My daughter dances for a studio called "No Limits". It is an apt name, given the way they can just leap and land in the splits (makes me cringe every time). Life is full of limits though. The ones we set for ourselves are probably the most restraining, but we learn it from years of parents, teachers, other kids, classmates and work mates telling us we should or could not do something.
Limits make a great excuse for staying in our comfort zone.
The other day I signed a form at the recruiting office for the US Army saying I was OK with them potentially sending my 17 year old son into combat. Now it helped that my son wants this more than anything. Also that the recruiter is the son of a nurse I know and respect. Also, being a young man in Humboldt County without direction is actually quite a bit scarier than being part of the military. I just hope to God that Donald Trump will not be his Commander in Chief.
20 years ago, I would not have pictured myself signing a child up for the military. But the grey area of life is expanding, while the black and white is just a little tiny sliver in my peripheral vision. There might be a few things of which I am totally sure, such as Beethoven is to die for, racism is never OK, women are just as capable as men and soda causes cavities and obesity. Truly though, I can say I would be proud to support my son in the Army. Not because I like the idea of combat (I do not). Not because I agree with the wars we have fought (I do not). But because I respect the service, the dedication and the potential self-respect someone like my son might gain from making such a commitment. I am the daughter of parents who would've risked their life for peace. But they too were deep thinkers, and taught me to question even my own beliefs. Life is complicated.
Limits are bad. Except when they are helpful, such as how many pounds an elevator can hold, what blood alcohol level is acceptable for driving and how many times "Let it Go" can be played in ones presence in a 24 hour period.
I am registered for a wilderness medicine course in Big Sky, Montana in February. I hope to get my Advanced Wilderness and Expedition Provider Certification. Why, you ask? Well, one never knows when disaster will strike (the "big one" is going to happen at any second here in Northern California, and that's no joke). But more importantly, I want to push my limits in terms of what I can do to take care of myself and others around me in a situation with limited resources. I have a goal of doing a long run for weeks to months on trails, and having a few tricks up my proverbial sleeve will be reassuring. Also, I need to learn to use a compass. I am almost 46, and it is about time, I would say.
Medicine is an interesting profession, in terms of limits. We like to think we have none, and that whatever comes we can resuscitate our patients, unless they choose not to have us do so. "Would you like to be resuscitated?" "Why yes, doc, I would!" The only glitch is the whole 100% death rate thing. I personally have resuscitated a 103 year old. They lived and were able to get the tribal tattoos given to those who make 104. Once I did CPR on a VA patient on the floor of a VA nursing home. The next day, he grouchily declared "Next time, don't push so hard!". Seriously though, why is death so scary? Are we limited by our imagination? Every living thing must die and if we all lived forever, I would shudder at the thought of the lines for the women's bathrooms.
On September 18th at 6-8:30 PM at the Arcata Community Center, there will be a showing of the documentary "Being Mortal", based on the book of the same name by Atul Gawande. Is this a shameless plug right in the middle of my blog post? Yes, it is. I am Emceeing this event, which, by the way, is pushing my comfort limits right to the very edge.
My eldest daughter is a runner, a writer, a comedian and a Zen Master. She has not gotten run over by a Segway recently. She has not celebrated a top finish too soon. But she shows up every day and runs her best. She writes with skill. She makes people laugh. She raises an eyebrow when I get all type A. Her limits? Well, sometimes she does not recognize the power she holds. It can be hard when people judge us on first place finishes and consumerist prowess. She is not a shopper or a spotlight grabber by nature. On a recent trip she slugged a lamp in the middle of the night thinking (in her dream) she was reaching for a basketball. This made me laugh till I cried, but not because I thought it was ridiculous. Rather, because I thought it was sublime. Even in her dreams, she shows up and gets the job done. Lamps be damned.
Will I run hundreds of miles on trails? Probably. Will I ever find balance in my work life? Probably not. Will my kids flourish and push their limits? I hope so. Will I die? Most definitely. Will my dogs ever stop barking at the garbage truck? Unlikely.
There is exactly one limit we all need to heed: life is finite. I keep Matt Miller's picture on my desk as a reminder of that and a reminder of what matters most. In no particular order:
1. showing up
2. having compassion
3. laughing
4. spiritual renewal
Speaking of spiritual renewal….
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Wild and Precious
In Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck turns phrases through multiple states of America, with his stately blue standard poodle at his side. He covers miles and answers the deeply American urge to be on the road of discovery. His questions seem to be unanswered though, only finding further ambiguity around every turn. A fair amount of whiskey and coffee fit to eat with a fork is involved. He encounters kindness, and the most abhorrent "vomiting of demoniac humans". He puts his feet in cold streams, decides not to shoot a pair of coyotes and argues politics in his home town with his staunchly Republican sisters. He comments on the "real man." Charley is completely self-possessed throughout.
The weird thing is how it could've been written yesterday, aside from some use of words that should be forever banned from our vocabulary. He taps into the bizarre way Americans are all linked, despite disparate ethnic origins and a general distaste for his NewYork license plates from anyone west of the state line. He has a point about our collective alikeness. And our individual uniqueness. Paradox in red, white and blue.
Prior to my rereading of Travels…, I reread Wild. This book now turned movie about a woman trekking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) has received critique from those that are in the know about hiking the PCT. You cannot just get a pair of ill-fitting boots and a ten million pound back pack and hit the PCT! She did though, and though I can see the point of the experienced hikers, I think they miss the point of her story. A heroin abusing, grieving woman in her 20's, now orphaned and completely clueless about the trajectory her life should take. That is the story: a search, a quest. Not unlike 58 year old Steinbeck, looking for America, and maybe a little for himself.
Recently I trekked through the Bay Area (San Francisco and environs) with my two teenaged daughters. We stayed in the lap of luxury, in some soulless high rise Financial District Hotel with a staff who were truly lovely. We walked to restaurants, great and mediocre. We drove to find playgrounds: water slides, the Sausalito Bay to stand up on boards and paddle against the fierce wind, rock climbing on a man-made wall in the middle of the Mission district with no parking anywhere within one hundred miles. We watched Giants swing bats by the Bay from the truly highest seats in the stadium, and I kept picturing Harry Potter et al at the Quidditch World Cup, just wishing I had one of those pairs of magical binoculars.
My eldest and I ran the half marathon in San Francisco. It was most memorable for the cab ride there, and the cabby himself, but I cannot describe him as my author-daughter has already claimed him as a future character in one of her books. I have learned not to cross the authors in my life.
I have a weird perspective on life. I had these parents who were both fully present and got the hell out of my way. These days that would be called "neglect." "Why are you not helicoptering about your children?", the authorities would say. "You mean you did not drive 150 miles at 5:30 on Saturday morning to watch their cross country meet? What is wrong with you?" My parents had their own life, and they loved me. That's all I needed. And they gave me the tools to live independently and well. I bring this up because I have been thinking about loss, and what is important in life. I lost my parents as a 20-something year old, not so much older than my own children. I start to picture them without me around, and my main hope is they wash their sheets weekly and occasionally cut their fingernails. Also, that they have compassion for their fellow human beings and animals too. And they always, ALWAYS, appreciate Beethoven and John Coltrane.
My weird perspective, I think brought on by an early realization about mortality (said goodbye to Dad the first time at age 5, in the CCU) is I am often overwhelmed by beauty, but it does not have to be what I see at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or even the grandiose redwoods I run by regularly in my own back yard. I mean the small beautiful things that just present themselves, almost constantly but only if you are awake and not sitting there obsessing about your glory, fame, pocketbook, getting through the next light before it changes or fitting into those jeans from when you were 23. Things that can even be there after you have witnessed the greatest sufferings, as I do frequently in my line of work. Like today, when I walked out of the hospital in Fortuna, the sky was painted with clouds that would make the most sappy of paint-by-numbers paintings blush. I stopped, looking at the sky and picking the gravel out of my flats from the parking lot, filled with awe and gratitude. And also very hungry, as the overcooked broccoli at grand rounds did not offer much sustenance for my long afternoon in the field. As Mary Oliver said so nicely: "what is it you plan to do with this one wild and precious life?" Today's answer: no more overcooked broccoli, unless I am really, really hungry, then overcooked broccoli might be the cat's pajamas.
Curt Harper is a 49 year old autistic surfer who, if this 19 minute movie can be believed, has the answers Steinbeck and the author of Wild were looking for. He shows up for the waves, for his job, for trains (he admires trains), for dinner with his (might I add here amazing) parents, and for the groms who delight in his presence.
Spend 19 minutes watching this. Or not. But either way, I think the pleasures and answers to life might not be so much complicated as they are mystical. Or perhaps just hysterically funny, like a cab ride to a half marathon on a Sunday morning. If you want more on that, read my kid's book.
The weird thing is how it could've been written yesterday, aside from some use of words that should be forever banned from our vocabulary. He taps into the bizarre way Americans are all linked, despite disparate ethnic origins and a general distaste for his NewYork license plates from anyone west of the state line. He has a point about our collective alikeness. And our individual uniqueness. Paradox in red, white and blue.
Prior to my rereading of Travels…, I reread Wild. This book now turned movie about a woman trekking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) has received critique from those that are in the know about hiking the PCT. You cannot just get a pair of ill-fitting boots and a ten million pound back pack and hit the PCT! She did though, and though I can see the point of the experienced hikers, I think they miss the point of her story. A heroin abusing, grieving woman in her 20's, now orphaned and completely clueless about the trajectory her life should take. That is the story: a search, a quest. Not unlike 58 year old Steinbeck, looking for America, and maybe a little for himself.
Recently I trekked through the Bay Area (San Francisco and environs) with my two teenaged daughters. We stayed in the lap of luxury, in some soulless high rise Financial District Hotel with a staff who were truly lovely. We walked to restaurants, great and mediocre. We drove to find playgrounds: water slides, the Sausalito Bay to stand up on boards and paddle against the fierce wind, rock climbing on a man-made wall in the middle of the Mission district with no parking anywhere within one hundred miles. We watched Giants swing bats by the Bay from the truly highest seats in the stadium, and I kept picturing Harry Potter et al at the Quidditch World Cup, just wishing I had one of those pairs of magical binoculars.
My eldest and I ran the half marathon in San Francisco. It was most memorable for the cab ride there, and the cabby himself, but I cannot describe him as my author-daughter has already claimed him as a future character in one of her books. I have learned not to cross the authors in my life.
I have a weird perspective on life. I had these parents who were both fully present and got the hell out of my way. These days that would be called "neglect." "Why are you not helicoptering about your children?", the authorities would say. "You mean you did not drive 150 miles at 5:30 on Saturday morning to watch their cross country meet? What is wrong with you?" My parents had their own life, and they loved me. That's all I needed. And they gave me the tools to live independently and well. I bring this up because I have been thinking about loss, and what is important in life. I lost my parents as a 20-something year old, not so much older than my own children. I start to picture them without me around, and my main hope is they wash their sheets weekly and occasionally cut their fingernails. Also, that they have compassion for their fellow human beings and animals too. And they always, ALWAYS, appreciate Beethoven and John Coltrane.
My weird perspective, I think brought on by an early realization about mortality (said goodbye to Dad the first time at age 5, in the CCU) is I am often overwhelmed by beauty, but it does not have to be what I see at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or even the grandiose redwoods I run by regularly in my own back yard. I mean the small beautiful things that just present themselves, almost constantly but only if you are awake and not sitting there obsessing about your glory, fame, pocketbook, getting through the next light before it changes or fitting into those jeans from when you were 23. Things that can even be there after you have witnessed the greatest sufferings, as I do frequently in my line of work. Like today, when I walked out of the hospital in Fortuna, the sky was painted with clouds that would make the most sappy of paint-by-numbers paintings blush. I stopped, looking at the sky and picking the gravel out of my flats from the parking lot, filled with awe and gratitude. And also very hungry, as the overcooked broccoli at grand rounds did not offer much sustenance for my long afternoon in the field. As Mary Oliver said so nicely: "what is it you plan to do with this one wild and precious life?" Today's answer: no more overcooked broccoli, unless I am really, really hungry, then overcooked broccoli might be the cat's pajamas.
Curt Harper is a 49 year old autistic surfer who, if this 19 minute movie can be believed, has the answers Steinbeck and the author of Wild were looking for. He shows up for the waves, for his job, for trains (he admires trains), for dinner with his (might I add here amazing) parents, and for the groms who delight in his presence.
Spend 19 minutes watching this. Or not. But either way, I think the pleasures and answers to life might not be so much complicated as they are mystical. Or perhaps just hysterically funny, like a cab ride to a half marathon on a Sunday morning. If you want more on that, read my kid's book.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Ode to Joy
I am overdue for a post. Bloggers who hardly ever post are almost as annoying as bloggers.
Sometimes you have to talk about running more than actually doing the act of running. For instance, when you work 12 hours a day and are on 24/7 call and are thus highly irritated and exhausted because you are almost closer to 50 than 40 and getting up at 5am seems a lot harder than it did. Well actually it never felt easy, as I am not a morning person. I am not a night owl either. I have a few good hours between 10 and 3, and all the other hours seem really good times to take a nap.
I am a little injured. I was on a run recently and suddenly someone shot an arrow through my right hip. I fell to the ground, and my dog promptly mauled the arrow shooter. I then gave birth to dragons and now am a nomad in the desert with a limp and a sidekick with an English accent.
Or maybe I just pulled a muscle. It could also be a stress fracture but that is just not acceptable. So never mind.
Thinking about the future, I become paralyzed. I am a professional with a lovely life and I need for nothing (except time to take a pee). I just sometimes wonder what it all means and then I come to my senses: that is an unanswerable question, like the sound of one hand clapping. My grasshopper once told me if I ask it one more time, he will hop away into oblivion and all of my luck will be gone forever.
I cannot remember the last time I saw a grasshopper, come to think of it. I have seen a housefly that, though reported to have a 24 hour life span, survives on for now over a week in my bedroom and allows me no peace. What is the meaning of that fly life? And why cannot my ninja poodle capture it so I can finally get some rest?
Recently, there came to my attention a 70 year old ultra marathoner. So humbling. She even ran an extra 3 miles, getting off course for a bit. If I ever finish Western States, even once, I will feel like wonder woman. It does occur to me that there are a lot of hurdles (so to speak) in life and running. Injury is one: it means time away from running and defining your physical self otherwise. Then there is the age thing. But age is a good thing, for without it we are 6 feet under.
What scares me most about Western States is mountain lions. Second most is the prospect of getting lost. Third most is my terrible night vision. But none of this is insurmountable. Mountain lions probably hate spandex. Getting lost is the surest way of finding oneself. And if a blind person can run, play piano (at my alma mater!) and live fully, then a night-vision-disabled person like myself can probably get by.
I spend my days caring for the most vulnerable. The seriously ill. Those at risk of dying, and soon. The frail elderly. The disenfranchised. I like this work. It is tiring though, and sometimes a doctor needs to refuel. Pretty soon this cannot involve tuning into The Daily Show. Sigh. But I have a lot to be thankful for. And as the mother of Dragons, I am not to be trifled with. Plus there is the wonder of human beings. The fact that gay people can freely marry. Obamacare lives to see another day. And: Beethoven.
It's all good.
Except for the lack of time to pee.
Sometimes you have to talk about running more than actually doing the act of running. For instance, when you work 12 hours a day and are on 24/7 call and are thus highly irritated and exhausted because you are almost closer to 50 than 40 and getting up at 5am seems a lot harder than it did. Well actually it never felt easy, as I am not a morning person. I am not a night owl either. I have a few good hours between 10 and 3, and all the other hours seem really good times to take a nap.
I am a little injured. I was on a run recently and suddenly someone shot an arrow through my right hip. I fell to the ground, and my dog promptly mauled the arrow shooter. I then gave birth to dragons and now am a nomad in the desert with a limp and a sidekick with an English accent.
Or maybe I just pulled a muscle. It could also be a stress fracture but that is just not acceptable. So never mind.
Thinking about the future, I become paralyzed. I am a professional with a lovely life and I need for nothing (except time to take a pee). I just sometimes wonder what it all means and then I come to my senses: that is an unanswerable question, like the sound of one hand clapping. My grasshopper once told me if I ask it one more time, he will hop away into oblivion and all of my luck will be gone forever.
I cannot remember the last time I saw a grasshopper, come to think of it. I have seen a housefly that, though reported to have a 24 hour life span, survives on for now over a week in my bedroom and allows me no peace. What is the meaning of that fly life? And why cannot my ninja poodle capture it so I can finally get some rest?
Recently, there came to my attention a 70 year old ultra marathoner. So humbling. She even ran an extra 3 miles, getting off course for a bit. If I ever finish Western States, even once, I will feel like wonder woman. It does occur to me that there are a lot of hurdles (so to speak) in life and running. Injury is one: it means time away from running and defining your physical self otherwise. Then there is the age thing. But age is a good thing, for without it we are 6 feet under.
What scares me most about Western States is mountain lions. Second most is the prospect of getting lost. Third most is my terrible night vision. But none of this is insurmountable. Mountain lions probably hate spandex. Getting lost is the surest way of finding oneself. And if a blind person can run, play piano (at my alma mater!) and live fully, then a night-vision-disabled person like myself can probably get by.
I spend my days caring for the most vulnerable. The seriously ill. Those at risk of dying, and soon. The frail elderly. The disenfranchised. I like this work. It is tiring though, and sometimes a doctor needs to refuel. Pretty soon this cannot involve tuning into The Daily Show. Sigh. But I have a lot to be thankful for. And as the mother of Dragons, I am not to be trifled with. Plus there is the wonder of human beings. The fact that gay people can freely marry. Obamacare lives to see another day. And: Beethoven.
It's all good.
Except for the lack of time to pee.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Moms
I have 3 children, but really do not feel I qualify as a true Mom. Moms are ever-present. They always put dinner on the table. They dress like Moms. They show up for every school event and parent-teacher conference. They never let their kids eat junk food or watch TV. They give birth naturally at home in a house with scrubbed floors and low-flow toilets. Their kids follow the rules, do well in school and live happily ever after.
My experience as a Mom is I try. I try hard. I have a mixture of biological and adopted children. I am generally considered adequate but not stellar, by those that rank me. I also bring in the bacon, but no longer eat pigs so just feed it to those who insist upon doing so. I am half bald, but a highly competent physician. I cannot figure out how to dress to please everyone. My cutlery and plates do not match.
My Mom also worked, but somehow did it all. She got up around 5am, at which point she woke me to braid my hair, then sent me back to bed till my proper wakeup time. Off she went to work, and then home by the time I came home from school. She cooked dinner every single night and we ate almost exactly at 5pm. She cleaned the house meticulously and did all the shopping for the week on Saturday mornings, long before I was awake, then would make me pancakes or cinnamon rolls to eat in front of Saturday cartoons. Even while undergoing chemotherapy for her breast cancer, she did all of this. In between getting up in the middle of the night to puke her guts out.
Moms are undervalued in our country.
I know some amazing Moms. There is the nurse I work with who single parents, works and manages to raise chickens and landscape her yard. There is the Mom who is an amazing athlete in more than one sport and works and raises her kids and inspires me half to death. There is the Mom who lives in Little Rock and has these wonderful boys and teaches me new things about music and writing and humor and love on a regular basis. There is my cousin who parented 3 kids to successful adulthood and has continued on with her grandchild. There is my friend who has withstood a dissecting aorta who continues to model stability and strength to her child. There is my sister-in-law who is my model for motherhood. There is the mother who adopted my kids unofficially as grandchildren and makes me feel like a daughter. There is the the nurse I work with who is strong and hilarious and thoughtful and together who shows up for her kids and her friends without fanfare. There is the Mom who made a huge sacrifice in the name of love. There is my Godmother who makes me feel loved when my own mother is long gone. There is my doctor friend who has a baby and works and makes it all seem easy despite over a year of sleep deprivation. There is my single Mom friend who works full time and creates a safe and creative environment for her child to thrive and do handstands all the day long. There is Michelle Obama who puts up with more than her fair share of absolute bullshit and judgement. Can you even imagine trying to raise kids in the White House??? And there is my husband who is not a Mom, but has taken on the stay at home parent role with grace and a strong sense of self rarely seen in a man.
What does any of this have to do with running? Well, when I run I am a better Mom. I used to tell my kids "I need to run to chase away the grumpy monster." They were totally on board with this, because who likes the grumpy monster?
I am not able to find a way to feel like a real Mom. Nevertheless, I will continue to show up for the gig. I can take the attitude, the piercings, the eye rolls and the contempt. I love them anyway, and someday maybe they will appreciate me, sort of like the way artists and poets are appreciated: posthumously.
Besides my own, my all time favorite Mom is Little Bear's mother. She is da bomb. And someone for us all to aspire to be.
Don't even get me started on Peter Rabbit's Mom.
My experience as a Mom is I try. I try hard. I have a mixture of biological and adopted children. I am generally considered adequate but not stellar, by those that rank me. I also bring in the bacon, but no longer eat pigs so just feed it to those who insist upon doing so. I am half bald, but a highly competent physician. I cannot figure out how to dress to please everyone. My cutlery and plates do not match.
My Mom also worked, but somehow did it all. She got up around 5am, at which point she woke me to braid my hair, then sent me back to bed till my proper wakeup time. Off she went to work, and then home by the time I came home from school. She cooked dinner every single night and we ate almost exactly at 5pm. She cleaned the house meticulously and did all the shopping for the week on Saturday mornings, long before I was awake, then would make me pancakes or cinnamon rolls to eat in front of Saturday cartoons. Even while undergoing chemotherapy for her breast cancer, she did all of this. In between getting up in the middle of the night to puke her guts out.
Moms are undervalued in our country.
I know some amazing Moms. There is the nurse I work with who single parents, works and manages to raise chickens and landscape her yard. There is the Mom who is an amazing athlete in more than one sport and works and raises her kids and inspires me half to death. There is the Mom who lives in Little Rock and has these wonderful boys and teaches me new things about music and writing and humor and love on a regular basis. There is my cousin who parented 3 kids to successful adulthood and has continued on with her grandchild. There is my friend who has withstood a dissecting aorta who continues to model stability and strength to her child. There is my sister-in-law who is my model for motherhood. There is the mother who adopted my kids unofficially as grandchildren and makes me feel like a daughter. There is the the nurse I work with who is strong and hilarious and thoughtful and together who shows up for her kids and her friends without fanfare. There is the Mom who made a huge sacrifice in the name of love. There is my Godmother who makes me feel loved when my own mother is long gone. There is my doctor friend who has a baby and works and makes it all seem easy despite over a year of sleep deprivation. There is my single Mom friend who works full time and creates a safe and creative environment for her child to thrive and do handstands all the day long. There is Michelle Obama who puts up with more than her fair share of absolute bullshit and judgement. Can you even imagine trying to raise kids in the White House??? And there is my husband who is not a Mom, but has taken on the stay at home parent role with grace and a strong sense of self rarely seen in a man.
What does any of this have to do with running? Well, when I run I am a better Mom. I used to tell my kids "I need to run to chase away the grumpy monster." They were totally on board with this, because who likes the grumpy monster?
I am not able to find a way to feel like a real Mom. Nevertheless, I will continue to show up for the gig. I can take the attitude, the piercings, the eye rolls and the contempt. I love them anyway, and someday maybe they will appreciate me, sort of like the way artists and poets are appreciated: posthumously.
Besides my own, my all time favorite Mom is Little Bear's mother. She is da bomb. And someone for us all to aspire to be.
Don't even get me started on Peter Rabbit's Mom.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Humble Pie
Today while on a post-run run in the woods with my dog, there was a man crouched at the side of the trail holding one of those outrageous cameras with a lens so big and long that it could be used to beat someone to death, or it could cause forearm tendinitis for the photographer. Either way: dangerous. My dog sensed this danger and stopped cold as I ran past the man and his camera-weapon-orthopedic disaster. He just stared at the guy, from 20 yards away, mind you, and let out a low, menacing growl. I had to finally go back and coax him to pass, which he finally did with as wide a berth as possible.
Standard poodles are a lot cooler than I thought they were before I really got to know one. But they are not fond of surprises. My poodle (a phrase I never thought I would say) is a stellar runner. He runs 6-8 miles with ease. He chases flocks of birds tirelessly. When no birds are around he tucks in right next to or right behind me and does not stray from our path. He likes to run with me.
My post-run run tonight was testimony to that fact. When I came home in running clothes, having forced myself to do a run from the hospital after work, he was having none of me being in running attire, clearly sweaty and not having invited him to the party.
Lately I have been running with the San Francisco Marathon in mind, as I am all signed up for it. It is a nice race, taking you on a loop around one of the loveliest cities I know, and including a trip over and back over the Golden Gate Bridge. I have done a marathon a year for the past 6 years, and this will be number 7.
If I do it.
This is where the whole humility thing comes in. I have been dining on humble pie a lot recently. I cannot tap into my speed, such as it was, anymore. Where did it go? HELLO OUT THERE?
I recently started taking piano lessons. These are the first lessons I have had in over 25 years. Now I used to be a pretty decent pianist, and I even have a degree in piano performance and stuff. When I left music school for medicine, I actually pretty much stopped playing for almost 8 years. Why play when you cannot play at the highest possible level? Still, I dragged around my piano everywhere we moved and finally decided about 10 years ago to play the damn thing. Recently, it occurred to me I could play it decently if I had some structure and guidance. Humble pie tastes like scales and slow practice. My teacher is fucking cool too.
Sometimes I fight against the reality of my schedule. Work can be like this thing that robs you of your life if you let it be that way. But when I take a nice big bite of humble pie and chew it slowly, with intention, I can see that every minute is worth treasuring. And how lucky am I to have a profession that pays well and allows me to care for people? Also, I just sort of love medicine. It is never boring and there are so many cool diseases out there. You just have to pay attention and do a good physical exam. Surgeons are the coolest, of course, but internal medicine…. let's just say Benedict Cumberbatch would play an internist if he was going to be a doctor.
And then there is parenting. And housecleaning. And weeding the garden. And my baldish head. I am getting fat on humble pie.
My favorite part of the Boston marathon this year was Meb's finish. Classy.The guy was with the leading pack for most of the race. Everyone said he was over at 40. It would be easy for him to be bitter But instead, he grabs the hand of a woman running next to him and finishes the race with style.
And then there is Paula Radcliffe. She is doing London one more time, knowing she cannot compete anywhere near her peak. It is her last marathon. She just wants to run another one. Because that's what runners do.
All this is to say that who really cares how fast you go? Love the run, as my dog clearly does. Love the music, as my highly terrifying piano teacher clearly does. Love the work, because it is worthwhile and it puts food on the table.
Food, like humble pie. Quite delicious once you get over yourself.
Standard poodles are a lot cooler than I thought they were before I really got to know one. But they are not fond of surprises. My poodle (a phrase I never thought I would say) is a stellar runner. He runs 6-8 miles with ease. He chases flocks of birds tirelessly. When no birds are around he tucks in right next to or right behind me and does not stray from our path. He likes to run with me.
My post-run run tonight was testimony to that fact. When I came home in running clothes, having forced myself to do a run from the hospital after work, he was having none of me being in running attire, clearly sweaty and not having invited him to the party.
Lately I have been running with the San Francisco Marathon in mind, as I am all signed up for it. It is a nice race, taking you on a loop around one of the loveliest cities I know, and including a trip over and back over the Golden Gate Bridge. I have done a marathon a year for the past 6 years, and this will be number 7.
If I do it.
This is where the whole humility thing comes in. I have been dining on humble pie a lot recently. I cannot tap into my speed, such as it was, anymore. Where did it go? HELLO OUT THERE?
I recently started taking piano lessons. These are the first lessons I have had in over 25 years. Now I used to be a pretty decent pianist, and I even have a degree in piano performance and stuff. When I left music school for medicine, I actually pretty much stopped playing for almost 8 years. Why play when you cannot play at the highest possible level? Still, I dragged around my piano everywhere we moved and finally decided about 10 years ago to play the damn thing. Recently, it occurred to me I could play it decently if I had some structure and guidance. Humble pie tastes like scales and slow practice. My teacher is fucking cool too.
Sometimes I fight against the reality of my schedule. Work can be like this thing that robs you of your life if you let it be that way. But when I take a nice big bite of humble pie and chew it slowly, with intention, I can see that every minute is worth treasuring. And how lucky am I to have a profession that pays well and allows me to care for people? Also, I just sort of love medicine. It is never boring and there are so many cool diseases out there. You just have to pay attention and do a good physical exam. Surgeons are the coolest, of course, but internal medicine…. let's just say Benedict Cumberbatch would play an internist if he was going to be a doctor.
And then there is parenting. And housecleaning. And weeding the garden. And my baldish head. I am getting fat on humble pie.
My favorite part of the Boston marathon this year was Meb's finish. Classy.The guy was with the leading pack for most of the race. Everyone said he was over at 40. It would be easy for him to be bitter But instead, he grabs the hand of a woman running next to him and finishes the race with style.
And then there is Paula Radcliffe. She is doing London one more time, knowing she cannot compete anywhere near her peak. It is her last marathon. She just wants to run another one. Because that's what runners do.
All this is to say that who really cares how fast you go? Love the run, as my dog clearly does. Love the music, as my highly terrifying piano teacher clearly does. Love the work, because it is worthwhile and it puts food on the table.
Food, like humble pie. Quite delicious once you get over yourself.
Monday, March 30, 2015
This One
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.
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.
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
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