Sympathy notes

I have two sympathy notes to write.
It's hard to find those words.
I'm writing to two people who just lost their mothers.


When I worked in labor and delivery, I took care of lots of women who lost their babies fairly late in their pregnancies. I worked at a large hospital that received all the high risk obstetrical patients.

I got very good at knowing what to say to these mothers. They all seemed to feel more than a little guilt when they lost a baby. As though, "If I were a better mother, I would have grown a better baby. My uterus would have been a safer place for her. I would have sent more of the nutrients he needed through that placenta."

They very rarely verbalized these thoughts, and I don't remember how I realized that they were thinking them. At some point, though, I told a woman I was taking care of, "You know, this is not your fault." She looked at me, and her quiet sobbing turned into full blown crying.

She said, "I feel like it is, though. Like if I were a better mom, he would be okay."

I said, "You know, this baby is one of the luckiest babies in the world. He wasn't here for very long, but during his short time you gave him a warm, safe place to live and you loved him. You took such good care of him. And, even now, he has a mom who will keep loving him and will miss him and remember him forever. He is a lucky baby because you are his mom."

It was actually these patients who I enjoyed taking care of the most. During my last shift in labor and delivery, I sat in bed with a young girl as she held the baby she'd just lost. Her family had all left for the day. She was only 15, and was receiving much less support from the staff than older, married mothers do. There was some thought that she was better off. That she wouldn't have made a good mother anyway. That she would bounce back and be pregnant again in no time. I decided to ignore all that and say the same thing to her I did to other moms, "You know, this is not your fault." And she had the same outpouring of guilt and grief as every other mother. I told her that he was a lucky baby because she was his mom, and I cried with her and held her as she held her baby.

Two weeks later, I had relocated and was working as a receptionist, a job to hold me over until school started. I cried all the way home from work one night because I missed taking care of those mothers so much. It was such a privilege to share that space, that time, that grief with them. Without really knowing me, they let me into their lives and laid themselves bare. I always felt so incredibly lucky to be there, and I still miss it.


Buying sympathy cards today for people who lost their mothers made me think of the mothers I took care of. I guess this is how it's supposed to be--children burying their parents, rather than vice versa. I still don't know what to write in these notes, though.

A PSA (of sorts)

Last night (or rather, very early this morning) around 1 am, I decided I needed a study snack. I popped some popcorn, drizzled on some garlic butter, and sprinkled it with sea salt.

Delicious, huh?
Yeah, for about 20 minutes.

Then, I got really, really thirsty. So I drank a ton of water. Tons of water with tons of salt. I experienced what is technically referred to as hyperosmolar volume expansion. Translation: I was bloated--really, really bloated. I looked like a snake that just ate a rat. I was so miserable I had a hard time getting to sleep.

This morning, I woke up with three monster "blemishes" on my forehead. Let me tell ya, garlic butter isn't nearly so appetizing when it's erupting from the pores on your face.

Graphic, I know. But it's all for your benefit. You know, like that Don't Do Drugs PSA where the woman takes out her dentures and explains that methamphetamines stole her teeth.

Learn from my mistake.
Eat an apple. (Unless meth already got the best of your teeth.)

My Mother's Curves

I talked to my mother tonight. She just joined Curves. Apparently, my sister-in-law joined and told her how much she likes it, so my mom decided to sign up. Signing up was much more difficult than she had anticipated.

The first thing the Curves employee wanted to do was perform a body analysis and help my mother set some goals. That didn't go so well. The employee was a very perky woman with a huge smile and a sing-song voice. "It was like I was stuck in one of their commercials," my mother said. "The whole time, I was thinking, I can't believe a real person talks like this!"

My mother fixed the woman's voice condition by saying, "I'm not having a body analysis, and I don't want to set any goals. I'm just here to work out." The woman didn't know what to say. The smile was frozen, and she temporarily stopped breathing.

After recovering from the shock of the Curves train wreck that is my mother, she tried again. My mom replied with, "Look, I don't have goals, I don't want goals, and there is no way you are touching my thighs with that tape measure. I just want to work out. I don't even want to lose weight. I just don't want the weight I have to shake so much."

The woman wrote that down--less shaking--because it was as close to a goal as she was going to get with my mother. Finally, she managed to sign her up to work out. My mom agreed to a year, but there is no way in curvy hell she's going to stick with that. She went this morning and said, "You know, those women talk the whole time they're exercising." The nerve!

The best thing about it so far? She doesn't sweat. She said, "I figure I sweat enough during my nightly hot flashes, I don't need to sweat at the gym." I didn't bother explaining that perhaps this means she's not really working out. I'll leave that to a perky, unsuspecting Curves trainer.

I'm sure my mom will get her best workout ever strangling the employee with her tape measure.


{This evening, I also learned that my childhood friend and summer camp buddy, M, just lost her mother. As I write about my mom, even in humor, I think about how incredibly hard it would be to lose her. I can't imagine life without these phone calls. Tonight, I laugh at my mom, and I cry for M.}

Tonight

Earlier...we saw The Queen. Helen Mirren was phenomenal, and the movie was excellent. The British people's relationship with their monarchy is extremely fascinating.

While we were out... it looks as though someone tried to break in. The screen of the kitchen window was knocked in and bent a bit. The roommate's wife is very handy and was kind enough to fix it. Clearly, we need to be much more careful about making sure this window is closed before we leave the house. Lesson learned.

Right now... I'm listening to Todd Snider sing me Anywhere.

Hey baby
I'm not afraid to be your man
I don't need a destination
I'm not waiting to hear the plan

Let's get out of here
I'll go anywhere... with you

Ahh, and on that note... I'm headed to bed.

Real love

I'm sitting on my bed, listening to music, writing to strangers. I just left my roommate and her wife in the other room talking and snuggling. My roommate is here, in the Midwest, for medical school. Her wife still lives and works back in San Francisco. She is just here visiting for the week. The whole long distance relationship thing is really hard on them. Each is the other's very favorite person, and they really miss each other. Right now, I am trying to give them their space.

We were sitting on the couch watching a movie tonight. I looked over and saw them cuddled together and thought of this passage from The Velveteen Rabbit. They concluded their wedding ceremony with this. When I read it, it takes me back to that day, standing on a porch overlooking the mountains, quietly crying the mascara off my face as we celebrated their love.


"What is real?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."


There are some things so beautiful you feel lucky just to sit next to them on the couch. Their love is one of those things.

Asked and answered

Cheryl asked a few questions after my last post. I will attempt to answer them here. If this is ridiculously boring, wander over to any one of the fabulous blogs on the right. Redneck Mommy has pierced nipples, and Maria from just eat your cupcake is wearing human pheromone that only works on lesbians--surely that's more interesting.

Still here? Okay, here goes (in the order in which Cheryl asked):

What kind of medicine do you want to do?

I'm not yet sure. I worked in a labor and delivery unit for a few years before med school, and when I came, I thought I wanted to be an obstetrician. I don't enjoy surgery, though, and Ob-Gyns do a fair amount of gynecological surgery. Now, I'm thinking that I may be able to find something that is an even better fit for me.

Right now, I spend one day a week working in a hematology clinic treating patients with blood disorders (people for whom the delicate balance of bleeding and clotting is out of whack). I'm not necessarily interested in hematology, but I am interested in that kind of work--work within a specialty.

In the end, I just want to be a great physician. I am not all that concerned with income or work hours. Many people (including medical students) say, "I don't live to work, I work to live." That is not true for me. I'm never as happy as when I am using my time and talents to do meaningful work. The hematologist I work with is an amazing older physician who feels the same way. In forty years of practice, she has maintained balance, rather than burn out, though. Balance is key, and she's a great mentor for me. (Wow, now this is boring and cheesy.)

How long have you been in medical school?

Almost two years.

The first two years of medical school are spent in lectures. It's like college on steroids. The second two years are spent in clerkships. These are the short white coats you see at the hospital--medical students in their 3rd and 4th years. Third year starts for me in July and is sort of about figuring out what I want to do when I grow up.

How hard is it (medical school)?

It's not hard--it's just lots. There is nothing I've learned over the past two years that anyone of average intelligence couldn't understand. It gets a little confusing because the knowledge builds on itself, and you have to keep up. The hard part is in the keeping up. This is not quantum physics, though. It's more like a pie eating contest. You have to be a disciplined and a little nuts, but not all that bright.

Cheryl didn't ask this, but the question I get most often is,
Is it anything like Grey's Anatomy?

Sadly, no. No one in my class of 150 students, none of the physicians who lecture us, none of the residents who the students date, none of our test proctors, none of our standardized patients, none of the real patients, no one is that good looking.

Also, the doctors on Grey's Anatomy know a lot more about certain parts of the anatomy than some of us seem to. Last year in anatomy lab, a student I call The Brain Cell (because he just uses the one) was dissecting the cadaver next to mine. We were working on the pelvis and perineum when a professor came over to answer some of his questions. The professor took one look at his dissection and said, "What on earth did you do here?"

"What do you mean?" asked The Brain Cell.

"Where is the clitoris?"

"Oh, uh, is that this flap of fascia?" he said, pulling it out from under the cadaver's right knee.

At this point, I could no longer hold in my laughter. The professor looked at me and said, "I'm not even sure where to go from here."

"It gets worse," I said. "He wants to be a surgeon. And he's newly married. I'm taking up a collection to buy his wife some batteries, would you like to contribute?"


See, that wouldn't happen on Grey's Anatomy. The guys on that show know the clitoris is not a flap of fascia stored behind the right knee.

In local news

Last night, I took a break from studying to do one of my very favorite things with one of my very favorite people. I watched the late local news with my roommate. I know what you're thinking, "Who the hell watches the local news for kicks? What are you, 80?"

And I'd say, "That's a stupid question. Eighty-year-olds don't stay up until 11pm." I would also tell you that watching the news with my roommate is great because we always find the exact same things utterly hilarious.

Our favorite moment from last night's broadcast:

Blond perky female anchor says, "Police and rescue personnel were called to 4th street today when a 3 year old was found face down in a water garden. The child was taken to a local hospital, but his condition is still unknown."

What's so funny about a drowning toddler? The anchor, that's what. She delivered the whole story with this huge, goofy smile on her face. Looked like she had just won the lottery. It was as though she didn't understand what she was reading off the teleprompter. (Or, she is some sort of sick psycho who gets off on drowning toddlers.)

Either way, totally inappropriate facial expressions are generally the kind of thing we really enjoy, and we laughed our asses off.

All day today, whenever things weren't going well, one of us would chime in with, "Where's a 3 year old face down in a water garden when you need a pick me up?"


And that is why I love my roommate.
A kindred spirit with a twisted sense of humor.
She makes drowning toddlers fun.

This is 8-year-old Sami Zaien al-Abideen. He was injured by a roadside bomb that blew up outside his school. Here we see him being carried into a hospital in Kirkuk, Iraq.

Perhaps, we should keep Sami in mind the next time we are listening to our politicians talk about their plans for the Middle East.

I know this much is true

If you're wearing a t-shirt that says I'm with the band,
we can all be sure of one thing--you are not with the band.

And you're not gonna be. Not as long as you're wearing that shirt.

Barrettes

Guess what I'm wearing in my hair?

That's right. Barrettes. Cheap metal clips are tying my hair back.

Why, you ask?

Because the person who cut my hair thinks I'm full of shit. I went in and said, "I want you to take off an inch and add a few long layers. It is really important that I can get all of my hair pulled back into a ponytail. I work with sick people all day, and I don't want my hair to catch anything." She smiled and nodded and said she understood. I even had her repeat the plan back to me to make sure we were on the same page.

And then she lept from that page and started cutting. Quickly. In less than a minute, I had lost several inches of hair. It was chin length, and she hadn't even cut layers yet.

As a general rule, I don't like to cry or throw things in public. So, in a calm voice (albeit through my clenched jaw), I said, "Okay, now lets make these layers long. This cut is a little shorter than I expected, and I have to be able to get this all back in a ponytail." Again with the nodding and smiling and repeating the plan. And again with the totally ignoring repeated plan. (I'm never robbing a bank with this woman.)

She then cut the layers--short layers. In fact, I'm not even sure that they technically qualify as layers. They made actually be glorified bangs. And the damn things are in my face all the freakin' time. So now, I need not only a hair tie but also these damn barrettes to get anything done.


This is not the first time that this has happened to me. In fact, I've only met one hairdresser who listened to what I wanted and then actually made that happen on my head. I should have paid the woman to relocate with me.

I've been thinking about why this keeps happening to me, though, and I think I've figured it out.

I look like crap when I go to get a hair cut.

I always do it on a Saturday when I've got about 80 other things to get done. This time, I got up, showered, left the house with wet hair and no makeup, emptied our recycling, and then got the haircut. By the time I made it to the salon, I definitely looked like shit (and may have smelled a little like the recycling). I can only assume that the hairdresser took one look at me and thought, "Clearly, this woman does not know what looks good on her. Whatever she asks for, I'm doing the exact opposite. Poor thing. She smells like trash."

Next time I go to the salon, I'm going looking good (or as good as anyone can look with this haircut growing out). I'm doing my hair first. I'm painting my nails, and wearing makeup, and donning clothes in colors I've been told flatter me.


Well, I may not go that far. But I'm definitely waiting until afterwards to deal with the recycling.

3 points for following the foot eatin' rules

My roommate just reminded me of a meal I made recently. The main course--my own foot. I should be more specific. I over heard a phone conversation between said roommate and her lady in which she recalled the story. Maybe I should be annoyed, but frankly, I just like that they talk about me. It's like I'm famous.

But I digress. The story...

Most medical students are pretty sensitive about their grades. But not me. I'm very open about mine--good, bad, ugly. I don't care. You ask, and I'll tell you what I got. But, as I said, most med students don't feel this way.

So, it's a bit of an unspoken rule: You're not supposed to talk much about grades.

I think that with many unspoken rules, you really appreciate the value in em' the moment you break them. Forthcoming case and point.

Last week, we got our Evidence Based Medicine papers back. It took them a short four months to grade these 2 page ditties, and they were worth a total of 3 points. I got mine back. I got a 3. The paper was pretty crappy, so I just assumed they just handed out the points.

Sitting in a lab, someone said, "Hey, those EBM papers are in our mailboxes."

I said, "Yeah, I saw that. I swear, they don't even read those things. They just give us all 3 points."

Other students says, "Uh, I only got a 2."

Open mouth
insert foot
chew and swallow.

Let's just say, I'm resolved to try a little harder to follow unspoken rules.

Although, I gotta admit, I find these stories about myself pretty funny.
Good thing, because I don't think the roommate is going to quit telling them anytime soon.

A day improving

With the windows open,
some good coffee,
great music,
sun on the patio,
and chocolate ice cream...

it's a day improving.

One of those times

Sometimes, I feel very alone in my own head.
Now is one of those times.

Sometimes, I feel like everything I put out there is misunderstood.
Like my intentions are completely misunderstood.
Now is one of those times.

Sometimes, I think it's pathetic to feel those things.
Like it's all just self-pity.
Now is one of those times.



It is easier to sail many thousand miles through cold and storm and cannibals, in a government ship, with five hundred men to assist one, than it is to explore the private sea, the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean of one's being alone.
~Thoreau

Yeah.
I think I know what he meant.

When you combine your own intuition with a sensitivity to other people's feelings and moods, you may be close to the origins of valuable human attributes such as generosity, altruism, sympathy, and empathy.
~Fred Rogers


Dear Mr. Rogers,
Thank you for the encouragement.
I'm trying.

One stop shopping

So, the roommate and I went to Meijer (a big box store much like Walmart) late last night. After having a little wine, I decided I needed chocolate ice cream. Roommate was kind enough to drive me.

While we were there, I also decided to pick up shampoo. Mine was running low, and that makes me very nervous. You may find me drunk on cheap wine at Meijer at 12:30am wearing holey jeans and no makeup, but you will not find greasy hair.

Ever.

Never ever.

(FYI - If little bells aren't going off as you read that, your neuroses radar is broken.)


Anyway, guess what we discovered? Right there, in the same aisle as shampoo, Meijer sells "personal massagers."

Apparently, when they said one-stop shopping, they were not kidding.


Shopping list:
milk
bread
broccoli
mushroom soup
dish soap
shampoo
vibrator
Glade plug-in refills
trash bags
Swiffer
dog food



Just kidding, of course!
That's not my list.

I don't even have a dog.