My Last Night in Bethlehem

The following is an unpublished essay from medical school I've always liked. I don't know why I never made it public before, but here it is. I hope you like it.

To my final evening of night shift, I say hasta la vista, baby, with mixed feelings. I'm looking forward to walking my dog at sunset and I'm sure he is, too, but all the same, I'll miss a few things. For one, there's nothing like a hospital at night. I've always loved walking the hallways when lights have dimmed and patients gone to sleep. The entire place feels like a warm blanket. Even the obstetrics unit can be like that, though not so much lately. Certainly not this morning around 4.00 AM when all the unborn babies suddenly woke up in their respective wombs and cried with a single voice, "Let me outta here!"

Yeah. It got kinda busy. Fast. The doctors were in surgery and I was on the unit keeping watch over my flock of one, a shepherd mimicking a memorable night in Bethlehem. I was on my way to her room, checking in once again, when the head nurse raced past, calling back over her shoulder, "20 is giving birth -- now -- and I have no doctors!" I waved the cloud of dust she left behind away from my face and tried to quell the wave of panic rising in my gut. A medical student who's only assisted in vaginal births is more hindrance than help at a time like this, so if s/he has a lick of sense, they attend to their patient. And that's what I did. One of the residents scrubbed out and came to the rescue.

A baby's cry and a few minutes later, she was finished in one birthing suite in time to join us in another. My patient was at ten centimeters and it was time to push. She and I held hands and breathed through the contractions together. When her baby finally slipped out, we smiled wearily and gave each other a thumbs-up. Heading back to the residents' lounge, I had the feeling I imagine all doctors must have at times like this: no matter how numerous are my faults, once in my life I did something good.

Mother and daughter will be gone by the time I show up Monday morning, like all the parents and newborns I've gotten to know this week. It's a privilege -- being allowed to share in a dream come true. The woman with whom I held hands through labor and delivery was a stranger when I walked onto the unit. She was alone with the exception of her mother who was in and out of the room. By the time the night was over, we were much more than strangers.

All on my last night in Bethlehem.

(Public Domain image of Bethlehem, 1882, via Wikipedia)

Now You See Me -- Or Do You?

I am easily delighted. I'm also easily entertained, though when I was little, hearing the words, "I'm bored," exit my mouth was my mother's cue to reach for the Bayer (aspirin). My attention could be as difficult to hold as a kid's hand in an amusement park. I loved the films Houdini (1953) and The Great Imposter (1961), starring Tony Curtis, and still do. Both were about illusion, magic, "now you see it -- now you don't." The impossible becoming possible with the blink of an eye.

I remember seeing my first and only, sword-swallower in a traveling circus when I was five or six. We lived in the country, as I've mentioned before, and one weekend a circus, with three rings under the bigtop, arrived at our local fair grounds. They had all the acts you associate with larger operations like Ringling Brothers or the Shrine Circus, including a fellow who had himself shot out of a canon. A young, pretty, blond-haired girl astride a dappled Welsh pony, stole my heart and galloped through my fantasies for weeks afterward (sigh). 

I saw my first "Punch and Judy" puppets the same night, in the side-show. I remember how a devilish puppet, clad in black, crept onto the stage to scare Punch. With a menacing voice, he said, "I am the Devil." Punch responded, sarcastically, "Well, you look like the devil!" I'd heard my mother use that phrase often enough to get the hint. When Punch and Judy appear in The Santa Clause (1994) each Christmas, my mind replays that evening.

Anyway, like I said, that's also where I saw my first sword-swallower. He stood next to Punch and Judy's stage, and with great flourish, proceeded to swallow a decorative sword which he said was "only a toy," and then what he insisted was a "real" blade. He even stepped behind a flouroscope so the audience could see the instrument of death inserted vertically through his mouth with the tip resting benignly in the curve of his stomach. When medical school and gross anatomy entered my life a few centuries later, I realized there was no way on earth that sword could have done what the flouroscope displayed. It was a "trick," an illusion, but one that delighted me as a child and continues to do so when I think of it.

I'm certain this is why I love the film Now You See Me (2013) with an ensemble cast including Jessie Eisenberg, one of my favorite new actors. It just delights me. The story revolves around four magicians who have been mysteriously contacted about membership in a secret society called The Eye, which is dedicated to preserving pure magic, righting wrongs, and overcoming injustice. As the plot moves forward, it includes tricks worthy of David Copperfield, slight of hand, hypnosis, and has the lead characters pursued by the FBI. Honestly, I could scarcely contain my inner child the first time "we" saw it.

Some have described Now You See Me as evidence The Illuminati have taken over Hollywood in an attempt to pull the wool over our eyes, deceive our better judgment, and secretly promote a "New World Order." Critics proclaimed the film's illusions were unrealistic and its ending unsatisfying. Personally, I wonder if we were watching the same film. I was captivated from the outset and couldn't wait for the credits to roll before hitting the restart button. Once was not enough and the second, third, and fourth viewings triggered my sense of delight as readily as the first.

Now You See Me isn't merely a story -- it's a yarn, a rambling and implausible tale, according to the Concise Oxford, though the film doesn't ramble and any implausibility lies in the eye of the beholder. There is no moral, such as you'd expect from a fable, but it does make a point, i.e. the ego can be so wrapped up in its own perceptions that it prevents us from realizing we're one, two, three steps behind what's taking place right in front of our us. I've been there, haven't you?

It also reminds us that to be captivated by wonder, we need to have a little faith, to suspend our natural disbelief, and be willing to trust. Not everything needs to be explained, as the film urges, and some things are best left unexplained. I'd agree, particularly when they make us feel like children, fascinated by what defies reason and once again, believing that anything and everything is possible.

(Creative Commons Image by ictusoculi via Flickr)

Scientific Myth-Busting and The Hearing Curve

It is a little known otologic fact that hearing improves with age. 

You don't believe me. 

You've heard and read and perhaps even experienced the opposite. Well, I'm sorry to tell you this, but hearing loss in adulthood is an urban myth desperately in need of busting and we're going to do that, right here and now.

The truth is, hearing develops, declines, and recovers in a manner comparable to an inverse bell curve, a phenomenon known as The Hearing Curve. We start out hearing rather well in our elementary years as evidenced by the fact that our parents can't open a can of pop on the other side of the house, quietly as a mouse, with the barest hisssss of carbon dioxide escaping, without us hearing them and calling out, "I want some!"

With the onset of puberty, hormonal changes occur, resulting in observable physical changes such as increased vertical growth, the appearance of secondary sex characteristics, and gradual hearing loss that peaks at about age 16, usually coincident with the passing of one's driving test. We know this to be true because teenagers listen to LOUD music, particularly in the car. They talk LOUDLY and make LOTS of noise doing absolutely nothing.

Adulthood is marked by the gradual recovery of hearing acuity, accelerated in some cases by childbearing and child-rearing, and becoming most noticeable in the mid-40s to 60s. Adult hearing can actually become highly sensitive to the most subtle of sounds. For instance, the creek of the front door when teenaged son creeps in past curfew can awaken the soundest of sleeping fathers more readily than a gun fired off beside the bed. The best medical evidence for hearing improvement in adulthood, however, derives from the observation that parents the world over shout at their teenaged children who, naturally, are listening to LOUD rock and roll, "Turn that crap down!" It's obviously painful, otherwise why say anything at all?

So much misunderstanding and familial conflict could be avoided if parents only knew the truth. When asking, for instance, if their teenaged daughter or son was "deaf" when told to take out the trash, help with dinner, or clean their room, what a great thing to know that, yes, their teenagers were in fact, quite deaf or so close to it as to make no difference. Furthermore, that it's only temporary, literally "a stage" they're going through. On the other side, just as it takes becoming an adult to realize one's parents aren't stupid, it takes becoming one to be able to hear what they're saying without misinterpreting their shouting as expressions of anger or frustration. Everyone benefits.

It's really quite amazing what the teensiest bit of scientific myth-busting can do to improve our lives and relationships. And we did it all without mentioning "evolution." Isn't that amazing?

(Text copyright 2013 by the author -- written with tongue firmly planted in cheek)

(Creative Commons image by Rob Gallop via Flickr)

The Night Train to Christmas

 
"Nite train!" he called, waving with one hand and holding his daddy's with the other, as they walked out the door. I'm guessing he was probably four years old and he'd been playing so quietly, it wasn't til he spoke that I realized what held his attention. 

I was wandering through my favorite toy store, Tree Top Toys, in the Old Port. The Old Port is a gentrified section of downtown Portland that abuts the harbor (hence, the name) and could easily be mistaken for the backdrop for A Christmas Carol, especially during the Holidays. My attention was held by a Schilling display of wonderful classic tin toys that echo a time before batteries, when toys were wound up by keys and ran on pure imagination. 

The store was crowded, though not so much you couldn't move, and he stood in a corner, near the entrance. His father watched from a few feet away, holding baby sister in his arms and ensuring both daughter and son were kept occupied, freeing mommy to play Santa. I noticed them at first just in passing, like I'd noticed other shoppers, picking up puzzles or stuffed bears, turning them over to look for prices or stroking their soft fur and turning into children as if on que. Some items go to the cash register right there and then, others wait for dreams of sugar plums and a jolly old man with a sleigh to find their way "home."

Like a fictional doctor of my acquaintance, a four foot tall stuffed giraffe resting high on a display rack with a smaller one planted between his hooves and a smaller one yet, between his, caught my eye. The clerk told me she'd recently sold one exactly like the tallest to a little girl who saw him last Christmas, fell in love, and saved her allowance the entire year to raise the purchase price. I brushed away tears at the thought of her carrying him home. Christmas brings out the magic of the heart in ways we rarely anticipate.

 Working my way back to the entrance, I heard a small voice call, "Nite train!" and looked over to see him leave with his parents and wave as though the cars and engine understood. And maybe for him, riding the night train to Christmas, they did, indeed.

(Photo of horse-drawn carriage in the Old Port copyright 2013 by the author)

Remembering Where I Was, How I Felt, and Why

They say days like today, you always remember where you were when you got the news. I was in my classroom, it was lunchtime, and a fellow student rushed in, out of breath, and announced, "Kennedy's just been shot." I was too young, I suppose, to understand what that would mean, though I recall going through the rest of the afternoon with a feeling of tenuousness in my stomach and I couldn't wait to get home. 

Two years earlier, during the presidential campaign, an older teacher admonished our class that if JFK was elected, "we'll be under the Pope." Obviously, that never materialized but it reflects the mindset of some at the time. Change was difficult for them to envision and embrace, not unlike it seems now. All I knew was, my parents voted Democratic, they liked Kennedy's youth and energy, and neither cared whether he was Catholic, Baptist, or Jewish. He served in the military as had my father and we watched PT-109 (1963) with pride. 

That night, though, we watched the news all evening long. The information was mixed and we weren't certain from one minute to the next whether he'd survived or not. All I really remember was midnight and the screen flashing the American flag. The national anthem played, my mother wept, and so did I. Dad, as always, was the pillar we leaned on, but I vaguely remember him wiping his eyes as he led me down the hall to bed.

Days later, I stayed home from school and we watched the funeral. Everything and everyone moved so very slowly, to me it seemed endless. I had met death twice by then, my dog and pony both having passed away two and three years earlier. But I'd never encountered it in human form and seeing John Jr. and his sister, I was so glad it wasn't my father we were laying to rest.

In November 2000, it would be, replete with military honor guard, the firing of rifles, and a bugler playing "Taps." I wasn't thinking of John Jr. and Caroline then, nor was I thinking of their father. Not until later, when Barack Obama was running for president and I felt the same optimism and hope my parents talked about in 1963. Not until a snowy day in Portland when I met John's brother, Ted, campaigning for the president. And not until today, when I remembered where I was and how I felt and why.

 
(Creative Commons image by the smuggler via Flickr)
 

The Ghost I Wasn't Expecting

Short of Carbon-14 dating, I'd be hard put to tell you the age of my barn with any precision. That said, the off-center double doors, gableless roof angled low enough to walk on, and rough, hand-hewn post and beam construction fit together with hand-carved nail pegs (photo), strongly suggest it's stood its ground at least 183 years, if not longer. The names of those who raised it are pieces of historic mystery, but between its walls, one of them fell and his life was no more.

It had been a warm autumn day. September, maybe October. Probably October. Haying season was over and the sun drifted slowly down past the line of yellow leaved oak and maple that formed the western boundary of his field. He was in the loft, raking loose hay back from the edge, tucking it into the enormous pile towering above his head and spreading from one end of the barn to the other. He'd done this daily after feeding time since they'd gotten in their first crop, rain and shine, sometimes negotiating the snow he measured in feet between his house and the barn on skis he fashioned himself. 

"You be careful," his wife admonished, when he stepped out the kitchen door that afternoon. She said the words so often he could mouth them with perfect timing, though not with impatience or irritation.  She'd ended each of her letters, written while he was serving in the Continental Army, the same way. He understood what she meant. 

"I will, don't worry," he said, like always. He knew what he was doing and he was careful. Heights didn't bother him in the same way they did his father. Growing up, he'd saved the old man a dozen times, grabbing him by the shirt collar when he teetered too dizzily near eternity. There was no reason to think he'd fall and if he did, it was only a few feet, eight or nine at most. He'd fallen that far, or so it felt like, from the back of the Shire draft horse that pulled his plow. True, the ground isn't a wooden floor, but it's hard enough and one fall is as good -- or bad -- as another, he told himself.

Besides, what troubled him wasn't man-made. It was owls and bats roosting in the corners where the roof rested atop the walls. More than once he brushed the bats away when they awoke at dusk and headed for the open doors. He kept a broom in the loft for just such occasions. It wasn't so much they bothered him, but his wife thought them ugly, they frightened the children, and their acrid dung turned the barn into an outhouse in the summer heat.

"I'm coming," he shouted, in response to his wife's call to supper. 

Cool weather and we're done with bats for another year, he thought, tossing his rake onto the hay stack and turning to descend the ladder for the night. What happened next he couldn't say but suddenly, a large winged shadow was flapping round his head. He ducked and waved his arms, trying to ward off what surely must be a devil or an angel who mistook his barn for the local publick house. He never saw the dark grey barn owl with its white, heart-shaped face and wingspan the length of his arms stretched wide, that started at the sound of his voice. Nor did he see the edge of the loft until he was in mid-flight and then, only fleetingly.

At first, he feared he was dying, and a few agonizing seconds passed before he found his breath again. He wasn't hurting but his head felt wet, so he rolled to one side and slowly raised himself to his knees. That's when he noticed his right hand pressing into his right hand. He stood up quickly, backed up several paces, and stood there, looking at himself lying on the floor with blood draining from his head into the cracks between the boards. It's odd what crosses your mind at times like this. All he could think was, "I knew I should have laid those boards closer."

Concerned his delay was a portent of what she feared the most, his wife called again. With no answer forthcoming, she ran to the barn, stopped in the doorway, and raised a flour-dusted hand to her mouth. Watching her weep, helpless to convince her he was fine, that he was right there, next to her, he began to weep as well, cursing whatever it was that permitted him to survive a war and let him die like this.

They laid him to rest in the cemetery behind the Congregational church he and his wife had faithfully attended all their lives. Years later, she was placed next to him and eventually, their children with their husbands and wives, sons and daughters, too.   

Halloween in New England plays havoc with the imagination and mine is no exception, though lately I've begun to have serious doubts about the distinction between real and imaginary. Earlier this evening, for instance, I went out to the barn to switch on the exterior flood lamp on account of a recent episode of what appears to be nocturnal adolescent trespassing. A few hours later, as I was getting ready to turn in, I glanced out the living room window and observed the barn door swing wide and close again. I locked it, I was certain; there was no wind, and the only cars in sight were mine.

With my heavy Maglite flashlight in hand, I walked out to the barn, trying to steel myself to sound braver than I felt. My steel turned to molten lead when I realized the door was locked as tightly as it had been when I snapped the padlock shut at sundown. Common sense called it weariness, the beer I didn't have with dinner, or time to get my eyes checked. I also knew I had few choices if I wanted to know the truth. 

With hands trembling so badly I may as well had Parkinson's, I slipped the key into the lock, took a breath and stepped through the entry cut into the frame of the large, double doors. That's when I saw him, sitting on a bale of hay toward the far end, his back against the wall, with a long thin stem stuck between his teeth. He could easily have been relaxing after a hard day's work. I reached over and turned on the remaining lights, thinking maybe I do need to get my eyes checked after all. And then he moved. 

I couldn't have if I'd wanted to. My feet were planted as though they'd taken root and despite my pounding heart and a cold sweat breaking out across my back, I stood there, hand on the light switch, watching as he got up and walked the length of the barn toward me. "This was mine once," he said, gesturing with a wave of one hand, "now it's yours?" Dry-mouthed, I couldn't speak and nodded, instead. "Mm. You don't farm, do you."

Somehow I managed to whisper, "No, I'm...I'm almost a doctor...I...who...who are you?"

"Not the ghost you were expecting?" He said, cryptically. "Too bad you weren't around the night I..." He looked away for a few seconds and I thought he'd lost his train of thought when he turned back to me and said, "There are some things you should know about your barn." 
 

(Photo of beams and hand-hewn nails copyright 2013 by the author)
     

I Heard Sleigh Bells

She must have been about four, old enough to go shopping with mommy but still too young to make the entire trip without being carried to the car afterward. She was holding her mother's hand, waiting, as was I, for the Portland Williams-Sonoma to open. 

If the holidays are magical -- and for me they definitely are -- Williams-Sonoma has a corner on the market. From peppermint hot chocolate to china to cookie and pie cutters (my target purchase this time) -- I wonder sometimes if they don't have a direct line to the North Pole. I realize Thanksgiving is a couple of weeks off, and you're right, it really is too early to be writing about Christmas. I mean, Madison Avenue is bad enough. Turn on the tube two days before Halloween and from the ads, it appears Thanksgiving is nothing more than a minor bump on the road to December 25. But what was about to happen in front of Williams-Sonoma would be enough to make even the most jaded forget about the date and simply be glad the Holidays are here at last. 

I was standing with my back to a long hallway leading to the mall offices, preoccupied by my sweet, diminutive fellow watcher and waiter and her fascination with the window dressings. A toy train bearing the name, The Polar Express, rolled round a track decorated with artificial pine bows, green ribbons on red packages, and a tiny town replete with a snow-capped mountain. She couldn't steal her eyes from it and neither could her mother -- there they were, two little girls, hand in hand, riding The Polar Express. 

Suddenly, I heard a loud, "Ho! Ho! Ho! M-e-r-r-y Christmas!" and quickly turned to see Santa Claus step from the hallway into the mall. Oh yes, you bet I smiled and waved, I never miss a chance. He smiled and waved back, then greeted other shoppers who stopped at the sound of his voice to wave. Then, I heard something else, a rapidly indrawn four-year old breath that made me look down. With eyes like saucers, she whispered in awe, "S-a-n-t-a." At first, I wasn't sure how it would all unfold -- did he notice her? Of course, he did, he's Santa, he knows when we are sleeping, he knows when we're awake -- not a child on the planet goes unnoticed by him and that includes this one. 

His two female elvish helpers continued on to his "workshop," unware he'd halted in front of Williams-Sonoma and knelt down on one knee. He reached a mitted hand to his face, thoughtfully stroking a beard I'm absolutely certain had to be real, and softly said, "Merry Christmas, Jennie." She looked up at her mother, whose face was a study in amazement, then broke free and ran into his arms. I didn't hear what was spoken, that's between she and Santa, and maybe nothing was. Maybe her actions said everything. I know they spoke clearly enough that when he released her and tenderly touched her hair, rising to his feet he looked at me with eyes moist with tears. Yes, Virginia, Santa has a heart, you can be sure of it. 

Something told me only a fool would let this moment pass, so I followed after him and laid my hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry to intrude, but..." He interrupted me and said, "You want to know how I knew her name. Well, Beggar -- yes, I know yours, too -- after a few hundred years at this, you start to develop a pretty good memory. Merry Christmas." Then he smiled once more and winked. As he walked away, I could have sworn I heard sleigh bells.. (Creative Commons image by dkjd via Flickr)

A Little Boy's Dream

I was four years old when my love affair with fire trucks began. At the time, it was a pumper with a hook and ladder truck and an ambulance that caught my eye just before Christmas. I still have them, battered and scarred with parts missing from good times. I wish I'd taken better care of them since they're worth many times more than what my parents paid on the collector's market. Not that I'd sell them, because, well, you know, they're a part of my childhood. For everything else there's MasterCard. You can't buy memories -- not like these, anyway.

On that Christmas morning, though, I was in for a bit of a disappointment. The only sets left on the shelf were ones without the ambulance and I really wanted the ambulance most of all. How else can you rescue the people, I thought? Someone has to take them to the hospital because they've been hurt in the "fire." It was a childhood fantasy I later fulfilled as an adult when, in my first pastorate, I volunteered as an ambulance driver. Little did I know, either then or as a four year old, I'd end up a medical student seeing patients in a hospital. The most amazing things creep up on you when you're least expecting them.

Kind of like another little boy's dream, the one you see in the photo. It's a 1936 Chevrolet I saw a few nights ago, parked in front of the Knights of Columbus in Old Town, Maine. Of course, I had to stop and take pictures. How could I not? My guide for the best tour I could have asked for, was a tow-headed little guy about seven or eight years old who happily indulged me by climbing into the back to ring the bell. He was able do that, you see, because his daddy, as he proudly informed me, owned it.

Old Town has a special connection for me which I discovered the same evening, when I noticed a sign on its outskirts identifying it as the home of Old Town Canoes. We paddled Old Towns when I was a Scoutmaster on white water canoeing trips in Southeastern Oklahoma. And there I was, driving through the place where they were made. I don't know, it just struck me as sweet, and it brought back very pleasant memories of sunburns, campfires, and friends far away.

Anyhow, back to the fire truck. Walking around it I noticed a plaque that told me everything I needed to know about the person who owned it and why. If you look closely you can see it, right there on the passenger side. It reads simply, A Little Boy's Dream. Yeah, you guessed it. Daddy wanted a fire truck when he was was young and promised himself one day, when he was all grown up, he'd have one for his very own. And now he does and he shares it with his son.

Who shared it with me.


(Photo copyright 2011 by the author)

Leave the Light on for Me, Mom

I feel like I've been far away and coming home, I'm not sure what to expect. I know what home is like, having lived there, and I know what the people are like, having grown up with them, but I'm still a little nervous. It's been a while. Living and learning among those who speak a different language and have different world views, well, it changes a person. There is an African saying I've quoted before, He who never travels, thinks mother is the only cook. What I'm wondering is, how's mom's roast beef and apple pie going to taste now?

Probably as good as it always did, maybe better. Having gotten accustomed to the equivalent of curry, jalapeno, oregano, and a pinch of sea salt, picking up on the nuances of her spice list will resemble listening to a symphony in stereo instead of the old monaural clock radio by the bed. A unitary sound exchanged for multiplicity, becoming complexity, yielding to sublime simplicity. That's the beauty of mom's cooking. I don't know if she ever read the manual or not and it's debatable how much of her efforts are science or art, but what comes out of the mix, sometimes, is pure magic.

She's a tough cookie, all right, no pun intended, and a demanding taskmaster. She may start out a little later in the morning and punch out a little earlier at night, but there's sweat pouring off her brow in between. If you're going to keep up with her, you'd better be prepared to have your preconceptions challenged and your previous experience called into question. She'll have your head spinning with recipes you're certain she's made up out of thin air and when you try to take a short-cut through the micro-wave, she'll firmly remind you that anything good takes time.

Working in mom's kitchen isn't for everyone and not everyone likes to be reminded of it. Some think once you've been exposed to her way of doing things, the fat lady's come onstage and you'd best pack your bags. Some genuinely appreciate her contribution and wish they'd paid her closer attention when they had the chance. And some just scratch their heads, wondering what's a nice boy like you doing here when the whole world could be at your feet?

If you haven't yet guessed, all this is metaphor. My mother is years gone and I have no immediate plans to head for Colorado. I'm not even contemplating a quickie flight out to Dallas for a warm visit with close friends and some real Mexican food, pleasant prospect that it is. No, I'm talking about beginning my long-awaited rotation in Psychiatry tomorrow. Six weeks of inpatient, outpatient, adults and children, coming home in a place I've never been before. It's going to be interesting, it's going to be fun, and because I'm not the same person I used to be, it's going to be new.

Leave the light on for me, Mom.


(Creative Commons image by lux increscis via Flickr)

My First Baby

Today I delivered my first baby -- sort of. I had the guiding hands of a resident on mine and for good reason. I've read enough about damage to the brachial plexus (a web of nerve roots between the neck and shoulder that enable feeling and movement in the hand and arm) to know that the last thing I wanted was for this sweet little gal's arm to be twisted round with fingers bent as though she was a waiter expecting a tip -- because of anything I'd done. The tension distracted me from the elation I felt, but that doesn't change the fact that the hands that caught her were mine.
 
Ordinarily, fathers are offered the opportunity to cut the umbilical cord as we place the baby on mom's belly and witness the miracle of mother-child bonding take place before our very eyes. My baby, though, was a premie -- born a little too early and a little too small for her own good -- and destined right off for an appointment with the neonatologist, followed by a few weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit. Since dad was busy assisting his wife and timing was critical, I cut the cord and then we proceeded to deliver the placenta. My first time at bat and I have to swing at another pitch, but I'm not complaining, not one bit. I've been looking forward to this for a long, long time.

My imagination had this entire experience enshrouded in a mystical light accompanied, almost, by the voices of a heavenly choir. The reality was more sobering and it took me all day to put it together. 

Delivering babies is something doctors do. I know, midwives do it, taxi drivers do it, policemen and sometimes fathers who can't get to the hospital soon enough, do it., too. Even though the division of medical labor results in many doctors only delivering babies during an OB/GYN rotation, as did I this morning, in my mind, being a doctor is still characterized by certain key tasks and delivering babies is one of them.

Whether I ever have the privilege of delivering another, I'll never forget this one nor will I ever cease to be grateful for the chief resident who stood behind me and said, "Go ahead, you can do this."




(GNU Free Documentation image via Wikipedia)

Wearing Mom's Shoes

"I think Beggar sort of 'adopted me' after his mother passed away," my late aunt said. It was a warmish autumn Sunday afternoon and my female cousins composed her audience. I was in the living room and they were in the kitchen, where my family has always congregated whenever they're together. Only when you can't move without bumping a glass and baptizing it's owner, do we slowly sift, one or two at a time, out the door onto the patio. But not for long. The vacant kitchen is a vacuum, sucking us back inside, unaware we're like pieces of driftwood, floating out to sea, drifting up the shore, riding the tides onto a Maine beach, floating out again.

When I overheard her, I smiled, thinking she was the one who'd adopted me after my father, her younger brother, passed away. Maybe it went both ways, each of us trying to fill an empty space no one else could. Marion the Librarian, my uncle, her youngest brother, christened her because she literally was the librarian for a small, northwestern Colorado town. Though not it's founder, she was certainly it's builder, and it grew steadily, like children, as long as she held her post.

My aunt was a large woman. I don't mean obese, just big. Tall. Buxom. A woman born to be mother who was a good one to one and all. She loved how I lived near Maine's "stern and rocky coast," (The Last Gasp of Summer) though she never saw it for herself. When I think of her, I can't help but see her tall, dark-haired, matronly frame with a gingham apron knotted at the waist. I remember visiting the library once, when I was younger, and being startled when she walked out of her office without that apron. Most days, she tied it on in the morning the same way some women put on makeup -- she didn't quite feel dressed without it.

The truth is, my father's passing was hard on her. To him, she was "Sis," and she missed hearing it. His last years, spent fighting off the disease that could only lay claim to him in his final second at the very end, they spoke regularly by phone. I was never privy to those calls but the way she described them, they were the kind we have when we're acutely aware time is short, and we dare not waste the briefest of breaths speaking words expressing nothing. The kind we have when we fear we'll never have another and what we say will have to last us for eternity. The kind we have when we don't want to leave anything unsaid and regret what we do.

I did try to step into my father's shoes, to the extent I could, since at last we lived close and a visit was so easy you'd be embarrassed to call it a drive down the road. We were both glued to the tube on 9/11 when I began punching in her number. You remember how it was, how you reached for the phone, ringing up mom or dad to tell them you loved them because it was the moment drawn close when tomorrow may not come. You didn't know for sure and couldn't take the risk. She was wearing mom's shoes then and was a comfort I still feel.

As you can tell, I'm thinking about Mother's Day and have been all week, how it was for the women I've known and how different it will be for the women I've intimately met in the birthing room. I saw them the very instant each became "mom." The same instant some lucky slug of a guy became dad. Until this weekend, the first-timers, at least, experienced the day as a daughter, wishing their mothers happiness. Now, I imagine those mothers calling their daughter-mothers, offering them the same wish. It's really quite something.

Happy Mother's Day.


(Creative Commons image by JoshBerglund19 via Flickr)

Pink Hats 20: Untarnished and In Uncharted Territory

The Livingstone House, as the parishioners of Grace Episcopal Church fondly referred to it, wasn't exactly in Concord, though its mailing address claimed otherwise. About a mile outside the town limits, Bob swung his Escape onto a country lane lined on both sides with white flat-board fences declaring the acreage within to be horse pasture. At alternating intervals, first right then left, between the fence posts, were rows of not quite leafless maple, chestnut, and birch trees, creating a scene that would have made Norman Rockwell envious.

It was the first weekend in November and the previous month's Halloween was one he and Jessie would retell until their children knew it by heart. The two of them, along with Halley and Ted, dressed up like Harry Potter characters -- Bob as Ron, Jessie as Hermione, Halley was Delores Umbridge, and Ted made a very passable Rubeus Hagrid. They took the twins, each wearing a miniature peaked black witch's hat, trick or treating, and passed out candy to the children they met. Halley enshrouded the baby carriage built for two with black satin, like a hearse, and they took turns at the helm. If it takes a village to raise a child, as Hillary Clinton said, the twins were well on their way.

The lane curved deeply into a stream-fed, thickly wooded glen, and they drove through a small but classic New England covered bridge. Another bend to the right, a quick one to the left, and if they weren't careful, they'd have overshot the driveway marked by orange reflectors and a large, white wooden mailbox decorated with painted yellow daisies and the name "Livingstone" on the side in dark blue script. The reflectors were the small, round variety perched on twisted metal stems extending from ground level, informing nighttime drivers of the existence of an entry onto the lane. There were no street lamps this far into the country.

Bob parked next to a dual-axle Chevy truck with the words, "Southern New Hampshire Large Animal Clinic" lettered on the door with a phone number. "My brother's," said Jessie, as she held her door open for Sam. He bounded out and ran to join a game of frisbee between father, daughter, daughter-in-law, son, and two grandchildren. "Johnny -- we call him that to distinguish him and my dad -- Johnny married Julie, his high school sweetheart," she explained, "and the kids came along while they were in college. They're eight and ten. Julie's the clinic office manager, bookkeeper, and sometime vet tech." Recalling his difficulty remembering names, she winked and said. "Don't worry, we're easy to remember -- think 'J' and you'll feel like you're back in medical school."

Moments later, they were surrounded by her family and a flurry of hugs and handshakes ensued, welcoming Bob as though he was a long, lost cousin. "Thank God Jessie had the good sense to find someone who's name begins with something besides a J," her father said. "We need some variety in this family!"

"Well, I could go by my middle," Bob said, smiling, "James." They laughed at the synchronicity while John herded the group into the house and stood, holding the front door. Bob was about to enter last when John laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "I hope we'll have time for a chat later on, just you and me."

"Yes, sir, I'd like that very much."

"Sir. Did you hear that Jessie?" he shouted, "Bob called me 'sir.' Looks like I'm finally going to get the respect around here I so richly deserve!" He adopted a regal stance, hands on his hips, and gazing about as if surveying his kingdom. The household erupted into laughter as he turned to Bob and said, "I appreciate the compliment, but the truth is, too many 'sirs' and I start looking around to see if my father's risen from the grave." He rolled his eyes for emphasis.

Lunch at the Livingstone House was loud and lively, drowning out the Opus 3 Handel Concerti Grossi playing in the background. Jessie leaned over and whispered, "Don't be afraid to reach for something or to interrupt. Even when my mother was alive, formality at dinner meant you used a napkin instead of your sleeve. Which we all did, but you know what I mean."

"Do you come from a large family, Bob?" asked Johnny. "More gravy?"

"No, I'm afraid, I don't -- yes, thanks -- I'm an only child, but my parents and I were close and I had lots of friends growing up, so I wasn't lonely."

"Me too," said Julie, "Would someone pass the salad, please? When Johnny and I married, I suddenly found I had 'sisters' and it's been wonderful."

It continued like that for a couple of hours, Bob's impression being, these people genuinely like each other. After the birthday cake had been cut and eaten and presents opened, the two kids insisted on more frisbee and were joined by everyone except Bob and John, both of whom settled into wicker chairs on the front porch.

"If I had cigars, I'd offer you one, but since I don't and never smoked them anyway, I guess it's a moot point," John said, with a twinkle. "So, you want to marry my oldest daughter."

"You don't waste any time, do you?" asked Bob, at which the eldest of the two chuckled. "Well, I won't either, but pardon me if I use the word 'sir.' This is one time I feel like I ought to, and yes, sir, I do."

"Don't worry about it. It's never easy talking to the 'father of the bride.' I practically wet my trousers when I asked for her mother's hand. You're doing a little better than that, I presume?"

"My hands are sweating, how's that?"

"It's good -- don't laugh, I'm serious," he said, "Well, not entirely, but if a fellow wasn't nervous, I'd think there was something wrong, and I am serious about that. No matter how well we knew each other, if he wasn't scared to death I might withhold my approval, I'd wonder if he really loved my daughter."

"You don't have to be concerned about that, not today at least," Bob said, wiping his hands on his pants. "It isn't that I'm afraid Jessie would refuse to marry me without your blessing, it's because she's so important to me that I want us to have the support of her family and, especially, you."

"I can appreciate that," said John.

"I realize I'm incredibly fortunate. Jessie is the most...I don't know how to say it without sounding like I'm putting her on a pedestal, which I'm not. She's amazing. I've never known anyone who was so natural, unselfconscious, kind and generous with herself, and yet, incredibly daring at the same time. I've often thought, if I could only be more like her --"

"-- I felt the same about her mother. She was reasonable when I was hard-headed, thoughtful when I couldn't care less -- and she was daring, too, probably where Jessie gets it. I thought marrying me was risky, but not her. She saw something in me worth loving and it made me want to live up to whatever that was." He paused and said, quietly, "I still try to do that."

Bob noticed the change and hesitated a respectful few seconds before continuing. "I fell in love with your daughter before I even knew it. I'm sure she's told you why I waited before saying anything." John nodded. "She's always mattered more to me than I did to myself and I don't think I've ever felt quite that way before. I thought I did, I said I did, and I meant it. But with her," he sighed and shook his head, "everything is...different. I'm probably not explaining this well and I'm not sure I can. It's as though the person I used to be has been washed away and she's getting me completely new and untarnished."

John looked down at his lap and was quiet. "You're talking about baptism, whether you realize it or not. Baptism is a sacrament, an outward symbol of an inward grace. Am I losing you? Sorry, let me try again. Your relationship with Jessie is taking you into uncharted territory and you're being changed for the better because of it. What you're describing isn't a metaphor; it's real."

He waited before going on. "If you were coming to me for premarital counseling, I'd say you've found the one you were meant to find." He leaned forward in his chair and said, "Listen, there are women a man can marry and have things work out fine. But when he finds 'the one,' it's much more than that. She makes him feel like his whole life, up to meeting her, has been, for want of a better word, preparation. It's as though he's been getting ready for her, and now the stage is set for his real life, the one for which he was born, to begin. And it's the same with her. How that's going to unfold, depends on them. There are no road maps. We discover it as we go."

It was Bob's turn to be silent and he was for a long minute. "You keep using the term, 'meant.' Do you think it was fate that brought us together?"

"Well, fate, the will of God, the benevolence of the universe, I don't know. Jessie probably told you I have more than my share of doubts about the things I believe. All I know with certainty is what I've experienced, and on that basis, I think it's safe to say some relationships -- like the one I had with her mother -- are so unique, so distinct, it takes more faith than I have to presume they resulted merely from the luck of the draw. Remember your Shakespeare? 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreampt of in your philosophy.' It helps to keep an open mind."

"I've said that very thing many times in other contexts," Bob said, referencing John's last statement. "And I have doubts as well, but if there is anything to what you believe, and I mean that respectfully, then loving and being loved by Jessie is the proof of it." Shifting his gaze to Jessie, who was about to leap for an awesome catch, he said simply, "She's the love of my life."

"I know," said John, following his gaze, "and you're hers. That's why you don't have to worry about my approval."

"I don't? Does that mean you...?"

"It does."


(Creative Commons image by Aelle via Flickr) 

Pink Hats 16: A Little 'Couch' Time

"Howdy. You weren't visiting the twins, so I thought I'd find you here." Using the code Bob had given him, Chuck tried the doc's lounge. He stepped over to the counter and selected French Roast from the automated maker. "You want a refill?"

"Hey, Chuck. You done for the day?" asked Bob. He looked at his watch, 8:00 PM, and added, "For the evening? Yeah, thanks."

"Pretty much," Chuck said, knowing he was preaching to the choir. Bob was no stranger to late hours, especially since he'd started seeing the twins. "Unless you have anything going on I can help with, that is. You know me, glutton for punishment."

"Suits you well as a student -- within limits. It's easy for an overworked resident to take advantage of you without meaning to and you end up doing more than you should. Just be aware. It's like 'the road to hell is lined with good intentions.'"

"Thanks for the heads up. So, speaking of which, are you done with me?"

"More or less. Have a seat, there's something I'd like to bounce off you, something personal, if you'd be willing. A little informal couch time."

"Not at all. What's on your mind?" he asked, setting both cups on the table and falling into therapist mode. Asking a patient what was on their mind was one of his favorite open-ended questions for initiating conversation. With a new one, it might be, "How can I be of help?" Though Bob wasn't a patient, old habits die hard.

"To get right to the point, I'm thinking about adopting the twins. I've gone through my own list of reasons, my age, and so forth, but I'm wondering how it looks to someone like you, with your background. If I were to ask for 'psychological' impressions, what would you say?"

"I'd say it's interesting you should bring this up because it reminds me of a patient I worked with a few years ago. He was retired military, put in 30 years, had never married, and was thinking he'd like to have a family. Mid-fifties, had been careful with his money, bought a house in Denver, and gradually came to realize he'd lived primarily for himself most of his life. He wasn't depressed, he didn't appear to be compensating for guilt or avoiding grief. He wasn't trying to use kids to 'save a bad marriage,' as sometimes happens. He was simply a guy taking stock of his life and had been thinking for quite a while that he'd missed out on some important things along the way."

"So, you're saying he was having a mid-life crisis?"

"You could say that. I didn't because mid-life is always a time, for men at least, of reevaluation, thinking back-thinking ahead, getting in touch with feelings in ways they'd ignored for most of their career-building years. The idea of a 'crisis' is usually associated with an acute, precipitating event like a divorce or illness that forces a man to face up to his mortality. I didn't get any of that from him. Retirement can do it, of course, especially if a person doesn't prepare and has no specific ideas for using their time. This guy had opened a photo gallery in Lo-Do a year before I began seeing him -- Lo-Do is Denver's equivalent of Portland's Old Port -- and was happy, optimistic, and overall, doing quite well. Families would come in, he said, and he noticed how he felt when he saw them. He'd started working with Big Brothers, thinking doing something with one kid would help, but it wasn't enough. So, he thought maybe it's not too late to have some of his own.

"Sure, it's possible to interpret his desire as denial of mortality -- if he has kids, he won't get old. I was reluctant to do so because it seemed to me he was attempting to be more true to himself, to the person he might have been, to accept responsibility for himself as a man in mid-life, rather than pretend he was 22 once again, footloose and fancy-free."

"Women do it, have children on their own," Bob said, "and quite often, as a matter of fact. I have several patients of single mothers -- you've seen a couple of them -- who became pregnant by artificial insemination. Career-minded, they found themselves getting older, with no immediate prospects of a husband on the horizon, and besides, they didn't want to marry just to obtain a sperm-donor. Their biological clock was getting closer to midnight and they felt like it was now or never."

"Exactly. It's part of the 'changing face' of families we've been seeing in the last few years. Anyway, he and I spent a few sessions talking about alternatives, should he adopt an older child, did he want to deal with diapers, was there a love interest on the horizon. Then we got into what it all meant for him and of course, that's when things got really interesting. He had a sister with three kids and when they were younger, the two of them discussed who would be best suited to provide their parents with grandchildren and who would take on the role of being the hot-shot career person. She wanted a home and family, their dad was retired military, so it seemed natural for a son to follow in his footsteps.

"We talked about how that decision may have derailed any desires he may have had to procreate and how those were, apparently, resurfacing. Having done his duty for God, country, and his family of origin, now he wanted to live the rest of his life more on his own terms. In that sense, he hadn't been living for himself at all, as he initially believed, and instead, had lived for others, fulfilling expectations that weren't necessarily his. Opening a gallery rather than becoming a CEO of a Fortune 500 company was certainly a 'feminine' thing to do in terms of expressing beauty and creativity, and it showed how he was becoming increasingly open to the depth dimension within his own life. You might say he was doing 'soul work,' tapping into deeper levels of his psyche."

"Chuck, you ought to be a psychiatrist. If you like pediatrics, do child-adolescent, you can still work with parents. As far as your patient's story is concerned, you're talking about me, whether you know it or not."

"I wasn't sure, but I had a feeling. Anyhow, to wrap this up, he eventually did go ahead and adopt. He started the process while we were working together and then I saw him at intervals over the remainder of the year to check-in on how things were going, do follow-up, and help him with the transition to fatherhood. I got a letter from him last week -- he writes every now and then -- with a photograph of him and the kids. He adopted a boy 5 and girl 3, brother and sister, whose parents were killed in Bosnia -- like I say, this was a few years ago. He went over, saw them in an orphanage, and brought them back to the States. They're in their early teens now and the three of them were on vacation in Honolulu. He said adopting was the best decision he ever made. Oh, he's also dating a woman who has two more -- only these are little, two or three, and he's thinking it may go to the altar. If it does, he said, he's ready to be a father for the second time."

"Let's go back to something you said earlier, about avoidance of grief. What's that about?"

"It's generally assumed women suffer more from infertility or the absence of children than men. The truth is, men suffer, too, though it may not show up until the middle years, 40s and 50s. At that point, it's usually an issue that may or may not get him into therapy. In any case, his options include, first, to actively mourn the loss of children and come to grips with his life as it is. I've worked with men who did this and came out on the other side with a renewed sense of purpose and satisfaction. Second, he can try to avoid mourning altogether and I'll see him when he needs an alcohol or drug detox admission or a script for an antidepressant and therapy. Generally, that's how it goes. The third is more complicated but it applies to the patient I described and I'm guessing it also applies to you, at least based on my observations."

"You've been observing me." It came as a bit of a shock, but he said it without offense.

The jig is up, Chuck thought, oh, what the hell, go ahead, tell him, the worst he can do is flunk you. "It's an occupational hazard. When you 'read people' for a living, you start doing it without thinking. But as a student, working with physicians or staff I'm unfamiliar with, it helps to develop my own sense of who they are and what's important to them. What they say, what they mean, and how they behave, can be very different.

"In your case, to be completely honest, I think you've probably done quite a bit of mourning, and I say that because men in mid-life who haven't, tend to lack a measure of emotional stability. They aren't centered, in other words; they don't really know themselves. You do, or you're working at it, which is the same thing. Furthermore, you haven't found that process to be completely satisfying, no matter how hard you've tried to convince yourself it ought to be. That's why you were standing out there in the middle of the road when a Mack truck came barreling along in the form of the twins. Desires like the one you're experiencing, that don't go away with the grief process, are ones we have to resolve in other ways. If we can't work them out by volunteering or being more involved with nieces, nephews, or children in the family, the choices get kind of obvious."

"Yeah, I think so, too. And that's what makes love not quite enough. I mean, it is up to a point, but I could love the twins without adopting them. Taking that step means I need to do it as much as I want to."

"And there's nothing 'wrong' with that. This is as much about you as it is the twins or anyone else you choose to involve. Clearly, you have a legitimate need to express your affection for them as their father, not merely as an altruistic bystander. Maybe you felt that way at first, maybe not, but you sure don't now. This is not something to take lightly or dismiss as self-interest. What it boils down to is, your 'inner father' is not going to be happy until you're doing what you believe you were meant to do.

"The need-to part is driving you forward, propelling you to deliberately think about the implications of your actions, how to be a good parent, and how to provide adequately for the twins. It makes you responsible. The want-to part is love; that's ultimately what makes the prospect seem worthwhile; it tells you this is the right thing to do and motivates you to give your best. Bringing those two together, as you have been doing, allows you to experience wholeness. The 'Bob' you were meant to be is the one you're becoming."

"Are you going to charge me for this?" Bob asked, cracking them both up. "Seriously, you ought to. And don't let anyone talk you out of being a psychiatrist, either, not even me. You can count on a hell of a recommendation from me when you apply for residency -- you are applying here, aren't you? I can help with that."

Bob heaved a huge sigh. It seemed to him like he'd done a lot of sighing lately. That's good, he thought, it means I'm feeling and feeling is better than not, any day of the week. "This is the right thing to do, for the girls and for me, and I believe, I hope, it is for someone else I'm thinking of involving. Talking about it tonight -- don't worry, I know you're my student, but this," he said, waving his hand across the space between them, "this is outside that relationship. We're both a little older, I think we can handle the differential. Anyhow, talking about it tonight, I'm even more convinced. Anything else, feels so lousy I don't even want to contemplate it." At Chuck's nod, he said, "I take it you agree, following my gut is better than going counter to it. Good. Thanks -- Doc." He smiled and got up, scraping his chair along the wooden floor.

"Anytime." Chuck said, smiling in return. "I'll send you my bill."


(Creative Commons image by pasukaru76 via Flickr)

Pink Hats 13: 3 AM

"I'm not sure what to do with you two," Bob whispered softly. The sleeping twins, one in the crook of each arm, were completely oblivious. He visited them daily, sometimes in the morning before walking through the waking hospital to his office, sometimes at the end of the day, now and then in the middle of the night. He checked his watch, 3 AM. Was that middle of the night or just really, really early? Ordinarily, he wasn't so anal retentive that he'd notice, much less care, but at the moment, the thought was entertaining. A sure sign he was tired.

It had been a good week, he had no complaints. His new student was working out well, he showed initiative, put in his share of the long hours, and, thus far, hadn't said a curious word about Bob and Jessie. He'd also visited the twins a few times, usually when Bob was there. Students whose ages were a decade or two within striking distance of his own weren't the most common variety, and having one who was, presented its own challenges. Chuck was a student who looked, and sometimes acted, like a colleague. Bob had to remind himself of the distinction.

Jessie was on call but he hadn't wanted to bother her. The fact was, any other Friday night/Saturday morning, he'd have been out like a light, but things had been building and his light switch was on the fritz. Not in the same way it had been during the divorce when nights behind the wheel reminded him of an uncle who had driven for DC Trucking. From Denver to Chicago, back and forth, until the miles looked like one of Warren Buffet's better investments. Bob didn't like driving that much.

He'd tried to sleep, couldn't, got up, punched the remote until he realized the Boss was right, 57 channels and nothing on wasn't simply a good lyric. Melatonin? He knew the problem wasn't biology and anyway, running away had never been his drug of choice. Come to think of it, he didn't have any in the house to begin with. The only thing to do was get in the car and go see the girls. So that's what he did.

"Here's the problem, ladies," he whispered once again, placing them back in their cribs, "it's like last call, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Sooner or later, someone's going to pull the plug on your free ride, despite the fact that the hospital has gotten a lot of great PR out of this. Even they have a limit. So, that means foster care and, as you might imagine, that's not an idea I'm thrilled with. It's time to fish or cut bait, you two. It's either foster care... or you come home with me. God, what am I saying? Well, what do you think? Do I look like dad? I'm going to take your silence to mean you'll sleep on it."

He looked at his watch a second time, 4.30, the worst time of the morning for all-nighters on call, and started to get up when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Wanna buy me a cup of coffee?" Jessie whispered. She hadn't slept much, maybe an hour or two on and off, her coat was stained, and she looked like she felt like the third day of a four day old hangover. He smiled and said, "Sure, let's go." How does she do it? he wondered, how can she work all night and still be so damned beautiful?

They made their way to the doc's lounge where, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, a coffee machine produced a freshly dripped cup of regular grind, French roast, a reasonable approximation of espresso, or hot chocolate, at the press of a button. Leaded or unleaded. The only other alternative had been unit coffee, and after cooking all night, it was primed to produce a florid case of gastritis. No thanks.

Jessie yawned hugely for the third time since they'd walked in the door. "I am so tired," she said, "but it's been a good night. Know how I know?"

"Nobody died?"

"Yep, and that's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh." she sang.

"You definitely get the first cup," he said, chuckling.

She smiled and leaned against him, pretending his shoulder was a pillow. "Don't move, stay right here." She faked a snore, snapped out of it, shook her head, and said, eyes wide, "I'm awake!" They both dissolved into the kind of laughter that comes when you're too tired to do anything else.

He put his arms around her, pulling her close and inhaling the faint scent of lilac in her hair, as the last drops of French roast drip, drip, dripped into her cup. "Jessie, I've got some serious decision-making to do. I know it's late and my brain feels about as dense as a Maine dirt road at the height of Mud Season, but I feel like I need to do something substantive where the girls are concerned. I know we haven't talked, even though we're going to, we haven't yet, and I want to be fair with you. But the clock is ticking..."

"I know," she said, leaning back so she could see his face. She laid a hand on his chest, stroking it with tips of her fingers, one at a time, then let go of him and reached for her coffee. "You don't have to figure everything out right now, right here, nor do you have to worry about me. It's the weekend, nothing's going to happen before Monday and not even then, if I know social services. Yes, they're talking about alternatives, but nothing's been decided, or so I've been told. We have time to sort out what we're going to do, about us, about the girls, about all of it," she said, stressing the "we."

When he said nothing, she went on, "Remember when I said you weren't the type to let fear alone keep you from doing what you felt you had to do?"

He nodded. "I remember."

"Well, I'm not that type, either," she said, firmly, looking him straight in the eye, without blinking.

(Creative Commons image entitled "3 AM" by Shahram Sharif via Flickr)

Returning to Normal

We have a York, Maine and a Scarborough -- sans Faire -- but not a London, at least as far as I know. New Hampshire has New London, but that's "live free or die" territory (the state motto) and over there, they make up their own minds. This afternoon, however, the soup outside my front door is thick enough to confuse the compass and stimulate an appetite for a cuppa Twining's Lapsang Souchong. Ever had any? It smells like freshly fired gunpowder and tastes like woodsmoke. Perfect for a grey day.

I spend the morning rewriting yesterday's post after rereading it left me wondering what I meant to say. Then the canine and I stepped out for a walk in the rising mist, noticing the rest of the neighborhood had the good sense to stay inside by the fire. The chipmunks, by the way, have taken up residence behind my fireplace again this year -- I still haven't figured out how to charge rent. And if I left them a statement, I have a feeling their response would be similar to that of General Anthony McAuliffe, commander of the 101st Airborne Division at Bastogne to the German demand for surrender, "Nuts."

Fall has come and pretty much gone in these northern climes and any hopes I had of seeing some color along the southern rim of the Adirondacks on the way home faded fast -- what remains is pine tree green interspersed with masses of naked deciduous branches. Having spent mid-September through early November in the Mid-West, I feel like I've missed something back here. It's as though I stepped out of and back into time, expecting everything to be the same on my return and it's all changed instead.

My cat seems to have had the hardest time with my being gone. The dog, of course, was overjoyed when I got home, but Mr. Mouser was distant and it took a few days for him to warm up to his usual self. I guess that's the difference between cats and dogs: even cats who are "dogs on the inside" have an image to maintain. At any rate, the little farm on this side of the Saco River is slowly returning to normal and winter is just around the corner.

(Public Domain image via Wikipedia)

Dr. Bob Z's Twins (Pink Hats Part IV)

It was 5 AM when his sunset rendezvous with a luscious brunette from New Hampshire, who bore a striking resemblance to actress Megan Fox, was rudely interrupted by Jerry Reed's country twang, "She got the gold mine and I got the shaft."

"Wait, baby, let me find...the…damn...button..." he said, waving his arm in the general direction of the nightstand, fumbling the effort to distinguish lamp from radio, and knocking both to the floor. He tried to roll over and mentally grasp the fleeting remnants of his dream girl, but gave up after a few seconds -- like it or not, he was awake. "Oh, God," he sighed, threw off the bed clothes, got up, stepped on the clock, swore again -- this time more colorfully – and resisted the temptation to drop kick Jerry all the way back to Nashville.

His earliest patient wasn't due at the office until nine, but he wanted to stop by the hospital on the way and look in on the twins. Breakfast had never been his ex's strong suit and he found out long ago if he was going to avoid crashing and burning in a mid-morning hypoglycemic conflagration, he'd better learn how to cook. A pile of scrambled eggs and hash browns later, he pulled into the parking lot of the Nook and Cranny, feeling a sudden, inexplicable urge for one or maybe two of their legendary Mochas. Two would definitely be better, he thought.

Inside of twenty minutes, he’d gotten his order, driven up the hill to Maine Medical Center and despite Halley’s admonition, quietly slipped up behind a young woman in light blue scrubs and wrinkled white coat sitting at the NICU nursing station. Reaching in front of her, he placed a muy grande Mocha on the counter and asked softly, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

“At this point, I'm not sure,” she said, yawning, “I'm so tired I could literally be almost anyone.” She cupped the cardboard-collared recycled paper mug in both hands, took a long appreciative whiff, and smiled at him over the rim. "How is it you’ve always known when I need this the most?"

“Doctor’s intuition, GMTA -- shoot, maybe we're just on the same wavelength. Speaking of which, I actually do seem to remember reading something to that effect in the hospital newsletter.”

She laughed and said, “It’s our own fault for having a wannabe gossip columnist for a PR director.” 

“He’s got to write something of human interest, I guess,” he said, half-shaking his head to the right in a way she’d long ago memorized like a teenage girl memorizes the lyrics to her favorite song.

She reached for a tissue to wipe whipped cream from her upper lip, blushing slightly. “So, besides being my hero and bringing me coffee, what’s on your mind this fine morning?”

He sidestepped the potential set-up for the moment and said, "A pair of female twins I sent up from the ER yesterday afternoon. They'd been abandoned when one of your classmates -- no, one of the newer students -- found them. I was the attending and thought I'd follow up."

"I saw your note; they’re both wonderful; nary a peep from either. You’d have made a great neonatologist. But you want a closer look, right? Let’s mask and gown.”

A few seconds later they were standing next to the NICU equivalent of a crib built for two, the twins snuggled close and sleeping on their backs, when he saw the name tag. Usually, in the absence of formal identification, these read something like “Alpha” and “Beta,” but not this time.

 

“What…in…the…hell?” he whispered, enunciating each word as though it was a sentence of its own.

“Hush,” she said, raising a gloved index finger to the mask over his lips. “This is a NICU, remember? Now relax -- it’s a little staff humor. Soon as their story got round, one of the nurses said her daughter was reading stories involving the Bobbsey Twins -- the girls who were amateur sleuths? You're a pediatrician, you've seen the books I'm sure. Well, everyone calls you “Dr. Bob” because your last name is unpronounceable and begins with “Z,” so it makes sense. Dr. Bob Z’s twins.”

“Oh, shhh…” he began and stopped, noticing her warning glance.

"...sugar." 

(Photo copyright 2010 by the author)

In Excess of Survival

There once was a man named Job. He was a good man and over the years, accumulated everything that mattered to him as well as to most of us -- family, financial security, health -- until one day the roof caved in and through no fault of his own, he lost it all. His friends commiserated with him, saying "Life has dealt more harshly with you than one should have to bear -- curse God and die." I don't know whether they wearied of witnessing his spectacle or of hearing his lament, but it's easy to talk about death when it's not at your doorstep. Job refuses and asserts he will continue to trust, no matter what.

I'm thinking about Job this morning because I've finished The Road and I think I know why the father refuses to give up on living and why he insists on the same from his son. It's because you never know what may be coming next. "We have to keep going," he says, on almost every page. He's not a merciless taskmaster, they rest when they can, often when the son wishes. But he's a determined one and he reminds himself it's because his son will die without him. And that is true.

There are times when the father wishes he was already dead because there is neither rhyme nor reason to go on except that this is what they must do. It's wet and they need to camp; they're hungry and have to find food; they're in danger and he must protect his son. It doesn't make sense and when they nearly despair of going further, they discover an oasis that almost seems as though it was left, just for them, by an unseen and unknown traveler who knew they'd come this way.
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Life does that to us. Leaves provision when none is expected and where many fail to look. We believe we're starving and perhaps we are, but one does not always live by bread alone. McCarthy tells us it's more than the life of his son, it's the charge given him by his wife to care for their son. He gave his word and in the darkness his words and the spectre of his wife come back to haunt him. What are we doing this for? asks his son. I don't know, he replies, but we have to keep going.

Ultimate meaning and purpose are unclear, but dying is not an option. The father tells his son I don't know what we'll find when we get to the coast, but we have to get there. It's an answer to the age-old question of why we're here. We may not know why, all we know is we are, and what we do in the meantime has significance because we're alive and that's sufficient reason to keep going.

The hope McCarthy describes is not the namby-pamby, pie in the sky by and by kind that whispers sweet nothings in your ear because it's impotent to deliver the goods. I'm not sure his characters ever use the word. But throughout the story they retain the belief that they're the "good guys" and like physicians, have sworn to do no harm. However they come out by the end of the road, they're coming out clean.

Integrity and fulfilling one's moral obligations are recurring themes in McCarthy's books and in The Road he declares they have an importance in excess of survival at any cost. What appears as weakness has unmeasurable strength. We may feel as though we've been thrown into an unpredictable and meaningless chaos where dog-eat-dog is the rule because resources are limited and anyone who believes otherwise is a fool. The Road tells us there are better ways to live and those who choose them will not be disappointed.


(Creative Commons image entitled "The Road" by petar_c via Flickr)