Sunday, March 26, 2017

Rural Doc Realities

Even though alcohol is legal and I don't have an unhealthy relationship with it, I always feel a little awkward about stocking up on wine and beer in my local liquor store. I have this irrational fear that I will see a patient and they will think it's inappropriate that their doctor drinks Chelada's or American reds. I hated buying booze as a resident because I always looked so haggard and forlorn I was convinced people would assume it was the alcohol that made me that way and not the fact that I'd been up for 44 hrs on a surgical "bender".

As an attending I hardly drink as I'm on call 1:2 (or 1:3 at best). Alcohol has become a treat because it also means my phone can be off and I can shower without having a "get to the hospital in 5 minutes" outfit laid out on the bathroom floor.

So I go to the (one and only) liquor store the other day in the hopes of maintaining a low profile. I do my sweep while trying to eye out the selection. It's pretty disappointing, as I expected it would be. But, in a way I'm glad it's no Wine Cellar* because it would be too hard to stick to my new $100/month budget if I had their glorious products to choose from. When Barefoot and Yellowtail are rounding out the options it makes splurging on a Rodney Strong or a Layer Cake seem indulgent.

I'm perusing the boxed wines and wondering how rapidly I would descend into alcoholism if I started drinking Copper Moon by the box when I hear "DR. BLACKBEAR!! DR. BLACKBEAR! How ARE YOU??" My eyes have still not quite adjusted from the sunlight outside so I look around, trying to locate the voice while half-hiding behind the Pilsner stand. People are milling about and looking in my direction. A staff member is waving wildly at me and smiling. I think I recognize her from the clinic...? The ED...? I don't think I've delivered her baby recently...did I ?


Hiiiiiiiii!!!! ARE YOU ON CALL TODAY?

Yes. (I can't lie, dammit. I was on call. What if she ended up going into the hospital that night with an appendicitis and they called me in to see her? Then it would seem even sketchier that I'd lied about it. I wasn't planning to drink the booze THAT night, I just knew I wouldn't have time to get there any other day this week. Besides, I am on call all week anyway!)


Yes. (Now people are staring at me, they are judging me not only for my choices in alcohol but the fact that I am a doctor and buying it during the day, when I'm on call!!)


No...erm...I am doing so much call and covering the surgical program right now so I am not really in the clinic that much and I ...... (I'm mumbling, trailing off, and deciding if I should just pull the pin on this whole endeavor and leave without buying anything. But I feel like I am committed and really, my husband would come and buy just one bottle of Malbec then try and convince me I liked it in the past).


I think I then sputtered something about continuity of care and resources and some apologies while going to the farthest till away and hoping things would peter out from there.

A lady with tight permed curls and a wrist brace starts ringing in my order. She keeps her eyes locked in mine as I fumble with my wallet and hit the automatic start on my key ring.

What is your name? Says wrist brace without looking away.


No, what is your DOCTOR name?

The other people behind me in line lean in slightly.


Hmpf. Well I don't have a family doctor EITHER. 

So, so sorry to hear that I think there are a few doctors at the clinic taking patients....byyyyyeeee thank youuuuuuuuuu.........!

I grab my bag and head for the door. My initial greeter yells, BYE DR. BLACKBEAR SEE YOU LATER HOPE YOU GET A BREAK SOON!!!

You and me both, honey, you and me both.


*I was not paid to put that endorsement there. The Wine Cellar and 124st St Liquor Store were my two favorite places to go when I lived in Edmonton and was discovering the world of wine. The staff were super knowledgeable, the selections were varied and interesting, and I never felt intimidated about asking questions. I loved pretending I knew anything about wine and pretending I could afford the good stuff. And look how far I've come in the past 15 years, now I know even less about it all and can still only afford the cheap stuff!


Sunday, March 19, 2017

Education Debt IS Bad Debt

I was recently given some bad advice.

I am deeply, profoundly, eye-wateringly in debt thanks to four years of international medical student tuition and a penchant for expensive wines, perfumes, and restaurants.

I come by it honestly. It stemmed, initially, from being a medical student and spending a thousand euros a week on tuition, for four years. Why would I buy a 10 euro bottle of wine instead of a 20 euro bottle of wine? That ten euro difference was not even a drop in the volume of money I was hemorrhaging at the time.

Then it morphed into an easy justification. I had no life as a resident. I worked, slept a little, ate when I could, peed when I could and I was going to have that cashmere sweater from Club Monaco dammit because I had nothing else in my life at the time….nothing!

I could say that I had made so many many sacrifices; my income, my freedom, my country, my relationships, my RRSP’s, my whimsy. Didn’t I deserve that stay at the Fairmont? That 7 course meal at Quattro? That bottle of Veuve demi sec? HECK YES I DID.

So, now I am finished residency. I am actually an attending physician, making more a month than most people do all year. Yet I am broke. Why? Well. That begins with one’s definition of “broke”. Because, I used to think that rich was how much money you earned, not how much money you had in the bank.

I have over $300 000 in debts; student loan, line of credit, and Bank of Mom debts. This means that I have no money in the bank. I am broke. And every 2 weeks when I get my pay check I continue to be broke.

I was recently told by a financial advisor that I didn’t need to worry so much about my $190 000 line of credit debt because the interest rate was at prime. I told him that I was about to go on this mission to just pay that debt down as fast as my little surgical fingers could spin that money out.

Meh. He said.

That is low interest debt. Put money into savings, buy RRSP’s, save up for your next house downpayment. Pay that debt down at a rate that works for you. (No, he is not given kickbacks by any financial institution that I am affiliated with). And I was lulled into believing this. I can afford the payments therefore I can afford the debt.


Ok, let me put this into recent context.

I’ve been doing a lot of reading and thinking and learning about the concept of minimalism, money management, debt repayment, financial freedom, need, greed and when I'll be able to step away from mandatory employment. 

As part of this quest I watched this interesting documentary about minimalism, started listening to their podcast* as well as the Dave Ramsay and Planet Money podcasts. I read "Your Money or Your Life" updated by Vicki Robin, as well as "Total Money Makeover" by Ramsey, and am currently reading "Beyond Wealth: the roadmap to a rich life" by Alexander Green. I listened to a mind-blowing interview** with Mr Money Moustache and have since spent hours and hours reading his blog and putting his advice into action.

I downloaded a free budgeting app called "Everydollar". I also downloaded a frighteningly sobering app called "Debts Break" which shows you how much money you are paying on the principle, how much interest you are paying each month, and how much total interest you'll pay by the time the debt is paid off. 

After this flurry of reading, listening, watching and information absorbing I felt as though I had been awoken from a long, dreamy, line of credit induced financial stupor. It's embarrassing to admit how little I understood about these basic concepts of personal finance and the greater concept of money. There are so many gems I've collected in the resources listed above that I would do no justice to any of it if I tried to summarize or recap. But I will say this, if you are in debt (even a little bit) I urge you to check out some of the links above and start your own journey into mindful spending, debt control, and financial independence. 


I shudder to think of how much money I've already wasted in ridiculous interest payments (not to mention all the brainless cash I've thrown out for acquiring things I didn't need). 

We've gone into basically a spending freeze here in the Blackbear household. My husband even took a job nearly 3 hrs away in order to beef up the "hammer the debt" campaign. We are getting out. It's not going to be easy and it's not going to be quick but man I am so glad that I only wasted 6 months as an attending before I started this new way of thinking. 

The main change to spending has come, not from just stopping the spending of money (which is like just deciding to crash diet - a temporary deprivation which will eventually rebound and probably over correct in a bad way) but of changing the way I look at how I spend my money and my relationship to money. 

I do the Mr. Money Moustache and minimalist approach before I buy anything. 

1) is this purchase adding a positive or taking away a negative in my life?

If it is the former then it is not allowed. It is easy to think that adding a nice sweater will make me happier (for about 30 sec) but it is really the false belief that it is adding a positive. If the purchase is taking away a negative, i.e. I have no winter coat so I will buy a good quality winter coat that I will treat well and cherish and wear for years, then I can buy it. 

2) Is this purchase worth my freedom?

Okay, I know what you are thinking. That is a bit over the top. But it isn't. Currently I am a slave to my debt. I will HAVE to work for years and years just to pay off my debt, not just to live, travel, eat, drive...So every dollar I spend is a dollar I am not paying onto my debt, which means I continue to protract my debt repayment servitude. Prolonging my required employment. 

3) Is there room for this item in my life? 

I hate having stuff I don't need or use in my life. I did a giant Mari Kondo purge last year which was so liberating. Now everything I bring into my life has to have a purpose, a physical space. 

4) Is this worth my life energy?

This sounds really flaky, I know. But, you have to listen to "Your Money or Your Life" to get the full gist of this one. It boils down to this; money is what we are given in exchange for working. Work is the concrete expression of our life energy, which is then converted into money. So, essentially when you spend money, you spend your life energy. It's an interesting way to look at money in a more abstract way and to see that our life energy is finite (like our years of existence on the planet) so how do you want to spend that finite resource. 

I know this is a bit of a long post and I am sure that I have lost many readers at this point for a variety of reasons, which I totally accept. I wouldn't have been ready to hear any of this before I was GOOD AND READY and it was seeing the totals at the bottom of the screen on my debt app which really propelled me into action. I also accept that I am probably the stupidest person on the planet when it comes to finances so I am hesitant to even elucidate how I am dealing with my money situation now, though I think I am on a right-ish track. 

I felt the need to write this post though because we are given so little information about any of this as physicians (and just humans in general) that if some of this sparks and interest (or outrage) in any of the readers of this blog then I am beyond delighted. 

I'll keep you posted on my progress and how the process is going.

The devil is in the details.

* I love these guys and their blog and podcast are very high yield when you are on a crash course to minimalism and mindfulness. Unfortunately, in a recent podcast one of them mentioned their chiropractor and the other mentioned his adrenal fatigue. Thus I called into question every ounce of wisdom I had taken from them. I have since reminded myself about the concept of throwing out the baby with the bathwater and have come back to allowing that though I will never never never agree with their non-evidence based pseudoscience quackery promotion, I can accept that in other areas they have valuable information and ideas that are worth considering. 

**Tim Ferris. What can I say. I have a love hate with this guy and what he puts out there. I love his work because it has introduced me to fascinating people who have done extraordinary things with their lives. I hate him because he is annoying and markets himself an expert on everything from matcha tea to exercise to boxing to studying to saturated fats to writing. I just can't. Yet I do, and I hate myself for it.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

It's Geting Dark in Here

So for Christmas Duncan bought be some great books. Maybe true love is someone who knows what books to buy you.

I am currently reading The Antidote: Happiness for people who can't stand positive thinking by Oliver Burkeman and Awake at the Bedside by Koshin Paley Ellison. They are both SO intriguing and thought provoking. I am trying to be monogamous, but it's not working. These books have many overlapping themes and central ideas despite being about very different subjects. I love how they randomly came into my life at the same time.

I never really had any proper training in palliative medicine, which I feel was a major gap in my medical education. Yes, I did 18 weeks of general practice, 15 weeks of internal medicine, 15 weeks of surgery, etc etc. but zero weeks in palliative care during medical school and zero weeks in residency. Weird because, uh...we ALL die. We might dodge the nephrotic syndrome, the massive stroke, the carcinoid metastasis, the glioblastoma, the neck fracture, but we all...die. So why is this universal outcome so ignored and unexplored in medical training? It's absurd really.

I'm left trying to sort out how to manage the physical manifestations of this fact while learning how to listen, problem solve, know when it is not time to problem solve but just listen, juggle oncology telehealth appointments with finding out how to get a ramp made so my patient can get into his house with a wheelchair. It's a clash of the ultimate in existentialism, spirituality, and bowel care. The logistics of continence and difficult discussions and denial and heartbreak weave in and out of daily interactions, most of which I feel woefully inept at.

So I make mistakes. Say things I shouldn't. Extend myself in ways I won't again and retreat in times I should have been present. But I am trying to learn, LISTEN, read, think, reflect, improve.

I've learned that the Ellison book is not for bedtime reading. Unless you want to go attempt sleep with questions like "who do you want with you when you die?" or "what are the fundamentals of a good death and how would you like your death to unfold?" rolling around in your head.

I started this post before going on post-Christmas holidays. I brought so many books with me in the hopes of enlightenment and insight. I read about 2 paragraphs over the 2 weeks. So I am still here, at the same place. But now the pressing paperwork, charting, forms, follow-ups, tasks, notes and labs are pouring in and as usual I find myself mostly living in the "urgent unimportant" world.

So I will leave this for now. A poem that hit the nail on the head for me at a time when I needed it.

The Last Time
Marie Howe

The last time we had dinner together in a restaurant
with white tablecloths, he leaned forward

and took my two hands in his hands and said,
I'm going to die soon. I want you to know that.

And I said, I think you do know.
And he said. What surprises me is that you don't.

And I said, I do. And he said, What?
And I said,  Know that you're going to die.

And he said, No, I mean know that you are.

Saturday, December 24, 2016


Just can't get excited about Christmas this year. All the family is scattered to Hawaii, Australia, and Vancouver Island. I'm on call for the next 10 days here on the frozen prairies.

Shift from hell yesterday. It was like the 12 Days of Christmas Emergencies....12 colds and coughs, 11 migraines ringing....5 abdominal painnnnnnnns, 4 chest pains,  3 hurty ankles,  2 broken legs and a post arrest resuscitationnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

We have a tree, yes. I didn't go too crazy on presents this year, mostly donated money to UNICEF, CBM, The White Helmets and World Vision. I don't know how much those donations actually help or get to the people in need, but I have to tell myself at least a fraction of a donation is better than no donation at all.

Last year Audree (other ESS resident) and I had a big Christmas Eve dinner for all the orphan docs also stuck working over the holidays. It was a blast. Any dinner party that involves two-stepping in the kitchen with one of your attending's kids while others are attempting the final lift from Dirty Dancing in the living room, is a success in my opinion.

I just can't get excited about being here, stressed about being on call, and having no friends or family around for any celebrations. And because I'm on call I can't even drink at this little pity party I'm having for myself !!!

Merry Christmas to all y'all, enjoy a heavily spiked eggnog on my behalf. xx

Thursday, December 22, 2016


I've been thinking a lot about my own mortality lately, which weirdly manifests itself in an anxiety around popcorn. 

I think this is because of the fact that I've had two palliative patients pass away recently and because I've been reading some books on stoicism and mindfulness. 

I was falling asleep a few nights ago when I woke up my already drifting husband,

hon...we only have ONE life....ONE. THIS IS IT!!!

He acknowledged this to be true and in his pragmatic way pointed out that it didn't matter because we wouldn't know anything when it ended anyway.

So, I go to work and try to be my best self and give my best self to my patients. And it's hard and stressful and some days I want to cry with them when they are crying, and some days I do. I mean I don't sob away and use their sleeve to blow my nose, but I let myself have that emotion. And then I get home and man, all I want is popcorn. Yes. Truffle salt and cayenne and nutritional yeast, please, you haven't lived until you've tried my popcorn. But it feels gluttonous and my husband is sliding the Obesity Code my direction with monotonous regularity, encouraging me to read it. He keeps telling me about ketogenesis and podcasts and really, I just want popcorn.


Because, we only have one life. I should enjoy this popcorn now dammit. I could be dead tomorrow. 

But then I get up, and get dressed,  and my jeans are tight.  And I am OFF popcorn dammit. I go to work and see human suffering, and I see this crap shoot of a hand that we are dealt and I have to wonder.

What if it were me that had the molar pregnancy 4 months ago which has now metastasized to my lungs. All of my worries and all these neurosis really boil down to sweet fuck all. 

Having your own mortality pointed out to you at work on a nearly daily basis can really put things into perspective or completely out of perspective, depending on how you look at it.

I didn't have any tonight. For the record.


Wednesday, December 14, 2016

What the hell happened in June?

So this is a weird thing.

I have kind of had the blog in semi-hibernation since starting residency. I wasn't really checking in, or looking at stats at all (for readers and viewers, etc).

But, something weird happened in June. I had this crazy spike in visits in June 2016. And I have no idea why. I can't go back now to see where the source was or if there was some link or story featured.

Just this:

Just wondering if anyone out there has any ideas on where this sudden surge of traffic came from? Was Dr. Grumpy's blog featured on The Daily Show or something? Did I get a shout out on CBC radio 2 ?

Just curious.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Letter To This American Life

Sometimes you need to just take the time. 

I have very little time for reading, even less it seems, for writing. But a recent episode of This American Life was so important to me I forced myself to sit down and write a letter. My mom always reminds me that we fill our days with urgent, unimportant things instead of important, non-urgent things. If you haven't heard the podcast episode, "Once More, With Feeling" especially act two. 
I received a reply today which gave me almost as many gifts as the episode itself. I'll post it later.

I am a huge fan and have been a dedicated listener for years. I treasure many episodes and hold some very close to my heart, but this is the first time I have been so profoundly moved by an episode that I feel the need to write the show.

I don't know how to illustrate my gratitude in a way that gives justice to the insight given to me by this episode.

I have two retired infantry soldiers for brothers. One has done over 10 tours of duty, initially as a mine disarmer and then as a post-blast forensics specialist. He has served with NATO, the UN and the Canadian military in Afghanistan, Bosnia, Cyprus, Yugoslavia, Rwanda, and many places he could never tell us about.

I listened to Once More With Feeling this week while driving to one of the communities in northern Saskatchewan that I work in. It's a long and lonely drive. Several hundred kilometers with no cell reception and it's -35 Celsius right now. I drive with a satellite phone in case of a breakdown. It's dark too, so the podcast keeps me awake and keeps me company.

When it got to Act 2 I was listening with intrigue as I know my brother struggles with PTSD and integrating with normal society now that he's retired. I know that when he got his first holiday in Greece after a few months in Afghanistan he just sat on the beach and didn't speak at all for several days. I know my sister in law has found him sobbing in their closet. I know he vomited once while crossing the lawn of a friend's house in Ottawa because a flashback made him think he was walking, without care or attention, across a minefield.

I drink scotch with him when I visit and he tells me some stories, which my sister in law knows verbatim. And some mornings she'll say, "I never heard that one from last night before". I know he told a story once at a work Christmas party about shooting an Afghan soldier in battle which left everyone speechless and uncomfortable.

As Michael Pitre spoke, it was like I was finally able to see and understand a tiny fraction more of my brother's struggles and his coping strategies in civilian life. Some of what Mr. Pitre said seemed so obvious once he described it, I wondered why I hadn't understood, or picked up on those patterns in my brother before. So there I was, driving and crying and finally understanding things about someone who is so close to me but so hard to get close to on many levels.

My brother is getting counselling now, and his wife tells me he's getting better and better, slowly. But I still feel so much fear and sadness when I hear stories of Vet's who commit suicide or harm others once they are home.

It was such a powerful and important piece for those of us living with friends and family struggling with re-integration. It wasn't exploitative, or indulgent, or sensationalized. It was a beautiful, succinct snapshot.

I am deeply grateful for this episode, and for all the hard work that the staff at TAL put into their work every day. You may never realize how far reaching, truly valuable and life changing the work you do can be for listeners. I hope this shines a little light on that reality for you.

Thank you again.


Saturday, November 26, 2016

If several trees fall in the forest...

We had a huge snow storm in October. 

On the first day heavy wet snow came down in giant flakes. It fell fast and the trees which hadn't yet lost their leaves were weighed down by the sticky clumps. We had a day of respite where the trees stood, just a bit hunched over. The orange and red leaves still clinging to the branches. It looked like frosted sugar icing over all the fall colors.

Snow with that degree of commitment doesn't usually come down so early in the season. Usually we have at least a few weeks of bare branches, frozen grasses and grey skies before snow fall.

But, on the third day it really came down. Again the same heavy giant flakes fell for hours and hours and hours without letting up. It fell all day and continued into the night. The trees became more and more burdened.

During the night the snapping and cracking of bark could be heard throughout the town. Many of us were awoken by the sounds of huge trees giving into the winter weight. The power went out. So many trees had fallen onto power lines that over 10 000 residents of the province woke up to a cold house and a back yard of destruction. Including us.

This weekend we volunteered to work on clearing the cross country ski trails. It was my day off and for once I wasn't on call so I dragged my arse out of bed and then dragged my hubs and pups along.

It was such a fantastic day.

It was the perfect temperature. The dogs were in heaven. It
was exhilarating just to spend a physical day outside, breathing in the scent of pine needles and spruce gum, mixed with the exhaust of the chainsaw.

Brings me ring me right back to skidooing as a kid, being pulled on toboggans, screaming with laughter and forgetting how cold my cheeks felt. Then heading home, warming up, and having the best sleep a kid could ever imagine.

Here are a couple before/after shots of our work (with Monty photobombing, of course). We finished up the 3km and the 5km loop, for now.  Nothing like a day in the woods, working until you're muscles ache, to let you forget about all the work that needs to be done everywhere else in your life.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016


One of my patients died today, and I feel so selfishly devastated.

B was strong, sinewy, and very alive when I met him in November of 2014.

I was a resident working in the ER and we had had a long and very messy code blue. A man found down in the cold, on the side of a quiet gravel road. It looked like he had been walking home alone and had collapsed. His knees were skinned through his faded jeans and it looked like he had vomited blood on himself, the bright red ice crystals clung to his faded grey hoodie. He was dead, frozen stiff. But, as the brutal saying goes, 'you're not dead until you're warm and dead'.

So we committed ourselves to warming this man every way possible, in the hopes that we might bring him back to life. Warm forced air under warm blankets, warm ringers into his shin bones, warm saline through a long needle into his abdominal cavity. We worked on him for a few hours, and eventually the patient was pronounced warm and dead.

My hands felt heavy as I picked up the first chart in the full rack, a glance showing all the non-emergent patients who had arrived while we were busy in the trauma bay. You can't help but think, do any of you really need to be here? That LAST guy needed to be here, HE was an emergency. I just wanted to sit down. I wanted to try and mentally file what had happened. But, there was a chart in my hand and already I was opening the door to the next room.


Oh brother.

Headaches, toothaches, back aches. Drug seekers. T3 refills. I tried to shake the bias that starts creeping in the moment the presenting complaint is read.

B was sitting on the stretcher. He looked like someone who could still run a fast mile, chop more wood than a teenager or two-step until the sun started to streak across the horizon. He looked embarrassed to be there, his wife looked determined. His was an easy smile, hers was a worried face.

Headaches. Getting worse. Never had them before. Worse when he lifted something heavy at work. Feeling...cloudy. Walked around the house for ages trying to find his gloves, only to realize he was wearing them.

I tried to find something, anything on physical exam to bolster the story I was going to have to sell the radiologist in the city in order to get this guy a CT scan. Maybe some papilledema? Was I imagining that? Maybe something off with his gaze convergence? I couldn't hang my hat on anything but a hunch.

My attending was trying to clean up the waiting room full of people while I made calls to ER departments and radiology departments. He was going. He was gone.

I never talked to B again. I saw his CT that afternoon which showed a massive brain tumor, cerebral edema and a midline shift.

I ended up leaving that rotation and losing track of him. I couldn't remember which attending I'd been working with that day. I updated my phone and lost my notes, one of which was his health card number so I couldn't look up his imaging. I thought about him and his wife often and wondered what had happened and how things had gone for him.

And then I found out.

I came into work last week for hospitalist rounds and as I'm settling in to start my morning the nurse tells me, oh you had one admission during the night, a guy with a brain tumor who is here for IV steroids.

I knew it was him. I turned to the stack of charts and saw his name. I know him!

I headed down to his room and open the door. I was still in my scrubs and OR cap from an early morning case. His wife was sitting by the bed. I introduced myself and she greeted me politely.

"We've actually met might not remember me..."

She slightly cocked her head before her eyes widened a bit and she replied,

"Two years We met you two years ago today."

I felt the hairs on my arms rise.

We exchanged stories of how we'd each lost track but hoped we'd somehow meet again. We let our eyes rim with tears at various points in the telling of the journey. B was settled in the bed and though he didn't open his eyes or say any words, his big hand squeezed mine when I grasped his. He still looked well. It was so incongruous. He didn't look faded into the bed, or sallow, or weak. He looked like he was having a quick kip before heading out to hockey practice.

I visited them daily and got to meet his kids, and hear about his grandchildren. Over the weekend he went to the city for further treatment. A hail Mary, so to speak. I kept in touch with his wife while they were out of town, just to check in. Things weren't looking good.

This morning, I woke up just after 5am. I couldn't sleep. I came into the lounge to try and get some reading done for an upcoming course. Shortly after 6am I received a text.

B had passed.

She thanked me for my part in their journey with a beautifully written note. It didn't seem right to cry, but it didn't seem right not too. As I got ready for work I tried to listen to some distracting music. Tears fell into my sink, onto my bathroom counter.

Caring for patients and their families has unexpected side roads. These paths are not on of the map of our training, and no one tells you how to navigate them. No one can guide you or tell you when the road will suddenly become bumpy, or if it will lead you to the most amazing panoramic you can imagine.

Tonight it seems those roads are often one in the same.

Sunday, November 13, 2016


A few years ago I had the (crazy, surreal, amazing) fortunate experience of spending some time with Abraham Verghese.

You know how people say you shouldn't meet your hero because they will inevitably disappoint?

That is not always true, turns out. He is actually precisely what I thought he would be; articulate, measured, polite, engaging, interesting, and a good cook. We talked a lot about books, and writing, and medicine. He even said he read my blog (!!!) which was flattering and intimidating at the same time. But he said one thing which still rings in my head, something to the effect of "I couldn't write a blog, it would take me so long to feel like something was ready to post. I'd want to edit it and rework it and I just know it would take me so long to feel like it was good enough to publish, ready to be put out there".


Well, I hadn't thought of blog postings that way before. I mean, sure, I hope that there are no glaring spelling mistakes or complete violations of the rules of grammar, but I had always just written something and then posted it. I also know he is a world renowned, famous author so he can't just throw a random GIF up there with "Happy Saturday" and expect his readers to appreciate it, but still.

So I currently lie awake at night thinking of things I want to write about on the blog. And then I wonder if I should write a draft then send it to my mom (retired English teacher and editor) then rework it, marinate in it for a while, rewrite, send back to mom, then post. The rumination makes me tired and by the end of this thought cycle I am asleep. Which I suppose is a good thing, since I am usually an insomniac. But it paralyses me from writing at all.

October whizzed by in a September-like fashion. I pulled a 21 day straight stint which had some ups and a few big downs. So much for "taking time for myself" etc. Why is it that when you start as an attending you're cursed? I've said, "Well I never saw THIS as a resident" more often in the past couple of months than I'd ever admit. The other new attending and I often pass each other at the hospital with mummified expressions that betray our lack of sleep muttering "curse of the new attending" between us. We tried to have wine together one night to commiserate but didn't even finish the bottle before our yawning took over the conversation completely.

Most of the time, I am just terrified. I woke up one night with a start, my heart was racing and I felt this rush of panic, "shit, I'm on call" check my phone, no missed calls, there was nothing to panic about. My breathing was fast and I couldn't seem to get myself to calm down. I thought, "Am I having a panic attack? WTF? This is awful!" My stomach was in an unrelenting knot for days and I had the worst flare up of eczema I've experienced in my life. I was actually considering blood work because I was scratching my legs so forcefully in my sleep that I developed these multicolored blooming bruises everywhere, giving the appearance of scabies AND a clotting disorder. Apthous ulcers made eating and drinking so painful I was trying to chew/slurp on one side of my mouth. Coupled with the near compulsive hand scratching (oh, the joys of dyshidrotic eczema) I am quite sure I looked like a spectacle to my new colleagues most days.

I texted one of my surgical attendings from last year. "Did you have resting tachycardia the year you were a new attending?" Her reply, "the first two years".

Great. Well, I have certainly reached the promised land of being an attending.

A nurse recently asked me (after I had scoped all day, scurried home to eat and then returned for my 12hr ER night shift), "Are you glad you went back and did medicine? I am thinking of doing that".

Cue deep intake of breath.

I remember vividly all the negative input I received from people when I told them I was thinking of going back to school to become a physician. I remember it so clearly because it occurred with monotonous regularity. I don't want to be one of those people to someone else.

"Oh you don't want to have a life?" "I wanted to do medicine but I chose a life and a family instead" "Why would you ever want to ruin your life and get that much in debt?" "Getting in is basically impossible" "Have you written the MCAT? You'll never get a high enough mark to get in". Etc. Etc. Etc. Those are just a handful of my favorites.

But looking back now, these comments weren't completely off base. I take a look at what I've gone through in the last 8 years on this tumultuous journey. I see where I am and what my life is now. I am not sure that I am glad about becoming a physician. When asked about my decision to go back and study medicine, I genuinely answer, "Ask me in 10 years" because I feel that by then I can more accurately assess the pros and cons. Right now the "cons" list is pretty heavy.

I wanted to be a doctor because my Grandad was a doctor, and he was my hero. But now that I am older and can take a wider lens to my perception of him I realize he was also a farmer, a voracious reader, a world traveller, a philosopher.

Abraham Verghese, Atul Gawande, Jerome Groopman, Walt Lillehei, and Kevin Patterson, Brian Goldman are a few more of my heroes, not because they are doctors but because they inspire me by what they've done in addition to (or despite) being doctors.

I can't ask most of my heroes how they came to find the time and energy and inspiration to do the things they've accomplished in their lives. I'm still in survival mode right now but things will hopefully settle in the next few months and I can re-calibrate and re-introduce myself to the things I enjoyed doing. If medicine remains the only thing in my now-one-dimensional life I know I'll burn out fast.  I'll find those things that inspire me again and start putting my energies into those things as well. And keep the betaderm handy.