Pink Hats 14: A Perfect Day, Indeed

If Sam could speak, he'd say today was his idea of a perfect day. High feathered fall cirrus clouds sketched across a sky so blue the whole world would be in tears at the sight of it, going anywhere with your person -- and now her person is a member of the pack and you hope it's for good -- throw in cookies for resting and a leash for walking -- can it get any better than this?

Yes, he was definitely having a perfect day, indeed.

"I can tell Sam is thoroughly enjoying your back seat," Jessie said, watching him stick the tip of his nose out the cracked-open passenger and driver's side rear windows, back and forth. "He doesn't have nearly the room in my Prius -- the downside to 50 mpg. I really should have fastened his safety harness but he's having so much fun --"

"-- you did the right thing. Being unable to move around would only make him crazy right now -- too much space and too many new smells. We can latch him in on the way home, he'll have knocked himself out by then." Jessie was so pleased when Bob insisted Sam be a part of their outing, to the point of him purchasing a collapsible water dish and bringing dog biscuits and bottled water along.

"I thought you might be planning a romantic day away," she said, "I wasn't expecting you'd want to deal with 90 pounds of Labrador at the same time."

Sam reached his head over the seat and laid it on Bob's right shoulder, a sure sign of appreciation over being included. "It didn't feel right leaving him behind," he said, giving the dog a scratch. "When you're on call, working, his 'job' is to spend the night with the vet. We're taking a holiday, shouldn't he get one, too? Anyway, I've been thinking, why not let him stay with me whenever you take call on a Friday? It would save you the cost of the vet and he'd have a homey place to go." He added, "And, as far as romance is concerned, they say girls with big dogs are very attractive to men."

"Oh, they do, do they? I'll keep that in mind the next time I decide to go looking for a boyfriend," she said, teasing him. "Actually, I like the idea of leaving him with you very much and I think Sam would, too." She thought for about half a mile, trying to make up her mind whether to pursue the conversation further before finally asking, quietly, "Is this, and the fact that you're no longer working Sundays, your way of declaring your feelings for me?"

"Mm, I wouldn't say the only way," he responded, in a tone that suggested he knew a secret and was determined to reveal only the tiniest tantalizing hint, "but it could be one of them." A few seconds passed and he noticed out of the corner of his eye that her mouth had formed a small "oh." He smiled to himself. Well done, Bob.

They'd taken 295 North to Topsham and were now heading east on Route 1, intending to see Jessie's Sweetgrass Farm Winery first, and spend the rest of the day prowling Rockport. Jessie wanted to get several bottles of Sweetgrass' Cranberry Apple wine for Thanksgiving and some Maple Smash, a quintessential Mainer's liqueur blended from, what else? maple syrup and brandy.

Having Sam with them rendered lunch at the 3 Dogs Cafe absolutely obligatory, since dogs are welcome on the patio. "Sam will never forgive us," Jessie said, "if we go anywhere else." They ordered off-the-boat-fresh seafood -- lobster and crab -- and fed one another bites of each. An older couple watched them from several tables away, looked at each other and smiled, remembering.

The thought of dessert was too good to pass up and at Bob's urging, they got peppermint and chocolate chip ice cream cones, and walked the wharf, hand in hand. Rockport was named for its rocky port, conveniently, and they found a shady spot close to the water to sit on the grass and enjoy the view. After a few minutes, Jessie said, "Last Sunday, when I went home to see my father -- his birthday is next month -- he said he's hoping I'll bring you with me."

"I've wanted to meet him for some time."

She was sitting with her knees bent and arms wrapped around them. She cocked her head to the side and said, "Really."

"I realize this could sound contrived, but it's not," he said, stretching his legs out and leaning back on one elbow so he could see her face. "Anyone who turned out like you, had to have incredible parents."

She smiled and said, "He is pretty incredible, but don't let him fool you; you're a lot alike. You're honest, unassuming, thoughtful, and you both love classical music. My brother and sister and I grew up with all three Bachs, J.S., J.C., and C.P.E., almost as roommates."

"I did, too, though mostly because of my mother. Dad was a country music freak who never quite understood the symphony but got season tickets and went anyway -- God, he loved my mother. I wish you could have seen them together. They used to just look at each other, I don't know, like they were the only two people in the world. I was a kid and thought it was a lot of mush, naturally, but the older I got, the more I appreciated having parents who adored each other. It made life feel...secure, I guess."

"I remember how it was with mine before mom died. Dad still loves her -- more every day, I sometimes think. It was the kind of love I always knew I wanted. How old was your father -- when he passed away, I mean."

"Dad was 97. He saw patients every day, right up to the end. Mom's 92 and still calls him the love of her life. She told me last year, when I went down to Boca Raton for a visit -- she lives with her sister, did I tell you they were twins? Anyhow, after dad died, she said she'd loved a lifetime with him."

"This is complicated and I may not say it right, but I'm going to try. 'Forever' sounds like what our parents had. I've never asked you, because I wanted you to know it didn't matter to me and, truly, it doesn't. But I've had the feeling you want or maybe, need, me to ask, what happened with your marriage?"

He sighed deeply and stroked Sam's head before answering. "Not all marriages are meant to last. I know that sounds odd, especially with the words 'til death do us part' inserted in the vows, but I believe I'm right about this. Some are like training wheels: we need them until we're five or six, and once the cerebellum develops sufficiently, we can balance on two. But there's more to it than that and I sometimes think it's easy to white wash potential problems and hope for the best. Even ministers can do that, sometimes, without realizing it."

"What about the ones that are meant to last?"

"Well -- Halley has a saying, 'you can't put in what God's left out.' I've heard her use it often enough, maybe it's starting to sink in. I think there's a 'core,' for want of a better word, within a person that corresponds to the core in someone else. If not precisely, then so close as to make no difference. And this core is what enables us to be uniquely the persons we are. If the correspondence is there, at the deepest levels, two people experience it as liberating. If it's not there, no matter what other people may say about it, the relationship is flawed from the outset. We can't always see it -- I certainly couldn't. That's the best way I know to describe it."

"Freeing," she said. "I've never told you this, but I went to see my faculty adviser a few weeks after we met. Something happened to me that day -- I felt like a woman with you in ways I'd never felt with anyone else. She ascribed it to the freedom to be completely myself."

"Something happened to me, too, and it took me a while to figure out what it was. I felt like I was in the presence of someone with whom I could be completely genuine. There was no reason for me to be otherwise." He stopped for a second, and said, "You took my breath way, you know that? For a few seconds, standing there, I literally couldn't breathe."

"I couldn't either and thought it was just me."

This time it was his turn to fall silent. He's working up to something, she thought. "Jess, I know a lot has been happening and I've gone round and round, trying to decide about the twins --"

" -- and we'll deal with all of it, I promise. Right now, this is just about us," she said.

He drew his lips together, shaking his head slowly side to side, she is simply amazing, there is no getting around it. His hands framed her face and his voice began trembling with the emotion he'd kept to himself far too long. "Jessie, honey...if I wasn't in love with you the instant you laid your hand on my arm and I looked in your eyes, I was a second later and I've loved you every second since."

Her hands mirrored his and her voice, too, started trembling. "I loved you right then -- I couldn't have helped myself if I'd tried. I still do. I love you, Bob."

If this was the final scene in You've Got Mail and theirs a cinematic kiss, the music would be coming up right about...now. And music there was, though the instrument was percussive. The sound of Sam's tail, thump, thump, thump, against the ground.

(Pubic Domain image of Rockport Harbor, ME via Wikipedia)

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)

Pink Hats, 12: The Medical Student Pipeline

Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, and never pass up an opportunity to eat because you don't know when you'll get another, was the advice his best friend, an MD psychiatrist, passed along to him from his third year, which was given to him by a fourth year student who'd gotten it from her intern. 

That's how things work in medicine. Not quite a pipeline but close -- you could call it an oral tradition. Composed of wisdom, humor, and hopefully, sound common sense, Jung would describe it as the mythology of medicine, a body of useful tidbits that works its way into the psyche and helps transform dreamers into initiates.

Day Two of his rotation burned up his breakfast glucose faster than a speeding bullet, and Chuck was grateful the matronly cafeteria employee who filled his plate believed in generous portions. He was deep into his macaroni and low-fat cheese -- the cheapest entree on the menu -- with a side of salad and apple pie, when Jessie set down her tray and asked, "Mind if I join you?"

"No, by all means, do. How are things with you?" He was surprised at the company, thinking she could have chosen the doc's lounge, instead.

"Busy, as usual. I just had to steal a few minutes, though, to nosh down a sandwich -- I was bonking big time. How about you? How's your second day with Dr. Bob going?"

"Amazing. We saw three colds, a case of croup, four of impetigo, one kid with measles, and, as he puts it, a whole lot of distraught, at-their-wits-end parents, as well as a rule/out case of pneumonia before he said, 'Get out of here, go get lunch, and I'll see you in 30 minutes.' I don't know much yet, but when my attending says, 'eat,' I make it a point of doing exactly as I'm told," he said, smiling.

She nodded knowingly, wiping an errant smear of mayo with a the tip of her middle finger. "I can identify and believe me, that's smart. He'll have you working up your own patients sooner than you realize and time will get even more precious. My suggestion is, familiarize yourself with the most common childhood diseases -- he won't give you a 'zebra,' not at first. If he thinks you can handle it later on, maybe. Keep in mind, with him, how well you know your patients is as important as how well you treat them. In his book, kids are first of all, people. But I'm guessing that might not be much trouble for you."

"Why do you say that?" he asked, taking a sip of Pepsi One.

"Well, you're an older student. Even if you haven't had any medical experience, you've have life experience and that gives you a distinct advantage when dealing with parents. They'll assume you more than you do, which means they'll be less inclined to regard you as 'merely a student.' That was something I had to overcome in my rotations."

"I was a therapist -- psycho -- before medical school, but I'm 'as green as a boy can be,' as Mark Cohn would say, when it comes to physical medicine."

"I like that song, too, and your experience as a therapist will help you immensely since you already know how to listen, presumably. Parents will appreciate you listening to them, but do it with their kids, too. Doctors don't listen to kids nearly enough. So, look for clue words, ask pertinent questions, summarize to make sure you're all on the same page, write up your notes carefully, and you'll be fine. You'll learn more than you ever thought possible and have fun at the same time."

"Thanks for the advice -- and the encouragement. How long have you known Bob? He insisted I use his first name -- 'If I can call you Chuck, it's only fair for you to call me Bob. Besides, if I can persuade you to become a pediatrician, one day we'll be colleagues.'"

"That's good. Since med school, like you." She concentrated on her sandwich, washing it down with iced tea, and hoping he'd leave it at that.

The brevity of her response struck him as curious, but since she wasn't paying for therapy, he decided to drop it for the moment and changed the subject. "One thing, it was really cool seeing the twins with him yesterday. I was blown away by how much they've grown."

"Oh, they have, and thanks to you and your dog -- it's a Lab, isn't it? I've got one, too -- they've become the darlings of the peds unit. You did a four-oh job that day, in case no one's told you. Seriously. Bob told me about the EMT report -- you saved their lives."

He used his last forkful of apple pie to hide his self-consciousness and said, not having quite finished chewing, "Well --" munch, "it was --" sorry, let me finish this." Munch, swallow, sip of Pepsi. "It was scary, that's for sure. You know how it goes, first you've got that parasympathetic response and you think you're going to wet your pants, then the sympathetic kicks in and the adrenaline flows. The truth is, I didn't do much at all, it seems like. The guys from the fire department were terrific -- I have never in my life been so glad to hear a siren. Oh -- yeah, he's a Lab, a yellow one -- Chester."

Finished with her sandwich, she drained her tea, and started to get up. "Mine's Black -- Sam, and we're all glad to have you here, especially Bob and I. That's why I decided to eat in the cafeteria, I saw you come in and thought it would be an opportunity to say so. Anyway, thanks for the table -- I'm sure we'll talk again." I can't believe I said, 'Bob and I' -- me and my big mouth.

"That is so thoughtful of you to say, it really means a lot." As she walked away he mused, Mm, 'especially Bob and I' -- what's that about, I wonder...?"

(Creative Commons image of the Old Victorian Wing of Maine Medical Center, misfitgirl via Flickr)

Pink Hats, 11: Medical School Hop-Scotch

A long overdue passing score on boards, he considered, was only the beginning of his troubles. Third year rotations -- the medical school version of hop-scotch from one specialty to another -- were beginning and about all he had in his kit was the equivalent of two years of academics -- just enough to get myself into trouble. Well, there was also the Red Cross Advanced Life Saving card in his wallet. As if anyone is going to entrust me with saving anything at this point. He likened it to being sent into battle with an unloaded weapon and orders not to shoot anybody.

The closest he'd come to the actual practice of pediatrics, the starting square for his particular game, was a close call in late August with a pair of twins he and his dog discovered in a trash bag flung from a speeding car. His ACLS training definitely came in handy then, and that will probably be the last time for a long time, he thought, but anything can happen. When his intern asked about previous knowledge or experience, he was sorely tempted to say, "I know that little girls are made of sugar, spice, and everything nice, and little boys of snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails," but somehow he didn't think that would go over very well.

Earlier the same morning he'd met his attending, Dr. Bob Z., who informed him, tongue in cheek, that the only requirement for obtaining an honors grade in any rotation he was supervising, was the successful pronunciation of his last name. Bob even went so far as to write it out for him in printed block letters. He decided it couldn't hurt to try, so he thought long and hard and said, "Smith." He was wrong, but got points for daring to make a joke about it on the first day. Then Bob asked about his experience.

"I wondered if you and I would ever meet," he said, cryptically, after hearing his student's story.

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"I was the attending on duty in the ER when your twins came in and I've been following their case, mostly as an interested bystander. You probably haven't had a chance to see them yet -- why don't we go together? I think that would be appropriate, given our mutual connection."

They left his office on the second floor of the Mediplex building and walked across the skyway into the maze of the massive Maine Med campus, eventually finding their way to the Barbara Bush Children's Hospital, near the east-facing side. Since its inception in the mid-nineteenth century, Maine Med had grown organically, which is to say, as much as by necessity as by design, recent additions excepted. Getting the lay of the land usually took some doing.

Jessie was waiting for an elevator when a pair of doors slid open. Bob was in mid-sentence, something to the effect, "You'll be spending quite of bit of time over here, so be sure to --." she was concentrating on her iphone, neither watching where they were going. In a collision between two bodies of unequal mass, physics tells us the lesser one will usually go flying.

He barely caught her on the way down.

Startled, his concern more obvious than he might have liked under the circumstances, he said, "Jessie! I'm so sorry, I -- are you okay? I was preoccupied -- "

"I'm fine, I don't break easily, I should have been paying attention," she said, more amused than anything, her eyes sparkling at his attention, "Fortunately, you saved my 'dignity' any harm, and for that I'm grateful."

She brushed a wave of hair away from her face, then noticed someone she didn't recognize smiling at their exchange and shot a quizzical look at Bob. "God, I'm an idiot," he said, "This is my new student, Chuck Collins. Chuck, Dr. Jessie Livingstone. She's a neonatal fellow and worked with the twins while they were in the NICU."

As the two shook hands, he went on to explain, "Chuck is the student who found them in the first place. We were on our way for a visit. Why don't you join us?"

"I'm headed to a family meeting" -- she looked at her watch -- "I'm late for a family meeting. Nice meeting you, Chuck," she said, nodding in his direction. "Before I go, can I get a quickie consult?"

"Sure -- would you excuse me a moment?" he asked of his student and stepped away. "What's up?"

Maintaining the facade of discussing patient confidentiality in public, she whispered, "I went to New Hampshire yesterday. To talk with my father -- he's wonderful and you're going to love him. I want to tell you about our conversation, only not now, obviously."

"Funny you should mention it, I had one with Halley yesterday I'd like to tell you about," he said, also in a low whisper.

"Mine needs more than lunch or dinner. I mean, we could start there, but I'd really like some serious time."

"How about the weekend? I've been thinking a drive up the mid-coast would be a nice get-a-way, not too far, we can do it in a day, and it's pretty up there."

"Sounds perfect, but I'm on-call Friday night through Saturday and you're working Sundays..."

"Not anymore and I'll tell you about that, too. So --"

"-- Sunday's a date, as long as I can take you to the Sweetgrass Farm winery. Their Maple Smash is to die for," she said, trying hard to contain her growing anticipation. Somewhat louder, she added, as two nurses walked past, "Thanks for the consult, Bob, I appreciate it."

"My pleasure, anytime. Okay, Chuck, now where were we?"


(Creative Commons image of Hop Scotch by marc0047 via Flickr)

Pink Hats X: The Beatles Connection - George Harrison, DO

"Oh, half of my heart's got a grip on the situation, half of my heart takes time..." Jessie sang, harmonizing with John Mayer, stopping in mid-line."Let's leave 93 to the Mass-holes, Sam," she said, swerving away from the interstate on-ramp to take Route 4 through eastern New Hampshire to Rochester, Sanford, and Hollis on her way home. It was only mid-afternoon, after all, and the countryside would be lovely. Actually, she disliked the term, "Mass-hole," coined no doubt by a disgruntled, albeit verbally-creative, crowd-weary Mainer at the end of another tourist season, but she disliked the Sunday afternoon traffic racing back to Boston even more.

The drive would take longer this way, but the sense of urgency she felt that morning was gone, and she wanted to think without having to dodge every Tom, Dick, and Be Wary on the road. Before she died, her mother used to say, affectionately, "You got my hair, my eyes, and your father's temperament," referring to a directness in stating her preferences a younger Jessie feared might have little appeal to the boys. In reality, there were usually so many queued up at their door, her father threatened to hand out sleeping bags and start charging rent. Something happened, however, during her second year of medical school, prompting her to begin noticing the line less and less.

She met Bob.

He was walking across the park-sized lawn in front of the Alfond building, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Dressed in jeans, corduroy jacket, and chukka boots, he reminded her of George Harrison on the cover of Abbey Road -- with shorter hair and no beard. Without realizing it, she started humming her favorite album cut, Here Comes the Sun. It was his maiden lecture as a clinical professor of pediatrics, and despite serious efforts to the contrary, Jessie couldn't quite drop the Beatles connection. George Harrison, DO, would flash through her mind and she'd reach for her coffee mug to cover a smile.

She drained the last drop of her morning dose just as he announced a break and she left class quickly, aiming at the bathroom for relief and the coffee bar for a refill. GMTA she thought, when he stepped beside her, pardoning himself as he reached for the sugar. For some reason, she didn't know what, she placed her hand on his arm and said, "Try the Splenda. It tastes as good as sugar, but it's better for you. Fewer calories." They looked at each other for a count of one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand, before the clock started again and they finished doctoring their cups. She did see him switch to Splenda and make an appreciative face after trying his coffee.

That was it. Until the next day when she ran into him again, crossing the parking lot, this time in jeans, a tweed jacket, and Nike's. "Hi Splenda gal," he said, smiling. No one had ever called her "gal" before. She returned his greeting, asked what she was sure was an insignificant question, in response to which he proceeded to wax lyrical about the joys of pediatrics. All she remembered afterward was how she felt. It was the same way she felt the day before, with her hand on his arm.

Most of her dates, she reflected, had resulted in her feeling either like a girl or "mom." Maybe it's like that with all women, she didn't know. But for most of her part, she was a good time waiting for a place to happen or the one who warned the guy to keep his eyes on the road and off her anatomy. She had no desire to live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful memory. Bob, however, was another thing, and the best she could say about it then was not much better than she could do now, but maybe that was all that could or needed to be said. From the instant she was aware of him, standing next to her, reaching for sugar, and perhaps even before, she felt like a woman.

Her roommate called it a father transference, as did a dog-eared Freud Made Simple Jessie found in the library. Her faculty adviser, however, a newly crowned PhD in evolutionary biology and biochemistry said "Transference-shmansference. Freud was a man, what could he possibly know about women? If you feel like a woman around the man you describe, it's because he doesn't need you to be anything else than who you are. It's called freedom, Jess. A rare and wonderful thing, in my experience. Hold onto it."

Now her father was saying virtually the same thing. Thank you both very much, she thought, I think I will -- hold onto him, that is.

(Creative Commons image of Abbey Road album cover by Affendaddy via Flickr; Half of My Heart words and music by John Mayer, copyright 2010)

Look, Mom, I Passed!

This morning dawned chilly in my neck of the Maine woods and it's about time we had a blast of Canadian air to remind us it's December. I have yet to get my Christmas tree, but that's on the list for this week.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, the one I've included of Rocky Balboa says it all. I'm overjoyed to share the news that I finally passed my boards exams! A not-so-subtle subject line in an email from the Dean last night alerted me to check the exam web site once again and am I ever glad I did.

How do I feel? Like 40 pounds has been lifted off my chest and shoulders. As I've said before, boards are an unusual species of critter. No matter how hard you study, how well you feel prepared, how positive you are once you're done, it's really quite impossible to have any assurance that you've passed. There are questions that absolutely must correspond to the answers you've selected and there are others that defy prediction. Because of the inherent uncertainty involved in such a broad-based and wide-ranging examination, only Professor Trelawney, who teaches divination at Hogwarts, could possibly know the outcome. And I think she might even regard it as the ultimate challenge.

As a result, you never can quite relax until scores have been reported or at least that's been my experience lately. Now, however, the whole world looks brighter, as though someone cranked the rheostat up from medium to high. What comes next? Well, as far as medical school is concerned, rotations are on my horizon beginning in January. I don't know where I'll be working but I have a vague idea of what I'll be doing. To begin with, there will be two weeks of family practice right here in Southern Maine. After that, your guess is as good as mine, but I'll let you know as soon as I know.

Beyond this, there are the holidays of course, and I'm writing at last, after a long dry spell this fall. If it seems as though I'm spending quite a bit of time with Pink Hats and a Mack Truck, it's because I'd like to finish this series before rotations begin. I'm thoroughly enjoying the way this story is unfolding and while I have an idea how it will end, there are no guarantees. I may end up as surprised as you. So, please accept my thanks for your support and encouragement as well as my appreciation for all your well wishes these past months. They have paid off in spades.


(Creative Commons image by hsuanwei via Flickr)

Pink Hats, Part IX: Life is too Short for Playing It Safe

Women are instinctive, Jessie knew that much, and in the past few weeks, her instincts had been working overtime. Surprising her with coffee first thing in the morning meant Bob had done his homework: he checked her schedule to make certain she was working and brought something special, a "box of chocolates" in the guise of a large mocha. Dinner at Grace Restaurant was her idea of giving him a glimpse, but only a glimpse, of the cards she was holding, and things had gone on from there. Those same instincts woke her from a sound sleep two hours before the alarm on a Sunday morning, whispering, Go to New Hampshire, talk to your father.

By nine-thirty, she and Sam were on 95, halfway across the Piscataqua Bridge, the point at which you leave Maine and enter the Land of No Sales Tax. From Portsmouth, she'd hop over to I-93. We’ll be in Concord before dad can shake hands with the vicar and tell him it was a fine sermon, she thought. 

A dedicated religious skeptic, her father married a 23 year old high school biology teacher and devout Episcopalian he met at a Grange Hall dance. That was 1975. Prior to, he did a stint in the Army complete with what he enjoyed calling an “all-expenses-paid vacation in Viet Nam.” Afterward, there was college and vet school. Seventeen years and three children later, she was killed when her car slid off an icy road and down a rocky embankment, the week after Christmas. The Sunday following her funeral, he walked into Concord's Grace Episcopal Church, and took a seat in the pew closest to the rear exit.

Jessie was thirteen, her sister eleven, and their brother sixteen. Somehow, they pulled together, and he managed to get them all through college, medical and veterinary school as a single parent. It took ten years for him to move from the back of his wife’s parish to the front row of pews, and five more to prompt him to enter the permanent diaconate. No one was more surprised than he. If you asked, he'd still say he was skeptical of religion, but this way, he feels closer to his wife. He'd also say it makes more sense to let his doubts argue directly with their source, rather than stand in the street and throw rocks at the windows. It’s the way he's generally approached life.

Jessie and Sam were waiting when he pulled his truck onto the meandering unpaved driveway that wandered through his five acres of orchards and tall grass. He was barely out of the truck when Sam was practically on top of him. Tail wagging wildly, he grabbed a hand as though it was a soft chew toy and led him back to the house. Sam was in charge of this walk. 

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, wrapping his life-sized grizzly/teddy bear arms around his daughter and raising her on tip-toe, "my birthday isn't until next month." At 72, his strength never ceased to amaze.

"I missed you. I've been busy, you've been busy, and I decided I didn't want to wait."

He held her at arm's length. “Well, I'm glad to see you, too, honey." His eyebrow just then did a "Mr. Spock," and he added, "Hold on, something's different. Did you change your hair?"

She smiled and dropped her eyes, "It is? Leave it for you to notice. No, my hair's the same. What's that?" She nodded in the direction of a brown paper package he'd laid on the wicker porch table. She's changing the subject, he noticed.

"Bake sale at church. Abby Johnson's cinnamon rolls. You're mother would kill us both, if she knew. Twice the sugar, three times the fat, and all the flavor -- come on in, let's make coffee and put a dent in these."

Jessie's mother hadn't been a flower child, but she had sympathies. Organic farming was new and she threw herself into a study of its health benefits and used their orchard and large garden to experiment. Refined sugar and excess fat were strict no-nos at the dinner table except on holidays, and then she pulled out all the stops.

"Okay, sweetheart," he said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin that mimicked a black and tan chessboard, "time for you to tell dad what really brought you all this way on the spur of the moment."

"I told you, it's because I missed --"

"No, no, no. My hearing is still good, apart from that incessant ringing, and Alzheimer's I don't have. Not yet. Let's cut to the chase."

"It's called tinnitus and aspirin therapy is probably to blame -- it's the price we pay for the damage Abby Johnson's baking does to our arteries. Tell your doctor, maybe he'll adjust the dose – and, I’ve met someone. That sounds recent, but we've either known or known of each other since medical school. Anyway, we've started dating and I…wanted to tell you about him."

"Former student?" He took a sip from a white bistro-styled cup with the letters U-N-E stenciled in light and dark blue down the side. Jessie brought home a set of four after her med school interview and he used one every day until she received her letter of admission, "for luck." It was the same with her younger sister.

Jessie took a deep breath, and said, "He was one of my clinical professors in pediatrics.”

He stopped in mid-sip, lowered his cup, and set it carefully on the table. “I see.”

“You're enjoying watching me squirm, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling smugly and then ducking as she pretended to throw her empty cup at his head. And that’s how the conversation went, with her tracing the outline of her relationship with Bob while he tried to listen without making her smile and lose her train of thought. It reminded her of the way she and Bob were, and silently she breathed a prayer of thanks to her mother for finding a man like her father.

“I could make it easy and say I like him, and I do, but it’s deeper than that. I think I’m in love with him, dad. He’s older, as you’ve probably already guessed, and while that’s not a problem for me, I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it…?”

“I think you’ve both been incredibly patient, to wait this long. What held him back, do you know?”

“Partly, he was recovering from his divorce and didn’t want to drag me into a messy situation. But he was also concerned, particularly during my residency, that no one could say my accomplishments were a consequence of him being in the background, covering for me. He wanted me to be able to take credit for my own work and be recognized for it. Meanwhile, I had no idea what was going on. We talked fairly often and even had lunch in the cafeteria a few times, but he consistently kept his feelings under wraps. When he told me all of this over lunch yesterday, I was speechless.”

“Not hard to understand why. Let’s go out on the front porch.” He stood up and walked over to a walnut secretary that stood against the wall in the dining room, opened a drawer and began rummaging around, eventually lifting a up an old pipe, an unopened tin of tobacco, and a box of matches. “I haven’t smoked this in years, not since your mother. But right now, it strikes me as a good idea.”

She settled in a large wicker chair letting her legs hang over one arm. Sam curled up at her feet and began snoring while her father lit his pipe and took a seat on the wide porch swing. Almost fifteen minutes passed before he said anything. “Baby,” -- he would call her that to his dying day -- “I think you may have found the pearl of great price. I don’t quote the Bible often, but I haven’t known many men who would put their girlfriend’s interests above their own quite like that, certainly not for five and a half years. Maybe it’s because of his age and presumed maturity or because he’s been divorced, but it sounds to me like he knows without question what’s important to him, and who.

Now, you wondered how I’d feel about his age. Well, the best answer I have for that is, your mother and I had nineteen years, seventeen of them married. If I had it to do over again, knowing I’d lose her and there was nothing I could do about it, I’d marry her in a heartbeat. If you love this man, and it sure looks like he loves you, whether he knows it or not, you’ve got something worth holding onto. Life is far too short to play it safe.” 

He knocked the ashes from his pipe on the railing and said, “This wasn’t near as good as I remembered it.”

She laughed. “Unlike Abby’s sweet rolls that get better each time she bakes them. I want you to meet Bob, and soon.”

“Oh, that’s a given, and the sooner the better. If I’m going to have a son-in-law, I need to start getting used to the idea.”

“Who said anything about a son-in-law?”

“You did. I saw it on your face when I said what I said about life being too short. And it is, Baby, never forget that.”

(Creative Commons Image of the Piscataqua Bridge, NH by plousia via Flickr)