Two Different Choices
My boys were four and six, my husband and I had been separated three months, and I had just started college. I saw no way to continue this new pregnancy.
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Coping with the Present
I was diagnosed with prostate cancer a few years ago. I did my best to get all the information I needed through research and information, but the thought of having cancer scared me. So I listened to everything my doctor had to say–including that I could have either chemotherapy or surgery, but that with surgery, he would be more likely to get all of the cancer, since it had not spread beyond my prostate. I chose surgery.
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See What’s Left
The other day I asked my husband, “How many times a day do you worry about your body or your health?” His reply, “one or two,” shocked me. My answer: At least fifty.
The Masks We Wear
Every day we pass by friends, acquaintances, classmates and strangers, and all of us are wearing smiles on our faces. For some, that reflects feelings of bliss, joy or contentment. For others, though, it can be a mask.
I often think about my pain and the smile I wear to mask it. Most days, I am have the ability to express my troubles and fight the uphill battle against chronic depression. I tell myself, “You can do it! Just go and talk it out with your therapist.”
At least I had the ability to express myself and fight the battle; Helen did not.
A Dreary Day
It was a dreary January Seattle afternoon. I’d lost my job helping my son, who’d suffered repeated outbursts of angst despite doctors, counselors and inpatient hospitalizations.
I sat sipping tea across from Martin, my child crisis system advocate. Martin’s eyes seemed kind. We discussed my options. It became clear that the Child Study and Treatment Center (CSTC), Washington State’s inpatient child psychiatric facility, was the only viable residential choice. State programs meant mounds of paperwork and procedures. As I said, “Let’s get the process going,” Martin’s demeanor changed.
After “All We Could”
She is now six years old, attending first grade and riding a bike.
But six years ago, she was in the NICU, with six chest tubes, a ventilator on its maximum settings, and pulse oximetry readings–which should have been close to a hundred–that were dropping into the sixties. X-rays showed everything in its proper place, but this preemie was failing fast.
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Inner Turmoil
As a third-year medical student, I know I have a beautiful purpose in life. I care deeply about my patients. But the one person I am having difficulty treating is myself.
The Janitor
Outside the OR, at a dictation desk in the cold, quiet hallway, I sat alone. I stared at the black-and-white floor tiles, my eyes tricking me into seeing diamonds, then squares, then diamonds. As if my chest were squeezed in a vise-grip, I could barely take a breath. My body was frozen in place, held stiffly upright by the hard chairback, the only thing keeping me from collapsing inward.
What’s Wrong, Dad ?
When I walked into my father’s hospital room, he began to sob. I didn’t cope well with his tears. I experienced them as a reaction to his seeing me and started to beat myself up, to think to myself, What have I done?
A voice at the back of my mind said, This is his illness–you can’t take it personally. But even so, I felt hurt by his crying.
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