The Stressful Life

So you think you have a stressful life?

I walked into Room 14 and introduced myself to my next patient--a peroxide-blonde, twenty-something female anxiously sitting in her cot, her tattoos peeking out from both the collar area and the short-sleeves of her hospital gown.

"Hello, Marissa," I said, "I'm Dr. Jim and I'll be taking care of you today. What happened that brought you to our ER?"

Her answer was brief and, quite honestly, unexpected. "My boyfriend and my husband are both being jerks to me." It turned out that she had been "completely stressed out lately" from the shabby treatment from the men in her life. As a result, she was having episodes of heart palpitations, episodic runs of shallow, rapid breathing, and being "jittery all the time."

"In fact," she said, interrupting my history-taking, "I need a cigarette real bad. Like, right now."

I shook my head "no" to her request, explaining that my ER patients are not allowed to leave our department to go outside and smoke. "If you really need to, though," I said, "you are free to sign out against medical advice, go out and smoke all you want, and then sign back in to be seen. Unfortunately, you might be waiting a while."

As I expected, she decided not to sign out AMA and go have a smoke, but not before rolling her eyes at me. That's okay, though. Little did Marissa know, but I got an A+ in "Rebuffing Eye Rolls, 101." Hell, I could teach that class, even.

We continued on with our discussion. "I think I might be having a heart-attack from the stress," she said, sincerely trying to explain the full scope of her symptoms. "I never was like this until my husband threatened to leave me, and now I am stressing-out all the time. Even my boyfriend notices it." There was no flicker of self-awareness, although I was expecting at any time for her to jump up and down and recognize the root of her problems. Without my help. I was hopeful that saying the words out loud might make the obvious evident to her.

No such luck. Marissa needed to hear her it spelled out from her friendly ER doctor.

"Well, Marissa," I asked, "do you think that maybe you are creating a lot of your stress by trying to have a relationship with two men at the same time? Emotionally, that is a lot of energy you are giving away." My shoulders shuddered as I had a sudden thought of just how much physical energy Marissa might be giving away, too.

"Um," she said, "I don't think so. I think most of the stress is coming from trying to get pregnant." She looked at me to gauge my response.

I took the bait. "You're trying to get pregnant?" I asked, trying to mask my surprise. "By which guy--your husband or your boyfriend?"

"Well," Marissa said, "that's part of the problem. I don't know who I want to have a baby with yet. My husband is good-looking, but my boyfriend is a little smarter, I think." She took a slight pause before continuing. "Do you think I should go for some good-looking kids or some smart ones?"

I looked around her treatment room closely, straining my eyes to find the hidden camera that was obviously recording my reaction for one of those candid camera shows. I couldn't find a little peep hole, though. Unfortunately, this was a real patient-physician encounter.

"And," Marissa continued, "it's not just who should I have a baby with that is stressing me out. My boss just increased my hours to thirty-five a week. I used to do twenty-five hours before. I don't know if I can handle ten more hours a week."

Again, I took the bait. "What do you do that is so stressful, Marissa?" "I'm a bartender," she said, puffing out her chest with pride. "Do you have any idea how stressful a job that is?" I assured her that I didn't. "Yeah, well, it's not only about mixing and serving drinks. I have to listen to people go on and on and on about all their problems. Like their problems are more important than mine. Most of the time, I just smile and nod my head while I'm tuning them out."

I smiled at Marissa and nodded my head.

I had had enough of Marissa's complaining for this visit. It was time to move on to her physical exam and testing. And, hopefully, figure out what we could do to help her.

"Marissa," I said, after completing a stone-cold normal exam and reviewing her normal EKG, "I have several worries about you, the most important being that you are carrying on relationships with two men. I worry for your safety right there. Are you protecting yourself?" She looked at me funny. "Are you sexually active with both of them?" I asked her more plainly. "Well, yeah," she said, like the answer should have been obvious to me. I, however, didn't want to assume anything.

"Then you need to make sure you take care of yourself and protect yourself, okay?" She nodded yes. "Otherwise, I'm afraid, your symptoms all seem to be related to stress. The treatment for that," I continued, "is simple--reduce the stress. I don't know how you are going to go about this, but you need to simplify your life, make some decisions about work and your relationships, and start carrying those decisions through."

"But," she said, "I don't know if I should stick with my husband or my boyfriend. What would you do?" I looked at her, at the sincere plea from her confused eyes, and realized that she was not going to be able to make the decision on her own.

In my mind, I knew exactly what I would do. First and foremost, I would have Marissa throw out her cigarettes. Then, I would have her avoid both men for a month and see where that would leave her. Finally, I would have her immerse herself in her work, since her pride was quite evident when she spoke about her bartending work. Unless, of course, the bartending environment was contributing to her problems (which, I suspect, it probably was).

As gently as I could, I shared some of my thoughts with her. I explained to her that she was exhibiting "psychosomatic symptoms," where her body was physically exhibiting symptoms from her mental stress. Pure, unadulterated anxiety. Marissa, I thought, could benefit from a professional counselor to guide her through some of her decisions. And by staying in close contact with her family doctor, too.

"I'll tell you what, Marissa," I said, "I'm going to have one of our case managers come talk to you. They'll review your counseling options with you and, hopefully, a counselor will be able to help you make some decisions that will be in your best interests. Does that sound okay?"

She nodded her head "yes." "And," she added, "can I have something to help with my nerves over the next few days?" It was my turn to nod my head "yes." What I was providing was, really, only a band-aid to her problems, though. With her unique complaints, she needed to sort her head out.

I wonder if Marissa ever pursued counseling or not. Part of me suspects that she probably blew it off, thinking her time was more valuable than driving somewhere for an hour appointment. But a small part of me still wants to keep the faith in her...that, with a little guidance, she would begin to make more responsible decisions.

Sometimes, the stories and complaints we hear in the medical field are nothing short of mind-boggling. We only wish we were making some of this stuff up. Imagine, being torn between having a baby with your husband or your boyfriend. Makes me wonder if the baby turned out cute or smart.

Maybe both.

In the meantime, I'll just keep things low-stress on my end, plugging away as a father, as a husband, and as an ER doc...how about you?

As always, big thanks for reading. I hope you all had a great holiday weekend. See you on Friday, June 4. Until then...

The Half-Load Predicament

My family does a lot of swimming in the summer, both recreational and competitive. And because of the amount of time we spend at the pool, we go through a lot of swimsuits.

This summer, while at a local department store, my wife took the girls and went looking for some extra suits while my son and I searched out swim trunks in the men's department.

While my son was looking at the boy's rack, I thumbed through the available men's options. I passed right by the tiny Speedos rack, since I'm neither European nor obese, and found a rack of board shorts, my favorites.

The designs were current and hip and I just knew I was going to look 20 again at the poolside.

Finding a pair I really liked, I peeked at the tag to confirm the size was the same as what the hanger read.

What I saw next was nothing less than disgusting. And hysterical. I could not believe what I was looking at.

There, inside the swim trunks I had planned on purchasing, was half a load of crap clinging to the inseam!

Obviously, someone had tried these trunks on underwearless, which is gross enough. But to actually leave this mess and put the shorts back? I was incredulous. It either had to be a teenager playing a vile prank or someone who simply failed to hold their wet fart. Either way, I couldn't even imagine what their crack looked like if this is how the shorts turned out.

Since my kids have fantastic senses of humor, I decided to have a little fun. "Hey," I called to my eleven year-old son, "can you come here?"

He came up to me as I stood in front of the trunks. "Yeah, Dad?"

"I really like these trunks but I can't read the size on the tag. Can you?"

"Sure." My son grabbed the clean waistband and pulled it back to read the tag. "Dad, it says thirty...OH MY GOSH!" He had spotted the mess.

He released his grip on the waistband and could barely get his words out. "There's...there's a load of...of...it's brown...OH MY GOSH! GROSS!"

I sometimes wish my humor wasn't so twisted from working in the ER, but there you go. I could hardly keep a straight face.

"Look, Dad, I'm not kidding!" I took a look to appease him. "Well," I said reflectively, fingers on chin, "I don't think that should be there."

"We have to go tell Mom and the girls!" he exclaimed, running away from me before I could stop him.

I followed him to the girls section, where he was already in the middle of the story by the time I arrived. My wife and daughters looked incredulous. In unison, when he finished, they exclaimed "NO WAY!"

My wife and girls looked at me to confirm the story. "Really?" they asked. "Really," I said.

As my son rushed off with the girls to show them this remarkable find, my wife asked me again. "This is for real?"

"Yes," I said again, "no lie. I promise. And it's disgusting."

She caught me off-guard with her next question. "Aren't you going to take them up to the front counter?"

What? I didn't even think of that. I wasn't the one who took a dump in some new board shorts in the dressing room. And, I didn't ask for this to happen. Why should I have to take them up to the front?

"Because," my wife said, "that's the right thing to do. You don't want someone buying them and taking them home, do you?" Ugh, sometimes her reasonable thinking annoyed me. "Besides," she continued, "what if someone throws them in their cart and they have food or, even worse, a toddler playing in the cart. Then what?"

I pictured a little child, blond spiral curls, pulling those board shorts playfully over her head.

Nope, it still wasn't enough for me.

"Listen," I pleaded with my wife, "if I take them to the front counter, they'll think I did it. Who's going to believe that I 'just found them on the rack?' They'll be laughing at me the minute I walk away. Security will probably follow me on hidden cameras the rest of this shopping visit."

I could only imagine. "Hey, Nancy," the security guard would yell to the lady I handed the shorts to, "there's 'the shitter' looking at tennis balls in the sporting section. Why isn't he in the toilet paper aisle?" Then they would burst into fits of laughter, all at my expense.

No, I wasn't handing the swim trunks in. No way, no how.

My wife and I walked over to the men's section to find our kids playfully pushing one another close to the stained shorts.

"Hey, kids," my wife admonished, "be careful! And don't touch them! I don't want you getting someone else's poop on yourself!" Yes, I thought, but it's okay to have your own poop on you? Since she was somewhat annoyed with me, however, I decided not to question her on that point.

She hesitantly stepped towards the shorts and peeled back the waistband. The kids and I held our breath. "Well," she said, cracking a smile at the absurdity, "that sure is something, isn't it?"

Um, yeah, it is something. Something disgusting. Something filthy. Something funny. Something hysterical. Something unexpected. Something unbelievable. Yeah, it was something alright.

"Are you going to take them to the front? Or am I going to have to?" she asked.

I held my ground. "I can't, hon'. Seriously. I just can't do it."

She huffed. "Well, whatever then." I expected her to keep her threat and grab the shorts and take them up to the front herself, but she didn't.

She grabbed the cart handle and pushed it away from the rotten, stinking shorts. "Come on, kids. Let's get out of here and get some cookies." They had earned that much. As long as they washed their hands first.

"Wait," I challenged, "I thought if I didn't take these to the front, you were."

"I changed my mind. Let's go." Good--maybe she was seeing the light of my way.

I walked away from those shorts with a heavy heart. Why I felt so responsible for a load of feces that wasn't mine, I don't know. Darn that deviant culprit for making me feel guilty for his defecation.

On our way out, my eyes searched for anyone close to having a 33w. Or a shuffle to their walk. Or brown-stained pants. No one...

Driving home, I ended up calling in the problem anonymously from my cell phone. Okay, not really. But I do wish I had thought of that at the time. It's just that, for being a level-headed guy, I was a bit flustered.

When we share this story with friends, family, and coworkers (and trust me, we got a lot of mileage out of this one), they seem to be split on what they would have done. Do you know what you would have done?

One of my coworkers, Bill, said it best. "That sure was a shitty predicament."

Yeah, you think?


My next post, an ER story, will be Monday, December 7. I assure you that my kids are very happy and well-adjusted and carry no ill-effects from this shopping trip. Thanks, as always, for reading and have a great weekend.

Cheetos and Painkillers

We pretty much went paperless in our ER several years ago. In paper's place, I now have a computer that lists all of the patients in the ER, their complaints, their vital signs, and their medical histories.

All at my disposal with the click of a mouse. Yes, mine is a powerful finger!

The nurses enter most of this medical information in triage or at a bedside computer in the patient's room. Occasionally, they will enter little tidbits of information that are quite funny. I live for these innocent commentaries.

"Patient's toupee keeps shifting on his head."
"Patient had smelly flatus during interview." (Is there any other kind?)
"Patient refused to put on gown but did adjust her halter top."
"Patient getting long lingering hugs from her 'brother'."
"Patient did not wash his hands after showing me his hernia."
"Patient used to smoke but quit three hours ago."
"Patient is constipated and tried to disimpact himself in our bathroom."

Yes, it's these little subtle comments that sometime tell me the most about a patient. And sometime warn me to shake the patient's hand with a glove on when I introduce myself!

So, after clicking to treat the patient in Room 29, directly across the hall from the nurses' station, I scanned the computer screen for the patient's information.

She was 24, complaining of abdominal pain for three days, and had no entertaining nursing comments charted. Another serious, legitimate patient.

Wrong.

As I walked into the room, I was surprised to find a young woman sitting comfortably on the bed, just finishing a small bag of Cheetos. In the corner of the room, accompanying her, was her husband, his hands dipped into a small bag of Doritos. Both had orange fingers. They must have been snacking for a while.

Now, if you had significant enough abdominal pain that brought you to the ER, don't you think you would pass on the Cheetos? I know I would. And trust me--nothing comes between me and my Cheetos!

I introduced myself to the patient and her husband but skipped my customary handshake. I didn't want orange fingers, too.

"What brings you here today, maam?"

The patient mumbled something that I couldn't understand.

"I'm sorry, can you say that again?"

The patient held up her finger to me, her way of telling me to wait. She nimbly jumped from the bed, went to the counter in the room, picked up a 20 oz. Pepsi that was nearly full, and proceeded to chug it down to within an inch of the bottom. As she put the Pepsi back down, I noticed that there was a second, though empty, bag of Cheetos sitting on the counter.

She spoke a little more clearly now, thanks to the Pepsi washout, although I could still see the orange crumbs clinging to her chin and orange saliva building up in the creases of her lips.

"You're the doctor, right?" I nodded yes to her question. She grabbed her left abdomen. "Oh," she started moaning, "oh my God! Help me, Doctor! My stomach hurts so bad." I think I actually saw her suppress a smile.

She was serious. Seriously a bad actress. She could have at least practiced in front of a mirror.

And maam, I'm so sorry, but Julia Roberts just called. She wants her Oscar back.

I asked this patient some specific, in-depth questions and got only the sketchiest of responses.

"Well," I said, after finishing my interview and performing a stone-cold normal physical exam, "I'm happy to say that you have a good exam. And your blood and urine work that the nurse ordered in triage came back normal, too."

"What?" she shrieked. "You mean to tell me I just waited four hours to have you tell me I'm okay?"

"Maam," I gently pointed out, "your vital signs are good, your exam is unremarkable, and frankly, you ate two bags of Cheetos and chugged a 20 oz. Pepsi. I think whatever was hurting your belly is already passing you by."

She looked very unhappy while she nervously glanced over to the corner at her husband.

"Umm," she said, "I need some pain pills."

"Pardon me?" I asked.

Now, I am a very compassionate doctor and rarely hesitate to provide pain relief with strong medications when needed. In fact, I sometimes get teased by our nurses for being a "candy man." So I promise you, I was not taking this patient's complaints lightly. It's just that between her complaints, her actions, her exam and her test results, my suspicions of her having a serious illness were so low that all she was going to get from me was Tylenol.

"Tried that. It doesn't work."

"Well, I'm sorry. You won't be getting any pain medication with your visit today."

She eyed me, I eyed her, she eyed her husband, he eyed me, I eyed him.

I was eyed out.

"You sure I can't have any pain pills? Just a couple. I'm hurting so bad." She was now holding the other side of her belly, not remembering it was the left side that was hurting before.

And then, in the midst of her drama, she did something unexpected and glorious.

She burped.

A big, nasty, bullfrog burp.

I think after that, she knew it was over. I shook my head no to her request, wished her good luck, and advised her to return if she got a fever or her symptoms worsened or changed.

"Yeah, whatever," she mumbled as she easily jumped up from the bed to get dressed.

I went back to my computer screen to get her discharge instructions ready and noticed that she had another page that I hadn't scrolled down on.

There, on page two, sat my warning from her nurse.

"Patient's 19th visit this year."

Maybe she just likes the Cheetos from our waiting room vending machine.


I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving weekend. Thanks for reading. Next post will be Wednesday, December 2. See you then.

Pass The Clicker

In the spirit of this Thanksgiving holiday, a humorous peek into my home life...

I'm a typical guy who, if given the chance, will sit on my leather sofa with TV remote in hand and slowly meld into the cushion, oblivious to the fact that I am watching for the third time the same episode of "Trading Spaces" or that I may not have changed my underwear in two days. With this in mind, my wife and I made a decision about four years ago to cancel all but our most basic cable channels.

Who am I kidding! If I'm going to be honest here, she made the decision. I had no say. I still get teary-eyed thinking back to that awful day.

To complicate matters, the cable company screwed up our cancellation. Yes, they lowered our bill from $50 to $16, but they kept forgetting to reduce our cable plan to the basic package. As a result, we continued to get all the big package channels. All for the fantastic price of $16! Can you imagine how frustrating it was for me to hear my wife call the cable company ten times, requesting them to come and "fix the problem."

I saw no problem. We were getting a hundred channels for $16. Where's the problem?

"The problem is that it's dishonest," she replied.

I think her honesty may be the death of me.

Now, though, with the kids growing older and outgrowing PBS (our only kid-friendly channel among our huge selection of 12 channels), we were faced with another dilemma. What could they watch? We were stuck between "SpongeBob SquarePants" and "CSI." There was no gray zone of good television for our kids.

Low and behold, we discovered our favorite television series on DVD. We made trips to Walmart, Target, and Best Buy and were frequent visitors on Amazon.com. We snatched up "Little House on the Prairie," "The Waltons," "Happy Days," "Laverne and Shirley," "Leave It To Beaver," "Gilligan's Island," and "The Brady Bunch." There's more, but these were the shows that made the biggest impact.

Our kids were in heaven. If they liked Season 1 of something, we moved on to Season 2. And Season 3. And Season 4. I'm going to be honest here--I thoroughly enjoyed revisiting these classics. Probably more than the kids.

I discovered that I did not attain much personal growth traveling from my childhood into adulthood. I still liked Mary more than Laura. I rooted for Jan over Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Laverne made me laugh, but Shirley held my heart in her hand. Did I really think Richie Cunningham was cool? And Mary Ann versus Ginger? Let me tell you, if you put your hair in pigtails and wear a red-checkered shirt and tie the bottom in a knot around your waist, I'll eat the scraps from your plate.

Mrs. Cleaver remained my fantasy mother. Just once I wanted to wake up and find my own mother, awesome though she was, serving me breakfast in full makeup and an evening gown! I remember Mom rolling her eyes when I asked her to play along with me on that. Nope, it didn't happen.

And how could I not mention Eddie Haskell, my idol? I got tired of my friends and family mentioning that I was his twin, but he did teach me that good manners and sincere politeness could take you far. Thank you very much. And by the way, did I mention how nice you look today?

I could not let this moment pass without mentioning how much I still love Grandma Walton. Not for the physical reasons, mind you, but just for the fact that I had never known someone who was so moody and sour. It was a new experience to watch such a crotchety character. I was so thankful she wasn't my grandma. I can only imagine what kind of mood Grandma Walton would be in the first time her bladder didn't hold out. Can you even imagine her shrilling voice? "John Boy, get over here right now and change my diaper!" Ugh. Keep writing, John Boy, and get yourself out of that house. Because up on those mountains, my friend, you wash the diapers by hand. In the cold creek.

The biggest hit for my kids, though, was and still is "I Love Lucy." Although I didn't see this one coming, my wife did. My daughters, 13 and 8, love everything about Lucy. And my son, 11, cheers right along with the girls. The candy factory line, the grape-stomping, the vitameatavegamin commercial--you know what I'm talking about. We all have our favorites--are you thinking of yours right now? Just hearing my kids gut-busting laughter from a show that is 50+ years old is a miracle in and of itself. It's hard to believe, but the episodes only seem to have gotten funnier.

We recently traveled to Hilton Head and instead of playing music overhead in the car, my wife and I listened to the episodes that the kids were watching. Better than music, I tell you, better than music.

And I know what you are thinking--NO, we are not pathetic!

I think a visit to Lucy's museum in her hometown of Jamestown, N.Y. is going to happen someday soon. I just need someone to promise me that it won't be a bust.

Okay, so maybe that's a little pathetic. But they just might have a picture of Lucy in pigtails wearing a red-checkered tied-at-the-waist shirt. Then who's going to have the last laugh?

Now, pass me my clicker. Peter's just about to say "Porkchops...and applesauce."


Thanks for reading...next post will be Monday, November 30.

Ssshhh

Ssshhh.

What do you hear? Silence? Commotion?

During yet another crazy, bustling ER shift, I squeezed into a sliver of unused counter space at one of our nurses' stations to finish writing on a chart. I was facing one of my favorite secretaries, Louise, who sat opposite from where I was standing.

"Is it me or is it loud in here tonight?" she asked.

Besides being good at what she does, "Weezie" also was born and bred in our hospital's town and seemed to know everyone. "That's my great aunt's best friend's nephew's son's girlfriend--well, ex-girlfriend, I mean. They broke up last week." Some of my heartiest laughs at work have come from Weezie. You should have heard her three-year rant after turning 50 about still getting her period! The first time she missed her period, I should have bought her a Georgia O'Keefe print to celebrate! There would be one more unclipped Tampax coupon in the Sunday paper that week.

"Way too loud, Weezie," I answered, still writing.

She was right, too. It was deafening. And now that she brought it to my attention, my ears were hurting. The ER seems to be very moody, bipolar almost, in how quickly the atmosphere can change. And judging from the volume tonight, we were in a manic phase. Without looking, I knew there was a full moon.

I stopped writing and looked up from my chart, appreciating the bedlam. Looking down one hallway and into the next, all I could see were patients lying in cots lining the halls, nurses and techs scrambling in and out of rooms, pacing family members, ambulance crews waiting with their patients for a room assignment, and security taking their usual strolls.

"I think this might be one of the worst," she said. Those were big words coming from Weezie.

I went back to finishing my chart, hoping this most recent patient would recover from her stroke symptoms.

And then it happened.

Ssshhh.

Silence.

It was the most momentous, most sudden silence I have ever appreciated at work.

I knew that whatever was going on was huge, HUGE--nothing can silence an ER like this!

Debating whether to look up or not, it was Weezie's voice that convinced me.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed. Weezie exclaiming? This must be colossal!

I looked up at Weezie, her mouth gaping, and I followed her pointing finger.

Staggering down the hallway, towards us, was a middle-aged man. Moving slowly. Passing by patients and their families. He seemed real nice and friendly, nodding to this patient and waving to that one, in a vote-for-me kind of way. I'm quite sure, though, that he wasn't running for public office.

And, oh yeah. I may have forgotten to mention--the guy was butt-naked!!!

There was no gown, no clothes, no shoes even. His pudgy, hairy middle-aged body was there for the world to see. If not the world, at least our lucky ER. Who knew that little Susie was going to have her appendix taken out and see her first naked stranger!

I would like to say that I rushed over to help this gentleman cover up but I, like everyone else, was so completely stunned that I couldn't move. Couldn't budge from my spot. Couldn't shut my gaping mouth, either. I had seen much craziness in my career but nothing that stunned a crowd quite like this. Boy, did I like this guy.

It had been upwards of a minute before security responded to this kind gentleman's wayward stroll. With an armload of blankets, they covered him up and coaxed him back into his room. Right before he stepped back in, he peeked out to give us, his adoring fans, one last wave! Yes, with his hand. I hope for his sake this guy had a lot of alcohol on board.

It turns out this patient, who I'm proud to say wasn't mine, had fallen asleep at a bar counter and had been brought to us by the police to observe and "check out." Somewhere during the ER's chaos, this gentleman, who the nurse had rightfully checked in on many times, was able to climb out of bed, strip off his gown, and take a lovely, relaxing stroll. I think this could qualify in the "memorable stroll" category--mine, not his. He wouldn't remember a thing.

After the guy's last wave to us, we all looked around at one another. Our faces were indistinguishable--we all wore masks of disbelief. It took just one brief smile, one quick laugh from one of the techs, and we all burst out howling at the absurdity of the situation.

"Alright, Weezie," I said, after we had caught our breath, "who was that?"

"Why are you asking me? How would I know?" she asked, incredulously.

This was a first from Weezie. But if you ask me, I'll bet it was her sister's ex-husband's old high school teacher's third cousin, twice-removed.


Next posting will be Friday, November 27. I'd like to wish everyone a blessed Thanksgiving holiday. If you eat too much, tough, I don't want to see you in my ER! Thanks for visiting and reading my posts...

I Am...

I am...

Hmmm, what am I? I don't think I ever had trouble describing myself before, but as I sit here in front of this blank screen, I realize that I don't quite know how to start an honest description of myself. I will try my best, though, so you have an understanding of my perspective in the stories I will share.

First and foremost, I am not perfect. Who is, really? My attempts to have the perfect life have all been in vain and, instead of fighting that fight, I have come to realize with age that my imperfections may be much more interesting.

Secondly, I am observant. I seem to grasp the smaller life moments that may be missed or may seem mundane to someone without a searching eye. It's these simple, boring moments that hold so much more excitement. These moments of rawness and realness make me thankful to be walking the path that I am on.

So what path is that? Well, quite simply, I am a husband. I am a father. I am a friend, a son, a brother, and uncle, a nephew, an athlete, a writer, a lover of books, of music, of nature...I could make this an endless, if boring, list. It is funny to think, though, that the thing I worked the hardest for in my life is probably the thing I want least to define me.

What is that, you ask yourself? Well, I am also an emergency medicine physician.

Unlike some of my comrades, I am not in need of a pedestal to stand. I don't have a big ego. I actually view sharing my occupation with someone as detrimental. The stigmas attached to being a physician can range from absolute adoration to pure disgust. It seems this scale directly correlates with the person's age; the older a person, the more adoration. Well, maybe barring the seventy year-old lawyer. Who needs these projected feelings?

Another reason I don't share? Do you know how many people want to tell you about their hemorrhoids once they find out that you are a physician? Or their bowel movements? Or that thick, fungal toenail they've had for ten years? And please, whatever else, don't ask me to look at that mole on your back that's going to remind me of a head of broccoli.

These reasons alone are enough to keep me from sharing with the typical person what I do. I would like to think that neurosurgeons aren't spared these stories either, but that may be wishful thinking.

So from you, my friend, I ask a favor. Be patient and give me time to unwrap my layers to you. My stories will be funny. My stories will be heartbreaking. My stories will be personal. My stories will be professional. My stories will be your glimpse into a life that may differ from yours. It is my hope that you enjoy them, that something from my experiences may touch your core.

Until next time...thanks for visiting.

New posts will start Monday, November 23 and follow a MWF schedule.