My husband and I took care of my mom for five years, when she had Alzheimer’s. She just couldn’t handle Assisted Living/Memory Care, so Hubby and I became the “Memory Care Unit.” There were days when I was stressed, exhausted and overwhelmed. Yet, I have no regrets.
Penny was enraged when she learned that we were no longer wearing masks at our hospital. “That’s murder,” she said. “Everyone should wear a mask at all times.”
I explained that I was following the advice of our infectious disease experts. There are downsides to masks: They make communication and patient assessment more difficult, especially in psychiatry. It’s harder to build rapport when we can’t see each other’s faces.
“You’re killing people,” she replied.
On Wednesdays, one of the residents in my clinic precepting group usually presents a didactic. However, last Wednesday, the junior resident was absent, and I decided to present a case of a “challenging patient” instead. The patient himself wasn’t really challenging, I explained to the residents, but he was in a challenging situation. I had a 20-minute telemedicine session the following day, and I wanted the residents’ advice on how I should best spend my time with the patient.
The older I get, the more ridiculous I find regrets. Why waste even one moment on a past that I cannot change? Instead, I try to focus on the present by living a life that gives me no regrets—one of theatre, books, adult education classes and family.
Dear readers,
Edith Piaf, the powerful, diminutive French singer, had a worldwide hit with a song entitled “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien,” translated as “No Regrets.” It was a philosophy that my Belgian mother took to heart, resisting any and all invitations to reexamine past actions in light of actual outcomes and acquired wisdom.
It takes some vulnerability to express regrets. Living with constant regret is a recipe for misery, but expressing regrets can bring us closer to one another, as regrets are a part of life–at least for most of us.
The uneasiness of heading into the weekend without my medications lurks over me as I drift into the second hour of waiting on the online pharmacy phone queue. What was 3:30 pm. . . 4 pm … 4:30 on a Friday is approaching 5 pm.
I should have said no years ago when the person at the register kindly asked, “Would you like to sign up for auto-refill?” Smiling, I replied, “Sure!” and volunteered my information to be uploaded into their computer.
Back then, this seemed revolutionary. No more remembering to call every month before I was out of pills, no searching my medicine cabinet for the most recent prescription bottle to get the seven-digit number I needed to punch into the phone for a refill. Now I’d never run out of medication!
I moved through my work with steady precision. One hundred and eighty-three scripts accomplished, one technician and I, alone on a Saturday. This, plus the order needed to be put away. And the phone kept ringing. And there was a steady stream of questions and counseling on how to use medications correctly.
In the tiny town where I grew up, we had two pharmacies. Both pharmacists knew you, your family, and what your general medical needs were. If your car wasn’t available—common in those one-car-per-family days—they would run your medicine out to your house at their first opportunity. In an emergency, they would open the pharmacy at night.
The interns and even the pharmacists come and go, but all of them quickly learn to recognize me, since I spend a lot of time at the pharmacy. That is because my prescriptions are never ready to be refilled at the same time. However, I don’t mind what others may see as an inconvenience. It does not bother me to stand in a long line, waiting for my turn.
Dear Readers,
When I was a first-year medical student, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes–and soon found myself a frequent visitor at a mom-and-pop Bronx pharmacy just a block from the medical school.
Kind and efficient Mr. Tepper, the pharmacist, dispensed my insulin, my syringes and my glucose test strips. As I made the rude transition from excellent health to chronic illness, it softened the blow that the man handing me my lifesaving supplies knew my name, was aware of my sad tale and made sure that I didn’t run out of anything.
It is autumn in Melbourne. The nights are cool, but the late afternoon holds the glowing sun in the cup of its hand before it sinks behind the rippled sea. This is my favorite time of day—the hour or so before the sun sets, when I walk home under a golden canopy of giant plane trees and watch the sky prepare for night.
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