The Most Intimate of Jobs

A random Saturday earlier this month marked the first time I provided sedation anesthesia for patients in the same IVF clinic where I was a patient for 3 years. It was surreal and a little emotional driving up the hill to the clinic and thinking about the many times I went there as a patient myself. All the shots, the blood draws, the ultrasounds, the procedures... Also all the letdown and disappointment that was flanked before and after by hope and excitement. I now have a beautiful baby girl to show for my time as an IVF patient!

A friend of mine who is also in the medical field said to me, "I bet it took a lot of courage to do that. Creepy and scary". While I instead had viewed the experience with gratitude and excitement at the ability to give back to a group of people who had given so much to me, I can understand what she meant. As physicians, we are faced with daily reminders of unpleasant things. Things that have happened possibly to us or to our loved ones, or things that are at the very least reminders of our own mortality.

I think these reminders are a gift, one that doesn't come with many other lines of work in this world. They keep us appreciative of what we have, what we've been through. Has anyone else had an experience like this in their practice? Share your thoughts with us.

I matched!

Match Day has come and gone, and I have to admit that life looks so much brighter on the other side of that big white envelope. The months leading up to last Friday have been filled with more ups and downs than I care to count. I know I'm not alone in feeling grateful that the entire process of residency applications, interviews, ranking programs, and waiting, waiting, waiting is finally over!

Now that I've got that Match letter in hand, telling me that I matched at my first choice program (my home institution - hooray for not having to move across the country with a toddler and baby-on-the-way!) I am feeling humbled, grateful, and honestly somewhat astonished to be at this point. There have been so many times in the past 4 years that I wanted to walk away from medical school - studying for Step 1 while trying to conceive, battling first trimester nausea during my surgery clerkship, leaving my baby girl in the care of others when it was time to return to rotations, pumping when I'd rather be nursing her, hearing from my husband or mother-in-law or babysitter about the milestones she reached rather than experiencing them first-hand, tiptoeing out of the house before she awoke in the morning and coming home long after she'd been in bed...the list could go on.

But I count myself blessed to have had the support of my husband, parents, in-laws, and wonderful community of friends during this time - I know from reading this blog that many mothers in medicine are shouldering far heavier burdens with far less help. And it's largely because of those supports that I made it to Match Day. They are the ones who listened when I was frustrated, cared for me when I was exhausted, and lifted me up when I was discouraged. They are the ones who made sure that my daughter always had a safe and nurturing environment to be in (and that mama always had plenty of pictures to keep her going through the longer days and nights). My Match Day belonged to them as much as it did to me.

Even though we are staying put for residency, there are big changes on the horizon. I am thankfully finished with all of my clinical requirements for medical school, but there are all those little administrative odds and ends to take care of. And Baby #2 is due in less than 5 weeks! I still need to dig out the newborn clothes and bassinet from the first time around, maybe review our birth plan/what to expect during labor, think about preparing some food for after the birth (emphasis on think about rather than actually prepare) and pack that hospital bag. Now that the stress and excitement of the entire Match process has subsided, I'm grateful to have the time to prepare, physically and emotionally, for our transition to a family of four.

Congratulations to all the other medical students out there who matched last week - I hope that you are enjoying some well-deserved relaxation after passing this milestone in medical education! I know that Match Day is not necessarily a joyful occasion for everyone, whether it be due to an unexpected placement or not matching at all. So to anyone who is not celebrating this year, I wish you strength and courage for the discernment that lies ahead.

Please share your own stories of this Match Day and those past!

I'm a grown woman and my work bag needs to represent that

What do you do to celebrate yourself? How do you toot your own horn?

I am a part of several very lively on-line support groups for mothers. I love many of the posts and I have especially started to really enjoy the posts that talk about how busy mothers reward themselves with things like fancy purses, fabulous trips and paying off their loans. I don’t think we do as much as we should to celebrate ourselves, to be gentle with ourselves, to love up on ourselves. After the first 8 months of being an Attending, I sometimes realize that besides going to the gym I haven’t done a single good thing just for myself in a week; that’s when I schedule an eyebrow shaping or pedicure appointment (I am overdue for both by the way, uggh!). I am going to start with the purse, build my way up to a trip next year, and before turning 40 - these loans will be paid off!

Back to the bag - the work bag my mother bought me at the beginning of residency has been through a lot. It’s a nice, large personalized LL Bean bag but it has begun to look weathered and frayed. I’m too young to look sloppy and unkempt and I need an upgrade. I went out with some of my Sorority Sisters recently and I noticed how all of the Lawyers had beautifully sculpted, supple leather bags - they were gorgeous! 

That’s when I decided - I’m upgrading myself as soon as I get my first check from my new position (more on that later). My budget is modest and several friends recommended Coach (my favorite is the Coach Mercer Satchel in eggplant) due to their durability and timelessness and some sister-doctors recommended the Dagne Dover (I like the roomy Charlie Tote the best). And now I’m ready for my own, not-a-hand-me-down, grown lady work bag. One that I’ll feel like singing Beyonce’s “Grown Woman” out loud as I carry it into my new office. 

Any recommendations for your favorite work bag or purse? One that will not be flashy while commuting on the DC metro? One that will allow me to easily go from work to picking up Zo from kindergarten?

Money Talks

I've been reading The Grumpy Rumblings of the (Formerly) Untenured blog lately. Their personal finance posts make me kind of uncomfortable because I don't think we've done a good job of planning or saving. We're not frugal and we haven't paid down our mortgage (although we did refinance to shorten our term) and we won't be able to retire early. Which mostly I think is fine...except when I read their posts.

But anyway, I read this post about how we communicate about money and I commented. Sam and I communicate fairly easily about money; we discuss major decisions, we have similar values, we have enough money so that we can each buy the things we want. I'm not surprised to read that money is a source of conflict for a lot of couples, or that one member of the couple manages the money. I was astonished to see how many commenters say that they give their partner an "allowance". 

I give my daughter an allowance. I had an allowance when I was a child. I don't give my husband an allowance and he doesn't give me one. I understand the value of having money you can spend without accounting to your partner for every penny, and I can see the reasons for deciding ahead of time how much that will be each month. But an allowance? As an adult? That just rubs me the wrong way.

Is it just me? Do you have an allowance? Do you give your partner an allowance (if you have a partner)? Am I completely over-reacting to a perfectly reasonable word?

MiM Mail: Share your anecdotes about pregnancy and maternity leave

Hi fellow mothers in medicine, I'm currently a resident and pregnant with baby #2. I must say that the attitudes I have encountered throughout this pregnancy from my attendings and peers have been discouraging. I'm working on writing an op-ed piece about attitudes toward pregnancy and maternity leave among US physicians and would love to have more quotations and anecdotes from your experiences. Positive and negative comments are welcome (please comment below)! Sadly, mine have been mostly negative. Thanks so much!

Conversations With My Daughter

A keeps telling me what to do. She's so mean. It's like she's my mother.

Hey. I'm not mean.

True. It's like she's the mean mother I never had. Why is she so mean, anyway?

Well, honey, you know her better than I do. It sounds to me as if she's really insecure and also pretty envious of you and C.

Why?

You both have a lot more money than A and her family. You two get to travel and buy pretty much anything you want. A doesn't.

I know. And I don't know why she's so mean to her mom. Her mom works really hard. I think she's nice.

She is nice, and she is working really hard. I can't imagine how painful it must be to have to tell your kids you can't afford things they need. And, at the same time, she seems to tolerate B being mean to her. You said once that you knew I'd never let you talk that way, and you're right. I wouldn't.

It would never even occur to me to talk you like that. Or to yell at you that way.

I know. And a lot of that is just the way you are - the way you're wired. Some of it, though, is that Daddy and I have been clear about what the limits are. And we've also treated you like a human being. We've listened to you and explained why we make our decisions and we respect you and your point of view, so you trust us to be reasonable.

Yeah. And then I expect everybody to be like that, and they're not! Other people are NOT reasonable. Like, I keep thinking people will apologize when they've done something wrong, the way you and Daddy do. And they don't!

Let the Mystery Be

Our little man will hopefully make his appearance (hopefully in a much shorter and less painful way!) in the next few weeks… I hit 37 weeks a couple of days ago, and for me, this is uncharted territory as I went into labor with our daughter at 37 days on the dot. This has really felt like a milestone- as residents, we live our lives in month-long blocks, and the past two blocks have been the most intense physically and hours-wise rotations we have in our pathology program. We're all still in one piece though, and for that I am grateful. We met with our volunteer doula this past weekend, finally acquired a car seat, and took inventory of all the leftover clothes I had stashed from my daughter (mostly gender neutral, thankfully!) that we’ll be able to use again. This is finally feeling like a reality.

I wanted to share the strangest experience I had this weekend which I haven’t been able to shake. I’m sure many with multiple children relatively close together can commiserate over how different subsequent pregnancies are from the first…  Beyond our work, our focus has been survival and spending as much quality time as possible with our daughter and being a family of 3. It’s been easy to forget about the pregnancy, and actually I’ve done a pretty good job at ignoring it so I don’t worry haha.. But this time, there have been no photo diaries week by week, no journal entries to my fetus, no shopping trips to buy anything special.

One experience we really treasured the first time around was going to one of those recreational 4D ultrasound places to find out the sex and see her face. We actually went twice- once around 15 weeks and once later on, maybe 25 or 26 weeks. I remember how much we stared at those photos- we even had one framed which I brought to my delivery haha. Her face was so beautiful... I still love looking at those photos in utero and seeing her face in them, her little button nose and full lips. Anyway a couple weeks ago, while feeling guilty realizing how little time was left and how little we had done, my husband and I decided to try to find a similar U/S place in the city we live in now. The place with the best reviews was far- over 30 minutes away- but we thought we owed it to our fetus to be appreciated for a morning and to let our daughter see him, haha. But it was actually disappointing… it was sort of a weird sterile office, not at all a warm fuzzy baby-friendly environment like we experienced back in California. Also, previously, we had to sign that we were receiving prenatal care and write down the name of the hospital and Ob practice in case there were any abnormalities that needed to be reported;  at this place, all they took was our name and EDD. And unfortunately, our little guy was totally covering his face with both hands and feet at the session, so they invited us to come back for another look in a couple weeks.     

So this weekend we went back to test our luck, and while in the waiting room, the doctor/owner of the business (radiology IMG, not practicing here; his wife seems to be the ultrasound tech) came out and asked if I could come help him with translation issues with his current Brazilian client that couldn’t speak English. He knew I had an MD, but I was caught off guard. Without thinking too hard, I shrugged and said, sure, I only had patchy Spanish and Italian to offer but maybe it could be a bridge to their Portugese. I entered the room to find a young couple with their two older sons, maybe 7 and 9. The woman looked scared. I started to feel scared. According to her LMP, she should have been around 10 weeks along. No cramping, no bleeding since. Regular periods prior. Apparently, no insurance and she hadn’t seen an Ob or PCP- only positive HPTs. The problem was that no heartbeat was detected, and she was measuring only around 5 weeks. My heart sank. It was clear they had all come to share the joyous occasion of seeing the baby for the first time as a family. I was so sad for them as I had been in the same position a year prior, the ultrasound planting the first seed in my heart of the possibility of miscarriage to follow. We tried to explain as gently as possible that time will tell whether the pregnancy will continue. But I was upset that I was in this unexpected position. I was upset that she didn’t have a doctor of her own. I was upset that she was receiving this information in this setting. I tried my best to encourage her to establish care with an Ob as soon as possible, but it seemed unlikely that it would happen.

I keep thinking about her today and wish the best. I truly hope this is a dating issue and that her pregnancy will progress. I keep thinking of my own miscarriage, the ordinariness and near universality of the experience and how isolating, unique, and devastating it still feels. I think of the miracle of our family now ready to welcome a boy just a year later. Of all the health we take for granted. I think of the fragility of our children, that this is all the beginning… by gaining so much in love we also have so much to lose. But I remind myself that the alternative, of not opening our hearts to the potential of more love and family, is also a sort of loss. I was reminded of this old song by Iris DeMent, called “Let the Mystery Be,” which expresses her coming to terms with rejecting organized religion (she grew up in a big religious family I believe) in a really beautiful way... I often sing this to myself when I feel like I need to let go and not worry... so much unexplainable mystery in life.     

Here is the brief and only glimpse our little one gave us of his face in the two ultrasound sessions. He wants to stay a mystery and I accept that. I just can’t wait to kiss those chubby cheeks and lips and see what the rest of him looks like… well, maybe I can wait just a couple more weeks :)  

Because I Hated Every Second of Breastfeeding

Genmedmom here.

There have been many times when I have struggled to empathize with the patient. There are certain healthcare issues, and certain patients, that I have found consistently frustrating over the years.

I've written about this, and been pretty well chastised by readers. I don't mind, because I know that 99% of physicians have their kryptonite issues, and just don't talk about it. I'll take the heat for being honest.

My kryptonite issue has been obesity. I admit, that for many a patient encounter, I've sat there and counseled (for the millionth time) on diet, and exercise, and priorities, and wondered to myself: Why can't you do this? Why can't you just lose weight?

I know that sounds terrible. Heck, it IS terrible. My bias is based on my own experience: I gained sixty pounds in my first pregnancy, and fifty in my second. The weight didn't come off postpartum, and I found myself obese. BMI 30. I dedicated what precious little time I had as a working mom to eating healthy and exercising, and I lost it all. It took two years. It was hard. There were ups and downs. I've written endlessly about it here, and here, and here....

Of course I know that it is totally and utterly unfair to think "Well, if I could do it, why can't you?" but truth is, that's a pretty natural way to think, and many of us think like that.

So I've been making a conscientious effort to do better, to let go of the bias, and the frustration, and meet people where they are, no matter what the medical issue is.

But it was only when I was sitting with a lovely young patient of mine who was upset, grieving, actually, that she had been unable to breastfeed her infant, that I had a real breakthrough.

This poor woman had had a complicated pregnancy and delivery. Nothing had gone the way she had planned. But she held on and held it together, because she knew that if her baby survived, she would do everything right. She would take THE BEST care of this baby. She was determined to breastfeed for a full year. It had never occurred to her that that might not happen.

There were problems with the latch, with the milk supply, with pain, with baby's growth. Still, she was determined. She got the hospital lactation consultant and a private lactation consultant and every breastfeeding book on Amazon and drank Fenugreek tea et cetera, et cetera... for weeks.

But one day when she had spent an hour and a half with the industrial-grade pump and got only about a teaspoon of breastmilk, with her nipples raw and bleeding, with her infant screaming, starving, with the pediatrician's concerns about his growth, with her consultants saying "Just push through! Keep trying!" for the gazillionth time but without any other real suggestions, and without any progress, she broke down.

She gave up.

So the baby got formula. And did fine. And grew. And she thought this burden was lifted from her.

Until the judgments came.

She was part of a social circle that especially valued breastfeeding. Friends and family would comment, say, "Don't you know breast milk is best?" or "Well, if you had only tried X, I bet it would have worked" or "If you had only HUNG ON a little bit longer" or "Those doctors pushed you towards formula, those doctors always push the formula, you shouldn't have listened" et cetera, et cetera.

It got to the point that she hid bottles and formula, or avoided socializing altogether. She felt like a freak, a failure. She worried what awful consequences there might be for her baby. She waited for some severe illness to befell her son, and for someone to blame it on her.

Oh, my heart went out to her.

Flashback. I was pregnant with Babyboy (now five and a half years old). I had a three-page birth plan outlining my natural vaginal delivery. I had a doula. I had Ina May's books on childbirth and Nancy Mohrbacher's books on breastfeeding. I had secured a highly-rated lactation consultant and booked a consult with her BEFORE the baby was born. I bought Medela breastmilk bags and a plastic organizer for the freezer. I arranged a breastfeeding room in my office.

But there were complications. The delivery- that's a story for another day. Emergency C-section for deep transverse arrest. Bradycardia. Meconium. Mayhem. I was discharged with a hematocrit of 22.

Babyboy was fine, but I grieved the loss of my dream birth. I was determined to get breastfeeding right: I wanted to breastfeed for a full year.

But. There were problems with the latch, with the milk supply, with pain, with baby's growth. I was still determined. I got the hospital lactation consultant and a private lactation consultant and every breastfeeding book on Amazon and drank Fenugreek tea et cetera, et cetera.

Miraculously, I was able to breastfeed for a full three months.

But, I hated every single second of it.

When it got close to feeding time, I would inwardly cringe. With his latch, I would outwardly gasp, and clench my teeth in pain. The doula and the lactation consultants gave up on me. It was a nurse practitioner at Babyboy's pediatrician's office who suggested APNO (All-purpose-nipple-ointment), and it was an OB/GYN who prescribed it for me. The APNO cream helped a bit, and it got me through the three months, though nothing really helped.

Inevitably, what would come to mind with EVERY feeding were images:

Of glass-shard covered twine being pulled out of my breasts through my nipples.

Of someone pouring acid over my areolae.

Of my baby with little piranha teeth and malevolent intentions.

Oh, I hated it, and I hated myself for hating it. Wasn't breastfeeding supposed to be this wonderful bonding experience? I would rock and cry, literally cry, while stroking my baby's forehead and begging forgiveness, because I could not WAIT for this to be over.

So when it came time to go back to work, I started on a combined oral contraceptive and took Benadryl, and let that milk supply dry right up. Worked like a charm. I was done. It was such a relief.

When I told my colleagues I would not be needing that breastfeeding room, I got some eyebrow raises, but no one questioned. Many of them had made similar decisions for different reasons.

Most of my friends were understanding (very different social circle from my patient-mom) and for that I was very grateful. As a matter of fact, people came out of the woodwork with their own breastfeeding difficulty stories. I was not only NOT the only person who had struggled, I was not the only person who hadn't enjoyed it, and I was not the only person who had guilt about that.

Yes, there were a few "judgy" moments. People I didn't know well, and luckily didn't give a rat's ass about. A lady at book club gathering, a friend of a friend.

But my patient, my poor patient. Her "support network" was annihilating her. I was outraged on her behalf. I wanted to reassure her.

So I shared my own story with her, and we discussed ways to manage the hurtful comments and avoid the negative people.

For doctors, sharing our own stories and feelings about medical issues with patients is a tricky thing. Sometimes it's appropriate, sometimes it's not, and sometimes it's a mixed bag. In this case, the patient expressed relief and gratitude. She had been initially expecting me to judge her, too, she said. She was so glad to have found validation, reassurance and open discussion instead.

That's when I had my breakthrough: The patient had been expecting me to judge her, and had instead found validation and reassurance.

Wow. THAT is what I need to bring to EVERY patient encounter. Validation, reassurance, open discussion. Because that is what I would want for me, as well. It's what I want to be able to provide for everyone, especially my patients.

That One Time When You Unknowingly Insulted Me

It was normal Wednesday and I was staring absentmindedly at the surgery white board. I searched its unending list of procedures and "ectomies" that stretched the entire length of the wall, until I was finally able to locate my string of minor surgeries. Lost deep in thought, I wondered if there was any feasible way the labor gods would be kind to me. What were the odds my labor patient would deliver while I was scrubbed in one of my many hysteroscopies? As I came to the conclusion that once again my day was hopelessly overbooked, I sighed only to feel a hand on my back.

Turning around I saw the familiar friendly face of a charge nurse. She looked concerned.

"Dr. RH+, poor thing, were you on call last night?" she asked.

"Actually, no. I slept all night." I chirped.

"Oh....." she said as we stared at each other, slowly realizing that she had just accused me of looking like total crap.

When the awkward silence became too much to bear, I faked a page and make a dash for the locker room, where I stat ordered eye cream from one of the 200 people on my Facebook feed who try to sell me overpriced fancy products endorsed by celebrity dermatologist. Maybe I can be the next before and after picture on their web site.

Asking a doctor if they are post call is like asking a woman if she's pregnant: Just don't do it, unless you already know the answer, then think twice. The "post call" look for me often means no sleep, no shower, puffy eyes and hair style that can only be described as "Beetlejuice"-esque.

Time, stress and life itself have had their naughty way with my appearance. My running addiction is great for my legs, but my crows feet have deepened without the extra layer of fat to cushion them.

While I can't remember the last time a patient asked if I was "really old enough" to be a doctor, I also haven't had anyone question my abilities in an equally long time. At 40, I am enjoying the comfort of my own skin. My patients confidence and my colleagues respect are far more important to me than a few fine lines. I look socially acceptable most of the time (at least I hope so). I wouldn't consider trading the peace and maturity of age for a baby smooth face, but also still it's not nice to tell me I look like a tired old bag either.

The other mothers of medicine...

The greats we learn about.  Often men.  Many of us have heard and read the stories of the "Fathers" of modern medicine.

But let's know and share and never forget the story of these women, Anarcha, Lucy, and Betsey.  We might call them the "mothers" of medicine, of modern gynecology.  Alas, these enslaved women whose bodies were used for physician's research. Without anesthesia.  Consent unknown.

Take a moment to listen to this moving podcast at NPR's Hidden Brain with historian and physician Vanessa Northington Gamble, and artist and author Bettina Judd, telling these stories that need to be told.

#blacklivesmatter

35 pounds

I have lost 35 pounds. 5 pounds at time. Over the last 3 years.

Unfortunately, I have also gained 35 pounds over that same time frame.

3 years ago, when Hubby and I decided to have a second kid, I knew it would be better for my health if I lost 20-35 pounds. I also thought it would take a year to get pregnant because it did the first time around. So I began to exercise and diet. 2 months later and 5 pounds down, I was pregnant. And terrified because I had gained 45 pounds during my first pregnancy.

Then the miserable pregnancy began. Horrible morning sickness for the first trimester. I had expected some because I had it in my first pregnancy but by week 14, it had stopped. I got two blissful weeks in my second pregnancy where I could eat normally at the beginning of my second trimester. Then came feeling lightheaded after eating or abdominal pain that would prevent me from finishing meal. I rarely ate. I wasn't even hungry. At work, I would vomit in empty patient rooms' trash cans. I had to take 4-8 mg of zofran and 1000 mg of acetaminophen before each shift. I never had less than 3+ ketones in my urine. I felt miserable all the time. By week 28, I had gained zero weight, but had not lost any either, and ultrasounds proved Blur2 was growing fine. I passed out week 32 and was diagnosed with gestational diabetes (had passed my 3hr glucose test with flying colors weeks before). On the carb restricted diet, I lost 10 pounds in 9 days. Off the carb restricted diet, my sugars were never higher than 130, even after eating cinnamon rolls and drinking orange juice, and most of the time they were 100-110. Somehow, despite not eating, I gained back the 10 pounds and delivered Blur2 weighing the same as I did when I conceived him.

At my 6 week post-partum checkup, I weighed 15 pounds less. No diet. No exercise. Just baby and placenta and fluids. I was also able to eat normally. I was happy and thought it would be a great jumpstart to my original goal a year prior. Except, I was exhausted with new baby and a toddler and headed back to full-time at 12 weeks of maternity leave. Slowly, I regained the 15 pounds, but not more, as if my body wanted to be this weight.

1 year of adjusting my diet - less carbs, less fluid calories, more protein, used myfitnesspal - and my weight go down 5 pounds with each change and then creep back up.

I intermittently work out. I view exercise as a necessary form of torture. During periods of working out, my diet would get even better and 5 pounds would come off. Of course, I would stop exercising because I hate it and then the 5 pounds came back.

I got diagnosed with arthritis (subtype unknown) and worsening reactive airway disease. Stiffness all the time doesn’t help the working out motivation. Every little cold turns into weeks of inhalers. Steroids (for both), don’t help my weight.

I work evening and nights. I eat on the run or just before shift. I never liked breakfast, still don’t, and often catching up on sleep then. I am the cook for my home and I make healthy foods.

I am sick of the plateaus, the stopping-starting, this weight that my body wants to be, this relative out-of-shapeness. I am also sick of not being able to keep up with my kids and worrying about my future health.

Excuses are easier than losing weight and being healthy.

So I'll restart on Monday. Again.

Maybe this time I'll get to 35 pounds.

I Wish I'd Said Thanks

One of my mother's cousins died yesterday.

I hadn't seen in her a long time - there's a fair amount of distance in my family, literally and figuratively. Miriam was married to my mother's first cousin. He's an internist (that runs in my family) and she initially trained as a pediatrician and then did a psych residency so she could practice pediatric psych. Which she did; she was still working part-time when she took ill, just a month or so ago.

According to her obituary, Miriam graduated from medical school in 1971, shortly before I turned 11. I didn't remember the exact dates. I do remember - quite clearly - that she was the first woman physician I'd known. There were lots and lots of doctors in my family. They were all men. At that age, I planned to be a nurse. It had never occurred to me that I could be a doctor. And then I met Miriam.

I made up my mind when I was 14 - I was going to medical school. Miriam started sending me occasional articles from JAMA about women in medicine. It was one of those articles that I learned that there was a first wave of women in medicine in the early 20th century; I asked my grandfather and he told me that his med school class was about 30% women (he graduated in 1927). The Great Depression, the rampant discrimination that made it impossible for women to join hospital staffs and the post-WWII pressure for women to leave the workplace changed all that. My father graduated from the same medical school in 1958 and there were six women in his class. Miriam was part of the second wave, the women who went to med school when the OR changing rooms still said "Doctors" and "Nurses" instead of "Men" and "Women" and when women were still routinely asked why they were taking a spot away from a man, since they were just going to quit and have babies anyway. Miriam had babies - two of them - and never quit. She was the first Mother in Medicine in my life.

I don't know what my life's path would have been if I hadn't watched Miriam walk hers. Even from a distance, she was an inspiration to me, and in many ways my first mentor. I just sent a condolence note to her husband telling him that. I will always regret that I never told her.

When we are touched by death, we often want to hold our loved ones closer, and I will do that. I will also think about the other mentors who have touched my life, and start thanking them today, while I have time.

Guest post: My Valentine

This year both my children have their own Valentines to congratulate. I was eating breakfast at  a hotel when one lady approached and asked to share a Valentine story for her anonymous site. It did not have to be a romantic Valentine. Just anybody who you feel special love for. I immediately thought of one person. My grandmother.

About 40 years ago she was working full time and caring for her elderly parents when she took me in. Initially it was about a better school district and starting me on my first year at school. Then she ended up raising me, giving me the best upbringing ever, guiding me, stressing work habits, taking me to movies, theater, and concerts with her. Her life as a professional and community member will always be what I strive for. She grew up in a village, poor and hungry, in a country where authorities took basic posessions from their citizens for all to share. Her family of 8 children had to give up their only cow to the collective farm.The cow would cry passing their house in the evening on the way from pastures to the collective farm. My grandmother and her siblings would gather at the window to see their beloved cow ("feeder") pass by and would cry silently too. The family was allowed to keep the hens, but they had to give away eggs to the collective farm, so that eggs were a special meal on certain holidays only. My grandmother helped her parents at the farm since age 8. When she complained that she was too small for the labor, her mother would reply, "If you only could pick up one thing from the ground, it would be one less thing for me to pick up." So, grandma kept going. Then World War II came. All the food went to the fighting soldiers. There was so little to eat, many days my grandma's family members had one potato a day per person to eat. Life afte war was desperately poor as well. Nonetheless, my grandmother as a university student exchanged her bread allowance for concert tickets and went hungry to be able to see opera, ballet, and theater performances to educate herself about the higher culture, city life. She ended up running financial affairs of a company employing 16,000 people, exporting goods to 35 different countries. She was always proud of helping people and aiding lowest workers in their hardships and pursuit of better life. Many of her coworkers came to wish her happy 90th birthday last year, it made her so happy they remembered her.

My grandmother was the one who pointed me in medicine direction for a career, advised me on my marriage, came to see my children when they were born, remained my soulmate who I can talk to every day. She tells me her only regret now is she cannot visit her great grandchildren due to age. But she is happy she got to see America, the best country in the world. Turns out visiting America was her dearest dream back then, on the farm. She always wondered why Americans lived better and wanted to see for herself. She did, and she was happy her great grandchildren were growing up here. I will be sure to pass grandma's lessons to them - nothing is impossible if you work hard, help others when you can, what you are is more important than where you are from. I will be forever grateful that I was shaped by such a person as my grandmother. Instead of feeling resentful she embraced life as it was and made the best of it.

Elena

Linea Nigra

I'd learned of it in medical school but never thought I'd have one. I looked for it all throughout my pregnancy, staring down along the midline of my gravid belly. Some telltale signs were there - the nausea, shortness of breath, tender breasts, swollen feet... But I never developed a huge, round, glorious belly that announced the joy of impending birth. Even with the twisting movement of a fetus anxious to emerge, it was hard to believe that this was all real. After years of wanting, of shots and procedures and waiting, it was finally here. But would she come out ok? What would she look like?

Then one day she arrived and they placed her on my belly, now saggy from where she was growing. She was beautiful, and I was immediately in love. Nothing else mattered. The nurse came into the room and announced, "It's time to mash on that uterus, shrink it back down!" It was then that I saw it: a faint, fine, dark line running from my belly button to my pelvis.

It's the tattoo of motherhood, one I never wish to erase, but I know they usually fade after birth. For this year, it's a gift to me from my daughter. A most perfect Valentine.

Vomit, Poop, Snow, and Chlorine: A Week In Review*

Genmedmom here, venting.

It's just been one of those weeks. There was no one particular event. We're fine, we're (mostly) healthy, we're happy.

But, it was just one of those weeks.

I was on call for our practice last weekend. Now, our weekend calls are not that bad. We do not round on inpatients at our hospital anymore; the hospitalists care for our patients. There were not that many pages.

But, the pages came at odd hours, and in bunches. Sleep was totally disrupted. There were stressful moments. Then, we have a brand-new, very complex electronic medical record to content with. I struggled with ordering prescriptions and documenting… Again, nothing big, just, annoying.

Then, Sunday afternoon, Hubby started having nausea, and chills, and muscle aches. Ruh-roh!

Yup, we were in for it. One by one, we were felled by the GI bug. Hubby had a mild version Sunday. Minimal active GI symptoms, but, down for the count. Overnight Sunday, Babyboy started spewing. I was on bucket duty. God love him, he never missed the bucket.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, all clear. Long days at work: twelve-plus hour days, mostly immersed in this new computer system. But, no one was sick at home. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

Then. Thursday evening, I started feeling a little queasy. I vasovagaled in the kitchen, caught myself. I went to bed early, wracked with nausea, chills, body aches. I considered calling in sick for Friday. But, I wasn't actively spewing, I just felt like crap.

I debated: There was going to be a snow storm. Going to work in a snowstorm is bad enough, but feeling ill, would be even worse. On the other hand, calling in sick meant I would have to contact the few early morning patients myself, to cancel. But, these patients may be canceling anyways, given the snowstorm... I just couldn't decide, couldn't even deal. It was easier to just suck it up.

Friday morning, 5:30 a.m. I shivered into the shower, bundled up in wool, and headed down. I brewed the coffee, but I couldn't stomach it.

It was just starting to snow. The driving wasn't bad. I drive to the train, and take the train into the city. For the first time since pregnancy, I had to sit down on the train.

Now, I hate when healthy, able-bodied, lazy-ass people take up seats that others may legitimately need. I felt ashamed for sitting, but at the same time, I didn't think anyone would want me passing out onto them, either.

At work, I had plain Earl Grey tea to ward off a caffeine- withdrawal headache. The snow came down. Most patients cancelled. My stomach actually settled. I felt better as the day wore on.

Friday night at home: After I picked up the kids from Nana's house, where they had spent their snow day largely outside, they helped me help shovel out our neighbor. It was after dark, and cold, but they couldn't get enough snow. I was just relieved to be off-call and feeling normal. Whew! I'll get some better sleep tonight, for sure! I thought.

Then Babygirl vomited on the couch.

Babygirl vomited multiple times. Despite strategically placed buckets and towels, we had to change her bed out entirely, twice. She stopped vomiting abruptly at about 11 p.m. and declared that she'd like a glass of water, please. She downed it, and another, and was fine the rest of the night.

Saturday morning, this morning, we were supposed to have a behavior therapy group session with a new family. Babyboy is mildly autistic, and needs help interpreting and managing a lot of social situations. We were supposed to bring Babygirl, too.

We debated. She'd been spewing the night before, but had awoken bright and cheerful. She had wanted warm milk. She drank it, and it stayed down. She was playing, she was smiling.

We decided to take her.

Bad call.

Ten minutes into the session (at another family's house, people we had never met before) she vomited. She managed to warn us, and we managed to get her to their bathroom, but it all ended up on the floor. I cleaned it all up, on my hands and knees, apologizing right and left.

Then, right afterwards, Babyboy had a poop accident. He's five and a half years old. We've been working on toilet training for over two years now. We'd just had a week and a half without a poop accident, our longest stretch ever. We thought maybe, just maybe, he's toilet trained!

Nope. Hubby took care of this mess, in the same bathroom. The family was so kind and understanding, but still. We were so embarrassed. You could smell it for the rest of the session: rancid milk vomitus, foul stool reek.

The kids were supposed to have their first swimming lesson today, as well. It was out of the question for Babygirl. I envisioned her vomiting in the YMCA pool… Good God. No way. Hubby took her home to watch endless Peep and the Big Wide World, all wrapped up in her pink blankie on the couch.

I took Babyboy to the Y. It was his first swimming lesson ever. I was nervous. He was nervous.

It didn't start off well. We walked into the locker room labeled "Family Locker Room". It was packed and bustling with half-dressed men and kids of all ages and moms with babies and SO MUCH NOISE in such a small space… There were changing booths with curtains on them, but I could not remotely imagine getting myself undressed and into my bathing suit, separated from the men and young boys by a flimsy curtain.

But Babyboy made the decision first: "Mommy it's too noisy in here, please let's GO…" He had his hands over his ears like they hurt, overstimulated to a painful degree.

So I took him into the women's locker room with me. We had already changed into our bathing suits when the YMCA police (or whoever she was) came in and informed me that children under eighteen years of age aren't allowed into the women's locker room. At all. Ever. And we had to leave. Now.

The lady was very stern, and Babyboy started to cry. He thought he was being scolded.

"Listen", I pleaded. "I just don't feel comfortable in that Family locker room with all those men and boys around, you know?"

The lady relented. "Well, you can use the Girl's locker room, if you like. Technically, it is for girls, but, he's pretty little…."

And so we did. Apparently, there were no girls of an age that would use the Girl's locker room around, because it was completely empty. We relocated, stuffed our winter gear into a too-small locker and entered the pool area.

Whoa! The pool was super-steamy and the chlorine odor was almost overpowering. I wasn't sure if Babyboy would be able to stand it, but he did. Other than the fact that he slipped and fell on the tiles, requiring a helpful lifeguard to get him an ice pack for his head, Babyboy enjoyed his first swim lesson, such as it was. He wouldn't get in the water without me (I had anticipated this) and there were several other special-needs kids, plus, it's the Y, so of course it was a little scattered and chaotic. But, it was fun, and he was more comfortable in the water at the end then he had been at the beginning.

Back at home, we all laid low the rest of the day. We drew, we read, we watched Peep.

Now, we sleep. I hope…

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*This post was written Saturday evening. Sunday morning, our longtime pet cat passed away unexpectedly. The kids were brokenhearted. We were brokenhearted. Obviously, that event overshadowed all of the crap I've complained about here. I decided to let this post stand, however, because it's how I felt at the time. I wrote about our kitty on my own blog: The Biggest Pain In The Ass Cat You Ever Could Love: We'll Miss You, Raffy