The Red Handkerchief

13
Jun

Hi everyone! I’m excited to share that I have a piece over at The Mudroom today. I’d love to have you stop over and see it there. Here’s an excerpt to get you started…

In the story The Giver, they had a phrase “precision of language”. This was an admonition when people used an irrelevant term, something their culture didn’t believe in anymore. We have antiquated words that don’t serve us or even offend us now, and we have phrases whose etymologies are hard to trace.

You can read more of it, just click here.

Items needed for optimum writing

Medicine is a Practice

20
Apr

The following is a letter sent to me by a friend I’ve known for more than twenty years. After I read it, I asked her permission to post it here for Medical Monday. It’s a honest perspective from someone in the medical field who has walked alongside people in some of their most vulnerable moments. The only edits I made were in paragraph breaks so it would be easier to read on a screen.

Thank you, Kris, for your friendship and for allowing us to hear how your experience with your dad shaped the course of your life.

|||

TC,

I was so sorry to hear that your child has been diagnosed with diabetes. Not because I don’t think that you can handle it, just that it is a long road and must seem quite overwhelming after just losing your dad.

I work in Medicine, the practice of medicine and although we wish we had all the cures there are some things that we can only help, not cure. As I am sure you recall, my dad had a seizure when I was in 8th grade. It changed our family forever. Dad was no longer a larger than life person, he was mortal, frail and they said he could die at any time. Living with death knocking at our door became a horrible reality as we watched him, waiting for the next big something that would take his heart out completely after the first episode had weakened his heart so severely.

He lived, and I do not pretend that I have been through the grief that you have had to bear, however knowing someone close to you can go at any time….. well it shook my whole world.

I had no safety net.

I had no place to curl in the security of this world.

I had to lean into the eternal. I had to look at what does last, knowing every breath could be our last. It was a horrible and wonderful place all at the same time. Those moments, days, months, years of waiting to see if my dad would live created a hunger for the eternal. They created a place in me that hoped to help others as they live with things nobody can cure. They created a space inside that hungers only for what really matters and what will truly last forever.

I work with bodies, broken bodies. Ailing health and diagnosis that don’t become a distant memory, however in the midst of all that tragedy the light of the eternal shines bright. The hope that we are not home yet, and as my daughter said yesterday, there won’t be anybody crying in heaven. No more pain, no more sorrow. The Lord that we cannot fully understand sent his Son to die so that we could have an eternity with no more pain. I live my life in medicine in hopes that I can always give a glimpse of what really matters to the patients I see. I take care of ailing bodies hoping they know the One that will make them whole and complete. I try to be joyful, but I cry a lot with those who mourn and those who have broken spirits. The fact that God loved us enough to save us by sending His son to die, that hits home so much more when you have lost someone close to you.

So in honor of medical Mondays, I say medicine is a practice, and we are all on the same team. Trying to help as much as we can and yet remembering that on our knees is where the real help comes. Medicine is wonderful, however God is always in control. So thankful that He is a God that loves us, even if we don’t always understand.

Love you friend, keep clinging to Jesus. -Kris

Hard Skin and Dragon Scales

27
Mar

I previously shared this on the Story Sessions website, which is no longer active…so I thought I’d share it here. Hope you find something in it that encourages you.

|||

“I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe. […]

“Well, exactly the same thing happened again. And I thought to myself, oh dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off? For I was longing to bathe my leg. So I scratched away for the third time and got off a third skin, just like the two others, and stepped out of it. But as soon as I looked at myself in the water I knew it had been no good.

“The lion said—but I don’t know if it spoke—‘You will have to let me undress you,’ I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

“The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know—if you’ve ever picked the scab of a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Edmund.

“Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off—just as I thought I’d done it myself the other three times, only they hadn’t hurt—and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobbly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me—I didn’t like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I’d no skin on—and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I’d turned into a boy again. You’d think me simply phony if I told you how I felt about my own arms. I know they’ve no muscle and are pretty mouldy compared with Caspian’s, but I was so glad to see them.

“After a bit the lion took me out and dressed me—”

“Dressed you. With his paws?”

“Well, I don’t exactly remember that bit. But he did somehow or other: in new clothes—the same I’ve got on now, as a matter of fact. And then suddenly I was back here. Which is what makes me think it must have been a dream.”

“No. It wasn’t a dream,” said Edmund.

“Why not?”

“Well, there are the clothes, for one thing. And you have been—well, un-dragoned, for another.”

“What do you think it was, then?” asked Eustace.

“I think you’ve seen Aslan,” said Edmund.

~Excerpt from Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis

|||||

There was a period of my life when I wore an extra skin emotionally as if it was heavy chainmail or a coat of dragon scales.

It was knobby, thick, suspicious, sarcastic, and dismissive.

I grew this layer of protection over time. The barrages of arrows whose poisoned tips bore insults hedged as jokes about my body, necessitated this thick skin – the arrows didn’t hurt as much when they met hard scales. Snide comments about my lack of intelligence or critical thinking skills couldn’t meet their mark when repelled by bony skin. The repeated defense of my family’s expectations or my role as the pastor’s daughter, the constant sense of being different than everyone else, called “weird” for my sense of humor or mocked for my vocabulary, these things built layer upon layer of cartilage armor.

I was quick with a joke or a biting comment, even if it was about me – better to be aware of my weakness than to let others announce it.

I became skilled at assuming the twist of a statement, rather than believing it was said straight. It made me paranoid about what any sentence meant.

I grew weary with the analyzing, stony in the silence I adopted rather than open myself to hurtful responses that were bound to come, should I offer the opportunity.

Any gentleness I once had slowly shrunk and hardened until it was only a pebble.

|||||

In the excerpt above, Eustace’s dragon scales are the result of greed and selfishness.

My scales were the result of a perceived need for self-preservation and protection.

The image has returned to me time upon time, the image of scraping away dragon scales, peeling them back as a snake slips its skin. The effort of learning a new way to relate to the world, the hard work of retraining my brain synapses so messages wouldn’t travel the same well-worn canyons, and the strain of finding new thought patterns felt like ripping off layers. I worked to allow myself to believe the compliment that came from the lips of the one I loved, rather than hearing its reverse, and the awareness that the former was still my first response, felt like Eustace when he thought he had scratched away the dragon skin, only to discover he was still wearing it. Try as I might, my best efforts only removed the outside layers with no impact on those that were thicker, those that were deeper.

There comes a point when, if we want real change, we have to admit we can’t do it ourselves.

We have to lie down in the grass and allow Aslan to undress us.

It feels vulnerable and intimate.

It feels defenseless.

It feels like a death.

And it can hurt like a bitch.

While we lie there, letting our defenses be stripped away, we might feel like we’d rather continue wearing the dragon skin, except for the sublime gratification that comes with the removal of it, like peeling a long strip of wallpaper after you’ve been laboring and only getting scraps, or the feeling of finally getting all the snarls out of your daughter’s beautiful long hair so you can drag the comb through it unhindered. We become our truer selves, closer to our clearest essence, unhindered by the bulky armor we accumulated. Only once it is removed are we released to feel earth on flesh, breeze on face, and warmth of embrace.

It is only once our dragon scales are removed that we learn the strength of being vulnerable, the confidence that undergirds gentleness and the freedom that comes when we are our most unfettered selves.

2 Corinthians 3:17-18 (NKJV) “17 Now the Lord is the Spirit; and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. 18 But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord.”

Depression is more than a Hashtag

9
Mar

I’ve gotten to know Kate a bit through a shared online writing group. She’s basically amazing. Ask her about her stage makeup (is that what you call it when you can transform yourself completely with makeup?) or about her taste in fairy wings and you’ll get an answer from an expert. I asked her to share today about her depression, because if you look only at her social media photos, you’d have no idea she ever feels anything but jaw-droppingly put together. And I think that’s the way certain health elements can be — hard to sympathize with because a person is able to get through a day or may show few outward signs of distress. But we on the outside have no idea what it took for that person to do what had to be done.

Here’s Kate’s post, and please help her know her voice is important by showering her with glitter and love in the comments.

http://mrg.bz/e84IRn

|||

I turned my depression into a hashtag.

Because “real” depressed people prove how depressed they are by advertising it on the internet for all to see and scrutinize. Ahem. Just kidding.

Actually… I did do it for the sake of visibility. By definition, a mental illness originates in your brain. And because, like most humans, I keep my brain stored between my ears, it’s hard to know what depression looks like. It’s like bronchitis; I can’t see the tiny cactus spines growing in my lungs, but I feel them trying to claw their way out of my chest like a baby xenomorph.

Depression is like a metaphor wrapped in a cliche cultural reference.

The way people view depression is through the lens of popular culture, which hasn’t been especially kind or empathetic about it. Portrayals range from demented invisible rabbit hallucinations, to montages of tween girls sitting in their pajamas, staring out the window. Granted, the latter is more relatable to the truth about depression, but it isn’t the only truth. I still have good days, even when I’m fighting depression. I still leave the house, I still eat meals, I still talk to people. Depression just makes all of those things extremely difficult. That isn’t hyperbole; I have to talk myself into following a routine, despite feeling like the saddest doll in the doldrums — or I wind up feeling like I am actually losing it. Like… I’m not even remotely in control of my body or brain. This we will call the “danger zone”. We do not go to the “danger zone”, for it is dark and full of terrors.

But despite running a blog dedicated to Anxiety and Depression advocacy and awareness, I don’t find myself able to talk about depression as readily as a seasonal malady. It’s too difficult to make people understand; it’s not just being sad all the time. It’s just as painful as have a physical illness–sometimes more so. Which makes people super uncomfortable, like they don’t want to talk about me having a problem in my brain because that idea is just gross. …and yet, on Facebook, people talk about the color of their mucus and how many times they’ve thrown up.

Excuse me! Gross! You’ll talk about bodily fluids, but you won’t even listen to me talk about pain that you can’t even see?

I have lost friendships over depression. But, despite the temptation, I have never disowned a friend for having pneumonia. Why is this disconnect between discussing physical vs. mental illness so very rift-like?

It makes me want to vomit. So… I turned my depression into a hashtag of my own invention: #7daysoflight

I committed to one week of total transparency about my depression–but I advertised it as a beauty campaign (because remember, people think depression is icky). I pledged to spend one week posting one photo a day of myself in an outfit, complete with hair and makeup. Naturally, there are people who do this every day of their life, and I applaud them for it.

When my depression is at its worst, the thought of putting on makeup is frankly just impossible, let alone curling my hair and picking out clothes that actually match and aren’t made of Lycra.

I feel better when I am in full regalia, however, so it made sense to me that spending one week keeping myself together physically might help me mentally. And help me be SEEN for once.

It did help me feel better. It also didn’t. The thought of having more to do in the mornings was stressful, which meant starting my day already frustrated. It meant pulling myself out of bed and climbing a hill made of lipstick tubes and bronzer and fake eyelashes–for a picture. To put on the internet.

Did it help people really see me, though? Not as far as I can tell. Because I didn’t make it a conversation. I made a gallery of seven photos, each showing a day of triumph, which was very visible to me–but I never talked about how I had championed my depression each day. I just posted seven versions of my face looking more put together than usual.

What does a depressed person even look like?

I don’t really talk about having bad days on Facebook in general, and I curate my image so carefully on social media that there aren’t even any candid photos of me, really, unless they were approved before someone posted them. Because never do I want to appear as anything other than this carefully woven basket-case. People know I’m “a mess”, but if you look at my profile, it’s unclear if I’m messy because I’m constantly painting, or because I have assumed the cliche title as compliment bait.

And admittedly, I like attention. In certain controlled situations, the likes of which I have created with my own cunning. But I’m an Introvert as well as depressed and anxious, so I don’t actually like baring my real problems.

That’s where we have a huge problem with mental illness visibility in the first place: the people who suffer do not want to even attempt to be seen, because people without mental illness do not want to talk about it. That’s what it feels like. So we don’t speak up about what it’s really like to be prisoner to your own body. So the stigma holds, and we hear people called “crazy” because the victims are invisible.

I have a confession to make: I cheated at my own challenge. I took a day off of the internet. I sat around in the comfiest clothing I own, and I went nowhere near social media. And the next day, I posted two photos: one I claimed was from my internet-free day, and one from that day. The internet-free day photo was actually from several weeks ago. I wanted to be invisible.

But what I am and was feeling over those seven days? Several things, on and off. Most days, even when I’m doing pretty well, my hands just ache a little bit. I’m prone to small headaches, but I combat it with lots of stretching and drinking water constantly.

And when it’s bad?

Joints aching so badly that my hands are nearly numb

A headache so terrible that my body starts to try to put me to sleep

Stomach pains and a severely disrupted digestive system, which makes me wary of all food and not want to stand or walk

Mood swings, which leave me angry or upset about absolutely nothing (or ten times more reactive to small things)

Inability to focus on any one task

Insomnia

My hair falls out in clumps
Heightened paranoia and dastardly intrusive thoughts
Night terrors
Little or no enjoyment of things I normally like
Difficulty driving
Panic attacks, which leave me short of breath and hyper-aware of possible triggers

The list goes on… and that’s just what depression does to me, nevermind all the symptoms of anxiety that I experience on a particularly rough day.

Yeah. It’s gross. To live it.

But despite being frustrated that sometimes I am very sick, I’m really not ashamed of it. Because there is no room for shame in my body when all that other stuff has taken hold. I’ve failed myself in only one instance lately, in this seven day challenge: I didn’t allow myself to be visible. To turn a phrase, I advertised the armor instead of the war.

I spend so much time listening to my body and validating my own feelings, and yet I didn’t extend myself that courtesy at a prime opportunity. So now, my depression is still invisible, and I have seven pictures of myself looking put-together, no different than the tons of selfies I take on a regular basis (I’m team selfie — if you feel good about yourself, there’s no good reason not to share that with others!).

The truth about becoming visible is that I have to overcome my fear of appearing broken. Sometimes I am broken, and sometimes I just want to tell people that I’m not doing very well, but that I’m working on it and not to worry.

In order to de-stigmatize talking about mental illness, I can’t rely on other people to see the truth behind the projected image. I have to change my language to a format the general masses can understand (and it has nothing to do with bodily fluids).

So here’s what I am today: not broken, small headache, and out of all the joints in my body, only my fingers are aching. Outfit? Lycra pajamas–but they’re matching. No makeup, no intrusive thoughts. Hopeful, overwhelmed, but putting my energy towards letting go of today’s fears and embracing the gifts of the day.

See? That wasn’t so bad.

Bio: Kate is a Portland-based writer, artist and mental health advocate. She is appreciative of Jane Austen, a coffee snob, and a lover of Young Adult fiction. Visit her at thehonestbrain.wordpress.com for more information about her journey to better mental health, as well as testimonies from other mental health champions.

What school doesn’t teach You

2
Mar

Today’s post is from an up-and-coming writer in the medical field. She happens to be my sister, so you know she’s a good egg. (I’ve always wanted to call her an egg.) She shares about the most difficult season our family has gone through (and is still going through…very…very…slowly…) and writes about it from her medical perspective. I know you’ll find it interesting. Show her some comment-love today, will you?

|||

http://mrg.bz/PdGn03

Going to PA school is a full-time job. There are hours and hours of lectures that cover every body system and every possible thing that could go wrong. At times you start to believe that you have that rare genetic disorder that consists of frequent leg twitching and abnormal knuckle hair. Or maybe the lecturer covered abnormal moles and suddenly all of your “beauty marks” look like melanoma. At some point during the didactic year, you have to just ignore all the bad things that you might develop in your life or else you might become paralyzed. Just continue to drink from the fire hose and make it out alive to start practicing medicine. One thing that PA school did not prepare me for was family illness. There was not a single lecture entitled “How to Stand By a Loved One Who Gets Sick”, or “How to Walk Gracefully Along Side a Parent Who is Diagnosed With Cancer”.

My sister called me one evening last September and asked me to go look at my Dad’s leg. I made the short drive and noted that his right leg was twice the size of his left.

“How long has it been like that, Dad?”

“Just three days.”

“Who told you to wait three days?”

“Dr. Downing!”

My Dad was not, in fact, a medical doctor. Among other degrees, he got a PhD in Theology and was a pastor of a church before retiring a few years ago. I directed my Dad to go immediately to the ER because I was worried he had a DVT, or blood clot, in his leg. A DVT was diagnosed and he actually had a large clot that extended from his ankle to his thigh. I wanted to be wrong.

A couple months later he was visiting a freshly hatched grandchild and became short of breath. My parents drove to the hospital and the doctors there found a showering of emboli or blood clots in the lungs. They also found a mass.

“We’re not sure what it is yet. I think I just swallowed a ping-pong ball!”

“Dad, this doesn’t sound good.”

“We are preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best.”

I tried to do just that. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. But in my mind I just kept thinking about stages. Cancer stages.

My dad was quickly diagnosed with lung cancer. I wanted to be wrong. They saw a “hot spot” when they did the initial scans and wanted to do a bone biopsy. On the way down to get the biopsy my dad started have trouble finding words. My mom made a detour and took dad to the ER and they diagnosed him with a stroke. Because they made it to the ER quickly, they were able to receive TPA, also known as clot-busting medication. He was admitted to the hospital and my brothers, sister, and I drove to see him. My dad continued to be in good spirits, and felt lucky that they had made it in time to get TPA.

“I had meat soap, meat soap….Kath, what did I have for dinner?”

“Meat Loaf, Gary!” my mom said.

We all circled my dad, laid across his chest, and prayed. Please, God, make this go away.

A couple of days later I received a call that Dad was doing worse. I immediately thought that the stroke converted to a hemorrhagic, or bleeding, type of stroke. I wanted to be wrong. I walked into the hospital room and my mom gripped my neck. My dad had a hard time speaking, and he couldn’t open his eyes because the hemorrhagic stroke affected his equilibrium. I slept over that night next to him and I heard him whispering the names of his grandchildren. I knew that this scenario was not good.

My dad was fighting stage 4 lung cancer, and the stroke had weakened him significantly. The great 6′ 2″ giant, was a little hunched and his long gait was reduced to shuffling. But he and my mom still managed to travel to Costa Rica that winter. My dad would get his chemo, wait a day, fly down to Costa Rica for 3 weeks, and return in time for another run. He regained his strength and he boasted that he was able to do his daily walk and push ups. He told me that when he was in the hospital after the stroke he felt helpless, but never hopeless. He continued to fight the cancer with chemo, sunshine, changed his diet and began eating as a vegetarian.

My dad fooled us all. He convinced us that he was feeling really well. So well, that he wanted to go to Costa Rica alone, without my mom. But we found out that the chemo wasn’t touching the cancer and that they would see if he would be a candidate for a clinical trial. I wasn’t comforted by the news. On the way home from Costa Rica, my dad got really, really sick. He fell down the escalator in the airport. He was confused and lost his passport. How he got home, we will never know. God didn’t take away his cancer, but one of his angels brought my dad home safely. Even in his confusion, he was thoughtful enough to buy one of his grandkids a breakfast sandwich. He had it in his pocket for two days.

When we heard of these events, I already knew the cancer had taken his brain. I tried to hope for the best, I did. But my training wouldn’t allow me to ignore the facts. They found mets to the brain and he was no longer eligible for the clinical trial. They would start radiation, and this was only to help with symptoms. This was not a cure.

How do you stand by a loved one when they are sick? You go with them to doctors appointments. I went with my parents to chemo and radiation appointments. I argued with the doctors. I brought with me articles about possible alternative treatments for my dad’s cancer.

Sometimes the only way we feel like we have some sort of control over the situation is to study it. I spent down time at work looking up articles about lung cancer treatments and ways to combat side effects of chemo. And when you finally realize that knowledge is not going to save your dad, you cry with him. And when your mother no longer can handle injecting him with blood thinners, you go there every night and do it for her. And when he is ready to let go, you be there to hold his hand.

How do you walk gracefully alongside your parent who is diagnosed with cancer? You do exactly as my dad said. You hope for the best, prepare for the worst. The graceful part is tricky. No one does it perfectly. Just hold each other up and do cancer together. It’s the only way to survive the diagnosis. This is something school just can’t teach you, and there is no way to prepare for tragedy. And sometimes no matter how much you know, it won’t change the outcome. Sometimes its better to be a friend, a partner, a daughter than it is to be a PA.

|||

I am a PA with a family. Currently, I work in a busy ER and juggle my career, my husband, and my three children. My blog is to help prepare students, discuss medical topics and the PA profession as a whole. I write a column for PAs Connect entitled The PA Mama . I coach pre-PAs and help them get into school. You can find me on Facebook at PA Trek. Please feel free to contact me at pachustle@gmail.com or Follow me on Twitter.

Medical Ministers and Presidents

16
Feb

Today’s Medical Monday post is written by someone who is very familiar with the medical world, both conventional Western and alternative. Read his perspective on the power of the White Coat and the differences between what he refers to as prime ministers and presidents.

|||

Going back as far as I can remember, the White Coat of the medical professional has been the symbol of the reasonable, knowledgeable expert on our health and physical condition.

When I was a boy, the esteem we gave the White Coat was substantial and broad. As a matter of fact, even in my monthly trip to the barbershop on Saturday mornings as a child, there would be a row of hair experts in white smocks, looking every bit like an elite corps of trained medical specialists in the smoke-filled, male-dominated strip mall just a couple of doors down from the Ben Franklin five-and-dime.

Memories of great apprehension still surround me as I recall those winters when I would return perhaps six times in four months to receive the dreaded penicillin injection. After anxious moments in the waiting room, a serious-minded man would come in, look sternly at me, mumble something in hushed tones to my mother, and before long the nurse, always a friendly woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile would execute the will of the all-knowing, fearless expert in the White Coat.

Over the years, a widening gap has developed between me and the White Coat. I can think of a number of reasons for this, but as a chronic sufferer who knows only too well why they call us “patients,” I can name one of the big ones. Go back in time with me to a movie I hope you have seen more than once.

The character’s name is Winifred Banks, a “suffragette” working for women’s right to vote. To a rousing tune, she and her fellow-crusaders march around the room and sing, “We’re clearly soldiers in petticoats; Dauntless crusaders for women’s votes. Though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group they’re rather stupid….”

Now, I assure you, I think highly of most of my many doctors, but the good will does not carry over to the coat (“as a group”…you see). My uneducated guess is that what has happened to them can happen to all of us when politics, custom and other outside forces restrict the way we do our jobs and perform our role in society: we become less effective as a group than we are as individuals. (By the way, the movie mentioned above was Mary Poppins.)

|||

Why is it that some countries have Prime Ministers (people who minister), others have Presidents (people who preside), and some have both? Ministers are the people that impress me most. (I think Prime Minister Thatcher of Great Britain was the first person I remember quoting the proverb, “If you want something said, ask a man; if you want something done, ask a woman.” Spoken like a true PM!) That is because long after the presider has snagged, bagged and tagged my medical problem, the minister (nurse, PA, and even a low-level, non-technical administrator) still takes my calls and emails.

As a sufferer from numerous chronic diseases, I have learned to be affable, organized and intelligent in talking to presidents so that their memories of me are vivid, pleasant and undemanding. I do this in hopes that they feel good thinking about me because I suspect that once they have stopped looking at me, I wonder whether they will be thinking of me five minutes from now.

I am overstating the whole thing, of course, but it is unfortunate that they must hustle between patients and I am left with only one shot to think of and ask everything I could wish to know before the next billable encounter.

“Doctor, I nearly fainted today, what should I do? What might it be? Did I just experience an ‘off time’ from the Parkinson’s disease or is it the meds? Can we go out for coffee and have you educate me on how to self-diagnose and what I might anticipate my life to be like now?”

Dialogue about such things is what I crave with my doctors. I wish I could get his or her attention whenever I need it. But who among us has the stamina to treat hundreds of patients with this kind of tender loving care? I understand why it must be that way. I still hate it when something reminds me that life isn’t fair or simple.

There are so many good medical professionals in my world. They make me feel like living when I feel like dying. They don’t have the averted eyes, the somber look or the well-worn words: “Not saying you are imagining things, but the source of your problem is that your mind/brain is making you sick. So I can only treat you for fibromyalgia. Take this for pain and check back next year [read: Please don’t check back until next year because I really don’t know what’s going on with you.]”

No, these solid professionals say things like, “I will stick with you. Are you okay?” Most are good folks who know the old ways of western medicine that I need most when my house is on fire (i.e. things are desperate.)

And then there are the non-mainstreamed variety like the one who said, “Don’t mind those other doctors. You have Chronic Lyme disease. That is not on the public health radar yet. I’ve got your back. Let’s get busy and see what happens.” His treatment worked. Another has said, “I can save you from getting that knee replacement through a relatively inexpensive procedure that insurance won’t cover. Can I pray with you?” Then he proceeded successfully to repair the knee.

All of these people remind me that goodness and decency are far from obsolete. They do take emails and return calls. Some even leave me their cell phone number. Good things do happen. I just wish the White Coat was the uniform for all of those Prime Ministers and innovators too, and that it really did represent all of the best practices and personal attention available today.

All the best, Dear TC.

Uncle Wes

http://mrg.bz/QUhmjX

This is terrifying but I’m going to share it Anyway

5
Sep

Today I had a guest post up at The Story Sessions blog. The Story Sessions is a writing community and there are some amazing voices there. I’ve been so inspired by the work happening there, and the way this community supports one another and cheers each other on. It is such an honor to get to have a piece on the blog.

But…

The piece is a poem. That’s just how it came out. And it is about grief…which is no fun. And it’s dramatic…which is sometimes how I feel about things but don’t always show it.

Here’s a little teaser and then, if you are so inclined, I’ll include a link to click to read the rest. Would it be pathetic to ask you to say hello over there? It wouldn’t feel so scary if you were with me. Also? Yikes.

Plod,

all energy diverted to the chore of

reaction.

Keep the dependents safe,

accounted for.

Remember this is also their loss.

(Here’s that link: http://bit.ly/1pVsABT )

The guy on the Mat

10
Apr

Today I’m over at my friend Bethany’s site for her new series Sacred – the Dark and the Light. I’d love it if you’d come check it out. If you click this link, it should take you over to her site: http://bit.ly/1jwcsRx

Here’s a little sample to get you going…

There’s something about a cliché that makes my eye twitch.

…Maybe not literally, but you get the idea.

It’s the same with Christianese and those answers all neatly packaged that serve nothing except to shut down conversation. If I can shut you up with a tidy answer, then I don’t have to entertain your idea as valid. If I lift the drawbridge, then your issue with a certain doctrine or theology shall not pass.

Dontcha wanna come read more? Hope to see you there!

A favorite story and a guest post

28
Mar

I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe.

Thus begins the passage from C.S. Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader that has stayed with me and resurfaced many times over again since I read it as a child.

Today I am guest posting on the Story Sessions website. Story Sessions is a group organized by Elora Nicole that challenges people to write the hard things, be brave, and push our writing to be its best. It is open to anyone who wants to subscribe and become a better writer. I had no idea what a great thing I had stumbled upon when I signed up. I am so honored to be included on their site today, and I’d love to have you come read the rest of my post.

Here’s the link: http://bit.ly/1myIEqT and thank you for coming by today!