Execu-Yankee

...as in Candle.  Not a New Yorker.

Isn't it funny how smells and scents can take you back?  The smell of turkey cooking inevitably reminds one of holidays and impending family time.  Cookies baking away in the oven smell like home. For me, the smell of bleach reminds me of a clean house, Coppertone of the beach, coffee of another morning in the boardroom, of the daily grind.  Autumn Wreath Yankee candle reminds me of my year in Chicagoland by myself, sans Jack.  Every night in fall, I'd light that candle, hoping it would transport me to my "real" "home."  Back in SB.  "Home" at that point meant "familiar."  I sat alone in my Chicagoan rental house, pondering my new life, deep into hospital management - continually vacillating between a strange bewilderment that people actually thrived on this stuff and a weird attraction because I belonged.  I fit into this strange breed and found myself eager to accept its acceptance of me.  

Was this really where I belonged?   Was I destined to be a salmon swimming upstream for my entire career?  The one who wasn't in this game for personal power, advancement, or wealth?

Smells are powerful.  I bought another Yankee Autumn Wreath candle last week, when I got home from work at 7:32 and after changing into my yoga pants, dove into that Yankee catalog.  I'm re-examining the concept of "home"

Today, I'm grappling with a new game.  A dear friend and fierce competitor of mine (same person) is trying to play me like a game.  I see the game, their actions, and am trying to interpret the game's rules.  I can almost predict the reactions to certain moves.  I realize that I am responding to them in a similar manner, guarded and on edge.  I'm careful of each word, each reaction, making sure my actions portray the perfect combination of cunning and trust, belief and skepticism.  

When did this happen?  When did my friends at work become games?  One more thing to strategize about, plan my actions, and eventually conquer?  I'm not sure I like this.  

Things are different lately; people who "befriend" me in the professional sphere are in it for some other gain, some other reason.  Have I reached that point where my "friendship" is a commodity for the free market, something to be sold when the market is most lucrative for profit?  It's a scary place - I am accustomed to friendships (and relationships in general) being genuine and honest for each party.  I cannot imagine opening my heart to another person, even in a platonic collegial relationship, just to be harvested when that person decides the pickin' is right.  

The friend thing is tough because you want to trust the people with whom you work.  I don't want to become that guarded, scripted person because those are the people *I* steer away from because they seem fake.  They *are* fake.  If you're acting differently than you normally would, then you're putting on some lofty veneer, shiny and filtered enough to impress whomever you decide needs impressing on that particular day.  

I hate that.  It's adding to my exhaustion at work.

The other thing sorely weighing on me right now is, yet again, the question of whether I'm in the right profession.  Last weekend, I visited my dear friend, Nurse Starbucks, at her Floridian retreat center on the ocean.  At least that's what it felt like - a respite.  She fed me well, with lots of fruits and veggies but also excellent cheeses and gourmet tailgate eats for the Notre Dame game.  I slept like a dead woman each night, in my own room, and with her proximity to the ocean and screened-in pool and hot tub, think she should seriously open up an Execu-retreat place.  Where people's cell phone signals are scrambled and they get a measure of peace, especially when they play with and borderline terrorize the two awesome Boxers.  Dogs heal so many wounds.  They're magical.

But what's been eating at my soul for the last few days is Nurse Starbucks' husband.  He seems to LOVE his job.  As the three of us played in the ocean waves for several hours last Sunday, he mentioned that he no longer has to work for retirement because this is the life he wants.  Near to the beach, able to visit the ocean on a random Wednesday night if he wants to, and doing a job he loves.  

It hit me squarely in the gut.  I am having a very difficult time with my job.  I don't want to divulge too many specifics, but I feel as though I'm in a fight for my very soul...do I become a slimy Execu-robot, with the perfecly-scripted verbiage and filtered veneer?  Or do I remain as I currently am, being myself in each and every moment, not really filtering my words, in a desire that my staff see authenticity in my actions and decisions.  You're never liked or popular in management, but it means a great deal to me that my staff respect me and believe in me.  I try to lead from the back, by encouraging people to move forward and spread their proverbial wings.  I love management because I love cultivating new talent.  I love helping people develop their own leadership style and approach.  But the politics, sliminess, entitled employees, and sheer busyness of the job is really getting me down.  

Despite all of my writings about vocation, it's the healthcare piece I am really questioning.  It never slows down and, frankly, healthcare really sucks right now.  You have to do far more with markedly decreased resources and the burden ends up falling on the healthcare managers' shoulders.  I could work 24/7 and not ever be "done" with my work.  The treadmill is whirling by faster than ever, smoking and threatening to short out.  I've worn out my tennis shoes, my knees are aching, and my breath labored.  But to step off the treadmill admits defeat.  Hospital management is built upon Darwinian philosophy, of the survival of the fittest.  I feel as though I haven't come this far, to prove myself to the world, just to give up, to step off the treadmill because I'm tired.  

There's no crying in baseball.  There's no tired in baseball.  Or hospital management.

But on this sunny Sunday in early autumn, I'm going to keep going.  While the neighborhood kids play and yell in the backyard, I'm writing an Aquinas paper.  Because I'm going to graduate in May.  If I can just get through the next 12 months, maybe I will love my job (because I'm "just working" and not worrying about school).  If I don't, I will need to re-evaluate a lot of stuff.  I'm sure I will keep you posted!

  

Mini-Failures and Pandora's Box

Failure on Day 1:

Right, so picking this first day back from a 10-day vacation wasn't the smartest move.  While I coasted through the morning in my post-vacation Zen, the day really tried my patience and endurance.  My first day back was 12 hours long.

When I came home, Jack met me at the door with a glass of wine and a little appetizer so I could relax before dinner.  Best. Dude. Ever.

All thoughout the day, I listened to my self-talk.  It's exhausting, to focus on each though stringing throught your head like you're spinning yarn.  I created two big wooden boxes in my head, one to the left of my mental space, one to the right.  The one to the right is a big white wooden box, with thick wood slats, like one would find on a beach to house kayaks.  This box is marked "Pandora's" in newspaper ransom note letters.  The other box, a navy blue painted wood box, sits to the left, sort of in the shadows and has "EXPECTATIONS" strewn across it in hurried white paint.  

As I sense a thought that is pressing down on me or another person as an unfair, heavy, or just goofy expectation, I mentally shove it in the blue box.  But if I encounter any thought that is negative, going back to my old ways of doing something just to make someone else happy, or to achieve, or to look really good because my email box is at 3 (not!), I shove those compulsions into Pandora's Box.  I'm not sure if I will ever want to sort through that stuff again but for right know, I know they're safe and out of my way.  

My thoughts today still did vary when I had to break up a scruffle between two docs, spearhead a terrifying  budgeting process, and continued to shoulder a staffing crisis in IR.  But I purposely tried to change my attitude.  I'm doing this for my people and for my patients.  Not for me or my ego, to prove that I'm good at my job.  

I shared a bit of my struggle with my boss this morning, about the perfectionism thing, and she just laughed.  She said something like, "You do so well, I don't even know what you're worried about."  She didn't take me too seriously, so I will have to give her some examples about this paradigm shift I'm trying to make.

And without further adieu, mostly because my blessed Ambien is kicking in, I noted a few failures today at work.  I did not finish paperwork on root cause analyses and 2 other contracts that need to go out by tomorrrow at the latest.  I set the goal to get my email down to under 100 and I got it to 104.  I set the goal to leave the office by 5:45 and I got out of there at 6:10.  Pretty sure I won't lose my job over these.  OH, and I left a few dishes in the sink, letting Jack take care of things if he felt like it.  I didn't go to the gym and instead, watched an episode of Deadliest Catch.  The work will be there tomorrow.  The fat will be there tomorrow, as will the paper I have due on Saturday.  I have to clean my house this week for the management team I am hosting for dinner on Friday night.  Yet, somehow it will be all complete and it will have been GOOD ENOUGH!

Hurray for this new permission in my life...good enough!

I Didn't Major in Psychology...

I'm sitting on my couch, looking out at a beautiful, mostly sunny, humid day in the Amazon.  I mean, Indianapolis.  After this year's polar vortex, I will not complain about the humidity.  I will not complain about how my naturally curly hair just graduated to "fro" status.  Remember that episode of Friends where Monica had to get the braids to control her crazy 'fro hair in the Caribbean?  Yep, that's me.  

Eh, oh well.  

Jack and I just returned from a STUNNING 10-day vacation that started on July 2.  We met our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Vera, for our annual beach vacation up on Lake Michigan.  We spent a couple days over the 4th in Chicago, partying with the Vera family, then we moved on up to the beach.  We visited old friends (Alex, as referenced in previous posts) and her dogs, complete with Coronas in the sun while we threw the tennis balls 294 times for the doggies.  We boogieboarded.  I paddleboarded several times and feel as though I got the knack of it.  We sunned on the beach for hours, lingering in the 72-and-sunny, robin-egg-blue skies, with gentle lake breezes that stirred up just enough wave action to make it feel like the ocean.  

It was perfect.  Our friends have become family and we could share long stretches of silence, with everyone equally absorbed in their beach reads.  The Chardonnay was cold, the sandwiches fresh, and each evening, Jack whipped up a gourmet feast.  We shared a few beach bonfires and lit several of those really cool paper lantern things into the night sky.  

And yet, I could not relax.  200 miles away from my job, iPhone on airplane mode (I needed it for pictures and music), and splayed out on a warm beach with my family, I could not relax.  In fact, I was wound tighter than a garage door spring - you know the scary ones about which urban legends are spun where they suddenly unwind and kill people.  Separately, the other three would pull me aside and express their concern for my wellbeing, saying I'm "too young to be this uptight."

Yeah....I know.  I thought I was working on it. 

My favorite part of vacation is the chance to sit and just "be," to let the proverbial dust settle in my mind, heart, and soul.  It's when I let my soul catch up to my life (if that makes any sense).  But when I started to allow the muck to settle, I didn't like what I saw.  In fact, I had a terrible night the last two nights as I struggled through a poignant, painful, perhaps deadly realization.  

I'm a raging perfectionist.  Probably an obsessive perfectionist.  I know, I know, anyone reading this is laughing to themselves, shaking their head like, "Duh!!"  But it dawned on me, clear and unquestionable - that I HAVE to change something.  The daily chest pain and moments at work where I catch myself unconsciously holding my breath HAVE to stop.  I'm going to either die or burn out and do the Dairy Queen gig I keep somewhat joking about.  

The perfectionist thing explained everything to me.  I'm insecure as hell, afraid that someone's going to watch me make one mistake and then deem me unworthy.  Unworthy of my job, my marriage, my friends, everything.  Is it irrational?  Of course.  But in my head, there are only two options: 100% success or 100% failure.  All I wear is black and white; in my first executive positions, I thought it made me look and seem sharp, crisp, unemotional.  And yet, it's a reflection of what's going on in my head.  I'm scared shitless that I'm going to fail.  For me, failure means a lack of responsiblity and that I'm unworthy of love.  Which, of course, is ridiculous, but this is the self-talk I am trying to overcome.    

I'm not one of those perfectionists who procrastinate because they want perfection.  Well, except for this painting I've been working on of Bono where I can't seem to finish it because I don't want to screw something up.   Professionally, I don't catch myself procrastinating.  I'm the opposite - I never freaking sit down until my to-do list is done and email box is empty.  Again, two unrealistic goals.  I'm truly seeking perfection, unwilling to admit that my goals are crazy (and unattainable) and that I will never be good enough.  

All of this came out Friday night, as I sat at 1:00 a.m. in our screened in porch, under glimmering Christmas lights we strung between the rafters.  Mrs. Vera must have heard me creep out there - she followed me and offered me an ice-water and a shoulder.  I talked for hours, feeling so grateful for the safety she offered me out there in the dark.  Unjudging, unconditional safety.  It was new for me.    

I'm not wired to trust people.  I've been hurt a lot.  My dad abandoned me as a kid and when I tried to reach out to him a few months ago (the Fourth commandment about honoring one's parents really haunts me).  My biological sperm donor did not even respond to the email.  I guess I'm off the hook.  But the feeling is magnified with my brother, who recently left our immediate family and despite our many attempts at reconciliation, doesn't want us either.  I've had friends abandon me throughout the years when our relationships seemed secure, safe, and trusting.  I know that none of this is my fault (it's going on in others' heads) nor did I "force" this to happen.  But my brain thinks "I made a mistake with someone and now I'm unlovable.  They don't love me enough to see me through whatever hypothetical crap arose."  

[PS, Kelly, if you happen to be reading this, I cannot find that statue you requested back.  I'm sorry.  If it appears among our stuff, I will make sure to get it to your sister.]  

There's just no reasoning with my brain.  Even in the last 48 hours, I've had to intentionally select my thoughts.  My brain and its wacky thoughts are not correct.  I have the power to change this. 

I worked so hard a few years ago, to always be the same person.  I didn't want a dichotomy where I was one person at work, one at home.  But what I ended up inadvertantly doing is creating one highly-stressed, rigid, intense woman.  Whom I don't really like now.  The executive self won out, not a mixture of both my professional presence and fun-loving gal who drinks beer and challenges the neighborhood kids to games of Knock Out and front yard soccer.  I'm uptight, always on guard, and, well, trying to be perfect.      

So here's my plan for change...each day, I am going to purposefully fail at something.  It will be inconsequential; I'm not going to email a big F-bomb to my CEO.  But I'm going to do something where I fail.  Maybe it's making a bad batch of broccoli.  Maybe it's spilling a drink on the floor.  Maybe it's not making my bed and not worrying about the crud on the kitchen floor.  The point is, I will keep aiming for excellence (not perfection) at work.  But at home and even at work, I have to supplant "perfection" with "good enough."  All of the effort of perfectionism is exhausting.  My heart and soul are just wiped out.  

Thanks to my wonderful husband and an excellent friend on a dark porch in Michigan in the middle of the night, I realized for the first time that I'm good enough.  Me, just being myself, is enough.  And that imperfect person is loved.  And even more - the mistakes give me experiences and color my life.  I will figure out how to love myself better and stop taking things so darn seriously.  I feel as though I've lost several years in this pursuit of perfection (especially at work), trying to make everyone think I'm professionally accomplished and worthy of my job.  They aren't the ones who thinking I haven't earned my job.  I am.  There, I said it in writing.  I'm the one I'm trying to impress and convince is worthy.  

I have a long way to go.  But I'm thinking about chronicling my funny failures in the coming weeks.  I'm not going to set an expectation that I blog daily (no more 100% failure/success thinking) but I'd like to document some of this here.  I know it's quite personal but anyone who knows about this blog is in my trusted circle anyway.  So just send me chocolates, Chardonnay, and jokes while I work through this.

My heart and soul are worth it.  

What Would Francis Do?

I'm not sure how to start this post.  I'm sitting on my patio in the bright sunshine, at 3:00 pm on a Monday afternoon.  I took today off, knowing I would be exhausted and jetlagged from my recent travels to Italy.  I'm not sure how to feel now that the trip is over; I have looked forward to this trip for the last 3 years and its promise of a spiritual renewal guided me through many tough times at St. Fozzie's during the last couple years.  

I keep telling myself to not be sad that it's over but to be happy it happened.  

And boy, did it happen.  

There were 13 of us colleagues who traveled to Rome on pilgrimage.  Plus two Sisters and a priest who has served as shepherd of our leadership group since December 2011.  It was the most natural thing in the world to tour the religious Church sites in Rome with this group (and without our spouses). We became family.  We became Church.  

Last week at this time, I was walking up the stairs at St. Peter's, to the top of the cupola.  Last Monday was intense and it covered everything I saw the first time in Rome as a college student.  We started with an in-depth tour of the Coliseum, then the Imperial Forum, then a picturesque lunch at Piazza Novona (complete with caprese salad, excellent red wine, gelato, and an accordian player).  After lunch, with our tour guide, cut to the front of the line at St. Peter's and toured the Vatican museum (and Sistine Chapel).  Part of the deal with the pilgrimage was that we attended daily mass.  Which, given our surroundings, wasn't exactly a sacrifice.  The Vatican museum tour concluded at 3:45pm and we had an hour to blow before mass at 5:00 in St. Peter's basilica (the chapel of the Chair).  Ambitiously, a few of us thought we could hike the 525 stairs to the top of the cupola and return before mass (even though we stood in line until about 4:15).  

The first 300 or so steps are pretty routine.  But once you get into the upper part of the dome, the stairs wind to the side and are dangerously steep.  Braving them in my sandals, we reached the top around 4:45 pm.  After taking a couple million-dollar-shots at the outstretched arms of St. Peter's, we ran back down the stairs, arriving in the main church at 4:58!  The Sisters, glancing at us across the chapel, silently laughed at our tired, out of breath, sweaty presence.  Yes, we made it to mass.  It was in Latin.  But I sat in that pew at St. Peter's, struck by the sheer universal existence of the mass.  Even though I do not understand Latin, I knew the points of the mass and could follow along in English.  The same mass we celebrate in Indianapolis or Chicago occurs at the Vatican, too.  

Those thoughts kept occuring throughout the week.  So many experiences were wonderful and truly life-changing.  We landed in Rome at about 9:30 am Sunday morning.  By 11:30, we were at our hotel (two blocks from St. Peter's...you exit the hotel, look left, and the radiant dome of St. Peter's awaited us...beautiful).  By noon, I was standing in the crowd in St. Peter's Square receiving the Angelus blessing from Pope Francis.

I didn't waste any time getting to St. Peter's and the Pope.  Pope Francis reminds me of my deceased grandpa.  

We ate like kinds and queens; after small breakfasts, we relished 4-5 course lunches and dinners each day (By some miracle, I only gained .8 pounds).  Rich antipasto of Italian proscuitto and panchetta, basil and mozzarella, pasta carbonara and veal.  Each person was "budgeted" a bottle of wine at each meal.  While the alcohol content of Italian wine is lower than in the States, it was strange to drink so much wine.  And have it condoned by the Sisters (who readily joined in.  I had no idea how popular and refreshing cold, white Italian wine is at lunch.  Can I have cold white wine for lunch every day?)

On Tuesday, we started the day with a private mass in one of the cypt chapels at St. Peter's Basilica.  I was asked to serve as lector for that mass.  Despite my lengthy bucket lists, I never even thought of wishing I could serve as lector at St. Peter's.  I HATE reading at mass.  And yet, the reading was about the first Christians at Antioch and we *felt* like neophyte Christians in a new world.  The week's readings matched our collective experience perfectly.  

After mass and breakfast, we toured San Clemente church and San Sebastián catacombs, interrupted by two meetings at the Vatican with Roman Curia.  One of the meetings consisted of a set of Cardinals informing us about the upcoming priorities in healthcare.  The other meeting involved US telling the Cardinals how things were in America.  They wanted to know the state of Catholic healthcare in America and we were the ones to inform them.  How crazy is that?  I had another out-of-body experience thinking, "Am I really in the presence of Cardinals representing the Roman Curia?  How in the WORLD did I get here?!"

That thought kept hitting me.  How in the world did I get here?  Why me?  Why me?

On Wednesday, we had an audience with Pope Francis and even though we were a few of the 100,000 crowd, he passed within about 7 feet of us.  I could see his mannerisms and facial expressions.  That man is revolutionizing the Church.  Before the audience started, the atmosphere was electric.  It felt like a U2 concert or Notre Dame football game, with everyone in collective waiting for his presence.  He did not disappoint!  The homily for the day was about the gift of Fortitude (through the Holy Spirit) which fit us all perfectly.  The only way to survive in Catholic healthcare is through and with fortitude.  The Pope's homily gave us two days' of dinner fodder as we digested that message.  With a rare two hours off that afternoon, three of us trekked back to Piazza Novona for some Lambrusco and Spirit-filled conversation.  Everyone had that same reaction: "why me?  Why am I here and how am I supposed to lead Catholic healthcare into its next phase?" 

On Thursday, we bussed to Assisi to connect with St. Francis.  After seeing the basilica, the church of St. Clare, the tomb of St. Francis, and real San Damiano cross, I *felt* Franciscan.  The San Damiano cross hangs in all of our conference rooms, offices, and patient rooms.  But it hit me to my core when I saw the *real* San Damiano cross in Assisi.  I felt as though St. Francis was there, receiving his call and vocation in the present.  We celebrated mass at the  tomb of St. Francis, an experience that started me with its simplicity and powerful commissioning.  It was Franciscan "Ground Zero," akin to visiting Ireland's Aran Islands if you like Irish music.  Or Germany's battlefields to better grasp the World War II battles.  There was no place on earth more Franciscan than Assisi.  The placed breathed Francis.  And I needed more.  I recently received my first job offer of a CEO position.  In a non-Catholic, non-Franciscan organization.  I declined without even thinking twice.  My job/vocation in Catholic healthcare will never be easy.  Nor will it always be joyful.  But it WILL be meaningful.  Each day bears more meaning than a huge paycheck could garner.  Nope, not interested.  

It was in Assisi that I caught one of the head Sisters for a few moments on the side.  I asked if Jack and I could accompany the Sisters on the 2015 pilgrimage to Assisi (you spend 9 days in Assisi).  She enthusiastically agreed.  Then she asked if Jack and me had ever discerned becoming Third Order Franciscans.  I didn't even know women could become Third Order but I promised her we'd discuss it and the associated discernment process.  That type of a decision takes years (decades?) but a trip to Assisi with Jack could shed some clarity on that invitation.  

After a 1.5 hour traffic jam in Rome, we arrived back at our hotel at 9 pm.  Four of us braved the Roman dinner scene to find the neighborhood's best pizza.  After antipasto of pesto calamari and swordfish carpaccio, we shared two pizzas: pancetta and shrimp/arugala/corn.  Bacon pizza?  Seafood pizza?  Does life get any better?  We felt especially proud that we found this pizzaria by speaking to the locals; every other meal was organized by the knowing eyes of a Roman tour guide.  Heck, we even had a "nighttime guide" who ushered us around the Roman night scene.  Which consisted (mostly) of limoncello and gelato.  How much trouble could we truly get into when all we wanted was Rome's best gelato?  

On Friday, we visited the Holy Steps and St. John Lateran.  I knew very little of St. John Lateran...one day, about 10 years ago, I went to weekday mass because I felt helpless and sad in my life.  It just happened to be the feast of St. John Lateran Basilica.  I had to look it up - there's a feast day dedicated to a basilica??  But yes, the time at the Basilica itself was magical.  We celebrated mass in a side chapel and afterwards, received a "reconfirmation" of our service to Catholic healthcare in the US. I couldn't help but cry...while the masses at St. Peter's were wonderful and bridged the universalness of the Church, this one spoke to ME.  I can't put a finger on it yet but I was commissioned.  The sense of vocation was placed squarely, heavily upon my shoulders.  To say no is to deny God's will for my life.  That point came across very clearly...that Catholic healthcare really is my vocation.  I've felt smatterings of it before, where I sort of guessed I was destined to serve in Catholic healthcare, but never had I sensed such a certainty to it.  It's as though my entire education and professional existence led me to that exact moment.  

I couldn't stop the tears.  I'm SO not a cryer and cry (on average) about once a year.  And that's usually because I have to lay off hard workers or just cannot fathom the blessings granted to Jack and I in this life.  But this time, I cried out of realization.  Out of fear.  Out of a dedication to service.  How can I say no to such a defined, deliberate calling?  I'd never sensed my vocation so clearly.  It wasn't even a question.  The weight of my calling again settled heavy on my shoulders....I knew I'd never have an easy job.  But my job will be meaningful - as meaningful as it gets.  

St. John Lateran broke us all in some way or another.  So much so that our priestly shepherd varied from the set lunch agenda and took us out for Rome's best pizza.  Seriously.  If I thought Thursday's pizza was stellar, Friday's was in a class by itself.  Porchini mushroom pizza with fresh basil?  With crust so thin it was more like Indian naan...oh man...I cannot even describe that pizza.  I'm not sure why America even bothers with pizza.  And Domino's?  Um, no.  The only pizza we have will now be homemade.  That is our only prayer of somewhat capturing the magic deliciousness of that pizza.  

We went to "Last supper" that evening, knowing we were all flying back to our respective homes and families the next day.  A melt-in-your-mouth veal in marsala sauce with potato flan, followed by a magical tirimisu and Italian custard topped with dark chocolate raspberry.  It was as much a gastronomic pilgrimage as it was a religious experience.  We sort of thought we should be having bread and water but thought maybe the Sisters wanted to feed us spiritually and physically.  

Did I mention I only gained .8 pounds?  No idea how that happened!  

But the experience was one that I will be forced to unpack for the coming months and even years.  It's one of those experiences whose gravity you realize a few months into your "regular" life, when some great insight crystallizes before your eyes.  I'm still too exhausted and sick to reflect with much efficacy (I brought home a nice European cold.  It's not MERS.  I checked the symptoms).  But know that, in my daily life at the hospital, this experience will ground me in the most Franciscan of healthcare service.  I will look to Francis when I struggle or find myself lost in operational or strategic decisions.  

Most of the world asks, "What would Jesus do?"  I find myself asking "What would Francis do?"

I'm not sure what Francis would do.  But I'm willing to learn and integrate it into my life.  

End of an Era

So I've developed a unique habit of going to bed by 8:30 or 9 p.m. and watching something fulfilling and life-giving such as "The Cosby Show" or "Full House."  But that's only if "Friends" or "Chopped" isn't on.  I'm so not a television person and it's on in the background as I read.  There's something comforting about Rudy Huxtable and Uncle Jesse....

I feel tapped out.  I'm not complaining, mind you (!), just jotting down my feelings.  This past weekend was exhausting to me.  A dear old friend of mine visited for a few days and while it was nice to see her, it reminded me of how divergent our lives have become.  She's become the quintessential mom who makes all the organic food mixes and home-made lotions and lip balms.  I.....don't have children and I don't have time to go buy lip balm.  The visit illustrated the vast differences in our lives.  It was difficult to counter each story about a 3-year old's life journey with a tale about a lawsuit at work or an accreditation survey.  She wanted to talk about parenting ethics and psychology and I wanted to discuss current events (what in the HECK happened to that Malaysian Airlines flight?!).  I wanted to share cheese and wine and talk about career trajectory and she wanted to drink water and discuss parenting philosophies.

We both wanted different things.  It somehow turned into a friendly, polite discussion of who has the harder life.  Me, with my crazy hours and stress?  Her, with her children and educational position?  It's not even apples to apples; it's like comparing apples to Camry's.   I sort of understand what people mean when they say "irreconcilable differences" now.  

It felt a little like oil and water.  No matter how hard we tried to reconcile our differences, it was just different.  I love her like a sister but even despite my efforts to let the differences go, I couldn't help but mourn things a bit.  I felt a pit at the bottom of my stomach.  In the words of Friends, it was "the end of an era."  I had a feeling I wouldn't see her for a while, until our divergent lives turned a little and our paths could intersect once again.  

After I dropped her off at the airport, I drove home thinking about my life.  I like my life.  I LOVE my life.  When I contrast the life I could have had against my current life, I suddenly realize that God knew what He was doing when He directed me down a certian path.  Sometimes I can't say I'm giddy happy about my job but there are times when I can't help but smile about how things are going.  Is it tough?  Of course.  Not having children is very diffficult and because I look young for my age, I still get the question ever week or two, about how "someday" I'll have babies.  People tell me that I'll "soon understand it all" when we have babies.  Heck, I can't even eat Saltine crackers without people thinking I'm cooking a muffin in the oven.  

But that's not what God wanted for Jack and me.  And it's okay.  I've come to accept this fate and instead, we host friends and dinner parties and go out on random Wednesdays with my doctors at work who need to blow off steam while watching Pacers games.  

Sometimes I wish others would realize that God's different plan for us is different.  Sometimes God has crazy plans for us that illustrate His sense of humor.  All that matters is that I love my life and its direction....even if we divert from the norm.  

Hey, I had a small serving off French Fries for dinner!  How many parents can do that?!

I Saw My Brain Today

I complain a lot about my job, I know that.  This Lent is proving to be a challenge!

Today, I experienced one of the 492 perks of my job in Radiology.  Whenever we buy a new piece of imaging equipment, Imaging staff and radiologists get to be guinea pigs so the technologists can train on the applications.  They solicit people with ailments so they can test their new toys.  This time, it was MRI and I was approached last week to see which test I wanted to try.  Not IF I wanted to try one, but WHICH ONE I wanted to try.  

Being the eternal masochist that I am, I picked a brain MRA/MRI.  I was the first person to have a brain MRA in the hospital and our healthcare system.  Heck, why not.  

Have you seen the movie "Gravity" yet?  You will not be disappointed.  The cinematography was awesome; you actually feel dizzy when you see the bottom side of the earth from space.  Anyway, there are multiple scenes where people [Sandra Bullock and George Clooney] are floating around space in the constricting space suits.  You almost want to hyperventilate watching the movie, knowing you shouldn't breathe in space.

I wore a space suit today.  In MRI.  On a Wednesday.  At 3 p.m.  The team leader called my office and said "Table for 1, no waiting."  After giggling at that and doning the biggest metal necklace I could find, I entered the MRI department (the suite, not the scan room itself).  The metal necklace was a joke, of course (you can't take metal anywhere near the magnet), and I wanted to make the techs laugh.  

For a brain MRI, you lay on the table and rest your head in the head coil (it's like a little plastic vice that holds your head still).  Then they close the coil over your head, so you have a small window of vision the size of a visor.  Then they put the headphones on you so you can listen to whatever radio station you want.  Then they wrap you in blankets so that you stay warm in the 58 degree room.  Then, mummified in a space suit, they raise up the table and into the bore/tube you go.  

It was then that I realized why 90% of brain scan patients require valium as a pre-treatment to relax.  It's a tight fit.  I promised myself that I WOULD make it through this scan.  Very few people can make it thorugh 30 minutes as a mummy, in a small casket-like tube, with loud sequencing sounds bouncing through your head.  At one point, my head became hot.  I don't want to insult your intelligence but magnetic resonance imaging "works" by bouncing radiofrequency (RF) waves back and forth between the magnet.  The RF waves cut through you.  I swore I could feel them.  And my head did get physically warm [that is when you picture your head exploding in a gory mess and the CSI people have to come to investigate your untimely death].  I also experienced head-rocking waves of RF that physically moved my head millimeters at a time.  3 Tesla is a very powerful magnet.  

So I am encased in the MRI tube, possibly enshrined forever [Seriously, your head does some funky stuff when you know you physically can't get out of the restraints you're in.  I get the whole Valium thing now.].  Classic rock is piping through the earbuds and I try to picture myself on the beach.  It's warm, loud, and I challenge myself to keep my eyes closed the entire time so I don't freak out.  It's EXTREMELY hard to keep your eyes closed for 30 minutes when you're nervous and mummified.

But I had no choice...I had some serious props to earn with the MRI staff.  They cannot handle being in the bore for brain MRI/MRA.  Claustrophobia is a very real illness.  Once I figured out that I would truly be encased in my classic rock-wired space suit, I knew there was no going back.  Turns out that I earned some great respect from not only the MRI technologists but also a few of the radiologists.  They tried out GE's new silent brain scan technology on me and a whole gaggle of radiologists reported to the control room to watch my scan.

Good thing I grabbed my pink sequined slippers for the exam.  Seriously.  Picture me, encased in my space suit, covered in blankets (in scrubs), and so far into the tube that all you could see of me was from my knees down.  And my fancy sequined pink slippers, peeking out from under my blankets.  I'm sure there are pictures of that gracing the social media sites.  It's not technically a HIPAA violation (LOL).

So once my heart rate slowed and I calmed myseff down, I actually relaxed in the scanner.  I dozed for a while.  I debated dinner options.  I said one very slow "Our Father."  I listened to the words of Steve Miller Band's "Joker" and caught myself wiggling my feet to the beat of the music when Journey's "Separate Ways" came on.  Which was followed by about 9 people laughing at me over the intercom.  

But I did it.  28 minutes and I did not open my eyes.  Talk about self control (that I didn't think I had).

After the scan, I looked at my images and it was creepy.  CREEPY.  To see the ridges in my brain, my vasculature, and the backs of my eyes.  I could even tell I had contacts in.  In one very surreal black and white 3D front-on image of my whole head, I could see the fusions of my skull and then the blood vessels under my scalp.  That was eerie, as I was looking at myself and could see THROUGH myself.  I tend to feel somewhat invincible but when you see your own skull as though you're looking in a mirror, it's unsettling.  I also kept thinking, "Is my nose really that big?"  

One of the techs chided me about having 8 dental fillings and tiny flecks of metal in my eye shadow.  There are no secrets in my head now and not surprisingly, I am very relieved that I have a normal brain anatomy and physiology.  Ever since my bout of vertigo, I sort of wondered if I had something brewing.  Guess not.  It's just stress.

So I put my suit back on and headed to my office.  On the way, I ran into my interventionalist.  He asked me what I was up to and I mentioned that I just had a diagnostic brain MRA/MRI in the new 3T.  

His response was, "you did that for fun!?  You need to get out more!"

Touche.  But at least I survived my first brain scan without requiring Valium!  

On the Stupidity of Challenging God

So here's a funny story...

I'm recording this more for my own personal accountability than to entertain you.

Yesterday, I dragged myself through about 16 academic articles on Aquinas' theories of God's veracity (basically, proofs that God is all good and because of His nature, He cannot lie) and flipped through a couple of books.  I was struggling to reference a concept I had in my mind, about how it's contradictory for God to lie since it counteracts His entire existence.  

The little hamsters in my brain's wheel went round and round.  Finally, it hit me.  

Descartes.  Descartes was the philosopher that said that.  I reached around me and pulled that book off my bookcase in the library.  

I always feel super cool to be able to use books from my undergrad theo and philo degrees as academic references in grad school.  Sometimes, like in this case, it's actually a primary reference (as opposed to a secondary reference, as through someone writing ABOUT Descartes.  These types of primary citations usually win you substantial brownie points in Dogmatic Theology Professor World).

ANYWAY, I took a break in the late morning to convince Jack to go on a long neighborhood walk with me.  It was sunny and 50 and we had this terrrible winter storm (snow, sleet, hail, ice, locusts) due in by evening.  I HAD to get outside. And expose my pale, Eastern European skin to the Vitamin D gods.  

We went for a glorious walk.  It was glorious.  Did I mention that it was great?  Some of its greatness, of course, originated in the break from good ol' Thomas.  The other snippet of greatness came from the fact that I knew I had to have a quick evening and crash early, since I was scheduled to help run the hospital during the storm.  My shift was from midnight to 8 a.m.  

SO during the walk, I complained and complained to Jack, about how I never get any down time.  A stupid Aquinas paper AND an accreditation survey AND a freaking snowstorm?  UGH.  Why can't I ever get a stinkin' break!?!?!

In the middle of our suburban street, on a 50-degree Saturday, I uttered "If I don't have to cover the hospital tonight, I will never complain about Thomas Aquinas ever again."

When we got home, Jack promptly started perking a pot of chili.  I returned to my paper-writing, shoulders hunching over medieval epistemology that rang very distant bells in my undergrad head.

I then received a text message from the Administrator on Call, about how I was not needed until 5 a.m. Sunday.  YEEEEHAAAW!

I was able to break out the Saturday Night Vino (second only to Saturday Night Live)!

Jack and I had a wonderful, surprise Saturday night together and celebrated by challenging each other to Wii tennis, 100-pin bowling, and frisbee golf.  I think I tore my rotator cuff.

I set my alarm for 3:30 a.m. so I could check texts and emails for further updates.  Upon waking from a very vivid dream where I accidently infested an old gothic church with wasps and then somehow burned it down (no, I did not take Ambien), I checked all my correspondance.  

Nothing.  Crickets chirping.  I whooped for joy, set the alarm for 6, then went back to sleep.  

Same story at 6:00 (minus the church arson part).  So I let myself sleep until the glorious hour of 8:00 a.m.  Jack served me coffee in bed and we finally ambled downstairs to cook brunch.

I received the email at 11:06 a.m., that the command center at the hospital was not going to be opening and that they were calling off the coverage schedule.  (!!!!!!)  The forecasted storm was nothing too crazy; we did receive a small bit of ice and maybe 2" of snow, but people were still out in the neighborhood, walking their dogs and exercising.  

At 11:07 a.m., I realized that God fulfilled His end of the deal.  I did not have to sacrifice a much-needed Saturday night and Sunday of rest.  I have to now uphold my end of the bargain:

I can never complain about St. Thomas ever again.  

God - 1, Dorrie - 0!

Things Are Looking Up...

This week has been both wickedly stressful and weirdly relaxing.  Well, today was relaxing.  Okay, it was relaxing after 3:25 p.m., once I heard that the surveyors would not be back to visit radiology.

It's the lovely time of our every-three-year acccreditation survey.  Ever heard of Joint Commission?  They are the surveyors that every hospital leader fears.  The words "JCAHO's here" send ripples of terror through a management team faster than me seeking out a Dairy Queen on a 90 degree summer evening.  They do white glove tests on your equipment, quiz you on your own policies and procedures, observe your staff when your staff don't know they're watching (Handwashing!  Labeling meds!  Not eating tacos or drinking Diet Coke in the operating room.  Y'know, the little things).

They've been to Radiology six times since Monday.  Three times to the department itself and visits to three of my off-site imaging facilities.  Everyone did great.  But I've never seen people look so relieved when they finally left.  We have about 1100 standards to meet across all of Imaging and we only had one citation, so I'm totally chalking that up to a major, stress-let-down-migraine-inducing win.

Well, until next week.  We fully expect them to be back next week to survey our two remaining hospitals.  After the 348th snowstorm this year clears.  [As usual, I'm back-up administrator on call this weekend and will most likely have to go into the hospital Saturday night for the duration of the storm.  I have a 10-page Aquinas paper due next week, so I'm seriously debating hauling my books to work so I can write Saturday night.  Does it even get any better than that?  Feels like a Saturday Night Live skit!  I hope Tina Fey plays my character!]

But it's kind of nice because when JCAHO is in town, all meetings are automatically canceled.  You may have to spontaneously escort a surveyor somewhere or get called to the board room to answer questions.  But when you're not being bugged by the surveyors, you spend your time roaming around the department, making sure the nuclear hot lab door is closed, that someone hasn't left a wheelchair in the hallway, and that staff are using isolation protocol correctly.  

So after hourly department rounds, I found myself with a plethora of free time today.  I knocked a bunch of stuff off my three page to-do list and actually breathed.  I ate lunch in the staff break room.  I caught up with my assistant's home life (her two 'tweeners are hitting that sassy girl phase).  I filed stuff stacking up since Christmas.

I needed to declutter my office.  I needed to declutter my LIFE.

I decided that the unnecessary things have to go.  Family drama?  Gone.  I simply cannot worry about my brothers any more and how they may be screwing up their lives or hurting our parents.  I cannot worry about some out of town friends' work/life balances.   I cannot assume so much of other peoples' stress.  I'm working on my boundaries.  Taking care of ME is enough work.  

I'm reading this book called "Notes from My Blue Bike" and it's about intentional living.  It's the biggest cliche of the world, but I am trying to find joy in the little things.  And to cut out the unncessary, draining things (and people).  I do not owe anything to the energy vampires in my life.  

I live a pretty frickin' awesome life.  I have a husband that would do anything for me and is making me gain weight because of his stellar, nightly, multi-course dinners.  I have a family that loves me, friends who challenge and support me even during the toughest times.  I have a few very close friends whom I love dearly and without whom my life would seem so very empty.  My job is fabulous and I'm well-compensated for my hard work.  I am chairing my first board of directors and officially chairing two ethics committees now - two dreams I've had for years.  I'm going to Rome in a couple months, on the corporation's dollar, to tour Rome with a distinguished tour guide (I cannot wait to see Pope Francis up close- apparently we have an audience with him as part of a group).  I'm pursuing another master's degree in my beloved field of Theology.  I have a beautiful home in a safe neighborhood.  My car usually runs (if the snow's not too deep).  My gym membership is $5/month through work.  My commute is only 10 minutes now.  We stock good wine in our wine fridge.  The Lake Michigan beach house is booked in July.  I'm a blessed gal.  God is good.

And I usually feel as though there is 2,000 pounds on my shoulders.  I've been overheard complaining about how I hate my life and feel trapped.  I'm chalking THAT to seasonal affective depression and the fact that it has rained/snowed/sleeted/iced EVERY SINGLE WEEKEND since the New Year.  The most annoying optimists are even looking glum these days.  I told my assistant that I'm taking a day off the first time it hits 70 and is sunny outside.  I'm going to plant my butt on the deck with a chaise lounger, book, and chilled beverage.  Even if it falls on a random Tuesday.

So instead of complaining about how stressed I am and how my treadmill of existence won't slow down enough to let me stop hyperventilating, I'm really trying to look upward.  Instead of forging stoically ahead, I'm trying to stop and insert some intentionality into my life.  I'm so blessed and all I do is complain.  

Hence my Lenten resolution to stop complaining.  For Lent, one is supposed to give up negative things harming one's relationship with others or God.  Lent is like a New Year's celebration, a chance to start anew and develop better habits.  Ash Wednesday is like the Catholic Opening Ceremonies, designed to kick off the Lenten New Year with intentionality.     

   

I really like Lent.  In addition to the Friday's with cheese pizza and mac and cheese with fish sticks, Lent challenges me to look hard at my inward tendencies...and change those things that I can really tell are getting in my way of living the life God wants me to live.  

Here's to looking upward.

I Won't Whine if I Can Wine

So I've been doing a lot of moping around lately.  

"Oh!  I'm so stressed!"

"Oh, I have to get up at 5 a.m.!  For the 24th day in a row!"

"Oh, I have to work through my favorite Olympic events so I can finish a paper!"

"Oh, I'm so tired of hearing myself talk and complain."

I'm giving up complaining for Lent.  I was going to give up wine (what WAS I thinking?!).  But I did decide to give up whine.  Whining is not helping anyone and it's making me feel like crap.  

So I've decided to stop whining.  And keep wining.  In moderation, of course.

We found this little liquor store that actually ended up having a stellar wine selection.  We don't have a cellar but I've found that having a full wine fridge is a step in the right direction.  Wine makes me slow down.  I take better notice of my breathing and overall existence.  It slows my pace after a frenetic week and a glass of wine on a Friday night makes me melt back into a human being.

Then again, so does tea.  We've become fanatics of Teavana.  I really like the strawberrry lemonade and peach tranquility.  Just a little while ago, Jack made a Samauri chai in the ol' teapot.  It smelled like holidays, with the cinnamon and chai smells.  

But Jack ambled into the living room and proclaimed that the tea tasted like clowns.

I choked back a chuckle- "as in, Stephen King's clowns?" 

Oh, Jack.  

I came home tonight to a big present from a nun I used to work with (and for).  It just felt special to get a present at home from a nun.  Aren't I the one who should be buying the nuns presents?  Whoops.

Presents and cooked clowns.  The life we live....

This last weekend, we went to visit Vera and Mr. Vera in Chicago.  I hadn't been up to Chicago since November.  The whole time we drove up the interstate, I sang in my head (okay, and out loud), "Sweet Home Chicago."  Even though we have lived in Indianapolis for a year, I still feel more at home in Chicago.  And I'm from SB.  We've moved so many times that I'm not always sure WHERE I feel at home most.  On the way home back to Indy last night, Jack and I reflected on this.  The only constant in our lives has been change.  I'd kinda like to have a regular home for a while.  At least a year.

But we fell right back into our old routine in Chicago.  Excellent food, stellar wine [more wine!  What did you expect from me when I've been working 75 hours a week?!], and even more stellar friends.  Life is so much better when you have awesome friends.  

Friends are family that you choose.  

Friends like these get you through the crap life throws your way.  The Joint Commission is at work this week and today was probably the only day I didn't need tennis shoes with my suit.  Tomorrow and Wednesday will be nuts as I escort surveyors around the campuses.  Oh, fun.  

[See, I'm going to have to work on this whole not whining thing!]

Long story short, I am trying to look at the proverbial bright side.  Instead of complaining that my beach house has 178 steps I have to climb, I should be grateful that I even have a beach house.  Kind of a wanky metaphor, but instead of complaining how hard my life is, I'm trying to rejoice in the opportunities and learning experiences I have each day.  

No whining.  Just wining.  

Angels Among Us...

Sometimes, you have to come home from work and watch "America's Funniest Videos."

You know, while you're waiting for the news to be over so that you can watch the Olympics.  

Actually, the Olympics are pissing me off.  Indianapolis too closely resembles Russia (Siberia) these days.  Yesterday, we hit the snowiest day in the history of mankind in Indianapolis.

Do me proud, Indy!  Our freaking snowblower broke during the "freak" blizzard of January 5-6, when it was -40 degrees. The first time.  Jack and I reasoned, "Hey!  We live in Indy now!  This was a once-in-a-hundred-years storm!"  

The first time.

We should have fixed that #*@&^#&! snowblower!  I'm still sore from shoveling the other night.

I'll admit it...I'm over it.  Like, forever.  If I ever complain even once about 93 and humid this summer, you can dump my margarita over my head.  And then roll me into an ant hill. 

*************

I started the above post a few days ago, meaning to return.  If it helps, it's now 65 degrees, the snow melted in a scant 30 hours, things are flooding, and oh, now we have a tornado watch.  Why not!?

So today was easily in the top 10 of worst days ever.  Raging weather-related migraine aside, I lost my first patient.  Well, my first real patient.  We have lost a few patients but their deaths were a result of last-ditch efforts or hospice care that eased them peacefully into the next life.  

This one was an outpatient.  She was walking and talking when she arrived.  She did not go home. 

At the time of the Code Blue, I was standing in one of the main hallways.  We always freeze when we hear "Code Blue" paged overhead.  Especially when we hear "Code Blue, Outpatient Services," there is a 95% chance it's my department.  I stand there like a mime, waiting for the shoe to drop, so I can dash off in the right direction of the Code. 

This time, it was "Code Blue, Outpatient Services, CT Scan."

Off we went.

I arrived about 20 seconds after the Code was called and saw my staff already initiating chest compressions to restart the patient's heart until the ER team arrived to help.  I'm not at liberty of sharing any more details since the case is going to formal review, but many silver linings came out of this one.

The team responded so gracefully.  These radiology staff are not trained in emergency or trauma medicine.  They are not used to seeing projectile bleeding (well, for that matter, neither am I).  They're not used to physically feeling a patient grow cold, knowing that individual is dying in their arms.  They've never witnessed repeated, unsuccessful attempts at shocking a patient to restart their heart.  It's tough stuff and no amount of training prepares you.

Another first for me today, I had to go with the ER doctor to talk to the family.  They had no idea things had turned so grim.  When I spoke, someone else's voice came out of me.  She sounded calm, professional, and together.  I felt a big disconnect because inside, I was shaking like a leaf.

After the incident cleared and the staff cleaned the patient up so that the family could visit her one last time, I called a formal debriefing (more of a de-stressing).  One of my colleagues is a trained debriefing professional and I knew I needed a pro for this one.  In a group setting, she asked everyone how they were and what they were feeling.  It was the first time many, even the ER nurses, had a debrief.  While I don't want to have too many Code Blue's in Radiology, I will definitely continue that practice. 

It's so hard to see my staff struggling with this.  And I realized, driving home, that I felt a growing heaviness on my own heart.  While we had no negligence in this case, it's my job to keep patients safe.  It's my job to make sure that when they walk in, they are able to walk out.  I felt a deep stabbing of yuckiness at the terrible direction this one case took.  It wasn't our fault and still, we were helpless in changing that patient's end.  

I kept hearing the phrase "Maybe God needed her more than we did" come out of my mouth.  I'm not really sure what that means but I think it was me, trying to make some sense out of a terrible situation.

The upshot to this was the intense teamwork I saw, not just in Radiology, but across hospital management.  People came out of the woodwork to support me and help me make calls (when you have an unexpected death in a hospital, there's a ton of paperwork and phone calls.  You have to notify everyone from the CEO to Risk Management to Public Relations - in case someone starts a media firestorm).  When I finally stumbled back to my office, several directors had left voicemails, offering to help me.  Once word started to spread, some took it upon themselves to help me notify the necessary individuals.  

I felt like they were angels, swooping in to take some of the burden off of these weary shoulders.  

So while the outcome of one of our procedures today was awful and totally unexpected, I found solace in the fact that our team did the very best they could.  And that I'm really not alone out there; that in the moments when I most need support, there are angels hiding in the wings to come to my assistance.