Things I Could Do Without ~ by Jay

Gmail's Funny Quote of the Day, above my inbox, courtesy (they say) of Gilda Radner:

Adopted kids are such a pain. You have to teach them how to look like you.

Conversation With the Patriarchy, 1992 ~ by Jay

Setting: ICU, Sunday afternoon. Dr. Jay, newly hired medical attending, is seated at the nurse's station, discussing a patient with one of the medical residents. Dr. XY, a surgical resident, walks up and drops his hand on Jay's shoulder. Jay is a bit surprised but says nothing.

So, what are they planning to do?

We're concerned that her blood pressure is still too low, and we're going to place a Swan-Ganz catheter to see what's going on.*

OK, then, sounds like she's still too sick to go to the OR.

I'd say so.

Great! Well, honey, why don't you call me when you're all set up for the procedure if the medical attending doesn't get here.

{smiling broadly} I'm sorry, we haven't met. I'm Dr. Jay. I'm the new member of the medical faculty.

{XY removes his hand from Dr. Jay's shoulder and his entire body from the ICU. Rapidly.}

{Nurses applaud}

____
*This reflects archaic medical practice. See date in title.

A Moment of Calm ~ by Jay

Done.

Done with the office. Done with the goodbye lunch. Done with the interminable team meeting this afternoon at the inpatient hospice (this is going to change....) Done with the potluck dinner we hosted and the Shabbat service I led, and done with the dishes.

We could have spent the rest of the evening packing and moving more stuff around for the renovation, but we didn't. Tomorrow will be time enough for that (with a break to see Tigermom and two of her cubs!) and then Sunday we leave for vacation.

So there will be limited-to-no blogging for the next week, but I'll be back.

b'shalom.

July 10, 1941 ~ by Jay

From Resist Racism

Caption: Florin, Sacramento County, California. A soldier and his mother in a strawberry field. The soldier, age 23, volunteered July 10, 1941, and is stationed at Camp Leonard Wood, Missouri. He was furloughed to help his mother and family prepare for their evacuation. He is the youngest of six children, two of them volunteers in the U.S. Army. The mother, age 53, came from Japan 37 years ago. Her husband died 31 years ago, leaving her to raise six children. She worked in a strawberry basket factory until last year when her children leased three acres of strawberries “so she wouldn’t have to work for somebody else.” The family is Buddhist. This is her youngest son. Her second son is in the army stationed at Ft. Bliss. 453 families are to be evacuated from this area.

From Impounded: Dorothea Lange and the censored images of Japanese American internment.

Mommy Always Loves You ~ by Jay

Back when Eve was in preschool, Josie came to watch her at home when the JCC was closed for Jewish holidays we don't observe (like the last two days of Pesach). One day I came home in the middle of the day and my daughter, who adored Josie and does not like having her plans changed, turned on me as soon as I walked in the door.

What are you doing here?

I live here.

I don't want you here. Go away.

We don't talk to each like that. Can you say you're sorry?

No.

Well, then you can go upstairs and sit in your room for a while and think about it.

Eve stomped up the stairs, I apologized to the babysitter and went on up to change my clothes and fold laundry. After about 20 minutes, I checked Eve's room and found her fast asleep. I explained to the sitter, made sure there was enough food in the house for lunch, and went on to my next stop.

That evening, when I came home, Eve did apologize. And she started to cry.

It's OK, sweetie. I think you were really tired, and it's hard to be polite when you're tired.

But you're upset.

No, I'm not upset. I'm fine. I'm not mad at you.

That's not what Josie said.

Oh?

Josie said when I'm mean to you, it makes you sad because you think I don't really love you. And I do love you, Mommy, I do. I really, really do.

Oh, sweetie, I know that. And I love you, too, even when I'm angry.

Note to self: I do not ever want my child to feel as if our love for each other is conditional, on either side.

Additional note to self: find a new sitter.

Blessings ~ by Jay

What a week.

Two long days in the office, made worse by the need to get all the paperwork done Right Now, since this is my last week. Every visit is sad or angry or in some way fraught. Every day is overscheduled with something in the evening, some kind of emergency, something else I'm supposed to be doing. Every little tiny irritating thing in my office is magnified, like a grain of sand in my shoe that rubs a blister before I'm done. Keeping my temper under control is a physical struggle

Home is no refuge; we're preparing for a renovation and have to pack up the living room and bedroom before we leave for vacation on Sunday. Sam is doing most of that work, but the chaos itself is seeping into my soul. Last night I woke abruptly about 30 minutes after I feel asleep, feeling as if I'd drunk a triple latte. I was up for another three hours, too tired to do anything productive and too antsy to sleep, restlessly surfing the Internet and listening to the dogs snoring.

So today, on about three hours of sleep, I had five home visits and two conference calls. One of the home visits was scheduled at the last minute, so I wasn't able to arrange them as I usually do to make a loop. I drove over a hundred miles today. And these were challenging visits. Patients who are intellectually aware of their prognosis but can't accept it emotionally, and can't make necessary plans. Patients who haven't been given all the information from their doctors and are agape when I make a comment about a CT result I thought they'd heard. Daughters who think their parents have given up too soon, and want their parents to restart medications that have no value. I didn't have my usual patience; I felt frustrated and impatient, and I'm sure that made the encounters even harder for everyone.

By 3:30, half an hour late to the fourth of five visits, I was wilted. I drove up into the country, not sure the GPS was even taking me to the right place, and followed a rutted gravel trail to a stone and clapboard house. I sat in the car for a few minutes, wondering if I should call the patient to make sure I'm at the right house, and the social worker I'm meeting came outside.

"Come over here", she said, and led me around to the back deck. I turned the corner and there was the countryside, spread out below me. Blue sky, green trees, neatly plowed fields, red barns, even a few silos here and there. I stood a moment and felt my soul start to uncrumple. Then we went into the house, where the patient and her daughter waited for us. They were as peaceful and open and welcoming as their vista had been. "I know what's coming, and I'm ready", said my patient. "My daughter is taking good care of me until then". We talked for a few minutes, and I leaned over and asked for permission to touch her. She nodded.

As I placed my stethoscope on her chest, she spoke. "Dear Lord, thank you for the blessing of Dr. Jay and the hospice nurses. I am so grateful they are here to help me. Keep them safe, and make them strong as they do their work". We all paused for a moment, and then as one, we said "Amen".

For the first time all day, I took a deep breath, paused, and felt entirely present.

Blessings.

Things I Could Do Without ~ by Jay

This paint ad.


The line at the bottom reads "You deserve a paint which will age well".

(Found at Sociological Images.)