Medical students who happen to be women are still mistaken for nurses.
(and, by the way, if you haven't checked out the Microagressions site, you should do so now - but be warned, it is not going to make you feel all warm and fuzzy about human nature).
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Conversations With The Patriarchy, Medical Staff Meeting Version
~ by Jay
After a discussion of how many jobs office-based physicians create in our state, we hear this from the President of the Medical Staff:
Well, that makes sense to me. I work with one other doctor and we have 12 people on our staff. Of course, two of those are wives, so that's sort of like slave labor.
Well, that makes sense to me. I work with one other doctor and we have 12 people on our staff. Of course, two of those are wives, so that's sort of like slave labor.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Home
~by Jay
My parents bought their house in 1964. They'd been married ten years. I was three and my mother was eight months pregnant with my brother. They'd waited a long time, and they were very particular about the location and the builder and the features. My father installed a fancy stereo system with speakers wired all over the place; my mother carefully chose antiques and modern furniture and artwork. Over the years, a few things changed - the kitchen went from blue and white to almond tone-on-tone; the two kid's rooms morphed into study and computer room; the TVs got bigger and flatter and the stereo even fancier.
My father began to have difficulty walking in 1984, and it got gradually and steadily worse. The house is a split-level, built into the side of a hill, so there are stairs. A lot of stairs. We suggested they consider moving to a one-floor house or condo, but Dad said "This is home" and that was the end of that. He refused to do anything about the stairs until the day he slid down a whole flight and couldn't get off the floor. Six weeks later, after surgery and rehab, he went home to a house with stair glides - which were removed the day after he died, at my mother's insistence.
Now my mother lives there alone. She's stopped complaining to me about her back pain, because she knows I will say "Mom, maybe you should consider living somewhere else". She can't consider that. This is home. She intends to live there until she dies.
In the movie "Up", the widower talks to his house as if it were his wife and carries it around at great cost. I think for my mother that house is my father, or at least their life together. He may have left her, but she certainly isn't going to leave him.
Home can be a refuge, a place of solace, a comfort. Home is, as Frost said, where, when you go there, they have to take you in. By Frost's definition, my mother's house is still my home. It doesn't feel that way to me these days. Sam and I also waited a long time and chose our first house very carefully. It took us a long time to admit that we needed to move out of that house, and I hope I never again feel like my house is more important than the life I want to live.
Frost is all well and good, but I think I agree with Billy Joel.
My father began to have difficulty walking in 1984, and it got gradually and steadily worse. The house is a split-level, built into the side of a hill, so there are stairs. A lot of stairs. We suggested they consider moving to a one-floor house or condo, but Dad said "This is home" and that was the end of that. He refused to do anything about the stairs until the day he slid down a whole flight and couldn't get off the floor. Six weeks later, after surgery and rehab, he went home to a house with stair glides - which were removed the day after he died, at my mother's insistence.
Now my mother lives there alone. She's stopped complaining to me about her back pain, because she knows I will say "Mom, maybe you should consider living somewhere else". She can't consider that. This is home. She intends to live there until she dies.
In the movie "Up", the widower talks to his house as if it were his wife and carries it around at great cost. I think for my mother that house is my father, or at least their life together. He may have left her, but she certainly isn't going to leave him.
Home can be a refuge, a place of solace, a comfort. Home is, as Frost said, where, when you go there, they have to take you in. By Frost's definition, my mother's house is still my home. It doesn't feel that way to me these days. Sam and I also waited a long time and chose our first house very carefully. It took us a long time to admit that we needed to move out of that house, and I hope I never again feel like my house is more important than the life I want to live.
Frost is all well and good, but I think I agree with Billy Joel.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Gadget Lust
~ by Jay
which would answer the question Eve asked recently - "Mommy, what's a typewriter"?
Everything I Need To Know, I Learned In Music Class
~ by Jay
Uncle Fish died last week.
Uncle Fish wasn't my uncle, and he certainly wasn't a fish. He was a passable pianist, a strong baritone, and one of the best teachers I ever met. Fishy taught me to sing - not me alone, but 20 years of students at my small public high school, all trained on Italian art songs, Cole Porter, Gilbert and Sullivan, Mendelssohn, and Sondheim. He directed musicals, concerts, operettas, oratorios, graduations, memorial services and impromptu sessions in public buildings, if he thought the acoustics might be good. He yelled at us and lectured us and lost patience with us and, in one memorable tantrum, threw a chair across the auditorium - and he believed in us. He spent hours after school coaching kids who had the chops but no confidence. He beamed at us when we got it right. He made sure we warmed up carefully and sang music that was appropriate for our young vocal cords, and he pushed us every moment to be our best.
I kept on through college, singing, performing, and working backstage and, along the way, meeting the people I remain closest to, including Sam. When I interviewed for med school, one of the docs I met said "so why did you waste all that time in the theater?". I explained that I didn't see it as a waste; I'd learned time management and organizational skills and created lasting relationships. He was unconvinced, but I was right. Fishy didn't just teach me to sing; he taught me about professionalism.
On the shaky risers in a dimly lit auditorium, I learned about teamwork and honesty and doing my best and putting the needs of others ahead of my own. I learned that I could do things that seemed impossible at first, and I learned to love being part of a group working to create something meaningful. Fishy taught music the way my father practiced medicine: selflessly, with complete commitment, deep concentration and great joy.
My Facebook newsfeed today is full of stories about choir trips to Europe and the nicknames he gave us and the vocal exercise we could all sing perfectly, 35 years later. There are professional musicians and actors, stay-at-home parents, investment bankers, and at least four other docs talking about Fishy's impact on our lives. I've always thought of Fish when I chanted the Kol Nidre, or sang around the piano at a friend's house. Stand up straight. Breathe. Sing from your diaphragm. Now I will think of him when I take that deep breath before I enter a patient's room, before I start a meeting, as I work with residents. I will honor the man who helped me find my voice, and my vocation.
And I will always remember the alto line of this madrigal. This is for your, Mr. Fish. Sing we, indeed.
Uncle Fish wasn't my uncle, and he certainly wasn't a fish. He was a passable pianist, a strong baritone, and one of the best teachers I ever met. Fishy taught me to sing - not me alone, but 20 years of students at my small public high school, all trained on Italian art songs, Cole Porter, Gilbert and Sullivan, Mendelssohn, and Sondheim. He directed musicals, concerts, operettas, oratorios, graduations, memorial services and impromptu sessions in public buildings, if he thought the acoustics might be good. He yelled at us and lectured us and lost patience with us and, in one memorable tantrum, threw a chair across the auditorium - and he believed in us. He spent hours after school coaching kids who had the chops but no confidence. He beamed at us when we got it right. He made sure we warmed up carefully and sang music that was appropriate for our young vocal cords, and he pushed us every moment to be our best.
I kept on through college, singing, performing, and working backstage and, along the way, meeting the people I remain closest to, including Sam. When I interviewed for med school, one of the docs I met said "so why did you waste all that time in the theater?". I explained that I didn't see it as a waste; I'd learned time management and organizational skills and created lasting relationships. He was unconvinced, but I was right. Fishy didn't just teach me to sing; he taught me about professionalism.
On the shaky risers in a dimly lit auditorium, I learned about teamwork and honesty and doing my best and putting the needs of others ahead of my own. I learned that I could do things that seemed impossible at first, and I learned to love being part of a group working to create something meaningful. Fishy taught music the way my father practiced medicine: selflessly, with complete commitment, deep concentration and great joy.
My Facebook newsfeed today is full of stories about choir trips to Europe and the nicknames he gave us and the vocal exercise we could all sing perfectly, 35 years later. There are professional musicians and actors, stay-at-home parents, investment bankers, and at least four other docs talking about Fishy's impact on our lives. I've always thought of Fish when I chanted the Kol Nidre, or sang around the piano at a friend's house. Stand up straight. Breathe. Sing from your diaphragm. Now I will think of him when I take that deep breath before I enter a patient's room, before I start a meeting, as I work with residents. I will honor the man who helped me find my voice, and my vocation.
And I will always remember the alto line of this madrigal. This is for your, Mr. Fish. Sing we, indeed.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Things That Make Me Happy
~ by Jay
Daffodils in my yard.
Actual sunshine coming through the open sunroof* of my car.
Emails from MLB.com titled "Opening Day: Two Weeks Away".
New socks.
A thank-you note from one of my staff for listening to her worry about her father (who is now home from the hospital and competing in a Wii bowling tournament).
The Bridge on Sirius Radio. The music of my youth, all the time, in true StereoSound.
Eve playing "Minuet in G" on the violin.
(not Eve, but so cute I couldn't resist)
____
*I know it's a technically a moonroof, but when there's an opening in the top of my car through which I can see the sun, I call it a sunroof, and I say the hell with it.
Actual sunshine coming through the open sunroof* of my car.
Emails from MLB.com titled "Opening Day: Two Weeks Away".
New socks.
A thank-you note from one of my staff for listening to her worry about her father (who is now home from the hospital and competing in a Wii bowling tournament).
The Bridge on Sirius Radio. The music of my youth, all the time, in true StereoSound.
Eve playing "Minuet in G" on the violin.
(not Eve, but so cute I couldn't resist)
____
*I know it's a technically a moonroof, but when there's an opening in the top of my car through which I can see the sun, I call it a sunroof, and I say the hell with it.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Re-entry
~ by Jay
Ten days ago, I arrived home at 4:30 Friday afternoon. I'd been called to a home visit on short notice for bureaucratic reasons and had been surprised to find a very angry family member at the bedside; I emerged an hour later feeling as if I'd been hit over the head repeatedly with a large object. We had to get ready to go to the family service and potluck, and I had a list of notes to finish and Emails to send because I was leaving town the next day. I sat down at the dining room table, opened my laptop, looked at my Email and started to cry. It was all just too much.
I did manage to finish most of it and delegated (or simply postponed) the rest. I spend Saturday evening with my mother and arrived Sunday morning at a retreat center in the woods. By 8:00 Sunday evening, I was surrounded by close friends who are also colleagues, and I had the luxury of spending the next week in deep conversation, learning and teaching in turn. I didn't sleep much, but I felt rested nonetheless.
The final morning, we turned our chairs around so we faced the outside of the circle, and sat with our eyes closed. We divided into three groups. In turns, each group stood inside the circle and followed the instructions:
Touch someone:
-whose courage has inspired you.
-whose warmth has felt good to you.
-who has moved you.
-who has been generous with you.
-who has helped you to feel your value.
-who has been present with you.
-who has blessed you with their vulnerability.
-who has taught you a new skill.
-who has born witness to an important part of you.
Those hands on my shoulders were a gift, a concrete reminder of the connections and healing that we had offered to each other during our time together.
We all need to be appreciated, to be seen and heard and held in the hearts of those we love and those who love us. Even the smallest of encounters can be meaningful.
I came home with a renewed commitment to appreciation - not just gratitude, which goes out into the universe, but appreciation for the people in my life. I want to feel those hands on my shoulders, and I want to give that to others.
If you comment here or have a blog I follow, I hope to share my appreciation with you over the coming months. Those of you who read this blog bear witness to an important part of me. Thank you.
I did manage to finish most of it and delegated (or simply postponed) the rest. I spend Saturday evening with my mother and arrived Sunday morning at a retreat center in the woods. By 8:00 Sunday evening, I was surrounded by close friends who are also colleagues, and I had the luxury of spending the next week in deep conversation, learning and teaching in turn. I didn't sleep much, but I felt rested nonetheless.
The final morning, we turned our chairs around so we faced the outside of the circle, and sat with our eyes closed. We divided into three groups. In turns, each group stood inside the circle and followed the instructions:
Touch someone:
-whose courage has inspired you.
-whose warmth has felt good to you.
-who has moved you.
-who has been generous with you.
-who has helped you to feel your value.
-who has been present with you.
-who has blessed you with their vulnerability.
-who has taught you a new skill.
-who has born witness to an important part of you.
Those hands on my shoulders were a gift, a concrete reminder of the connections and healing that we had offered to each other during our time together.
We all need to be appreciated, to be seen and heard and held in the hearts of those we love and those who love us. Even the smallest of encounters can be meaningful.
I came home with a renewed commitment to appreciation - not just gratitude, which goes out into the universe, but appreciation for the people in my life. I want to feel those hands on my shoulders, and I want to give that to others.
If you comment here or have a blog I follow, I hope to share my appreciation with you over the coming months. Those of you who read this blog bear witness to an important part of me. Thank you.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Today By The Numbers
~ by Jay
Home visits: 3
Miles driven for work: 45
Meetings: 3 (total 4 hours, 2.5 for work and 1.5 middle school pre-enrollment)
Inpatient hospice visits: 10
New admissions: 3
Talks given: 1 (total 1 hour)
Meals eaten: 2 (breakfast and lunch)
Time spent with Eve: 30 minutes (not counting the 1.5 hours at the middle-school meeting)
Phone calls: at least 30, and then I lost track
Death certificates signed: 4
Good night.
Miles driven for work: 45
Meetings: 3 (total 4 hours, 2.5 for work and 1.5 middle school pre-enrollment)
Inpatient hospice visits: 10
New admissions: 3
Talks given: 1 (total 1 hour)
Meals eaten: 2 (breakfast and lunch)
Time spent with Eve: 30 minutes (not counting the 1.5 hours at the middle-school meeting)
Phone calls: at least 30, and then I lost track
Death certificates signed: 4
Good night.
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