They often say it takes a village to raise a child.
As your typical OCD, type A personality, I was not one to ask for help. Before motherhood, I would say my life was quite simple. My innate desire to excel at everything I do was never challenged. I was born into a typical Korean family in America. My parents immigrated to America shortly after getting married to provide a better future for their children. I was my parent's pride and joy. I did well academically. I got accepted into a combined BS MD program in high school. My life was planned out. I would go to college followed by medical school and become a doctor.
Who knew I would meet the love of my life and get married by the end of medical school? And better yet, who knew I would get pregnant during my intern year?
I certainly did not. I lived in denial throughout my entire pregnancy that I got this. I was so wrong. My whole world turned upside down. I loved my baby girl more than life itself but for a control freak like me, having a child was the ultimate test in learning how to let go.
Fast forward 2 years and 10 months later, here I am. I cannot be more grateful. My life is a lot more complicated but I wouldn't change anything. Everything truly happens for a reason. It wasn't medical school or residency that proved to be my biggest challenge. It was the combination with motherhood.
I'm thankful that the challenges of motherhood and residency has taught me how to ask for help. It has made me a better person. Life isn't a competition. And I am constantly grateful to the people in my village that help me raise my child and pursue my career.
So here is my thank you.
Thank you to the others moms I've met during this journey whether it be a simple look of camaraderie when little C is throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the supermarket to those who have reached out to let me know that I am not alone in this process.
Thank you to my daughter's teachers. Thank you so much for being so understanding. Thank you for making little C love pre-school. Thank you for providing a safe environment for my daughter while I go to work. Thank you for answering all my paranoid questions.
Thank you to my pediatrician friends for answering this radiology resident's questions (whose entire medical knowledge seems to go out the window when the mommy cap is on!) from how to dose tylenol, to answer questions about little C's rash and even regarding her intense stranger anxiety (thank goodness that phase is over!)
Thank you to all my friends that stuck around. As a resident and as a mom, it doesn't leave much for a social life. Times like this has made me realize that true friends are few. Thank you to those that have been understanding and we can pick up where we left off despite the times we talk and get to see each other are few and far apart. To those who didn't want to stick around, that's okay too. Thank you for once being a part of my life but I understand that I may not be the friend you need or want. Thank you for teaching me that as we grow older, it is not possible to be friends with everyone and that it is also okay to not be liked by everybody.
Thank you to this blog for providing a sense of community. I feel grateful that I get to share my stories with other women just like me.
Thank you to my attendings. I've had my share of attendings who seem to forget how hard it is to be a resident let alone a resident and mom. However, I've also had my share my attendings that do remember and this is my thank you to the ones that tell me to go pick my little C early when things start to slow down at the end of the day.
Thank you to my husband for always listening to me and making the best out of the situation. Despite the entire country between us, you try your best to make sure I don't feel alone this year.
Thank you to my in laws for being understanding and patient. Thank you for not complaining about not being able to see little C or us that often. Thank you for supporting our careers and our journey to parenthood.
Thank you to my dad and brother for sharing your wife and mother with me. I know me and little C have taken her away from you two during the past 3 years. But neither one of you ever complain and love little C just as much as I do.
And my biggest thank you goes to my mom. Thank you for raising little C for 2 and a half years as her primary caregiver and now that she's in pre-school, thank you for spending your weekends with us, thank you for always packing us food for the week, thank you for watching little C when I'm on call and thank you for always being available when little C is sick and can't go to pre-school. You are the main reason I've made it this year.
Thank you, my wonderful village. I couldn't and can't do it without you all. Here's to 38 more weeks of long distance and to 30 more weeks of residency! I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Dear beautiful people in my village, my success is just as much yours as mine.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Guest post: No longer twenty-two and thankful
This has been a reflective week for me. My two-year old, the fourth and last of our kid posse, ditched the diapers. My husband and I are on the verge of making the decision to repatriate our family to the US after five years of living in South America. And I received my first-ever acceptance to medical school.
It's been a long and non-traditional road. When my husband and I met in organic chemistry many years ago, he had already switched his major to English and I was an enthusiastic pre-medical student. After college he took a job that required him to stay in our alma mater's location. I had a track injury that kept me in school for a fifth year. After my graduation, we decided I would take a deep breath from the hamster wheel of school, athletics, research, thesis, more school, and the insular world of which a 22-year-old college student is the center.
As often happens when one takes the opportunity to step back, my horizons broadened. A Masters degree. Marriage. My first year teaching high school with 153 teenagers. A surprise pregnancy. My mother-in-law with terminal cancer. And I hadn't yet reached my twenty-fifth birthday. Sometimes I felt like taking the deep breath was more like having the wind knocked out of me.
Fast forward a few years. My husband's parents have both passed away. We have four lively, enthusiastic children. Our career paths have been eclectic, and we are considering returning to the States, where we will find ourselves at another life junction.
"What do you want to do?" my husband had asked me a couple years ago.
"Well, the same thing I've wanted to do for a long time. Go to medical school."
He smiled, chuckling at the roundabout trajectory we had taken to get to this point from our chemistry classes way back in the day. "Well, let's go for it and see what happens."
I flew back to the States and took the MCAT seven months pregnant. I asked my thesis advisor if she could dig up the letter of recommendation she wrote for me over a decade ago. I finally filled out the tedious AMCAS application. I went to my first interview wearing a green suit (slate green at least!), and quickly realized that everyone else was wearing black, with a dark navy or two thrown into the group. But I am okay with being non-traditional.
I am no longer twenty-two, and I am thankful. Thankful for the crazy road of life, that has left me with unexpected joys, scars of sorrow, and varicose veins. Thankful for a family that has encouraged me through multiple moves and international transitions with uncertain futures. Thankful for the medical admissions committee members who decided to give me a shot.
And thankful for all the Mothers in Medicine, who have shared their stories and their journeys. Many blessings to you as we finish another year celebrating all the lives with which we are intertwined.
A soon-to-be MS1
It's been a long and non-traditional road. When my husband and I met in organic chemistry many years ago, he had already switched his major to English and I was an enthusiastic pre-medical student. After college he took a job that required him to stay in our alma mater's location. I had a track injury that kept me in school for a fifth year. After my graduation, we decided I would take a deep breath from the hamster wheel of school, athletics, research, thesis, more school, and the insular world of which a 22-year-old college student is the center.
As often happens when one takes the opportunity to step back, my horizons broadened. A Masters degree. Marriage. My first year teaching high school with 153 teenagers. A surprise pregnancy. My mother-in-law with terminal cancer. And I hadn't yet reached my twenty-fifth birthday. Sometimes I felt like taking the deep breath was more like having the wind knocked out of me.
Fast forward a few years. My husband's parents have both passed away. We have four lively, enthusiastic children. Our career paths have been eclectic, and we are considering returning to the States, where we will find ourselves at another life junction.
"What do you want to do?" my husband had asked me a couple years ago.
"Well, the same thing I've wanted to do for a long time. Go to medical school."
He smiled, chuckling at the roundabout trajectory we had taken to get to this point from our chemistry classes way back in the day. "Well, let's go for it and see what happens."
I flew back to the States and took the MCAT seven months pregnant. I asked my thesis advisor if she could dig up the letter of recommendation she wrote for me over a decade ago. I finally filled out the tedious AMCAS application. I went to my first interview wearing a green suit (slate green at least!), and quickly realized that everyone else was wearing black, with a dark navy or two thrown into the group. But I am okay with being non-traditional.
I am no longer twenty-two, and I am thankful. Thankful for the crazy road of life, that has left me with unexpected joys, scars of sorrow, and varicose veins. Thankful for a family that has encouraged me through multiple moves and international transitions with uncertain futures. Thankful for the medical admissions committee members who decided to give me a shot.
And thankful for all the Mothers in Medicine, who have shared their stories and their journeys. Many blessings to you as we finish another year celebrating all the lives with which we are intertwined.
A soon-to-be MS1
Thankful For That Creepy Wiggle
Every year, there is always so much to be thankful for. As physicians, I don't think this idea is usually lost on us; we see patients suffering with difficult health challenges or even life-and-death situations on a daily basis. But what is sticking out this year as the thing I'm most grateful for?
Fetal movement. Yes, that weird sensation inside of my own body. My first child is due December 11, right between Thanksgiving and Christmas - the time that we most contemplate gratitude. This is not my first pregnancy, but I have never gotten far enough in the process to experience fetal movement before. I started feeling the movements around 20 weeks gestation, which began as little "pat pats" in my low abdomen that were easily confused with gas bubbles. They have now transformed into squirmy, distinctive wiggles several times throughout the day.
Overall, I have had a pretty easy pregnancy. My early nausea was fairly mild, I was able to continue with moderate exercise and work throughout my first and second trimester, and I have had no major complications as of yet. My tall stature has blessed me with a long torso within which baby can stretch, and I haven't been confined to maternity clothes. However, in my third trimester I have developed severe leg swelling that has significantly limited my activity (and my work, which usually involves being on my feet most of the day). It is very uncomfortable with constant itching and pain throughout my legs. To keep my mind off of it, I have been trying to focus on the good things... like the consistent blessing of fetal movement, a reminder of why I am going through all of this.
Many have described the sensation of fetal movement as "creepy", "surprising", "uncomfortable", etc. Expectant parents jokingly refer to their growing fetus as a "parasite". To me, the squirmy turns of my belly, the head-butting of my cervix and the kicking of my diaphragm are welcome reminders every day (every hour, really) of how hard I've tried to become a mother: the months of IVF cycles, shots, staying home instead of traveling, rearranging work schedules, waiting, hoping... And about how after all this time, it's finally going to happen!
Fetal movement. Yes, that weird sensation inside of my own body. My first child is due December 11, right between Thanksgiving and Christmas - the time that we most contemplate gratitude. This is not my first pregnancy, but I have never gotten far enough in the process to experience fetal movement before. I started feeling the movements around 20 weeks gestation, which began as little "pat pats" in my low abdomen that were easily confused with gas bubbles. They have now transformed into squirmy, distinctive wiggles several times throughout the day.
Overall, I have had a pretty easy pregnancy. My early nausea was fairly mild, I was able to continue with moderate exercise and work throughout my first and second trimester, and I have had no major complications as of yet. My tall stature has blessed me with a long torso within which baby can stretch, and I haven't been confined to maternity clothes. However, in my third trimester I have developed severe leg swelling that has significantly limited my activity (and my work, which usually involves being on my feet most of the day). It is very uncomfortable with constant itching and pain throughout my legs. To keep my mind off of it, I have been trying to focus on the good things... like the consistent blessing of fetal movement, a reminder of why I am going through all of this.
Many have described the sensation of fetal movement as "creepy", "surprising", "uncomfortable", etc. Expectant parents jokingly refer to their growing fetus as a "parasite". To me, the squirmy turns of my belly, the head-butting of my cervix and the kicking of my diaphragm are welcome reminders every day (every hour, really) of how hard I've tried to become a mother: the months of IVF cycles, shots, staying home instead of traveling, rearranging work schedules, waiting, hoping... And about how after all this time, it's finally going to happen!
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Ten reasons this primary care pediatrician is thankful to her patients and families
1. Thank you for asking me questions, listening to my
answers, discussing options together.
And for answering the many questions I ask of you.
2. Thank you for brushing your teeth in the mornings.
And in the evenings.
3. Thank you parents, for letting your teens talk with me in
private.
I always encourage them to share with you what we discuss.
4. Thank you for asking for refills before your medications
run out.
And for using your inhalers with spacers.
5. Thank you for understanding how important vaccinations
are for your children.
And for getting your own influenza and pertussis vaccines,
as parents.
6. Thank you for modeling healthy behaviors.
Reading, drinking water, minimizing inattentive screen time,
and getting exercise every day. Together.
7. Thank you for letting medical students and residents
learn pediatrics.
You are their teachers too.
8. Thank you for working on quitting smoking.
Call 1 800 QUIT NOW.
9. Thank you mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandparents,
great grandparents, neighbors, and cousins for caring about the children you
bring to the pediatrician.
It takes a village.
It takes a village.
10. Thank you for sharing your stories, and inspiring me to grow and learn with
you. So we can all be as healthy as
possible on this journey.
I'm listening.
(an earlier version was posted previously by me at www.pediatriccareer.org and I'm still thankful)
I'm listening.
(an earlier version was posted previously by me at www.pediatriccareer.org and I'm still thankful)
To my patient
I had started a thankful list, a real one from the heart. And yes, I am thankful for those things. But then the precarious balance of my life got upset, so new post.
I got shingles - it’s the thing that has upset my life balance. Stupid, burning shingles. My pain isn’t too bad but the burning isn’t affected by pain medications. Occupational health cleared me to work as long as the rash was covered. So to my next shift I went.
It was the shittiest shift I have had in a long time. By the end, I was hating everyone and everything but especially myself and my job. It was a shift where I felt like I couldn’t or didn’t help anyone. Most of my patients didn’t need a doctor, they needed better coping skills and over-the-counter remedies and time.
But my last patient, I need to thank him. He needed an Emergency Doctor for his problem. He changed my whole day for the better. His sense of humor about why he was there and interaction with his wife reset my outlook for the day. And I could and did fix his problem too. Spiritually and doctorly, I was better.
That patient refilled my compassion cup. Usually that’s the job of a million little things: bad television and sports, beer and coffee, my Sleep Number bed, Mirena, goofy t-shirts under scrubs, nail polish of extraordinary colors, my Chuck Taylors, t-shirts and jeans on off-days, Twitter, my KitchenAid mixer, and the color orange. Or the job of some big things: Hubby and The Blurs.
So thank you, sir and your lovely wife, my next shift was much better because of you. My balance is restored (mostly, because stupid burning shingles are still here).
Monday, November 16, 2015
Guest post: Unexpected gratitude
I love Raymond Carver's poem "What the Doctor Said." The doctor tells the poet he has widespread metastatic lung cancer. The poem ends with this:
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
Something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong
I may even have thanked him.
I don't have to tell people they are dying. I'm a hospice doc. My patients know they are dying before they meet me. Everyone knows they are dying. They may not want to say it out loud, and they may use a variety of euphemisms, but everyone knows. I don't have to say it. I do have to find a way to answer the question "How long?" I always start and finish my answer by saying "I don't know." We never know for sure. I am frequently surprised - I am surprised how quickly some people die and how long some others linger. I am surprised by so much about this work. I am surprised by the peace that I feel at the bedsides of the dying, and how comfortable it can be in our inpatient hospice unit. I am surprised at the laughter I find when I make home visits. I am surprised by the capacity of family members to do the hard, dirty, physical work of caring for their loved ones.
And I am surprised when they thank me.
Patients thank me for coming to their homes. "A doctor who makes house calls! In this day and age"! Caregivers thank me for the medication that eases the symptoms and makes their job easier (even though it's the nurse who tells me what they need). Family members thank me for clear explanations of the medical system and for signing forms (although most of that credit should go to the social workers who do all the actual work). All of that makes sense. I have done something, given them something, provided an answer or solved a problem.
Then there's the question no on ever wants to ask: "How much longer, Doc?" It's often asked in the hallway of our inpatient hospice unit. Someone is usually crying. Sometimes the someone is me. I am as honest as I can be when I don't really know. I say "I don't see anything that suggests it will be the next few hours...", but I know the patient might be gone when we walk back into the room. I ask what the family needs - what decisions are they wrestling with? Who needs to come in from out of state? Who are they trying to protect? And at the end of the conversation, they say "Thank you." I am always surprised.
I don't really know why they are thanking me. Perhaps it's for some clarity and honesty after the muddle of modern medical care. Perhaps it's for the moment of connection and the respect I hope I'm communicating. And perhaps it's what Raymond Carver wrote about - that I have given them something no one else ever has.
Those moments will continue to confound and humble and amaze me, and for that, I am thankful.
Jay is an internist working full-time in hospice and palliative care and mom to a 15-year-old daughter.
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
Something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong
I may even have thanked him.
I don't have to tell people they are dying. I'm a hospice doc. My patients know they are dying before they meet me. Everyone knows they are dying. They may not want to say it out loud, and they may use a variety of euphemisms, but everyone knows. I don't have to say it. I do have to find a way to answer the question "How long?" I always start and finish my answer by saying "I don't know." We never know for sure. I am frequently surprised - I am surprised how quickly some people die and how long some others linger. I am surprised by so much about this work. I am surprised by the peace that I feel at the bedsides of the dying, and how comfortable it can be in our inpatient hospice unit. I am surprised at the laughter I find when I make home visits. I am surprised by the capacity of family members to do the hard, dirty, physical work of caring for their loved ones.
And I am surprised when they thank me.
Patients thank me for coming to their homes. "A doctor who makes house calls! In this day and age"! Caregivers thank me for the medication that eases the symptoms and makes their job easier (even though it's the nurse who tells me what they need). Family members thank me for clear explanations of the medical system and for signing forms (although most of that credit should go to the social workers who do all the actual work). All of that makes sense. I have done something, given them something, provided an answer or solved a problem.
Then there's the question no on ever wants to ask: "How much longer, Doc?" It's often asked in the hallway of our inpatient hospice unit. Someone is usually crying. Sometimes the someone is me. I am as honest as I can be when I don't really know. I say "I don't see anything that suggests it will be the next few hours...", but I know the patient might be gone when we walk back into the room. I ask what the family needs - what decisions are they wrestling with? Who needs to come in from out of state? Who are they trying to protect? And at the end of the conversation, they say "Thank you." I am always surprised.
I don't really know why they are thanking me. Perhaps it's for some clarity and honesty after the muddle of modern medical care. Perhaps it's for the moment of connection and the respect I hope I'm communicating. And perhaps it's what Raymond Carver wrote about - that I have given them something no one else ever has.
Those moments will continue to confound and humble and amaze me, and for that, I am thankful.
Jay is an internist working full-time in hospice and palliative care and mom to a 15-year-old daughter.
Thankful in this moment
I am thankful for this hour of quiet. My father is in town helping us for 4 weeks while my husband is away doing research. I signed up to take Zo trick or treating but the greater than 50 notes I have to finish from the last 2 weeks are weighing on me and I have vowed to finish them this weekend.
I am thankful for the opportunity to care for my patients and their families. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t laugh and smile and sing and dance with my patients and think to myself or say out loud how wonderful they are. From the teenagers affected by gun violence who are working so hard to graduate high school and stay out of trouble to the school aged children who get so excited telling me about their dreams. To the new parents whose babies are growing and thriving. There cannot be another job like this!
And I am thankful that my position has just the right amount of joy coupled with dysfunction to keep me motivated but to also remain committed to finding solutions to enhance the work experience of community pediatricians. I cannot imagine how folks continue with this schedule for years and years. I have been practicing full time for less than 6 months and I seriously need a scribe, personal/house assistant, cleaning person, and driver for our son. Out of discomfort comes great things so I will work hard to building a better future for myself and future providers as well. It has to get better. And I have some ideas on how to make it happen.
I am thankful for being given the opportunity to raise my beautiful, outgoing, silly, passionate 4 year old with my extroverted introvert of a husband. I am thankful that my husband’s schedule is flexible enough to accommodate random days off from school. I am thankful that my new salary allows my husband the ability to pursue his research interests. And I am so freaking thankful that at this time next year he will likely have a full time job with benefits so that I can work on a schedule that gives me more freedom to pursue my research and advocacy interests.
In this moment I am thankful. And that’s all that really matters.
I am thankful for the opportunity to care for my patients and their families. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t laugh and smile and sing and dance with my patients and think to myself or say out loud how wonderful they are. From the teenagers affected by gun violence who are working so hard to graduate high school and stay out of trouble to the school aged children who get so excited telling me about their dreams. To the new parents whose babies are growing and thriving. There cannot be another job like this!
And I am thankful that my position has just the right amount of joy coupled with dysfunction to keep me motivated but to also remain committed to finding solutions to enhance the work experience of community pediatricians. I cannot imagine how folks continue with this schedule for years and years. I have been practicing full time for less than 6 months and I seriously need a scribe, personal/house assistant, cleaning person, and driver for our son. Out of discomfort comes great things so I will work hard to building a better future for myself and future providers as well. It has to get better. And I have some ideas on how to make it happen.
I am thankful for being given the opportunity to raise my beautiful, outgoing, silly, passionate 4 year old with my extroverted introvert of a husband. I am thankful that my husband’s schedule is flexible enough to accommodate random days off from school. I am thankful that my new salary allows my husband the ability to pursue his research interests. And I am so freaking thankful that at this time next year he will likely have a full time job with benefits so that I can work on a schedule that gives me more freedom to pursue my research and advocacy interests.
In this moment I am thankful. And that’s all that really matters.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Entertaining injury
Just wanted to share a quick story that has made me smile to myself all day today... Last night, I started cooking poorly planned stir fry for dinner while my two-year old daughter was playing with some toys around the kitchen island. While veggies and tofu were sizzling, I started reaching for a few items for sauce, and had the terrible realization that we were somehow out of soy sauce. Ack, I told my daughter! But bad mommy- as I scrambled to throw together some alternative marinade, I didn't keep a close enough eye on her, and in a total of about 5 milliseconds, she managed to pull out a giant glass jar of applesauce from the pantry (when I lamented we were out of soy sauce, she heard "apple sauce" apparently haha). She triumphantly yelled out, "Mommy, I found some sauce for you!!" came over to me, and held it up to me over her head. It slipped out of her hands. ONTO MY FOOT. Mother*%!?!**!!!!!! I fell to the ground in agony. The ensuing events are what have made me crack up and smile to myself all day... she immediately retrieved her beloved comfort cloth/rag, which she calls Addy, and ran back to offer it- "Mommy, here's Addy, here's Addy, feel better?!??" She then proceeded to stroke my back with urgency and say, "It's okay mommy, it's okay, you're okay, feel better? Need a kiss? Let me kiss your foot. Better now, Mommy? Need some ice? Here's some ice. Better now??" This circuit of questioning and comforting went on and on for several minutes in her high pitched concerned voice. I was tearing up and laughing simultaneously- it was like she was doing a condensed/abridged performance of all the things we've ever said to her when she gets hurt, haha... Despite all the pain and my bruised foot, I'm very comforted to know she's internalized these things and knows how to mobilize to help others. And yes, of course her kisses made my boo-boo better :)
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Girl Power
I just finished two of my best weeks as attending on the wards.
It’s hard to describe exactly why these two weeks were so great but I think it
had to do with a great team dynamic that involved trusting my residents, great teaching opportunities, and interesting patients.
But I also have to wonder if my great experience was because my team was all woman including a resident and a medical student who are both
moms. Here are a few observations from
my rotation.
First, resident mom and med student mom AMAZE me. Resident Mom has two school aged children
which means she has had kids during her entire residency. Med Student Mom has an infant and is on her
second rotation after maternity leave. She
drives an hour each way to get to the hospital and leaves her baby for long
stretches with her mother. I am exhausted just thinking about her schedule.
What amazes me most about Resident Mom and Med Student Mom is
how calm, unstressed, and pulled together they seem. They
work the crazy hours of training yet never seem stressed or tired or
cranky. This is quite different from how
I felt (and likely appeared) when I had my son during residency. I cried every
morning when I left home and complained a lot about the fatigue and stress I felt.
Resident Mom and Med Student Mom appear quite
different. They are super calm and seem
truly on top of everything. I am in total awe of their dedication and
composure.
The second thing I realized is that mothers in medicine need to support
each other and the hierarchy of medicine shouldn’t get in the way. There is no
question that training will always be grueling and the workload will be heavier
for students and residents than for attendings.
I can’t change this system. But I can create a better
culture where people feel safe to talk about the pressures of training,
particularly being a mother in training.
Mothers in Medicine blogger, KC, wrote about a different approach when she became a division chief and met with a new mom who returned
from maternity leave. “We talked about her transition back to work,
their childcare arrangements, and where she stood in terms of identifying
academic areas of interest,” she wrote. This was a total reversal from
her own experience eleven years earlier with male bosses.
My recent experience on the wards reminded me of KC’s story.
As mothers in medicine start to rise
up in the ranks, we can create a culture that supports other mothers,
especially those who are still in training or early in their careers. We are the ones who recognize that it is not
easy to be a mother in medicine. It was
natural for me to ask Med Student Mom if she was able to find a lactation room
and ask about Halloween costumes and understand that some mornings are harder than others.
For some of us, showing this support comes in the form of
blogging and writing and working for policy change. But for many of us, support comes in a
quieter form – a silent culture revolution. It can be asking questions of how another mother in medicine is doing - whether she’s feeling stressed or guilty or exhausted. It can be breaking down the hierarchies and treating
each other not as students and residents and attendings but instead as adults
who share a common thread of motherhood.
Monday, November 9, 2015
MiM Mail: DO or MD school and motherhood
Dear Mothers in Medicine,
First of all, thank you for being so helpful and encouraging. When trying to decide whether or not to pursue medicine, I read just about every post and every comment on here! Now I am writing to pick your brains about MD/DO. There is a lot of information out there on the residency "merger," and the differences and similarities of the MD and DO approach.
However, I am writing to you because I want to know how getting a DO degree over an MD degree might impact my future specifically as a mother.
Right now I can either apply DO this cycle (the application season is longer) and start school in the Fall of 2016 or wait to apply next year to MD and DO programs and have more options, but start in the Fall of 2017. I am already 27, so starting sooner is very appealing to me, but I don't know how much my age should matter. Either way we will be having children while I am in medical school and residency.
Although I am pretty set on primary care, I worry that I could be wrong. Two years ago when I started this journey, I didn't think I really liked science --- I thought I just needed to get thru the pre-reqs so I could go into pediatrics or FM to provide care to rural and underserved communities. Turns out though, I LOVE science. For a few good hours I considered pursuing a PhD in biochemistry instead of medical school.
Now there is a small part of me that wants to keep my options open incase I fall in love with a specialty I don't even know exists yet, or if I decide to do research. But this --- always wanting to keep all my options open for as long as possible --- is one of my weaknesses and I don't know how much to indulge that part of me!
From reading all the posts on here that mention osteopathic medicine, it seems like a few regret their decision to go DO (momstinfoilhat and RH+) while a few (mostly students) left more positive comments. RH+ wrote in 2008:
"Don’t become a D.O. Right now you are sure that you are going to practice rural family medicine, this will change when you start rotating through different specialties. You are being told that being a D.O. will not affect your ability to get into residency. This is not true. You will seek to match in a competitive specialty, and it will be harder for you to get a spot. It will also make it harder to get a fellowship."
But, this was back in 2008. So I don't know if it is still true? I also saw someone mention that DOs have to do more away rotations in their third year than MDs? With the young children we hope to have, this could be frustrating.
A few physicians on here have mentioned taking time off to care for a newborn and doing research during their time off. Is this an option that is available to DOs? I ask because I haven't heard of any DOs doing it, but I like the flexibility that idea offers.
So, all this to ask, if going the DO route limits our choices later (in terms of a research year to care for a new baby or options for residency locations or job locations... which could limit access to family support), then maybe I should wait the extra year and try for MD while also applying to DO schools?
To those on hiring committees (MD and DO), have you or your colleagues ever passed over DO applicants in favor of MD applicants?
To DOs who are doing their residencies and DOs who are working: Did you feel limited in the match or when applying to jobs? Do you regret your decision to go DO? Do you feel like you have had to work harder to prove yourself as competent as those with MD degrees? Did you feel like your clinical training (years 3+4) was as strong? Can you think of any unexpected ways being a DO might have influenced you and your families lives?
Thank you so, so much for taking the time to read this. I really appreciate any help and advice you can share.
All the best,
Confused pre-med and pre-mom
First of all, thank you for being so helpful and encouraging. When trying to decide whether or not to pursue medicine, I read just about every post and every comment on here! Now I am writing to pick your brains about MD/DO. There is a lot of information out there on the residency "merger," and the differences and similarities of the MD and DO approach.
However, I am writing to you because I want to know how getting a DO degree over an MD degree might impact my future specifically as a mother.
Right now I can either apply DO this cycle (the application season is longer) and start school in the Fall of 2016 or wait to apply next year to MD and DO programs and have more options, but start in the Fall of 2017. I am already 27, so starting sooner is very appealing to me, but I don't know how much my age should matter. Either way we will be having children while I am in medical school and residency.
Although I am pretty set on primary care, I worry that I could be wrong. Two years ago when I started this journey, I didn't think I really liked science --- I thought I just needed to get thru the pre-reqs so I could go into pediatrics or FM to provide care to rural and underserved communities. Turns out though, I LOVE science. For a few good hours I considered pursuing a PhD in biochemistry instead of medical school.
Now there is a small part of me that wants to keep my options open incase I fall in love with a specialty I don't even know exists yet, or if I decide to do research. But this --- always wanting to keep all my options open for as long as possible --- is one of my weaknesses and I don't know how much to indulge that part of me!
From reading all the posts on here that mention osteopathic medicine, it seems like a few regret their decision to go DO (momstinfoilhat and RH+) while a few (mostly students) left more positive comments. RH+ wrote in 2008:
"Don’t become a D.O. Right now you are sure that you are going to practice rural family medicine, this will change when you start rotating through different specialties. You are being told that being a D.O. will not affect your ability to get into residency. This is not true. You will seek to match in a competitive specialty, and it will be harder for you to get a spot. It will also make it harder to get a fellowship."
But, this was back in 2008. So I don't know if it is still true? I also saw someone mention that DOs have to do more away rotations in their third year than MDs? With the young children we hope to have, this could be frustrating.
A few physicians on here have mentioned taking time off to care for a newborn and doing research during their time off. Is this an option that is available to DOs? I ask because I haven't heard of any DOs doing it, but I like the flexibility that idea offers.
So, all this to ask, if going the DO route limits our choices later (in terms of a research year to care for a new baby or options for residency locations or job locations... which could limit access to family support), then maybe I should wait the extra year and try for MD while also applying to DO schools?
To those on hiring committees (MD and DO), have you or your colleagues ever passed over DO applicants in favor of MD applicants?
To DOs who are doing their residencies and DOs who are working: Did you feel limited in the match or when applying to jobs? Do you regret your decision to go DO? Do you feel like you have had to work harder to prove yourself as competent as those with MD degrees? Did you feel like your clinical training (years 3+4) was as strong? Can you think of any unexpected ways being a DO might have influenced you and your families lives?
Thank you so, so much for taking the time to read this. I really appreciate any help and advice you can share.
All the best,
Confused pre-med and pre-mom
Sunday, November 8, 2015
The End… and the Beginning
When I was first queried about writing, specifically for a blog like this, I was excited, nervous, surprised… would other mothers in medicine actually want to read what I have to say? Would this be an opportunity for me to reflect upon my own clinical and academic practice? Would this enable me to grow as a physician mom?
Like many things I’m sure you all can relate to, this idea fell to the back burner, simmering. I now find myself at a critical point in which the stew that is my professional and personal life are bubbling, coming to a boil and I find this the opportune moment to jump in. This comes on the heels of a gentle reminder from KC, for which I am thankful.
I am approaching the final stages of divorce. In order to proceed with finalization, I have been required to attend parenting classes. I won’t go into just how asinine I thought this was given he has no requirement to attend said classes. Nevertheless, I showed up with intent to learn as much as I could that I’ve not already discovered through trial and error in the co-parenting adventure. I was surprised that they started with Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and the stages of grief. I took that with a big arms across the chest eye roll, then softened a bit as I thought more about each stage and the fact that this transition does in fact mark a loss… I’ve since considered my own transition through the stages and thought back on the years we were together.
It’s taken nearly three years. I asked him to leave almost three years ago with our eleven month old son on my hip, seething with anger and pain. Eight years of emotional roller coasters. Eight years of infidelity. Eight years of me not acknowledging my own value. In that moment, that decision, I chose myself and my child. I chose to remove myself from a relationship and marriage which was so far removed from anything I wanted to model for my progeny. I had finally come to the complete realization that my husband would not every remain faithful and tend to his responsibility and commitment to me as a life partner. I did not want my little one to watch and live in an environment where a person whom is purported to be loved is treated that way. I have come to terms with the fact that I have zero control of half of this equation (my ex), however I have full control of my own actions, behaviors and decisions.
So, if you will, walk through the stages with me.
DENIAL
Every single time I found out about another indiscretion of infidelity, I refused to believe it or give it any power. I denied how devastating his actions and betrayal had been. I denied that he’d made a seemingly meaningful connection with anyone in this world other than me. I denied that he’d violated my trust. I denied that I deserved to be treated with respect, dignity, love and commitment. I denied my value. I denied my intelligence. I denied my sex appeal. I denied everything and assumed it was my fault. I stuffed my emotions and hurt into a little box and told myself he’d be better. I denied my visceral sense that his behavior would never change. I denied my better sense. I denied my friends’ pleas to remove him from my life, over and over again.
ANGER
This emotion is incredibly primal for me, particularly in regard to this situation. My instinctual, somatic response was long buried due to a longstanding practice of compartmentalization. The trouble with compartmentalization is that it is both protective and destructive. I put those sad, hurtful, scary, heart wrenching things in a box, I lock each box, then I dissociated from those feelings with the hope to never, ever have to feel those terrible feelings again. I felt comfortable, or at least I felt that I was well enough in control of my life to go about my day to day. Then there come times when I’ve run out of capacity in my emotional compartments and for me, that’s usually when I feel least in control of this primal behavior. On the surface, I perceive myself to be fairly calm, cool and collected. When my fully stuffed compartments start to overload, the anger floods over me, forcing my hand to process what’s in those boxes. This is also the crux of that inherent destructive nature of compartmentalization as well.
When this happens, my transition to anger is a painfully exhausting one. Each of us experiences it differently, but I can tell you how it feels for me. I develop an ache in my chest, then my heart rate quickens, blood rushes to my head, my jaw clenches, my nostrils flare, my posture becomes more erect and inevitably, my left eyebrow raises. My hair stands on end, my pupils dilate and I coil into position to strike. If it happens too quickly, it blends with the hurt and tears well up alongside my venomous words. At the same time, the sense of power that comes with anger is intoxicating. If it happens more slowly, I can calculate my response, choose my words and actions in a much more strategic way. I feel much more in control and strong. It’s a delicate balance, however, between the primal emotion and the controlled response. My ex, whether intentionally or not, can always find ways of awakening the beast within me. I’m still learning my own triggers and how best to turn each experience into something productive rather than destructive, with particular focus on self preservation. That, however, is for another conversation.
BARGAINING
Anger is powerful, but it’s also energy intensive and exhausting. That adrenaline rush only lasts for so long and in general, I’m a big softie. So, let’s get to part of my own challenges with him. The mind is strong, the woman is strong, the flesh is weak. I rationalized that if I reclaimed him, I somehow won. Then I’d turn the blame onto myself. I’d make lists of the things I was or was not doing that must have somehow had an impact on his behavior. If only I wasn’t studying so much, if only I spoke another language, if only I were more exotic, if only I wore more makeup more often, if only I were thinner, if only I were funnier, if only: insert any markedly self-deprecating phrase, he wouldn’t have strayed. I’d consider what I could change about myself to keep him from doing it again, maybe if I were more shapely, or if I colored my hair, or if I wore more makeup, or if I spoke another language, or if I had perfect skin, or if I had perfectly manicured fingers and toes. I was just certain that I could do something to inspire change in him, then in my depression, he’d feed into the bargaining and do bargaining of his own: “I’ll delete her number, I won’t work with her anymore, I’ll delete that email account, I’ll go to counseling, I love you, not her, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” On and on. Of course, this spoke to the caretaker in me as well. There must be something wrong with him and I can help him! What a poorly rationalized thought which cost me the better part of a decade and emotional scars which will eventually heal, but not disappear.
DEPRESSION
I spent eight years ping ponging between denial, anger, bargaining and depression. It happened so frequently that it just became the norm and an expectation. It was just a matter of time until it would happen again, then pieces of my heart would chip away, I’d become furious, buried in anger and wanting to lash out. When he, the person in my life to whom I’d given everything I could possibly think of giving betrayed my trust and discarded me as if I was worthless, I became worthless. I devalued myself. My life lost it’s color. Everything was grey. Tears ran until there were no more tears. The ache in my chest became colder, darker, then numb. I anesthetized and dissociated myself from the situation, from our life together. I ached for connection. I ached to be desirable. I drank, a lot.
The most marked period of depression in all of this was not actually after I finally asked him to leave. It was when he told me he didn’t love me and wanted a divorce. I packed my bags. I had no idea where I was going. I searched frantically on Craigslist and found a furnished studio which fit into my budget. It was close to the subway. It was close to a grocery store. The grocery store had wine. I could get to work. I could get food, not that I had an appetite. I became a hermit, a one to two bottle of wine per night hermit. One day I woke up and realized that this was not at all in my best interests and pulled back on the alcohol, found a 10 mile race to train for (I’d never run that far in my life) and redirected my energy. Slowly, the depression lifted which softened my heart and he came back into the picture, again. In my softened state, I let him back in, of course, but that’s a story for another time.
ACCEPTANCE
This may sound strange to you, but the last time I let him back in, I knew it wasn’t going to work. I had decided that he was not going to change, but I was going to give it one more go. You may be thinking to yourself, “WHAT?!?! Is she crazy?” Maybe, a little bit. We all have our own pathology and demons and this was my path to take. My decision to let him back into my life and my heart was complicated, as these situations often are. As was our cycle, there was wooing and there was romance and of course there was sex. Then one day I realized I was incredibly sensitive emotionally, my breasts were swollen and sore, and GASP! I was late. I immediately ran to the drugstore, bought a pregnancy test, walked to nearest coffee shop and went into their bathroom, and melted into the bathroom stall as two pink lines showed up. Did I forget to mention that I was tapped as a chief resident for the next academic year just one week prior???
He never wanted to have children. I could just not tell him. I could cut him out of my life forever. I’d always wanted to be a doctor and I’d always wanted to be a mom. How in the world am I going to do this alone? I knew he was going to completely flip out. It would be so much easier to not include him. Alas, that wasn’t the right thing to do. So I told him. He was livid. “How could this happen?” Ummmmmm, I know you’re not a doctor, but seriously? Remember all those times I reminded you that I wasn’t on birth control anymore because I didn’t think it was necessary given I was alone in a studio apartment drinking my life away and maintaining solitary confinement? Well, we had many conversations about termination, so much so that I went to Planned Parenthood for a preliminary appointment. This was followed by a call in tears to my best friend in the entire world about how there was no way I could do this alone and that I couldn’t count on him for anything, so wouldn’t this just be easier. Thankfully, she talked me off of the ledge. She knew that I wanted to be a mother more than anything and that all of the excuses I was coming up with were silly in the grand scheme of things. I’m a strong woman and I thankfully have a wonderful circle of friends and I would figure it out. I would be ok. We (my kiddo and I, at least), would be ok.
Then it became clear that he was still involved with tomfoolery with one of the many women from his past. She got involved and there were text messages and emails. I have to say, the level of class demonstrated by all parties is fodder for another time. Ultimately, he cut ties with her, promised to go to therapy for his “sex addiction” read “narcissism.” By the time I was eight months pregnant, he’d demonstrated sufficient amounts of commitment that I finally moved back in and we planned for the arrival of our baby.
I knew it wasn’t going to work. I. Knew. It. Was. Not. Going. To. Work. I felt compelled to give it one last go for the sake of our little one. I also had an inner dialogue that was determined to figure out how to at least be a parent with this man. We made a small person. I’m stuck with him no matter what happens between us and our relationship. I have to tell my child when they’ve grown bigger and understand more of the world that I did try to make things work. I also had to give my ex the opportunity to be a father, though he never thought he wanted to do that. I wanted to be able to look into the eyes of my pride and joy when they ask why mommy and daddy aren’t together and speak frankly, honestly, that I did everything in my power to make things work… and they just didn’t. I want to say that we both love our child and have our child’s best interests in mind and want them to grow up happy and healthy.
So, when I was in the midst of my first year as an attending, spending a fair bit of time as a solo parent with our newborn given my husband’s work related travel, and my little was 9 months old and I got a phone call from my father-in-law. He was nearly hysterical as my mother-in-law had just had a CT scan with a mass and mets EVERYWHERE. I knew what this meant. My father-in-law had an inkling, but not a full understanding. He’d tried to call my husband. No answer. I tried to call my husband. No answer. Text. No answer. Another phone call. No answer. I called the hotel where he was supposed to be staying for his work related conference. “I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s no one by that name in this hotel.” Call to his boss. “I don’t think he’s checked in to the hotel yet.” After trying to reach my husband on an emergent basis for two and a half hours, he finally called back. How do you deliver bad news to the love of your life after you’ve been unable to contact them for a prolonged period of time? You don’t ask too many questions about where they were, who they were with and what they were doing… after all, their mom is dying and they don’t even know it. You take a deep breath, tell them you have some difficult news and follow that with as much promise of support as you can. I told him they’d found a mass, it was very concerning for widespread cancer and we needed to figure out how to get him home and us on a plane to see her. I called my colleagues, got shifts covered, booked our flight, headed across the country.
My husband stayed. I came back to work and essentially be a single parent. I facilitated conference calls with specialists, primary care physicians, hospice providers, and my husband, father-in-law, brother-in-law. I was the tele consult 24 hours a day, while caring for our infant, managing a nanny who left a bit to be desired, managing my board exams and finding my way as a new attending. My mother-in-law didn’t want treatment. She wanted quality of life. Her sons and her husband could not fathom this. My father-in-law understood her desire, but his heart was broken. He was watching his love slip away right in front of his eyes, in his own home. The boys on the other hand were going through their own grief process. My husband was distant. I expected this. I figured it was his process. At the same time, just hours after we celebrated her life in a remembrance ceremony after her death, the text message that came from his paramour, while not unexpected, her timing was audacious. “I think he’s lying to us both. I hope he comes clean with you.”
That was THE moment of acceptance. I knew it would come. I just needed to go through the whole process. That was the moment our marriage and relationship was over. Now, don’t get me wrong, there certainly followed moments of depression and anger and a sense of loss, but there was no bargaining and there was absolutely no turning back. That was the point of no return. I am worth more than this and my child deserves to learn that I will not accept being treated this way. My kiddo deserves at least one parent who strives to demonstrate the value of meaningful and lasting relationships built on communication, openness and trust. I refuse to accept that life anymore and am moving on with my new life and my little one.
Here's to new beginnings.
Like many things I’m sure you all can relate to, this idea fell to the back burner, simmering. I now find myself at a critical point in which the stew that is my professional and personal life are bubbling, coming to a boil and I find this the opportune moment to jump in. This comes on the heels of a gentle reminder from KC, for which I am thankful.
I am approaching the final stages of divorce. In order to proceed with finalization, I have been required to attend parenting classes. I won’t go into just how asinine I thought this was given he has no requirement to attend said classes. Nevertheless, I showed up with intent to learn as much as I could that I’ve not already discovered through trial and error in the co-parenting adventure. I was surprised that they started with Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and the stages of grief. I took that with a big arms across the chest eye roll, then softened a bit as I thought more about each stage and the fact that this transition does in fact mark a loss… I’ve since considered my own transition through the stages and thought back on the years we were together.
It’s taken nearly three years. I asked him to leave almost three years ago with our eleven month old son on my hip, seething with anger and pain. Eight years of emotional roller coasters. Eight years of infidelity. Eight years of me not acknowledging my own value. In that moment, that decision, I chose myself and my child. I chose to remove myself from a relationship and marriage which was so far removed from anything I wanted to model for my progeny. I had finally come to the complete realization that my husband would not every remain faithful and tend to his responsibility and commitment to me as a life partner. I did not want my little one to watch and live in an environment where a person whom is purported to be loved is treated that way. I have come to terms with the fact that I have zero control of half of this equation (my ex), however I have full control of my own actions, behaviors and decisions.
So, if you will, walk through the stages with me.
DENIAL
Every single time I found out about another indiscretion of infidelity, I refused to believe it or give it any power. I denied how devastating his actions and betrayal had been. I denied that he’d made a seemingly meaningful connection with anyone in this world other than me. I denied that he’d violated my trust. I denied that I deserved to be treated with respect, dignity, love and commitment. I denied my value. I denied my intelligence. I denied my sex appeal. I denied everything and assumed it was my fault. I stuffed my emotions and hurt into a little box and told myself he’d be better. I denied my visceral sense that his behavior would never change. I denied my better sense. I denied my friends’ pleas to remove him from my life, over and over again.
ANGER
This emotion is incredibly primal for me, particularly in regard to this situation. My instinctual, somatic response was long buried due to a longstanding practice of compartmentalization. The trouble with compartmentalization is that it is both protective and destructive. I put those sad, hurtful, scary, heart wrenching things in a box, I lock each box, then I dissociated from those feelings with the hope to never, ever have to feel those terrible feelings again. I felt comfortable, or at least I felt that I was well enough in control of my life to go about my day to day. Then there come times when I’ve run out of capacity in my emotional compartments and for me, that’s usually when I feel least in control of this primal behavior. On the surface, I perceive myself to be fairly calm, cool and collected. When my fully stuffed compartments start to overload, the anger floods over me, forcing my hand to process what’s in those boxes. This is also the crux of that inherent destructive nature of compartmentalization as well.
When this happens, my transition to anger is a painfully exhausting one. Each of us experiences it differently, but I can tell you how it feels for me. I develop an ache in my chest, then my heart rate quickens, blood rushes to my head, my jaw clenches, my nostrils flare, my posture becomes more erect and inevitably, my left eyebrow raises. My hair stands on end, my pupils dilate and I coil into position to strike. If it happens too quickly, it blends with the hurt and tears well up alongside my venomous words. At the same time, the sense of power that comes with anger is intoxicating. If it happens more slowly, I can calculate my response, choose my words and actions in a much more strategic way. I feel much more in control and strong. It’s a delicate balance, however, between the primal emotion and the controlled response. My ex, whether intentionally or not, can always find ways of awakening the beast within me. I’m still learning my own triggers and how best to turn each experience into something productive rather than destructive, with particular focus on self preservation. That, however, is for another conversation.
BARGAINING
Anger is powerful, but it’s also energy intensive and exhausting. That adrenaline rush only lasts for so long and in general, I’m a big softie. So, let’s get to part of my own challenges with him. The mind is strong, the woman is strong, the flesh is weak. I rationalized that if I reclaimed him, I somehow won. Then I’d turn the blame onto myself. I’d make lists of the things I was or was not doing that must have somehow had an impact on his behavior. If only I wasn’t studying so much, if only I spoke another language, if only I were more exotic, if only I wore more makeup more often, if only I were thinner, if only I were funnier, if only: insert any markedly self-deprecating phrase, he wouldn’t have strayed. I’d consider what I could change about myself to keep him from doing it again, maybe if I were more shapely, or if I colored my hair, or if I wore more makeup, or if I spoke another language, or if I had perfect skin, or if I had perfectly manicured fingers and toes. I was just certain that I could do something to inspire change in him, then in my depression, he’d feed into the bargaining and do bargaining of his own: “I’ll delete her number, I won’t work with her anymore, I’ll delete that email account, I’ll go to counseling, I love you, not her, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” On and on. Of course, this spoke to the caretaker in me as well. There must be something wrong with him and I can help him! What a poorly rationalized thought which cost me the better part of a decade and emotional scars which will eventually heal, but not disappear.
DEPRESSION
I spent eight years ping ponging between denial, anger, bargaining and depression. It happened so frequently that it just became the norm and an expectation. It was just a matter of time until it would happen again, then pieces of my heart would chip away, I’d become furious, buried in anger and wanting to lash out. When he, the person in my life to whom I’d given everything I could possibly think of giving betrayed my trust and discarded me as if I was worthless, I became worthless. I devalued myself. My life lost it’s color. Everything was grey. Tears ran until there were no more tears. The ache in my chest became colder, darker, then numb. I anesthetized and dissociated myself from the situation, from our life together. I ached for connection. I ached to be desirable. I drank, a lot.
The most marked period of depression in all of this was not actually after I finally asked him to leave. It was when he told me he didn’t love me and wanted a divorce. I packed my bags. I had no idea where I was going. I searched frantically on Craigslist and found a furnished studio which fit into my budget. It was close to the subway. It was close to a grocery store. The grocery store had wine. I could get to work. I could get food, not that I had an appetite. I became a hermit, a one to two bottle of wine per night hermit. One day I woke up and realized that this was not at all in my best interests and pulled back on the alcohol, found a 10 mile race to train for (I’d never run that far in my life) and redirected my energy. Slowly, the depression lifted which softened my heart and he came back into the picture, again. In my softened state, I let him back in, of course, but that’s a story for another time.
ACCEPTANCE
This may sound strange to you, but the last time I let him back in, I knew it wasn’t going to work. I had decided that he was not going to change, but I was going to give it one more go. You may be thinking to yourself, “WHAT?!?! Is she crazy?” Maybe, a little bit. We all have our own pathology and demons and this was my path to take. My decision to let him back into my life and my heart was complicated, as these situations often are. As was our cycle, there was wooing and there was romance and of course there was sex. Then one day I realized I was incredibly sensitive emotionally, my breasts were swollen and sore, and GASP! I was late. I immediately ran to the drugstore, bought a pregnancy test, walked to nearest coffee shop and went into their bathroom, and melted into the bathroom stall as two pink lines showed up. Did I forget to mention that I was tapped as a chief resident for the next academic year just one week prior???
He never wanted to have children. I could just not tell him. I could cut him out of my life forever. I’d always wanted to be a doctor and I’d always wanted to be a mom. How in the world am I going to do this alone? I knew he was going to completely flip out. It would be so much easier to not include him. Alas, that wasn’t the right thing to do. So I told him. He was livid. “How could this happen?” Ummmmmm, I know you’re not a doctor, but seriously? Remember all those times I reminded you that I wasn’t on birth control anymore because I didn’t think it was necessary given I was alone in a studio apartment drinking my life away and maintaining solitary confinement? Well, we had many conversations about termination, so much so that I went to Planned Parenthood for a preliminary appointment. This was followed by a call in tears to my best friend in the entire world about how there was no way I could do this alone and that I couldn’t count on him for anything, so wouldn’t this just be easier. Thankfully, she talked me off of the ledge. She knew that I wanted to be a mother more than anything and that all of the excuses I was coming up with were silly in the grand scheme of things. I’m a strong woman and I thankfully have a wonderful circle of friends and I would figure it out. I would be ok. We (my kiddo and I, at least), would be ok.
Then it became clear that he was still involved with tomfoolery with one of the many women from his past. She got involved and there were text messages and emails. I have to say, the level of class demonstrated by all parties is fodder for another time. Ultimately, he cut ties with her, promised to go to therapy for his “sex addiction” read “narcissism.” By the time I was eight months pregnant, he’d demonstrated sufficient amounts of commitment that I finally moved back in and we planned for the arrival of our baby.
I knew it wasn’t going to work. I. Knew. It. Was. Not. Going. To. Work. I felt compelled to give it one last go for the sake of our little one. I also had an inner dialogue that was determined to figure out how to at least be a parent with this man. We made a small person. I’m stuck with him no matter what happens between us and our relationship. I have to tell my child when they’ve grown bigger and understand more of the world that I did try to make things work. I also had to give my ex the opportunity to be a father, though he never thought he wanted to do that. I wanted to be able to look into the eyes of my pride and joy when they ask why mommy and daddy aren’t together and speak frankly, honestly, that I did everything in my power to make things work… and they just didn’t. I want to say that we both love our child and have our child’s best interests in mind and want them to grow up happy and healthy.
So, when I was in the midst of my first year as an attending, spending a fair bit of time as a solo parent with our newborn given my husband’s work related travel, and my little was 9 months old and I got a phone call from my father-in-law. He was nearly hysterical as my mother-in-law had just had a CT scan with a mass and mets EVERYWHERE. I knew what this meant. My father-in-law had an inkling, but not a full understanding. He’d tried to call my husband. No answer. I tried to call my husband. No answer. Text. No answer. Another phone call. No answer. I called the hotel where he was supposed to be staying for his work related conference. “I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s no one by that name in this hotel.” Call to his boss. “I don’t think he’s checked in to the hotel yet.” After trying to reach my husband on an emergent basis for two and a half hours, he finally called back. How do you deliver bad news to the love of your life after you’ve been unable to contact them for a prolonged period of time? You don’t ask too many questions about where they were, who they were with and what they were doing… after all, their mom is dying and they don’t even know it. You take a deep breath, tell them you have some difficult news and follow that with as much promise of support as you can. I told him they’d found a mass, it was very concerning for widespread cancer and we needed to figure out how to get him home and us on a plane to see her. I called my colleagues, got shifts covered, booked our flight, headed across the country.
My husband stayed. I came back to work and essentially be a single parent. I facilitated conference calls with specialists, primary care physicians, hospice providers, and my husband, father-in-law, brother-in-law. I was the tele consult 24 hours a day, while caring for our infant, managing a nanny who left a bit to be desired, managing my board exams and finding my way as a new attending. My mother-in-law didn’t want treatment. She wanted quality of life. Her sons and her husband could not fathom this. My father-in-law understood her desire, but his heart was broken. He was watching his love slip away right in front of his eyes, in his own home. The boys on the other hand were going through their own grief process. My husband was distant. I expected this. I figured it was his process. At the same time, just hours after we celebrated her life in a remembrance ceremony after her death, the text message that came from his paramour, while not unexpected, her timing was audacious. “I think he’s lying to us both. I hope he comes clean with you.”
That was THE moment of acceptance. I knew it would come. I just needed to go through the whole process. That was the moment our marriage and relationship was over. Now, don’t get me wrong, there certainly followed moments of depression and anger and a sense of loss, but there was no bargaining and there was absolutely no turning back. That was the point of no return. I am worth more than this and my child deserves to learn that I will not accept being treated this way. My kiddo deserves at least one parent who strives to demonstrate the value of meaningful and lasting relationships built on communication, openness and trust. I refuse to accept that life anymore and am moving on with my new life and my little one.
Here's to new beginnings.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
If you're a mother, you've done a lot of research
You're drawing on the literature, you're weighing the risks and benefits of various protocols of parenting, and you're conducting the all important experiment called being a mom, confirming hypotheses and identifying new areas of uncharted territory for exploration. I'm co-parenting a middle schooler presently, so you can imagine that the data is incredibly hard to interpret. And the participant has many questions about the plan.
And then there are the other people in my life, the medical students. They have a lot of (great) questions too. One thing that many medical students universally ask is why, whether or not, and if so how should they do research in medical school.
This weekend I was at the American Academy of Pediatrics national conference (a local national conference, and so I shall at some point post about the ups and downs of big annual conferences that happen to be in one's own home town). Before a packed house of medical students from around the country and the world, I served on a panel where we were asked question after question about preparing for residency.
In the ramp up to the panel, the AAP's young peds network launched a new forum for tackling these kinds of questions and I was asked to write about research during medical school.
And then there are the other people in my life, the medical students. They have a lot of (great) questions too. One thing that many medical students universally ask is why, whether or not, and if so how should they do research in medical school.
This weekend I was at the American Academy of Pediatrics national conference (a local national conference, and so I shall at some point post about the ups and downs of big annual conferences that happen to be in one's own home town). Before a packed house of medical students from around the country and the world, I served on a panel where we were asked question after question about preparing for residency.
In the ramp up to the panel, the AAP's young peds network launched a new forum for tackling these kinds of questions and I was asked to write about research during medical school.
- Why is research looked upon favorably by residency programs? (Is it?)
- Why would it be a good thing to gain research experience?
- How do you go about getting started?
Monday, November 2, 2015
That parent: you know the one who makes the front desk staff have nonepileptic seizures?!?
For those that don’t know - nonepileptic seizures also known as pseudo-seizures are a phenomenon when a person does not have a real seizure, but they just mimic the movements of a seizure. Sometimes it is for secondary gain such as getting out of school and getting attention or sometimes it is a manifestation of underlying psychiatric illness.
Well, this is a post about patients that really stress providers and staff out and cause us all kind of angst.
I will take a moment to perform some serious self-reflection: I love me some difficult patients (yes, “love me some” as my Granny would say), blame it on my mother being a Social Worker, me being an interdisciplinary major who took a ton of medical anthropology and ethics classes, and me being extremely committed to social justice. Add to that the fact that most of the difficult patients come from places where my cousins still live and culturally I just feel connected to the loud, passionate, trash-talking patients. And finally, blame it on the fact that I have read countless accounts of the biases we providers have for folks we relate to and have against those who aren’t like us. I continually find myself being the only person bringing these biases up. I get it, I'm usually the only person of color in the room and to me these are issues I deal with every day and most of the time these biases harm folks that look like me and come from where I come from (see references below).
In spite of the very real and significant way we providers treat patients differently based on how we perceive them (see references below), what to do when a parent crosses the line? When their own mental health disorder gets in the way of their interactions with care providers? What happens when a parent only knows how to speak in a way that is viewed as overly aggressive to my colleagues and other staff but is culturally tolerable to me (loud, hands waving, maybe with a few expletives)? What happens when essentially an entire staff is overwhelmed with these interactions. There has been at least one time when I felt like the only one still advocating for a family but even I began questioning if I was really helping at all? What happens when we collectively have nonepileptic seizures when a parent comes in the door because we know the ish is about to hit the fan? I'm just wondering. What to do about "that parent"? The one we all want to avoid but who we still want to find a way to work with?
References:
1. Association of Race and Ethnicity With Management of Abdominal Pain in the Emergency Department. http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/132/4/e851.full
2. Problems and barriers of pain management in the emergency department: Are we ever going to get better? http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3004630/
3. Unequal treatment. https://iom.nationalacademies.org/Reports/2002/Unequal-Treatment-Confronting-Racial-and-Ethnic-Disparities-in-Health-Care.aspx
Well, this is a post about patients that really stress providers and staff out and cause us all kind of angst.
I will take a moment to perform some serious self-reflection: I love me some difficult patients (yes, “love me some” as my Granny would say), blame it on my mother being a Social Worker, me being an interdisciplinary major who took a ton of medical anthropology and ethics classes, and me being extremely committed to social justice. Add to that the fact that most of the difficult patients come from places where my cousins still live and culturally I just feel connected to the loud, passionate, trash-talking patients. And finally, blame it on the fact that I have read countless accounts of the biases we providers have for folks we relate to and have against those who aren’t like us. I continually find myself being the only person bringing these biases up. I get it, I'm usually the only person of color in the room and to me these are issues I deal with every day and most of the time these biases harm folks that look like me and come from where I come from (see references below).
In spite of the very real and significant way we providers treat patients differently based on how we perceive them (see references below), what to do when a parent crosses the line? When their own mental health disorder gets in the way of their interactions with care providers? What happens when a parent only knows how to speak in a way that is viewed as overly aggressive to my colleagues and other staff but is culturally tolerable to me (loud, hands waving, maybe with a few expletives)? What happens when essentially an entire staff is overwhelmed with these interactions. There has been at least one time when I felt like the only one still advocating for a family but even I began questioning if I was really helping at all? What happens when we collectively have nonepileptic seizures when a parent comes in the door because we know the ish is about to hit the fan? I'm just wondering. What to do about "that parent"? The one we all want to avoid but who we still want to find a way to work with?
References:
1. Association of Race and Ethnicity With Management of Abdominal Pain in the Emergency Department. http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/132/4/e851.full
2. Problems and barriers of pain management in the emergency department: Are we ever going to get better? http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3004630/
3. Unequal treatment. https://iom.nationalacademies.org/Reports/2002/Unequal-Treatment-Confronting-Racial-and-Ethnic-Disparities-in-Health-Care.aspx
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Call for Topic Week submissions: Thankful
MiM is having our next topic week November 16-20. Topic weeks are weeks where we feature posts by both regular contributors and readers all centering on one common topic or theme. We have had topic weeks on "A Day in the Life," "Work-life balance," and "How medicine has changed me," among many others (check our sidebar labels). This next topic week is "Thankful."
Please join us by submitting a guest post on anything related to the topic. Some ideas include: What are you most thankful for? How do you cultivate gratitude in your children? How do you stay thankful? What role does being thankful have in your life?
To be included, please send your post by November 15 to mothersinmedicine@gmail.com. Please include a one-line bio that includes your level of training and specialty. Feel free to write anonymously. Thanks for reading and sharing!
Please join us by submitting a guest post on anything related to the topic. Some ideas include: What are you most thankful for? How do you cultivate gratitude in your children? How do you stay thankful? What role does being thankful have in your life?
To be included, please send your post by November 15 to mothersinmedicine@gmail.com. Please include a one-line bio that includes your level of training and specialty. Feel free to write anonymously. Thanks for reading and sharing!
Friday, October 30, 2015
A Doctor-Mom Day Off With The Kids: Halloween Baking Project
Genmedmom here.
I don't know about other doctor-moms, but I have very little "free" time with my kids. Too often, a day off with them gets spent running errands or from scheduled activity to activity. I've found that I treasure unplanned, sort of spontaneous fun stuff, and I think they do, as well.
One recent weekend day, I found myself with both kids and a few free hours. Some groceries and sundries were desperately needed, so we piled into the car and headed to the nearby super-uber-market that sells everything cheap.
Before we entered the store, I laid out our basic ground rules:
No yelling, no fighting, and no running away from me.
If they could do all that, we would do a fun project.
So we did our shop, and I spied some halloween cookie cutters. They were purposefully displayed alongside theme sprinkles, food coloring, and decorator frosting. Hmmm...
I asked the kids what they thought. Two thumbs up! They excitedly helped pick out what they wanted to use.
When we got home, I made the kids wait until all the other stuff was put away, and then, we started. Babyboy only took part until the dough was made, and then he left with the spoon to watch "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown". Babygirl owned this project.
Want to try this at home? Below, see our recipe, and photos of all the steps. Enjoy!
(And yes, the kitchen will be an ABSOLUTE MESS, there is no way around it. Flour, sprinkles, colored frosting fingerprints... and, it will have been totally worth it.)
Sugar Cookies Basic Recipe
Let the kids do as much as they can/want!
2 sticks unsalted butter
3/4 cup sugar
1 large egg
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 1/4 cups white flour, plus extra for rolling out the dough
1/4 tsp salt
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper, or, even better, those nonstick silicone sheets, they are awesome. Soften the butter, but don't melt. Beat the butter and sugar together with an electric mixer until really smooth. Add the egg and vanilla and beat again. Add the flour and salt and just blend slowly until no patches of flour are visible. Squeeze the dough together as best you can and plop it onto a piece of plastic wrap. Wrap it up and place in the fridge. While it is chilling, make the base frosting.
Frosting:
3 cups powdered sugar, plus more if needed
1 stick butter
up to 1/2 cup milk
food coloring
Soften the butter. Add some of the powdered sugar and beat. Add a bit of milk and beat. Keep alternating until the sugar is gone or mostly gone, and the consistency is creamy and very easy to spread. Leave it out until the cookies are ready to frost.
On a flat clean work surface, sprinkle some flour so the dough doesn't stick. Divide the chilled dough into thirds or fourths, and place on work surface. Flour up a rolling pin, and roll away. When about 1/4 inch thick, cut into shapes using cookie cutters.
When first sheet is full, place in oven and bake for around 6-8 minutes, until golden. These burn really easily. Repeat for the rest of the dough.
Cool completely. We decorated like this: We made several base colors from the creamy frosting, orange, gray and white. I spread the base frosting onto the cookies with a plastic knife, and my daughter then decorated the cookies, for the most part.
(FYI: We also had bought one bottle of liquid black decorator frosting, which we used for the black bats. We tried to use it for drawing and writing, but it was too liquidy. In addition, it tasted funky, and made the kids' poop greenish. Will not use again! I'm sure there are better homemade versions out there.)
I don't know about other doctor-moms, but I have very little "free" time with my kids. Too often, a day off with them gets spent running errands or from scheduled activity to activity. I've found that I treasure unplanned, sort of spontaneous fun stuff, and I think they do, as well.
One recent weekend day, I found myself with both kids and a few free hours. Some groceries and sundries were desperately needed, so we piled into the car and headed to the nearby super-uber-market that sells everything cheap.
Before we entered the store, I laid out our basic ground rules:
No yelling, no fighting, and no running away from me.
If they could do all that, we would do a fun project.
So we did our shop, and I spied some halloween cookie cutters. They were purposefully displayed alongside theme sprinkles, food coloring, and decorator frosting. Hmmm...
I asked the kids what they thought. Two thumbs up! They excitedly helped pick out what they wanted to use.
When we got home, I made the kids wait until all the other stuff was put away, and then, we started. Babyboy only took part until the dough was made, and then he left with the spoon to watch "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown". Babygirl owned this project.
Want to try this at home? Below, see our recipe, and photos of all the steps. Enjoy!
(And yes, the kitchen will be an ABSOLUTE MESS, there is no way around it. Flour, sprinkles, colored frosting fingerprints... and, it will have been totally worth it.)
Sugar Cookies Basic Recipe
Let the kids do as much as they can/want!
2 sticks unsalted butter
3/4 cup sugar
1 large egg
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 1/4 cups white flour, plus extra for rolling out the dough
1/4 tsp salt
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper, or, even better, those nonstick silicone sheets, they are awesome. Soften the butter, but don't melt. Beat the butter and sugar together with an electric mixer until really smooth. Add the egg and vanilla and beat again. Add the flour and salt and just blend slowly until no patches of flour are visible. Squeeze the dough together as best you can and plop it onto a piece of plastic wrap. Wrap it up and place in the fridge. While it is chilling, make the base frosting.
Frosting:
3 cups powdered sugar, plus more if needed
1 stick butter
up to 1/2 cup milk
food coloring
Soften the butter. Add some of the powdered sugar and beat. Add a bit of milk and beat. Keep alternating until the sugar is gone or mostly gone, and the consistency is creamy and very easy to spread. Leave it out until the cookies are ready to frost.
On a flat clean work surface, sprinkle some flour so the dough doesn't stick. Divide the chilled dough into thirds or fourths, and place on work surface. Flour up a rolling pin, and roll away. When about 1/4 inch thick, cut into shapes using cookie cutters.
When first sheet is full, place in oven and bake for around 6-8 minutes, until golden. These burn really easily. Repeat for the rest of the dough.
Cool completely. We decorated like this: We made several base colors from the creamy frosting, orange, gray and white. I spread the base frosting onto the cookies with a plastic knife, and my daughter then decorated the cookies, for the most part.
(FYI: We also had bought one bottle of liquid black decorator frosting, which we used for the black bats. We tried to use it for drawing and writing, but it was too liquidy. In addition, it tasted funky, and made the kids' poop greenish. Will not use again! I'm sure there are better homemade versions out there.)
 |
| Rolling out the sugar cookie dough and cutting out shapes |
 |
| Yes, our kitchen is a disaster. |
 |
| This girl is FOCUSED |
 |
| I hope this black frosting isn't toxic. |
 |
| Ta-da! (and yes, that is our cat's butt on the counter) |
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