Searching for Mrs. Welby

Life is good....is so cliche.

I am officially a cliche.

I am a 38 year old woman. I am overeducated and unemployed. I am overweight and understimulated.

I have 2 kids. I drive a minivan.

I do Pilates. I do yoga. I belong to the YMCA but never go. I just bought new running shoes. I am going to train for a 10K.

I just bought at least a dozen new age self help books. I also just bought a bunch of herbs and vitamins. I am going to the Omega Institute this month. My workshop is about seeking the meaning of life.

I clip coupons. I stash leftover grocery money in a savings account. I argue with the bank about fees. I bought Suze Orman's book. I went on the Suze Orman show. I was denied.

I dream of going to or on Oprah. I love Oprah. I love Oprah's book club.

I am in a book club. I love my book club. My book club loves wine. I used to love wine. White wine now causes a hangover with vomiting. I also love vodka. I love vodka with diet tonic.

Life is good.

The money's nice....don't spend it all on therapy

Medical training could parallel things like fraternity hazing, a Jim Jones-esque cult, or, in some cases, Jihad training camp.

At whatever extreme level the training was, there will need to be some "de-programming."

Word of advice: don't try this alone, you will not succeed.

Dr. Arm and I have lucked out. We stumbled upon a counselor. This guy is The Guy that the Medical Board sends people to for anger management. There is little that shocks This Guy.

At first you may think you are simply paying someone to say the things you have been saying for your entire marriage the last few years. Such things as:

• "a day off here and there would be very beneficial" 

• "quality time with your kids could mean a 10 minute game of catch"

• "the things your wife does are pretty amazing"

• "life can be more than just work and complaining about it"

And you may pay for about 4 months of therapy before anything sinks in at all. But the day it does, you'll be happy to write a check for double the amount you've already paid.

I recommend trying to plan therapy sessions around your peak level of PMS. The issues will never seem as crystal clear as the 3-4 days before your period.

I recommend stifling any "I told you so" or "Hellloooooooo! That's what I've been telling you this whole time, Dumbass" statements. Save those for your girlfriend therapy sessions.

I also recommend a few therapy sessions where you just shut up. Stop talking. Listen. Your Doctor is not the only one who needs some de-programming. Your Doctor may actually say things that are honest and true that you hear for the very first time. He's probably said them before but they were drowned out by Facebook, the phone, or whining (yours, your kids, silent or aloud).

So when Your Doctor starts making The Big Bucks, set aside a little chunk for the therapist. Keep it as a budget line item until the merge with normal life seems more normal. Until you are convinced that the brainwashing has been de-programmed.

Reflections of Marley & Me

[Forgive me friend (you know who you are), I just felt I needed to post this for others.]

 

An email I sent to a wonderful woman, was not myself but we are alike in many ways......

 

I watched Marley & Me last night. Not sure if you have seen/read it.

 

There is a part when they are on the beach and he says to Marley, "did you get everything you wanted?" The man is approaching his 40th birthday.

 

So for many reasons, the movie brought up lots of "issues." But I'm trying to think of them as opportunities.

 

We are on the fence about trying for baby #3.

 

My thoughts are I am too tired. I intellectualize by thinking of the genetic risks. I think about when am I getting my "real life" back.

 

But then I think there has never been a time when I felt more powerless but came out of it knowing exactly who I am and how powerful I am. I fear very little now.

 

There has never been a moment where I questioned or doubted my relationship between myself and my child. I  have never been able to give so willingly of myself to another human. Untrue of most other relationships with adults.

 

I thought of you when these issues came up. Not to over analyze and put something on you that may not be true but these are my thoughts....

 

You like being in control. You define yourself by what you say and do. This is intellectually driven. Sometimes it is hard for you to be guided entirely by your heart when it comes to a relationship with another person. You don't want to ever end up lost or dependent on someone else. So, flip these around....

 

Pregnancy and parenting force you to take what comes, you have no control. You are no longer defined by your external actions in the public eye. In fact, you may lose all external validation for a period of time. You become emotionally driven. You can intellectualize all you want but parenting comes from somewhere else. The books will never tell you what is the best thing for you and your child, the professionals can only help so much. You will be lost, many times. Someone is completely dependent on you for about 2 years.

 

In sum, becoming a parent forces you to face those things you may have spent the last 39 years building up very effective coping mechanisms against.

 

You are a highly functional woman and will live a wonderful life no matter what happens to you.

 

If you decide to become a mother, it will change your course forever.

 

This does not change it for the worse. It's just a foreign place. It's just scary. It takes your breath away and can rip your heart out.

 

But, as with anything I've ever seen you do, or known you to do, you pick yourself up. You look inside. You say Godammit I CAN do this. And, a whole new world may open to you. And you will love yourself.

5:24pm Thursday

As I look back to 3:33pm Tuesday, I am compelled to search my bathroom. Searching for whatever substance, most certainly illegal, could have induced such domestic delirium. Who was that psycho Pollyanna bitch?

Because, now, at 5:24pm Thursday, I sit in my kitchen. I sit here because I am NOT on an airplane to Nashville with Dr. Arm. I sit here because my 2 year old has a fever and my in-laws did a U-turn on I-95 when they heard about it. Just when you think you can escape.

Okay, the fever was 103, and it has been vacillating between 99 and 101, off and on, for the last 10 days. But we all know how these things are, he'll probably be completely well by tomorrow. My in-laws are weak. I am stocked with Tylenol and Motrin. Keep it flowin' and he'll be tolerable. Love of grandchildren should rise above minor viral infections right?

Friday in Nashville, the day I will not have. The day that was supposed to consist of kick ass yoga with my most bootylicious yoga dude of days gone by. Yoga, followed by a facial and a pedicure. Then, shopping and lunch with old friends. This, followed by NOTHING. No schedule, no carpool, no naptimes, nothing and no one for 3 hours.

Bottom line here:  parenthood. You get pregnant and deliver a baby, you're on your own. He or she is YOURS. Yet it takes so many lessons to learn this. As loud as the whining is in my head about not going, there is a louder voice screaming "GROW UP SUCKA." (Funny, that same voice sometimes speaks out loud and screams the same friggin thing to Dr. Arm.)

I've got to grow up. Suck it up. This is life. I am a whiner. A very spoiled whiner. A whiner with two mini-whiners in the other room eating leftover pizza and watching Bolt. (Yes at the SAME time, need you wonder? I put towels down so they wouldn't ruin the new rug, 'KAY???!!!!???)

A whiner, who, just prior to writing this, decided it was 5:20pm, time to open a very nice Cabernet. That should complement the leftover leftover pizza (you know, the scraps the kids didn't eat)?

Yea. Pretty close to how it would have complemented my filet at The Palm steakhouse in downtown Nashville.

Oh crap, there's the voice again.

Trailer Wife

When you are a Trailer Wife ('cause that's just funnier than calling it a Trailing Spouse), you'd better get some thick skin asap. You see, for the Employed Spouse (in my case the Physician Spouse) it's the same old shit, different place. They really have no idea where they live. Typically they drive about 3 routes: to/from work, to/from Starbucks, to/from Home Depot.

Honestly, Dr. Arm could have done residency in Oregon or Louisiana and not known the difference. Rarely could he recite his home address without at least a 5 second delay. Of course, we had the opportunity to move 5 times during the entire internship, residency, fellowship, and fellowship journey.

Most hospitals and departments are the same inside. Same lighting, same push button doors, same vending machines, same scrubs, same parking deck. And at every one of them you'll find a similar cast of characters: the Super Ego Attending, the Newer Physician Who Cares, the Unreachable Jackass Attending, the Sweet Department Secretary Who Thinks Knows They Are All Just Adolescents, the Bitchy Nurse, the Loudmouth Unit Secretary, the Old Lady At the Info Desk, the Glazed Over Parking Deck Attendant, the Nice But Could Save Your Life Security Guard, and the Questionably Alcoholic Chairman's Wife. It's practically Plug and Play for the Physician Spouse.

But for the Trailer Wife....she has to navigate the new grocery store, the new dentist, the new veterinarian, the new hair salon, the new babysitters, the new drivers license office, the new car mechanic, the new neighbors, and the new schools. It is she who gets stared at when she speaks out loud with her Southern accent in the middle of Philadelphia. She who has to ask a million times exactly how the commuter train routing system works and receive the annoyed and perhaps unintelligible answer from the SEPTA employee. She who has to bargain her way into a job that may or may not last more than a year. And if she's reeeeeeaaaaallllyyyy lucky, she'll get to pack it up again and again for 3 years in a row. Oh yea, and have a couple of kids in there too.

So for anyone reading in the mortgage industry, think about changing that name. The Trailing Spouse doesn't provide an accurate description. It implies a passive, following person who is just along for the ride.

And so perhaps Trailer Wife is a better name? At least that may imply an "Annie get your gun" kind of woman who could pick up and move at any time.

3:33pm Tuesday

My mom's lucky number is 3. As I sat in front of the laptop, I took that as a sign to begin typing.

What prompted me to write is that I actually made up a recipe today. Yes, from scratch, from things in my fridge/pantry. And it tastes good! And I've done 2 loads of laundry and put clean sheets on the bed. And I found a new recipe for curried cauliflower and chickpeas that I'm excited to make.

And......I'm happy about it. I feel like Martha would welcome me to lunch with her and sip iced tea on her patio.

Does it really take this long for someone to get used to being At Home? And to like it?

Seriously, for years I've looked at friends and thought they were crazy, drugged, or had so much money they just didn't care that they weren't "working." I could not figure out why they enjoyed themselves. (Now, mind you they were also past the toddler stage in parenting.) Every time I was "at home" I was thinking about how much it sucked, how I got no credit for all the shit I did, why it was depressing to wear jeans and sweats every day, mourn the loss of my clothes in the dry cleaning pile, and what my next move was to get my real career going.

Yes, I've gone soft. I've caved. All my education just decorating the wall of our playroom.

But at least for today, I feel in front of the 8 ball, I feel rewarded for all the shit I do around here. Like maybe all I needed is just to be proud of doing a good job on just a few things, not the most supercalifragilisticexpialidocious job on every single thing on my radar.

Oh good....now would you look at that.... I only have 68 minutes until happy hour.

I knew it....fire sale in my ovaries

Warning....TMI about to commence....

My suspicions have been confirmed. I KNEW it was too good to be true. 28 day cycles are not normal for me. But I have been enjoying them for the last 18 months or so.

What I have not been enjoying, is the WICKED PMS I've had.

And it seems all the jokes I've made about early menopause are a kind of subconscious thing.

http://www.womens-health-questions.com/early-signs-of-menopause.html

"Sale on eggs!"

"The economy has reached hormonal levels."

"Going out of business!"

"Everything MUST go!"

A letter on inauguration day....

My dear wife,

We are about to begin on a long journey. I have some idea what to expect but you never know until you've walked the walk. Thank you for sticking by me through the last few years of hard work and taking chances.

The next few years will no doubt change us. For me, I am sure I will encounter times of great struggle, times where I feel people are against me, times of failure, but also times of triumph. I will be afraid at times, and I will be proud at times. 

My job will keep me away from you for long days and nights. I'm sure there will be much uncertainty.  Holidays may not get celebrated on the actual day. Birthday and anniversary plans may be cancelled at the last minute.

I hope you can find support from the community to help you when I am unable. I want you to be safe and to find a place you belong. I'd like to say "we" but I am afraid to promise too much.

I'm dedicating my life to serving others. To a constant and steep learning curve. I need you with me on the journey. Know that at the bottom of whatever mess this becomes, you mean the world to me. Never doubt that.

I love you,

Dr. Arm

*********

Now I would bet Barack Obama sent some kind of letter like that to Michelle. Actually, he probably did it over candelight and roses.

If you know anyone about to begin residency, feel free to copy and send as a template for him/her to give to their spouse.

I doubt many spouses of physicians get this kind of affirmation prior to the start of medical training.

Not that being a doctor is exactly like being the president but both certainly put a spouse in a secondary position. A place where you can become really lonely. Finding some tangible evidence that you were once "normal" would be nice to have.

I wish I could say it changes once "real life" begins.

I have saved all the little cards and notes from days gone by. Good thing I did. And I guess, added up, they all say what I imagine Barack said to Michelle 2 nights ago.

Chinese Fortune

"The hard times will begin to fade. Joy will take their place."

This was Dr. Arm's fortune cookie not too long ago. I've had it taped above my kitchen sink.

I've decided it is time to allow joy to take its place. For a long time I've allowed other things, not so positive to take more than their share of space in my head and heart. It was energy but maybe not the right kind.

Ever since we moved to our "real" life, I've felt a bit misplaced. Like, what exactly do I do now? What is it I "do" here in this new town, new life. It felt lost and weird. Nothing to push for, nothing to push against. An uncomfortable place to be after so many years of living for another time and place.

So it's a new year almost. I'm not going to make any resolutions here. That would be something to push for, right?

The universe has offered glimpses of the things that bring joy. And I am awed and grateful that I am in a place I can receive those things. Finding joy in helping families at Ronald McDonald House. Finding beauty in beautiful surroundings. Finding joy in movement. Finding joy in artistic expression. Wherever, whenever, I'm going to seek it and allow it.

So as I pound water and brew coffee as I embark on our fancy pants new years eve, I'm open to whatever comes.

Joy, and the certain hangover I'll have tomorrow.

Remind me to be "open" to the sunrise and early laughter of two children.......

A gift from Mrs. Arm

Mrs. Arm (Dr. Arm's mother) fancies herself a Crafty Lady. She loves mauve and lace, glue guns and glitter. She plants plastic flowers in her yard, outside. She hangs bird feeders with fake birds, inside.

She recently sent me a box with this inside:

 

   

 

If there was a way I could post a smell, I would. But I'll describe it as the aroma of pure toluene. Enough toxic fumes to make my eyes water. It's a miracle Mrs. Arm is still conscious after this craft frenzy.

Obviously, she'll expect to see these, all 42 of them, on our tree next week. 

What would you do?

What would Jesus do?

What am I going to do?