The Old

I've discovered a longing in myself to write about my 3rd-year experiences. I've never been a very good journal keeper (unlike my sister, who has kept journals faithfully almost her entire life), but I do occasionally feel the need for some form of written catharsis, or maybe just a self-actualization of what I'm currently feeling. I don't know what it is. But the point is that I don't have the energy (or time) to make myself a separate blog for med school tales. And since this blog is technically about being a mom and a med student, I'll just talk about my stuff in the same space.

I'm currently on my 3rd rotation of my 3rd year. If I have the time/inclination, I'll go back and talk about how my first 2 rotations, OB/GYN and anesthesiology, went, but right now I want to talk about this rotation. I'm on geriatrics, which is a 4-wk rotation, and I'm currently in my 3rd week. The 1st 2 weeks were spent at the local VA hospital, taking care of inpatients. It was an interesting time. I liked it, compared to Anesth., because I felt involved in patient care again, and I got to actually interact with patients, which is part of the whole reason I came to medical school. I had a mighty 2 patients for the entire 2 weeks, one of whom was discharged my 2nd day on the service. But that was ok, it gave me time to learn about my patient's various diagnoses, and it also gave me time to learn about the patient himself. But I was looking forward to the last 2 weeks of the rotation, which are spent in outpatient care.

Outpatient care on the geriatrics service covers a lot. So far, in my 2 days on this service, I've toured an adult day care center, made home visits with a geriatrician, seen patients in the geriatric clinic at my university, and visited hospice patients in a nursing home. The functional levels and living situations of these patients has varied widely, and the personalities of the patients I saw were also varied and highly memorable. There was the gentleman who couldn't hear a word I said, but who would insist, whenever I paused for breath, that we'd all "taken real good care" of him. There was the lady who dealt with the disfigurement of the treatment for her breast cancer by joking "If I were on that 'Girls Gone Wild', man, they'd be surprised!" There was the lady who thought I was her daughter, and kept telling me she loved me and that I'd always been good to her, and if I could just find her blue skirt, she'd be happy again. There was the couple in their 80s who told me about how much they loved to travel, and about their frequent trips to Mexico and Israel and Europe. And there was the man who insisted the med school had sent their model to take care of him (I'll let you guess who was my favorite...).

I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed my afternoon spent caring for hospice patients at a nursing home. I've heard from a lot of fellow students that they just don't care much for elderly people, and that nursing homes creep them out, and that they get impatient when listening to their patients tell stories.

Maybe I'm different because my grandpa died when I was young and foolish. I never listened to his stories, because I was bored and impatient to get on with my own impetuous life. I didn't have time to listen to his disjointed recollections, and I was a little bit in awe of my mother, who would sit for hours listening to him talk about his youth. I remember how nervous I used to feel around him, making the obligatory daily visit to his bedroom to say hello, to endure his struggle to recall my name. Age is difficult for youth to handle, I guess. My grandpa was in his 90s when he died, but I remember a time when he was more vigorous, when he used to take the car out to the river to check on the cattle, and pat me on the back, and call my daddy "Hound Dawg". Toward the end of his life, when he was bedridden and couldn't tell the difference between me and my mother, that's a big change in function to a teenager, and I didn't handle it well, I realize now. I wrote a song for my grandfather that me and my siblings performed at his funeral. I shed many tears over that song, partly because Grandpa was gone, and partly because I didn't know him well enough to write a more personal song.

So maybe that's the reason, but today, when my patient kept calling me her daughter, and asking me if I was feeling ok, and wanting me to find her various items, I felt more patient than I usually am on a day-to-day basis. Even though it was at the hour of the day when I'm usually itching to be away at my own home, with my own family, I was ok with listening to her rambling, I was calm when asking her whether she was in pain, and I was patient when I reassured her time and again that yes, we would find her skirt ("It's blue, I think...").

My grandpa never had to suffer through the various indignities and sadnesses of a nursing home, as my grandma fiercely defended her ability to care for him at home, even though she is not in the best of health herself. He died at home, with loved ones nearby, and a view of his beloved land from his bedroom window. I know he was well-cared for and well-loved to the end of his days. But it's my own personal regret that I feel that I didn't love my grandfather well enough.

I wanted this old lady to feel some love in her life, even if it meant making empty promises that I'd find her skirt and then she'd feel better. Maybe, in loving this woman, in listening to her stories and promising that everything will be better soon, somewhere my grandpa knows, and he knows that I loved him.

Dreams of Gold

E expressed ridiculous levels of interest in the men's and women's gymnastics competitions during this year's Beijing Olympics. He's always been an....active...child, so I decided I'd bite the bullet, take him out of dance class, and put him in gymnastics. (Maybe I'm a nervous mother, but I just have images of broken heads and ankles swimming through my mind whenever I think gymnastics...)

The parent crowd at gymnastics is quite different from that at dance, which surprised me. I expected the same group of blonde and/or hippie mommies, with various other tots running under foot, having conversations about their children's elite preschools, and pulling out well-organized snack bags at the first sign of temper tantrums.

But at gymnastics, there are just as many fathers as mothers, with quite a few grandmothers thrown in for good measure. As a minority, I'm no longer a minority in the audience. Most of the daddies have tattoos or piercings, which made my husband feel quite at home. And because we can see what our children are doing through the large glass windows (rather than watching them dance via the tiniest tv screen I've ever seen), conversations tend to be dominated by what we have in common, rather than what separates us.

It's a better experience for E, because there are at least 4 other boys in his class. And it's a better experience for me, because I don't feel quite so alone. That's what I get for putting my son in dance lessons, though...

Catching Up

Good grief, I've been gone a long time. Life gets in the way...

Tonight:
Evan - "Is it bedtime for big boys?"
Me - "It's bedtime for little boys."
Evan - "I'm not little!! I'm five years old and I'm BIG. I'm bigger than you expect me to be."

How right he is.

Living History

I rather wish that the local PBS channel would make it perfectly clear to their smallest viewers that historic events are just that: historical. That they happened a loooooong time ago (well, everything happened a long time ago to someone who's only 4 years old.

My son just rushed into the room, exclaiming: "The TV just told me that there was a fight going on between Indians and cowboys, and there was a train that ran over some people on its tracks!!!"

Who knew that PBS had their own version of the nightly, grisly news?

Talks With God

Tonight, as we were going through the nightly ritual (pj's, toothbrush, cleanup, story time, drink of water, music box/song)...E caught me at the very end: "Mom, we didn't say prayers."

(Which, my parents always said prayers with us before bedtime, I don't know why I never remember to...Yes, I'm the devil, you may say it.)

So we began our prayers. There's something ridiculously endearing about a little boy reciting his nightly prayers. First, there's a sweet Catholic prayer to a guardian angel that starts out "Angel of God, my guardian dear..." Me and my sibs recited it as very small children. Then as we grew up, my mom added "Protect us, Lord, as we stay awake..." which is a night prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours. (That oldie about dying before waking is a bit too scary for my mother to try to explain to small children, I suppose. I don't blame her, it still terrifies me a little bit.)

When he spends the night at Nanay and Poppa's house, E always adds The Lord's Prayer and a Hail Mary for good measure. I'm just glad he knows them (yes, I taught him. Don't judge.), but I'm too impatient and stressed out to say those two with him every night. I figure that he says them at church once a week, that should be good enough, right?!?

Anyway, so tonight, as usual, we plowed through the first two children's prayers, and I bent down to kiss him instead of moving on to the "grown-up" prayers.

He immediately protested: "Aren't we gonna say the others?"
I assume this is just another ploy to get out of bedtime, since it's already waaaaay waaaaaay past, so I'm like "Nope, but if you want, you can say them to yourself before you fall asleep."
E, reproachfully: "You always forget to say prayers with me."
Me: "I know, honey, but if I forget, you can still say them without me."
E: "I could even say them in my head?! And God will hear me?!"
Mom: "Yep."
E: "Wow, that's really cool. That's a miracle."

Recently Heard

My 4 year old who's going on 30...

"I have a sentiment..."
"I'll be with you in a minute."
"Let's set up a pattern."
"I'll check on you in 10 minutes."

Mary had a little lamb...

I took E to school with me today. No one else was available to take HIM to school, and I had required morning and evening classes, so he had to just tag along. He wasn't too thrilled, but he was amazingly good.

In the morning, I had a human behavior class, where we were interviewing patients simulating mental illness. Our course director ended up playing the part of our first patient, and before the began, she asked E's name and age, and commented that her own son had been the same age when she was in med school. She's good at building rapport, I suppose.

Anyway, so she's going along pretending to be in the manic phase of a manic-depressive disorder, when suddenly she comments to her interviewer: "And I see that you treat all kinds of patients! I saw a little boy in the waiting room, who was just sitting there reading his book, and he said his name was 'E'." And E, who was at that moment sitting on my lap, "reading" a book, covered his face with said book and muttered "Not cool," while everyone laughed.

And in the afternoon, he calmly sat through 2 hours of dermatology slides, drawing pictures on some hematology papers I had dug out of my bag. He drew a lot of notice, including that of some of my undergrad classmates.

One commented "This should at least be more interesting than Biochem, huh?"

Which led me to remember that interesting time that I brought Evan to Biochem with me...he was about 2. And he spilled a whole container of Cheerios on the floor in the middle of the lecture. And I had to pick them up off the floor (blessedly, with the help of another mom...) in front of all those eyes.

Times have certainly changed.

Wise Child

E and I were listening to the infamous radio host Delilah the other night. Now, I used to hate Delilah. A few years ago, I much preferred Dr. Laura for my radio entertainment, she of the biting tongue and unfailingly sarcastic wit. But then I realized that my life was beginning to reflect her "give-no-quarter, ask-none" policy, which, whatever she may say, is NOT a good/Godly way to live your life. So I turned back to Delilah. Delilah may not shock people out of their supposed stupidity as often as Dr. Laura does, but she has kind words for everyone, and honest yet gentle words for those who need them. Sometimes I still get tired of hearing how much in love everyone seems to be, but then again, the world doesn't always display that love very openly, so if I can find it on the radio, I suppose I should just appreciate it for what it's worth.

Anyway, my point is, the radio was turned to Delilah while she and some caller were talking about how to make relationships work. Now, I wasn't really listening, but apparently E was. Because after a very long period of silence (that never happens in my car unless he's asleep; he's always either chattering, singing, or screaming), during which the requested song started up, E piped up: "If you want to make someone happy, you gotta do it yourself."

Which, admittedly, is true.

Priorities

When discussing whether E and I wanted my fiance (then boyfriend) to be part of our family, E pronounced: "It's ok with me, as long as he brings his toys."

Proprioception Problems

Driving home from dinner, E says to me "You're going the wrong way, Mom!" I replied, "No, babe, this is how we get home." E concedes: "Ok, I guess, but we don't usually come this way." Gently, I correct: "Well, this is how we go home most of the time..." After a moment, E: "Yeah, but we're not usually upside-down when we come this way." I had nothing for that...

Storytelling

This evening, my son eagerly repeated a story that his Poppa had told him a few nights ago before bedtime...a story that Daddy used to tell me before my bedtime. It brought a tear to my cynical eye.

My dad is a great storyteller. His stories always involve me and my siblings (and now E) and our various pets, and he makes up ridiculous names for us ("E the Wonder Boy", "Lucky Bucky", "Pepper Wepper", "Smokey Lokey", etc.). We take on fantastic powers and undergo the most involved adventures, always after saying goodbye to "Mama Llama" at the house. The stories are dynamic and fluid, changing at a moment's notice or a small child's request ("I wanna fight the bear this time!"). The heroes always save a family member or friend from a horrifying threat (lions and tigers and bears, oh my!!) while remaining calm, collected, and heroic throughout. Everything always turns out well, and in the end, Mama's always waiting for us at home.

I think everyone should tell their kids stories. I remember my dad's stories better than the multitude of books that my parents read me during my childhood. Stories like his stimulate imagination and encourage creativity. We were always encouraged to help our hero selves find ways out of their predicaments. I can't even look back at my childhood without hearing my dad's voice mischievously spinning out nighttime adventures for me and my siblings.

So I'm a huge proponent of storytelling. I just wish I were better at it. I think I'll go practice...

Sweetness

Starting Christmas Day, E spent a week with his father's family. I picked him with his other grandparents on New Year's Day. He climbed out of the car with his grumpy "I just woke up, and I hate everyone" look on his face. But one look around, and he ran toward me, yelling "Mommy, I missed you! I missed you so much!"

And at that moment, the whole missing-piece week was worth it.

Christmas Come Early

We pulled out our Advent calendar this week. It's a sweet little felt pocket thing that I received as a gift last year (which has always seemed strange to me - holiday items given as holiday gifts...but whatever). A little wooden Santa hat comes with it, and your child (ostensibly, unless you're the kind of adult who likes to have Santa-themed felt Advent Calendars) is supposed to put the little hat in the pocket marked with the date to keep track of how many days there are left until Christmas. Yes, I know that was a very long sentence. You can read; you'll be fine.

Anyway, so on Sunday night, I supervised the placement of the hat into the 2 pocket. On Monday morning, I awoke to discover that apparently it was the 6th of December. Yesterday morning, it had become the 20th. Last night, E told me that it was Christmas Eve and in the morning we would open our presents...

He Teaches Me Well

Note: I can't remember if I've already blogged this, or when exactly it happened. But it was in the last couple of months, so...

Driving home one night, E asked me how God made space. I started describing the Big Bang theory, basically ending with "So it was a big explosion, isn't that cool?!"

E flatly denied it, saying "Mom, that's not cool, that's dangerous. Someone could have gotten hurt."

Resuming my role as stern safety regulations officer, I replied "You're right, that's true, but there weren't any people or animals around then, so no one was there to get hurt."

E shot back, "God and Jesus were there!"

Getting a bit desperate now, I floundered "Yeah, well, God and Jesus can't be hurt, sweetheart."

Without pause, my 4-year-old: "But, MOM, Jesus died!!"

Needless to say, I lost the argument.

I hope he becomes a lawyer.

That way, he'll be able to take care of/support his mother when she's lost all of her neurological function from racking her brains in order to hold intelligent conversations with him.

Green Kids

In the car recently (a lot of my stories start that way), E held up an empty Reeses Pieces bag (don't judge me, it was left over from a movie, ok?!) and asked: "Is this recyclable?"

I swear. That's what he said.

Someone's Nanay (aka my mom) has been getting to him...

Career Planning

My bf D is an oil engineer who travels a lot for work. Tonight, hearing me explain to someone that D was gone "on a job", E asked "What kind of job?" This is always a difficult description for me to make, because I'm not quite sure what exactly D does on these "jobs", therefore my family has a standing joke that D is secretly a CIA agent. Anyway, so I plunge in headfirst, saying "Well, you know that D is an engineer [for the longest time, my dad had E convinced that D was the type of engineer who drives trains...], and when he's gone, he helps get oil out of the ground by digging with lots of big tools."

E: "When I grow up, I'm going to be an engineer, and I'm gonna help D do his job. Because sometimes, when I go outside with my friends, I dig in the ground, and I help dig things up, and so I'm already an engineer."

...But at Least I'm Better than Some

After dance class, on our way home, E & I heard Alvin & the Chipmunks' "Christmas Don't Be Late" (or whatever it's called) on the radio. Thinking that E would appreciate the silliness of the song, I turned the volume up and urged him to listen. Apparently, he was listening more seriously than I had supposed...

"Their voices are not as pretty as yours."

Everybody's a Critic

Tonight, I was singing a very, very late lullaby to E (bedtime doesn't matter so much when there is a lot of attention to be had...). I've been sick for what seems like ages, and I was trying to keep my voice down so as not to disturb my grandmother across the hall. So my voice happened to be scratchy, whispery, and intermittently punctuated by coughs. E listened patiently and at the end, asked, "Why isn't your voice pretty tonight?"

Thanksgiving is:

...Not as exciting as someone else's toys and a large, empty living room to play in.

Must Remember...

E decided he was going to make a science project.

While I was in the shower this morning, he was describing it to me from the next room. These were his instructions:

1) Put water on a piece of paper
2) "Paint" over it (the water? the paper?) with a pencil
3) Glue a "seed" (also known as a paper clip in the adult world) to the paper
4) Watch the seed grow

E asked me if I thought it was a good idea, and I replied that we could definitely do parts of it, but that we'd have to use an actual seed in an actual pot, and (more importantly to the overall success of the project) do it at Nanay's house...

E replied that he thought this was definitely a good plan, and as he walked out of my bedroom, he commanded:

"Don't forget about this idea, Mom. Keep it in your brain."