The Proper Choosing of Language

The best part of floundering in a new language is the absolute thought, care and devotion dedicated to the choosing each world. Each “please” and “thank you” is a bridge between two worlds and the look of comprehension in the recipients eyes when the right tense is combined with the right verb is like the giving of no other gift.

Tonight we met Danny and Angela, siblings from Boston, who slip easily from Spanish to English with a mere flicker of thought. At one point, I asked Angela the best way to say “I would like” when ordering – knowing one could say “Quiero,” “Pido“, “Me gustaria” and so many other choices. (Imagine: in English… I’d like, Can I have, Bring me, Yea I want the… Gimmeah….). Her answer, “Deseo“, was not one I had considered and my joy at using just the right word in the future is just so tangibly unique to any other experience.

What a strange and separate world it is to know just a sliver of a language. Enough to “act as if”, but when the waterfall of worlds tumble out in response I back away, hands up, pleading “Mas Despacio!” And then as if the water was not cold enough the first time, I plunge back in.

The Doctor’s Wife

It’s amazing that 4 years of medical school have come to an end. From my perspective, they flew by. However, I did not take even one night of overnight call, study one day for boards, take one lecture on the Krebs cycle, go on one residency interview or tolerate one pimp session from an attending.

What I will say though is that being a medical school wife was easier than I thought it was going to be. To be honest, I imagined the worst. I imagined a husband who would never be home, would be stressed all the time. I underestimated my own independence, my own patience, the wonderful friends (wives) who would be always be around.

As I write this, my husband is CLEANING THE IRON. (The iron, that is dirty because I melted something on it.) Meanwhile, I write blogs. Not exactly how I imagined being a med school wife would be. I never dreamed we’d go on a road trip nearly every other month. Or that Matt would get to spend as much time on the golf course as he would in the wards 4th year. I never thought I’d come home to find my garage organized and shelves hung. I figured free time would be minimal, patience would be short, and I would have to do everything around the house. That as the “doctor’s wife”, I would always come second to my husband’s career.

This statement is nothing short of laughable.

Don’t get me wrong. There have been challenges. Boards studying sucked. Watching my (then boyfriend) stare into a computer screen for 34 days straight? Quizzing him on pharmacology drugs so frequently that even I started to dream about them? Worrying about what his scores might be, how that might affect residency and where would we end up leaving? Sucked. But, it passed. (He passed.)

OB-GYN rotation. Surgery. Medicine. Early mornings wake ups. Visiting him in the call room that looked the worst Quality Inn you’ve ever visited. Driving 1700 miles in one week to do 4 residency interviews. Sucked. But, it passed. He passed. We passed.

When I look back on medical school, I know I won’t remember the dog-eared copies of the STEP-1 book. I couldn’t tell you the names of any of the attendings who pimped him or what that one rotation was where he had to write the absurdly long SOAP notes. I will remember that during med school we made some wonderful friends. That we created vacations resourcefully – visiting friends, bartering personal training for resorts (see: next week’s vacay), staying in vacant apartments of family members. That we had potluck dinners where one couple brought the margaritas and one couple brought the salad and another couple brought the hamburgers. That we remembered to thank each other for going out of the way to help when one was busy or just simply needed a break. (Thank you for ironing the curtains while I blog.) That we got married and bought a house. That we had fun, more days than I can count. That we made it.

Contrary to the Worst Case Scenario I might have imagined medical school wifery to be, it turns out that when we look back on medical school we may remember them as nothing short of a wonderful way to start a life together. If anyone is surprised by this, it is most of all me. I wonder what I was so scared of?

Happy Graduation to you, and happy completion of a chapter to us.

Hooding

Today was my husband’s hooding ceremony for his medical doctorate. Although the graduation for all WFU candidates is Monday, this is a smaller ceremony that focuses on just the medical class and I think really just sets aside time for the family of the now DOCTORS to celebrate what they have accomplished.

I’m not a parent, but I imagine one of the first things you do when you find out you’re pregnant is start imagining what your child will grow up to be. I wonder what it felt like for all the parents there to sit there and gaze upon their very grown babies and think back to all that they hoped for them. I imagine that that is a kind of happy/proud where words would just fall short.

Ever since I have known Matt (we met as sophomores in college), we have referred to this pursuit as “the doctor’s path”. Sometimes in jest, sometimes in conflict, but always on mutual understanding of the priority that was given to “the doctor’s path.” Becoming a doctor has been his single greatest focus for more than a decade. A decade! At 13, he hurt his knee playing football. A trip to the orthopedic later and Matt just knew he wanted to be a doctor. An essay he wrote shortly after this event in 7th grade describes not only how he is going to be a doctor, but he’s going to attend Wake Forest Medical School.

I know, right? At 13, I wanted to be an architect. And an author. And a teacher. And, oooh, a psychologist! In other words, I had no idea.

Talk about a single track mind.

The doctor’s path has been many things: stressful. challenging. confusing. surprising. bonding. fulfilling. None of these words fully encapsulate the journey I have watched my husband persue single-mindedly for the 8 years I have known him, and the one I joined him on when I became Mrs. To see him stand up there and take the Physician’s Oath and know that years and years and years of commitment, focus, determination and sacrifices have culminated in a one single ceremony-filled weekend that marks the transition from student to physician? Amazing & inspiring.

If I write any more, I just may lose it. Congratulations, Dr. I am so proud of you.

27

I remember a conversation I had with an acquaintance at Wake as we both approached graduation. We had both just turned 22 and were talking about what we thought post-college life would be like. I recall her saying “I always imagined by the time I graduated college, I would be married and shopping for mini-vans.” (Please keep in mind that I did attend college in the South, where the phrase “MRS degree” is sometimes used without the slightest hint of sarcasm.)

I never really have had expectations about at what age I would get married or have babies or achieve certain things, and it didn’t even cross my mind that there was some unspoken agreement among the female species that there were certain “times” to have accomplished such things. I guess that’s why the transition from my young 20s to my late 20s has been kind of anticlimactic. I emotionally steeled myself at 25, expecting to have some kind of “quarter life crisis” as I had heard so often about, but I blew out my candles in 2007 with nary a hint of sadness as I strolled on in to the latter half of this decade. I expected again at 27, to have some kind of “OMG, ALMOST THIRTY” moment… as if that is some kind of cut-off for something? But no, nothing. My birthday came and went on Saturday, and while I was blessed enough to be surrounded by family visiting for Matt’s graduation, and some of the best LOLcards with warm’n'fuzzy and kind messages, and an amazing red velvet cake… I slipped into 27 quietly, almost as if I was already meant to be here.

I have enjoyed my 20s. I remember 20 for a life in Spain. I remember 21 for my first knock you on your ass relationship. 22 for my colitis diagnosis and graduation from college. 23 for making a home in Baltimore on my own. 24 for rekindling a relationship that turned into a marriage. 25 for that marriage. 26 for launching a business. I am ready for you 27. Bring me something good.

Failure

I’ve been trying this new jedi mind trick coaching exercise to try and diminish the amount of mental energy I devote to worrying. This is a challenge, because I’m pretty sure there is a genetic component to my capacity to worry if my mother and maternal grandmother are any indication. (Yes, Mom, you worry ateeeensytinybit.) Whenever I find myself adrift in the sea of whatifs, oh nos, i don’t wants… which is approximately every seven seconds, I stop myself and flip it around and start asking “so, what do I want? what will happen? what’s the best outcome?” I also spend a lot of time daydreaming (or manifesting, the more sophisticated term used in coaching realms) – picturing myself walking through the exact scenario I want. (You know, Oprah going MEGHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN CLINE!”, or Biggest Loser calling with the job offer to be their life coach, or working from home looking out my bay window that looks on to the beach – just your typical daydream stuff.) Both of these exercises immediately and surprisingly jolt me from panic, worry, anxiousness, fear to hope, excitement, optimism and gratitude. I try to block out all doubts as to whether or not they actually will happen, I just sit back and enjoy the visuals. And you know what? It’s been working, to my shock and delight.

On Tuesday, I became out of the blue violently ill. One minute I was on the phone, scrounging in the freezer for dinner options, the next I was on the couch clutching my stomach while my husband gave me the whatisgoingonhere look. An hour later I was crouched lotus style praying to porcelain gods. There was this little voice in the back of my head that kept going “O-M-G. Not a GI BUG. This is IT. You’re going to get sick again. Colitis is going to flare. Panic. Panic. PANIC!!!” And heavens knows I can’t blame that voice, as that was chapter 2-5 in the story of my disease. (Don’t worry. That story does not come with illustrations.) Every time I heard that voice yesterday, I quickly tried to drown it out with a louder voice chanting “I am healthy. I am healthy. I am healthy.” It became my mantra in between sips of Gatorade and nibbles of saltines. I heard it as I drifted in and out of sleep and DVRed Oprah’s on the couch. I said it quietly to myself as I headed into work yesterday, not quite trusting whether I was going to be able to get through the day with a VIP access to the restrooms. And if last night’s dinner of Kimono-style broccoli, bratwurst and sauerkraut is any indication of my prognosis, I think I’m in the clear. I. am. healthy.

I’m enjoying flexing my new mental muscle and I’m wondering just how strong it might be. In the gym, Monica has started me on a new workout I like to lovingly call “The Hour Where Monica Kicks My Ass.” (Although I confess that more recently I have also been calling it “Wearing My Sophomore Year Jeans Again,” and have not been complaining quite so vehemently.) Despite 6 years of being a personal trainer, I have to admit that this is the first time I have legitimately gone to failure while strength training. It is an overwhelmingly powerless feeling to feel your body come to a dead stop while your mind is still screaming GET THIS FRIGGIN BAR OFFFF MEEEEE. This is the part where Monica will step in and lift the bar off me with one pinky. Hate. Her.

If I flex my mental muscle too much, will I fail? Possibly, yes. Will it be stronger next time? Most definitely, yes. Failure is that terrifying, powerless feeling. It’s one I’ve been running away from since 1994 when my cheerleading coach made fun of me for demonstrating a dance move I thought was cool and she thought was…well, who knows. Not my fault she didn’t know what the Tootsee Roll was yet, I still flashback to that memory with the soundtrack of Adam Sandler’s “They’re All Going to Laugh at You” playing as background music. I hate being embarrassed. I hate not being good at something I try. I hate not following through with something. But I think I’m starting to trust that if I fail, I’ve got a good number of people who will rush over and pick the bar off with me just a pinky – making it seem so easy to free myself and start over.

2008: Year in Review

9. What was your biggest failure?
Bringing work problems come home with me.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
A new camera. Biggest Loser. Wino Weddings.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Complained. Judged. Gossiped. Whined.

21. Did you fall in love in 2008?
Even more with my hub? Yes. (Sorry. Cheese.)

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
No.

27. What did you want and not get?
A dog.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Cheaper air fare.

35. Who did you miss?
Far-flung friends and Mike&Share.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.
Be more involved and less invested.