We held a fantastic event at our medical school Wednesday night. We were a little disappointed in the student turn out, but otherwise, it was wonderful. We had a panel of eight female physicians speaking about being a woman in medicine. Seven of the eight are mothers, so there was a lot of discussion about pregnancy, babies and family. I was happy with the diversity of our panel. We had one Chinese doctor, a few Hispanics, a lesbian (who humorously advised us to wait until menopause and then let our partner carry the baby), a few Jewish doctors, and only two WASPs like me. Unfortunately, the two black doctors (I don’t like the term African American, which rarely applies to the frequently Caribbean born blacks in South Florida) who we invited were not able to attend, and neither were the Indian doctors. We are blessed with a diverse pool of professors and physicians associated with our school.
I wish we videotaped or had transcripts of the discussion. We got great advice, from having a fire drill-like plan of what to do if we get groped by a patient or a fellow physician (which has happened to members of the panel), to how to answer (or not answer) illegal questions in interviews about how soon we were planning on getting pregnant, how to manage when our kids are sick, and other wonderful bits of information and experience.
The next morning, I was driving 4 year old Z to school. He was sitting next to the big contraption the catering company rented to me to keep the food warm for the event. He was confused, somehow thinking it was for me to bring food to the people at the hospital. I explained to him that I was still in school to learn to be a doctor, then I would go to the hospital to help people.
Z paused for a second and then asked, thoughtfully, “When you are a doctor and you go to the doctor place, will you still be my mommy?”
“Yes,” I said. “I will always be your mommy.”
“Will you still come home to me?”
Oh, kid, you’re killing me. “Yes, I will still come home to you.” In my head, I was thinking, sometimes, during residency, it may seem like I don’t. But I will always come home, eventually. When all the babies are born, all the sutures are closed, all the cases are presented, I will come home. And I will try to find out about your homework and listen to you and hug you and kiss you before I collapse into bed.
Mom TFH is one of the oldest people at her medical school. The other students learn from her various valuable life experieces: as a pizza delivery driver, a Denny's waitress, an art major, a health food store manager, a purple haired punk, a natural supplement researcher, a midwifery student, and a mother. She has two boys and is married to a public elementary school PE coach. Going to med school just didn't keep her away from them enough, so she is doing a dual degree (D.O./M.P.H.), is the president of the ob/gyn interest club, and applied for a research fellowship.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
I'm the doctor my mother wanted me to marry
When I first started medical school, I had not yet started dating the man I was to marry and I had only an inkling of what qualities I wanted to find in that man. Sense of humor? Probably. Brilliant? Definitely. Tall, dark, and handsome? Sure. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I didn't want him to be a doctor.
I had a stereotype in my head of male doctors as men who were constantly chased after by women, regardless of their looks or personality. I figured male doctors believed they could have any woman they wanted, and I didn't want anything to do with a man like that. Modesty is a quality I value highly in the opposite sex.
Over the course of my medical training, I've met a lot of men who fit that stereotype to a tee. It's been frustrating seeing the way (some) female nurses swoon over my male counterparts. I've been shocked at the attention some of my male colleagues have received from the opposite sex, when it was clear they would have had trouble even getting a date if they were in a lot of other professions. It's especially frustrating for a female physician to observe this, since a lot of men are intimidated by our profession; whereas a male physician is "a catch". Damn double standards.
Of course, I've met a lot of male physicians who have proved me wrong. (Mostly, those men didn't become surgeons.)
So in the end, I didn't end up marrying a physician. He's in the sciences as well, but not medicine. Although it might be nice if he could understand some of the more medically complicated stories from my day, I'm usually pretty glad I veered away from marrying a doctor. I wouldn't want to come home to a doctor any more than I want to come home and turn on House, MD. He's my much-needed escape from the medical world.
Another unexpected added benefit of not being married to a doctor is that now that we have a child, we don't have to concern ourselves with working out our call schedules so that at least one of us is always home. He's home every night. Lucky bastard.
But I'm sure lots of women out there will assure me that being married to a male doc is all that and more, as long as you find the right one.
I had a stereotype in my head of male doctors as men who were constantly chased after by women, regardless of their looks or personality. I figured male doctors believed they could have any woman they wanted, and I didn't want anything to do with a man like that. Modesty is a quality I value highly in the opposite sex.
Over the course of my medical training, I've met a lot of men who fit that stereotype to a tee. It's been frustrating seeing the way (some) female nurses swoon over my male counterparts. I've been shocked at the attention some of my male colleagues have received from the opposite sex, when it was clear they would have had trouble even getting a date if they were in a lot of other professions. It's especially frustrating for a female physician to observe this, since a lot of men are intimidated by our profession; whereas a male physician is "a catch". Damn double standards.
Of course, I've met a lot of male physicians who have proved me wrong. (Mostly, those men didn't become surgeons.)
So in the end, I didn't end up marrying a physician. He's in the sciences as well, but not medicine. Although it might be nice if he could understand some of the more medically complicated stories from my day, I'm usually pretty glad I veered away from marrying a doctor. I wouldn't want to come home to a doctor any more than I want to come home and turn on House, MD. He's my much-needed escape from the medical world.
Another unexpected added benefit of not being married to a doctor is that now that we have a child, we don't have to concern ourselves with working out our call schedules so that at least one of us is always home. He's home every night. Lucky bastard.
But I'm sure lots of women out there will assure me that being married to a male doc is all that and more, as long as you find the right one.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Boys and Girls
So we have a girl now. And they are different than boys. With Son, I'd just lift up the penis and wipe up any poop on it.
With Daughter, poop gets mashed in between the labia, and I'm entirely freaked out using the wipes on such a sensitive area. And what if I inadvertently shove some fecal matter into her urethra? The state may not allow me to complete this adoption if I were to cause UTIs.
Husband laughs because I've had all this fancy training and I can't change a diaper.
To tell the truth, I've never been much into newborns, but this kid is special. She's mine.
We are having a stellar holiday season thus far. I hope your families are enjoying this season, too.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Guest Post: Do-It-Yourself...?
Every day, I grope for new ideas to save time and help get everything done, despite knowing *it won't ever all get done*. I usually manage to just keep my head above water, but there's always this panicky feeling of near drowning in the sea of work.
It is popular everywhere, evidently, to employ physician extenders to help get it all done. PAs triage patients in the ER and treat the more straightforward problems. Nurse practitioners make rounds on the critical care patients and the cancer patients, writing the detailed progress notes before the doctors arrive. They do casting for the orthopedists and see routine followups at the family practitioner's office. There's even a push for them to write prescriptions, although that's not happened yet in our state.
One of my partners has a PA. He sees 90% of his post-op patients at followup in the office, sees new hospital consults, does all his medical records, and screens all his incoming pages on call. He also often is the only person to see my hospital inpatients on the weekends when they're on call. This frees my partner up to be more productive and to have more time at home with his family.
So what's the matter with me? I admit, it's been very tempting to engage a PA myself. I'd love to have someone else dictate all those discharge summaries. I might even be able to see my family 5 nights a week instead of 3. How can that be a bad thing? Why don't I just hire somebody to help? *Everybody else is doing it!*
I just can't do it. Maybe it's a little OCD, but I keep hearing my mom saying to me years ago, "If you want a job done right, do it yourself." It's the mantra of my Type A surgical personality. I know you can't really do *everything* yourself, which is why we have an office staff. But when it comes to patient care, it's a different story.
My patients come to me because they trust me to help them. Most are in pain or critically ill, and they're vulnerable in so many ways. They are *my* responsibility. No one else can evaluate them initially, because I have to make the decisions about what patients need surgery. No one without surgical training can or should do that. In the hospital postop, there are so many subtle things that can go wrong, I don't feel comfortable letting anyone else other than my partners make rounds. (I dislike my partner's PA seeing my patients when they're on call, and my patients have told me they don't like it, either.)
In the office postop, patients want to see their surgeon, not somebody else. I want to see them, because it's rewarding seeing how they've (usually) improved as a result of what I've done. I hear patients complain frequently that "when I go to my family doctor, I never see him, just the nurse practitioner." (That attitude may be unfair to a very good nurse practitioner, but it's that patient's real response.) To me, it's important to nurture my rapport with each patient. I can't do that if I don't see them and talk to them.
There are real legal issues, too. If my PA misses something resulting in a bad outcome, that's my responsibility, and I take the heat. If my PA doesn't document something adequately, that can mushroom into a huge problem under the right circumstances. And if I check everything a PA does, it's not worth having them, because I might as well just do the work myself.
This is not to insult physicians who employ physician extenders or to insult the physician extenders themselves. It may be that with the growing population and the physician shortage, my approach may not be workable or realistic, just like house calls are a thing of the past. I may one day eat these words.
But for now, I'll keep treading water, doing my own thing.
gcs 15 is a 39 year old full-time neurosurgeon in private practice in a beautiful Southern state. She has a 10 year old son who plays travel soccer and ice hockey. Her wonderful, Type B husband is a primary care MD who quit medicine to be a college professor and loves teaching premed students. She adores her job but hates the politics involved in the practice of medicine. She's always struggling to find ways to get more hours in the day.
It is popular everywhere, evidently, to employ physician extenders to help get it all done. PAs triage patients in the ER and treat the more straightforward problems. Nurse practitioners make rounds on the critical care patients and the cancer patients, writing the detailed progress notes before the doctors arrive. They do casting for the orthopedists and see routine followups at the family practitioner's office. There's even a push for them to write prescriptions, although that's not happened yet in our state.
One of my partners has a PA. He sees 90% of his post-op patients at followup in the office, sees new hospital consults, does all his medical records, and screens all his incoming pages on call. He also often is the only person to see my hospital inpatients on the weekends when they're on call. This frees my partner up to be more productive and to have more time at home with his family.
So what's the matter with me? I admit, it's been very tempting to engage a PA myself. I'd love to have someone else dictate all those discharge summaries. I might even be able to see my family 5 nights a week instead of 3. How can that be a bad thing? Why don't I just hire somebody to help? *Everybody else is doing it!*
I just can't do it. Maybe it's a little OCD, but I keep hearing my mom saying to me years ago, "If you want a job done right, do it yourself." It's the mantra of my Type A surgical personality. I know you can't really do *everything* yourself, which is why we have an office staff. But when it comes to patient care, it's a different story.
My patients come to me because they trust me to help them. Most are in pain or critically ill, and they're vulnerable in so many ways. They are *my* responsibility. No one else can evaluate them initially, because I have to make the decisions about what patients need surgery. No one without surgical training can or should do that. In the hospital postop, there are so many subtle things that can go wrong, I don't feel comfortable letting anyone else other than my partners make rounds. (I dislike my partner's PA seeing my patients when they're on call, and my patients have told me they don't like it, either.)
In the office postop, patients want to see their surgeon, not somebody else. I want to see them, because it's rewarding seeing how they've (usually) improved as a result of what I've done. I hear patients complain frequently that "when I go to my family doctor, I never see him, just the nurse practitioner." (That attitude may be unfair to a very good nurse practitioner, but it's that patient's real response.) To me, it's important to nurture my rapport with each patient. I can't do that if I don't see them and talk to them.
There are real legal issues, too. If my PA misses something resulting in a bad outcome, that's my responsibility, and I take the heat. If my PA doesn't document something adequately, that can mushroom into a huge problem under the right circumstances. And if I check everything a PA does, it's not worth having them, because I might as well just do the work myself.
This is not to insult physicians who employ physician extenders or to insult the physician extenders themselves. It may be that with the growing population and the physician shortage, my approach may not be workable or realistic, just like house calls are a thing of the past. I may one day eat these words.
But for now, I'll keep treading water, doing my own thing.
gcs 15 is a 39 year old full-time neurosurgeon in private practice in a beautiful Southern state. She has a 10 year old son who plays travel soccer and ice hockey. Her wonderful, Type B husband is a primary care MD who quit medicine to be a college professor and loves teaching premed students. She adores her job but hates the politics involved in the practice of medicine. She's always struggling to find ways to get more hours in the day.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Code Indigo
The season's first snow is falling. It's raw and grey outside the hospital. Inside, Ella Fitzgerald croons a languid "White Christmas" from the internet radio station. We're wrapping up at the O.R. desk after an uneventful morning case.
"Attention all personnel. Attention all personnel. Code Indigo, third floor. Code Indigo, third floor."
I look at the nurses. "Indigo? Which one's that one again?"
Every hospital has coded security alerts for unusual events - emergency room on diversion, airway crisis or cardiac arrest, infant abduction, bomb threat, unruly patient or family member, etc. I don't recall having heard a Code Indigo* recently.
"Missing patient," says one of the nurses.
"Probably just went out for a smoke," says another.
I go to do post-op rounds. The all-clear sounds overhead for the Code Indigo. But when I get to the post-partum ward, a nurse there tells me as I leaf through a patient's chart, "Don't bother. You won't find that patient."
"Breast-feeding class?"
"No. Just gone. That was the Code Indigo."
"Oh! I thought I heard an all-clear a while back."
"Yeah, because the patient's definitively gone. Baby's still here, though. Wanna see?"
She lifts a swaddled bundle of warm, sleepy perfection out of a bassinette. The baby starts drinking formula from a small bottle the nurse is holding.
I start to think of another baby, a patient I had had to discharge to a foster parent during my internship. The baby had been hospitalized with bilateral spiral femur fractures. Yet every time I approached his crib to examine him, his face would light up with a bright smile that held nothing but joy. After I turned him over to foster care, I went into the call room, called my husband, and sobbed on the phone to him, utterly disconsolate.
My mind starts churning around my current situation, trying to figure out if there's some way we could take care of this baby ourselves. But of course we're not at all prepared for a decision like that right now; all I can do is call the social worker and make sure she's on top of what needs to be done to get this child into a suitable pre-adoptive home. It seems like such a small, ineffective measure to take.
The snow has turned into something a little wetter and clumpier. It's dark by midafternoon on days like this. I've turned on a mix of Christmas music - a little Nutcracker, some Kathleen Battle, a little Boston Pops and Leroy Anderson. I go back up to the nursery to hold the baby. The nurses welcome the break.
"Here, Dr. T - have a seat right here."
The baby sleeps in my arms. His cheeks bulge out like rosy little fruits. He is totally at peace. He has no idea that either nobody loves him at all, or someone loves him so much that she felt she had to set him free. He is blissfully unaware that he is alone in the world. Abandoned.
"At least she didn't try to flush him down the toilet, like the kid we got last week."
Thank heaven for small blessings.
Advent starts today: the liturgical prelude to the Christmas season, and the new beginning of the liturgical year. There's something in the baby's given name that conjures up images of light. Light, on this grey, darkening day.
"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light." I wish, I wish, I wish.
I start humming the baby a lullaby. My favorite song of the season, half ancient chant, half carol for a newborn.
O Come, O Come Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lonely exile here
until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice -
Emmanuel shall come to thee,
O Israel.
I hope this baby gets his Christmas wish, the wish all babies are born with: a wish for love, for a life that matters, and for a world of hope to be cradled in.
*(Not the actual alert used.)
Cross-posted at Notes of an Anesthesioboist.
"Attention all personnel. Attention all personnel. Code Indigo, third floor. Code Indigo, third floor."
I look at the nurses. "Indigo? Which one's that one again?"
Every hospital has coded security alerts for unusual events - emergency room on diversion, airway crisis or cardiac arrest, infant abduction, bomb threat, unruly patient or family member, etc. I don't recall having heard a Code Indigo* recently.
"Missing patient," says one of the nurses.
"Probably just went out for a smoke," says another.
I go to do post-op rounds. The all-clear sounds overhead for the Code Indigo. But when I get to the post-partum ward, a nurse there tells me as I leaf through a patient's chart, "Don't bother. You won't find that patient."
"Breast-feeding class?"
"No. Just gone. That was the Code Indigo."
"Oh! I thought I heard an all-clear a while back."
"Yeah, because the patient's definitively gone. Baby's still here, though. Wanna see?"
She lifts a swaddled bundle of warm, sleepy perfection out of a bassinette. The baby starts drinking formula from a small bottle the nurse is holding.
I start to think of another baby, a patient I had had to discharge to a foster parent during my internship. The baby had been hospitalized with bilateral spiral femur fractures. Yet every time I approached his crib to examine him, his face would light up with a bright smile that held nothing but joy. After I turned him over to foster care, I went into the call room, called my husband, and sobbed on the phone to him, utterly disconsolate.
My mind starts churning around my current situation, trying to figure out if there's some way we could take care of this baby ourselves. But of course we're not at all prepared for a decision like that right now; all I can do is call the social worker and make sure she's on top of what needs to be done to get this child into a suitable pre-adoptive home. It seems like such a small, ineffective measure to take.
The snow has turned into something a little wetter and clumpier. It's dark by midafternoon on days like this. I've turned on a mix of Christmas music - a little Nutcracker, some Kathleen Battle, a little Boston Pops and Leroy Anderson. I go back up to the nursery to hold the baby. The nurses welcome the break.
"Here, Dr. T - have a seat right here."
The baby sleeps in my arms. His cheeks bulge out like rosy little fruits. He is totally at peace. He has no idea that either nobody loves him at all, or someone loves him so much that she felt she had to set him free. He is blissfully unaware that he is alone in the world. Abandoned.
"At least she didn't try to flush him down the toilet, like the kid we got last week."
Thank heaven for small blessings.
Advent starts today: the liturgical prelude to the Christmas season, and the new beginning of the liturgical year. There's something in the baby's given name that conjures up images of light. Light, on this grey, darkening day.
"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light." I wish, I wish, I wish.
I start humming the baby a lullaby. My favorite song of the season, half ancient chant, half carol for a newborn.
O Come, O Come Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lonely exile here
until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice -
Emmanuel shall come to thee,
O Israel.
I hope this baby gets his Christmas wish, the wish all babies are born with: a wish for love, for a life that matters, and for a world of hope to be cradled in.
*(Not the actual alert used.)
Cross-posted at Notes of an Anesthesioboist.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Round 3
I am a Mom of 2 kids and now soon to be 3....yes, I know it's crazy but despite the tough balancing act, my children are the best thing that has happened to me so we have decided to add one more.
It's been very interesting sharing the news of my pregnancy with colleagues, family and friends. The response I get is different for this third pregnancy.
With my first pregnancy, people were generally very excited for me. I was embarking into the world of parenting and people congratulated the decision and celebrated the novelty with me. I got lots of advice on how to manage the pregnancy and what to savour BEFORE the kids come.
With my second pregnancy, people seemed to react as though it was the natural next step. It was more a 'matter of fact' and parents with multiple children shared parenting advice on how to cope with the extra chaos.
With the third pregnancy, I find that the reactions depend on personal situations:
Those who are not yet married, or married without children, think I'm crazy to go for a third (they just can't relate);
Those with three children of their own celebrate the news and reassure me that life will just get better;
Those with two children (young and old) all recount to me how they came to the decision NOT to have a third, as if my news has made them revisit their decision;
And those with only one child feel the need to explain why they haven't yet had a second!
Ironically, even my husband has found the same trend in responses.
Regardless, we are absolutely thrilled and praying for a healthy pregnancy and baby and eager to hear any advice on going from 2 to 3!
Happy Thanksgiving!
It's been very interesting sharing the news of my pregnancy with colleagues, family and friends. The response I get is different for this third pregnancy.
With my first pregnancy, people were generally very excited for me. I was embarking into the world of parenting and people congratulated the decision and celebrated the novelty with me. I got lots of advice on how to manage the pregnancy and what to savour BEFORE the kids come.
With my second pregnancy, people seemed to react as though it was the natural next step. It was more a 'matter of fact' and parents with multiple children shared parenting advice on how to cope with the extra chaos.
With the third pregnancy, I find that the reactions depend on personal situations:
Those who are not yet married, or married without children, think I'm crazy to go for a third (they just can't relate);
Those with three children of their own celebrate the news and reassure me that life will just get better;
Those with two children (young and old) all recount to me how they came to the decision NOT to have a third, as if my news has made them revisit their decision;
And those with only one child feel the need to explain why they haven't yet had a second!
Ironically, even my husband has found the same trend in responses.
Regardless, we are absolutely thrilled and praying for a healthy pregnancy and baby and eager to hear any advice on going from 2 to 3!
Happy Thanksgiving!
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
A Lesson for Youngest - and his mom
I'm often asked to speak at support group meetings for the various conditions I see in my practice. I try to go to as many of these as I can; it's a great way to meet with individuals on an informal basis. Many of these patients don't have much insight or knowledge about their condition (or worse, have a skewed picture of the future based on misinformation), and I hope I can change some of that in the time I spend with them. As could be expected, in my attempts to balance work and home, I occasionally run across some problems with time constraints. This happened a few months ago. I had promised a group that I would meet with them, but the week became filled with mandatory department conferences and other events which kept me away from home, so on the evening I was scheduled with the support group I was greeted with a chorus of "You're going where? Why can't you stay here for a night?" In a desperate attempt to spend some time with my boys, I asked them if they wanted to come with me. Eldest declined with a bit of a sneer, but Youngest jumped up with enthusiasm. His question, though, gave me a bit of cause for concern: "Can I bring my GameBoy?"
As we pulled into the parking lot of the church where the meeting was being held we could see a steady stream of cars pulling up to the entrance. We parked in a far corner of the parking lot and while we walked to the building we watched people in wheelchairs and using walkers approaching the doorway and struggling to get through. As we got closer, I suggested that Youngest might want to hold the door for some of the people we saw. He looked at me sideways, but then ran ahead. I could hear him talking to a couple wrestling with the door (which didn't have any modifications for people with disabilities); then with a smile, he opened the door as wide as he could so that the husband could push his wife through. After he assisted a few more individuals it was time for the meeting to start.
Before I knew it, Youngest was talking with the facilitator of the group and passing around cookies and punch to the members there. He sat quietly while I spoke to the group and answered questions without bringing out his electronic toy once. As the evening was winding down, I was approached by a woman who had been sitting quietly in the back. It was obviously difficult for her to move forward, even with the rolling walker she was using. Watching Youngest's face, it was apparent that he felt removed from this group. I could almost read his thoughts, "Poor folks; too bad they contracted this disease. Thank God it will never happen to me." The woman thanked me for the information I had provided, and the enthusiasm and encouragement she felt I had brought to the group. And then she said, "You know, I've been battling this since I was 16 years old. I never thought I'd be around this long." Youngest's mouth dropped wide open at this point - with just a few words, this woman had made him realize that none of us are immune to whatever it is that our futures hold. Before I could say anything, Youngest had moved next to the woman and said, "I'm so sorry to hear that. May I give you a hug?" While I answered questions for another person in the group, I could see Youngest speaking softly with the woman.
Afterwards, he and I helped the facilitator clean up the napkins and cups. Youngest didn't say anything while he gathered up debris and placed it in the trash can. As we began to walk through the now-quiet parking lot toward our car I said, "I'm proud of you. I think you did a very nice thing tonight."
His response was typical pre-teen. "WhatEVER, Mom. Race you to the car!"
I wasn't sure how much of that evening Youngest retained, or what an impact it had made upon him until recently. As we were talking about the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, Youngest suddenly blurted out, "I guess we can all be thankful that we're healthy, right?"
Right, son. And I'm thankful for lessons that are learned without trying.
And to all of you - I wish you a healthy, happy Thanksgiving (and quick healing to you, Happy Mom).
A
As we pulled into the parking lot of the church where the meeting was being held we could see a steady stream of cars pulling up to the entrance. We parked in a far corner of the parking lot and while we walked to the building we watched people in wheelchairs and using walkers approaching the doorway and struggling to get through. As we got closer, I suggested that Youngest might want to hold the door for some of the people we saw. He looked at me sideways, but then ran ahead. I could hear him talking to a couple wrestling with the door (which didn't have any modifications for people with disabilities); then with a smile, he opened the door as wide as he could so that the husband could push his wife through. After he assisted a few more individuals it was time for the meeting to start.
Before I knew it, Youngest was talking with the facilitator of the group and passing around cookies and punch to the members there. He sat quietly while I spoke to the group and answered questions without bringing out his electronic toy once. As the evening was winding down, I was approached by a woman who had been sitting quietly in the back. It was obviously difficult for her to move forward, even with the rolling walker she was using. Watching Youngest's face, it was apparent that he felt removed from this group. I could almost read his thoughts, "Poor folks; too bad they contracted this disease. Thank God it will never happen to me." The woman thanked me for the information I had provided, and the enthusiasm and encouragement she felt I had brought to the group. And then she said, "You know, I've been battling this since I was 16 years old. I never thought I'd be around this long." Youngest's mouth dropped wide open at this point - with just a few words, this woman had made him realize that none of us are immune to whatever it is that our futures hold. Before I could say anything, Youngest had moved next to the woman and said, "I'm so sorry to hear that. May I give you a hug?" While I answered questions for another person in the group, I could see Youngest speaking softly with the woman.
Afterwards, he and I helped the facilitator clean up the napkins and cups. Youngest didn't say anything while he gathered up debris and placed it in the trash can. As we began to walk through the now-quiet parking lot toward our car I said, "I'm proud of you. I think you did a very nice thing tonight."
His response was typical pre-teen. "WhatEVER, Mom. Race you to the car!"
I wasn't sure how much of that evening Youngest retained, or what an impact it had made upon him until recently. As we were talking about the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, Youngest suddenly blurted out, "I guess we can all be thankful that we're healthy, right?"
Right, son. And I'm thankful for lessons that are learned without trying.
And to all of you - I wish you a healthy, happy Thanksgiving (and quick healing to you, Happy Mom).
A
Monday, November 24, 2008
Seriously, I wanna know...
What are your plans for Thanksgiving? Do you cook the turkey, stuffing, potatos, greenbean casserole or do you eat nontraditional fare? Have you tried a prepared dinner from a grocery store?
Sunday, November 23, 2008
I could never be a pediatrician...
When I was first starting med school, I was Peds Girl. I was joined the Peds Club, I helped organize Peds Playroom in the hospital, and I loved kids. I was fiercely insistent on my future career choice.
Professor (who was also an orthopedic surgeon): "So what field do YOU want to do?"
Me: "Pediatrics."
Prof: "Christ, what a waste. You may as well become a veterinarian."
Me: "Um."
Prof: "You know you won't make any money in general peds."
Me: "I may specialize in pediatric endocrinology."
Prof: "They make even LESS."
Actually, I think if you do pediatric endocrinology, instead of getting a paycheck, they remove money from your bank account each month. So you really have to love it.
In planning my third year schedule, I took peds as my third rotation. If there's a specialty you think you really want to do, you're supposed to do it third. That way, you can decide early on if it's really for you, but it's not so early in the year that you're still a bumbling idiot.
Long story short, I'm not a pediatrician. I could say I hated the parents or that I had trouble looking in tiny ears, but really, it was that I couldn't deal with the sick kids... I mean, the REALLY sick kids. There was nothing more heartbreaking to me than an ill child. Even reading a fictional clinical vignette about a child with cancer ruined my day. It didn't matter to me that I was helping them or even saving their lives... I just couldn't bear it.
And now that I have a child, I am doubly glad that I made this decision. Every time I pass the peds floor in the hospital and hear children crying, I think of my daughter and my heart aches. Maybe I would have grown accustomed to it. I don't know. I'm grateful other doctors are able to distance themselves enough that they can do this kind of work.
Luckily, sick adults don't make me nearly as sad.
Professor (who was also an orthopedic surgeon): "So what field do YOU want to do?"
Me: "Pediatrics."
Prof: "Christ, what a waste. You may as well become a veterinarian."
Me: "Um."
Prof: "You know you won't make any money in general peds."
Me: "I may specialize in pediatric endocrinology."
Prof: "They make even LESS."
Actually, I think if you do pediatric endocrinology, instead of getting a paycheck, they remove money from your bank account each month. So you really have to love it.
In planning my third year schedule, I took peds as my third rotation. If there's a specialty you think you really want to do, you're supposed to do it third. That way, you can decide early on if it's really for you, but it's not so early in the year that you're still a bumbling idiot.
Long story short, I'm not a pediatrician. I could say I hated the parents or that I had trouble looking in tiny ears, but really, it was that I couldn't deal with the sick kids... I mean, the REALLY sick kids. There was nothing more heartbreaking to me than an ill child. Even reading a fictional clinical vignette about a child with cancer ruined my day. It didn't matter to me that I was helping them or even saving their lives... I just couldn't bear it.
And now that I have a child, I am doubly glad that I made this decision. Every time I pass the peds floor in the hospital and hear children crying, I think of my daughter and my heart aches. Maybe I would have grown accustomed to it. I don't know. I'm grateful other doctors are able to distance themselves enough that they can do this kind of work.
Luckily, sick adults don't make me nearly as sad.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Extending the invitation
After Thanksgiving Dinner last year, my husband and I decided we would henceforth make an effort to invite people over who may not have family or friends nearby to spend the holiday with. Our house was feeling so warm and festive, dinner was so lovely, and it seemed a shame that we didn't have more people over to share it with. A new family tradition. One that I wanted my children to grow up with.
I can't believe I almost forgot about this.
So, today, I started to think of who I should ask. How does one go about inviting someone over? I didn't want to make someone feel self-conscious about it, like, Hey, since you seem like you have no friends or family...
I decided to start with a general probe. I asked a co-worker whether she had family in the area. (Yes) Great! Back to the drawing board.
Driving home, I thought of one of my residents. The more I thought of him, the more I thought he might really appreciate an invitation. I impulsively called him. "Hey, do you have plans for Thanksgiving?"
"Why do you ask?"
It turned out well. He said he really appreciated the invitation and he'd get back to me. He also asked whether this could extend to some of his colleagues. "Sure," I said. Smiling.
I hung up and felt the most amazing rush of, well, euphoria. The thought of opening our home to residents who might otherwise be alone on Thanksgiving filled me with immense joy. I'm hoping, hoping that we'll have extra guests at the table on Thursday. And even if they don't come, this feeling of just extending the invitation is pretty awesome.
I can't believe I almost forgot about this.
So, today, I started to think of who I should ask. How does one go about inviting someone over? I didn't want to make someone feel self-conscious about it, like, Hey, since you seem like you have no friends or family...
I decided to start with a general probe. I asked a co-worker whether she had family in the area. (Yes) Great! Back to the drawing board.
Driving home, I thought of one of my residents. The more I thought of him, the more I thought he might really appreciate an invitation. I impulsively called him. "Hey, do you have plans for Thanksgiving?"
"Why do you ask?"
It turned out well. He said he really appreciated the invitation and he'd get back to me. He also asked whether this could extend to some of his colleagues. "Sure," I said. Smiling.
I hung up and felt the most amazing rush of, well, euphoria. The thought of opening our home to residents who might otherwise be alone on Thanksgiving filled me with immense joy. I'm hoping, hoping that we'll have extra guests at the table on Thursday. And even if they don't come, this feeling of just extending the invitation is pretty awesome.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Pay it Forward
There’s been some sadness at our house recently. To be perfectly honest, the holidays have been the last thing on my mind. Wallowing a little too much in self pity, has become a hobby over the last week or two…. but today was different.
I had a great day.
The morning office went surprisingly smooth. I escaped for lunch to meet my husband and son at Cracker Barrel. This is quite a treat, I rarely get a full lunch hour, rarer still to get to leave the hospital. We had a pleasant lunch. Boy Genius was thrilled to get pancakes for lunch (husband also ate “second breakfast”). As we finished eating, I noticed that a few tables over was a lady sitting alone. Shortly there after, she came over to our table and with a huge smile handed my son a crisp one dollar bill and said “Happy Thanksgiving.” She then proceeded to take a our check and say “I’m going to take care of your lunch, and Yall have a blessed day!”
I was quite flabbergasted. I tried to protest, but she gave me a motherly “don’t even think about it “look. So we simply said “ thanks” as she walked away.
Her random kindness invigorated my spirit. I’ve spent the whole rest of the afternoon thinking of ways I could pass on blessings to others.
This may seem like a cheesy e-mail spam story… but I promise it happened to me today. My sadness is still there, but the self pity is gone and replaced with the reminder that this is the season to be thankful of our blessings and look for every way we can to bless others.
I had a great day.
The morning office went surprisingly smooth. I escaped for lunch to meet my husband and son at Cracker Barrel. This is quite a treat, I rarely get a full lunch hour, rarer still to get to leave the hospital. We had a pleasant lunch. Boy Genius was thrilled to get pancakes for lunch (husband also ate “second breakfast”). As we finished eating, I noticed that a few tables over was a lady sitting alone. Shortly there after, she came over to our table and with a huge smile handed my son a crisp one dollar bill and said “Happy Thanksgiving.” She then proceeded to take a our check and say “I’m going to take care of your lunch, and Yall have a blessed day!”
I was quite flabbergasted. I tried to protest, but she gave me a motherly “don’t even think about it “look. So we simply said “ thanks” as she walked away.
Her random kindness invigorated my spirit. I’ve spent the whole rest of the afternoon thinking of ways I could pass on blessings to others.
This may seem like a cheesy e-mail spam story… but I promise it happened to me today. My sadness is still there, but the self pity is gone and replaced with the reminder that this is the season to be thankful of our blessings and look for every way we can to bless others.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Twisted for Twilight
As an avid reader, I pick and choose across the genres of fiction and nonfiction. I am an equal opportunity consumer of the printed page. When looking up my member card at Barnes and Nobles, the cashier says "Oh, I see you come here often." Basically I'm looking for a good story - the kind that is hard to put down, will make me schedule my lunch hour in a quiet location just to get through a couple of chapters. Now as I write blog posts and dabble in fiction, I find myself asking what makes a good story.
Can't tell you what made me pick up Twilight. Maybe it's the buzz about the movie that I've read on other blogs. Maybe it's that desire to have a reading feeding frenzy. Stephanie Meyer hooked me - through all four books and the trials of Bella and Edward. Couldn't put them down until I finished them all. Went back to Barnes and Nobles on a Sunday night to buy the third and fourth because I couldn't wait for USPS to bring my Amazon delivery. Emersed in this world of "vegetarian" vampires, I find myself having philosophical discussions about the books with my teen patients.
Now the movie is coming out this weekend, and I'm trying to figure out how to get my boys to go see it with me. Movies are a shared passion between my two sons and myself. Husband bows out graciously whenever we go because he says he can nap for free at home. Sometimes finding common ground between the three of us is tough. The oldest likes action, noise, and can follow the twists and turns of plots well. The younger (age seven) son still likes animated films, but doesn't do scary well. I like a clever plot with not too much violence. So I'm thinking that I can sell this movie to my kids as kind of action-adventure and still get my romantic, girly fix.
Trying to explain this preoccupation with high school vampires eludes me. Is it the classic girl meets boy story? Is it the element of danger in Bella's longing for a vampire boyfriend with pulsing teenage hormones? Is it the pace? In my second reading of the first book, I tried to look at the writing from the perspective of a writer. The words are not complicated, and the storyline is kind of predictable. Still, I'm hooked.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Voice
I used to have a lovely voice. I thought so, at least.
On Facebook, many friends I meet again from my high school and college days ask if I'm still singing.
Well, yes.
"What's gonna work? TEAMWORK!" (I loves me some Wonder Pets).
And let's not forget the Mail Song from Blue's Clues.
But here's the kicker. Son doesn't appreciate my musical stylings. He actually shushes me when I sing along. I'm crushed.
I thought myself brilliant once. But I'd take the role of mama over broadway star any day.
On Facebook, many friends I meet again from my high school and college days ask if I'm still singing.
Well, yes.
"What's gonna work? TEAMWORK!" (I loves me some Wonder Pets).
And let's not forget the Mail Song from Blue's Clues.
But here's the kicker. Son doesn't appreciate my musical stylings. He actually shushes me when I sing along. I'm crushed.
I thought myself brilliant once. But I'd take the role of mama over broadway star any day.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
How to get a part-time job in medicine
I got married near the end of my last year of residency. When I started medical school, in fact when I started residency, I hadn't yet even met my husband, and I didn't have any of the 3 kids I now have. That's probably a good thing because I would surely have talked myself out of the specialty I really loved into something more "family-friendly". There's nothing wrong with family-friendly, mind you. I always read the classified ads in the New England Journal just out of curiosity, wondering whether there are more part-time jobs cropping up as women, who more often work part-time than men in general, represent a greater share of young doctors. So far, I don't think much has changed in the job advertising sphere.
When I happen to have a bad day at work, which is fortunately rare, I permit myself to back up and take a different fork in the road. In my alternate life, maybe I became a dermatologist, where "full-time" seems to be 4 days a week...but who works full-time anyway? Or infectious diseases, where every other ad seems to start "Full-time or part-time". Ah, travel clinic...seeing some healthy people and getting them ready to travel to exotic locales. Lest fear of boredom be a factor, keep in mind that the occasional traveler will come home with a fever of 40.8--is it malaria? Dengue fever? Ebola? See, that would spice things up. And clinic finishes at 3p.
But snap out of it. I became a medical oncologist, had my first baby midway through my second year of fellowship, another baby at the end of my third year, and a third baby about a year and a half into my first "real job". At some point in late second year when other fellows were beginning to do their job talks and interviews, it dawned on me that I didn't want to be away from my son and his future sibs for 60 hours a week. I didn't want to miss first steps or first words or first anythings. It didn't feel right to me that someone other than me--indeed, someone I hadn't even met yet--would be there for more of my kids' waking hours than I would, and that's exactly what working full-time meant.
I starting looking through journals, online, anywhere for part-time medical oncologist jobs. Zip. Zero. Nada. I even tried monster.com, and all I got for combining "part-time" and "oncologist" is: Busy oncologist seeks part-time front office staff. Bummer. Oh, and did I mention that I had kind of subspecialized to one particular type of cancer. And can't move out of the area because my husband is in the military, unless they tell us to move, in which case I have to pick up and leave instantly. When I told people that I wanted to work part-time, and no I didn't want to just take a hospitalist job, and no I didn't want to work in an urgent care, and no I didn't want to review charts for utilization management or do life insurance physicals for a living, and yes, I did plan to work as a doctor, and yes, I did plan to work as an oncologist, and yes, it had to be in this area, they just looked at me with some blend of pity, empathy, disbelief, disdain, and said, "Well...good luck."
Six months later, I was agonizing over my choices: one job working 3 days per week as an academic oncologist, one job in private practice oncology working 2-3 days per week, and one job in oncology public health/health policy working anywhere from 2-4 days per week. All of them were within 30 mins of my house. All of them were in the particular subspecialty of medical oncology that was my interest. None of them was advertised. None of them existed when I interviewed. So, what's the deal?
If you happen to fall in love with a specialty of medicine that doesn't bear the family-friendly label, here are your career choices at the end of your training, assuming you aren't willing to compromise on the family side:
1. Let this specialty be the one that got away and pick something that's more family-friendly.
2. Train in your specialty, but work in a more general field with your specialty as your area of expertise (e.g. take a part-time internist job with an interest in pulmonary disease--a big group private or academic practice may be glad to have one internist who likes to see all of the asthma and COPD folks, there are plenty of them, and is comfortable with critical care if patients get admitted to an ICU).
3. Move beyond the standard black or white career paths--academic or private practice--and look at jobs in the government (FDA, NIH, CDC, etc), public health, the pharmaceutical industry, hospices, and so on, many of which are more amenable to part-time employees.
4. Interview for your dream job, whether academic or private practice or whatever, and give them enough time to decide you are their dream candidate. When they start trying to recruit, play your part-time card. Most will use salary or benefits to try to sweeten the deal. What you want is flexibility or fewer hours or whatever it is that you want. Take a deep breath, picture your kids clinging to your leg as you try to leave for work in the morning, and then speak up without apology. You will surely benefit from a part-time job if that's where your heart is, but there are also benefits to the employer, and you should point them out: cost savings (part-time employees generally accomplish more on a per hour basis than full-time employees and generally cost their employers less in benefits because fewer benefits are provided), greater loyalty (from grateful doctor-moms such as yourself who are committed to making part-time work work) and therefore less employee turnover, improved staff morale, and fewer absences from work (you can schedule the kids' well-child visits and your tooth cleaning on your days off, and , if you're lucky, some of their colds and vomiting illnesses might even occur on your days off). You will likely be pleasantly surprised. I interviewed for all of the jobs I mentioned above, and they were all full-time. After I made my priorities for recruitment known, all agreed to work with me to tailor a part-time arrangement. In the end, I actually created a hybrid of 2 of the part-time jobs I had negotiated, working a total of 3 days per week, and it has been wonderful.
Bottom line: If you assume it will be impossible to find a part-time doctor job in your specialty, it will be. If you assume it will be possible, then it will be.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Not old yet
Still enjoy animal crackers, mac and cheese, grapes.
Still enjoy playing the bongos.
Still enjoy seeing Grandma.
Still enjoy painting.
Still enjoy Clifford, Berenstain Bears, Mo Willems.
Still enjoy They Might Be Giants, Dan Zanes, Laurie Berkner.
Still enjoy wearing mittens.
Still enjoy going to the zoo, zoo, zoo, how about you, you, you?
Don't like too many snaps, buttons, and zippers.
Don't like wearing shoes when riding in the car.
Don't like keeping quiet.
Don't like coats.
Can't help interrupting.
Can't help staying up late.
But the jury's still out on stinky diapers, classical music, carrots, clothes with holes, tub time, hats...
Still enjoy playing the bongos.
Still enjoy seeing Grandma.
Still enjoy painting.
Still enjoy Clifford, Berenstain Bears, Mo Willems.
Still enjoy They Might Be Giants, Dan Zanes, Laurie Berkner.
Still enjoy wearing mittens.
Still enjoy going to the zoo, zoo, zoo, how about you, you, you?
Don't like too many snaps, buttons, and zippers.
Don't like wearing shoes when riding in the car.
Don't like keeping quiet.
Don't like coats.
Can't help interrupting.
Can't help staying up late.
But the jury's still out on stinky diapers, classical music, carrots, clothes with holes, tub time, hats...
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