Adventures at 101 Independence Ave SE


In honor of National Book Lovers Day, I thought I’d share with you the most nerdly adventure a book lover like me could have–a day spent at the largest library in the world, which is located in our own nation’s capital. If you’ve never had the luxury of exploring the Library of Congress, I’ll offer my portrait of a beautiful and wondrous place that could not have existed without one man whose quote all book lovers can identify with:

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In Washington D.C. for the day after a phenomenal conference on genetics and genomics where I was representing PAs, I started off the day getting off the Metro at Union Station, and headed to the U.S. Capitol Building, where I had signed up online the night before for a tour at 8:45 am (the earliest available). It’s free, but you must sign up, as the tours tend to fill up fast.  I’ll share the tour of the US Capitol in another blog post (one of those patriotic, sappy ones, so be forewarned now!), but suffice it to say, I was thrilled to see a sign that pointed to a tunnel between the U.S. Capitol and the Library of Congress.

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This tunnel, besides the cool factor of travelling underground between two very different buildings, had the advantage of bypassing security (though you have to pass back through security when heading back from the Library of Congress into the Capitol), as well as being literally cooler given the muggy D.C. heat even at that time of day.  For the members of Congress to have the Congressional Research Service which directly serves Congress in such close proximity is likely quite useful.

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Besides the sheer beauty of the frescoes and statuary there, the immensity of the Library of Congress and all it encompasses is astonishing.  It is actually 3 large buildings, the Jefferson, Madison, and Adams buildings which are all interconnected (yes, more tunnels!). This is the Great Hall of the Thomas Jefferson Building. Hours could be spent in this part of the library alone.

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At any time, numerous exhibits are ongoing at the library including one currently on Gershwin, another on World War I propaganda art, and another on a collection of maps including one of the first of America.  As part of their bible exhibit, which contains 18 from their collection of over 1500 in over 150 languages, I got to see the Gutenberg Bible, pictured here, and the Giant Bible of Mainz. Everyone knows about the Gutenberg Bible and its significance in regards to movable type, but to have it juxtaposed with the Giant Bible of Mainz which was hand lettered, and produced in the same time and place provided a great contrast.  Seeing first-hand the visible guidelines so that those lettering it could write in a straight, neat line, really brought home how time-consuming a process it was. It took the scribe 15 months, ending on my birthday in the year 1453 of all days!

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While exploring all the buildings, I came across the U.S. Copyright Office housed on the fourth floor, which I did not know was a department of the Library of Congress. It contains the world’s largest database of copyrighted works and copyright ownership information. In fiscal year 2015, it registered an astounding 443,812 claims to copyright.  So, there are definitely new things under the sun, though many would claim the opposite to be true.  An office where hearings regarding copyright are conducted is imbued with a modern art twist. By some strange chance, I happened to come when no one was present, and I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland come upon some strange alternate dimension, as its decor was so different from the rest of the library.

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In my travels through the basement, I came across hallways lined with card catalogs.  I thought perhaps they had been abandoned for computer records, however, Carl from Engineering soon disabused me of this notion. Apparently, most resources can be found via computer, but they keep the card catalog because not everything has been put into the computer databases, and he still finds researchers standing with drawers open, writing on pull-out wooden shelves in the basement searching for hidden treasures.

I also came across a giant globe, and one of the engineering workers in hard hat stood studying the topographic map for a long time whilst I took a picture of this giant globe.  It allowed me to give a perspective of just how big it was, and the way he stood there just begged to have the picture taken.

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There’s an even larger one upstairs on the second floor in the Madison building, but I was told it was in an area of mostly offices, and the woman on the elevator could not tell me what its significance was.  In my very active imagination, I thought that perhaps they had to be separated because the force of gravity between the two massive globes would wreak havoc on mortal beings and delicate instruments betwixt them.  Either that or having 2 globes next to each other wouldn’t be structurally sound, but that seems a rather boring answer if you ask me.

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I did my part in rescuing our economy from financial ruin by making sure to visit the gift shop where I had to stop myself from buying a large scarf printed like an old library card, and one of these fun purses made from recycled Reader’s Digests. The children ended up with a keychain globe of precious stones, a parchment set with quill and glass inkwell, and accurate, readable copies of the Constitution, Declaration of Independence, and Bill of Rights.

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Lest you think the library is only for adults, the Young Reader’s Center is a cozy set of rooms on the ground floor with the requisite puppet theater, low tables for artwork, a television with DVD player in a small viewing room and a cushy sectional with large bean bags for curling up to read books and listening to Story Time. If I lived nearby, I would come here every day with my children.

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Windows everywhere fill the rooms with natural light. There are step stools throughout to reach the upper shelves (so thoughtful, says the short person), with whimsical carved animals like this one.

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All this walking began to make me hungry, and thinking I didn’t want to go back out into the heat, then come back in through TSA-like security, I asked if there was a place to eat nearby.  It turns out in the basement of the Madison building (far away from all the books), there was a Dunkin Donuts, Subway, and a small coffee shop, none of which sounded sufficiently adventuresome to me. On the 6th floor of the building, though, I also learned that there was a large cafeteria, which according to another man with a silver hard hat in the basement, “Is excellent. I mean, really outstanding.” So, of course, I had to make my way up to the Madison Café. Unfortunately, the elevators chose that moment to go out of service, so I earned my lunch by climbing up the stairs to the 6th floor. And the man in the hard hat was right. The variety of choices was a vision especially with my stomach growling loudly enough to be embarrassing.  It included a buffet with offerings included deep-fried oysters, stuffed cabbage, a salad bar, 3 different types of soups, numerous desserts including bread pudding, as well as a grill for made-to-order burgers and sandwiches, a sushi bar, an Asian section with phở, udon noodle soup,  a bibimbap bar, and a breakfast food area.  I chose a beef bibimbap with japchae and cucumber kimchi that was surprisingly good for $7.99. The Asian girl serving the food behind the counter ended up with a similar plate behind me in the checkout, so I knew it had to be at least palatable, or at the very least not poisoned. Perhaps it was because I was so famished, but it was, in fact, delicious.

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I couldn’t get over the fact that I was eating delicious Korean food in the Library of Congress while sitting looking out over the city, when a church bell from nearby St. Peter’s Catholic Church began to toll in the tower across the way from the library.  It was definitely surreal.  The glowing cylinders in the air aren’t ghosts of presidents past hanging about, just the reflection of the pretty light fixtures in the cafeteria which was decorated also with posters from all over the world, and photographs of children reading.

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Thus refueled, I went next to the Moving Image Research Center, where you can view movies, though you have to request it at least 2 weeks in advance as they store most of the films offsite.  They began collecting motion pictures in 1893.  Films are shown and open to the public in the Mary Pickford Theater which is within the Library of Congress itself. Seating is first come, first serve though. It was there that I learned that anyone over the age of 16 could get a library card.  So being the giant book nerd that I am, I had to get my very own Library of Congress card.  I’ve covered up the picture of me grinning like a fool and part of my signature with my Metro card, which I suppose I’ll save until I come back to D.C.

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The process to get a library card was surprisingly quick, starting with a line-up to speak to a lady who requested my driver’s license, asked me if I had requested a library card online, and since I had not, directed me to a set of computers where I filled out a form, then went to sit in line to get my picture taken.  The whole process with 2 people in front of me in line took at most 10 minutes, and was much more enjoyable than any visit to the DMV.

Upon leaving, I saw a curious sign and heard Barry Manilow and laughter spilling from the adjacent room.

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I peeked inside and saw an incongruous sight–couples waltzing, ranging from young to old, of all different races.  They beckoned me in, saying “Come on in and join us.” So I did.

My only previous exposure to ballroom dancing was a dancing instructor hired for Dana’s 30th birthday party, where I learned that I am awful at following and possibly born with 2 left feet, and resolved at that point to avoid any kind of structured dancing without more instruction.  Well, the more instruction day had apparently arrived, in the form of Dean. I could not tell if he was with the other 2 instructors, one a matter-of-fact early thirty-something Caucasian lady in pants and dancing heeled shoes, and the other a smiling tall African American man in polo shirt and chino, or just really loved ballroom dancing.

Thanks to Dean and his “big step, little, little” and “1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3” I acquitted myself reasonably well with a “Well done!” from the tall African American man who asked if I’d done this before, and learned the twinkle step and the patty cake. The pictures are somewhat blurry because most of our time was spent dancing, as it should be.  I spent about 30 minutes in this slice of alternate reality, most of it smiling like a crazy person, because who goes ballroom dancing in the Library of Congress? Me, I guess.

Oh, and at the Library, there are also a bunch of books. Stacks and stacks of lovely books–in case you thought I only like libraries for all the other cool stuff. I once worked with a PA, and perhaps he was teasing me, given what he knew about me and my love of libraries, who said that he didn’t see the point of libraries, stating that if he wanted a book, he would just go buy one at the book store.  I sputtered, and tried to articulate all that libraries mean to me, a person who could count the number of books in the house while growing up on 1 hand.  My adventures at 101 Independence Ave SE just confirmed what I knew when I was just a little girl with a library card: Libraries are a portal to another world, a place where magic becomes reality if you can only open yourself up to all the possibilities and knowledge the world has to offer. I’m thankful for libraries, and for a country that believes that knowledge is important enough to preserve for everyone in a place of unsurpassing beauty and wonder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oenomel


Today I awoke to a symphony of birds outside my window. I’d fallen asleep with the door to my balcony open as it had been uncomfortably warm when I finally got home from the sloping streets of Santa Fe, and though I’d hoped to sleep in, I highly recommend this over the blaring siren call of an alarm clock. Yesterday felt like spring, a day for wearing shorts and strolling to nowhere particular. If you are anything like me, you’re saying, “I can’t believe it’s May already!” My good friends with green thumbs were bemoaning the hail, sleet, snow and rain we got on May 1: “But it’s May Day!” which led me to think of the real meaning of the phrase Mayday. A derivation of the French “Aidez-moi!” which means “help me!”, this international sign of distress was born in 1927, based on an Italian guy’s take on M’aider. This is improper French (take it from someone with entirely too little French retained in my head for the number of French classes in high school and college I’ve taken). To distinguish it from a casual mention in radio chatter of May Day (for which there are any number of celebrations, pagan and Christian) it must be repeated 3 times to be considered a valid distress call. This brings to mind scenes from all kinds of stories in which an incantation or phrase must be said 3 times in order for magic to occur.

Because I love words so much, I have daily deliverings of words of the day and daily prompts regarding words, most of which I read and tuck away in some obscure fold in my brain, but sometimes the confluence of the words makes it feel like there is some greater theme or scheme not obvious to the oblivious like me that demands to be written about. Today’s word of the day is oenomel, which means “something combining strength and sweetness.” The daily prompt when I began writing this post was the word Hope. In my strangely wired brain, a cry of mayday is a signal of hope.  It means we believe that our cry for deliverance from that which threatens us will be answered.  To ask for help is to believe in some small way that someone or something will save us.  Said 3 times, it is an incantation of hope, a belief in a stronger power to come to our aid in times of distress.  And, today, of all days, a day to celebrate mothers and motherhood seemed an appropriate day to celebrate hope.  If you have been blessed as I have been with a mother who has always been able to offer hope and strength in equal measure during times most dire and full of confusion, or with other strong women who stood in a mother’s stead to be present for you, count yourself among those who have always known hope, always known that any maydays would not need to be said 3 times, as the magic of the cry for mother needs only be said once.

Today I wish for you a day filled with birdsong and brightness, a day made for strolling with those you love, and a life in which you can be for others, an oenomel. I am thankful for my mother and all the strong women I’ve been surrounded by. I pray to honor their example.  Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers by every definition of the word, everywhere, from your local dragon mama!

 

 

 

 

 

Swallow It


As I sit here with an ice pack and foot propped up, it occurs to me that the old adage that doctors make the worst patients should be amended to include all medical providers.  In my work, on a daily basis I dispense medical advice that I frequently ignore.  Not because I think I’m ten foot tall and bullet-proof, but because I’m busy running around taking care of other things before I realize that I haven’t had a single thing to drink all day (hence the three kidney stones), or busy running around and not watching where I’m going (hence the three sprained ankles in three years).  Is it any wonder my mother is always admonishing me to slow down?

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I am a firm believer in the mind-body connection.  Since I started practicing medicine, I’ve seen what stress can do to our bodies.  Like most women I know, I carry all of my stress in my neck and shoulders, the non-ergonomic office chair and computer set-up, of course, contributing to the problems.  My husband, on the other hand, feels his stress in his stomach, having difficulty eating when he feels stressed out (I wish I had that problem!).  The brain is the most powerful organ in our body with its ability to effect changes which may seem magical to those not confronted with these cases every day.

Though both branches of my family have survived wars and strife, my recognition of PTSD has grown by leaps and bounds through my work with veterans.  Time after time, I am struck by the stories my patients tell of how ill-equipped they were psychologically to deal with what they saw and did.  Many veterans came back from Vietnam or Korea, and stated that they had no problems with “shell-shock” like other veterans they knew, raising families and working steadily at jobs that built this country, until they retired.  Then suddenly, they find themselves experiencing palpitations and sweaty hands in crowds, nightmares/vivid dreams of people and places they have not thought of for years.  They come in genuinely confused, some of them undergoing cardiac testing for these symptoms which make no sense to them.  After years of looking forward and striving for the next thing, retirement affords them space and time to look backwards, and they find their past is catching up with them.

One veteran told me that shortly after he arrived in Vietnam, he spoke to his supervising officer about his doubts that he could deal with all of the death he was seeing.  This was a man whom he respected, a grizzled veteran of many military maneuvers, and so he took the man’s advice to heart.  “Swallow it,” the young soldier was told.  “If you don’t, it will eat you alive, so swallow it, because we don’t have time for it now, and your job is to stay alive.  Just stay alive.”  I am not a psychologist or expert on PTSD, but I found it interesting that the veteran’s main complaint was debilitating stomach pain with extensive gastrointestinal testing over many years which has been negative.

I’ve had other patients come in with complaints of dizziness.  In medicine, a complaint of dizziness needs to be further clarified in order to narrow the differential diagnosis.  My question to patients with dizziness or lightheadedness is usually asking them if they have a sensation of feeling woozy like they are about to pass out, a spinning sensation either of the world spinning or of themselves spinning, or a feeling of being off-balance.  I’ve learned that besides trying to figure out all of the medical reasons for a patient’s symptoms, it is important to ask questions about how the rest of their life is going as this will have an effect on their symptoms.  It never surprises me that the patients who will share that they are feeling lost or confused, will also describe their dizziness as a feeling of being off-balance, often times associated with blurry vision or tunnel vision.  Is it any wonder that those who most feel out of control emotionally have symptoms that mimic having lost sight of where they are going or where the ground is? Some have literally used the words, “I don’t know which way is up.”

The words that people use when describing their symptoms and telling their stories can be revealing.  Perhaps because I love words so much, I think they are important and I try to pay attention to how people describe their pain.  In our training as PAs, we are asked to be very specific in how we document pain.  Some patients will laugh a little at my question, ‘Would you describe the pain as sharp, stabbing, squeezing, pressure, aching, burning or something else?’ but it helps people to find the word that best describes their pain.  As medical providers, we have a lot of experience dealing with pain, and though I cannot truly “feel” their pain, I always feel that if I can help them name it, it will have less power over them.

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One method frequently used to help patients categorize their sensation of pain.

As medical providers, sometimes we can be so focused on the disorder, we forget that mind-body connection.  No matter how many times we read the study about how pretending to smile actually improves a person’s mood, we point the arrow from body to mind, and forgot the power the mind has over the body.  One of my most memorable patients during my psych rotation was a woman who had been diagnosed with somatization disorder (which in the DSM-5 has now been replaced with the broader category of somatic symptom disorder in order to “remove the mind-body separation that is implied in DSM-IV”). She reported paralysis and loss of feeling from the waist down, though all testing and imaging was normal, and there was no report or sign of injury or external trauma. She had been there for weeks undergoing test after test before she was moved to the psychiatric ward. Other patients have reported blindness, others deafness. She would speak cheerfully of everything but the broken engagement that had occurred just prior to her hospitalization, that event a black hole into which all memory had vanished. Was it chance that this woman had lost half of her body, her better half perhaps? Or that she was numb, and paralyzed to the point that she could not move forward or backward?

At the time, though, I was in my first rotation in my second year of PA school. My job was only to learn everything I could about somatization disorder which was thought to be very rare in order to prepare a presentation for the rest of those in our consult service, round on this patient every morning, as well as attending to any new consults that came in that day. My job wasn’t to diagnose this woman with heartbreak, though I thought most likely it was true.

As a PA working in cardiology many years later, I would learn about Takotsubo cardiomyopathy aka stress cardiomyopathy or broken heart syndrome, in which the heart muscle function is dramatically affected in approximately 85% of cases by an emotionally or physically stressful event. Patients normally arrive at the hospital with symptoms mimicking a heart attack, including chest pain and difficulty breathing. Actual visualization of the coronary arteries usually reveals no evidence of significant atherosclerotic plaque to explain the dramatic change in the heart’s ability to pump efficiently or the change in the actual shape of the heart muscle itself.  In most instances, the heart muscle function returns to normal by the time of the patient’s discharge (usually within a week).

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Called Takotsubo after a Japanese ceramic pot used to trap octupi, this is a dramatic change in the normal shape of the heart (Credit: Circulation 2011; 124)

The more we learn though, the greater distance we put between ourselves and our patients.  We think we learn enough to make a difference, gaining the tools and knowledge to ease suffering and effect cures.  We gather information, nod sympathetically, lay hands on our patients, and dispense knowledge and prescriptions with impunity, doing our best with what we know. Our patients get better, mostly, but sometimes they do not, and we blame ourselves. We want that distance because we want to believe that we can help our patients. We want to believe we do know enough to make a difference. We forget though, we are ourselves human as well. It is a bitter pill to swallow–“Cure thyself!” we are told and tell ourselves, though we no more listen to our own advice than our patients might. We stumble, and curse the ground, and forget that perhaps,  our mind wants us to listen, and slow down. We learn again, what bruising, pain, and heartbreak can do, and in doing so, close the gap between us all again.

 

 

Novemberish


I really don’t like the month of November, and so when I learned that November’s adjectival form, Novemberish, means “dreary,” I wasn’t at all surprised.  I love autumn which symbolizes so many good things to me–the start of the school year, cooler days, and Halloween.  I didn’t get to join in the fun of Halloween much growing up, with parents who thought such American traditions odd  (“You want to dress up in strange clothes and beg for candy from our neighbors?  No.”) and so I thoroughly enjoy Halloween as an adult, with an annual Halloween costume party, dry ice in my apple cider for that spooky effect, and lots of candy.

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My little monkey

After Halloween though, I’ve always felt the sadness of having nothing to look forward to anymore. Though it is considered part of autumn, November feels bleaker, as the wind blows away the brilliance that dazzles us after the warmth of summer, stripping us down to bare branches.

Growing up in Michigan, I dreaded dreary November, knowing it would bring the Northern chill and gray skies with it.  Here in this desert place in which we’ve settled, the chill comes mainly at night.  We’ve put most of our plants to bed, and rain has been more frequent, a blessing in this arid place.  We’ve harvested the last of the first successful tomato planting for this brown-thumbed woman.

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This is All Saints’ Day which marks every first day of November, a holy day, and so I’m trying to think of November as a time of gestation, a sacred rebirth and time of building.  Though we tend to focus on the famous, better known saints such as Joan of Arc (my middle daughter’s personal favorite) or St. Francis (the pope’s namesake), saints are actually thought of as those who’ve attained heaven.   My grandma died in November, and so I think of her frequently at this time of year, missing her wisdom and the never-ending prayers she spent countless hours in, seeking peace and protection for her loved ones.

St. Joan of Arc, image from www.catholictradition.org

St. Joan of Arc, image from http://www.catholictradition.org

It is thought that originally All Hallow’s Eve and All Saints’ Day was tied together as a way to co-opt Samhain in the Scottish Highlands (as many Church holy days were all over the world)  As my fellow Outlander readers know, it is considered “a thin time” in which the links between the world and other places are more open.

“The dark came down on All Hallows’ Eve. We went to sleep to the sound of howling wind and pelting rain, and woke on the Feast of All Saints to whiteness and large soft flakes falling down and down in absolute silence…This is the thin time, when the beloved dead draw near. The world turns inward, and the chilling air grows thick with dreams and mystery. The sky goes from a sharp clear cold where a million stars burn bright and close, to the gray-pink cloud that enfolds the earth with the promise of snow.” –Diana Gabaldon, A Breath of Snow and Ashes

In the Southwestern tradition, we celebrate Dia de los Muertos, which recognizes that death is a part of life, and honors it, instead of fearing it or indulging in sadness, with parades and make-up featuring calacas and calaveras (skeletons and skulls). Though this is a fact I deal with in my work as a physician assistant, this November I’m going to try to celebrate the lives of those who have died instead of mourning their loss in my life, thinking instead of what I’ve learned from having been blessed to have them in my life. In Mexico, it coincides with the Dia de los Innocentes, a day dedicated to deceased children, making it even more fitting that we think of November as a month pregnant with possibilities.

Some paint only half the face with calaveras, to demonstrate the continual duality of life and death.

I’m challenging myself to write a little every day, or a lot if the Spirit moves me, and to remember all the brilliance that precedes this month and using it to light my way through to the hope of heaven and rebirth.  I invite you to rethink November as well, to try to redefine Novemberish in your own way.  What will you do to push back the grayness that threatens overhead? What can you build in this month that rewrites Novemberish into the 9th month again?

Today I am thankful for a sunshine-filled All Saints’ Day, for a faith that does not shy away from honoring our dead, and for writers that inspire me to keep reaching for heaven.

Triskaidekaphobia


The first time I was truly afraid of a patient, I was standing in an outpatient family practice clinic in Detroit.  If you’ve ever felt mind-numbing fear, you know that it creates a dividing line between that moment and the next. Strange details imprint on your brain, like the heft of the chart in your suddenly damp hands, and the musty smell of an exam room suddenly grown tinier.  Grown men have told me that part of the attraction for going to war is learning if they have what it takes when confronted with the fear that is part and parcel of combat.  When we watch movie characters stumble into bad situations, we have the prescience that comes with being an observer, and tell ourselves that we would never, ever go into the dark house after the psycho or get in the car with the charming serial killer.  In actuality, how often do we do dangerous things and not realize how close we stand to the precipice?  As my childhood friends will tell you, I had what I considered a charming unawareness for these types of situations (until, of course, I became a mother), and perhaps it came from my innate belief that all people are good.  When I was younger, I traipsed into places and talked to people that now I would never let my children associate with, but again, I really didn’t think anyone wanted to hurt me, and I trusted that I would know it if they did, but perhaps that was hubris or plain dumb luck that I never got hurt.

This time though, the analytical, writer part of my brain was coolly noting that, for once, I was actually not only assessing the situation accurately, but also responding in what I thought was a very calm and non-threatening manner, though the other animal instincts in my brain that had made the fine hairs on the backs of my hands prickle within the first 2 minutes of meeting this patient, were screaming “Run! Get out of there, right now! Do not pass go, do not stop! Get out!”  It was like, and I kid you not, the good buddy in movies, you know, the sensible one like Velma, or actually more like the hyper-panicky one Shaggy, tapping on my shoulder and whispering “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

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Having grown up in the suburbs of Detroit, in a town where everyone looked so familiar I would have trouble placing the face as being someone I knew from church, the gas station, school, or work, going to PA school in “the city” was exciting to me.  I knew I’d be exposed to situations I’d never experienced, and like my combat veterans, wondered if I’d have what it took. I wasn’t afraid of the crack addicts or gang-bangers. I was afraid that I wouldn’t know how to react, wouldn’t have what it took in the face of an emergency to do what had to be done–chest compressions, suturing, bandaging, reading EKGs accurately. I thought I’d be most afraid in the ER at Henry Ford Main, or during my psychiatry rotation where I was on the inpatient consult service for Detroit Receiving and Sinai Grace, because of the out of my control aspect of those situations.  In an outpatient clinic, I naively thought, at least you could kind of predict what kind of day you were going to have.  Appointments are scheduled, and you can predict what kind of patients you will see, unlike in the ER, when you can have a heart attack, gunshot wound to the hand, and head cold all walk in at the same time.  It was a controlled environment, I thought, and control of my environment is key.

All of us desire control. It begins when we’re learning how to talk and walk.  This is where the terrible twos (and threes and fours for some of us) get their name.  The desire to exercise our will on the environment is innate.  We want to be able to choose our path. We want to believe that we have control, though in reality, we have very little. Today is Friday the 13th, a day many fear, though most of us find it superstitious.  We scoff at people who would have “silly fears” of things like the number 13, but in reality, don’t we all pause for just half a second, if we have an interview or date that gets set for Friday the 13th or we’re placed in hotel room #13? It doesn’t stop us from continuing on with our lives, but given the choice, just to be on the safe side, wouldn’t we change the date or room number, if we could?

As children, many of the sayings that we grew up with enforce those beliefs: Step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back–so we avoid walking on the cracks, just in case. It’s part of the mistaken belief, these superstitions, that we can control our destiny. We believe that by following all the rules, we can control our circumstances.  As children we pray, if I promise to do all my homework next time, please let me pass this test. As adults we pray, if I promise to be a better mother, please let her be OK.  Fear is irrational, it compromises our illusion of control, because it shows us how little power we actually have.  When we see through the eyes of fear, nothing is in our control, and that is the most frightening thing.

The unkempt woman in the musty exam room looked right through me.  All of us want to be seen, truly seen for who we are, and when others do not see, it can be frustrating, and make us doubt ourselves.  When she did not respond to me, I wondered for a brief second, did I not speak loudly enough? I had read her chart before coming in the room. It was supposed to be a routine follow-up for her annual gynecological exam.  Her list of medications gave me clues to what was missing in the 1 sentence description of why she was there.

“Have you been taking your Clozaril?” I asked.

“My mother has blue hair. Do you see them? People walk on buses,” she said.

Being alone in a room with a schizophrenic patient off her medications is not a place for a green PA student.  My very first rotation was psychiatry on the inpatient wards. Ingrained in us were several rules: Make sure to always be between the patient and the exit.  Make sure that someone knows where you are at all times.  Make sure that you wear long hair pulled back so a patient cannot grab you.  I had seen schizophrenic patients on their medications, discharged them home to the loving care of family or friends, after seeing them admitted off their medications, when they could not distinguish between their reality and ours.  Most were not violent, but what was frightening was their inability to see us. To them, I could have been a 300 lb body builder threatening to take away their most prized possessions, and as anyone who’s ever been threatened knows, fear will make us strike out to protect ourselves.

Fear will take a perfectly reasonable person, and turn them into a knife-wielding, gun-toting, hate-speech throwing part of a mob like those we’ve seen on the news.  It turns off the reasonable, logical parts of our brains, and takes us back to the child we all were once, vulnerable and at the mercy of others.  When we point our fingers at others, tsk at the behaviors that we, of course, would never engage in, scoff at superstitions and phobias, we forget to look at what prompts them.  We forget to look deeper. We forget to ask ourselves what are they really afraid of–and what am I afraid of that I am too blind to see them for who they really are.

“You know what? I think I left your bloodwork outside. I’ll be right back,” I lied, and briskly walked out of the room, straight to my preceptor’s office, and explained the situation to him.  I never saw that woman again, but I’ll never forget her eyes or the trembling of my hands afterward.  Have you ever been truly afraid? Do you have any phobias or fears that may seem irrational to others? I’d love to hear about them. I discovered an irrational fear of heights when I climbed up on a ladder to explore an old B52 bomber, and could not make my legs work to climb back down the ladder I had just ascended 10 minutes prior.

Today I am grateful for reminders that all of us have fears that lie behind the facade of control we all cling to. I am thankful for the friends who kept me from making irrevocable mistakes in my innocence when I didn’t have enough fear, and hope my children will have such good friends as they make their way through a world filled with too many choices.

And because I’m a giant nerd who loves words:   Triskaidekaphobia is derived from treiskaideka, the Greek word for thirteen + phobia, fear of = a fear of thirteen.Pi

The Opposite of Tenebrific


A career in medicine is one that has many lures–the ability to touch lives,  fascinating medical phenomena, and the knowledge of the complexity that comprises the human body, among other things.  Yesterday, every single one of my patients reminded me again of why I became a PA.  One patient asked my advice on what to do about a lost love connection spanning over 20 years.  Another had such an intricate medical history, it had me stretching my brain for information I’d learned long ago in school.  One funny patient and I talked about our love of words, and I shared with him an app on my phone which gives me a new word to learn every morning. Every patient thanked me for being easy to talk to, and I was loathe to walk each of them to my door because I had enjoyed our visit so much.  It was a day sorely needed. Last week, the last patient of my day made me cry.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, making me cry is not actually difficult. I confess to a small sob while watching the movie Aladdin (which is a cartoon I know, but that Genie gets me every time).  aladdin genie

Someone else crying causes me to tear up.  Even writing a sentence about crying will cause what my son calls my “shiny eyes.” I’ve cried with patients numerous times, with a touching story or in shared grief. But this time, it was different.  I was crying tears of anger.  I am cursed with full-on waterworks if I’m extremely angry, which I would love to be able to control. It’s hard to be taken seriously if you’re wiping away tears while trying to make a point, and even harder to carry on a patient evaluation when you are doing everything you can to remain professional in the face of hostility.

This patient began our encounter angry before he had even met me because his appointment had been rescheduled with another provider. Where I work, I’m used to dealing with angry patients on an almost daily basis.  To some of them, solely on the basis of where I work, I am the face of all of the bureaucratic bean-counting, soul-sucking paper-shuffling nonsense that prevented them from seeking care in the first place. I am part of the system that denied them benefits, told them PTSD did not exist, and denied their right to be seen as a person, and not a number. So I understand the frustration and the anger that comes as part of the baggage of just getting to the appointment.  I understand that part of my job is to lift that burden of frustration, and make them feel like they are seen, and heard.

As patients, we come to our appointments carrying the invisible baggage of our history–the memory of an aunt who died on the operating table, medication reactions, a fear of bad news-“What if it’s cancer?” As providers, we know this, and try our best to gauge those worries and try to alleviate them if possible.   Sometimes though, the actions brought about by those fears and worries are inappropriate, and other times, even criminal.  Fears have been running high in our department because one of our sister facilities suffered a tragic shooting.  A patient shot and killed one of the providers at the hospital in El Paso.  He worked in the same type of department in which I work.   Meetings about safety measures, active shooter scenarios, and how to deal with violence in the workplace have been laced with tension-filled voices.  One of our police officers tried to help us dial back the emotions.  “Let’s not call it a panic button. I prefer the name duress alarm. We don’t want to have panic,” she said.  I’m not sure that changing the name makes a difference, though I do advocate for the power of words.

But the words I mean are those we use when dealing with patients.  As peace-loving as I try to be, I am not immune to the effects of violence. I trained in the city of Detroit and saw the ravages of drugs and violence on the faces and bodies of our patients, treated gunshot wounds and stab wounds, and saw families ripped apart by random acts of killing.   People argue that our patient population is more dangerous because as veterans,  our patients have all been trained on how to use weapons.  I argue that if anything, that makes us safer, because they were also trained in how to defend those in need, in how to stand and fight for those who could not or will not because of an oath to heal or religious convictions or even conscience alone.  I will defend our veterans as patients just as worthy of our compassion as any other patients, if not more, and not to be considered a source of fear.

Last Friday though, I was afraid, and if I were a superstitious type, might have seen the word of the day, “tenebrific,” as a portent, as it means producing darkness. My patient arrived upset, out of control, and angry with me and everyone else in his vicinity.  I stand a whopping 5 foot nothing, and so to me, everyone is tall.  This man though, stood a good foot taller than me, and weighed over 2 times what I weigh.  I tried every tactic I had ever used to deal with a difficult patient, but I could not connect with him.  The power of words failed me.  He kept standing up while I was attempting to gather his history, and the sight of this very large man gesticulating wildly between me and the door gave me a qualm every time he stood up.  Between his wife and I, we tried to calm him down, but nothing seemed to work.  He alternated between insulting me and denigrating the system, and I bit my tongue and tried to smile pleasantly until it reached the point that he started to use expletives.  I firmly told him that this kind of language was unnecessary.  At this point he demanded to see someone else because he thought I was “belligerent and argumentative.”

My hands shook and my heart was pounding as I escorted him to the appointment desk to be rescheduled, and then I returned to my office and promptly burst into tears. I was angry and upset, mostly at my inability to control the situation and at the fact that I had not been able to get him to see beyond me as the face of an organization, to see me as someone who cared about his well-being, and at myself for feeling intimidated by a patient.

I believe strongly that all patients deserve good health care, the best that I can provide if possible.  To come to a point where I could not do so, made me realize that as providers we also have the right to be treated with dignity.  When we in good conscience have done all we can to do right by our patient, we also deserve to be seen and heard. We deserve, as our patients do, to work in a place where we should not fear for our lives for doing our jobs.  My heart goes out to those in El Paso, and especially the family of the man who was killed trying his best to help others.

Today I am thankful for work which allows me to be present in the lives of others in the midst of their pain and suffering. I pray for the strength to continue to be the opposite of tenebrific as much as possible.  And I am grateful for all of the wonderful patients I’ve met along this journey.

I would love to hear any of your stories of how you’ve either dealt with a difficult person or tactics on how to keep the tears from flowing when you don’t want them to.  I hope and pray that you have someone taking care of you with whom you can laugh and cry. Let them know you appreciate them if you do.  They might really need to hear it today.

Groundhog Day


I’m laying in bed wishing my life were a movie, and unfortunately Groundhog Day is the one that keeps coming to mind. Today was a day when I could not get it right. I could not be kind or patient or even grateful for all the blessings I have. I walked out of the house this morning without even kissing my family goodbye, distracted by all the things I needed to accomplish before the day began, and tired, instead of rejuvenated by the weekend. This Monday felt like the end of a long week, instead of the beginning, after six days with the husband gone elk hunting, and then headed back today on shift at the firehouse, and I could not see my way to Tuesday. If only we could hit the rewind button, or live the day again, but do it better. This is what comes of being a perfectionist, wishing to do things over and over again until I get it right, instead of letting today go, so tomorrow can begin.

Haven't we all wished once we could be Bill Murray, and live our day over again right this time?

Haven’t we all wished once we could be Bill Murray, and live our day over again right this time?

Perfectionists don’t look like you think they might. They are not all perfectly-pressed pristine paragons of pulchritude (wordies of the world unite!). The first time I read that most perfectionists are procrastinators, I felt someone had opened up my half-empty diary and read the scribblings within. This fear of imperfection stops up creativity and progress. This folly is what has my blog littered with drafts “that just need a little more tweaking,” languishing in the junk drawer of my mind. I don’t blame Pinterest or all the other parenting blogs with their professional-looking pictures of crafts I could never master or perfectly clean homes that don’t have piles of clean laundry that still need folding. I was born this way, and have unfortunately passed this trait on to my kids, with Daughter #1 wailing at age 3: “But I can’t make it perfect”, while trying to tie her shoes. I can’t be Bill Murray today, so in an effort to let go of this ideal of perfectionism, I am sharing this sad, largely unedited tale of how I picked my self-pitying self up and kicked myself (metaphorically, of course) in the dupa as the Polish say. (You can’t grow up where I did in Michigan and not pick up a few useful Polish words, another useful one being paczki).

Sometimes, we live the Pinterest life, or at least give the appearance of doing so. Last night we dined on bone china eating grass-fed husband-hunted grilled elk steaks with a side of organic brown quinoa, and garden fresh-picked kale stir-fried with onions and nitrite-free bacon. Here is a picture of that lovely meal.

Pinterest-worthy, don't you think?

Pinterest-worthy, don’t you think?

Most times we don’t though. Today, I picked up dinner from Wendy’s (by request from my little guy–not sure if that makes it better or worse) on the way home so we could get started on the hours of homework I knew lay ahead of us. My kids ate their Kid Value Meals (“with toy from Dreamworks!”) while I prayed that the fumes in my tank would get us through the line at the gas station, hoping the gas light would not start blinking like the robot in Swiss Family Robinson. I’m sure the bacon on the Junior bacon cheeseburger was not nitrite-free. There is no picture of that meal.

When we got home, Dragon Mama reared her ugly head, and the battle of the homework began. My middle daughter has no great love of math, and a summer in which we did not review multiplication tables is bearing all of its tearful fruits now. As I sat there, wishing the husband was home so I could tag out for a few minutes like those old WWF wrestling matches, I wondered if perhaps I am the cause of her dislike of math. Not a great motherhood moment. I walked away to sit on our patio swing, in the hopes that it would give me some perspective. This would be the moment I discovered the dog had found something delightful in the compost to string all over the yard. I have to admit, there was nothing Zen-like about this outdoors experience, and the swing would likely be more calming if it weren’t powered by angry feet, rocking wildly off its foundation.

This is me on a bad day.  Note the mouth made for spewing fire.

This is me on a bad day. Note the mouth made for spewing fire.

My spirits thusly fortified by the brisk swing, I felt up to the homework battle, in which the phrases “No, it would not be easier to add it 36 times, just MULTIPLY!” and “Yes, it is still wrong! Add it again.” were uttered. This is why I would be horrible at home-schooling my children, and why I believe teachers should be paid exponentially more than they are. At the end, we negotiated how to dole out the last 6 problems of Sunshine Math for the rest of the week given a full schedule of baseball, soccer, dance, scouting, and, of course, work. That was when my middle daughter said, “I really hope Daddy will be home for at least some of those days.” “Me, too,” I thought to myself.

In the middle of this, my husband called back to apologize for our earlier conversation in which I had retorted, “I don’t understand why we’re yelling when we agree with each other.” I had the good sense to also apologize, though not very graciously, and then he shared the news which made every single grumpy moment seem ridiculously banal. Our friend has cancer, and the outcome is uncertain.

On a day when I managed to yell at my kids just trying to add and multiply, my husband while trying to agree with him, and the dog for doing what dogs do, this news made me drop my head in shame. I looked at my self-pitying soul, and resolved to live better. We get no second chances, this not being a movie set and all, and so, we said our bedtime prayers, I apologized for being a dragon Mama, and we had a cuddle session which put them past their bedtimes, in the hopes it will all balance out in the end.

Tonight I’m thankful for second chances and forgiveness. I’m grateful for Wendy’s Junior bacon cheeseburgers and elk steaks. And I’m thankful for all the teachers who spend hours a day teaching our children with patience and skill. I’m praying for all the other dragon mamas (and papas) out there who have to parent alone all the time. I’m praying tonight for our friend, and for all of us out there who are struggling to live each day with grace, whether it is our last day or our first, again.

National Poetry Month


I know they say the first day of spring is in March, but really, if you’re from Michigan, you know that spring doesn’t really begin until April, and so for me, I think of the first day of April as the herald that spring is around the corner. Lilac bushes are bursting into bloom all over the place, and I hope you are somewhere you can enjoy their fragrance. I have another story to tell you about lilac bushes, but that will be for another blog post.

April is National Poetry Month or NaPoMo as some people call it, which sounds like a word from another language to me, so very appropriate. I promise only to inflict one of my old poems on you today, in tribute to National Poetry Month, but I would encourage you to read some poetry this month. A poem is often just a snippet of loveliness and beauty that makes you see the world a little differently for a little while. Since my blog is named after a line from one of Emily Dickinson’s poems, I’m sure it is no surprise to you that I love poetry. Haiku is one of my favorite forms of poetry, as it embodies a lot of what I love about it: structure (5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables), a theme from nature or the natural world, and because of its structure, an emphasis on making every word count. If you are a poet, try a new form, such as an elegy or a sestina. It will stretch your writing muscles to try something different. Even if you’re not a poet, it’s fun to wrestle words into these shapes, and see if they will do your bidding.

My kids love poetry. I started them with the inimitable Shel Silverstein, and they quote funny lines from his books all the time. I wonder when we lose our love of funny-sounding words or lines, and begin to think of poetry as something for aesthetes or someone else. For those of us that love music, I think that love of poetry has just become subversive, hidden in the lines of song lyrics. Poetry itself does not and should not take itself too seriously. How could it, with wonderful words like abecedarian?

I found my favorite new word for today on this great site with definitions and examples of poetic forms: abecedarian, or a form of poem in which the first line or stanza begins with A, the second B, etc.: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/glossary-terms

And here is the only poem of mine that I have memorized and readily available for human consumption. I hope you like it.

Longing

Tiny, perfect stars
Drift over a void of black
A wish falls to earth

And just in case you start to take poetry a little too seriously, here are the poems my little ones were inspired to write with much silliness and giggling, when I told them it was National Poetry Month. Enjoy!

From my little guy (please keep in mind he is only 8, and scatalogical humor still reigns supreme in his mind):

Violets are red,
Roses are blue,
My dog and me ate my sister’s homework,
BUURP!

And from my animal-loving 10 yr old about our sister-dog: “It’s a cinquain! Well, my version of one.” Yep, schooled by an 11-year old.
Mocha
lazy, silly
dozing, stretching, snoring
laying, sniffing
Sloth

Today I am thankful for poetry, for Shel Silverstein, and for the start of spring.

Sing!


In 5th grade in my elementary school, you could sign up for band. I had so longed to be able to play the piano, but then was assigned the clarinet. You can imagine my disappointment. My parents would listen to me practice dutifully in my room, the squeaks and squawks emanating from my bedroom so unlike any kind of music they or I had ever heard. They were relieved, I’m sure, when I asked to be switched to the flute. Unfortunately, I was no better at this, and being the practical sort of people that they are, stopped throwing good money after bad, and I did not continue on in band in middle school. I think my parents, and perhaps even the neighbors, were grateful for that.

That year was the same year I became a citizen, and coincidentally (or perhaps not), the theme for our choral show that year was patriotism. We learned The Star Spangled Banner, My Country Tis of Thee, God Bless America, and Yankee Doodle Dandy. Guess who got picked to be the Yankee Doodle Dandy? That’s right, this girl, the one who has to wear a microphone to lecture to her class of less than 20 people, the one who has had to repeat her name so many times at roll call because the substitute teacher #1.Doesn’t know how to pronounce my name, and #2.Can’t hear me saying “Here” the first 3 times she calls my name. At the time, I thought I was being picked for my vocal talents. Although I can carry a tune, I’m sure my selection had more to do with my impending citizenship than with any sort of raw talent.

For a long time after I figured this out, I only sang in church, mainly because I felt God could hear me no matter how quiet I was and could feel how much I loved to sing, and that would be enough. Then one day, I read this quote “He who sings, prays twice,” attributed to St. Augustine.* This feels so true to me, perhaps because my happiest times singing were in church. All of our voices blend together in one beautiful harmony raised in worship. A very good church choir can be transcendent, lifting us up. Even a single voice can do this. I thought of this when I saw a clip of the Sicilian nun, Sister Cristina, on the Voice. Her voice is beautiful, but what struck me most about this clip are the tears in the eyes of one of the judges. At first glance, it seems improbable that this young nun could move a man with tattoos on his throat known for calling people “Dude” to tears, but with her profoundly simple and joyful expression of her faith through her song, she is able to touch him.

Isn’t that all that we long to do as human beings? This is what we want, for ourselves, and for our children to have, this joyful and inspired expression of who we really are, without concern of judgment. There is a popular song in which a mother sings to her children, “I hope you dance.” I would add to that, I hope you sing!

Today I am thankful for all musicians who are able to sing or create music which touches our souls. I am thankful for music teachers who perpetuate the love of music. And I am grateful for my oldest daughter who both sings and teaches piano, and occasionally dances :), my 10 yr old daughter who dances when no one is looking, and for a son who still sings and dances with abandon.

*The actual translation of St. Augustine’s words from Latin, is: “For he who sings praise, does not only praise, but also praises joyfully; he who sings praise, not only sings, but also loves Him whom he is singing about/to/for. There is a praise-filled public proclamation (praedicatio) in the praise of someone who is confessing/acknowledging (God), in the song of the lover (there is) love.” Isn’t this even more beautiful than the popular misquote of St. Augustine?

The link from which this definition came with the actual Latin, because I am a nerd:
http://wdtprs.com/blog/2006/02/st-augustine-he-who-sings-prays-twice

The YouTube video in which Sister Cristina is featured (be sure to click on the Closed Caption button which translates it into English, unless you understand Italian):

The Power of Names


I am a true believer in the power of a name.  Perhaps it is because as a writer, I know the power words can have to change mindsets and attitudes.  Perhaps it is because I grew up with the story of how my name came to be, and saw how it came to be both a self-fulfilling prophecy and revealing of my true personality.  Perhaps it is just because there is always a story behind each person’s name, and I love stories. Mine begins in Saigon, where I was born to a Korean father and a Vietnamese mother.  Whenever I tell people this, I always get the same reaction–“That’s a strange combination”.  Having never known any different, I really can’t say why this is, but purely from a personality standpoint, I can say my parents are two entirely different people.

Though both my mother and father grew up poor in war-torn countries, their stories are very different.   My father tells me stories of hiding out in the mountains of Korea from Japanese soldiers, and moving from city to city as my grandfather searched for work.  My mother wielded a machete to make her way through the jungles near her village in Vietnam while she scrounged for firewood and stole fruit from the trees of neighbors.  My father is a second son of six children, a golden boy who began providing for his family at a young age, helping to put his sisters through school.  My mother is the second-oldest daughter, but 3rd from the youngest of my grandmother’s eleven children, growing up in a very Catholic family.  My father loves music, art, and museums.  My mother was forbidden from reading novels with our family’s strict Catholic upbringing, but there wasn’t much money for novels anyway.  Before he came to Vietnam, my father had traveled all over, taking photographs with his Nikon and reportedly, as my mother teases him, leaving a trail of broken hearts.  My mother was betrothed to marry a boy from the next village over, but having never been there or met him, finagled her way out of the engagement by “forgetting” to notify him of her father’s death, thereby prolonging the time he would traditionally have to wait to marry her from 3 months to  3 yrs  (after the mourning period for her father had ended).  My father, a cultured man 17 years my mother’s senior fell madly in love with the determined young village girl, even going so far as converting from Buddhism to Catholicism to obtain permission from my grandmother to marry.

When I was born, my parents consulted a numerologist for help in naming their first-born daughter.  This to me is one of the most puzzling parts of the story.  When the story was told to me when I was a child, it was said as matter of factly as one might say “And then we took you home from the hospital.”  Looking back on the story now, I have a multitude of questions.  How long does such a process take?  Where might one find a good numerologist in Saigon? Was his or her name on a bulletin board in the waiting room of the hospital?  Was this a normal part of the naming process for everyone at that time?  My father was a fire chief, then a field engineer for the American military base in Saigon, work that is very concrete and physical.  My mother is the most practical person I’ve ever met. The concept of a numerologist being part of the naming process for these 2 people does not fit.  And yet, that is what I am told happened next.  This numerologist took all of our numbers, which I assume consisted of dates of birth for my mother, father, and me, and perhaps the time of my birth, and decided that I would be the peacekeeper between my mother and father, because they are such different people.  Thus my first name and middle name are meant to be said together, translating roughly into “the source of peace and happiness.”

I was in elementary school at the time I heard this story.  If you have children of your own, you realize early on that they arrive in this world with certain personality traits and qualities that emerge and persist.  My two daughters are both perfectionists.  My oldest is soft-spoken and prefers to avoid the spotlight.  My middle child is not soft-spoken, and prefers to do things her way.  My son is perceptive about people, and sensitive to their emotional states.  These are characteristics which are innate to them, ones that I cannot change, even if I were to try, and nothing that I knowingly taught to them.  From childhood, even before I heard the story of my name, I strived for accord between my friends or other children on the playground.  Am I who I am today because of my name?  Or was it just serendipitous that my name reflects the personality with which I was born?  I can’t recall consciously deciding to be someone who brings happiness and peace to others, as it seems to me to a worthy goal for any and every person, but did the knowledge of my name help to firm my nascent and innate desire to be a peacemaker?  Without a time machine, it is a mystery to know how different each of our lives might have been with different names.  Was the fact that my name’s meaning is positive change my perception about my life’s path?  I look at some of the more unusual baby names and wonder what will become of these children named Puppy or Pepsi.  My children are not named Puppy or Pepsi.

When my sister was born, here in America, my father asked for my help in naming her.  Thinking about this now, this also strikes me as strange, given that I had just turned 8.  I took the task very seriously though.  Being a very literary little girl, I went to my favorite stories.  At the top of my list of names was Josephine, for my favorite character in Little Women, and Sara after Sara Crewe from The Little Princess.  These girls were brave, smart, and kind.  These are the characteristics I hoped for in my first and only sister.  My father took my list of suggestions and actually chose one of the names I had provided.  And my sister is brave, smart, and kind.  I can’t take any of the credit for these virtues though I did help to name her.  She was born that way.

Today, I am thankful for my baby sister.  Sis, I’m sorry I forgot to warn you not to read this one in public.  I am grateful that my parents put thought into naming me and all of my siblings, and that none of us have names that might predispose us to being serial killers.  And as always, I am thankful for the power of names and words to change lives.

I love to hear stories of names.  So please feel free to share yours.  What is the story behind your name or the names you chose for your children or pets?  Do you think the meaning behind your name had any effect on who you are? Did you change your name, and if so, why?

Here is an article about the unusual names people have chosen for their babies in 2013, Pepsi and Puppy being real names, unfortunately:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2529425/Vogue-Nirvana-Tea-Reem-PEPPA-The-bizarre-baby-names-2013.html

The time machine I would use to explore alternative universes in which my name was not influenced by the numerologist.

Source: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v291/Riverwolf/tardis.jpg