Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Thanks, I'd Really Prefer to Fall on My Own Ass

The wine: Sagelands Cabernet Sauvignon, 2008. Nice little Washington State red, with good depth and blackberry/dark chocolate notes I absolutely adore. Never underestimate an $8 Fred Meyer wine.

The music: Hard Way Every Time, by Jim Croce, the first man I ever fell in love with. Sadly he was dead, and I was 10, at the time, so it had very little chance of working out. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bP5lymQugXI

Well Readers, you didn't really think I could stop writing for any length of time, did you? A writer writes. It is not a choice, anymore than breathing is a choice. The written word is my oxygen. And so, longing to breathe deeply and freely, here I am. Talking, which I do all day, everyday while treating patients, leaves me parched and tired. Writing, with good music and a good wine, is the ultimate restorative. And tonight, writing is about...getting back on the horse.

I've been thinking a lot this week about how I learn, as I stumble around like an idiot in a thorn bush through all kinds of new experiences. My new workplace is a large campus of buildings, and rather resembles a rabbit warren. I routinely get lost, and today, my first round of Well Senior screening visits took me twice as long as it really should have, because I kept getting lost. Yes, lost. Damned lost. Sweaty, clutching my clipboard, squinting into the distance, cannot-find-my-own-car-in-the-parking-lot, single tear lost.

I know you, Dear Reader, will not laugh at me when I tell you that I have had tours of these places not once, but three times now. And yet, I am still lost. This I admit only to you. Because here's the thing: when you are given a tour, your guide is talking to you. Out loud. The whole time. And you are expected to talk back. Out loud. The whole time. This helps me not at all. Because unfortunately, when I am talking, I am not touching, feeling, smelling, seeing and absorbing deeply my surroundings, what I need to do to develop that instinctual sense of place, that internal compass, that despite appearances, I am actually very good at. I learn by Braille.

And people, god bless them, WILL try to help you. Around every corner, some cheerful face asking you if you need directions, more well-intentioned yet distracting auditory input. I try to gently convey that I am not technically lost; I am wandering, exploring, and only by doing so can I find my own way. They seem hurt, even though I am kind. I can only really learn by doing it myself, by failing, by making wrong turns, by running blindly into walls. The only way to get really good at something is by being really bad at it for a long time.

My father likes to tell stories of the extremely independent five year old I used to be. According to him, I never wanted any help to do anything, and he still mocks me by repeating my favorite phrases: "DAD, I can do it! DAD, I can handle it. DAD, I can handle this job ALL BY MYSELF." The last one he sings, as he complains that my visit is too short, and I give him hugs for his "hug pocket" and call him a "Poor, neglected Senior!" We are, once again and always, Dad and Daughter, sitting on the riverbank, fishing as the sun comes up.

Tomorrow I will be less lost, better at whatever I am doing, because today I fell on my own ass and struggled back up, and so will my patients. The only way to get stronger is to lift more, run faster, breathe harder, face more than you think you can. You have to be willing to fall on your own ass, and struggle back up on your own, learn the hard way every time, to really get anywhere.

Monday, January 9, 2012

And Now, One Glorious Moment of Silence...

...to replace the one daft moment when I thought I would take a break from writing. I can't figure out how to remove the post, so I'm editing it. Re-writing history, if you will.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Sleepless in Seattle

It's 1:06 am and I am awake. I have been up for hours, wondering why I have been up for hours. I have had enough chemical help, frankly, to knock out a racehorse, and yet here I am. Still awake and running, just like a racehorse. Just as no amount of pain killer ever numbed me at the dentist, nothing, and I mean nothing, knocks me out enough to sleep. I read about someone like me once, a man who could not sleep more than an hour or so a night. Apparently, he finally made peace with his insomnia and earned an MD and a JD in his spare time. I've thought about that. I seem to have twice as much time as the average person. Might as well earn another degree or two. Apparently I've got the time.

In the movie "Midnight in Paris", which I wrote about a few days ago, Owen Wilson plays a character who just wanders the streets of Paris at midnight, and he eventually wanders into Paris in the 1920's, where he feels very much at home. Tonight, I cannot get that idea out of my head. I'm contemplating wandering the streets of Seattle at night, on the chance that I too might somehow wander into Paris in the twenties. No one would bother me, because I am not the sort people bother. I would be safely invisible.

After such a high flying week, I suppose it was inevitable I would sink down into reality tonight. Tomorrow, my blades will hit the ice, and there will be no sound except the slice of each blade across the virgin ice. The air will be cold on my face, and I will relax through motion. Every muscle that is now wound tight as a drum will find a happy release on the ice. There is a harness at the gym for practicing spins, attached to coiled cables. In it, you are freed from gravity, from concern of falling, fear of injury, and therefore you are free to be more than you could be before, on the ground. Like any sport, like writing or flying or fencing, it is a form of defying gravity, and once you do it, you get it. Life on the ground is often very painful. Why wouldn't you leave it?

Any art or sport is about defying gravity for a moment at a time. It is about leaving the ground, leaving behind the pain, the worries, the care, the unfulfilled dreams, the dashed hopes, the failures and unspoken truths we all carry around hidden in our pockets. Through art or sport we become more than ourselves, a better, edited version of who we really are. We cannot even hope to be perfect in real life, and some of us, like myself, stumble so miserably through any human experience that perfection through creation of a piece of art, or one perfect run, one perfect fencing bout, one perfect landing, one perfect spin is our only real shot at happiness.

Meanwhile, we wander. Through streets in the rain, through the winding pathways of our own minds and hearts, hoping to find what we are looking for if we just keep looking long enough. Might as well wander. I mean, I'm up. Maybe someday I'll run into happiness. Maybe I'll run into peace.

Maybe I'll run into Hemingway.

Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

The Law of Attraction

The music: Reina de la calle, by Orishas is the sound of "flow". I "discovered" this wonderful French Cuban Rap group a couple of summers ago when I was living in Jacksonville, Florida. Listening to it takes me back to that wonderful time, a time when I did exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, where I wanted to do it and with whom. I learned Salsa, ate tuna steaks and fruit every night, drank red wine and coconut water, ran because it felt so good to my body, hit A1A with a camera, a notebook, and a free spirit. I never wanted that feeling to end, and then I discovered, it didn't have to. Free your body and your mind will follow. Free your mind, and you're in for the ride of your life.

I've been thinking a lot today about The Law of Attraction. You know, that New Age idea that has had a lot of press recently, that basically states that what we think about, we attract into our lives. I've always been interested in these ideas, but I'm also a scientist. A part of me understands metaphysical ideas, feels them to have merit, experiences them as true and valid in my own life. Another part of me wants solid proof, a biological mechanism, a chemical equation. I may never get that. And yet, I continue to have experiences that seem to support the notion. Coincidence? Is there really such a thing? I'm not so sure anymore.

This morning as I rode the elevator down to my car, I started going through my mental checklist of my day. Things to talk to my director about, things to talk to my receptionist (and by receptionist, I mean Miracle Worker!) about, clinical issues, marketing issues, space and equipment needs, my new patient load...and suddenly, a shiver ran up and down my spine. Literally. I stopped dead in my tracks, and I thought, "My God. I got everything I asked for." And tears of joy spilled over, and I started laughing, right there on the second floor of the underground parking garage.

And I realized, it was all there. I'm doing what I want, where I want, with the people I want to do it with. I have exactly, exactly the opportunities for growth that I wanted. I have the level of responsibility I wanted, and the level of support that I needed. I have an incredible group of people to work with, learn from, and high five at the end of the day. The patients I am serving have an incredibly rich history that is so inspiring, the companies I work for are in line with my moral, ethical and professional beliefs. My learning curve has gone up at an exponential rate, I am already getting leadership opportunities. I get to practice, indeed build a specialty clinic, in exactly what makes me feel like a rock star. I got exactly what I wanted, the best possible version of what I envisioned. And incredibly (I almost hate to say this) it practically fell into my lap. I made a call, rather on a whim, because suddenly it seemed right. And the rest is history. Or, is it destiny?

These days, I'm having a hard time telling the difference. But here's what I know for sure. Ask and ye shall receive. Knock and the door will be opened unto you. My God, it really is true.

Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

White Coat Syndrome

The Music: Naci Orishas, by Orishas. What "Nothin' But Net" sounds like. Seeing them live is on my Bucket List, and apparently, that will have to be accomplished in Rio. Well, a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

I'm sure you've heard of it, maybe you have even experienced it yourself: when you go to see your health care provider, your heart rate goes up. Perhaps you begin to sweat more than usual. Your mouth goes dry. You begin to breath a little faster. You feel nervous, uncomfortable. You don't know exactly what is going to happen to you, and perhaps you feel vaguely worried and a little anxious. You might even feel very worried, extremely anxious, and like you are not in control of the situation.

This is called White Coat Syndrome, and it happens to many people with every medical appointment. This is why we speak in soothing voices, reassuring tones, and tell you everything that is happening as it happens. "You're going to feel my hands...okay, breathe out for me...this might feel a little cold/hot/sharp/tingly/uncomfortable...please tell me if you need to slow down/stop/sit down/lie down/vomit/pee/phone a friend..."

I thought a lot today about how it produces the opposite feeling for me, the health care provider. When I put on a white lab coat, I feel instantly calm, prepared, knowledgeable and equal to anything that is thrown at me. Instantly, I am able to go to that interior place I have always gone in deep thought, study and contemplation: that late night or early morning when everyone is asleep, and my desk lamp casts a small focused pool of light on my desk, on my book, dictionaries open, twirling my mechanical pencil between my fingers, a stack of 3x5 cards at the ready, hot Lemon Lift or Earl Gray fragrant, window open, winter or summer.

The night is large, learning is forever, I rise and fall on my own effort and merit and work. It calms me, this interior place, and my white lab coat is proof of that preparedness. In my doctoral program, we started our clinical education with a White Coat ceremony, we ended with a hooding ceremony. On stressful days, it is still a very comfortable place for me to go; I know who I am, where I've been, where I'm going and what is expected of me. I can carry pocket cards of lab values, machine settings, review cards of my syndromes-of-the-week, ticklers of hallmark symptoms, schedules, peppermints for patients to suck after vestibular testing (soothes nausea) and yes, lollipops and a red ball nose brings laughs on smiles in pediatrics AND geriatrics.

Day 2: Nothin' but net. The morning's rush as my receptionist comes in, hands me my patient files and helps me get into yet another computerized medical charting program as I sip a little tea, line up my equipment and review plans of care. She is a wonder, already we are women who respect each other, work steadily and quietly like a smoothly oiled machine, high-fives after the last patient of the day is seen safely out of the clinic. Hours later, my tea is cold, but I am grateful for it, hours of treating patients back to back has left me parched. I hang up my stethoscope and my white lab coat, and I am at home again.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

New Girl

The music: Anything, and everything, by Puccini, as sung tonight by Andrea Bocelli.
The wine: Windwhistle Cabernet, a gift, and lovely, but not as good as last night's Columbia Crest 2009 Cabernet, also a gift. Every gift should be wine, I think.

Around my neck, I wear a St. Christopher medal, engraved on the front "St. Christopher, pray for us" and on the back, "Ma Cher." Curled up next to me, my dear familiar, my very senior, forever young cat Bel. She missed me today, and even more than usual, patters after me and rubs me for attention. The medal, a reminder from one of my nearest and dearest, that I am not the first to face challenges, that to face them with humor and grace is an accomplishment in itself, that I am loved not for what I do but for who I am. Both remind me that I am not as alone in this world as I always feel myself to be.

For I am The New Girl. Perennially, it would seem. I have just completed another First Day, and I like to tell myself I completed it with grace and dignity. I am new somewhere about every fifteen minutes. You'd think I would be better at it by now. At some point, you'd think I would stop tripping over my own feet, others feet, the feet of innocent passersby. All of this is figurative of course, not literal. Well, most of it.

A day with 20 levels of user names and passwords, none of which worked or gave me access without assistance. A day where I was issued a key to the wrong door, got locked out of my own office with no way to get to my own phone to call for help, could not remember the path back to the hospital wing with the staff refrigerator where I left my lunch and got no caloric input or even a sip of water, because yea verily, I could not find a drinking fountain.

A day, during which my office phone was not installed, my notebook computer had print so tiny I developed severe forward head posture trying to read it, had an exacerbation of thoracic outlet syndrome and my arm went numb trying to figure out how to find patient files I desperately need to read before I shake the patient's hand in the morning. A day during which I spent precious hours on the phone with a cheeky teen in technical support, who at one point suggested, and I quote, "find a pen and write all this down." I did not explain I was locked out of my office, lost, hungry, thirsty and walking through the halls speaking on a cell phone I was not supposed to be on because my phone had not been installed, and when he called me back with an answer, he caught me in, yes, I'm woman enough to say it: the Little Therapist's room.

That's DOCTOR Can't Log On Without Technical Support to you, Son.

And no, I cannot find a pen, just now.

In between bouts of New Girl-ness, short pop-ins on my staff, to shake hands, to make sure everything in their day was going well, to remind them of reports I have just discovered needed to be submitted last week to assure Medicare payment (which I know because I've been here a full 15 minutes and managed to review scheduling and the tickler file), faxes and calls to referral sources for continuing orders. I know that tomorrow I will wake up and remember more than I think I will. I always do. The brain is amazing that way, and learns better under stress than we think it does.

And yet, I know all of this will get better. In a few days, I will no longer be the new girl, banging into corners that aren't supposed to be there, unable to finish simple tasks without asking questions because everything, everyone, everywhere, is new. Once again, I will feel myself competent, a fish IN water. I will not blink twice when my supervisor introduces me as "The Balance Whiz" and I will not wonder why everyone always thinks I am a "whiz." I am proud that today, I did have the presence of mind to be fully present, even for short moments, with the patients and staff for whom I am now responsible.

Because that is the one thing I am able to do, I think, be fully THERE when I am there. When you are in front of me, nothing else matters, nothing. Take my hands, look in my eyes, tell me where it hurts. I cannot log in, dial out, fax over, or tell you where I parked, but I CAN do THAT. I know that like St. Christopher of Assisi, I can hold still in the moment and the little bird will land on my hand.

And when I can finally find my way reliably back from the bathroom and log in to get my email, I will no longer be The New Girl. St. Christopher, pray for me.

Monday, January 2, 2012

The Bucket List

Oh, how I love a New Year. The blankness, the opportunity, the challenge. It touches the artist, the creator, the competitor in me. Three hundred sixty five unwritten days, shivers run up my spine just thinking about it. I have been a maker and lover of lists since I could put pen to paper, and have spent many a happy moment writing, rewriting, revising, spell-checking my lists. The optimal pen, the optimal paper, the carefully chosen tea to accompany the writing of the list. Although I used to make damn sure I had my list done by the stroke of midnight on January 1st of the new year, as you can see I have relaxed, and those monthly meetings of The Recovering Perfectionists Club have really helped. Here it is, 5:04 pm on January 2nd, and my list remains unwritten. (And I am reminded, I owe myself a newsletter).

As I write tonight, the Rosemary-Garlic Meatballs are baking for dinner, and my Smoked Salmon with Chive Cream Cheese and Cucumber wrap for tomorrow's lunch is made. Fruit is chopped, meals are planned, trousers are ironed, house has had it's weekly cleaning, my 2012 Entertainment Guide is registered, Saturday night is planned, and paper work is caught up. A glass of Columbia Crest Cabernet, Ponchielli's Dance of the Hours plays energetically, a great match for my mood tonight. Tonight, a working draft of The 2012 Bucket List. How to spend this year?

Let's brainstorm. Let's put it out there, and clean it up later. A work-in-progress, as all good Bucket Lists should be. This year, I would like to:

1. Take a hot air balloon ride.
2. Visit a respectable number of Washington State wineries, deepening my relationship with the Cabernet grape. Truly. My love knows no bounds on this one.
3. Order (and joyfully use!) my very own season ticket to the Pacific Northwest Ballet.
4. Take beginner series of adult ice skating lessons.
5. Run a 5K in six months, a 10-12K in 12 months, a half-marathon in 18 mos. Less if I progress sooner.
6. Visit my mother for regular dates to the theater, a love we share.
7. Call my friends and family on Sunday afternoons.
8. Set up Skype Book Club.
9. Complete Vestibular and Balance PT specialty certification over the next 24 months.
10. Re-establish myself at new fencing club, Salle Auriol. Follow-up with old coach John and new coach Yves.
11. Follow-up with flying instructor, establish goals and examine budget.
12. Use "I" statements in all of my relationships.
13. Attempt to sit still for 5 minutes per day for meditation and breathing. See where this goes, write about it. Work up to 10 minutes. Use running as a reward to get myself to sit still for this.

This seems a good place to stop, because a) my Rosemary Garlic Meatballs are done, b) 13 is my favorite number, and c) this will be dull as dirt reading to anyone besides myself.

What is on YOUR bucket list, Dear Reader?

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Midnight Rambler

In 14 minutes, it will be January 1st, 2012. A few hours ago, I made a plan to do one new thing each day, and write about it. A few hours later, that thought made me so tired I had to go lie down.

In between those two thoughts, I had a very full day, involving several bus rides, a long, impromptu but very informative tea ceremony during which I learned the exact difference between green tea, oolong tea, black tea and pu-erh tea, from a lovely gentleman who spoke very little English, a Chinese meal which I have unfortunately been regretting for the last eleven hours, a wander through several Asian Markets, a cup of ill-advised Ethiopian harrar during which I went from laughing to crying at the speed of light, and a run through a Seattle street to catch a bus home which left me not at all breathless but rather invigorated and proud of my recent return to running.

This day was supposed to end with a champagne toast at a lovely French restaurant in my neighborhood, the Bastille Cafe and Bar in Ballard, which I have recently discovered and am very excited about trying, as a replacement for my much-beloved Cafe Alsace and Babette's Cafe in Atlanta. Because of the Chinese meal, which was supposed to happen tomorrow but ended up happening today, my very adult and festive long-awaited trip to the Bastille did not happen. And that's okay. Because on the way to The Bastille, a funny thing happened...

I ended up watching the movie "Midnight in Paris", and falling in love with Hemingway, and writing, all over again. And I realized that the very thing I wanted to be doing at midnight was this. This. This putting pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, shoulder to the wheel. I work. I write. And therefore I am happy. I'm not really all that good at much else, not relationships, not family, not chit chat or patience or home design or poultry management. But occasionally, very, very occasionally, the angels sing, and I am good at this. When a good sentence happens, when I make a correct diagnosis and treatment goes well and a patient walks out of my office feeling better, it's my Midnight in Paris, my raison d'etre. Tonight I was reminded of that.

It is 12:01 am. I hear the fireworks outside. I hear Hemingway in my ear. Write one, good, true, honest sentence. Then write another one. Tear away all that is not truth. Invite the angels to whisper in your ear, and when they do, baby, believe me when I say, it's better than New Year's champagne.