Guest Post: Frenemies

This isn’t the way I had wanted it to be. When I met and married my husband I had envisioned a relationship with my mother in law that would be better than those of other mothers and daughters in law. We would not become frenemies. My husband would not become the pawn or middle man in our petty disagreements. I would be patient and respectful, and eventually develop a love for the woman that bore and raised the man I loved. Most importantly, I would not become my mother, who I felt harboured a lot of resentment towards my grandmother over things that seemed trivial.

It is clear to me now that how we are and how we come across is as much of a reflection of who we are with as who we are ourselves internally. My best intentions have slowly over the course of the decade chipped away leaving me chronically agitated at the woman who I had hoped to understand and befriend.

 

She has always been a hypochondriac. Something is twitching. Is it a sign of something dangerous? Her face aches with tomatoes. She must be allergic to vitamin C, in fact she is sure of it. She can feel her blood pressure go up, so she will check it every 5 minutes until eventually it does. Her blood pressure is too low, she feels sick. She has this pain, but doesnt want to take tablets. Who knows what the side effects will do to her? We have been there for countless trips to the emergency room via ambulance, only to be sent home soon after as all is fine. I humoured all this, not only because of my commitment to the relationship, but being in the medical profession I was kind of used to dealing with strange and unreasonable people. I had developed a patience with them at work and this transcended easily over to my relationship with my mother in law. So we were doing fairly well, until the children came.

 

With the children came a loss of boundaries. I remember the extreme pain of trying to hobble over into the bedroom with the baby in one hand and breast pump in the other, barely clothed (what was the point?) and the episiotomy and high vaginal tear still very much fresh. My mother and father in law had decided to come by unannounced and were at the front door of our small apartment. Of course they wanted to see the little munchkin. Had he gained any weight? Was I breastfeeding? Were my breasts making enough? It was very important he was breastfed. My husband was breastfed until he was two, my father in law touted proudly. I excused myself, scrambling to hide the formula and baby bottles drying near the sink. Why was he crying now? Had he been changed? Maybe he was hungry. Had I fed him? At this point my mother in law would take it upon herself to soothe the crying baby. My rocking wasn’t good enough. I was failing at mothering already. She had more experience with rocking babies. She would be able to fix it, of course.

 

This only got worse over time. At outings I was instructed to give my son some more chicken, more bread perhaps, the orders from across the table never stopped. He never seemed to have enough food to her satisfaction. She never trusted me to know how much my child should be eating. Of course he didn’t sleep through the night, he was cold and he needed more layers on! (she’d never heard of SIDS). When I went back to work the pity she expressed for my son when he started daycare would make you believe I was sending him to an orphanage to be raised by drug lords. It wasn’t only parenting that my mother in law second guessed me. Here I was managing a delivery suite by day, and then having to convince my mother in law that I have enough medical knowledge to know this rash my son has is not worrying. He does not need to see a doctor as I, his mother and a doctor myself, am not worried. All of this preyed on my insecurities as a new mother. I was a doctor first, and I loved it. My time and attention was divided. This could not work any other way. Would it be enough for my son? It would have to be. Perhaps her words and actions were not as bad as the feelings of incompetence and loss of autonomy they elicited in me.

 

With the second baby came more of the same, but I was better equipped. No she isn’t breastfed, it just didn’t work for us. But I am happy to report she is fed, Sorry, I can’t let you in. I just got out of the shower and am not yet clothed. I will not be opening the front door naked. If you had called before coming I would have told you. They have had enough to eat, thank you. In my assertive and often uncomfortably direct responses to her behavior, I have resigned myself to a relationship with my mother in law that is nothing short of frenemies.

En322  is a OBGYN in London who has been a silent follower of MiM for years. She has two children who are 8 and 2.  

A Beloved Mentor Falls

I walk by the closed double doors and frosty windows of the ICU. You’re lying in there, intubated. It feels weird to go to work now. I can’t see you or talk to you, don’t know the drips, don’t know the plan... and it’s killing me. I, along with many others, desperately want to express my love. So many feelings are swirling inside:

Guilt... For having a chill workday that day, leaving early to sneak in a pedicure before the evening’s family duties. All the while, you collapsed in the OR. Our colleagues rushed to your side. Emergent intubation. Hours in surgery... A trivial moment for me that was horror for you. It hurts my head and heart to contemplate that this is the case for any two people on Earth at any given moment.

Bitterness... For the memories that have surfaced of my own health crisis. My own rush to the OR and surgery and stay in the ICU. The immediate change to everything in my life, the upset of all routines. The label of a disability, the worries about the future. A dark time that I try to forget but never can. For having the knowledge that you will experience this same bitterness later on... if you’re “lucky.”

Gratitude... For my health now. For the part you played in it. You were the one I went to when I knew something was wrong with me all those years ago. My tears didn’t phase you for a second, and you helped arrange my much-needed absence from training. Others thought I was just performing poorly; they judged and moved on, but you knew what mattered. When I was finally diagnosed, you facilitated my prompt surgery with our most skilled surgeon. The same one who is now taking care of you.

Admiration... For your completely nonjudgmental approach to everything and everyone. I have experienced it myself but never realized it was your M.O. with all people. We all exchange stories quietly in the lounge, then fall silent with sadness and worry. For your goofy sense of humor. For our days in the OR and call nights together during my training; you were the one I felt most comfortable failing or struggling in front of; only now do I realize why.

Anger... For why this had to happen. What higher being would take down such a beloved leader, such a good doctor? At you for not knowing something was wrong inside sooner, so as to maybe prevent this catastrophe. At your family for keeping us from seeing you now. They don’t understand how much we love you, how much doctors bond together in a practice, working in parallel to preserve life and limb. Damn you for not sitting up in your bed right now, pulling that tube out and cracking a joke with a mischievous smile.

I have to write all this here to get it out of my head. Work is not the same without you there. I miss you.

Mindfulness or multi-tasking as a mother in medicine

And then she said, “Wait what?”   

As a mother in medicine, are you engaging in mindfulness, or are you a multi-tasker?  Perhaps that’s too simplistic of a question, as it’s not necessarily an either/or.  The complexity may rest in which of these two are you striving for? 

My challenge is I find I’m striving for both.  I want to be more mindful and present with the people I’m with, but with things I want to multi-task.  When I’m with my family, I should be with my family.  When I’m with my students I should be with my students.  When I’m with my patients I should be with my patients.  When I'm in a meeting, I should be with the meeting members... that last one is a hard one!  What if you find yourself with people and it’s not worth your while?  When it’s not engaging.  When you have sooooooo many competing priorities and demands.  Do you exit (physically or mentally)?  Do you meditate or do you multitask or do you make your way out the door?

And, what about when the people aren’t fully present with you?  I’ll wait… And I’ll aim to make being there, being here, worthwhile. 

Maybe the key is to be mindful and fully present with people, and to multi-task effectively with things. But that may also mean you have to be around the "right" people and do the "right" things... the people and things that give your life meaning!

I guess it’s kind of a topic or conundrum for us, the busiest people.  And on that, do we agree that the busiest are the mothers in medicine?

Moving with Boxes

Hi! I am so excited to join this community. I have been following since applying to medical school 6 years ago and now, med school and 2 kids later, am honored to be able to share with this community more regularly.

I am usually an upbeat, sunny side up, West Coast girl. But I would like to introduce myself with a post that bares my soul and reflects a more raw version of myself. Below is what I wrote 3 days ago, the night before getting on a plane with my husband, kids, and dog, to fly across the country to start EM residency. With the chaos of moving I didn't have a chance to share until today. I'll hopefully post a more positive update later next week!

I'm flooded. And overhwlemed. and the dam that has been holding my emotions at bay has broken and every thought, fear, feelings of guilt, absolute fear, and sense of desperation keeps washing over me, unrelenting, like a wave, as I fight the current in the tumult of emotions  that keeps pounding relentlessly. 

let me backtrack. 

when I fell in love with emergency medicine the beginning of 3rd year, I knew that was the only field of medicine for me. the pace, the variety, the sense of camarederie, the fast paced atmosphere. I was hooked. I also knew that getting a residency position in my home town would be a stretch. my step 1 scores were okay, but test day was blunted by braxton hicks contractions and running to the bathroom with my 8.5 month waddling belly and I underperformed all my practice tests by about 10 points. so when eras and interviews started, i knew that moving away from my hometown was a real possibility, if not probability. 

on match day, i told me parents and grandparents and aunts and siblings  (who all live within a 5 mile radius of me and the med school) not to come. i knew i would not get in to the top 10 rated programs in my hometown. i was right, and opening that envelope ensured that my husband, 2 kids, and i would be traveling for an adventure across the county for at least the next 3 years. 

i went into GO mode. i found a house, registered the kids for school, hired a moving company, organized a goodbye party. but we leave tomorrow. and i am now terrified. 

i had my daughter, Chicken, a few months before starting med school and my son, Monkey, after Step 1. My kids go to my parents every day after school and most weekends when i need to study. They play at my grandparents' house on Sundays. My aunts and siblings have driven more carpools and orgsnized playdates and provided last minute babysitting more times than i can count. and now i am leaving the village that helped my little family thrive in med school and we are leaving so so far away where we have none of that.

i am just so scared. so scared that my kids will feel lost and alone. so scared that they wont be able to continue strengthening the amazing relationships they have with their grandparents and great grandparents. so scared that i will ruin or permanently derail my husbands career. so scared that it is all my fault because chose too competitive of a residency and wasnt good enough to get in at home. 

i love my program. i am going to love residency. im just so scared of what i am going to mess up in the process. 

(all is not) lost

There was a heartbeat. I saw it on the ultrasound, but I knew immediately something wasn’t quite right. Was it too slow? Yes, the ultrasound tech said she noticed that too and gave me the wise, all knowing look of a Black grandma who can’t quite tell her granddaughter that something is wrong.

And then there was none at the ultrasound 2 weeks later. I asked the next ultrasound tech to angle the screen when I didn’t see movement. Saw the look on the Radiologist's face and then the Fellow. No heartbeat. The tears began to flow. My body began to shake. I held in the sob knowing if it began here with these strangers it wouldn’t end until I was safely tucked away at home.

You were there. I saw you. You were there. And now you’re not. When did you leave me? My heart breaks. I type through my tears.

I am at home. Grieving. Surrounded by loved ones.

I cry now as I type.

“Mama, are you crying? Did you have a nightmare? Are you frightened?” I stifle my tears. Say to Zo through closed door “I’m okay. Mama’s okay.” He calls out for me and O from his room after bedtime. O goes and comforts him and calls me into his room.  I gather myself, wipe my tears, blow my nose. Zo rushes into my arms “Mama, are you okay? I was having a good dream but then I woke up. Why are you crying? Everything will be okay.” As he gently rubs my face with his amazingly soft 5-year-old hands. As he pats my back. As he rubs my belly. As our family holds one another.

All is not lost in spite of this major loss. You were there. I saw you. You were with me. Now you are not there. But my husband is here. And my Zo is here. Their hearts are strong. My heart is strong.

The stories from friends poured in over the last few years. We are all in our 30s. Gut-wrenching stories of second trimester terminations due to fetal diagnoses incompatible with life. The heartbreaking call telling us of a stillborn nephew. Friends with years of infertility. A family member with seven losses. Stories of rainbow babies after loss. Countless miscarriages. Flashbacks from medical school of being present with sobbing women in the antepartum unit when their ultrasounds showed the absence of heartbeats. I didn’t understand then how the loss of something (a baby? A fetus? I didn’t know what to call it then) not yet realized could cause these women to sob uncontrollably. But I do now. From the moment I saw the positive sign I was hooked. Head over heels. Then the heartbeat. My growing belly. Zo’s “mama, is there a baby in there cuz I think there is.”

I was so excited to tell him he was going to be a big brother but I didn’t because I knew things weren’t quite right and it was all too soon, too early, too many things could go wrong - and they did. But he knew. He knew yet we feigned ignorance.Told him I would go to the doctor to find out.

All is not lost. You were there. We were together. Our family is still here and you will always be with us. We will go on. For we are not lost.

My cherries are damaged!

Ingenious idea, I thought! Youtube, my trusty friend, came through yet again with a genius how-to video to answer some mundane question of mine. We bought some yummy delicious cherries, and TC, my little Toddler Child, loves fruit. I didn't want him to aspirate a pit in a cherry fueled excitement. Last time he had cherries was several months ago when grandma methodically cut the goodness around the pit. But grandma has time and patience that I completely lack. I needed some quick and easy way to pit lots of cherries. Supposedly such gadgets as cherry pitters exist. But (a) I was sitting with a bag of cherries and a hungry toddler, and I needed something NOW and (b) I hate buying useless one trick pony kitchen equipment. Youtube how-to video to the rescue!

An empty wine bottle. Check. Chopsticks. Check check. So I spent the next 10 minutes pitting a lot of cherries. I may gone a little overboard, but there is something oddly satisfying about excising the pit out of a cherry with precision in one swift motion. Ten minutes later I proudly presented TC with a bowl full of "safe" cherries whose pits he wasn't going to aspirate or break his newly sprouted teeth chewing on. At first, TC let out an excited "Chays!". Yes, TC, delicious chays, dig in! TC picked up the first cherry, and his smile was quickly replaced with confusion. How strange, the first cherry was damaged with a hole. He continued to pick up cherry after cherry and putting them back, now with full-on disgust. I knew it was coming, and there it was! TC tossed the entire bowl of cherries on the floor, laid his head on the table and sobbed his lungs out for half an hour. Because his cherries were damaged.

Anyhoo, with that story as an introduction, I am excited and delighted to be writing for the MiM community! I found MiM a few years ago when I was pregnant and freaking out about how I was going to swing this whole motherhood thing while going through med school. As for all life advice, I turned to Dr. Google, who directed me to this blog. Through the years this blog provided me with some  reassurance that this whole mothering and medicining process doesn't always look pretty but there are others out there in the same boat who are making it work. And they are willing to share those messy stories. I felt that it was time to stop lurking and start giving back and putting my stories out there. You can find more about me in the about page of this blog. I also write my own blog, Mrs MD PhD, where you can find more about me. Feel free to regale me in comments below of how your toddler (or not so toddler) child(ren) laid waste the fruits of your labor and/or cunning.

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

Overheard 10 minutes past bedtime:

SCENE:  just past bedtime;  kids in our bedroom

Husband [pediatric researcher]: "Time for bed."

Daughter: no movement, keeps on reading

Husband: "Time to go to your room, please go to bed."

Son: ignores him as well, keeps on jumping around expending all remaining energy

Husband: calm, cool, collected: "Get in bed, STAT."

Repeat, qHS

Mothers

This blog is about mothers in medicine, but most centrally it is about mothers.  I considered many times over the past few weeks telling KC that I was going to resign from writing.  But, I would stop myself because I so love this community of women.  I felt I didn't have much to give.  I'm drowning a bit right now.  To catch you up, I've started a new, amazing, super supportive fellowship.  I feel like I have my life back after 7 years of residency servitude.  I've passed the first part of my boards.  I have some exciting job prospects that may be materializing soon.  My daughter is in a wonderful school and thriving, and my husband just landed his dream job.  I get to hang out with my siblings on a regular basis.  I'm writing grants with my baby sis (so amazing).  But most importantly, and most poignantly, my mom has treatment resistant aggressive metastatic breast cancer.  On the bright side I get to see her nearly everyday, her doctors are my colleagues and we have far from exhausted every option.  But on the other side - I feel like I am drowning.

My mind is constantly thinking about my mom.  I constantly fight to push some medical knowledge out of my head while using other parts of my medical knowledge to help.  I feel quite ineffective at this.  I strive to bring her grandbaby to her side every day because my baby girl is a beacon of joy in the midst of this.  To busy myself I cook and clean and organize - thankful for my siblings and my dad as we all share these tasks together.  I yearn to just lay in bed and talk to my mom for hours, but I am so unstill.

At work I try to bury my constant thoughts so that I can excel, so that they see me as an asset.  Most days it seems to work okay, other days - like the day we realized it had spread to the liver on therapy - its hard for me to stand.

There is a centrality of mothers in a childs life.  This is the beauty of this blog and certain groups on facebook.  We realize that we have two awesomely important jobs.  Well now my mind is on the one who was so central in my life and how I can't envision a life without her.

So, I don't have lots of MiM specific insight or questions.  Just that this blog is about mothers.  So, I thought I'd talk about mine.

My mom quit her Economics PhD program when I was a baby.  My dad had to travel for work, so she chose her family.  She was a stay at home mom until I was about 12.  Then she started doing economics work for the state and selling real-estate.  It wasn't until I had my own child that I realize that she must never have slept or ate when we were little!  3 active kids in a million activities and she essentially worked two jobs.  Despite that she seemed just as present then as when she stayed at home.  She has always found a way to always make us feel that she is right there.  I never really had teenage angst with my mom.  She has always been my best friend and my cheerleader.  She never made me feel like I was anything short of the best and she is crazy proud of any and everything we do.  She told so many of her physicians that I was a surgeon that I'm pretty sure they flagged her chart.  She rescued me from my post partum depression.  She is the one who made it okay for me to get help.  She taught me that I could do anything, that I could be fierce and accomplished and made me feel like I deserve it.

So now, I can't bear the thought that my sweet baby girl (who wants to do everything with grandma) might forget her.  If I'm ever blessed to have another child I can't bear the thought of that child never meeting her.  My siblings are younger, they have weddings and pregnancies in future that she will likely never see.  I always thought that choosing oncology as a career was my calling, because with cancer people have time to prepare, unlike the immediate finality of trauma for example.  But, now that we're in the middle of this "time to prepare," I can tell you it sucks.  It is hard to make the most of it/treasure every minute/make happy laughing videos and everything you see on Hallmark movies.  My mom is tired and worn down from chemo right now.  She needs rest and pain medication - not a montage.  What we really want is the time before this all started.

Thats all for now.  Make life count.

How Much Do You Share With Your Patients?

Genmedmom here.

In my practice, there are two kinds of doctors. There are those who don't display even one personal photo in their exam rooms, and then, there are those that do. Me? I proudly display a collage of recent kids' photos. Occasionally, a photo will include me and/or Hubby, or our cats.

I've found that the photos can "break the ice", meaning serve as benign fodder for a softer, friendlier discussion in an otherwise sterile, somewhat scary environment.

Let's face it: a bleachy-smelling standard-hospital-grade exam room, where the cold speculum and bristly Pap brushes are laid right out on the chux, is not a fun place to be sitting twiddling your thumbs. No People magazine can change that.

How do I know this? Hey, I have a doctor, too.

What I've personally experienced is that decorations or photos can help to create a warmer, more inviting environment. I'll immediately feel like this provider is confident enough to share of themselves; that they're open to connect with me as a fellow human being.

The exam rooms that don't feature any kind of personal touch may as well be alien spaceship exam rooms: What part of me is going to get probed?

The worst exam rooms I've encountered are at my GYN's office: almost completely tiled without any objects left out in view whatsoever. I feel like a lobster in a pound. They may get high marks from OSHA and The Joint Commission, but I sit there increasingly uneasy, freezing in my flimsy paper gown. Even our dentist does better job with environmental emotional regulation.

Our pediatrician wins the prize for personal adornments. He's got family photos, his kids' artwork, obviously his choice of decorations (all sports-themed), and entertaining items like books and toys strewn all about. Not only am I made to feel more at ease, but my kids are, as well.

Of course, items and photos invite questions and conversation. I think this is good, and I tend to be very open and honest with my patients. Hey, I'm querying them deeply about their relationships, jobs, bad habits, fertility plans, and private parts. These are all topics that are socially prohibited in usual, out-of-the-doctor's-office conversation. I can at least share that my kids are in preschool and my husband works for the Patriots.

Some patients ask more, and I have real conversations with these folks. My general rules of thumb are: no personal chit-chat until the patient's issues and concerns are addressed. No shooting the breeze when I'm running behind. No sharing of my own medical issues. (Well, I'll sometimes share that I used to smoke cigarettes and that it was hard for me to quit, too.)

In seven years of practicing in this style, I haven't had anyone complain that I waste their time or overshare. My colleagues can tell you that I run on time, more or less. (More than most.) At this point, my regular patients excitedly ask for updates as soon as I walk in the door. How are the kids, how old are they now? Still have those huge cats? What does your husband thank about Deflategate?

Obviously, I'm all for sharing. heck, I blog.

What do other docs think?

Being introduced

My mother, not in medicine, and this mother in medicine, went to have a biopsy.  Her biopsy.  By a surgeon.  I am not a surgeon.  Nor am I a doctor for adults.  My day to day is infants, toddlers, school-aged children, tweens, and adolescents.  And medical students.  

How does your mom introduce you to her doctors?  My mother introduced me to the surgeon whom she herself was just meeting at that moment, as her daughter.  Sounds reasonable.  Started off well.  Though this was immediately followed by, “she’s a pediatrician.”  I paused briefly at the stark declaration, and softly came up with, “…who knows nothing about what you do.” 

Why did I demur?  Why so modest?  The surgeon and I might indeed speak the same language (though she much more tersely).  But I need not hover, make her nervous, nor imply that the reason I’m there is because I’m a doctor too.  The reason I was there was to support my mother.  As a daughter.

But alas, I guess I was also there because I do speak, or at least understand, that language.

[Results not in yet.  Somehow felt okay to post here on MIM in the interim.]

Guest Post: A comment from a daughter

This was left in our comments section. We think it is worth sharing.


Being the 18-year-old daughter of an OB-GYN about to leave for college...I want to tell you all something, and I hope that it will mean something to you. Whether you forget it, remember it, hate it so much that you yell at me in comments afterward, or love it so much that you post it on your refrigerator, I think it just needs to be said. I am terribly sorry for intruding on this site, and I do not remember even exactly how I found it. Still, I am glad that I did for the sake of this message. I only wish I could post it on the main page, however intrusive that may be, and that you all might understand the message even if I don't articulate very well (and I know I often do not when I try to sort through my thoughts). The OB-GYN in my family is my dad...but I think that it has less to do with which parent is the doctor in the family and more to do with how much we, the children, can't help but love our parents.

My dad was the head of the department at a hospital down here for 7 years. He worked even more then than now. He had wanted kids for years but waited because my mom wanted to work on her career a little more and settle (she was a bit wild and decided to quit her job [special ed teacher] after my older brother [1st baby] was born.)

Growing up, I don't remember much time with him. ...but I remember that we'd lovingly pack up a little of everything we had for dinner and put it on a plate, cover it in plastic wrap, and only then would we serve ourselves the food, so that he could "share" dinner with us, even though some nights he wouldn't be home until long after we were sleeping.

I remember him forgoing eating that dinner we saved some nights--no matter how hungry he was after being held late, or even if he only got there by rushing home for a short stop while he was on-call--so that he could give us three our night-time baths and tuck us in (we all fit in one bed back then, WITH him to tell us a story of growing up so far away in NYC up north, of all places!)

I remember that waiting eagerly for the time when his one day off a week after his on-call night would be "my" day, and I could spend time with him one-on-one. (We took turns, though I admit I was impatient for mine.)

I remember throwing tantrums and getting upset, with him yelling and me yelling...and looking back on it, I realize that I was just a little kid being a little kid, and he was just my exasperated father trying to get me to behave after a 36-hour day of being on-call and scared for my brother with one of his famous, crazy, one-oh-six-degree-Fahrenheit-breaking-point fevers keeping him worried while some poor mother cursed at him while birthing her baby and apologized afterward, crying and laughing, saying she didn't mean it while hugging a wriggling red baby with silly hair.

I remember eating a snack at 5PM and taking my shower early when I was just a little bit older to hold myself over while we waited for him to get home at 8PM before eating dinner and rushing off to bed.

I remember my dad taking time off work to come meet up with us for a week of vacation up north to visit some family. Then he’d have to fly back for work, spawning memories of the miserable, lonely phone calls we and my mother had with him while we were driving back, visiting more family all the way down the coast back to home.

I remember my dad getting in his scrubs to take us to the doctor and explaining everything he discussed with said doctor to us in words we could understand--whether it was the optometrist, the pediatrician, or the radiologist, respectively.

I remember crying because I thought my dad couldn't make it to my award ceremony, spelling bee, or school play; I also remember various feelings of relief, satisfaction, and sometimes more crying when my mom would video tape it and I'd watch it with him later, or when I'd see him rush in--still in scrubs--from the back in the middle of the competition, or when my teachers snuck him in backstage even though I had already calmed down because they knew I'd be so relieved and happy that he had made it after all.

I see now that my dad is overworked, overstressed, doesn't exercise well enough (not that he has much time to hit the gym, with my grandmother with Alzheimer's living with us and also requiring tons of care), and that he has always, always been there for me, loved me with all his heart (and these things count for big-brother and little-sister, too!), and has always wished he could have even more time with all of us (and still does, especially with my brother away at college).

My dad works a hard and difficult job with terrible hours because he feels it's his calling. Even when it's very difficult, there's a certain joy in it for him, in the miracle, as I'm sure you all understand. His partners are also loving parents with the same kinds of challenges of having families and careers--and all but two of the six others are women, a mother/doctor group may be interested to hear. However, I also realize that my dad works so hard also because...he loves us. Not only is he giving other people the chance to have the wonders he has, but the hard work he does makes sure that my mother can care for us and her slowly dying mother with Alzheimer's, despite those difficulties (our other grandma also lives with us, but is perfectly sound of mind, if not of eyesight). He keeps food on our table so, though things with insurance companies have made things more difficult over the years, we have never worried about food as many Americans now do--including ones nearby, ones in my school, or friends that I visit. We have never wanted for clothes to wear, a place to live, or even "extras" like a second car to drive--meaning we never had to walk the just-over-a-mile road to our school, but that we could go by car (since we're too close for bus). We have the luxury of a really cool PS2 that was an incredible gift for the three of us years ago and still serves us remarkably well for its generous age--not to mention an assortment of games we've "collected" through the years; I might add that those came mostly from birthday and holiday gifts from "Mom and Dad" that I'm sure my parents bought with the money my Dad works hard to earn.

I've lived a very privileged life full of experience and love, and I feel blessed to have had both of my parents. They are strong people who have raised me remarkably well, so I feel I have the great advantages of knowing right from wrong, the importance of learning and respect for others, and the much-forgotten value of courtesy and good manners. (And that those last two count even when things are bad or you're in a bad mood. We're all only human, but so's everyone else. Then again, I’m sure he sometimes wishes his patients taught their children that way, or lived it themselves, too...)

On behalf of children everywhere with doctor parents who worry, fret, and guilt themselves over the time they have to spend apart from their children...I want you to know that we love you, and even if it's hard when we're little to understand what you do, or why you're gone so long sometimes (though we tend to vaguely grasp even then the idea that "work" is very hard and busy and keeps you away even though you love us very much and wish all the time that you were here with us), we're proud of you and love you very much. We do our best to understand and accept these struggles with you, and we see better while looking back from older ages all of the sacrifices and difficulties you've endured for us, and just how much you've always loved us--and at all ages young to old, we love to hear you say it on nights when you're around to tuck us into bed.

Second generation

I'm in a somewhat unique position in that not only am I a doctor-in-training with a daughter, but I am also the daughter of a former doctor-in-training.

My mother returned to medical school when I was three years old, living out a dream she had held for the last ten years as she taught biology to high school students and then became a stay at home mom after I was born. Unfortunately, the dream didn’t include her marriage falling apart a year later, turning her into a single mother.

I don’t have many memories from before my mother went back to school. As long as I can remember, I was always the kid who had to stay at the afterschool program or get picked up by a babysitter. I hated the afterschool programs--I always had one eye on the door, waiting for my mother to show up. And even on weekends, I couldn’t count on having her to myself, although I did have fun when she brought me to work with her on Saturday mornings.

Residency was really rough for us. Due to all the late nights and overnights and moonlighting for extra cash, we had to hire a live-in nanny. The nanny moved into my bedroom and I moved into my mother's bedroom. I really adored my nanny (who coincidentally had the same first name as my mother), and that was a good thing since she was the adult I spent the most time with.

My mother and I were always struggling to spend more time together. When I was in day camp during the summer, one day she sneaked out of work early to surprise me and bring me home. I was overjoyed. But as soon as we got home, someone noticed she wasn’t at work and called her to return. Back to camp I went.

For these reasons, I’m glad that my own daughter won’t remember my residency days, even though I know it’s been hard for her. On the first day I went back to work from my maternity leave, I said to my husband, "She has no idea that her whole little world is going to be ripped apart..." Every day when I leave in the morning, she reaches out for me and cries. And I think to myself, "What kind of mother am I to leave her like this?" But when I go to work, I’m earning the money that pays the rent and building a career that hopefully someday she’ll be proud of.

I'm not going to lie and say that 6-year-old me wouldn't have been preferred that my mother stayed home all day and spent every minute of her time with me. And I won't tell you that my mother doesn't sometimes say she regrets going back to school and missing those early years with me. But we are very close now and I think having so much time apart made us closer. The little time we spent together was that much more special.

And even though she wasn't there with a homemade bologna sandwich every day when I got home from school, on the evenings that she was home, I got to crawl into bed with her and sleep there all night long.

Mommy Daddy Mommy Daddy

Although their first early utterances often sound more like "Da Da Da Da" rather than "Mommy, Can I Have More Breastmilk And By The Way, Thank You For Everything," when you share your children with a father who is as dedicated as my husband, you don't mind that the kids initially and still sometimes call you Daddy, or the more formal "Mommy Daddy Mommy Daddy" even when they are Just Four and Nearly Two. After all, upon looking through our wedding album on recent nights, Just Four decided that she will either marry her brother or her father. Perhaps reasonable, given her vantage point, but not legal. Here are just a few loving witticisms, courtesy of my kids, in tribute to the dads out there:

"I'm going to love you every day, and I'm not even going to skip a day"

"I had a dream that I loved you"

"I love you.... table"

"Happy Mother's Day Daddy"


As a post-script, allow me (a mother in medicine) a brief shout out to my own father (neither a mother nor in medicine, except he was the latter, I guess, as a patient succumbing to cancer over 15 years ago). When I casually mentioned to my daughter that the Berenstain bears book we were reading was one that "my parents" read to me when I was little, she asked, "Who was the Daddy?" For the first time a clear reference to my father, her should-have-been grandfather. And I told her, "He was a wonderful man who read me books and taught me to swim." I miss father's day.