Give Me Insurance or Give Me Death — THE SHINBONE STAR

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Liberal Helping of Cranberry Pecan Pie

Posted on March 20, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

_dsc0140Do you want to know the BEST part of my job?  Truthfully?  I’m not even going to try to lie and say some bullshit like helping people.  Nope.  It’s not that.  It’s the food.

Lord, help me, it’s the food!

My practice is nestled at the corners of 3 “cities.”  Extending outward from this vantage point are rolling hills, lake communities, and vast stretches of farmland.  Interspersed here and there are the furniture factories that have survived the exodus of such businesses overseas for cheaper labor.  This is the epitome of rural America.  Mostly white.  Mostly Christian.  Mostly living paycheck to paycheck.  About 12 months ago, Trump signs sprung up in the lawns like wild dandelions, pretty little yellow flowers that will choke the shit out of your grass if you let them.

Some people think I’m a yankee.  Where you from?  You from around here?  They already know the answer.  I look like I could be from around here, but my nondescript accent says otherwise. I’m technically a southerner, too, if you define southernness by geographical and not cultural standards.  South Florida is just about as south as you can get without falling into the ocean and as far away from southern culture as if I left the country altogether.  I’m not a yankee, but I’m not a southerner, either.

It’s easy to think that anyone who would support Trump would be crazy, racist, fascist, sexist, even the devil incarnate, but I guess it’s like anything else, when you face the monsters everyday, you start to understand the motivation.  They don’t seem like monsters anymore.  In fact, you realize, they are not monsters at all.  They are doing the best they can.  They are scared.  They work hard.  They just want their own piece of the pie.  Just like the rest of us.

Don’t get me wrong.  There are monsters.  Everywhere.  Liberal.  Conservative.  Christian.  Atheist.  We all have the potential.  We have all been monsters.  We all have the capacity.

I found myself contemplating my role in such a community between mouthfuls of cranberry pecan pie on my ride home from work the other day.  One of my patients brought me a piece.  Homemade.  I tried to wait the 40 minute care ride home, but it beckoned me from it’s place on the passenger seat.  It was useless to resist.  At 70mph on the interstate, I pealed back the aluminum foil covering and tore it apart piece by piece, shoving the sweet tartness into my mouth with my bare fingers.

I found the bitter cranberries to be a sharp contrast to the buttery cakey deliciousness that enveloped them.  Equal parts moist and flaky, sour and savory.  The red cranberries bled purple streaks and pools, lines and intersections.  Occasionally my teeth would hit the speed bumps of pecans, slowing me down, and changing the landscape.

With each bite, my taste buds searched for the sweetness around the bitterness, and then the bitterness around the sweetness, never actually being able to separate them.  They were juxtaposed and married to each other.  They were inseparable, like siamese twins sharing different sides of the same heart.

I could joke around and say that like that cranberry pecan pie, the community in which I practice is full of sweet people with an underlying bitterness and the occasional nut, but it is so much more than that.  But you know what, I think I’ll just leave it at that.

 

 

 

 

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Feed Me

Posted on March 17, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

fullsizeoutput_1fbeThe worst part about motherhood is not the lack of sleep.  It’s not the complete and unending exhaustion.

It isn’t the relentless breastfeeding, sore nipples, sore back, that deep and unfulfilled desire to move except you are tethered to another person providing life giving sustenance for an entire year (I gave up after 8 and 3 months respectively).

It isn’t the endless babble, the spontaneous and shocking ear-piercing noises, or incoherent stories as if told by your drunk uncle over holiday dinners.  Children love to talk, scream, laugh, cry, basically just make a shit load of noise.  It is incredibly distracting from the quiet spaces in the mind that produce thought.  Thinking is almost impossible with children around, but that doesn’t even bother me much.

It doesn’t even bother me that I didn’t watch an entire movie for 5 years.  I couldn’t get into any series for lack of actually hearing any of the dialogue.  I missed all of The Walking Dead and American Horror Story because the kids could not even accidentally walk in on me watching them without creating months of nightly awakenings from nightmares.

It doesn’t bother me that they are old enough to wipe their own asses, but still insist on yelling across the house, “mommy….I’m done pooooooping!”  Expecting me to stop what I’m doing and run to their side, finding their rear end stuck up in the air for ease of wiping.  To which I reply sarcastically, “It is my greatest joy in life to wipe your booty!”

So what bothers me the most about having kids and being a mother?

I have to feed them.  All the time!

Why so much???  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner?  Snacks, too?  I did not sign up for this.  And why me?  They never ask their dad for food.  It’s the boobs, isn’t it?  Like some kind of billboard for a meal.  I am completely incompetent in the food department.  They never like anything I make.  I really try.  They are so picky.  And it goes on all day.

I’m hungry!  I want something to eat!  Snacks.  Drinks.  Candy.  Chips.  Always arguing over making healthy choices.  I give in sometimes.  I’m not proud.  Just eat the damn chips!  The youngest won’t eat turkey, but loves chicken.  The oldest wants green apples not red.  The oldest will drink milk, but only if it is chocolate milk.  The youngest likes cheese but not string cheese.  It’s insanity and it’s relentless.

Thank God for cereal.  It seems to be the great equalizer.  They both like cereal.  And so far cereal seems to be life-sustaining.  That and a good multivitamin.  The gummy kind not Flintstones.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Doctor Will See You Now

Posted on March 11, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

Welcome my friend Amber to Deconstructing Doctor.  Amber is a Neonatologist that I convince to write for my blog from time to time.  She writes so beautifully and lovingly about her patients and her chosen career.  Enjoy her latest post.  To find similar posts by Amber click on Guest Blogger

IMG_1905I see the longing in your eyes every time you tiptoe to the incubator window, willing your son to heal and grow, wishing you could do everything his nurses do for him.  I see your gratitude for how gently they handle him, how softly they croon to him, how expertly they feed him, how they love him.  They’re skilled, responsible, loving substitutes, but it’s just not the same as his mother’s touch…when that touch is possible at all.   

I see the desperation on your face when your tiny child needs her breathing tube put back in after she went so many days without it.  I see the bewildered expressions on your face when we talk about IV fluid ingredients, calories, and amounts in terms like “cc per kilo,” and the panic that you swallow when we describe “spells” on rounds.  I see you fight to remain calm when her heart rate drops and fourteen people swarm to her bedside, because it’s that kind of alarm.  You understand that’s why she’s here and not home in your arms, but the weight of uncertainty is crushing.

I see that you feel helpless to guide your daughter’s journey, this little life you’re now forced to entrust to someone you’ve never even met.  I see you holding back tears as you struggle to accept that sometimes painful things happen to her here, and that it’s not you enveloping her in that strong, safe father’s comfort, because you have a spouse, household expenses, other children, life away from here that needs you, too.

I see you smile when she wriggles himself into the corner of her bed, snuggled into a perfectly round little ball, comfortable and quiet.  I see you ecstatic over that first successful oral feeding, carefully documenting one milestone after another as, one by one, the tubes, lines, and wires fall away.  I see your relief, the first time you get to take her photograph without anything attached to her perfect little face.  I see you amazed by her personality, her personhood.  You’ve learned our language full of confusing acronyms, and gotten used to the daily scrubbings, rules, and protocols.  I see that you want to let your guard down a little, but that the joyful moments come with some pain.  It wasn’t the experience you were expecting or wanted.  You had other plans for her, plans that evaporated instantly as a matter of life and death.

I’ve watched as you prayed incessantly, adapted, cried an ocean, and now feel at once free, yet nervous to be free.  I see your dread that you’re not really done with this, that there might be another bend in the rollercoaster, knowing you will be twisted into knots, then untwisted with dizzying spin.  I see that you want to run as far and as fast as you can from these memories, but that you need to hang on for awhile.  I see, and appreciate, how years later, you have extended yourself to grieve with, and for, other parents.

I can see that you need me to see you.

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Changing Times

Posted on March 7, 2017 by deconstructingdoctor

class-001You know that the times they are a-changing when you have lunch with your dad and he wants to talk about Malcolm X.

I tried to get out of the lunch date, not because I’m some kind of horrible daughter, that’s part of it, but because I felt like I was coming down with something.  How many flu cases had I seen the day before?  Or the day before that?  I lost count.  But it was a lot.  My muscles and joints were achy.  I felt pressure in my sinuses and my throat was a little sore.  I just wanted the few hours I had left before I picked up the kids from school to be spent under the covers and watching tv.

I don’t feel that good, dad.  I don’t want to expose you to anything, maybe we should plan for another day.

He wasn’t having it.  He wanted to have lunch with me and that was that.

“You can get soup.  You need to eat anyway, don’t you?”

He wanted me to take him to Red Lobster.  We settled on Cracker Barrel.

Over lunch that was actually breakfast food, pancakes for both of us, my dad started to talk about the goings on in his life.  He’s remodeling his bathroom, working on his old car, going to church dinners twice a week, his visits to the doctor at the VA, going fishing when the weather warms up.  And Malcolm X (insert record scratch).

I’m pretty sure my dad voted for Trump, although, I can not bring myself to ask him directly.  I just don’t need to know that about him.  Kind of like not knowing about your parents love life.  My soul will be better off if I’m ignorant to those facts.  But I have a feeling he did based on comments like –he really speaks his mind, he could make the VA and Medicare better, he can shake things up. It’s just possible that if he did vote for him, he may be having buyer’s remorse

Because he’s watching movies about Malcolm X.

My dad, who belongs to the NRA.  Who used to drink too much beer, but hasn’t in 13 years.  Who’s southern accent sneaks out in the most unlikely places (wire becomes whau-yer).

He’s reaching out.  He’s learning.  He’s curious.  He knows something’s not right.  He knows that the VA and Medicare are not priorities with this administration.  Things are getting shaken up and it’s chaos.  He’s hearing about Black Lives Matter.  He knows I participated in the Women’s March with his granddaughter.

He watched a movie about a black man in the 60’s who was a Muslim.  A man who stood up against white suppression “by any means necessary.”  A man who was likely murdered because his militant beliefs tempered with time and he sought ways to peacefully create understanding and change.  He changed.  He evolved.  He understood.

And if Malcolm X can do that and my dad can do that, then there’s hope for us all.

 

 

 

 

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