The Doctor, the Cucumber and the Vagina

It was three a.m. and my pager awakened me, like fingernails down a blackboard. It was the emergency room, again. I rounded up the gaggle of medical students (a.k.a. the EBUs ─ ego building units) for an educational experience, because that’s what medical school memories are made of: late night trips to the E.R. with a bitchy resident. Conveniently, all three were named Steve (OK, I named them that, so convenient for me). Off I went, the Steve’s trailing after me like a comet tail.

“She said she’ll only see the gynecologist,” the emergency room attending smirked. The Steves quaked. What kind of patient would have that bravado, to raise the chief resident from her slumber? Like waking the Kraken. I rolled my eyes and grabbed the chart.

As I performed the exam one of the Steves hit the ground. I couldn’t tell if it was because he saw his first real-live vagina or because of what I’d pulled out of it: a cucumber, a peeled cucumber. Not an English cucumber of course (now that would be something), more like a pickled cuke. 

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Ode to Apple’s Steve Jobs & the iPhone

Dear Steve,

I am writing to profess my love.  No, not in a carnal way, you are nice looking and all, but are not my type.  I am also happily married, or as happily married as any 40-ish mother of two small children can be.  This also isn’t one of those Mac vs. PC things.  I must apologize in advance when I tell you that apart from the fact that my MacBook has no right click and the key to the universe is not CTRL-ALT-DELETE, I do not have the foggiest idea about the difference between the two.  As long as the screen comes on and my documents are where I left them, I am happy.

No, I love you because you invented the iPhone.  And not because I talk on my cell very much, or listen to music, watch videos, or play games (although I do admit that light saber applet is way cool!).  I love you because the iPhone is helping me lose weight, and before you even ask the question, yes, for every 40-ish mother of two it all boils down to the muffin top.

With a few swipes and taps I can track calories, exercise, and chart my progress (oh yes, there has been progress!).  Sure, I am the one lugging my ass out of bed three mornings a week to hit the gym, but until you came along my efforts at tracking food consumption usually ended around 10 am.  I have known all along that journaling is one of the keys to weight loss, but those little pieces of paper were so conveniently easy to loose.   Studies (and I am a doctor, so I read the studies) show dieters consume 1,000 more calories a day when they don’t write everything down; it is easy to eyeball incorrectly (sure, that’s only a half a cup of pasta) and “forget” the handful of chocolate kisses.  However, my iPhone not only demands precision, but entering the data is easy, and trust me, I am not going to loose it.

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What Your Pubic Hair Says About You

Nothing says political extremism more than a full muff.  

Ladies supporting the au natural look were high school mathletes or members of the Jesus Crew.  Now that they are all grown up they are waving placards at each other about abortion on the steps of Capitol Hill. 

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Gynecology 101

After much reflection I have finally deduced that my mother may have affected my decision to become a gynecologist.  

I suppose if I were so inclined I would have previously spent a lot of money on psychoanalysis, but I can’t bear the thought.  It is not that I am a Scientologist; I just think a lot of problems can be solved in the shoe department at Nordstrom’s.  

Your shoes will always be there for you.  So I had this revelation while meditating on the latest Kate Spades.

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The Color of Purple

October is breast cancer awareness month, and rightly so; in the U.S. this cancer affects 250,000 women every year.  To increase screening and raise money for a cure there are pink ribbons and wristbands to wear, pink products to buy, and pink races to run.  But you may not know that is October is also domestic violence awareness month and purple is the color representing the 1.5 million women victimized every year. 

Purple, like a bruise.

For me, all this pink highlights the absence of purple.  Domestic violence gets very little public recognition and I want to know why? 

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Wallpaper Flowers Childhood Memories

My boys are breathless as we burst into my mother’s house after a day of travel.  Every five minutes the question was the same. “Were you a little girl at grandma’s house?” Their faces almost split with delight when they hear the same answer over and over.  They are incredulous at the thought. 

They race up the stairs and I am hot on their heels.  We survey my old bedroom as if it is an architectural find of monumental significance.  Little voices squeal with excitement like archeologists discovering new species. “Was this your bed, Momma?” “Did you play here?” “Where are your toys?” 

As we tour I see nothing familiar remains except my matching white little-girl chest of drawers and bedside table. I slowly run my fingers over the wood and am startled by the familiar roughness of the chipped paint.  It is only then I notice the walls are white; the wallpaper with the yellow stripes and flowers is gone.

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Hell is the Place Where I Grew Up

I have just returned from the seventh layer of hell. Winnipeg, Canada. It would not be so bad except the devil herself lives there, my mother.

When people ask if she is still alive I respond with a smile, “Yes, evil never dies.” I am too harsh you suggest. Well, as I struggled in the door with two exhausted five-year-olds and a suitcase of epic proportions, I was greeted with the always welcome dissecting look and the ever familiar one-two of, “You look less heavy,” and “Is that hair on your top lip?”

There is no real physical contact, God forbid. I mean we are British: the air kiss will suffice thank-you-very-much. My mother is a perfect combination of Ursula the sea witch and Miss Havisham.

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You Never, Ever Get Over It, But You Try To Move Forward

Sometimes I dream that I am falling.

There is never any bottom to this well.

I am falling into blackness.  In slow motion down the rabbit hole but instead of jars of marmalade and lovely tins — there are flashes of a life that was supposed to be.

When I lost my son I thought I would die. 

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My Independent Son Overcomes All

Thump, thump, kerthump.  Thump, thump, kerthump.

There is a strange sound emanating from the hallway.  More like a series of thuds punctuated by an odd, louder noise.  It is a narrow hallway, not a lot of room for a five-year old to create too much havoc.  I close my eyes and try to visualize the responsible sequence of events when the rhythm is interrupted by a much louder sound.  Kersplat!  I feel the house shake – a child has fallen against the wall.  I listen intently but no one is crying.  After a brief pause the sounds continue.

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The Unbearable Pain of Losing a Child

It is very difficult for other people to understand your grief when you lose a baby from a multiple pregnancy. 

Family, friends, and even physicians somehow think that the pain of the loss is somehow softened by the fact that there is still one or more babies that remain: like some kind of consolation prize. 

The thing is, you bond with your babies, not some generic pregnancy.  I could tell there were three distinct personalities almost as soon I could feel them move and correctly identified my troublemaker at only twenty-two weeks!

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