I guess this is what it means to lose someone. I guess this is what it means to lose you.
missing someone pics on Sodahead
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
It's like a caramel...
I do a fairly good job of blocking the tragedy of you from my immediate thoughts. This is good, because otherwise I’d never manage to do anything but sit in a dark room and trudge through painful memories. But every once in awhile, something jogs my memory. Sometimes a person walks past me and the scent of the cologne you used to wear lingers in the air. Once in awhile, I’ll catch a glimpse of a bright yellow car zooming past in my peripheral vision. Rarely, the song playing on the radio when I screamed out my grief as Mom called me to tell me that CPR was stopped plays once again in the car. I’ll see a face in an advertisement or brush past a blond stranger in a black leather jacket and then it all comes flooding back. My stomach sinks like a stone, a cold iron band compresses my chest, and all the anger and the grief and the fear and the loss and the senselessness rage through my head. All I can do is stop, close my eyes, force air into my lungs, and remember. And when I remember all I wonder is how in the world I ever managed to put you out of my head for even a second. I often meander through my day doing whatever it is that needs to be done. I have good days and I have bad days but even in my best moments there is something missing. It is like the difference between a dark chocolate caramel topped with sea salt and a regular old dark chocolate caramel. The caramel is good by itself but that little pinch of salt elevates it, adds to it, and makes the moment more singularly sweet. In these moments of grief I figure out exactly what is wrong. You are the salt in my life. Without you, even the best of experiences are only “good enough.”
I guess this is what it means to lose someone. I guess this is what it means to lose you.
missing someone pics on Sodahead
I guess this is what it means to lose someone. I guess this is what it means to lose you.
missing someone pics on Sodahead
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
The Interview Trail
For those of you who are not in the loop, my interview season for a pathology subspecialty fellowship (transfusion medicine) has started. I recently completed 2 (of 5) interviews - hours of perma-smiling while asking and answering the same questions over and over again to different people. I'd forgotten how grueling it was 3 years ago while seeking a residency position...
But you know what the hardest question of the entire interview experience was?
“So, how many siblings do you have? Tell me about them.”
It’s a question that I knew would come up someday, the “do you have siblings?” question that everyone asks to be polite. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering how to answer that question in the intervening months since Chandler’s death. Do I have a sibling? It’s a concrete question that can’t be answered concretely because the answer is both yes and no. I can’t even reliably answer that question in my head without crying – so how in the world was I supposed to answer it during a fellowship interview? How do you give a dignified answer to a question that breaks your heart?
---“No, I’m an only child.”
That’s not a great answer because it’s a big, fat lie.
---“Yes, I have a brother.”
That’s also a lie – because I HAD a brother and tenses matter--at least to me.
---“I had a brother.”
Do I really want to open that can of worms? Do I want to present this wound for the interviewer to poke and prod? Because if I have learned one thing with interviews, the moment the door is open, some asshole will inevitably take the opportunity to walk inside.
---“Yes, I had a brother, but he was a selfish douchebag and committed suicide in July.”
That sounds…well…truthful, but a tad too bitchy. (One of these days I will move out of the anger stage of grieving...I hope).
I guess the answer is this: I was once a big sister. Once upon a not so distant time, I had a little brother. We grew up together and when we were small we did nearly everything together and for the last 27 years of my life, Chandler was always there. But now he’s no longer around because he took his own life and even though I know that’s what happened, there’s a difference between knowing it in my head and saying it out loud to the world. I’m not afraid of people judging my family for what Chandler did (undoubtedly some do, but I don’t care because those that judge are small-minded wads of garbage) – I am afraid that once I answer it that the tears will begin to flow. And an interview for fellowship is NOT the appropriate place to look like a tearful, pathetic tool.
So what did I say?
I copped out and skipped over the question as best I could by saying simply, “I’m lucky enough to have an amazing sister in-law. We weren’t born family but we’re family now and I’m incredibly thankful for that.”
While it is only a partial truth about my sibling and my family, at least it is still the truth.
And also - I did not shed a tear. Hooray for small blessings.
But you know what the hardest question of the entire interview experience was?
“So, how many siblings do you have? Tell me about them.”
It’s a question that I knew would come up someday, the “do you have siblings?” question that everyone asks to be polite. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering how to answer that question in the intervening months since Chandler’s death. Do I have a sibling? It’s a concrete question that can’t be answered concretely because the answer is both yes and no. I can’t even reliably answer that question in my head without crying – so how in the world was I supposed to answer it during a fellowship interview? How do you give a dignified answer to a question that breaks your heart?
---“No, I’m an only child.”
That’s not a great answer because it’s a big, fat lie.
---“Yes, I have a brother.”
That’s also a lie – because I HAD a brother and tenses matter--at least to me.
---“I had a brother.”
Do I really want to open that can of worms? Do I want to present this wound for the interviewer to poke and prod? Because if I have learned one thing with interviews, the moment the door is open, some asshole will inevitably take the opportunity to walk inside.
---“Yes, I had a brother, but he was a selfish douchebag and committed suicide in July.”
That sounds…well…truthful, but a tad too bitchy. (One of these days I will move out of the anger stage of grieving...I hope).
I guess the answer is this: I was once a big sister. Once upon a not so distant time, I had a little brother. We grew up together and when we were small we did nearly everything together and for the last 27 years of my life, Chandler was always there. But now he’s no longer around because he took his own life and even though I know that’s what happened, there’s a difference between knowing it in my head and saying it out loud to the world. I’m not afraid of people judging my family for what Chandler did (undoubtedly some do, but I don’t care because those that judge are small-minded wads of garbage) – I am afraid that once I answer it that the tears will begin to flow. And an interview for fellowship is NOT the appropriate place to look like a tearful, pathetic tool.
So what did I say?
I copped out and skipped over the question as best I could by saying simply, “I’m lucky enough to have an amazing sister in-law. We weren’t born family but we’re family now and I’m incredibly thankful for that.”
While it is only a partial truth about my sibling and my family, at least it is still the truth.
And also - I did not shed a tear. Hooray for small blessings.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
The Face of Sjogren's Syndrome
I’m pretty angry right now. I'm not angry at the world (at least not about this) but I am still steamed nonetheless.
I’ve been complaining of a variety of symptoms since I was 17 years old. It started out with my parotid glands (the two main salivary glands located in front of the ears). Periodically, they would swell slightly and ache. When these episodes would occur, even smiling became painful and to eat or drink anything meant having some serious, stabbing pain in those glands. The episodes didn’t happen often – perhaps once every few months. When I complained to my family doctor he told me I likely had salivary gland stones and that it was no big deal. No testing, no referrals…nothing. I can't be too angry with him because in all honesty, there'd be no reason to assume different in a 17 year old.
Over time, the symptoms got worse. My glands started to swell and hurt more frequently – a few times a year turned into a few times a month which turned into a few times a week and then almost daily. My mouth began to feel as though a wad of dry cotton was always wedged into it, my eyes became to become dry and irritated, my skin started to flake, my hair began to thin, my joints started to ache, and fatigue set in. I complained to the campus physician in college only to be told that I probably had a cold…and that the fatigue was because I was a busy college student. I was sent away with no answers other than to scale back on my semester hours. I complained multiple times during medical school to my medical provider who (in softer terms) told me that I was “imagining things…medical students are always fatigued and always think they have symptoms of some disease.” Again, no referrals, no tests, no answers – and worse, a doctor who thought I was full of beans.
I complained my doctor here in Vermont who essentially told me the same thing – that fatigue is a part of residency, that I probably had salivary gland stones, and that it was no big deal. When I developed 5 cavities in spite of meticulous dental hygiene, my dentist told me I just needed to work at brushing and flossing a little harder. Fed up, I finally gave them all the finger and self-referred to an ENT specialist. I would have done it sooner, but this is the first time I've had insurance where I could self-refer...anyway, I digress. After taking a careful history (the only history that anyone had ever bothered to take), he performed an ultrasound of my salivary glands and told me what I had known for years…that something was wrong and that the scan of my glands showed that I likely had an autoimmune disorder He referred me to one of the local rheumatologists and I felt like I would finally get somewhere.
And then I met the rheumatologist. Again, he took a history and did a thorough physical examination and essentially told me that I was full of beans. After all, when he stuck his gloved finger in my mouth, he could feel saliva – so clearly, nothing was wrong. In fact, he told me that he thought serologies would likely be negative, but if I wanted to really search I could consider a lip biopsy to which I promptly said, "No thanks." In the end he had his rheumatology fellow order laboratory testing.
Yesterday, I received a follow-up call from the rheumatology fellow. He informed me that my ANA (anti-nuclear antibody) testing was “very positive” with a titer of 1:640. Specific autoimmune markers for Sjogren’s syndrome (ss-A and ss-B) and RF (rheumatoid factor) were also quite positive. Adding insult to injury, the asthma that was diagnosed 10 years ago may not, in fact, be asthma – it may be respiratory tract involvement by this autoimmune disease. Voila! It only took 11 years and multiple doctors to prove that I was not making my symptoms up, that my complaints were more than the random complaints of a tired hypochondriac. Ergo, I am now starting on Plaquenil, a drug that I never hoped would be introduced into my life. I will now require yearly ultrasounds to check for lymphoma (patients with Sjogren’s are at increased risk for lymphoma), yearly eye examinations to check for retinal complications from Plaquenil and to make sure that the Sjogren’s isn’t damaging my corneas, and yearly laboratory and rheumatologic evaluations to monitor my organ function for both toxicity from Plaquenil as well as worsening involvement by this autoimmune disease (think renal problems, neuropathy, etc). Sounds like fun, right?
I admit that I’m a little miffed about this. I’m miffed because for 11 years, nobody believed me when I told them that there was a problem. I was brushed off with gentle platitudes and constant reminders that I was just a complaining high schooler/college student/medical student/resident. It makes me a little angry because had anybody ever bothered to take me seriously, perhaps this could have been figured out quite literally a decade ago before all the symptoms really set in. Perhaps I could have been started on medications that would have prevented progression of the disease – or at least delayed the progression.
But instead, I have been living in a state of relative misery for the last 11 years. My glands hurt nearly every single day. They don’t just ache, they feel as though someone is stabbing them repeatedly with a steak knife. They remain slightly swollen, making things like opening my jaw occasionally difficult. My mouth is so devoid of saliva that no matter how good my dental hygiene I will almost always have dental caries. I develop spontaneous small ulcerations of my gums without warning and my nose is often so dry that it spontaneously drips blood. I can’t swallow bread or other dense foods without drinking copious amounts of water and even then food gets stuck. My eyes feel as though a fan is always blowing in them and no amount of eye drops will permanently combat the slight blurriness that has developed. In fact, just about everything (and yes, I do mean EVERYTHING) is dry. Not even my sweat glands function appropriately these days. My joints and muscles ache and I am fatigued – and when I say fatigue, what I mean is that some days I am almost too exhausted to get out of bed despite having had a full night’s sleep. No matter how much sleep I get or how much rest I indulge in, there are some days where it takes all of my energy reserves to sit through work without falling asleep at the microscope. Some days just walking upstairs to the bedroom takes the wind out of my sails. It is at times almost debilitating. But I deal with it because letting these problems defeat me is not an option.
If anybody had ever bothered to listen to me when I was complaining about mild symptoms at 17, the last ten years might have been partially mitigated with medication. Nothing can really stop or cure an autoimmune disease but symptoms can be managed and disease progression can be slowed. Maybe if something had been done sooner I’d have more gland function than I do – I might have been a “better oiled” machine, so to speak. Perhaps the aches and pains would have been less noticeable, and the fatigue that has plagued me since late college could have been avoided. The “what if’s” are tremendous but in a sense it doesn’t matter because nobody did anything except tell me that it was all in my head.
I am not thrilled to have an autoimmune disease because quite frankly, it sucks. It sucks to have a condition that cannot be stopped, a condition where what has been lost can never be recovered. I am not thrilled to be starting on long-term Plaquenil because it is not a completely benign drug – it can have some very serious side effects. But I am trying to be optimistic – now there is a diagnosis and something is being done about it – and I look forward to the promise of feeling better. I want to wake up in the morning feeling rested and I want to be able to walk upstairs without feeling as though I am walking through molasses. Maybe I'll be able to enjoy a run on the treadmill in the basement. I want to play my violin for long stretches of time without having to take breaks because the joints in my fingers ache. I want to enjoy food without feeling pain and I want my to keep all of my natural teeth. And maybe, just maybe, Plaquenil will allow me these small comforts. The thought is really nice.
I’ve been complaining of a variety of symptoms since I was 17 years old. It started out with my parotid glands (the two main salivary glands located in front of the ears). Periodically, they would swell slightly and ache. When these episodes would occur, even smiling became painful and to eat or drink anything meant having some serious, stabbing pain in those glands. The episodes didn’t happen often – perhaps once every few months. When I complained to my family doctor he told me I likely had salivary gland stones and that it was no big deal. No testing, no referrals…nothing. I can't be too angry with him because in all honesty, there'd be no reason to assume different in a 17 year old.
Over time, the symptoms got worse. My glands started to swell and hurt more frequently – a few times a year turned into a few times a month which turned into a few times a week and then almost daily. My mouth began to feel as though a wad of dry cotton was always wedged into it, my eyes became to become dry and irritated, my skin started to flake, my hair began to thin, my joints started to ache, and fatigue set in. I complained to the campus physician in college only to be told that I probably had a cold…and that the fatigue was because I was a busy college student. I was sent away with no answers other than to scale back on my semester hours. I complained multiple times during medical school to my medical provider who (in softer terms) told me that I was “imagining things…medical students are always fatigued and always think they have symptoms of some disease.” Again, no referrals, no tests, no answers – and worse, a doctor who thought I was full of beans.
I complained my doctor here in Vermont who essentially told me the same thing – that fatigue is a part of residency, that I probably had salivary gland stones, and that it was no big deal. When I developed 5 cavities in spite of meticulous dental hygiene, my dentist told me I just needed to work at brushing and flossing a little harder. Fed up, I finally gave them all the finger and self-referred to an ENT specialist. I would have done it sooner, but this is the first time I've had insurance where I could self-refer...anyway, I digress. After taking a careful history (the only history that anyone had ever bothered to take), he performed an ultrasound of my salivary glands and told me what I had known for years…that something was wrong and that the scan of my glands showed that I likely had an autoimmune disorder He referred me to one of the local rheumatologists and I felt like I would finally get somewhere.
And then I met the rheumatologist. Again, he took a history and did a thorough physical examination and essentially told me that I was full of beans. After all, when he stuck his gloved finger in my mouth, he could feel saliva – so clearly, nothing was wrong. In fact, he told me that he thought serologies would likely be negative, but if I wanted to really search I could consider a lip biopsy to which I promptly said, "No thanks." In the end he had his rheumatology fellow order laboratory testing.
Yesterday, I received a follow-up call from the rheumatology fellow. He informed me that my ANA (anti-nuclear antibody) testing was “very positive” with a titer of 1:640. Specific autoimmune markers for Sjogren’s syndrome (ss-A and ss-B) and RF (rheumatoid factor) were also quite positive. Adding insult to injury, the asthma that was diagnosed 10 years ago may not, in fact, be asthma – it may be respiratory tract involvement by this autoimmune disease. Voila! It only took 11 years and multiple doctors to prove that I was not making my symptoms up, that my complaints were more than the random complaints of a tired hypochondriac. Ergo, I am now starting on Plaquenil, a drug that I never hoped would be introduced into my life. I will now require yearly ultrasounds to check for lymphoma (patients with Sjogren’s are at increased risk for lymphoma), yearly eye examinations to check for retinal complications from Plaquenil and to make sure that the Sjogren’s isn’t damaging my corneas, and yearly laboratory and rheumatologic evaluations to monitor my organ function for both toxicity from Plaquenil as well as worsening involvement by this autoimmune disease (think renal problems, neuropathy, etc). Sounds like fun, right?
I admit that I’m a little miffed about this. I’m miffed because for 11 years, nobody believed me when I told them that there was a problem. I was brushed off with gentle platitudes and constant reminders that I was just a complaining high schooler/college student/medical student/resident. It makes me a little angry because had anybody ever bothered to take me seriously, perhaps this could have been figured out quite literally a decade ago before all the symptoms really set in. Perhaps I could have been started on medications that would have prevented progression of the disease – or at least delayed the progression.
But instead, I have been living in a state of relative misery for the last 11 years. My glands hurt nearly every single day. They don’t just ache, they feel as though someone is stabbing them repeatedly with a steak knife. They remain slightly swollen, making things like opening my jaw occasionally difficult. My mouth is so devoid of saliva that no matter how good my dental hygiene I will almost always have dental caries. I develop spontaneous small ulcerations of my gums without warning and my nose is often so dry that it spontaneously drips blood. I can’t swallow bread or other dense foods without drinking copious amounts of water and even then food gets stuck. My eyes feel as though a fan is always blowing in them and no amount of eye drops will permanently combat the slight blurriness that has developed. In fact, just about everything (and yes, I do mean EVERYTHING) is dry. Not even my sweat glands function appropriately these days. My joints and muscles ache and I am fatigued – and when I say fatigue, what I mean is that some days I am almost too exhausted to get out of bed despite having had a full night’s sleep. No matter how much sleep I get or how much rest I indulge in, there are some days where it takes all of my energy reserves to sit through work without falling asleep at the microscope. Some days just walking upstairs to the bedroom takes the wind out of my sails. It is at times almost debilitating. But I deal with it because letting these problems defeat me is not an option.
If anybody had ever bothered to listen to me when I was complaining about mild symptoms at 17, the last ten years might have been partially mitigated with medication. Nothing can really stop or cure an autoimmune disease but symptoms can be managed and disease progression can be slowed. Maybe if something had been done sooner I’d have more gland function than I do – I might have been a “better oiled” machine, so to speak. Perhaps the aches and pains would have been less noticeable, and the fatigue that has plagued me since late college could have been avoided. The “what if’s” are tremendous but in a sense it doesn’t matter because nobody did anything except tell me that it was all in my head.
I am not thrilled to have an autoimmune disease because quite frankly, it sucks. It sucks to have a condition that cannot be stopped, a condition where what has been lost can never be recovered. I am not thrilled to be starting on long-term Plaquenil because it is not a completely benign drug – it can have some very serious side effects. But I am trying to be optimistic – now there is a diagnosis and something is being done about it – and I look forward to the promise of feeling better. I want to wake up in the morning feeling rested and I want to be able to walk upstairs without feeling as though I am walking through molasses. Maybe I'll be able to enjoy a run on the treadmill in the basement. I want to play my violin for long stretches of time without having to take breaks because the joints in my fingers ache. I want to enjoy food without feeling pain and I want my to keep all of my natural teeth. And maybe, just maybe, Plaquenil will allow me these small comforts. The thought is really nice.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Unanswered Prayers
(For my atheist friends out there - read if you dare. And don’t bother to complain about subject matter if it offends you. This is MY personal journey…and journal…not yours).
I am a Christian and it’s a fact that I don’t really bother to hide – if you were to ask me about it. You won’t find me watching BibleTV, proselytizing on the street corner, or trying to convert co-workers in the breakroom during lunch (none of which is really my style), but I am a Christian nonetheless. I have my own share of faults. I do things I shouldn't do, say words I shouldn't say, think thoughts that I shouldn't think, listen to secular music, etc. Being Christian does not make me perfect – instead, it often serves to remind me of just how imperfect I am. Lately, I’ve been feeling pretty imperfect. I’ve been feeling petty, bitter, heartbroken, and forsaken. Why?
The one thing I pray for without fail, most of the time before I even begin to pray for myself, is that God will bless my family and friends, that He will guide them through their days, but most importantly that He will keep them safe and in good health. It’s a prayer that gets repeated nearly word for word every night, somewhat out of habit but mostly because it’s important to me that God watches over the people that I love.
But lately, I’ve felt as though the telephone line between God and I has been snipped:
-I prayed for my grandfather, that God would take away some of his pain and let him spend his last days resting peacefully in his easy chair at home. In March, he died alone in bed at a nursing home in pain from multiple myeloma and metastatic cancer. It was an ugly end to a kind and gentle man.
-I pray for my parents. They're almost always first in my line-up, because they're without doubt the most important people in my life. I pray that God will keep them safe, happy, and healthy. Not even that worked out in my favor, when in April my mother was diagnosed with colon cancer, most likely due to underlying (and previously unrecognized) Lynch syndrome. That gave birth to several tense and thoroughly unpleasant months for all of us.
-I prayed for my brother, that he would find happiness, that he would love someone worthwhile and be loved in return, and that he would realize how special he truly was. In July, Chandler committed suicide.
I feel abandoned sometimes. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't even a little angry. A small part of me looks at these requests and thinks, “How simple these requests are! You walked on water, You allowed the blind to see and the lame to walk, You turned water into wine, and You brought the dead back to life…and yet You can’t take away pain? You can’t prevent cells from going haywire? You can’t save my brother? What in the H-E-L-L? Where have You gone? Why are You turning a deaf ear to my requests?”
I am slowly coming to understand that it is not that God is ignoring my prayers and it is not that God is standing impassively by as bad things happen in my life. He listens and when these things occurred I believe that He hurt every bit as much as I did (and do) – maybe even more, if that’s possible. But most of all, I am coming to understand that every request cannot end in a resounding “yes.” I am beginning to understand that “no” is an answer, too. When I pray, “no” is NOT what I want to hear – it is NOT the answer that I am expecting to receive. Yet when I hear this word it makes me angry. I want...I want...I want...like a toddler...to hear YES. So why should I turn away in childish resentment when His answers do not meet up with my expectations? I claim to have faith and yet my faith is so very small and pitiful when my earnest requests are denied. It is not that there is something wrong with God, it is that there is something wrong with me and my impatient need for instant gratification. What kind of person am I, to forget what kind of King I serve?
My God is a God that creates beautiful stories. He writes masterpieces, composes magnum opuses, and paints surreal landscapes across the blank canvas of human life. He alone understands how one missed note in a chord, one absent color in a sunset, and one misspent word can ruin a work of art. Artwork requires both light and shadow, baroque music has its moments in minor keys, and even the best of novels requires a villain now and again. Without the less satisfactory elements, the entire piece of work would be woefully lacking. It occurs to me that perhaps my life functions the same way – without the tragedy, triumph would be much less sweet. I am trying my best to remember, especially on my bleakest days, that my story is far from being finished; it is a work in progress. I cannot see the story of my life but I trust that it is a work of art that is never far from God’s capable hands. And though it is currently difficult I must trust that even something beautiful can arise from this mess.
I am a Christian and it’s a fact that I don’t really bother to hide – if you were to ask me about it. You won’t find me watching BibleTV, proselytizing on the street corner, or trying to convert co-workers in the breakroom during lunch (none of which is really my style), but I am a Christian nonetheless. I have my own share of faults. I do things I shouldn't do, say words I shouldn't say, think thoughts that I shouldn't think, listen to secular music, etc. Being Christian does not make me perfect – instead, it often serves to remind me of just how imperfect I am. Lately, I’ve been feeling pretty imperfect. I’ve been feeling petty, bitter, heartbroken, and forsaken. Why?
The one thing I pray for without fail, most of the time before I even begin to pray for myself, is that God will bless my family and friends, that He will guide them through their days, but most importantly that He will keep them safe and in good health. It’s a prayer that gets repeated nearly word for word every night, somewhat out of habit but mostly because it’s important to me that God watches over the people that I love.
But lately, I’ve felt as though the telephone line between God and I has been snipped:
-I prayed for my grandfather, that God would take away some of his pain and let him spend his last days resting peacefully in his easy chair at home. In March, he died alone in bed at a nursing home in pain from multiple myeloma and metastatic cancer. It was an ugly end to a kind and gentle man.
-I pray for my parents. They're almost always first in my line-up, because they're without doubt the most important people in my life. I pray that God will keep them safe, happy, and healthy. Not even that worked out in my favor, when in April my mother was diagnosed with colon cancer, most likely due to underlying (and previously unrecognized) Lynch syndrome. That gave birth to several tense and thoroughly unpleasant months for all of us.
-I prayed for my brother, that he would find happiness, that he would love someone worthwhile and be loved in return, and that he would realize how special he truly was. In July, Chandler committed suicide.
I feel abandoned sometimes. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't even a little angry. A small part of me looks at these requests and thinks, “How simple these requests are! You walked on water, You allowed the blind to see and the lame to walk, You turned water into wine, and You brought the dead back to life…and yet You can’t take away pain? You can’t prevent cells from going haywire? You can’t save my brother? What in the H-E-L-L? Where have You gone? Why are You turning a deaf ear to my requests?”
I am slowly coming to understand that it is not that God is ignoring my prayers and it is not that God is standing impassively by as bad things happen in my life. He listens and when these things occurred I believe that He hurt every bit as much as I did (and do) – maybe even more, if that’s possible. But most of all, I am coming to understand that every request cannot end in a resounding “yes.” I am beginning to understand that “no” is an answer, too. When I pray, “no” is NOT what I want to hear – it is NOT the answer that I am expecting to receive. Yet when I hear this word it makes me angry. I want...I want...I want...like a toddler...to hear YES. So why should I turn away in childish resentment when His answers do not meet up with my expectations? I claim to have faith and yet my faith is so very small and pitiful when my earnest requests are denied. It is not that there is something wrong with God, it is that there is something wrong with me and my impatient need for instant gratification. What kind of person am I, to forget what kind of King I serve?
My God is a God that creates beautiful stories. He writes masterpieces, composes magnum opuses, and paints surreal landscapes across the blank canvas of human life. He alone understands how one missed note in a chord, one absent color in a sunset, and one misspent word can ruin a work of art. Artwork requires both light and shadow, baroque music has its moments in minor keys, and even the best of novels requires a villain now and again. Without the less satisfactory elements, the entire piece of work would be woefully lacking. It occurs to me that perhaps my life functions the same way – without the tragedy, triumph would be much less sweet. I am trying my best to remember, especially on my bleakest days, that my story is far from being finished; it is a work in progress. I cannot see the story of my life but I trust that it is a work of art that is never far from God’s capable hands. And though it is currently difficult I must trust that even something beautiful can arise from this mess.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
A Letter to my 16 year old self
Dear 16 year old Chelsea:
You’ll spend a lot of time during lunch staring at the table filled with football players wondering what it would be like to go out with one of them. Hours will be devoted to mental scenarios that place you on the arm of one of the school’s most eligible bachelors. But honey, they are bachelors for a reason.
You’ll get your chance in 2005 (with one of those very same "football table" boys) and please believe me when I say that it just isn’t worth it. He is an emotionally abusive male chauvinist who will treat you like dirt and do his best to trample on your dreams. He will tell you over and over again that you are not smart enough, good enough, thin enough, pretty enough, funny enough…and you will eventually buy the garbage he is selling you. So for now, walk past that table and stick with your daydreams…and if one of those boys approaches you, run like the wind.
You will get a job (in order to get a car) and when you put on that blue Wal-Mart vest, a part of you will die inside. You’ll spend a lot of time making fun of the job, finding sarcastic, snarky things to say about its clientele and making it known that you have big plans to blow that popsicle stand.
Yes, the job stinks, the hours are long and violate the ”under 18” labor regulations, and the pay is not worth the time behind that cash register. Remember this: it is a job that you will do only during the summertime. But please also remember this: it is a job. It will teach you about dependability, hard work, and how to be a team player. And please, above all else, don’t belittle the clientele – not everyone has the same opportunities as you do. Always remember and appreciate just how lucky you are.
You’ll spend a lot of time trying to be “angsty,” because you think that’s what being a teenager is all about.
Being a teenager is not about sitting in your room and trying to write poetry about subjects that are ultimately way out of your maturity range. One day, you’ll be able to write those angst-ridden stories and poems because they come from a place inside of you that tragedy and sorrow and anger and fear and loneliness have touched – but don’t try and make that day come sooner than it has to.
You think that your brother is the biggest thorn in your side; you hate the way he sits in the backseat making fun of your driving as you ferry him to and from school. Actually, he makes fun of you for just about everything and you spend a lot of time wishing that you could have been an only child. I know that you think your relationship is tenuous, and it really is, but don’t wait until tomorrow to fix it. Tomorrow will occasionally bring unwelcome surprises-
One day you WILL be an only child. When that day comes, you will wish more than anything in the world that you were still someone’s big sister. All the irritation and the anger that he made you feel over the years will disappear at the same time he does. So make sure to tell him how much you love him. Do your best to include him and make him feel important. Spend time with him. And on July 8th, 2011 (I know that seems far away right now), pick up the telephone when it rings. Talk to him. Trust me, it’s important.
Helpful hint – when your British Literature teacher gives you the assignment to write a thinly veiled insult (think Shakespeare) – do NOT write it about your Human Biology teacher. She’ll find out about it, understand just how insulting your piece really is, and will make you pay for the rest of the semester.
Don’t turn your nose up at Columbia Union College. True, it’s not Harvard…or St. Olaf College. We both know that you go CUC out of spite, because your parents tell you that you must at least give an Adventist school a shot, but at least one of us knows that you don’t stay at CUC for spite. You stay because you fell in love with the school and the city.
College will be an amazing time, but NOT because of the school’s name or status. You will meet three of the world’s most amazing women at CUC, and they will become closer to you than just best friends. They will be like sisters – and it is because of them that your college experience will be so rich with wonderful memories.
At the behest of one friend, you will tell a lie that hurts another. A BIG lie – the kind that should never be told. Admitting to this person that you have lied to them will be one of the most personally humiliating and shameful experiences of your life. Even though you will feel better after apologizing, you will always regret what you told them in a fit of confusion and childish pique. I wish I could tell you not to say those words in the first place, but then you would miss the lesson.
This person will teach you a lot about grace and a little about forgiveness – because somehow, they accept your apology and move past the incident. Even though you don’t deserve it, they will extend their hand to you in friendship. By the way – you’ll really love being their friend, and for an all-too-brief moment in time, you will really love them, too. It won’t work out and yes – it’s (still) your fault. But they will continue to be your friend and that’s what really counts.
If I could, I would make you fast-forward through the summer of 2002. Maybe. It’ll be a rough time for you. I know you won’t see it now, but trust me – you’ll come out better for the experience.
You’ll fall in love for the very first time that summer, but will be way too scared to say the words. That’s OK, because this boy will break your heart into millions of small pieces. Don’t waste ANY of your time wishing that you had told him how you felt because it wouldn’t have stopped him from leaving and at the end of the day, you’d still be standing with a broken heart waving him goodbye. He won’t love you the way that you love him and that’s OK, too, because you will learn what it feels like to have your heart stomped upon. Please remember that feeling – how much it hurts when your heart shatters – and do your best to be careful with the hearts of others.
I wish I could tell you that things will be easy, but they only get more and more difficult. You’ll do a lot of things wrong in your journey to adulthood, but you’ll also get a lot of things right. Don’t dwell on your failures or surround yourself in your mistakes, just push forward even though that will sometimes be the hardest thing to do. When you have wronged someone, do what you can to set the wrong to right. Enjoy your friendships and spend time with your family - one day, they will all be further away from you than you would like. Please be careful with people’s hearts and always choose your words carefully.
There is so much of this world that is waiting for you, so much joy and pain and heartache and love that you can’t even begin to imagine it right now. That’s ok, because your teenage imagination could never do justice to the future you will have. Your future isn’t everything you hoped it would be (futures never are), but in many ways it is better than you thought it could be.
Love,
Me
You’ll spend a lot of time during lunch staring at the table filled with football players wondering what it would be like to go out with one of them. Hours will be devoted to mental scenarios that place you on the arm of one of the school’s most eligible bachelors. But honey, they are bachelors for a reason.
You’ll get your chance in 2005 (with one of those very same "football table" boys) and please believe me when I say that it just isn’t worth it. He is an emotionally abusive male chauvinist who will treat you like dirt and do his best to trample on your dreams. He will tell you over and over again that you are not smart enough, good enough, thin enough, pretty enough, funny enough…and you will eventually buy the garbage he is selling you. So for now, walk past that table and stick with your daydreams…and if one of those boys approaches you, run like the wind.
You will get a job (in order to get a car) and when you put on that blue Wal-Mart vest, a part of you will die inside. You’ll spend a lot of time making fun of the job, finding sarcastic, snarky things to say about its clientele and making it known that you have big plans to blow that popsicle stand.
Yes, the job stinks, the hours are long and violate the ”under 18” labor regulations, and the pay is not worth the time behind that cash register. Remember this: it is a job that you will do only during the summertime. But please also remember this: it is a job. It will teach you about dependability, hard work, and how to be a team player. And please, above all else, don’t belittle the clientele – not everyone has the same opportunities as you do. Always remember and appreciate just how lucky you are.
You’ll spend a lot of time trying to be “angsty,” because you think that’s what being a teenager is all about.
Being a teenager is not about sitting in your room and trying to write poetry about subjects that are ultimately way out of your maturity range. One day, you’ll be able to write those angst-ridden stories and poems because they come from a place inside of you that tragedy and sorrow and anger and fear and loneliness have touched – but don’t try and make that day come sooner than it has to.
You think that your brother is the biggest thorn in your side; you hate the way he sits in the backseat making fun of your driving as you ferry him to and from school. Actually, he makes fun of you for just about everything and you spend a lot of time wishing that you could have been an only child. I know that you think your relationship is tenuous, and it really is, but don’t wait until tomorrow to fix it. Tomorrow will occasionally bring unwelcome surprises-
One day you WILL be an only child. When that day comes, you will wish more than anything in the world that you were still someone’s big sister. All the irritation and the anger that he made you feel over the years will disappear at the same time he does. So make sure to tell him how much you love him. Do your best to include him and make him feel important. Spend time with him. And on July 8th, 2011 (I know that seems far away right now), pick up the telephone when it rings. Talk to him. Trust me, it’s important.
Helpful hint – when your British Literature teacher gives you the assignment to write a thinly veiled insult (think Shakespeare) – do NOT write it about your Human Biology teacher. She’ll find out about it, understand just how insulting your piece really is, and will make you pay for the rest of the semester.
Don’t turn your nose up at Columbia Union College. True, it’s not Harvard…or St. Olaf College. We both know that you go CUC out of spite, because your parents tell you that you must at least give an Adventist school a shot, but at least one of us knows that you don’t stay at CUC for spite. You stay because you fell in love with the school and the city.
College will be an amazing time, but NOT because of the school’s name or status. You will meet three of the world’s most amazing women at CUC, and they will become closer to you than just best friends. They will be like sisters – and it is because of them that your college experience will be so rich with wonderful memories.
At the behest of one friend, you will tell a lie that hurts another. A BIG lie – the kind that should never be told. Admitting to this person that you have lied to them will be one of the most personally humiliating and shameful experiences of your life. Even though you will feel better after apologizing, you will always regret what you told them in a fit of confusion and childish pique. I wish I could tell you not to say those words in the first place, but then you would miss the lesson.
This person will teach you a lot about grace and a little about forgiveness – because somehow, they accept your apology and move past the incident. Even though you don’t deserve it, they will extend their hand to you in friendship. By the way – you’ll really love being their friend, and for an all-too-brief moment in time, you will really love them, too. It won’t work out and yes – it’s (still) your fault. But they will continue to be your friend and that’s what really counts.
If I could, I would make you fast-forward through the summer of 2002. Maybe. It’ll be a rough time for you. I know you won’t see it now, but trust me – you’ll come out better for the experience.
You’ll fall in love for the very first time that summer, but will be way too scared to say the words. That’s OK, because this boy will break your heart into millions of small pieces. Don’t waste ANY of your time wishing that you had told him how you felt because it wouldn’t have stopped him from leaving and at the end of the day, you’d still be standing with a broken heart waving him goodbye. He won’t love you the way that you love him and that’s OK, too, because you will learn what it feels like to have your heart stomped upon. Please remember that feeling – how much it hurts when your heart shatters – and do your best to be careful with the hearts of others.
I wish I could tell you that things will be easy, but they only get more and more difficult. You’ll do a lot of things wrong in your journey to adulthood, but you’ll also get a lot of things right. Don’t dwell on your failures or surround yourself in your mistakes, just push forward even though that will sometimes be the hardest thing to do. When you have wronged someone, do what you can to set the wrong to right. Enjoy your friendships and spend time with your family - one day, they will all be further away from you than you would like. Please be careful with people’s hearts and always choose your words carefully.
There is so much of this world that is waiting for you, so much joy and pain and heartache and love that you can’t even begin to imagine it right now. That’s ok, because your teenage imagination could never do justice to the future you will have. Your future isn’t everything you hoped it would be (futures never are), but in many ways it is better than you thought it could be.
Love,
Me
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Holidays and Changes
I’ve always liked Thanksgiving. Not because of the break that it has always afforded me from the burdens of school (or the fact that it’s a day I don’t actually have to work this year), but because it’s a day where time stops in its tracks and allows peace its moment to shine.
Thanksgiving was always a quiet affair at our house, usually consisting of my parents, my brother, and me. Even though there were only four of us eating, my mother spent all day in the kitchen, beginning long before my eyes fluttered open. I’d wake up to the smells of turkey roasting in the oven, yeast rolls rising on the counter, and chocolate pudding cooking on the stove. Pots and pans would clash together as my mother fished them from the cabinets, glass lids would clink as they were carefully placed onto ceramic baking dishes, and peelings of potato skin would plop onto the countertop as they fell prey to the whir of the vegetable peeler. From the moment I stepped out of my bedroom, I was enveloped by the smells and sounds that ushered in our family tradition.
By the time dinner got underway, the table in the formal dining room was usually buried under plates of food – more food than one family could eat. There were always extras of certain items according to what each person liked the best: raw black olives and jellied cranberry sauce for me, heaps of mashed potatoes for Chandler, strawberry jello salad for my father, and bright orange sweet potatoes topped with melted marshmallows for my mother. Our bellies would fill more quickly than our heaping plates, and conversation was light, friendly, and familiar – the sound of a family with shared memories gathered around the table in love and thanksgiving. Dessert was no different, with its homemade pies and freshly whipped cream. Banana cream, or sometimes lemon merengue for my father, homemade pumpkin for my mother, chocolate pudding pie for me, and little ceramic ramekins full of homemade chocolate pudding for my brother – each with their own special dessert. Chandler loved the chocolate pudding so much he would very nearly lick the ramekin in an effort to enjoy every last bite. The holiday was something every family holiday should be: comfortable, rich, satisfying, and shot through with ribbons of love.
When the meal was at last put away neatly onto the shelves of the refrigerator, we’d all waddle into the family room, our stomachs close to exploding, to watch whatever holiday special or movie happened to be on television. Mom and Dad would lounge in the recliners, I’d throw myself onto the sofa, and Chandler would wrap himself up in Mom’s crocheted afghan, roll onto his stomach, and stretch out on the floor in front of my feet. We’d laugh and chatter and when night had fallen and the TV specials had run their course, my parents would rise from their recliners. My father would envelop us in big bear hugs and my mother would lovingly tousle our hair and kiss our cheeks and just like that, the day was done.
At some point during the night, Chandler would creep up the stairs from his basement bedroom to rummage around for leftovers in the fridge. We’d wake in the morning to emptied pudding pots and dirtied dishes, evidence of his midnight forage through the feast. We’d laugh and joke about it in the morning, about how much food he could hide away in his stomach and he’d always smile sheepishly while begging Mom to make just one more batch of mashed potatoes because he’d already eaten the dinner leftovers.
But things will be different this year.
This year, there will be no ecru mounds of mashed potatoes dripping golden butter into the serving dish. There will be no pots of rich, homemade chocolate pudding with festive dabs of freshly whipped cream waiting patiently for a spoon. The glass lids covering up the refrigerated leavings of the holiday feast will not be lifted at midnight with my brother standing poised over them with a fork, shoveling down the dinner remains as though he is afraid they will spoil before dawn. Oh, things will be so different!
I am staying in Vermont for the holiday; Chris and I will be driving down some small, two lane road to enjoy dinner at the home of one of his aunts. My mother and father will drive north to Montana to spend the holiday with my father’s family. The dining room table in my childhood home will stand empty this year and one chair in particular will remain empty no matter how many future dinners are served. I will desperately miss waking up in the twin bed of my youth to the scents of my mother’s kitchen. I will miss the dining room table piled high with favorite foods. I will miss gathering in the family room with my parents and brother, the love and laughter resplendent through the air. I will miss so very much my family, with its comfort and security and warmth. There are so many acute losses this year, each with its own sting of pain. But one loss sticks out the most:
This year there will be no more Chandler.
And that is the worst loss of them all.
Thanksgiving was always a quiet affair at our house, usually consisting of my parents, my brother, and me. Even though there were only four of us eating, my mother spent all day in the kitchen, beginning long before my eyes fluttered open. I’d wake up to the smells of turkey roasting in the oven, yeast rolls rising on the counter, and chocolate pudding cooking on the stove. Pots and pans would clash together as my mother fished them from the cabinets, glass lids would clink as they were carefully placed onto ceramic baking dishes, and peelings of potato skin would plop onto the countertop as they fell prey to the whir of the vegetable peeler. From the moment I stepped out of my bedroom, I was enveloped by the smells and sounds that ushered in our family tradition.
By the time dinner got underway, the table in the formal dining room was usually buried under plates of food – more food than one family could eat. There were always extras of certain items according to what each person liked the best: raw black olives and jellied cranberry sauce for me, heaps of mashed potatoes for Chandler, strawberry jello salad for my father, and bright orange sweet potatoes topped with melted marshmallows for my mother. Our bellies would fill more quickly than our heaping plates, and conversation was light, friendly, and familiar – the sound of a family with shared memories gathered around the table in love and thanksgiving. Dessert was no different, with its homemade pies and freshly whipped cream. Banana cream, or sometimes lemon merengue for my father, homemade pumpkin for my mother, chocolate pudding pie for me, and little ceramic ramekins full of homemade chocolate pudding for my brother – each with their own special dessert. Chandler loved the chocolate pudding so much he would very nearly lick the ramekin in an effort to enjoy every last bite. The holiday was something every family holiday should be: comfortable, rich, satisfying, and shot through with ribbons of love.
When the meal was at last put away neatly onto the shelves of the refrigerator, we’d all waddle into the family room, our stomachs close to exploding, to watch whatever holiday special or movie happened to be on television. Mom and Dad would lounge in the recliners, I’d throw myself onto the sofa, and Chandler would wrap himself up in Mom’s crocheted afghan, roll onto his stomach, and stretch out on the floor in front of my feet. We’d laugh and chatter and when night had fallen and the TV specials had run their course, my parents would rise from their recliners. My father would envelop us in big bear hugs and my mother would lovingly tousle our hair and kiss our cheeks and just like that, the day was done.
At some point during the night, Chandler would creep up the stairs from his basement bedroom to rummage around for leftovers in the fridge. We’d wake in the morning to emptied pudding pots and dirtied dishes, evidence of his midnight forage through the feast. We’d laugh and joke about it in the morning, about how much food he could hide away in his stomach and he’d always smile sheepishly while begging Mom to make just one more batch of mashed potatoes because he’d already eaten the dinner leftovers.
But things will be different this year.
This year, there will be no ecru mounds of mashed potatoes dripping golden butter into the serving dish. There will be no pots of rich, homemade chocolate pudding with festive dabs of freshly whipped cream waiting patiently for a spoon. The glass lids covering up the refrigerated leavings of the holiday feast will not be lifted at midnight with my brother standing poised over them with a fork, shoveling down the dinner remains as though he is afraid they will spoil before dawn. Oh, things will be so different!
I am staying in Vermont for the holiday; Chris and I will be driving down some small, two lane road to enjoy dinner at the home of one of his aunts. My mother and father will drive north to Montana to spend the holiday with my father’s family. The dining room table in my childhood home will stand empty this year and one chair in particular will remain empty no matter how many future dinners are served. I will desperately miss waking up in the twin bed of my youth to the scents of my mother’s kitchen. I will miss the dining room table piled high with favorite foods. I will miss gathering in the family room with my parents and brother, the love and laughter resplendent through the air. I will miss so very much my family, with its comfort and security and warmth. There are so many acute losses this year, each with its own sting of pain. But one loss sticks out the most:
This year there will be no more Chandler.
And that is the worst loss of them all.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Hope in the Hospital
My job breaks my heart.
There is a young male patient with leukemia who will never be granted the gift of old age. He got married in the hospital today while on oxygen struggling to breathe. The couple voiced words of love, faith, and hope to each other over the beeping of heart-lung monitors and the hustle and bustle of the hospital. His brand-new spouse has to look into his eyes from across a hospital bed and know that the opportunity to wake up next to her beloved is finite. They are together taking steps into a future that they always believed would be decades long while understanding that the decades they were promised have turned into days. Against the odds they are choosing love and they are choosing each other while making the hardest decisions and fighting the hardest fight of their lives.
This is love being patient and kind, believing in all things and hoping in all things. This is living in the moment and for the moment instead of merely making plans to do better tomorrow. I wish we could all love that deeply, cling to life that passionately, and enjoy the kind of faith which refuses to believe in anything less than the best.
The subject of death is a touchy one for me right now for many reasons. As a physician, death offends me and I want badly to defeat it at all reasonable cost. As a human being, all I can do is accept what I cannot defeat. Death is a river, slow and deep, in which we all will drown. It has a defined and inexorable path, no detours in between birth and death. One can dam the river up with sticks and concrete temporarily and one can try to change its course with C-40 but eventually the river makes its journey regardless of the shenanigans of man. My world is one where important decisions, the C-40 to change death’s natural course, are made in minutes after a screaming pager causes me to tumble disoriented out of both a deep sleep and a warm bed. As I rub sleep from my eyes, I barely have time to remember my name before I am barraged with questions for which I have no easy answers and requests that I cannot approve; I have found that 3am is often far too early to accept the consequences of my decisions, but I'm slowly learning.
I want to keep patients alive. I want for that young man to eventually leave the hospital and carry his new bride across the threshold of an apartment even though I know it cannot be. So many times, situations in the hospital are “incompatible with life,” and despite all best efforts, the river swallows yet another piece of hope. I’m never sure which breaks my heart the most – the stories and the faithfulness and the hope of the truly sick patients – my own utter powerlessness in the face of their pain and suffering and dying- or their death, which brings with it the end of their stories and which jumps up and down cruelly on their faith. It reminds me of how fragile human life is and also continuously points out to me that death cannot be stopped, no matter how hard we fight daily. So yes. My job breaks my heart. And I have a feeling that it always will.
There is a young male patient with leukemia who will never be granted the gift of old age. He got married in the hospital today while on oxygen struggling to breathe. The couple voiced words of love, faith, and hope to each other over the beeping of heart-lung monitors and the hustle and bustle of the hospital. His brand-new spouse has to look into his eyes from across a hospital bed and know that the opportunity to wake up next to her beloved is finite. They are together taking steps into a future that they always believed would be decades long while understanding that the decades they were promised have turned into days. Against the odds they are choosing love and they are choosing each other while making the hardest decisions and fighting the hardest fight of their lives.
This is love being patient and kind, believing in all things and hoping in all things. This is living in the moment and for the moment instead of merely making plans to do better tomorrow. I wish we could all love that deeply, cling to life that passionately, and enjoy the kind of faith which refuses to believe in anything less than the best.
The subject of death is a touchy one for me right now for many reasons. As a physician, death offends me and I want badly to defeat it at all reasonable cost. As a human being, all I can do is accept what I cannot defeat. Death is a river, slow and deep, in which we all will drown. It has a defined and inexorable path, no detours in between birth and death. One can dam the river up with sticks and concrete temporarily and one can try to change its course with C-40 but eventually the river makes its journey regardless of the shenanigans of man. My world is one where important decisions, the C-40 to change death’s natural course, are made in minutes after a screaming pager causes me to tumble disoriented out of both a deep sleep and a warm bed. As I rub sleep from my eyes, I barely have time to remember my name before I am barraged with questions for which I have no easy answers and requests that I cannot approve; I have found that 3am is often far too early to accept the consequences of my decisions, but I'm slowly learning.
I want to keep patients alive. I want for that young man to eventually leave the hospital and carry his new bride across the threshold of an apartment even though I know it cannot be. So many times, situations in the hospital are “incompatible with life,” and despite all best efforts, the river swallows yet another piece of hope. I’m never sure which breaks my heart the most – the stories and the faithfulness and the hope of the truly sick patients – my own utter powerlessness in the face of their pain and suffering and dying- or their death, which brings with it the end of their stories and which jumps up and down cruelly on their faith. It reminds me of how fragile human life is and also continuously points out to me that death cannot be stopped, no matter how hard we fight daily. So yes. My job breaks my heart. And I have a feeling that it always will.
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