Hey Lauren, why no weight loss update?

Well friends, that’s because I’ve completely and totally fallen off the Weight Watchers bandwagon.

I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but I just got so tired of logging every single thing, and so I’ve just started trying to very specifically evaluate when I’m really hungry and only eat to satiety. I’m good at this 80% of the time. The other 20% I’m all: HEY COOL! YOU BROUGHT LITTLE CAE.SAR’S PIZZA OVER FOR ALL THE KIDS TO EAT, FRIEND! LET ME EAT HALF OF THAT CHEESY BREAD!

I also haven’t been working out for the past two weeks. Mostly because our office, which is also the location of the treadmill, is a hot mess from my husband just “storing” things in there until he can get to them and sort them out. He gets to them approximately, um, never. So it’s kind of crowded. (I’ve decided that this is your fault, dad. It’s from cleaning out the upstairs guest area so you and L have an uncluttered place to stay in two weeks.) I have a hard time working out in a messy area, so I just haven’t. It stands to reason, then, that it’s my husband’s fault that I haven’t been exercising. (Okay, FINE. It’s my fault. I’m the one with the weird can’t run in a messy room problem, not him.)

So this clearly awesome weight loss strategy I’ve been going at for 2 weeks- not tracking points or calories, eating okay 80% of the time and crappy the other 20%, and not working out ever? Doesn’t work. I mean. It doesn’t send me in the opposite direction either. It just keeps me… stagnant. This is why there have been no weight loss updates, friends. Because I’m pretty much in exactly the same place I was at the very last weight loss Monday update. And there we are.

One of these days I’m going to jump back on the treadmill and get back to it. I’m not sure about the WW though. Because really? I feel it has served its purpose in my life, and that’s to help me reign in my eating. I’ve definitely done that. Despite my mention of the Little Cae.sar’s pizza above. Really, I have. Promise. In the meantime, I’ll hang here in stagnants-ville, and when I get back on the horse (which will hopefully be in next week or two… once that office is cleared up…) I’ll let you know, friends. Happy Wednesday! It’s almost the weekend!

What it is exactly that I believe in

So hey. This got longer than I anticipated. Just a head’s up. And I’m not looking for a spiritual debate here. I used to be a person who might vehemently argue to the end because I believed every one had to believe EXACTLY AS I BELIEVED. I don’t do that anymore. I love you as you are, whatever it is you choose to believe. Some Christians don’t like that. That’s okay too. Live and let live, and all. This is just me sharing what’s in my heart. 

Fact: I wrote the title of this post, sat here and stared at the screen, then got up and went and took a shower.

This is a scary topic for me. Scary not because I don’t know what I believe in, but because I do know what I believe in, and that’s kind of a sensitive thing for a lot of people. I’ve casually mentioned it here in passing, but have never truly fully espoused my deeply rooted beliefs here on the interwebs. That’s for a lot of reasons. For one, people don’t like to be preached at and I don’t want to preach at people. For two, all the teaching jobs I’ve ever had have been at Christian schools. One day, when my kid(s) are in school themselves, I have every intention of returning to teaching, and I liked teaching in Christian schools. I have a fear that one day someone who is looking to hire me (for the first time, or… again) will read what I’ve said here about what I believe, and even though my beliefs are, at their fundamental root, considered “Christian,”  decide that I’m not rigid enough and therefore not hire me. I thought about all of this in the shower. I decided right there with Selsun Blue soaking on my scalp and in my hair because I have a wicked dandruff problem that I have to be one whole person, and that person has to be the same out in the world as she is on the internet, and so if I’m truly being real in real life, then it should be okay to be real here on the internet. So here we are.

Not only is this topic scary, it’s also complicated, right? Because there are all kinds of theological implications and what not, about which entire dissertations have been written and studied. And I just can’t go there right now. And it’ a hard topic to even begin because, well, there’s a certain Sunday-schoolish angle that has to be addressed, and then there’s the bigger, broader picture of what the Sunday school answer really looks like in real life. I’m going to do my best here to to do both.

The Sunday school answer I have for you is this (and it’s only a really simplified paragraph of it): I believe in God and Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, who are all one in the same (this is one of those theological bits that I don’t really care to get into at this very second, because I’m not trying to convince you of what I believe here, just share it with you).  I believe that God created the universe and the world and everything in it. I don’t know the specific details of how He did it or what it exactly looked like, so I don’t care to get into a conversation about evolution, because for all I know, He had a beautiful plan for His creation that involved evolution. I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Neither was anyone else, actually. But I trust God had a hand in it, and over it, and the master design for it, however it happened.). I believe that humankind is so very painfully and deeply flawed, and there is an eternity after we die, and that God is God over that eternity, and that humans do need salvation. I believe in heaven and hell. I believe that God is not a God who stands back from us coldly and distantly, but I do believe that sometimes He steps back. He’s like a good parent, you know what I mean? The kind who lets their kid explore for themselves and do hard things on their own and even lets them get hurt every now and then, because we ALL learn by doing. We learning by failing sometimes. We learning by hurting sometimes. We don’t learn when we are shielded from the world. God gets that. God invented that, I think. God is not a helicopter parent, I’ve decided. But He also is like a good parent because He knows when to step in and pick us up, and carry us. He knows that sometimes we need to be held and helped. He does that too, I believe. I could go on with this metaphor, but maybe that’s for another day. At it’s most basic, the most critical part in all of this, is that I believe that God sent his own son, Jesus, down to live on this earth for awhile to live amongst His creation and really get a feel for what life is like on the Earth He created. Then, because He saw how horribly depraved we are and that we could never do enough of those sacrifices of poor animals to make up for our depravity, He decided He would make the ultimate sacrifice for us, and that all we would ever have to do was accept that sacrifice and believe in it and Him, and we would be golden. So He let Jesus be killed by his own people. Then, because He’s God, he showed us that there is life after death and He rose three days later and walked this earth and then somehow made His way back up to heaven. How? you ask. I have not the faintest idea. I don’t have to know. I’m really okay with not knowing, but if you’re not, that’s cool too. That’s why people study theology and whatever.

END OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL EXPLANATION OF MY BELIEFS.

Okay so Sunday school aside, there’s more, because all of that is well and good, and really I guess it’s the heart of the matter, but what does that even mean for life right now? Right here? Today?

And that’s where it gets complicated because it means different things for different people and looks different in reality for everyone. I went to a private Christian school in high school and middle school. I learned a lot about sin and how horrible we all are and how I needed to not sin and blah blah blah. They were doing the best they could, I think, but it terrified the hell out of me. I got all kinds of anxiety issues because of it. OMG! God is going to hate me because I made this bad choice! OMG! I can’t do X, Y, or Z because God says not to and OMG WHOOPS I DID THEM AND NOW I’M DOOMED FOREVER! I spent a lot of time being afraid of my own choices and mistakes. I spent a lot of time being afraid of God.

When I say anxiety, I mean my body was wracked with it. I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up all night literally shaking. I slept on the floor of my bedroom. This is where my “fall asleep watching TV” habit began because the TV took my mind off of everything I thought I was doing wrong and therefore making God angry by doing. I used Ben.adryl or Nyq.uil some nights to sleep. I called my dad in the middle of the night on so many nights and he would sit there, half asleep, listening to me ramble on about how I was so afraid that whatever I was doing was wrong and not what God wanted for my life and then, since I had had that thought, how if I chose to do it anyway after thinking about how God wouldn’t want me to do it then I would be in HUGE trouble with the man upstairs and that’s just like saying, “No,” to God’s face and who can do that and not be smited by Him?!?! The circuitous thinking went on and on. It’s exhausting just remembering it.

So for me, being a Christian at that time meant being terrified of every wrong choice I ever made.

Then I went to college and was marginally freed from the fear of doing everything wrong. I mean, I still believed what I believed, and I still found myself a little bit afraid, but as long as I didn’t date anyone, I was okay. 99% of my anxiety was always related to dating- what if God doesn’t want me to date this person? Are they Christian enough? OMG PHYSICAL “STUFF”? WHERE’S THE LINE THERE?!??!?! WHOOPS I CROSSED THIS LINE AMIGOINGTOHELLNOWOMGSOMEONEPLEASEGETMEOUTOFTHISRELATIONSHIPNOW!! That was all in direct conflict with my somewhat sensitive heartstrings which didn’t want to hurt another person and so I would spend days feeling anxious because I felt like God wanted me to break up with someone (Don’t even. I know.) and yet I didn’t want to hurt this person’s feelings or make them sad (again. I totally know. You don’t have to tell me.). So there I was.

I became a camp counselor at a Christian outdoor adventure camp (I would link to it, but I’m afraid I might be an embarrassment to them, so I’ll just let it be unknown for now. It’s an awesome place though.) summer after my sophomore year of college, and that was the beginning of the change. This is where I began to know God more as a God of Love than a God of Fear. My experiences here deserve a post- no, an entire book- of their own, so I’ll just leave it as I have it. It’s where my ideas about who God is and how God wants me to live began to change. I still experienced anxiety. I even had anxiety WHILE I WAS THERE. My second summer working there was so full of my own anxiety ridden nights that it seems ludicrous that I would say this is where it all began to change, but it isn’t really. This camp was the catalyst.

I got a camp boyfriend that first summer and we dated for a long time. We were long distance and it was a tumultuous kind of relationship. I spent the entire first 2 months of our relationship (back in the real world, away from camp) feeling anxious and staying up all night talking to my dad about how I wasn’t sure if I should be with this person- for many, many reasons that I won’t list here. I eventually found a way to squash all the anxiety and continue on. The next time the anxiety came was the next summer and I was back working at camp and he was in basic training for the Coast Guard. So much worry about so many things. I cried a lot. Then he got out of basic and was different and I was different and I felt more anxiety about all of that. I was insistent that I should be with this person because I had managed to squash the anxiety in the beginning and I didn’t want all of the hard anxiety squashing work I had done to be for nothing. So I prayed that God would keep us together.

And thank God, He didn’t.

Throughout the end (because it was a long process) of this relationship, C  and I became better friends. We had always been friends, but we became better friends because C was my go-to “OMG WHAT IS HAPPENING WITH MY BOYFRIEND?!” guy. He was the first person I went to when boyfriend and I broke up (the first time). This isn’t pertinent to what I believe or anything, I just find it interesting how God works things sometimes. This was a time in my life when I needed God to carry me and help me. I believe He did that in providing C.

So boyfriend and I eventually broke up permanently and it’s the third best thing that ever happened to me (aside from marrying C and having E). C and I were friends and somewhere along the way a mutual friend suggested he ask me out. At the start of C and I, I definitely thought about the anxiety. I thought about if I would have it with him or not. I wrote in my journal about it (I became an avid journal-er with the anxiety and all). I talked to C about it. So we started dating and I found myself telling God that I would not feel anxious about this. No. I was going to date C, and not feel the anxiety. I felt kind of bad telling God I wouldn’t let that happen, but not bad enough to feel anxious.

It’s like I took a step back from God. And really? I did. I stepped back. I felt like I had to if I wanted to learn to be normal. C and I had a lot of conversations about God and our beliefs- because I was really worried that he didn’t believe the same things as me and then I was going to have to feel anxious about that and maybe break up. But one thing C said has always stuck with me: “I don’t think God wants you to be afraid all the time.” C, who does not often talk about God or salvation or anything like that, gave me some of the most profound spiritual wisdom I’ve ever received. He also told me that he believes in God and Jesus and all that jazz, but that he feels his beliefs are better lived through actions than by talking about them. So he does good things for others. He is kind and he helps.

Huh, I thought.

I read a lot of books that had a lot of impact on what I believe and how I believe it. Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller, and Same Kind of Different as Me, by Ron Hall and Denver Moore are two that come to mind immediately, but I know there are more. I started to believe in Love. That God, who has done and is all of the Sunday school answers I shared above, cares a whole lot about how we Love Others. First He cares that we believe all that jazz I spewed above, then He cares about how we treat and consider others. He is less concerned with our perfection than I’ve believed all along. And so I decided to stop talking so much about Jesus and the Cross and Salvation, and DO YOU KNOW MY GOD? (not that I did a lot of that talking anyway, which was another thing I was always feeling badly about) And start loving others. Because when I think about Jesus in the Bible? He spent a lot of time loving on people. Sure, he preached. He told his story. He told God’s story, and that’s important. But He really loved people where they were at. 

I’ve spent a lot of time feeling badly because it feels so uncomfortable for me to preach at people. I’m not one who wants to go around telling people all about how much I love Jesus and how I’m going to heaven and how they should accept Him into their hearts because they need to go to heaven too. I’ve felt badly about that for a long time, like maybe I’m not a good enough Christian because I just feel funny about getting all Gospel-y and preachy with others. Then He gave me C, and showed me that we all have gifts. Some people’s gifts are sharing- up front and up close and DIRECT- about God, which is totally cool for them, and others? They show by how they love.

So I believe in loving others. I believe in loving them where they’re at, whatever that looks like. I believe that if Jesus were here, he would love people regardless of what they look like, what kind of music they listen to, what kind of sin they’re committing, whether or not they’re going to church…. whatever. He would love them because He’s an inclusive kind of guy.

And I know there’s a lot more to this Christianity thing than just Love. There’s a whole bunch of deeper things. But I figure if there is one thing I can do regularly and well, it’s love others, and that’s like, the second most important thing He tells us to do. He tells us to love Him, and love others. I can do those two things.  The rest will sort itself out, I guess.

It’s not my business to be judging how other people are living their lives. It’s not my business to tell other people what their sin is. I lived too many years afraid of sinning, and I’ve learned it cannot be avoided and we cannot walk around in shame because of it. But we can love. We can love ourselves through our own stuff, we can love others through theirs, and let God handle the rest. I’m not even sure it’s my business to be trying to handle or manage or mandate other people’s salvation. That’s why I just can’t bring myself to be preachy. God tells me to love Him and love Others. He will sort the salvation stuff out with them in His own time. My job is just to show them Love. I believe God has all the rest under control.

I know I’ve talked about her a lot lately, and I can’t promise I’ll stop anytime soon, but Glennon Doyle Melton from Momastery says she knows only two things to be true and I like those two things enough that I’m borrowing them:

1.      I am God’s beloved child.
2.      So is everyone else.

I like that. Especially #2. Everyone else. Everyone is such an all encompassing word. I like it.

I’m not perfect at the loving others all time. I’m just not. But I’m human. God made me human. So I’m not going to be perfect at anything, ever.

That’s what I believe.

The Speech

Friday night was the graduation dinner for C’s residency. To be absolutely clear, C was not one of the graduates this year (that’s next year!! Eeeeee!!!), but the dinner is for the whole program to attend and honor the graduates. It was such an awesome night all around, and I really can’t wait until it’s C’s turn next June.  I was asked to give a speech to recognize the spouses of the graduating class. I mentioned this last week- my sheer horror at having to speak my written words. But you know what? I CAN do hard things, and I did it. I gave my speech. Not only did I give it, but C said that I nailed it. His exact words were, “You looked completely natural up there, like you were having a good time.” I didn’t talk to quickly. I didn’t shake, or stutter. I just… spoke.

Yes. Absolute success. I even lost the very last page of my speech, and I *still* looked natural.

It was an awesome experience for me to be up there at the podium, and it has since left me with a kind of exhilarating high that I’m still running on, to be honest. Everyone laughed at all the right places. They laughed! I made a very, very full room of people- some that could even be deemed important people- laugh! The residency faculty especially loved my speech, it seems. They laughed, and a couple of them shouted out to me as I was speaking and we had a little bit of impromptu banter between us, which made for even more laughter in the room. Gah, I loved it. Every minute of it. It feels good to speak to a crowd of people and really feel that they love and understand what you’re saying as you’re saying it. Afterwards I had several people- the spouses AND residency faculty AND the residents themselves- come up to me and tell me that they loved my speech, and how true it really was. One of the graduating residents even gave a shout out to the veracity of my speech when it was his turn with the mic to recognize and thank his family and say whatever he wanted to say about the past three years of his life. The next night at the birthday party for one of the children of a graduated resident, far removed from the ballroom and fancy clothes and microphone, I still had people telling me what a good job I did.

I did it guys. I gave a good speech. I’m so freaking excited about that I can’t even tell you.

So what did I say exactly about what it means to be the spouse of a resident? Well, here you go, friends. The manuscript of my speech. Rest assured that because it was spoken it didn’t come out 100% word for word like this, but it was pretty darn close. Enjoy!

When I first got engaged to Chris, I was told by a woman I didn’t know very well, “Oh. He’s in medical school? He’s going to be a doctor? GOOD LUCK.”

 I was taken aback by this. What was that supposed to mean?!  I was excited and proud and thought Chris hung the moon. Why would she wish me good luck in such a biting and sarcastic manner? 

As time went on I found comments like this one were not all that uncommon.  “Well, get used to being alone!” “Get ready to be a single parent!”  And the flat out, matter of fact, “You’re never going to see him.”

 People made being married to a medical student, a resident, a physician sound… awful. That’s when they weren’t making it sound like we would be ROLLING IN ALLTHEMONIES, ALL THE TIME, which we all know now to be quite the embellishment, at least during residency.

When Chris was in medical school, these things were half true. He was gone for away rotations, but when he wasn’t, things were pretty normal. I can say that now because, well, turns out medical school was a breeze compared to residency.  You just don’t know what you don’t know, am I right?

Then residency came and you know? Almost everything everyone ever said turned out to be true in some way. They are gone a lot. They are paged in the middle of night for continuities, get up and leave and you don’t see them until 7pm the next night. They don’t see their kids for days at a time because they leave before the baby wakes up and get home after the baby has gone to bed. They aren’t the best at helping during those middle of the night feedings with a newborn because they’re so sleep deprived that when you ask them to just change the diaper before you get up to nurse the baby, you see them half asleep, walking out the bedroom door even though the baby is in the bassinet next to the bed (true story).  You get used to going to events alone- school events, BBQs, dinner with friends. People stop asking where your spouse is because they already know: they’re working.

I’m willing to bet that each of you 3^rd year spouses have similar but different stories of your own.

Being married to a resident is hard work. It can be lonely work. Being married to a resident is not for the faint of heart.

But this isn’t meant to be woe is us kind of speech. This is a “Go us! Go YOU!” kind of thing. Because really? It takes a special kind of person to be married to a resident. You have to be tough as nails and strong and independent and problem solving and flexible and secure in yourself.  You discover strengths you never knew you had, and maybe you develop a few new ones along the way.  You become a pro at handling pretty much everything, and fixing things, and you learn that it’s okay to ask for help from family and friends when you just can’t, because sometimes we just can’t, and that’s okay too.  You make a family out of friends, because Lord knows all our actual families are too far away to step in and help with the daily ins and outs. We are proud of our spouses’ hard work and we stand by our spouses when they’re so beat down and just need a safe place to vent. We are cheerleaders, counselors, back rubbers, personal chefs, a shoulder to lean on… and then fall asleep on. We learn to laugh at this life, because if you don’t then you might cry, and that’s no way to be.  You also learn that it’s okay to cry every now and then because we can’t all be Superwoman or Superman all the time.

I could go on, but I won’t.  Suffice it to say, you are rockstars. And the best part is, all of these strengths you’ve found in yourself? All of these characteristics that can be summed up in one word, which is “resilient”? They all apply to military spouses as well. You are now passing from residency into the hands of the military. I believe that you guys are better prepared for the fundamental job of a military spouse for having been the spouse of a medical resident.

One of my new favorite authors and bloggers, Glennon Doyle Melton, who has NOTHING to do with medicine, has a lot of mantras. One of them is particularly appropriate in the life of a resident’s wife: “We can do hard things.”

We CAN do hard things. Being married to a resident counts as a hard thing. You have done a hard thing in seeing your resident through the past three years of their lives.

 And so tonight, I want to say congratulations not just to these residents for completing such a worthy task, but also to the spouses. Congratulations, my friends., and thank you. You have completed a hard thing, and you have done it well.  I am honored to be amongst you guys.

Residency Rundown

It’s been awhile since I’ve said anything significant about C and residency. Since it’s the end of the academic medical year, and since it’s C’s first father’s day and he’s spending the evening on-call, I thought perhaps right now would be a good time to throw it out there.

C is completing (in the final 2 weeks) his 2nd year of residency. For those who may need some catching up, he is a family medicine resident. The third years actually graduated this past Friday, so technically C is a third year resident now. He’s just finishing the last 2 weeks of the last block of 2nd year. That doesn’t make sense to you? Yea, I know. Me either. Let me tell you some thoughts I have about second year:

It’s harder than first year. To be clear, I don’t really mean that medically it’s harder. I actually think that in terms of their knowledge and skills and ability, it’s a heck of a lot better than intern year. No, it’s harder in the sense that BECAUSE their skills are more finely tuned and their knowledge is (hopefully) deeper and wider and because they’ve had a whole year of “breaking in,” so to speak, they are expected to spend a lot more time at their job and have more responsibility. When you’re an intern you can always fall back on, “Hey, I’m just an intern. What do I really know?” And then everyone kind of nods and remembers that and proceed to fill you in or help you out or tell you where to go to help yourself. When you’re a second year you don’t have that luxury I don’t believe.

The biggest change has been the hours differences. Overnight C went from only being able to work 16 hours straight to being allowed to work 24 hours straight, and take 24 hour call, and generally just more call altogether. Like one day… poof! Hey there you go. Work all day, stay all night. Peace out. Coincidentally, this exact moment happened at the same time E was born. So that was kind of interesting and difficult at first.

BUT!! Here’s the other thing: he’d already done a full intern year. So even though the hours limitations drastically changed, it hasn’t been the most painful thing ever either because at this point we’re all kind of, “Ehhhh. Go figure,” about the time spent away. That’s why when C told me this morning as I was bringing him breakfast in bed for Father’s Day that he had some bad news, he was going to have to go in to the hospital tonight to be on-call because an intern had some hours restrictions issues and the Chief Resident had asked him to cover, I wasn’t really all that upset, or even phased. “Okay, I said. And then we ate chocolate chip pancakes. Then I said, “So this means I’ll see you tomorrow night after work?”

“Yes,” he said.

I mean it sucks, really. It does. Some days I miss him in a big way and I feel bad when E turns away from him and reaches for me when she’s upset, or when she would rather just be with me than him because wait a minute… who is THIS guy? (Just kidding. Sort of. She knows who he is- she gives him smiles of recognition, and generally the more he is around, the more she’s happy to play with him, but rotations when he is gone forever? Those are some rough times. Poor guy. Generally speaking I think some of the mom-preference is normal behavior anyway, but it’s also exacerbated by the fact she is with men (<—– HI-LARIOUS TYPO THAT I JUST CAUGHT AN HOUR LATER!)(Obviously that should say “me,” but you knew that, right?) 24/7. ALL. THE. TIME. I tell him that one day dad will win out over mom every time. He can’t wait.)

So second year of residency? Longer hours. Lots of being gone. But ridiculously and totally cool to see C come into his own as a doctor. Like, really. The feedback he gets from his attendings is phenomenal, and I’m just bursting with pride pretty much all the time. Early in the year I made a new friend in my neighborhood. I found out her husband was the chief of the inpatient pharmacy at the hospital C works at (he’s a doctor of pharmacy). We bonded over our husbands’ lives at the hospital and forever hours. She later told me that the first day we had talked about that, she had gone home and asked her husband if he knew C. His response was, “Yea. He’s like the best resident in the whole hospital.” If you knew her husband you would know that he doesn’t ever hand out compliments like that.  (And I’m also going to say that there are MANY excellent residents in C’s program). Now C is officially her children’s primary care provider, assigned by Tri.care and everything, per her request.

BAM. I just can’t. I’m so proud of him it hurts. I hate the hours so much, but I also know how good it is for him to be doing this. How good he is becoming because of all of the hard work he puts in.

So second year overall? Not to shabby. Not at all. Just a lot of time.

Now we face third year. I hear third year is, understandably, a less drastic change from second year. Mostly because the hours stay relatively the same. You take a wee bit more call than anyone else, and you are pretty much the senior resident on every single rotation, so you have a great deal more responsibility on your shoulders, but there is no big shock of jumping up in hours working at the hospital. Also, you have a lot more elective rotations to explore the areas you really love, and only ONE night float rotation. I’m so excited about that I can hardly stand it. Night float is hands down the absolute WORST rotation of them all. I’m so, so happy to only have one of these left on the docket.

There we have it, friends. 2 YEARS DOWN, 1 TO GO, and we’re done. We are so close I can taste it.

Crisis of Confidence

Hey so, have you ever had one of those moments in your life when you’re like, PUMPED, and, READY, and you just feel good about something you’re about to do? And then some time passes, and you’re suddenly all: OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

I’m pretty sure this happens to me on a weekly basis. Like today.

Tonight is that speech I mentioned yesterday. I’ve written it and edited it and read it and reread it. And I barely could read it out loud to my husband last night. Reading my written words out loud- even just to one person, even just to the one person who loves me and will probably love whatever it is I’ve written- kind of feels like taking all my clothes off in a room full of people. In a word, embarrassing.

I was just practicing because I heard the shower running. Great! I thought. He’s in the shower! I’m going to read this out loud right now like I am going to tonight. So I started. I have to remind myself to read it slowly, because if I rush through it then the words will have no real impact and people might miss the parts they’re supposed to laugh at and then I’ll feel even more stupid and foolish. So here I am at the kitchen table, reading slowly and trying to emphasize the parts that needs emphasis and use my tone to inflect sarcasm and humor where it’s needed, and suddenly I hear him cough in the bedroom.

“Blarrghhh!” is some version of what comes out of my mouth next, along with an actual physical jump slightly out of my chair.

I stopped. Immediately. I listened for any indication that he was listening to me practice. Nothing. This makes me feel a little better, but I know he heard me. And that makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable, and silly.

Which is silly.

Because tonight? A room full of interns, and second year residents, and third year residents, and the STAFF AND ATTENDINGS, and the DIRECTOR OF THE RESIDENCY, and the CHIEF OF FAMILY MEDICINE FOR THE HOSPITAL and all their significant others and families are going to be listening to me talk about what it means to be the spouse of a medical resident and thank them for their role in their spouse’s life. Not practicing, but actually doing it. For realsies.

And then the cyclical anxiety turns on itself and suddenly I’m thinking, “Really, Lauren? You’re this worked up about this? That’s just silly, and SO self-centered, because your worrying implies that you think you are THAT important and that what you have to say is THAT meaningful that these people would even think twice about what it is you’re saying and how it is that you’re presenting it. How presumptuous of you to assume this dinky little 5 minutes of talking is that significant.”

It’s a beast, I tell you, this kind of fretting.

And it’s stupid. So now that I’ve told you all of this, and now that C has finally left for the actually graduation ceremony (he’s not actually  graduating this year, so don’t worry, I’m not skipping his residency graduation or anything), I’m going to buck up and go practice in the mirror some more.

I can do this. I can do hard things.

Words burning within me

My life changed this week, y’all. Well, it did and it didn’t. My life appears to be exactly the same as it was before: best husband ever, C, sweetest baby girl ever, E, my two insane dogs and a cat shaved like a lion, all living in our house here, safe and sound.

But life within me changed.

I’ve been searching for 2 years- hell, maybe- probably- a lot longer than that, for my “thing.” My hobby. My want to do it all the time free time kind of thing. I have friends who craft. Not only do they craft, but they are incredibly talented at crafting. They are gifted. They make blankets and clothes and wreaths and hair bows and well, there isn’t anything they don’t make, really. It’s beautiful. I’ve been envious for a long time that these friends had a thing. Something they do after the kids go down for the night. Something that frees their mind. Something that relaxes them. And at it’s most shallow, a hobby.

I have other friends who run. Man, I’ve always wanted to be a runner. I *kind of* am. But not like these runners. I run a mile. On a treadmill. Maybe a little more than a mile. But I’ll never be someone who runs races and 10ks and half-marathons and marathons for fun. I run my mile on my treadmill, feel like dying, and want to be done. There isn’t a bone in my body that wants to run any more than that, and that’s okay. They have a passion, and it’s theirs and it’s beautiful. They are gifted.

My husband has a few things. He has his car. It’s an expensive thing, so it’s not a regular thing, but when he gets a new part for his car he is just dying to get some time to get out there and take it apart and put it back together. He also has (and I’m so embarrassed for him to admit this to you) games on his phone. Right now it’s a dinosaur game. Seriously. “So what?” You say. “Everyone likes games on their phone.” You’re right. Most people do. But sometimes it seems like C needs this time with this game on his phone. Like if he doesn’t get it, he will not wholly be himself until he does. If I spent all day trying to figure out what was wrong with people and then figuring out exactly what they need to be better, I would need that time too. More recently, and my dad will love this, it is hitting wiffle golf balls in our backyard. 52 balls a day (when he gets to come home). C also likes to tinker with computers, and when I say tinker, I mean build. He likes to build them and fix them and make them as efficient as they can possibly be. He wants everything in the world to run at it’s very best at all times, and he feels like it’s his job to make that happen where he can. Now that I’m writing this, I’m seeing something here about my husband that I don’t think I’ve noticed before quite this clearly: he’s a fixer. He wants to fix. Anything. People. Cars. Computers. I don’t even know why, but this is bringing tears to my eyes. He’s such a good man. He is gifted.

Anyway. It’s always seemed like the people around me have had a thing, a gift. I’ve wanted one of my own for so long. I want a gift too.

I’ve had a blog for a long time now. Since C was in 3rd year of medical school, I suppose. Actually, wait. Even before then. Since I graduated from college. It’s moved locations and changed subject matter and been all over the board. I never really considered that my thing though. The best thing about having a blog is that I’ve found blogs. I have read so many people’s words and lives and joys and hurts and it’s been the greatest thing. Then I found momastery.com. I’ve mentioned it before. Something about it just took me in. I felt understood, like Glennon was writing the words out straight out of my heart. And even though we are different in a lot of ways, she and I, I felt like we were similar. So I bought her book, Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed.

I read that book this week, and it freed me. I read that book, and I read one of her blog posts this week on doing your thing, and doing it free of fear of what people will think. Between the two of them, it hit me. It hit me slowly at first, and then hard and quick and I suddenly felt more alive than I’ve felt in a long time.

My thing is writing. It always has been. I’m not saying I’m great at it. No, no. Compared to how others write, I’m just okay. I’m saying that’s what I do. That’s where I go to be free. But for as long as I’ve been doing it in this forum which is a blog, I’ve been writing with fear in my heart. Fear of what people will think. Fear that people won’t like it. Fear that I will offend someone. Fear that someone will leave a rude comment and hurt my feelings. Fear that someone I know in real life like a family member would find it and really see inside me and then I’d be exposed and vulnerable and that’s terrifying. I’ve been so afraid to say what it is that I really want to say. Not that I want license to be mean about others or rude or condescending. No. That’s not at all what I’ve ever wanted to say. Just to be me. Because here is a truth about me:

I’m not a very well-spoken person. I bumble over my words and misspeak and feel self-conscious and get flustered because it never seems that I’m really saying to people quite what it is that I’m really thinking or feeling or wanting them to know. But you give me the written word and I have time. I can write and erase and write some more. I can think and think and think about exactly how to convey what I’m thinking or feeling. I can choose carefully without having to choose quickly. I’ve never been good at choosing anything quickly.

When C and I used to fight when he was in medical school and we were long distance, we would often end up hanging up the phone still angry with one another. I would be so upset, and probably yelling, and he would be frustrated and shut down completely. So we would end the conversation even though I would be begging to stay on the phone to just SOLVE THIS THING. But he would insist and I would lose that battle. So I would get on my computer and open my email and write. I would write him an email and I would tell him exactly what I was thinking and feeling and exactly what I was so upset about and how he was making me feel. After I had sent it I would text him, “Check your email.”

So he would and he would read and then he would call. Only then would we actually start communicating well. Like all it took was me writing down what was inside of my heart and my mind because clearly I wasn’t accomplishing it very well when I was trying to speak (yell) it. This is how we survived two years of long distance.

When I realized all of this- that writing is my thing- suddenly all the words that have been burning inside me, latently, without me noticing, boiled to the surface. I can’t stop thinking about what I want to say. I don’t have stories like Glennon does. My life has been very different than hers, which doesn’t make either of ours better or worse than one another’s. Just different. But everywhere I go and everything I do I am bombarded in my mind with what I really want to say. Not to tell anyone in particular. Suddenly I don’t care if anyone is reading at all. Just to get out there what has been buried deep within my soul. Even when I am away from this computer and supposed to be doing other things I am, in the back of my mind, writing the words from inside myself, and longing to get back here to just open up and let it flow from my fingers. My fingers, as it turns out, are my mouth.

I believe words have power. At this point, we all probably know by now that “sticks and stones” is a lie. It’s a bald-faced lie. Words can hurt. Words can maim. I’ve spent years of my life afraid of other people’s words, and hurting from words other people have spoken to me and about me. But words can also heal. And uplift. And encourage. And words can change a person’s life. Just words.

So I choose written words, or rather, they’ve chosen me. I am going to let myself be free of the fear and just do it. Glennon shared this quote in that post I mentioned above: “In this life, people will love you and people will hate you and none of that will have anything to do with you.” (Abraham Hicks). How liberating. It is no life at all to live in fear that people will not like me or what I have to say.

Here is my hypocrisy though: if you do know me in real life? Like you, dad, who I know reads this blog now because you follow me on Twitter and are nosy enough to click on these links, but know me well enough to never *really* mention it to me or remind me of it because I might just shut down because OMG MY DAD IS READING MY THOUGHTS, can we just agree not to ever mention any of this in real life? Not yet anyway? I mean, I’ve come a long way to be willing to just be open here, but not far enough that I want you to talk to me about it at Thanksgiving. We can exchange dialogue about it here on the internet though, if you really want can’t help yourself. Just not on the phone. : )

Originality… Or the lack thereof

I wrote a speech yesterday. I was asked to fill-in at the last minute to talk about and thank the graduating residents’ spouses at the dinner this Friday night for, you know, enduring residency. Normally I would be terrified at the thought of this. But lately, something in me feels different. I feel more alive. More real. More like who God made me to be. More on this later. So when my friend asked if I could do it, I enthusiastically said, “Yes! I’d love to do this!”

And then I sat down and starting writing my brief 5 minute speech. It didn’t take long. Turns out I have something to say about being the wife of a resident. The general gist of the thing was that to be married to a medical resident, you have to be a certain kind of person, or at the very least- you become a certain kind of person with very special qualities and a very specific strength about you. I posted it in a secret Facebook group called Lives of Doctor Wives. That name sounds pompous and exclusive and snobby, but I assure you, it is not a single one of those things. This is where medical students’ and residents’ and attendings’ significant others and spouses come together and be real about things. Sometimes we complain because we haven’t seen our spouse in days. Sometimes we vent because everyone thinks we have ALLTHEMONEY, and the truth of the matter, regardless of what you THINK you know about how residents get paid (which varies all across the country), is that it’s not the big bucks like the world tells us it is. And until you see the pay stubs yourself, you can’t assume every single resident physician is making more money than you. But it’s not all “woe is us.” These women know how blessed and fortunate they are in the grand scheme of life, but I’ll say it again: their hard things are still hard things. One woman is struggling because her husband attempted to kill himself while she was out of town with their child because they have so much debt it will take 90 years to pay off the loans at the rate they’re going. He thought it would be easier to just get out now and free his family from that burden. Still think all doctors have ALL THE MONEY?  She came home unannounced a day early and found him. Doctor’s families have problems too. We celebrate together when one of our spouses passes a board exam or a shelf exam or does a rockstar job on a rotation. We talk about things unrelated to the medical field or the medical marriage: kids, recipes, working out. It’s a community of women who support each other. I ignored this group for so long, and this week I chose to dive right in, and I’m so glad I did.

ANYWAY. I’m getting off track here. So I posted a rough first draft of my speech in there. I was nervous and yet proud of it all at the same time. And I got an overwhelming response. They loved it. I was so humbled and proud and happy and it felt so good. They bolstered my confidence to actually say those things out loud tomorrow night, just when I was starting to doubt whether I should really say the things I wrote.

But.

Something about my speech kept nagging at me. The style of it. One particular sentence. It reminded me of… something. Maybe something I’ve read before? Something I’ve heard before? Was I plagiarizing without even realizing?!! This thought terrifies me.

I have yet to pinpoint EXACTLY what it reminds me of, but I suddenly realized: I am not original. I mean, *I* as a person am. But what I produce? What I create? None of it is truly original. I am the product of all that I have taken in. The books I have read, the speeches I have heard, the movies I have seen, the stories people have told me. These all have collectively shaped my mind and my point of view and really, my writing. This thought hit me at 3am this morning when I woke up to go to the bathroom.

We are all a collection of what we chose to consume, and that shapes what we do and how we do it.

“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” – Eccelesiastes 1:9

Why I love the internet

This is actually a lofty subject, so I’ll just stick to just one reason why I love the internet.

I love the internet because it’s faceless, in a way. It allows people to be who they are (if they chose to be) without it being attached what they look like or if they’re having a bad hair day. Personalities and humor and intellect and kindness can flow freely through words, and you can imagine what the witty person on twitter might look like, or maybe they  share a picture or two and that’s nice, but if they don’t? No matter, because you like them anyway. They make you laugh on the regular. They make you pause and think on the regular. They make you feel good inside on the regular. Some of the funniest people I’ve ever known are people I don’t actually know in real life. And I love them. I love those people that I’ve never met, because gah. FUNNY. Or gah, brilliant. Or gah, honest and raw and passionate in a way that I wish I could be all the time. You start to like people for who they are and not how pretty or skinny or tall or short or well-dressed they are, as all humans are wont to do. You like them because you like what they have to say, and what a person has to really say is so often a window into a person’s soul, and therefore, you like them because you like their soul.

These are huge generalizations, of course. Some of us (meekly raises hand) post a million pictures. We instagram like it’s our job. Some, even with the veil of words and not a single picture, chose to hide their true selves anyway. That’s okay. It’s all okay. We don’t have to be real if we don’t want to be. But I’m telling you, if you’re going to start to be real? The internet is a great place to start.

 

*an alternate title to this post could be, “Why I love the written word (internet or not, I suppose)

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle”

We all know those words. A lot of people attribute them to Plato, but after doing some reading just now, I’m discovering that Plato seems to have said no such thing. Quoteinvestigator.com is telling me either a dude named Ian McLaren, or John Watson delivered these incredibly right words. I’m not sure what kind of source quoteinvestigator.com actually is, so I’m going to tell you that I don’t actually KNOW who originally said this in order to proper cite this, but if you DO know, please enlighten me. Anyway. Like I was saying. Big words there.

The thing is that “hard” is a relative term. What’s hard for me might not be hard for you. What’s hard for you might not be hard for me. And this is exactly what I love about this quote. It doesn’t qualify “hard.” It doesn’t editorialize it. It just says that everyone is fighting a hard battle. The end. Hard for that person. Hard for their circumstances. Hard for their life. 

My hard doesn’t have to look like your hard, and that’s okay. It’s still hard for me.

Your hard doesn’t have to meet my qualifications for what justifies a “hard time.” That’s okay too. It’s still hard for you.

In the deepest parts of my heart, I wish would would all stop feeling like it’s our place or our job to tell other people what is or is not hard for them. And what’s more, I wish we would all stop feeling like it’s our place to rank each other’s hard things: my hard thing is harder than your thing. Your hard thing is harder than my thing (the little kid in me is giggling OUT OF CONTROL at this paragraph).

Can’t our hard things be equally hard in our own individual circumstances? Why does one of us have to win at having a hard time?

I am not you. I don’t share your soul or your spirit. I don’t know what crushes your soul and spirit. I don’t know what worries you. I don’t know what your life is like behind closed doors. I don’t know what you’re relationships are like. I haven’t seen your bank account or heard the intimate details of your family. I don’t know really know you. I might have met you. We might even be casual friends or acquaintances. But that doesn’t mean I know your heart and your secrets and your fears and your circumstances.

And vice versa. You might know me, but you may not really *know* me.

So when you tell me you’re having a rough time because of anything, it’s not my place to evaluate your situation and decide whether or not you really *should* be having a rough time. It’s not my job to tell you, “Ehh. You’ll be fine,” or, “Eh. It could be worse. You could have worse happening.” Even if I have the very best of intentions. You know what is my job, as a human with empathy and compassion? To say, “Hey man. That really sucks that you’re dealing with that. I’m sorry you’re having a hard time.”

The end. No judgment. No evaluation of the worthiness of your “rough time.” No tacking it up on the board of “Things that Suck” and figuring out where it ranks in comparison to my pinned things that suck, or someone else’s pinned things that suck.

And even if you don’t share with me that you’re having a rough time, it’s still my job to be kind to you. I don’t know what’s happening in the background. You’re a human. I’m a human. That probably means that somewhere in one or both of our lives, some hard stuff is happening. Even on the highest of high days and moments when everything is blissfully PERFECTION, there is some kind of struggle in both of our lives. That’s just life. Life is hard times, man, dotted with moments of that actual blissful perfection.

So be kind.

You don’t know my hurts. I don’t know your hurts. I don’t know what you’re family is going through. You don’t know what my family is going through.

Behind all the garments we wear for society- our jobs, our paychecks, our education, our homes, our belongings, our titles, our clothes, our makeup, our kid’s achievements, our spouse’s achievements- we are all just humans, struggling in our own ways, dealing with our own hard battles that may or may not look like our neighbor’s hard battles- which doesn’t make them ANY LESS HARD- and the very best we can do for one another is to be kind. Always be kind. Always assume you don’t know the whole story and just be kind.

Summer: Still every bit as sweet as it’s always been

If you would’ve asked me several years ago what my favorite time of year was, I undoubtedly would’ve told you winter. I would’ve talked about how much I was a “cold weather person” and how I loved wearing winter clothes better than summer clothes.

How young and I naive I was about myself back then.

Turns out, summer is my favorite time of year, and really it always has been. I just never knew it.

Here are some facts:

I actually hate cold weather. I used to *think* I liked it, because really I like it for, like, a week. Preferably in the mountains. Preferably with skis on my feet. But normal, every day cold weather? Not so much.

I do in fact *look* better in winter clothes, but I actually hate how cumbersome and bulky they are. Except long sleeved t-shirts. I wish summer was a long sleeved t-shirt wearing kind of season.

I do prefer jeans over shorts. I would wear jeans every day of the year if I could.

So my reasons for preferring winter are all actually mostly lies.

HERE’S THE THING. I grew up and have spent all but the past 2 years of my life in TEXAS. Land of HOT. When the weather starts turning that way, sure, I complain. That’s what we’re programmed to do. Complain about the heat. But WITH that heat comes so many delightful things.

Long, long days.

So, SO much sunshine.

Thunderstorms (the ones in Texas are the very best kind)

Water! So much water! Swimming! Lakes! Sprinklers! The beach! Simply PLAYING with any kind of water.

Outside. ANYTHING OUTSIDE. Walking. Hiking. Sitting on a blanket in the grass. Just BEING outside makes you happier.

There’s so much more, but I’ll stop that for now.

I’ve been thinking about summer a lot these past few days, and how excited I am. I’m excited because there is so much to do with E. Not that there wasn’t before, but it was colder and the sun went down early, and she was younger. Now she’s almost a year and is starting to find delight in so many things. Sitting on a blanket with her in the yard, watching her explore the grass. Swinging on the swing in our backyard. Playing in her splash pool in the driveway. Taking her to our friend’s pool. Taking her to a splash pad. The park. Etc. Indoor activities too! The library! Story time! It’s like reliving the best moments, my favorite moments, of my own childhood.

Gah. There’s just so much fun to be had, and I love it so much. Not to mention the tiring effects of the sun. Nothing wears you, or a baby, out like spending some time in the sunshine. Makes for some good sleep later on : )

Anyway. It’s a rainy day today, but it doesn’t even matter. We went strawberry picking this morning while it was still cool before the rain came. Strawberry picking. If that doesn’t say summer then well, I don’t know what does.