project 365: 05.27-31.09

Wednesday, 05.27.09: folding laundry


Thursday, 05.28.09: making flannel baby blankets


Friday, 05.29.09: the evening’s treat in a rootbeer float


Saturday, 05.30.09: editing pictures from a maternity photo shoot


Sunday, 05.31.09: cleaned out both of our closets—clothes packed in boxes

long time.

I’m baaaaccckkkk!!!! And I’m alive!!

It has been over a month since I posted last--& life in the interim has been unexpectedly crazy (but oddly relaxing, too).

Toward the end of April during my surgery rotation, my kind preceptors discovered that my husband was going to be out of my life for the next year & let me off a week early. An allowance that changed our travel plans completely…overnight. With two days notice, I moved out of my apartment & crammed my car full of stuff for the LAST four hour drive between my two homes. And because of the generosity of my preceptors, I was able to fly back “home” to spend an extra week with Jon in the glorious land of Eastern Washington (the very next day!!)—a week that I would have spent gazing at hernia’s & poking my fingers in people’s insides (I’ll let your imagination wander…). Needless to say, it was a blessing. We followed up our trip to our Washington “home” with a trip that brought city life into full view: NYC.

So, in the month of May 1:

Packed up my (smelly smelly!) apartment.



Made my final drive between my apartment & our Army home.



Spent time with family…& holding Jon’s hand (I soaked up every bit of our time together).



Had a picnic in central park.



Saw Miss Liberty in all her glory.



Watched a softball game & got a horrible sunburn.



Took a walk in the rain (& lightening…but don’t tell my mom that part).



Punched my husband in the chest.



Got a newly promoted husband!!



Said “hello” to the next 12-months on my own.



Started packing up the house…



Which brings me to today…as I’m STILL packing up the house. I’ve scheduled some posts for the following couple of weeks—I start a new Ears/Nose/Throat rotation here on Monday. I’m going to try my best to study my toosh off in the next couple of months (Boards are only 3 months away!)—which means that posting, pictures, etc. may take a backseat until after they are over.

At the very least, though, I’ll share a fun project Jon & I started for the duration (we hope!) of his LONG vacation. Each Sunday I’ll (try to!) post a picture from each day of the week—a Project 365 of sorts. We are both taking a photo each day & are going to compare notes & make a photobook when all this is behind us J

Until then, however, I’ll be snapping photos & trying to study…can’t ask for much more than that!

ugly confession.PATIENCE

He held the door open for me as we briskly walked out of the office. With a guiltless look on my face I said, “Jon, do I come across stand-off-ish or something?”

And he was honest. He told me that Yes, I did come across like I was just a bit superior to the lady working the desk; that Yes, I did treat her poorly like I was in a hurry to get the answer, and that Yes, I needed to work on it.

This whole experience in medical school, seeing patients, spending hours & days studying by myself, pulling myself through the firey ring of tests & exams & clinical experiences, all of this has undoubtedly changed me.

In many ways, it is for the better. I am more acutely aware of the fragility of life, the inevitability of death, and the gift of health. I look at my husband, my parents, my siblings differently—I see the life in them instead of focusing on the day I’ll lose them as I used to. I am more attentive to the darker side of life: the addictions, the illnesses, the horrible situations that surround the lives of some Biblical-Job-like individuals. And in an entirely different way, all of my experiences have culminated in me desparately trying to just be a better person: to throw aside my worries, to trust the One who put together my days, & to accept my life as it comes serving my Lord, my husband, & my community in the meantime.

On the other side of the coin, however, I have changed for the worse. And in many ways, the parts of my personality, my social-ability, & my compassion have been lost in the shuffle, consumed by the selfish requests of the masses of life-sucking patients.

I used to look at the store clerk, the grocery bagger, the retail assistant & pour out compassion on them. I used to try to relate to them, to be patient with who they are & to meet them where they are at.

But somehow, somewhere along the way, I’ve lost it. I’ve lost my compassion. I’ve misplaced my ability to kindly relate to them.

Each day when I head to work, I’m required to put a smile on my face. With my uterus cramping, my emotions on a roller coaster, my sinuses full of snot, my head pounding, it doesn’t matter: I need to put the patients first, to throw aside my own opinions & judgements & emotions & faith, I need to focus solely, completely, & totally on them. In the midst of listening to her complain about her sore fingernail & him complain about peeing too often & her tell me about her failing relationship & him boast about how many sexual encounters he has had in the last month, I have to reach into the depths of my love-tank & pull out another smile, another nod of approval, another ounce of patience. I’m expected to respond quickly. I’m required to welcome them back to the office. And it is vital I do all of this in 15-20 minutes. Per patient. Which means I have to be quick. I have to talk fast, work quickly, & make decisions almost immediately.

And all this serves me well—in the office or hospital. But outside of the medical environment, outside of those sterile white walls & hard hospital beds, away from the bleeps of machines & sobs of patients’ families, those traits that I’ve acquired to be a better someday-Doctor hinder me.

I’m short with the office clerk. I’m rushed when the grocery bagger bags my fresh produce. I’m particular & overly opinionated with the hairstylist. I’m all-too-degrading in my direction-giving to the man in line behind me at Starbucks.

I’ve changed. I’ve changed for my job, because of my job, & in many ways in spite of my job.

Jon told me I needed to work on better separating work & home, job & family.

I think he is right.

Where do you need a dose of change in your life? In what areas have you grown calloused toward showing the compassion of Christ through words, actions, or service? Who in your life is willing to be honest with you about your actions towards others?

nature vs. nurture

She worried about seeing the doctor because she’d shown up ten minutes late. She worried about the germs on the plastic seats in the waiting room, the three pounds she gained when she stepped on the scale, the smell she left when filled the sterile cup in the bathroom. She worried about the water she wasted when she flushed the toilet.

She worried about all the complaints that she had; she worried how she might come across. She worried about her stomach pain, her abnormal bowel habits,Am I not eating right? She worried about her husband’s performance at work during the day, about whether or not her children would suddenly stop breathing at night. She worried about making her son’s soccer practice and picking her daughter up from preschool. She worried about the food the family ate, about the additives & Red Dye #40 in the Kool Aid her kids drank at the birthday party last weekend. She worried about her house, the untouched laundry by the washer, the termites that might be quietly tearing down their house.

She worried about her children’s college education, about their monthly budget, about spending too much & not saving enough. She worried about not clipping enough coupons, about visiting the doctor too often, about being over-the-top-conscious of all the germs.

She worried about her health, about her fatigue & not feeling well. She worried about her performance as a mother, her involvement at church, her role as a wife. She worried that her stomach pain might be something bigger than just a bad stomach ache.

And it was.

She worried about the medication she was given for the bleeding ulcer. She worried about the side effects & the cost her family had incurred because of it. She worried if it was contagious or genetic—if her children would get it too. She worried that she might die in her sleep, leave her husband earlier than retirement due to unplanned death, or fall into a giant sink-hole on Main Street.

She worried about cancer, about heart attacks, about obesity. She worried that the soup she bought yesterday wasn’t organic or the meat she fed her family might have had hormones in it. She worried that she wasn’t taking enough vitamins, wasn’t getting enough sleep, and wasn’t exercising as she should.

She worried. And she worried. She worried when she woke up, when she ate her meals; she worried as she fell asleep at night.

And I can’t help but wonder if the one who didn’t worry, who took life as it came, who kept stresses to a minimum, who ate the foods he enjoyed, who found a sport that kept him fit, who found a spouse he loved, who raised his children with spontaneity; I can’t help but wonder if that one didn’t live longer, live richer, live happier.

A growing debate exists in modern medicine: nature versus nurture. Is it our genes or our environments that dictate our health, our personalities, our longevity? Is it our upbringing or our innate individuality that dictate who we become? And is it our habits, our exercise, our food-conscious tendencies that keep us healthy, or is health in our genes?

hands.

Those hands. Those young, calloused hands, tired from a hard days work. Those hands that held hers, that got clammy on the first date & shook when he lifted her white veil. Those hands that held their children—the small, delicate children that grew inside her belly. Those hands. Those old, thin hands that hold her thinned, atrophied body now. Those old, thin hands that wrap around her hips while she unsteadily walks, that take her aged hand with comfort & stretch her fingers to ease the contractures. Those hands—the ones that have held her through this journey.

Those feet. Those young, springful feet, sore from running. Those feet that brushed against hers between freshly laundered sheets in the intimate quiet of their bedroom. Those feet that paced the creaky wood floor holding crying babies while she soundly slept on the other side of the wall. Those feet that traveled to work each day, home at night; those feet that carry him to the grocery store to buy their food, those feet that trail behind the vacuum as he cleans their house, those feet that lovingly carry that dinner tray of food to her in bed each night. Those feet—the ones that have carried them through this journey.

Those arms. Those tanned, muscular arms, sore from long days in the trenches. Those arms that were washed clean each night, that sat down at the dinner table to a meal she had prepared for the family. Those arms that pumped by his side on his morning runs, that nuzzled children against his chest, that changed her car tires; those arms that now lifted her into bed each night & guided her to the toilet. Those arms that are always ready to wrap around her in a comforting embrace should she feel alone, even for a second. Those arms—the ones that have wrapped her in comfort during sickness & health.

That smile. That white toothed smile, the one that made her melt from the beginning. The one that lead to the squinted eyes & barreling laugh—the one she looked forward to each night. That smile, the one she saw as he asked if she’d spend forever with him, the one she gazed at from the front of the church on their wedding day, the one she matched as they held their children. That smile that greeted her after a long day at home, that she looked at from across the pillow in the dark of night, the one she still sees everyday lead purely by love. That smile—the one that reminds her, day after day, he is still totally in love.

And that love. The one that has survived job loss, parental loss, & miscarriage. The one that bloomed in the crux of youth, grew through wars & free love, and persevered through economic turmoil. The one that stands by her failing body, fisted hands, shaking head; the one that holds her tightly between the sheets, that fixes her breakfast, is fixated on her heart. That love—the one that outlasts this life.

tough stuff.

We’ve had some tough decisions to make on the home front lately--& a heaping helping of tougher realizations that go along with them. If you haven’t figured it out already, I don’t do well with the future—I think about it, plan for it, think about it some more, but when push comes to shove, all I am really doing is worrying about it. About where we’ll live. About whether or not we’ll get my medical school loans paid off before we turn 40. About the life we’ll build for our children--& whether or not it will match our initial goals when we recited our vows.

I found this article. And I read it. And it totally resonated with me.

Jon just got back from training a couple of weeks ago. He was gone for almost 5 weeks—5 weeks during which I stewed & contemplated & worried about all things ‘future’. Until we finally talked about it when he got home…

And he reminded me the most important thing of all: we are in this together.

That is the beauty of marriage—the beauty of unity in marriage. We are on this journey together, humbly bowing before the One who made us one. Our goal was to follow the path He paves for us daily…and although it may get rocky, bumpy; although the path may end or the trail may make a switchback (or fifty), we’re sweating it out together.

The article was a nice reminder of that: the need to make a decision, regardless of how difficult, & move on together.

Which is what we are trying to do.

We’ve made our decision over much prayer, late night pillow talk, & serious contemplation…now life just has to unfold…& we have to hang on tight to one another while we make a run for it.

ugly confession.WORK

I am not going to lie—not going to fib one little bit to anyone who asks me: medical school is horrid. It is rigorous, exhausting, overwhelming, emotional-breakdown-provoking, trying….really just horrid.

I’ll never forget the looks of approval I got when word got around that I had ‘gotten in’. The sweet ladies at church gave me hugs, their husbands shook my hand firmly; it was almost as if everyone had adopted me & was rooting for me. And although I still feel many of the prayers sent my (& Jon’s) way, it has become a much less “glamorous” experience than I originally thought I’d have.

For the past two years (last 9 months not inclusive), my days, nights, weekends, bathroom time, shower time, workout time, car rides, long drives, and airplane flights have ALL been spent studying. We’d go out to dinner: I’d have my notecards. I had to take a shower: I rigged an extra large plastic baggy with an over-the-shower-head hanging contraption so I could slip a piece of computer paper inside & study while I lathered my hair without ruining my color-coordinated notes. A two hour car ride was in the plans for the weekend: my iPod was full of lectures. A 45 minute stint on the elliptical at the gym meant 45 minutes of studying. IT NEVER ENDED—and actually, I’m coming to the perhaps even more horrid realization that it will never end.

I chose a profession of learning. And while I appreciate the challenge, enjoy the process, & crave new information (information other than this morning’s depressing headlines), I do have days where I’d like to shut my brain off & shut all my medical knowledge in a closet—or deep, dark dungeon. You see, this education has, in many ways, sucked the enjoyment out of many experiences. Stories about “gross stuff” aren’t as funny anymore because I know half of it recited by my friends totally couldn’t be true—the physiology or bacteriology or pharmacology or whatever-ology just isn’t possible. Sick people aren’t as interesting anymore because I’ve grown tired of hearing them complain about conditions they brought upon themselves (chronic knee pain in someone 115 pounds overweight, infected skin in someone who neurotically picks at scabs). Healthy people aren’t as exciting anymore because I know that my love for them in the future will be confounded by the lack-of-reimbursement by insurance companies for well-patient visits. And generally, LIFE has just lost some of its adventurous flavor with the broad knowledge base I know carry around like a ruck-sack strapped to my brain.

About two weeks ago when I was really struggling with my (& that of my family’s) future in medicine, I had to sit down & re-examine my motivations for applying to medical school in the first place.

Jon & I decided from the get-go that we would live solely off of his income—whatever it may be. So poverty line or plush-life aside, we are sticking to our original plan. My motivation for choosing medicine was largely for our children. I wanted to be able to do for them what my parents have done for me, which really came down to two things: support them throughout childhood, giving them ample travel & cross-cultural opportunities and support them financially throughout college, paying for their education in full & thereby giving them the freedom to choose a profession that they like. I figured as well that my working would give us more opportunity as a family to live just a bit more comfortably & travel more.

And those original motivations still hold true, absolutely. But I’m finding my greatest struggle in the balance between my work in medicine & my home life of the future. I’m finding the greatest irony in the fact that the profession I chose deliberately to make a better life for my family may very well be the thing that keeps me away from them. And I’m finding the greatest hesitation in working at all.

I feel the need to add in that I’m certainly not quitting, not throwing in the towel, not letting the poop hit the fan, not giving the fat lady a microphone or making wings for the pigs. I’m NOT QUITTING—in fact, at this point, quitting is not an option for us.

What I do want to get across, however, is that I’m struggling with this whole concept. The concept of balancing life & work & family & children & husband & creativity & writing & photography….it is overwhelming, absolutely. Overwhelming when the physician DISsatisfaction rate hovers around 70%, when the reimbursement for long hours worked continues to fall, when the loans for tuition continue to grow, & when the 24 hours God provided for each day just aren’t enough.

I know I’m not alone in this. I know I’m not the only woman feeling this way. I know many women are my secret heroes I haven’t met yet—the women who balance it all beautifully. I’m just not sure I can be one of those.

It is ugly. And this is my confession.

Jon is overwhelmingly supportive--& I can’t quite put into words how incredibly grateful I am for his support, his stand-by-me, & his tolerance of what I’m about to go through in residency. He is willing to co-parent, willing & wanting to be involved in the lives of our children. He is willing to work hard, extra hours, extra days to provide for us. And for all those things, I am indebted.

In the meantime, however, I am working on trusting God with the details. I am praying that I find a residency program that is family friendly. I am praying that we find affordable housing & are able to live on just a bit more than rice & beans (because beans give me horrible gas). I am praying that we find support in our community, both locally & spiritually. And most of all, I am praying that the Lord provides a job opportunity that allows more balance between a profession I am madly in love with (despite how horrid school is) and a family I am just giddy for.

Where are you most struggling with balance? Is it an event? A commitment? A relationship? A creative outlet? A habit? Did an original motivation exist that has been scewed, obstructed, or changed in the process? How are you coming to terms with its current state--& how do you resolve to change it?

ugly confession.JUDGEMENT.

It was a tough day in church for me yesterday. And actually, it isn’t the first time I’ve walked away with head full of thoughts & heart heavy with the sin of judgement.

It’s no secret that I’m human. And many times I’d like the change the saying “I think, therefore I am.” To “I think, therefore I JUDGE.” Because the truth is that I do. I look at the beggar on the streetcorner & fail to consider his past, his feelings, his hunger for something greater than food. I look at the morbidly obese woman who waddles into the office & my mind usually reverts to the stereotypical thoughts of “laziness”; in fact, I often find myself wondering how she let herself go that far. I see the rambunctious kids tearing down the magazines in the checkout aisle in front of me & judge the mother trying to “shoosh” them—often failing to consider the circumstances of their lives: the father they might have just lost, the stresses they might feel at home around a scantily clad dinner table.

I know that God calls us to be pure of heart, to love our neighbor as we love ourselves, to not judge, not covet, not want … but it is one area of my life I seem to have trouble with. Yesterday mornings' church service drove the point home…again.

Our church has two campuses—one is at the main campus & offers a more “southern gospel” style of praise music with a big (HUGE!) choir & lots of jumping in the aisles; the other (the one we attend) gives a more contemporary style & feel—it is housed in an old movie theater. The alternative service beckons a younger crowd—many college students & couples with young children.

Yesterday morning, the girl in front of us—barely thirty, if I had to guess—was obviously enjoying the presence of the Lord…by screaming. I have trouble closing my eyes & concentrating on worshiping the Lord in the first place (I like to watch the musicians)…but her jumping up & down wasn’t helping. Then, when she let out a scream that would have been better placed at a High School Musical performance from the mouth of a 13-year-old-Zack-Effron-crazed-fan, I really lost my ability to concentrate. Add to that the girl, also seated in the row ahead of us, who praised Jesus by swinging her hips like those of nightclub dancers…and I was really distracted.

The truth, though, is that I’ve let those screams & swinging hips distract me from more than praise during church. I’ve let the world’s distractions—clothes, houses, the internet, striving for the cultural standard of perfection—keep me from concentrating on the One True God.

I’m finding that I either need Spiritual earplugs or time away from distraction…

This week I’m trying the latter.

What people are you most prone to judging? When & in what situations do you find it most difficult to love people for who they are, despite all external circumstances? In what areas of your life could you use a pair of Heavenly Earplugs (or sunglasses??!)??

{be back after Easter…}

old man.

I remembered him tonight when I saw the word “Achalasia” in my review book. I remembered how he sat uncomfortably in his chair in the corner of the hospital room—within reach of the phone, should anyone call. I remembered how his back curved forward, his eyes glazed, but happy. I remembered how I had to yell to get him to hear me--& how he nodded in genuine approval when he finally understood what I said.

And I cried tonight—because he was lonely.

I met him back in September. He was admitted to the ICU for rectal bleeding without a known cause. He’d gone through a gamut of procedures—tubes in & out, up & down, xrays, scans, needle sticks. And still, nothing.

The older patients are my favorite when I’m working in the hospital. They appreciate your time the most—they respond to your smiles, relax with gentle touch, & have endless stories to share.

He was old. 96, actually.

His wife, whom he told me about, had died almost 20 years earlier. And he remained in his house, alone. The house they’d made love in. The house they’d raised their children in. The house where their lives happened, together. He stayed because it smelled like her—at least it did at one time; he stayed because he was happy living through his memories.

He had children—but they lived away. Two sons, I think—each of whom had families of their own. He didn’t see his grandchildren as often as he liked—and I wanted to call his sons & scream in the phone that this man needed the joy of little ones more than once a year.

When I first met him, he was eating pancakes drenched in syrup. His shaky hand made its way to his mouth, lips found the fork with hesitation, & he’d slowly drop his hand back to the tray to retrieve another bite.

I tried to smile…I tried to look happy while my insides cringed & twirled about, wondering why this lonely old man’s life had come to this. Once vibrant, muscular (he even told me so!), once completely capable of holding a job, raising a family, loving his wife...now this.

As I yelled questions into his left ear, I finally gathered that he was having trouble eating--& had been for about three months. In the course of 90-something days he’d lost over 60 pounds…and for anyone in medicine, extreme weight loss usually means something bad. But upon further questioning, I discovered that in his lonely house, he was too old to cook. And so he ate two meals each day. One cup of coffee for breakfast (“meal”) & one microwaved dinner, which his kind neighbor (who was also a nurse at the hospital) heated for him each night.

Two meals. Every day—only two.

He told me he was really hungry—but just couldn’t cook…and didn’t have any one to do it for him.

Old man. Lonely house, full of memories.

I had to leave the room—and, as I always do when I’m emotionally charged—I found a bathroom just down the hall from his room. I cried. I cried for a long time. And when I finally emerged, eyes puffy & reddened, I was angry.

I was angry at society for boarding our generations of wisdom, for shunning them with looks of disproval & treating them like children. I was angry at families, abandoning the very people who served as their care-givers during their precious development. And I was angry at myself, for not showing compassion to all the “wisers” that had crossed my path.

And I’m still angry.

Turns out, this lonely old man also had a spasmatic lower esophageal sphincter (read: the bottom part of his esophagus wasn’t properly allowing food to enter his stomach)…we discharged him two days later. Never could find the source of his bleeding.

Lonely man, I hope you’re peacefully at rest now—home with your wife, home with your Maker.

ugly confession.CLOTHES

My parents separated when I was young—their divorce was finalized before I hit age six. And although the years of my youth were difficult, I now see our situation as a late-blooming blessing.

I spent my weekends split between two homes, two sets of rules, & two different environments. My dad lives out in the country—I played in the hay, ran through the apple orchards, & took sunset rides into the mountains on horseback. Looking back, my time there was full of imagination & magic (& hives from the hay…but that is another story). The adventures my mom & I had were entirely different in their own right—she was the creative parent, always prompting my imagination, challenging me to think in new ways & see the world through different glasses. She made alphabet flashcards each year—cards which I would fill with treasures from our nature walks. I glued sand on the “S” card, leaves on the “L” card; and we wrote our memories on the back (I really need to find those, by the way…). I was always welcome in the kitchen…and she encouraged creative concoctions—which she’d hesitantly cheeked (& probably spit out when I left the room with self-satisfied glory). Both of my parents were overwhelmingly supportive…& my childhood memories abound with leisurely days of creativity & imagination.



The time I spent between two homes & two parents also meant that I was torn between two closets. Albeit trivial, I felt like I was constantly traveling—my life was always in flux. If I needed my red shirt on Wednesday but left it at my Dad’s on Sunday, I had to go without. And when I forgot my makeup over the weekend & needed it for school on Monday morning, I went to school looking like a zombie.

My departure for college meant that, officially, my “visitation” requirements were null—although I will add that both sets of parents were increasingly understanding of my desire to spend the weekends on retreats & with my friends during high school. I was looking forward to my time at Gonzaga—it meant new opportunities, new challenges…and quite ridiculously, that I would no longer feel like I was living from a suitcase. Or so I thought.

Do you know how small those little tiny closets are? WOW. I ended up leaving some of my clothes at home—the clothes I had gathered from my closets at my Dad’s, my dresser at my Mom’s. Winter came—I needed my sweaters…but they were back home in storage. We had a surprisingly warm day in October…I wanted my jean shorts…but they were back home in storage.

And wouldn’t you know, I’m still living the life of two closets (at least it isn’t a closet life, huh?!). My work clothes stay with me on my rotations…the remainder of them have their home in North Carolina. But when I want to take a trip to Walmart on a Thursday night & all I have to wear are black pants & a button-up shirt or my pajamas, it causes a bit of issue for me! It is no secret that I’m a planner—I like schedules, I like to know what is happening next…I like to be prepared.

{Note: Let me just say that I did not plan on writing this much about my clothes…who knew closets could be so interesting!?}

My closet “situation” has, in my psychologically minded-brain, lead to an increased inclination towards clothing. I LOVE CLOTHES. There, I said it.

And unfortunately, I have lots of them. I realized last week that in my mind, I’m prone to buying more (always on sale, mind you) because I can’t see all of what I have--& my brain is filled with ridiculous pathologies & useless medical information—so I can’t remember what I have, either.

I’m realizing that God doesn’t want me to be so focused on clothing. The truth is that I treasure it—I love what I have… (do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds when I see it in a sentence?!). But lately I’ve found myself overly drawn to looking, to wanting more. And in the meantime, I’m missing the simpler pleasures of life: rolling in the hay, running through the apple orchards, spending an afternoon on a nature walk.

Time has given me the insight—although difficult to swallow—that, in an odd way, my clothing has overwhelmed me. Washing it. Caring for it. Loving it... (again, ridiculous…). My tendency to feel like I “need more” has taken its grip…and I’d like it to stop. Now please don’t think that this “love for clothing” as caused any problems in our marriage, damage to our bank account, or violence at the after-Thanksgiving Day-sales…it certainly has NOT.

The “clothing” category of our budget has rarely gone over (aside from a few times with unexpected purchases)…and I always make it a point to buy items on sale. We haven’t suffered because of this…the point, though, is that it is consuming.

I want my treasure to be somewhere else…whether it is in creativity, relationships, service, or all of the above…

And so…I’m instigating a change—on my part entirely. I’m challenging myself in a new way—one that will certainly be difficult for me over the course of the next year (especially living with two cute, stylish sisters who socialize by shopping). I’m going to try to abandon my tendency toward more while Jon is deployed. With the goal of saving as much money as possible, I’m going to honestly assess the motives behind my actions in buying clothes. Given, there will be some items I need (hello yellow pit stains??!)…but realizing that this will be difficult for me, I’m going to try.

What is at the back of your closet? Where do you find your material idols? How do they consume you?...and what steps can you take to get rid of them?

glow.

She was, by all accounts, a granola girl. Her mesh grocery bag sat beside her on the folding chair, jaw quietly moving as she chewed on a dehydrated apple.

The class seemed long, but her nods of approval didn’t fade during the 2.5 hours. Her lips occasionally curved upward, the corners of her eyes squinting in anticipatory approval.

When we all moved to the floor, the four couples around us chatted quietly & chuckled at the awkwardness that was about to ensue. She sat alone, smiling, in the darkened front corner. The instructor asked me to be her practice partner.

And so I sat, Indian style, next to her on the fuzzy cotton blanket she’d brought. Her back was straight against the two fluffy pillows leaning on the wall—the years of yoga training was obviously benefiting her growing belly.

Her skin was glowing.

I stuck my hand out, I’m Jlyn, I said quietly.

Hey, she responded, I’m April.

So, when are you due? I noticed her simple gold wedding band as she contemplatively scratched her head.

Umm….May. But I’m hoping he comes earlier…we’re ready to meet him.

So it’s a boy?

Yeah—we….

The instructor started talking. We listened to the couple next to us obnoxiously laugh & poke at each other—I was worried they might playfully start a pillow fight in the middle of the birthing class…something high school girls do at sleepovers.

Aaannnndddddd…..deep breath, the instructor said.

April closed her eyes & filled her lungs with fresh air. She was totally calm, relaxed. My mind wandered to her baby’s birth and I wondered if the serenity would last.




Hold it, I said shyly, annnddddd….10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…good job!

She opened her eyes & smiled. I could tell she was excited; excited to be in the class, surrounded by other women with growing bellies just like hers. Excited to be part of this miracle. She laughed at the obnoxious teen couple next to us, her belly moving as she giggled. I was amazed at her joy.

The instructor asked a question. She answered with a brief story…and a chuckle.

So, is this your first? I whispered.

Yeah, yeah…this is our first. We are really excited.

No other kids at home? I said.

Nope. This one will be the first one!

But…didn’t you just say in your story that you were pregnant before? I boldly inquired.

Her eyes darted away from me.

Well, I’m kind of old—I’m 39. She looked down & playing with a cotton string from the blanket. We’ve, umm…..we’ve lost quite a few.

Oh, I coyly replied, instantly regretting my boldness.

Yeah. We’d planned on having kids right after we got married…but things were kind of…unexpected. She looked up again & took a breath. But…we’re pregnant now!! The baby is healthy…and….

The instructor started again, ….take a breath….hold it….10…9…8…7…

My face was red—and I was instantly thankful she’d picked the corner of the room with the least light. I was embarrassed at my audacity, my total emotional detachment. During the day when I’m seeing patients, I’m taught to ask questions. Personal questions about fears, relationships, STD’s, sexual activity, bowel movements, the smell of urine…

I left the class and said goodbye to April, wishing her luck & health with her pregnancy & parenting endeavors. I just couldn’t think of anything else to say—my comforting words immediately & unexpectedly deplete. I'd walked into the class to fulfill my service learning requirement, I was walking out preoccupied with our future.

Jon didn’t call that night—he didn’t have cell phone reception. My eyes did not close easily, and even 45 minutes after my head met the pillow my gaze was still fixated on the same speck above my bed.

We want children. Our desire is to raise a family. Most couples who commit to spend their lives together aspire to parenthood. And the truth is that we have a plan…a plan that, in our minds, is darn-near perfect.

But I think April & her husband did, too. And almost ten years later, they are finally pregnant with their first. After repeated joys of the blue line on the pee-stick…and repeated heartbreak when the beta-HCG stopped increasing, they were finally part of the miracle of creation.

Their friends’ kids are in middle school—and April is just setting up her nursery. Together they’d watched other family’s grow, received Christmas cards of plump toddlers in snowsuits, & tasted chocolate poop at baby showers. Did they fake the smiles? Did they cry together at night, alone, in the darkness & solitude of their bedroom? Did they doubt that it would happen for them too?

We have our plan. But April was a poignant reminder that God has His plan, too. I can plan. I can fill calendars & write pages of dreams in my journals. We can talk, we can scheme, we can set goals of kids & houses & pets & vacations. We can even make investments accordingly.

But the truth is that life doesn’t always unfold as we have planned. Babies are lost. Spouses are killed. Parents lose children…children lose parents. Accidents happen. Tragedy strikes. We find joy in the unexpected & happiness in hidden treasures.

April was a moving reminder of our human need for daily surrender to God’s plan…her story a tender memo to take heed of God’s work in our lives--& his voice in our hearts. I need to be more diligent about meditating with Him on the small things…

Lord, should we watch this movie tonight?
God, do I really need to make this phone call?
Lord, what is your desire for my time on the internet?
God, what food do you have planned for my body today?
Father, is this what you planned for me? This meal? This new shirt? This donation? This investment?

I need to work on meditating with Him on the small things…so that when bigger waves break, my prayers are effortless. In the face of adversity with a backbone of commitment, feet having walked paths of the unexpected, I want my faith to glow.

We are all worms.

But I do believe that I am a glowworm.

-Winston Churchill

i miss him.

this was pushed across the desk to me today.



right before i walked into a patient's room.

...God's little reminder to pray for him.

i found out later he really needed those prayers.

7 more days.

the weekend.

someone came to visit me.

we had fun together.

i showed her around.



she bought me a new purse.



we drank wine. and ate ice cream.



the car drove us to antique stores.



her plane was delayed leaving...



so we got an extra day together.

i miss her already.

thanks, mom.

priorities.

She walks into the coffee shop at 8am every morning. And at 8:05 she reaches the counter where the barista knows her order & calls it out without question: one skinny decaf white chocolate mocha, lite syrup, no foam, no whip, grande. Her manicured nails reach into the designer bag plopped on the counter. Diamond-decorated hand slides black bar of plastic through numbered machine, total $4.68.

The staunch of grease permeates his nostrils…but he breathes it in: familiar. He saunters across the tile floor, shoulder missing the shelf of gum aside the register as old habit. Calloused hands, stained with grease push $8.72 in wadded cash & loose change across the blue laminate. He pockets his two packs of Camels in the faded square in high left chest pocket and tips his baseball cap goodbye. He’ll be back again tomorrow for another double hitter.

We hear the sputtering exhaust pipe from inside the office. His boots, worn with holes, step out of the old pick-up truck & take him inside.

She yaps on her cell phone in the waiting room, moving to the other side of the room to avoid the stench of cigarettes & grease the sun-worn man just brought.

“But doctor, I can’t pay for those medicines,” he shakes his head in disbelief: yet another doctor’s appointment, yet another bill…yet another week of 80 hours & overtime trying to avoid delinquency.

“You want me to pay what to sit inside a tube to look at my brain?” she exclaimed from the exam table, obviously exasperated by the suggestion of an MRI. “Yeah sure…whatever…do they take credit cards?”

She signs out, driving away in shiny new car.

He leaves the office, worried about another expense. We hear rusty ‘clank’ as he puts the truck in gear.

I lean against the white wall while we talk.

My own priorities flood my mind. The last $4.68 I spent at Starbucks. Chapstick in my pocket, organic with pomegranate oil for $3.99. Black Merrell shoes, $60. Bottled water, $1 at the gas station last week. New song on iTunes, $0.99 at 11pm last night.

Priorities.

She didn’t seem to have any--& poured the loans she took from the credit card company into her external appearance, impressing others.

He worked hard…worried about medical bills…& spent $300 this month on cigarettes.

How are my priorities, physically, materially, medically, healthfully, & emotionally speaking about my life? How is my life influenced by my spiritual priorities?

It is no secret that the American healthcare system has gaping flaws. And today I was reminded that as humans, we are flawed as well. Instead of trying to fix the system, perhaps it is time we take a look in the mirror & reexamine our own priorities: cigarettes or medication to decrease morbidity; manicures & Starbucks or an imaging test that might save your life….

Just a thought…

back next week.

it's been crazy here--and by "crazy" i really mean that i have nothing to write & feel the need to study my brains out for the sole fact that i feel like i might fail Step 2 of my Board exams (which, by the way, aren't until September).

i'll be back next week.... (promise).

ugly confessions.

we all have them. ugly, hidden...shoved in the closet of our thoughts, the back of our minds...hidden from the world. and i'll be the first to admit that when i kindly arrange those sacred monsters in the back of my closet, more often than not i'm trying to hide them from God.

but He knows. He always does.

and i want you to know too. because i've hidden too many things for far too long. in many respects, these aren't earth-shattering, heart breaking, or even vaguely exciting. but i need to post them here. in this public place. one-by-one. because making them public, drawing them out & dusting them off makes them more apparent to me and me more transparent to you.

i started reading Idols of the Heart, kindly recommended by Beth P....and while the book is written in a straight-forward non-read-between-the-lines style, the message goes so much deeper. as i've slowly watched the page numbers grow, my life has been chopped up into tiny pieces...exposed, torn, & separated. and the things i've held dear for so long have come into question...habits, pleasures, guilt, anxiety, relationships....

we'll take these one at a time. i'm obviously not going to share all of them--i don't like airing my dirty laundry. but i feel the need to publicly share at least a few...hoping only to make more of a commitment to change for myself. i could do it with the pen of my journal...but this seems more permanent, more open. in the back of my mind, i feel like my own personal conviction to make the necessary changes will be challenged if i open myself up here.

first installment coming soon....

oh if only....

tara whitney, one of my favorite (FAVORITE!!!) photographers based out of Orange County, Cali started offering dual photo/video shoots after she paired up with a well-known videographer. i'll be honest that at first i thought the idea was a little "out there"....

but after watching this video, i'm totally dreaming.

take a look....it'll make you smile :)

recipe:: light wheat bread.

i found this glorious loaf of goodness through another blog...which lead me to the original recipe. and golly-be! does this woman know how to cook & bake! she certainly channels june cleaver...

anyhow...jon & i were out of bread a couple weeks ago, so i decided to try my hand at making a real loaf of bread, sans box of pre-measured ingredients. and yesterday when we went to pick up apples at the grocery store, we opted out of buying bread because this recipe is just that good.

minimal kneading required...& no sugar!!! i've adjusted the ingredients to basic "staples" we always have, instead of including fancy things like "self-rising flour"--the yum-factor is still the same.

2.5 cups whole wheat flour

1.5 cups all-purpose flour

1.5 teaspoons salt

3 Tablespoons milk (i use soy milk)

1.5 teaspoons yeast (this equates to just about 1/2 the envelope if you buy packets)

Mix all ingredients in large bowl or better yet, your electric mixer...

1.5 Tablespoons honey

2 Tablespoons unsalted butter, room temperature

1 1/4 cups water, room temperature

Add honey, butter, & water. Mix again until ingredients are combined. Knead by hand approx. 10 minutes or better yet, 6 minutes on medium speed in electric mixer.

Oil large bowl. Place dough inside. Cover with plastic wrap & let rise for 1.5-2 hours.

Remove from bowl, press into rectangle, roll dough (like a cinnamon roll) & place in bread pan with ends of dough touching both ends of the pan (for even rise). Let rise again 60-90 minutes.

Heat over to 350. Place small bowl of water inside with bread. Bake 30 minutes, rotate 180 degrees, bake another 30 minutes. When you remove bread, inside temperature should be at least 160 degrees--tested with meat thermometer. Let cool until room temperature...(good luck with that!).

Eat entire loaf in two days.

Not that I did that or anything....

four.

Four. Four days a week her weary feet, tired from homemaking made their way to the local YMCA. And four days a week she left: muscles fatigued, a forehead covered in salty beads. Her hope grew with each strained muscle, with each dab of a sweat-soaked cloth; her hope grew that she would somehow be skipped.

She’d watched her mother die. It was slow, painful. Keys forgotten, memories faded, strange faces in family pictures, foreign visitors providing warm embraces…until finally, one day, she cried her last guttural groan & finally slipped into God’s peaceful embrace.

An article said that exercise might prevent or delay the onset of early Alzheimer’s Disease.

And so she went, four days a week.

I looked at her. Flaking skin. Shiny cuticles, the dry hands from her days of scrubbing sinks & folding laundry long gone. Matted hair, graying & oily. Rotting teeth. Cracked lips. Empty, lifeless eyes.

Small remnants of toned calf muscles remained, evident beneath the scars where she’d gotten her legs caught in the Geri-chair.

Now she sat, restrained. She’d had too many falls. Too many scars. She’d had too few words. Too few functions remained to leave her to her own resources.

Her helmet was flung at the secretary. Her strong fingers found their way around a nurses neck. She screamed when she was cold, lashed out when in pain. Her words were gone, emotions robbed.

She was reacting. Reacting to her environment, reacting to the pain she felt but couldn’t express.

Keys forgotten, memories faded, strange faces in family pictures, foreign visitors providing warm embraces…words, executive function, emotion, and most apparent humanity stripped.

Her daughter called once a week but rarely visited. Too painful. Too heartbreaking to watch the woman with once-weary feet, tired from homemaking strapped to a leather chair. Too upsetting to see her buttocks raw & reddened, caused from scooting back-&-forth, back-&-forth in the chair. Too unfair to see her bed surrounded by zipped nets--reminiscent of a childhood crib.

Too sorrowful to know that it, the disease—the horrid, memory-robbing disease—would likely come for her too…

goodbye, psych.

i've been here a month. MONTH!!! time really has gone by quickly, despite my complaining & moaning about being so isolated. and above all else, my time away has allowed me to recalibrate myself...to spend time each day in the Word...& to appreciate my family, my husband, & my health on an entirely new level.

the purpose of these rotations is to open our eyes to what we love...& sometimes they do the exact opposite: this was one of those times. i don't like psychiatry. i don't like pumping my patients full of medication. i don't like not being able to laugh with them, talk with them, be real with them...i don't like the lack of mutual appreciation or the annoying tendencies so many of the patient's have.

my respect for psychiatrists has sky-rocketed. i'll be honest that prior to this rotation, i thought they were deep intellectuals who enjoyed pharmacology & analysis. and they are ...but they are so much more than that.

entertainment.

the patient's here have serious mental illnesses. many times, they are admitted and re-admitted to the hospital because there is no where else that can successfully manage their conditions. many patients take months, even years, to reach baseline after an exacerbation because they stopped taking their prescribed medications.

Ms. Layman is one of those patients.

she was admitted only a couple months ago, but her condition is severe. she has schizophrenia with some mood component...and she really truly believes that EVERYTHING in the world is about her or in reference to her.

officially, the term is "delusions of reference"--Ms. Layman thinks that the nurse who answered the phone is talking about her, that the doctor & patient chatting in the hallway are scheming against her, that the CNA who made her bed stole her lotions, and that everyone is out to get her.

Ms. Layman roams the hallways each day, interrupting conversations & making her presence known by shouting & carrying-on about her stolen lotions & tainted medications. she cannot be redirected or told to return to her room & wait--her attention span is that of a 3 year olds.

and although she is incredibly annoying at times, she actually is quite entertaining. here are some of the conversations she has kindly "responded" to, because you know, they are about her!

to top it all off, Ms. Layman suffers hearing loss...

[nurse. talking to another patient]...
Oh my! Is that what you think??
You got MILK!?!? I WANT SOME MILK!!! I knew it! You've been hiding it from me all day!!!

[nurse, saying goodbye to another staff member]...
Okay honey, have a great weekend!!!
MONEY!!!?!? I knew it! I KNEW you took my MONEY!!! Give me back my MONEY!!!

[nurse, on the phone with a patient advocate]...
...& you understand the risks??
Hey!! Hey you, on the phone!! Why you talkin' bout my breasts? There ain't nuthin' wrong wit' my breasts!

oh the joys...

geography.

210 miles apart.

starbucks on a wednesday night, one week ago.

same method. same moon. same Man in charge.

highlighters. coffee. iphones. review books.

technology is a blessing....

only in a psych hospital...

i'm just going to go ahead & make it clear that i'm not holding anything back in this post....so i apologize if you finish reading & realize you just learned way more than you ever wanted to know about me...& my bathroom habits.

i have gas. like bad gas. and although that was a part of me i was never planning on sharing with the world, if you've spent any extended period of time with me you'll quickly realize that YOU ALREADY KNOW THAT PART OF ME. unfortunately, i was born with an overly sensitive digestive system: white flour, processed foods, & dairy products typically don't bode too well. sure, i eat them anyway...i just have to make sure that i have a functioning bathroom nearby & a husband who falls asleep quickly, if you know what i mean...

so needless to say, my "diet" the last three weeks while i've been away hasn't been stellar. i pre-pack all my food, scared of what the cafeteria food might do to me. oatmeal each morning for breakfast with pumpkin & flax seeds. salad + protein for lunch. and dinner? well, dinner is another story...

on this particular day, i had to go to the bathroom. LIKE RIGHT NOW had to go to the bathroom. i was getting ready to leave the hospital but needed to pick up my bag & coat in the computer room. just as i rounded the corner of the stairwell, it hit me. i needed to find a bathroom...& i needed to find it five minutes ago.

i fumbled with my keys and managed to make my way through 2 locked doors in record time. i charged down the hallway & into the bathroom, conveniently located across the hall from the computer room.

i had 2 choices: stall A or stall B. i'd used stall A earlier in the day & decided, on a milli-second whim to go with stall B. so while i did the "potty dance", i threw myself into stall B, turned myself around to face the door, pulled my pants down & went to sit down...

which is when i realized that gravity was working far too well.

i caught myself just in time before my bare butt hit the cold tile floor.

in my dire effort to get myself to the toilet, i failed to notice that the glorious stall i had chosen DIDN'T HAVE A TOILET.

only in a psych hospital....

remembering "i do."

Hey, hey you…

She grabbed my sleeve as I tried to slip by through the locked door to the nurses station. But my escape was nearly impossible—her grip was strong & she was determined to talk to me. Her wheelchair sits parked by the entrance to the nurses station each day—from morning to night, only leaving for meals in the solarium & her daily washing by a nurses aid in the afternoon.

Hey…you know what?

What, I replied, trying to be patient. She still had a death-grip on my sleeve.

You know, I’ve been thinking.

Her eyes sparkled—i noticed that they were more alive than many of the patients on the floor. And behind the mask of age spots & wrinkles, underneath the overgrown gray hair & stained lime green sweatshirt, I saw a young girl. Twelve years old, or so.

I’ve been thinking that, when I grow up…I think I’d like to be a counselor.

Well you should! When you get out of here, you should be a counselor! I bet you could help lots of people after what you’ve been through…

Well, she hesitated for a moment, face coy she looked down, I just don’t think I have the mind for that….

I missed Jon. My mind just couldn’t wrap itself around the fact that our time living apart may someday be a thing of the past…and although this labile patient’s mood was kind today, I just didn’t want to listen to her. i wanted to be with my husband. Away from this place. Away from these people. Away from being forced to learn things I had no interest in.

…but you know what I really want to be!!?

Her grip on my sleeve loosened. The edges of her chapped lips curved upward.

I really want to be a wife. a really good wife to a good husband.

i was taken-aback.

Well…maybe someday, I replied as my mind tried to grasp what God had just shouted at me through an old woman pinned to a wheel chair.

I am one of the lucky ones. Of the millions of women in this country, this world, who long to find “their someone”—the ONE they feel that connection with, I HAD HIM. and certainly not by my own doing.

How had I ignored so much? Become so calloused as to not even breathe in the miracle of marriage? Of our marriage?

My keys jingled in my hand & after a few seconds I found the one I needed to unlock the door. But as I walked through it, I couldn’t help to glance back at her.

Thanks, God. I needed the reminder to be grateful for our marriage, our friendship, our love. Help me to trust you more.

hello, weekend.