Searching for Mrs. Welby

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.

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.

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.

Hypochondria

Every now and then I have a tendency toward hypochondria. Perhaps it is a learned behavior from my dad who is perfectly healthy and fit but gets "executive physicals" at Mayo every year and tracks his Lp(a) on a spreadsheet. Perhaps I watch too much House. Perhaps it is a deep seated psychosis that if I DID end up as a medical mystery, I would have Dr. Arm's full and complete attention? Whatever it is, I am currently suspicious.

The tipping point was a recent dental issue. I have prided myself on my oral hygine. I floss almost daily and brush at least twice. Now as a casualty of moving every year for 3 years, I just couldn't muster the energy to find a new dentist every 12 months. I banked on my sparkling records.

Three months ago my gums started bleeding when I flossed. Then when I brushed. Then, while on vacation, I had a dull ache in my back molars. So I stopped flossing.

I saw a dentist on Monday. I left feeling like a decrepit homeless person. I could sense the disgust in her voice when she asked, "when was your last cleaning?" The x-ray revealed nothing. She poked and prodded and prescribed me a vile mouthwash for 2 weeks. Then told the front desk to schedule me for a cleaning "ASAP."  I feel as though I have crabs.

So, left alone most of the weekend since Dr. Arm was on call, I began to go through my list of ailments over the years. Three years ago, the wacked out menstrual cycles. Two years ago, the bleeding but negative mammogram. Then, suddenly completely regular menstrual cycles since then, but with the recent development of raging PMS.

And now, (whisper it please!!!) gingivitis. Yes, I have it. I know, seriously, I should just relax.

But I keep thinking back to 7th grade science when we learned some mnemonic about cancer signs. Of course, I can't remember it and am unable to find it by Googling. I do remember "a sore that won't heal."

What if it's all connected? What if I have some pituitary tumor? Or some tumor on some other endocrine gland? Something that has shifted hormones and neurotransmitters? Thus changing the chemical balance in my saliva glands? Resulting in this more obvious sign?

I need to get out more. Or at least get my teeth cleaned from here on out.

And I'm blue

Oh so blue...I'm blue

I've been told I'm not so pink lately. If being told you are not cheerful and delightful to return home to means not so pink.

Possibly I'd be pink, perhaps even do my "pink jobs" better if I wasn't also doing so many of the "blue jobs" around here.

In the last 10 days I have seeded and fertilized the yard, put sprinklers out each day, dug trenches in the yard to help with our storm water drainage problem, bought a 1 gallon gasoline tank, mixed the correct amount of oil and gas for the leaf blower, filled the blower with this mixture, blown and raked the yard (twice), pruned 2 trees, hauled it all to the curb, loaded my minivan with 2 kids and a whole vanload of rotten wood and taken it to the landfill, attached 2 bookshelves to the wall with the anti-tip kits, removed cabinet doors in our laundry room, and re-installed a carpet runner to our stairs.

I think that's it. At least those are the blue jobs.

Need I even list the pink jobs? I have 2 kids and a dog. All of whom have had major diarrhea attacks in the last 2 weeks. Yea, I had pink jobs too.

Oh, and let's not forget those white (as in white collar) jobs....bill paying, retirement planning, health insurance transactions. I'm sure you can guess who is doing those.

So, too much blue, quite enough pink, mixed with white. I guess the entire suite of jobs should be called lavender?

Not so fond of lavender.

Good impressions

For all those times someone has caught me:

• yelling at my kids

• wiping my kids' boogers on my own shirt

• asking my child to remove his hands from inside his pants

• with glasses on, rain-induced afro, and lime green Crocs at the grocery store

• just after an eyebrow or lip waxing appointment

I have had a breakthrough.

The department chair's wife happened to be sitting at the counter of the UPS store. The same store I decided to take 2 trash bags worth of packing peanuts in to be recycled.

"What a wonderful idea!" she exclaimed.

"Oh helloooooo, Mrs. Chairman's Name. Yes, it's Mrs. Arm, so nice to see you again. Oh, this, yes ma'am, its just something I always do." [huge smile, shoulder shrug]

And to top it off, I had on a white blouse, jeans, eye make up, lipstick, a cool Chinese necklace, and clogs.

I was wearing glasses though.

Diploma, diploma on the floor....

We had lunch with Dr. Arm at the hospital today. The boys got to see his office for the first time. It was my second time. This time, it was all prettied up, books on shelves, picture frames, and an eye-popping display of diplomas. When you are ridiculously over-educated, you get a shit pile of diplomas or other certificates to wave in people's faces.

Now really I am proud. Really. It is his time. He needs to feel the glory. Reeeeaaallllyyyyyy.

However (and you knew this was coming), I felt a pang of jealousy.

Two years ago, I had a sweet office with walls. Walls with big fat diplomas, certificates, plaques, and f-ing oil paintings. Honor societies, appreciations, cum-fing-laudes if I do say so myself. Those diplomas really do work to boost your self esteem, to remind you of your efforts and achievements.

Two days ago, I took a pile of framed things up to the attic. But left my diplomas sitting in the dining room on the floor.

What to do with them? Kind of weird in a living room. But I have a MASTERS from an IVY LEAGUE for crying out loud! Shove that declaration in the attic, I say not. But seriously, where? The kitchen? The playroom? Inappropriate.

If I did hang them in a public room would it be a mockery? A mausoleum? No, because I do know I'm doing important work around here. But we all know the kind of public recognition you get for this work. Stains on your shirts and wash and wear haircuts.

My diplomas will have to sit there a little while longer. At least until we get an actual dining room table. Maybe by then I will have figured out who I am and what the crap I'm doing now that Dr. Arm is a real doctor.

Dear First Patient,

Dear First Patient,

You are only 13 years old. You broke both your arm bones falling off a trampoline. You and your parents did not know you were my husband's very first "real" patient.

Other things you did not know are that he is not specifically trained in pediatrics, that your case was a complete suprise, that he was not prepared on his first day like normal (he likes to read up on things before cutting people open), that he was practically crying when he called me on the way to the hospital, that his boss told him to use flexible nails that he had not used in 5 years, that he made the OR staff wait so he could come meet you and your family face-to-face, that he'd never set foot in the pediatric OR, and that he almost threw up while scrubbing in.

You would be pleased to know that he pulled it together, asked for help from the masterful OR nurses, took a lot of time, used a plate instead of the flexible nails (an outdated technique), fixed you properly, closed your incision site skillfully, and walked away with a smile and a job well done.

I hope your arm heals beautifully. Your arm break was my husband's break from the past. Keep us posted. We'll always remember you.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Welby

Cats In The Cradle

A child arrived just the other day,
came to the world in the usual way,
But there were planes to catch
and bills to pay, he learned to walk while I was away
He was talking before I knew it and as he grew
he said I'm going to be like you Dad,
you know I'm going to be like you.

Chorus :
And the cat's in the cradle,
and the silver spoon, Little Boy Blue,
and the Man in the Moon,
When you coming home son, I don't know when
We'll get together then, you know we'll have a good time then.

My son turned 10 just the other day,
Said thanks for the ball now c'mon let's play
Will you teach me to throw, I said not today,
I've got a lot to do, he said that's ok
And he walked away and he smiled and he said
You know I'm going to be like you, Dad,
you know I'm going to be like you. 
 

He came from college just the other day,
so much like a man I just had to say,
I'm proud of you, won't you sit for a while
He shook his head and said with a smile,
What I'm feeling like, Dad, is to borrow the car keys
See you later can I have them please. 
 

I've long since retired and my son's moved away
I called him up just the other day
I'd like to see you, if you don't mind
He said I'd love to Dad, if I could find the time
You see my new job's a hassle and the kids have the flu
But it's sure nice talking you Dad, it's been real nice talking to you.
And as I hung up the phone it occured to me
He'd grown up just like me, my boy was just like me.

Two weeks off!!!

Dr. Arm finished his fellowship July 31st. The next 14 days he was scheduled to be off.

And sure, he was "off."

Except for:

• calling the licensing board a dozen times
• getting his photo ID and headshot made
• spending 2 hours with employee benefits
• attending a 3 hour OSHA training class
• setting up his new office 
• taking an online test to permit him to the dissection lab
• dissecting several rats to practice microsurgery
• reviewing and resubmitting a research paper FROM 2 YEARS AGO
• writing a chapter with his fellowship director FROM 1 YEAR AGO
• reading 4 journal articles and attending journal club

I can't wait for him to start work.