A Discourse on Intercourse

Philadelphia building

“Doc, I just want her to have sex with me. I come home after working hard and I want to make love to my wife but she’s not interested.”

I went into my usual discussion about wooing and foreplay and questions about their relationship but I was getting nowhere fast. It always feels incredibly silly for me to be giving anyone marriage advice, as if I have everything figured out, but here I was. Again. 

“Wait. Don’t you work out of town all week?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

“Look, you and she have four kids under the age of eight and five out of seven days out of any given week she is a single parent also working a full time job. You come home Friday night and want to get busy when she is exhausted and really just wants to finally get some good sleep? That is not math that is going to add up.”

“Can’t you just give her a pill?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then can you tell her she needs to lose some weight? Start exercising?”

I looked over at her, sitting silently in the corner. She was not obese. She sure did tired. She rolled her eyes.

“Tell you what, here is the name and contact info for a good marriage counselor…”

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Pecking Order

Flamingos fighting

Just take a nip 
Here and there
So I can be pretty
Fix my hair
Pull and tuck
Gouge at my eyes
Make me look pretty
Slim my thighs
Whiter teeth
A larger bust
I’m still not pretty
Another adjust
Raise those cheeks
Now my nose
Got to look pretty
Paint my toes
Some fuller lips
Sharper jaw
She is so pretty
Fills me with awe
Chisel me down
Tighter skin
I could be pretty
If I were thin
Sew me up
Dress me up
Give me more pain
So I can feel alive
So I can feel loved 
Still not happy
Just a pinch more
Want to be pretty
Want to be adored
Soon I’ll be there 
You wait and see
Soon I’ll be pretty
Soon I won’t be me

Games Played

Pelican on the water

“The staff doesn’t like you. They are all scared of you.” She sat across from me, feigning concern.

“Why?” I felt my face redden and struggled to keep the emotion under control.

“They just think you are too demanding. You should stop talking to them. Let me handle it for you so they can be mad at me.” 

Too demanding? I was not being ugly. I just asked the front desk to check on a patient’s insurance coverage. How could that be construed as anything but an honest and necessary question so I could take better care of a patient? 

“If you have a problem, come to me and I will take it to them.” 

And with that I was not supposed to communicate directly with my staff anymore. Because they feared and disliked me. The practice administrator over her and HR supported this she said. 

Whatever. 

My head reeled. She left. I closed the door and had myself a good cry.

Unbeknownst to me, that office manager was telling the staff that she was the boss, not the physicians, that they should stop taking their concerns to us. If there was an unpopular decision the staff was told that it came from the docs even if it didn’t really. If it was something good, she told them that she had done everything in her power get us to reluctantly agree. She lied and lied and lied to the staff about everything.

If you have been reading my blog posts for a few years you may recall the angst of this period of time. How could I be doing the same thing I always did but now all of a sudden everyone thinks I am the bitch from hell? Is it really that I am so evil? Or is it that I am woman and as such people are taking everything I say and do and twisting it into something I am not? If so, why now? 

What was going on?!?!!??!!

I had this niggling suspicion, as my staff continued to leave the clinic one by one, that my office manager was not supporting the physicians or the staff, that there was something else going on to which I was not privy. I reached out to upper management and they listened for a change. Within a couple of months she was gone. It was startling how quickly that occurred. Typically there is a huge HR process and blah, blah, blah. At the time I felt guilty, terribly guilty, blindsiding her with it when HR showed up to escort her out of the building. I worried that I had destroyed her career. 

Yesterday I found out that there was an investigation going on, that each employee who had left the clinic during that period of time was approached by a contracted firm for statements as to why they left. The investigation supported what I was saying which was why upper management moved so quickly. But no one ever told me this occurred. I found this out from one of the employees that we rehired. 

In fact, virtually everyone who has left this clinic has asked to come back at one time or another. On some level I knew it was not really me but how to rationalize that with what I was being told by an office manager that I trusted?

That whole period of time really messed with my head.

Friends and family started to doubt me. Hell, I doubted myself. I questioned my judgement. I questioned everything. In the end I realized that I had to let it go. All I could do was what I thought was right and I found my peace with that. While the maelstrom swirls around me, I can stand upright knowing I am doing right. In that respect the whole experience has been invaluable. I care so much less what people think about me. 

Just do what is right.

I have been back to communicating directly to my staff again for over a year. The practice administrator last week complimented me on my “level of engagement with the staff,” saying that everyone always had positive things to say about me.  

Ok. 

But I am doing the same thing I have always done. Maybe it is just the tequila I keep in my office?

‘Tis the Season

Dried flower

There was a time I believed that the longer I was practicing medicine the easier the dying would get. Practice or callous formation, call it what you will. I just thought it would be easier.

That is not the case, though. 

These long standing relationships, the people I see for years and years, are the hardest to part with even when you are expecting it. It still hurts. And with each passing it brings me closer and closer to my own end.

This is the dying season, it seems, those couple of months after the holidays when everyone who was holding on is now ready to let go. 

Everyone but me. 

Not yet, anyway…

Taking The Lumps

“You should probably wear a girdle with that,” my mother said, poking at my lumpy bits. 

I was maybe twelve or thirteen. I had no idea what a girdle was. 

She explained.

When I had put the dress on, a hand me down from some unknown person, I had felt beautiful. Now? Not so much. I hid in my room and took it off, never to wear it again.

My mother did not mean to be mean, I suspect. She had her own her serious body image issues, but it still stung something fierce and those words stuck with me for many, many years. 

Food in my house was torture. My father was obsessed with feeding us as cheaply as possible. For breakfast we ate slimy gruel every morning that he would concoct and which made me gag. My siblings and I would choke down bites, watching with extreme envy as my mother chowed down on a bowl of Cheerios.  To this day even oatmeal is hard for me to eat. He would bring home cans of salmon and forbade my mother to take the spine bones out. A salmon patty, which might have otherwise been tasty, was punctuated by chalky bits of vertebrae. I could go on, but I won’t. It was driven by a certain degree of poverty at one point but even as that improved, the food torture did not.

When I could get good food, edible food, I over ate. 

After my mother’s comment, I stopped eating much of anything, skipping meals whenever I could get away with it, even the things I liked to eat. As I saw it, I did not deserve to eat tasty things if I could not control my weight.

Thus began my issues with food and weight.

I have been blessed to have love in my life that does not see me for my weight, whatever it happens to be at the time, but that does not stop me from being hard on myself. For decades I have struggled with the fact that I have a curvy butt and fuller thighs. I still struggle but it is a losing battle. My body shape is in my genes. I cannot change that without plastic surgery. Even when I lose weight, even when I exercise like crazy, my butt and thighs are always “disproportionately” larger than the rest of me.

Who determines correct proportions?

You know what has helped the most? Finding jeans and pants that fit ME right. It seems so silly. It would appear obvious that women are not made the same. It was not until these past several years, though, that the clothing industry really began to embrace this fact. Thank God, because I feel less shame when my pants fit right. 

Go figure. 

Now, I am starting to like me better. I don’t feel like I have to punish myself by withholding food or exercising. I don’t have to squeeze myself into clothes that don’t fit. Exercising is fun. So is food. And the weight is fixing itself.

Is this going to be the end of my issues? 

Maybe not. 

But it is a very good start.

Checking Out

Thorns of a Mesquite tree

“How is your day?” the cashier asked as he scanned the items one by one in slow motion. He looked to be in his late 20’s. The middle aged woman ahead of me wore a dark pants suit and looked to be in a hurry. It appeared there would be pasta for dinner in her house tonight.

My kids would love spaghetti and meatballs…

“Just fine. You?” She murmured politely as she pulled out her wallet.

“Terrible! It has been a terrible day. I woke up this morning to a text from my parents saying they are raising my rent. How can they do that? Raising the rent?!?!!!?! I live in their house! How DARE they?”

He went on to rant for several minutes about how he was just going to have to find somewhere else else to live and it was not fair. What, were they trying to get him to leave?

The woman stood awkwardly waiting on the receipt. He waved it around for emphasis as he told his story, effectively holding her hostage. Eventually she cleared her throat and held out her hand, offering no sympathy. Finally he handed the paper over. She grabbed the plastic sack and practically ran out of the store.

“How’s your day going?” he asked me as the scanner bleeped my few items.

“Just fine,” I said, stopping there.

Shaving cream.

Toothpaste.

Socks.

Awkward silence.

“I guess they do want me to move out, huh?” He looked crestfallen.

“Yeah. Probably.”

Love Is….

Heart shaped hole in a tree trunk

… someone who makes you a cup of coffee the way YOU like it instead of the way THEY want you to like it.

It sounds so simple but the truth of that statement evaded me for longer than I care to admit. There is peace in the knowledge, though…. peace and love.

So, to that man in my life, thank you for being my hero and saving us from the house fire… both literally and figuratively. I love you!

Hanging Out

Old Ferris wheel in black and white

I find that I am more and more conscious of my own nose hair. What is interesting about this is that I never, ever notice the nose hair of other people and if I did happen to see some bits poking out of a nostril it would not gross me out. So WHY on Earth do I care about my own nostril hair? 

Is this because my nose hair is getting longer? 

Perhaps I am growing more and more sensitive about the change of appearance that comes with aging and I am finding myself more interested in controlling the things that I can have some influence over? 

And then I wonder if there are people who do care about other people’s nose hair and if so, why do they care? What else do they do in their free time?

These are the thoughts I have on a Sunday morning after yet again having one of those pesky hairs ripped from my poor tender nostril by the stupid nose hair trimmer that is supposed to CUT the stupid things. I swear, next time I may as well just tweeze them out….