This one is for Greg. Also Pam.
I am inherently an introvert. Somehow, I found myself in a job that requires constant contact with other human beings, with them basically telling me all of their most intimate secrets and me asking them to put on a paper gown after stripping naked so I can physically examine them in order to rule in or rule out some life threatening or mundane illness. After hours, I am on call almost 24/7 (occasional days off do exist), which means I must answer my phone and talk to people on it, on demand. I really do not like talking on the phone at all. I am an introvert.
Being introverted, I do not instantly make friends, winning them over with my gregarious and hilarious personality. I suppose I am actually pretty awkward and broody much of the time. It is likely that on the day I hang out with people in a social situation I have also told 3 other people they are probably going to die in the next 6 months. It weighs on you a bit. Plus, introverts hate small talk.
All that being said, I love being connected to people, and I cherish those connections. Facebook is super nice for introverts who like connections. As is going for runs with friends. As is being with people who accept my awkward broodiness and quirky sense of humor.
Greg is moving, and I think it is brilliant for him and Pam. They are ready for a new adventure, and are moving to a city that has so much to offer. Greg and Pam are, however, the kind of people you want in your community forever because they are the kind of people whom, when you walk into their presence, make you feel like life is a good place to be. Not in a syrupy way, but in a real way. Like when you are walking down a sidewalk to your car and feeling irritated because you are late for your next meeting, then suddenly a waft of rose scent stops you mid-step and you see there next to you is a rose in bloom and it is March and you still expect there to be nothing in bloom in March, having grown up in the northern midwest, and you lean over to smell the rose and all of your irritation melts away. Greg and Pam are like that.
It took me awhile to get to know Greg. I am, as previously noted, an introvert. But I watched him interact with my child and the children of others, as a coach. He has a gift for this. Good coaches can extract excellence without instilling fear and anxiety. They can promote hard work without making people feel small when they don't do well. They make kids want to show up and do well just because they feel the love and respect of their coach. Also, Greg teaches by example. He brings joy to the task of running. You see it and feel it and want to be a part of it.
In recent months, we have done several longish runs on Sundays and despite my less-than-stellar speed these days, Greg shows up and makes me feel hopeful that I might run faster again, and maybe soon. He always runs about 6 inches ahead of me, and is like a deer while I am sort of like a slim hippo. I try to draft him but it is pointless (a hippo drafting a deer?). I really like running with Greg.
My awkwardness and weird jokes do not seem to throw him. This might be due to our having survived 2 Portland to Coast High School Challenges, wherein 12 teenagers are driven through the night to run 129 miles whilst 4 adults drive the vans which smell of socks, hormones and teenager sweat. This might be due to the time he has spent with my kid, who is an apple not fallen far from the mother tree. Or it might just be due to the fact that he likes my jokes. And he is just a spectacularly nice person.
An introvert may be boring at parties, but when we have friends we cherish, we are loyal and true. I also suspect introverts make good long distance runners, because we can go for long periods of time without social interaction quite happily, thank you very much.
Still, having a true friend at your side for those runs is the best.
Greg and Pam, being an introvert I am not the best at expressing myself. But know this: you are loved, and you will be missed.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Hashtag No Excuses
I had the funniest dream last night. I was driving in a car with Gandhi. Well, he was named Gandhi but I think he might have actually been the Dalai Lama. He was driving. It was a stick shift. He had a question and answer session, and I stayed quiet. After he was done, and there was silence for awhile, I said "Actually, I have a question." He (Dalai Lama-Gandhi) sighed, and shifted down. "Yes, what is it?" "I would like to know how a parent can teach loving-kindness to an angry, stressed out teenager," said I.
When I awoke this morning, I was hoping I had the answer to all parenting dilemmas and thus could write a bestselling novel, retire and run ultra marathons between practicing Beethoven piano sonatas. But this is what happened in my dream: He (DL-G) took me to a room with some other people. We laid a multi-colored rug on a table and did incantation over it. We coaxed smoky puffs of incense to the ceiling. That was his answer to my question.
It occurs to me that this means both nothing and everything: loss of control, ridiculous ceremony around impossible quests, and just a touch of smoke and mirrors. What sticks with me from this dream though was the affect of Gandhi-Dalai Lama. This guy was no-nonsense, and he drove a stick shift like he was James Dean. There was no struggle in his demeanor. And our questions were partially annoying to him. He was old and not old.
Lately I have become enamored with Twitter. I am approximately 7 centuries behind, because when twitter first started I saw it much the same as I saw the internet when it first started to catch on. Mainly, with both, I said to myself, "What the heck is the point of this? And who will ever use it?" Which largely explains why I am not a multimillionaire living in Silicon Valley. Anyway, I like to post random things, ranging from the political to the satirical to the runs I take. I find myself especially inspired by stories of athletes who can be classified as geriatric. Maybe because I am spending a lot of time as a doctor to the elderly lately. And maybe because I see what exercise can do for them.
Take this guy, for example. He set the 200meter record for 95 year olds. #noexcuses
This particular story was sent to me by a friend who is about as inspiring as they come. She is not old, and in fact I am the elder compared to her, but she is strong, solid, smart, and dealing with what life has thrown her with grace and wisdom. Also humor. And what blows me away, is she takes time to support others. #noexcuses
So in full disclosure, I am not running as much as I would like these days. The reason is (here comes some excuses):
10-12 hour work days
dark mornings
I am bald and unamused
with whatever causes this baldness comes fatigue
I am unhappy with my (lack of) speed, and therefore am considering quitting running altogether
Now, if one of my children (bless their hearts) started on such a monologue of excuses, I would be saying "Hold on, I need to get something out of my pocket", at which point they would roll their eyes and sigh loudly and histrionically. Click here to see why.
I do not know why I am a slower runner than I used to be.
But does it matter? I forgot to ask Gandhi-Dalai Lama this question, but I am figuring his answer would've been just as *useful* as the rug-incantation-incense thing about my parenting question. I think what he might have meant, ultimately, was #noexcuses
It is good to show up when G-DL is driving and answering questions. It is good to show up when a strong and wise friend offers their love and support. It is good to show up when you are desperate for a run, even if your pace is not what it used to be.
Growing old is not for sissies.
Not that I am old. But I am feeling old these days. I am wondering, at times, what it all means.
And I am still trying to figure out why hashtags are a thing. They will forever be, to me, the sharp sign. As in musical notation. I have not been playing enough piano lately, but that is another story.
#noexcuses
When I awoke this morning, I was hoping I had the answer to all parenting dilemmas and thus could write a bestselling novel, retire and run ultra marathons between practicing Beethoven piano sonatas. But this is what happened in my dream: He (DL-G) took me to a room with some other people. We laid a multi-colored rug on a table and did incantation over it. We coaxed smoky puffs of incense to the ceiling. That was his answer to my question.
It occurs to me that this means both nothing and everything: loss of control, ridiculous ceremony around impossible quests, and just a touch of smoke and mirrors. What sticks with me from this dream though was the affect of Gandhi-Dalai Lama. This guy was no-nonsense, and he drove a stick shift like he was James Dean. There was no struggle in his demeanor. And our questions were partially annoying to him. He was old and not old.
Lately I have become enamored with Twitter. I am approximately 7 centuries behind, because when twitter first started I saw it much the same as I saw the internet when it first started to catch on. Mainly, with both, I said to myself, "What the heck is the point of this? And who will ever use it?" Which largely explains why I am not a multimillionaire living in Silicon Valley. Anyway, I like to post random things, ranging from the political to the satirical to the runs I take. I find myself especially inspired by stories of athletes who can be classified as geriatric. Maybe because I am spending a lot of time as a doctor to the elderly lately. And maybe because I see what exercise can do for them.
Take this guy, for example. He set the 200meter record for 95 year olds. #noexcuses
This particular story was sent to me by a friend who is about as inspiring as they come. She is not old, and in fact I am the elder compared to her, but she is strong, solid, smart, and dealing with what life has thrown her with grace and wisdom. Also humor. And what blows me away, is she takes time to support others. #noexcuses
So in full disclosure, I am not running as much as I would like these days. The reason is (here comes some excuses):
10-12 hour work days
dark mornings
I am bald and unamused
with whatever causes this baldness comes fatigue
I am unhappy with my (lack of) speed, and therefore am considering quitting running altogether
Now, if one of my children (bless their hearts) started on such a monologue of excuses, I would be saying "Hold on, I need to get something out of my pocket", at which point they would roll their eyes and sigh loudly and histrionically. Click here to see why.
I do not know why I am a slower runner than I used to be.
But does it matter? I forgot to ask Gandhi-Dalai Lama this question, but I am figuring his answer would've been just as *useful* as the rug-incantation-incense thing about my parenting question. I think what he might have meant, ultimately, was #noexcuses
It is good to show up when G-DL is driving and answering questions. It is good to show up when a strong and wise friend offers their love and support. It is good to show up when you are desperate for a run, even if your pace is not what it used to be.
Growing old is not for sissies.
Not that I am old. But I am feeling old these days. I am wondering, at times, what it all means.
And I am still trying to figure out why hashtags are a thing. They will forever be, to me, the sharp sign. As in musical notation. I have not been playing enough piano lately, but that is another story.
#noexcuses
Monday, February 2, 2015
The Funny Thing
I DNF'ed Clam Beach. The funny thing is, I am not all that broken up about it, whereas at some points in my life I would've considered this a portent of doom. Turns out I was like the Little Engine That Couldn't. Seriously, literally: Could. Not. I proceeded to call my husband, go home and sleep for about 30 of the next 36 hours, awaking to acknowledge a stuffy nose and all-over body aches. And no, I did not call my doctor for antibiotics, because it was likely a virus, and besides antibiotics are best avoided unless ABSOLUTELY necessary.
As an aside, 10 reasons not to take antibiotics unless ABSOLUTELY necessary:
1) diarrhea, sometimes fatal Clostridium difficile-related diarrhea
2) breeding of resistant organisms that will take over the planet earth and laugh as we all die
3) yeast infections:they dig it when we kill all our normal flora
4) nausea, vomiting
5) side effects which may include: complete depletion of your bone marrow, a life threatening, skin-sloughing rash, anaphylaxis which will likely kill you unless you have epinephrine in your back pocket, random achilles tendon rupture (runners, beware of fluoroquinolones!), liver failure, pancreatitis, seizures, renal failure…….
6) did I mention diarrhea?
7) itchy rash, all over
8) money that could be spent on something that might actually help you feel better, like a really good dose of chicken noodle soup (yes, scientifically proven)
9) your doctor is really tired of trying to explain why it won't help, and might harm you
10) antibiotics are AWESOME when necessary, so shouldn't we respect them and save them so we can use them and avoid the next Bubonic Plague scenario?
I felt guilty (back to the race I did not finish) about the friend I let go off on his own. The funny thing about running is although it is a fairly lonely sport in some ways, it is also one of community. This particular race, celebrating its 50th year, is a good example. And when you run at the side of someone you care about and enjoy, there is a bond that forms that is pretty cool. And when that someone also pushes you to be better than you would be otherwise, it is golden.
I still feel pretty cruddy today, but I went to work. The funny thing about being a doctor, is you pretty much have to be dead to take a sick day. Are you aware that your very own doctor has probably been puking their guts out prior to taking care of you because they cannot imagine taking the day off? After all, there is not really anyone to take their place. I am certain they cleaned their hands thoroughly prior to seeing you though, so you can rest easy.
I am here to tell you that although life is serious business, and running is IMPORTANT, there are some funny things about both life and running.
1) Have you ever stopped to consider just how hard it must be for the editor's of Runner's World magazine to come up with a bunch of new articles about running, which, let's be honest here, basically involves walking really fast and is done by millions upon millions of people daily without ever needing to consult a magazine article?
2) Despite #1, I do enjoy my running magazines.
3) Hundreds to thousands of racers at any given event using porta-potties. Funny.
4) Skorts.
5) Running blogs. Ha.
6) We think we know what life is about. Sometimes we get PhD's in knowing stuff. Then we die and worms eat us. Funny.
7) One of my well-educated and dear friends once ran a marathon listening to Eddie Murphy singing "Boogie in your Butt" over and over again, a multitude of times, on her iPod.
8) People think antibiotics might be the answer to EVERYTHING.
9) Diarrhea is not at all funny. Unless you are 8 years old.
10) I still think I could break 3 hours in the marathon. In your dreams, sucker!
LOL
As an aside, 10 reasons not to take antibiotics unless ABSOLUTELY necessary:
1) diarrhea, sometimes fatal Clostridium difficile-related diarrhea
2) breeding of resistant organisms that will take over the planet earth and laugh as we all die
3) yeast infections:they dig it when we kill all our normal flora
4) nausea, vomiting
5) side effects which may include: complete depletion of your bone marrow, a life threatening, skin-sloughing rash, anaphylaxis which will likely kill you unless you have epinephrine in your back pocket, random achilles tendon rupture (runners, beware of fluoroquinolones!), liver failure, pancreatitis, seizures, renal failure…….
6) did I mention diarrhea?
7) itchy rash, all over
8) money that could be spent on something that might actually help you feel better, like a really good dose of chicken noodle soup (yes, scientifically proven)
9) your doctor is really tired of trying to explain why it won't help, and might harm you
10) antibiotics are AWESOME when necessary, so shouldn't we respect them and save them so we can use them and avoid the next Bubonic Plague scenario?
I felt guilty (back to the race I did not finish) about the friend I let go off on his own. The funny thing about running is although it is a fairly lonely sport in some ways, it is also one of community. This particular race, celebrating its 50th year, is a good example. And when you run at the side of someone you care about and enjoy, there is a bond that forms that is pretty cool. And when that someone also pushes you to be better than you would be otherwise, it is golden.
I still feel pretty cruddy today, but I went to work. The funny thing about being a doctor, is you pretty much have to be dead to take a sick day. Are you aware that your very own doctor has probably been puking their guts out prior to taking care of you because they cannot imagine taking the day off? After all, there is not really anyone to take their place. I am certain they cleaned their hands thoroughly prior to seeing you though, so you can rest easy.
I am here to tell you that although life is serious business, and running is IMPORTANT, there are some funny things about both life and running.
1) Have you ever stopped to consider just how hard it must be for the editor's of Runner's World magazine to come up with a bunch of new articles about running, which, let's be honest here, basically involves walking really fast and is done by millions upon millions of people daily without ever needing to consult a magazine article?
2) Despite #1, I do enjoy my running magazines.
3) Hundreds to thousands of racers at any given event using porta-potties. Funny.
4) Skorts.
5) Running blogs. Ha.
6) We think we know what life is about. Sometimes we get PhD's in knowing stuff. Then we die and worms eat us. Funny.
7) One of my well-educated and dear friends once ran a marathon listening to Eddie Murphy singing "Boogie in your Butt" over and over again, a multitude of times, on her iPod.
8) People think antibiotics might be the answer to EVERYTHING.
9) Diarrhea is not at all funny. Unless you are 8 years old.
10) I still think I could break 3 hours in the marathon. In your dreams, sucker!
LOL
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Soul-Searching
Running in the rain last Sunday for 16.6 miles was just plain fun. The last 3-4 miles kind of hurt, especially my lateral right foot. My shoes were all squishy and wet and the course was inclined so I felt like I was running with ataxia or on one of those courses they use in car racing. I might have tweaked a tendon or worse. But probably nothing ice and tincture of time cannot cure.
Since then, I have been resting. Partly to be sensible (doctor's tendon, heal thyself). Partly because work is kicking my butt. I cannot blame weather: it is unseasonably warm here. I cannot blame lack of motivation. I mean I love running. But I have been undisciplined in my lack of a routine. Rock Creek Runner had a good post today about how to plan and be efficient. Common sense stuff. Being a midwesterner by birth, this should be my strong suit, but I now live in California, which, while known for many things, has never been known for its common sense.
One of my favorite runs comes up soon. And I am once again faced with not being at my best and hesitating to do it because if I don't break an hour, WHAT WOULD BE THE POINT? This run celebrates its 50th year this year. And the t-shirts are reportedly way cool. So, I should probably do it even if I am as slow as molasses on a Triscuit on a sunny day in August in Alabama.
I am getting better with the whole humility thing.
Humble about parenting? check
Humble about my hair falling out again? check
Humble about doctoring? check
Humble about how a 6:30 mile use to come easy and now it just seems unattainable? getting there.
Sometimes too much humility can make you want to crawl under your covers and hide.
I think midlife does present a sort of crisis. For women, you have reached an age where you have to accept that college students call you "Ma'am" and your wrinkles are permanent. People should not be judged by their looks, but women are, every single day, in every situation. Also, midlife points out to you that less years lay ahead than behind. It is called "midlife" but it is probably pretty far past the halfway point. Also, you realize you have already messed up your kids and cannot have any do-overs. Unless they have grandkids, in which case, send them over to eat cookies for breakfast and take long rambling walks in the woods and to dig in the sand at the beach and watch stupid TV shows and listen to Beethoven. All of which I actually did with my own kids, except maybe cookies for breakfast, but somehow grandparents just do stuff with more flair.
I said to my husband the other day, regarding the midlife crisis issue: "I wish I could just buy a corvette and be done with it."
Alas, for me it probably is going to have to involve months to years of soul-searching, a lot of long runs and a completely new wardrobe. A corvette is just too easy.
But if I did do the corvette, it would be a 1957, red and white.
Can you soul-search in a '57 corvette?
Since then, I have been resting. Partly to be sensible (doctor's tendon, heal thyself). Partly because work is kicking my butt. I cannot blame weather: it is unseasonably warm here. I cannot blame lack of motivation. I mean I love running. But I have been undisciplined in my lack of a routine. Rock Creek Runner had a good post today about how to plan and be efficient. Common sense stuff. Being a midwesterner by birth, this should be my strong suit, but I now live in California, which, while known for many things, has never been known for its common sense.
One of my favorite runs comes up soon. And I am once again faced with not being at my best and hesitating to do it because if I don't break an hour, WHAT WOULD BE THE POINT? This run celebrates its 50th year this year. And the t-shirts are reportedly way cool. So, I should probably do it even if I am as slow as molasses on a Triscuit on a sunny day in August in Alabama.
I am getting better with the whole humility thing.
Humble about parenting? check
Humble about my hair falling out again? check
Humble about doctoring? check
Humble about how a 6:30 mile use to come easy and now it just seems unattainable? getting there.
Sometimes too much humility can make you want to crawl under your covers and hide.
I think midlife does present a sort of crisis. For women, you have reached an age where you have to accept that college students call you "Ma'am" and your wrinkles are permanent. People should not be judged by their looks, but women are, every single day, in every situation. Also, midlife points out to you that less years lay ahead than behind. It is called "midlife" but it is probably pretty far past the halfway point. Also, you realize you have already messed up your kids and cannot have any do-overs. Unless they have grandkids, in which case, send them over to eat cookies for breakfast and take long rambling walks in the woods and to dig in the sand at the beach and watch stupid TV shows and listen to Beethoven. All of which I actually did with my own kids, except maybe cookies for breakfast, but somehow grandparents just do stuff with more flair.
I said to my husband the other day, regarding the midlife crisis issue: "I wish I could just buy a corvette and be done with it."
Alas, for me it probably is going to have to involve months to years of soul-searching, a lot of long runs and a completely new wardrobe. A corvette is just too easy.
But if I did do the corvette, it would be a 1957, red and white.
Can you soul-search in a '57 corvette?
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Deaths
"The only good race pace is suicide pace, and today looks like a good day to die."-Steve Prefontaine
Death: you can't talk about it. You can't prevent it. You can't predict it. You actually cannot play chess against it. It is final. Or maybe not. It is ugly or beautiful or devastating or a relief or something in between and far less glamorous.
I have seen people die. People I love. People I know. People I care for. I have no particular fear of death, just the sadness of leaving my loved ones. I don't think it is all that special, as everyone does it. It is a drag. It is mundane. It is shocking. It is brutal.
But I digress, as what I mean to write about is the place you reach into when you do something really hard and not very comfortable. Death is a good example of this. But life offers plenty of chances to perfect the skill. You might try parenting to audition for the part of ultimate heartbreak. You might try playing music or writing a book or painting a painting to experience the baring of the soul, not unlike a tarring and feathering with scattered applause. Running? I see it as the basic built-in skill of humans that is both second nature and hard as hell. It is one thing to trot along and, over days, tire out the prey. It is another thing to inch up your splits, until you can find the personal record (PR). That takes:
A. Guts
B. A large ego
C. Just the right pair of running shoes
D. All of the above
I used to be faster than I am now. I might be able, still, to run faster than I ever did before. Age is a factor, yes, but I am not that old yet, and I have an excellent masseuse. The biggest barrier is psychological. For instance, my job kept me from feeling I could afford a run for all the weekdays of last week. I kept picturing leeches, sucking me dry. It reminded me of a summer day long ago, when I played all day long in some swampy area of Wisconsin and my mother lovingly pulled multiple leeches off of me. She was a no nonsense nurse, and though I complained bitterly about the disgusting task she took on, she did it, and did not flinch or complain. Which brings me back to the whole parenting thing. You will do anything for your kids. But they just see the world through their glasses tinted with "why is my Mom not a beauty Queen with a ton of money and who thinks my use of alcohol and drugs and tobacco is just so spiffy?"
Hold on, I once again digress.
Death is relevant here. You can spend your life putting off your dreams. Well, good luck with that one. You can spend your life playing chess with death. But death could not give a rip about a good end game. He has one job and that is to ferry you to the next destination. You can spend your life hating, or complaining, or seeking approval and fame and money and the next high.
Van Dyke Parks put it well. When people ask him where he is from or where he grew up or where he has lived, he says, it does to matter. Who you are is:
"The books you have read, the art you have seen, and the culture which has impacted your personality."
Read a book. Listen to music. View some art. Know your community. And do not underestimate the power of the death. Is today a good day to die?
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Just Hold On
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. Tragedy rules the day, and then I go home and run with my dog. As a medical student I once watched several surgical removals of acoustic neuromas. For a long while after that, this was my number one concern for anyone who presented with ringing in the ears. It was also around this time that I palpated my children's abdomens for Wilms' tumors while they took their baths. But this post is not about cancerous growths. And it has been a very long time since I have been allowed to palpate my children's tummies, or saw the world through acoustic neuroma glasses. That is one freaking long surgery, by the way.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. You may see the drunk on the corner and just make a wide berth, but I see his shrunken liver, gasping for its very last breath. And those kids on the plaza, smoking weed and in dire need of a bath are not just incredibly annoying, they are likely getting more than they bargained for in their weed. Plus the other drugs that they do on purpose. Like ecstasy, which is mostly methamphetamine these days. All those rotted teeth and pock-marked faces on Broadway, they are the site of civil war. People against their own best interest. People who are seduced by escape only to find themselves in the worst kind of jail they could ever imagine. It starts with getting high, it ends with just trying to not withdraw.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. I know the track marks that hide under those hoodies and the deep abscesses that have made my medical students turn green with their nausea of their not-yet-jaded humanity. My nausea center has been dulled. Ah, yes, another limb lost, another putrid smelling muscle with infection to the bone. Heroin must be pretty sweet to suffer the nightmarish pus balls that cling onto your heart valves, where your very life-blood pumps by and flows into your arteries and veins and sends satellites of death to every inch of your body, brain to toes. Can you blame those bacteria? They too need to live, and drug addicts are just so nice to provide a cozy and welcoming home.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. When I run, I know the power of my heart and my muscles and the clarity of my mind and the way the endorphins make me feel. Maybe without running, I would look elsewhere for those endorphins. Maybe in a bottle or a needle or a joint or some powdery shit I would sniff right up my tender nose without shame. Or maybe I would have shame, but not enough to keep me from stealing things from people I love just to get more of that feeling. If I had shame I would hide it in my complaints about how the world is so hard and it has caused me so much pain that my only choice is to hurt myself. Anyone I hurt around me? Well, in times of war, there has to be collateral damage.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. I have seen people saw off parts of their bodies while under the veil of drug psychosis. Good parts, like legs and penises. I have watched people smoke cigarettes through their tracheostomy. I have treated people for burns induced by smoking next to their oxygen tank. I have had people swear at me for denying them more cigarettes, more drugs, more alcohol, as if I took an oath to pull a pin out of a grenade and hand it to my patient just because they think it would be a good idea to cradle a grenade in their precious hands and watch themselves explode.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. Which means sometimes that I lose hope. It means, also, that sometimes I see miracles and sit back amazed once again at the machine called human being. It means that I studied hard to put people right even when they insist on fucking themselves right back up.
My doctor-colored glasses hold no super powers, as it turns out. I mean, I can diagnose your acoustic neuroma for sure. And I am as about as nerdy as they come. But it has not saved me from the deepest sadness I have ever known. One of these days, I may need to call one of my dear colleagues to treat my very own child, almost a man actually now, who has decided to walk down the favorite path of destruction of this ironically gorgeous, generous, life-affirming town of ours.
Doctors like to say: prepare for the worst, hope for the best.
Some days, all I can do is breathe, and that barely, for the paralysis of grief that possesses me.
Some days, I just reach for what is good in my life, and hold on.
I just hold on.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. You may see the drunk on the corner and just make a wide berth, but I see his shrunken liver, gasping for its very last breath. And those kids on the plaza, smoking weed and in dire need of a bath are not just incredibly annoying, they are likely getting more than they bargained for in their weed. Plus the other drugs that they do on purpose. Like ecstasy, which is mostly methamphetamine these days. All those rotted teeth and pock-marked faces on Broadway, they are the site of civil war. People against their own best interest. People who are seduced by escape only to find themselves in the worst kind of jail they could ever imagine. It starts with getting high, it ends with just trying to not withdraw.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. I know the track marks that hide under those hoodies and the deep abscesses that have made my medical students turn green with their nausea of their not-yet-jaded humanity. My nausea center has been dulled. Ah, yes, another limb lost, another putrid smelling muscle with infection to the bone. Heroin must be pretty sweet to suffer the nightmarish pus balls that cling onto your heart valves, where your very life-blood pumps by and flows into your arteries and veins and sends satellites of death to every inch of your body, brain to toes. Can you blame those bacteria? They too need to live, and drug addicts are just so nice to provide a cozy and welcoming home.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. When I run, I know the power of my heart and my muscles and the clarity of my mind and the way the endorphins make me feel. Maybe without running, I would look elsewhere for those endorphins. Maybe in a bottle or a needle or a joint or some powdery shit I would sniff right up my tender nose without shame. Or maybe I would have shame, but not enough to keep me from stealing things from people I love just to get more of that feeling. If I had shame I would hide it in my complaints about how the world is so hard and it has caused me so much pain that my only choice is to hurt myself. Anyone I hurt around me? Well, in times of war, there has to be collateral damage.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. I have seen people saw off parts of their bodies while under the veil of drug psychosis. Good parts, like legs and penises. I have watched people smoke cigarettes through their tracheostomy. I have treated people for burns induced by smoking next to their oxygen tank. I have had people swear at me for denying them more cigarettes, more drugs, more alcohol, as if I took an oath to pull a pin out of a grenade and hand it to my patient just because they think it would be a good idea to cradle a grenade in their precious hands and watch themselves explode.
I see the world through doctor-colored glasses. Which means sometimes that I lose hope. It means, also, that sometimes I see miracles and sit back amazed once again at the machine called human being. It means that I studied hard to put people right even when they insist on fucking themselves right back up.
My doctor-colored glasses hold no super powers, as it turns out. I mean, I can diagnose your acoustic neuroma for sure. And I am as about as nerdy as they come. But it has not saved me from the deepest sadness I have ever known. One of these days, I may need to call one of my dear colleagues to treat my very own child, almost a man actually now, who has decided to walk down the favorite path of destruction of this ironically gorgeous, generous, life-affirming town of ours.
Doctors like to say: prepare for the worst, hope for the best.
Some days, all I can do is breathe, and that barely, for the paralysis of grief that possesses me.
Some days, I just reach for what is good in my life, and hold on.
I just hold on.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Solstice. Or: The End of the World as We Know It.
I feel fine.
Even though the earth is sooooooo far away from the sun. It does this every year and it means tomorrow my sunlight quota will be just a tad larger.
I am a little tired of rain. I am thankful for it too, and feel guilty to be tired of it. It is just that my running shoes are so very wet. And my dog gets so muddy. And it is hard sometimes to even get out the door. For a run, or for anything. I could easily lay abed all day long, sipping coffee, reading, listening to the rain on my roof. It turns out work is kind of important though. To me, and my family.
If my husband's book sells enough, maybe I can follow my dream of doing medicine for those with the greatest need, without depending on pay. Also, I could probably lay in bed more, play more piano, run more and cook a decent meal every single night.
Today, I ran with oldest daughter and it was eerie. She thought it was kind of like running on clouds. I felt like I was looking at the edge of the earth. Like the earth had an end that you could dive off of and just fall into an infinite abyss.
Even though the earth is sooooooo far away from the sun. It does this every year and it means tomorrow my sunlight quota will be just a tad larger.
I am a little tired of rain. I am thankful for it too, and feel guilty to be tired of it. It is just that my running shoes are so very wet. And my dog gets so muddy. And it is hard sometimes to even get out the door. For a run, or for anything. I could easily lay abed all day long, sipping coffee, reading, listening to the rain on my roof. It turns out work is kind of important though. To me, and my family.
If my husband's book sells enough, maybe I can follow my dream of doing medicine for those with the greatest need, without depending on pay. Also, I could probably lay in bed more, play more piano, run more and cook a decent meal every single night.
Today, I ran with oldest daughter and it was eerie. She thought it was kind of like running on clouds. I felt like I was looking at the edge of the earth. Like the earth had an end that you could dive off of and just fall into an infinite abyss.
Marsh, Dec 21, 2014
What would it feel like to face the end of the world?
Would it be like one of your children in danger, on a path of self-destruction?
Would it be like a mountain lion staring you down on a path, when you least expect it?
Would it be like falling asleep?
Marsh, Dec 21, 2014
It is a good thing we have markets. In the old days, I imagine the whole winter solstice thing was pretty grim. Will we starve? Probably. Let's have some kind of celebration and try to ward off that whole depressing prospect.
Mother Nature is the bomb. Isn't she?
Marsh, Dec 21, 2014
The smell of pine tree in one's home reminds you that things live, even in the winter. Of course, in California this is sort of a given. There is not the deep freeze to make you feel like you were never actually warm for one day in your entire life. In California, the winter months actually might be the most alive of all. Rain brings green and it quenches a thirsty state of denial. I like to avoid puddles when I first start my runs, but once I realize the futility, I just plough through those guys, mud splatters be damned. A hot bath after such exercise is one of my favorite things.
Marsh, Dec 21, 2014
I will miss Stephen Colbert's Report. I will miss the current AHS XC Team. I will miss being a year younger. Goodbye to the potential of 2014. Impermanence. Blah blah blah.
Still, it rains. The children grow and the old people forget. The country takes two steps forward, five back and then scratches its proverbial head and laces up its sneakers for another go-round. Every year that passes, a sub-3 marathon becomes less probable. Still, it rains, and I run and tomorrow will be a longer day and a shorter night.
It is not bad. And I feel fine.
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