How does it feel, having completed my psychiatric rotation? Satisfying -- especially since a scheduling shift allowed me to tack on another week at the end -- and I think I may have learned something about ordinary living that I hadn't anticipated. Henry David Thoreau wrote, "I went to the woods to live deliberately...to live deep and suck all the marrow out of life." I've endeavored to do likewise, drinking at the fountain of each day. knowing the rotation I've waited four years to experience, would pass like a thief in the night, whether I left the front door unlocked or not. Though it may not seem like much, when you're trying to be fully aware, feeling each moment, allowing it to fill you up and splash over like water overflowing a bottle, five days can equal five lifetimes.
And that's what I tried to do with every weary night's walk from A-3 (adult psychiatry) through the behavioral intensive care unit, down the hallway of the Center for Joint Replacement, then up the stairs to the chemical dependency unit to return the key I'd checked out that morning. The key that gave me ready access to office space for interviewing patients. The key that spelled independence, freedom to spend my time going, doing, accomplishing, instead of watching it trickle through my fingers, waiting. The key like one carried by staff members, by doctors, that signified I was one of them and my work meant something. And not just to me.
A quick goodnight, see you in the morning later, and it's down four and a half flights to the ground floor, past Dunkin' Donuts and out the sliding glass doors marking the main hospital entrance. My car is parked two blocks away and in the heat, it's a long two blocks. People I've never seen glance at my tie and smile in greeting. Nurses, assuming one of the doctors is heading home. An internist, driving by in his Thunderbird convertible, waves. It might be late, it might be early, but I look right at the stoplight and see the hexagonal wooden tower that houses the A-3 dining hall framed against the western sky. I'll see you tomorrow, I whisper.
But Monday's tomorrow, I won't. Instead, I'll be preparing to drive north once again, past the familiar turnoff leading to the tiny burg that was my home for rural medicine, and on to Bangor where Internal Medicine begins in another week. I've got a context now that I didn't have seven weeks ago. Rather than simply learning more medicine, gaining skill like a professional Monopoly player, I'll be learning about the underpinnings of psychiatry in the guise of you name it. I'll exchange my shirt and tie for blue-green scrubs, tennis shoes, and a white coat. Conditions like delerium that I've helped diagnose, now I'll help treat.
But not with a questioning mind uncertain of its goal -- that ship has sailed. Five minutes on the psych unit, I was standing on the dock, waving a hankie and bidding it bon voyage. Everything that is to come is training to be a better psychiatrist, one who can keep a patient alive until the code team arrives if he has to, one whose stethoscope sits on the desk next to a dog-eared copy of Freud's Psychopathology of Daily Life. One whose patients aren't hesitant to call their doctor. More than a context, it's called direction.
(Public Domain image of Henry David Thoreau via Wikipedia; citation from Walden)
After-hours coffee and Danish from the Nook and Cranny had the earmarks of becoming a ritual between friends. Despite his pediatrics rotation having been complete around mid-September, Chuck continued drop by Bob's office throughout the first of his two required six-week internal medicine rotations and now an elective two weeks in radiology. On the other side of four more in OB/GYN lay psychiatry, at last. What he didn't expect was the residual effect of his initial month with Bob, Jessie, and the twins on his future.
"I keep thinking about that child-adolescent fellowship and it's all your fault," he said, hanging his head and faking misery.
"I've been blamed for a lot of things," Bob replied, ruefully, "including a baby when I was seventeen that I had absolutely nothing to do with -- and couldn't have even if I'd wanted to because I was on a Scouting trip during conception -- but this is a new one. Tell me."
They were sitting in Bob's office with their feet propped up on opposite sides of a massive roll top desk he'd inherited ten years ago from his pediatrics instructor who, at 80, decided it was a good time to retire and sail around the world. He made it, by the way, and now, he and his wife were trekking in Nepal, in celebration of his 90th birthday.
"Well, I thought I had everything planned out. Adult psychiatry was my bailiwick. Sure, I loved kids, just like you, but I enjoyed psychotherapy so much it was hard to see myself in another role. Then you came along -- and Jessie -- and the twins -- and the next thing you know, I couldn't get enough of pediatrics. Especially the kids with ADHD and parents who're going nuts trying to cope, the occasional bipolar disorder we've seen, and the substance-abusing teens. And frankly, I miss them. I feel like saying, along with the prophet Isaiah, 'Woe is me, for I am undone.'"
Bob pursed his lips and nodded, as though he had anticipated the news. "I had a feeling we were going to be a bad influence. It's even worse when the kids like you, and clearly, they do -- that's a trap waiting to be set. Top it off, when you can get teenagers talking -- well, all I can say is, you are in way wicked trouble, my friend." He broke into an appreciative smile.
"Looks like it. I don't know all the details yet, but I've got plenty of time -- see? You can't get rid of me, can you? Now, about the dream you mentioned a couple of days ago in passing, the one you had on the way home from Concord --"
"-- yeah, what did you think of that?" Bob asked, interrupting.
"It was a good one, especially coming on the heals of meeting Jessie's father."
"You're saying a dream's timing is as important as its content?"
"From the perspective of interpretation, yes. Dreams are one thing, the way we view them afterward, is another. My impression is, this one is suggesting you have your own rhythm. Kind of like Thoreau's comment, 'If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it's because he hears a different drummer.' In your dream, the bass drum was a stethoscope -- you're maintaining the 'beat' of the music all right, but in your way. Timing enters the picture because, from what you've told me about Jessie's dad, it sounds like he's inclined to do similarly. It's probably another one of the benefits of you being older, allowing the two of you to establish a more mature connection."
"I agree, but that didn't make it any easier. Sure, we were more likely to develop a peer-type relationship than would have been possible if I was nearer Jessie's age, but he's still her father and truthfully? I felt like I was 22 once again, sweaty palms included. I guess none of us are as 'together' as we'd like to believe."
"That holds true for me, I'll tell you. One thing you can definitely count on is your relationship with her father making life a great deal easier for Jessie."
Bob was in mid-bite on his Danish. He stopped, put it down, and said, "I would assume that's a 'given.'"
"It is, but there's more. It tells her she doesn't have to love one of you at the expense of the other. It gives her a deep, abiding sense of security about two of the most important relationships a woman can have with men. And a woman like Jessie, who clearly wants someone with more maturity than a guy closer to her own age might possess, has the unspoken expectation that whoever she brings home, should be someone her father can respect as well as one who respects him. You already know this, but she's really an extraordinary woman -- I hope I get half as lucky." With a gleam in his eye he added, "Wait a minute. Didn't you tell me she has a sister? Anyhow, looks to me like you hit this one out of the ballpark. When are you going to pop the question?"
Bob laughed, "One at a time. First, yes I did and she's available, but I think it would look better if Jessie played matchmaker. A professor setting up a date might appear as unfair advantage. As to the second, I haven't quite decided, but I'm thinking around Christmas. It's our favorite time of year and even a romantic moron like me can pick the right place. I need to find a ring and I haven't figured out how to get her size without coming out and asking. I could do that, I suppose, but then the cat would be out of the bag and I'd like this to be a surprise. Not that we haven't talked or at least alluded to it. I just want very badly for her to have the 'fairy tale,' you know?"
"Yes, I do, and she'll love you for it."
(Creative Commons image by Allie's Dad via Flickr)
I suppose every high school student has to read Ethan Fromm. When my turn came I recall feeling disappointed -- I don't know what I expected, but whatever it was, Ethan Fromm wasn't it. Later on, in college, I took a course entitled Nineteenth Century American Intellectual History in which we read The Education of Henry Adams. Unlike Moby Dick, there was no Cliff Notes version and the best I can say about the experience was, it cured my insomnia.
I never have quite understood why dull is equated with meaningful at a time in our lives when the gossip at the back of the school bus is more interesting t
Image via Wikipedia
han anything between the covers of the assigned reading. Is it because teachers presume our hormones are so out of control that we need the stabilizing influence of boredom to calm us down? Surely The Legend of Sleepy Hollow could be substituted for Evangeline or Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher for The House of Seven Gables, especially in October.
I freely admit, I was an adult before I learned to appreciate Emerson, Thoreau, and Walt Whitman. Louisa May Alcott I loved; she stole my heart during fourth grade -- ah, yes, an older woman -- when I found Little Women sitting on the library shelf. Then came Little Men, but when Harriet Beecher Stowe stood nearby with Uncle Tom's Cabin, I was only two pages past the entrance when I began wondering if there wasn't a back door.
What made Louisa any different from the rest her generation? It's hard to say; I had no idea she was the one I was looking for until I'd found her. We have different needs at different times and predicting what those will be is difficult. With all due respect to John Locke, children aren't blank slates awaiting the scribble of just any piece of chalk. Finding the right one is a process of discovery and education should be about blending experience with inexperience as student and teacher wade onshore together, each planting their own flag in a new world.
(Image of the Headless Horseman (1858) via Wikipedia)
I was picking apples today from the ancient apple tree in my yard -- you might see them scattered around the base and beneath the hammock. Since they're a late-season variety, they really aren't edible until there's been a freeze or two -- now they're ripening nicely. There's a lot of competition for these apples and between worms, bees, crows, and the dozen or so wild turkeys that drop by occasionally, I have to be diligent if I want to be anything but the local purveyor of free fruit.
Most of the ones on the ground have been picked over, nibbled, and are turning to nature's version of apple sauce. But today I did good and managed to find a bagful for my neighbor who had generously shared some zucchini and yellow squash with me from his garden a few weeks ago. As a child, I read enviously about characters who wandered through their orchards, picking apples from the trees.
What strikes me now is the ordinariness of doing such a thing. Not in the sense that I've grown accustomed and it's become commonplace, but rather, it's less romantic than in seemed through the eyes of Louisa May Alcott or Henry David Thoreau. And that's a good thing because now picking apples from a tree that grows a few paces from my house is free to become an agent of grace.
On film, encounters with transcendence are rarely the kind of thing with which most of us can identify. The wrath of God wiping away Nazi soldiers in Raiders of the Lost Ark makes for great cinema, but if we rely on drama as a guide, we miss the real nature of mystery. Elizabeth Barrett Browning said, "Earth's crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God; but only he who sees takes off his shoes." As long as we're looking for Industrial Light and Magic, it's too easy to overlook what's happening right at our feet.
(Photo by the author)
You know it's spring in Maine when the apple blossoms start to appear. I guess their alarm clock went off last night because the ancient apple tree next to the house was brown yesterday and it's dappled white today. I expect it will be in full bloom by Saturday and it should be a sight to behold.
I've never had apple trees though I dreamed of them as a kid. There are trees in this part of the country, or so I'm told, that were planted by the legendary Johnny Appleseed. I don't know if this is one or not, but it's a nice little tidbit of Americana.
The interesting thing about the apples produced by this tree is, at first they just taste lousy -- or at least to me. Now, I admit, I'm a Gala fan and I like the Jonagolds, but once we get a good freeze something happens and these ancients turn into something incredible. I guess they're late season apples but whatever the reason, it's worth waiting for them to ripen.
Spring up here is also a time when the wild turkeys reappear. You can see the males out in the hayfield, showing off their plumage. The other day I watched one walking rather stately near a group of hens who seemed more interested in lunch. I imagined the conversation going something like, "There's Earl again...males!"
There was also a lone coyote trotting across the pasture yesterday. It was the first time I'd seen one here though you can often hear them late into the night. He, or she, was an unexpected treat.
Springtime on the farm in Maine. Makes me feel like Thoreau.
(Creative Commons image of Johnny Appleseed by Swadifari via Flickr)
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is located in Concord, Massachusetts. It's a wonderful little place with hills and winding roads that seem to lead nowhere and everywhere at once. Aside from being a quaint New England cemetery, this is where you can find the graves of Louisa May Alcott, Henry David Thoreau, and Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Thoreau's is unremarkable: it's one of several small white stones that are about six inches on a side, located on a hilltop called Author's Ridge, each inscribed with the first name of a family member. I was surprised the first time I saw it. I guess I was expecting the author of Walden and Civil Disobedience to have more fanfare.
Louisa's is a little more notable because it has her full name. And then, there's Emerson's. In contrast to his friends', Emerson's marker is a boulder -- a pretty good sized one. I don't know whether he chose it in advance or it was chosen for him, but I like to think it was a parting joke to leave a marker no one could miss.
Anyhow, Emerson once said, "It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them." I imagine that came to him while reflecting on an occasion when he'd succeeded in thoroughly embarrassing himself. Whatever the motivation, he makes a good point.
Family members are sometimes the least inclined to forgive. They have expectations, you know, and there are roles to be played. Maintaining the family structure may mean being predictable and acting consistently within your assigned or adopted role. Failure to do so can upset a lot of folks who then strive mightily to bring the black sheep back into the fold.
It's almost axiomatic that friends don't generally bring the same baggage to our relationships with them. And that's a good thing because we all need someplace in the world where we can try to figure out who we are and be that without feeling as though we're threatening the viability of the universe. I know, that sounds a little grandiose, but breaking the mold can seem like a pretty big thing and sometimes it is. And in the process, we may be "stupid" once in a while and it's nice knowing there are people who understand, empathize, forgive, and help us laugh at ourselves. Those people are friends and I'm grateful -- eternally grateful -- for those who call themselves mine.
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