The Artist

Room detail, Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC

Over twelve years ago I met an artist.

What she had was a gift. I never had to tell her what to do. It was like she just knew. Left to create on her own she did the most amazing work.

Today was my last appointment with her. 

My hair stylist is retiring and I am grieving. She was the first and only person to ever take charge of my hair and make it look GOOD. She made me feel better about my hair, about myself. I cannot put into words how important and life changing that was.

When I ask patients what they do, often I’ll get the, “I’m JUST a…. fill in the blank.” Hair dresser, office worker, mail handler, Mom, etc. I hate, hate, hate that phrasing. 

Never doubt that what you do has an impact. No matter what your job happens to be, it matters to someone. 

It matters to me.

Maybe I will find someone just as good. 

Maybe I won’t. 

I loathe this kind of change so it will be a growing experience regardless but for now, I grieve. She was an artist in the true sense of the word and she will be missed.

Well…. It’s a Deep Subject

Water tower in a storm

It happened suddenly.

I was going along like I always have, working on several posts at once, when BAM! Out of the blue….

The frickin’ well dried up. 

There’s a string of half written posts saved in my que but when I go back and read them, they sound incredibly lame, like something I would roll my eyes over if someone else posted it. Seriously. So embarrassing.

Gah.

Why? I have asked myself this over and over again. Is it possible that I have simply burned out? Is there just nothing left to say anymore? Am I too happy in my current life to stir up anything angst worthy enough to post? Is it a time issue?

Or is it something else…

And then I realized that just like I had been in the habit of blogging and reading for so long, I was suddenly out of the habit. Do you all know how much time I put into this every day? Newbies have no idea. Then life happened and here I am, weeks later. People are noticing how quiet I have been and honestly I don’t even know what to say to them.

So I don’t say anything at all.

The words are coming back, though. I just have to do things differently in order to preserve my sanity. Please bear with me as I try to figure out exactly what “differently” means….

In the meantime, I am not dead nor have I suffered from some terrible tragedy. My fingers are all intact and I am working my way back. Thank you to everyone who took notice and said something and even to those who didn’t.

I love you all!

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….

Marching and Madness

Statue covered in dozens of breasts
“I like how he responds to the media. I voted for him because of that. I hate the media…” she was watching video of the inauguration on her phone when I entered the room.

I moved to listen to her heart and then her lungs. 

“That sort of thing is how he won the election,” I murmured, careful to keep the judgement out of my voice. I quickly changed the subject back to her persistent nausea. 

My clinic is not the place for political debate. It is for healing.

At the end of the visit I picked up my computer from the counter across the room and caught his face leering back at me from the magazine rack again. I always moved him to the back of the stack but somehow, just like a bad penny, he kept turning up again at the front. How many pelvic exams had I done in this room with him looking on? I have tried to remain neutral publicly but I just could not take it anymore. I snatched up the magazine and threw it into the biohazard bin while the patient walked out of the exam room.

I wish he would shut up.

Does he even hear himself? The things he says? How he appears to others through his tweets?

“Watched protests yesterday but was under the impression that we just had an election! Why didn’t these people vote?” Donald Trump

I imagine there were women out there marching who did vote for him. That does not mean that they cannot stand up and protest. That march was not just about Donald Trump, even if he wanted to think it was.

I did not march yesterday but oh how I wish I had. Do I agree with everything the Women’s March was said to represent? Maybe. Maybe not. But I do stand as a woman who is more than a pussy, a woman who believes she deserves more respect and equal pay and better rights. A woman who believes that people have the right to kindness, love, safety, and respect regardless of religion, gender, sexual orientation, skin color, or country of origin.

This was how he should have responded from the first instead of as an after thought:

“Peaceful protests are a hallmark of our democracy. Even if I don’t always agree, I recognize the rights of people to express their views.” Donald Trump

Yes. That.

So I say this:

Unite us. Stop dividing and provoking. Be someone we can respect, even if we do not agree with you. 

Act like a president.

Wavelengths 

Tiffany stained glass window at Chicago Navy Pier

My microwave died and went to appliance heaven. 

Well. More like fell apart. 

The door plastic started cracking and then the tempered glass front exploded all over the kitchen one evening as I was about to heat up water for tea. Freaked the kids out. Personally, I thought it was super cool. Did you know tempered glass can still pop and explode even as the pieces are lying on the floor? 

It might seem like a simple thing to fix, right? Just order a new door. Except they no longer make this model of microwave. There is no door replacement. We will need to replace the whole dang unit.

However, this is not a microwave that sits on the countertop. Oh, no. It is mounted under a cabinet over the stove/oven and also serves as the stovetop ventilation unit. Apparently, it is also hard wired in, meaning there is no plug to unplug. Getting someone to take this out and install a new one when it is hardwired in is no small feat as it turns out. 

So, for a number of weeks I have been forced to go without a microwave. 

And you know what? It has not been the end of the world. 

In fact, I have found that I prefer heating things up in my toaster oven. Reheated bacon is crispier. Pizza is heated evenly. Corn dogs are yummier. Left over scones taste like the first day they were made. Tea? There is something nice about a whistling tea kettle as opposed to a microwave ding and I swear the tea actually tastes better steeped in water from my kettle. 

The other thing I have found? The couple of extra minutes it takes to use those other methods? They don’t really make a difference in my life. Schedules have not come crumbling down. We have not run late, we haven’t had to make cuts elsewhere. 

Never would I ever have believed I would ever say this: I can live just fine without a microwave. Not only can I live without a microwave, I now choose not to have one. 

That is incredibly liberating.

Makes me wonder what else I can live without…

Behind The Scenes

Gnomes in Switzerland

WordPress reminded me yesterday that I have been blogging for three years. Three whole frickin’ years. 

How the HELL did that happen, anyway?

I thought it might be fun to talk about the reality of what three years actually means here at Behind the White Coat:

5,060-ish people “follow” this blog as of this writing. When I wake up tomorrow it might be a few more or a few less. This number is meaningless, though, trust me. 

I average about 300 hits on my blog per day. That’s right. Sometimes less, like when I don’t post for a few days, and sometimes more. WordPress has changed how it calculates hits so many times that I don’t really know what that means anymore. I might get more traffic if I were on Facebook or Twitter or other social media platforms but honestly, I just don’t have that kind of energy. 

This post will be #865. That is a whole helluva lot of hot air. Some of it I am proud of. Some is painfully, woefully laughable. Some just flat out sucks. I have bared much of my soul here. Bless all of you who have taken the time to read anything I post. I appreciate all of you more than you could know.

Each day I spend between 2-3 hours reading other blogs and answering comments. Over three years that is an awful lot of time. Fortunately I don’t have any other serious hobbies right now. Anyone who tells you blogging is easy is either lying to you or selling something like SEO whatama-ever-thingamajigs (I have no idea what that really means, anyway, do you?).

I was Freshly Pressed in 2015 and featured on Discover WordPress in 2016. Those were huge honors but I found that they made me nervous. I don’t really want to become famous after all. That surprised me. When I started blogging I had delusions of grandeur. I was gonna be the biggest thing since KevinMD. Ha! Not my goal anymore. What is my goal? Having fun, making connections, and learning something new.

For 2016 I had a total of 112,879 page views and 27,416 visitors. The most viewed post was Black and White and Blurry All Over but not because it was some amazing piece of writing. It just happened to go up the day I was featured on Discover WordPress purely by accident. I got lots of hateful comments left by plenty of scary people on that one. 

Which brings me to the fact that I have had my fair share of trolls. The really psycho ones can be pretty scary until you figure them out…. They all have the same agenda, though, no matter who they are. It is best to just ignore that they even exist. 

In truth, I follow 1, 957 blogs. Only a small fraction of those still actually do any posting. This makes me sad. We have lost some fantastic bloggers over the years. Some left due to time constraints, intimidation, boredom… death. I hate to unfollow anyone, afraid I’ll miss their comeback post someday. 

Me, though? 

I’m not going anywhere anytime soon….

Pointing Ahead

img_3944

I thought I would do something a little different for the last post of 2016…

On A Slave to the Face from the other day, DM made a comment that got me thinking about our perception of beauty. What do we think the world wants to see in us and how does that compare to what we actually want to see in others. How does it compare to what they see in us?

What attracted you to your partner? How do you let them know what you find attractive about them? Do you think they believe you? What does your partner say about you? How do you feel about their compliments? What would you change about yourself? What would you change about your partner? Why?

This year I resolve to be freer with my own words of praise and a more gracious recipient of compliments from others.

A Slave to the Face

Victorian tombstone
I am going to let you in on a little secret: I own a Princess Leia slave costume. 

Yes, for those purposes. I am not going to claim that I ever looked good in it but I did purchase it and have worn it more than once. Well. Maybe more like *not worn* it….

You can say all sorts of things about sex and slavery and the subjugation of women and how wearing such a costume betrays feminism at its very core but here’s the thing: Princess Leia choked the ever lovin’ life out of Jabba the Hut while in that costume. She strangled that slimy, disgusting bastard with the chain that bound her to him while wearing a bikini. She wasn’t cowering in a corner, ashamed of how much she hated her exposed thighs. She owned that chain and she used it to her advantage. That is some kind of woman. I long for that kind of confidence.

I am not who you think I am.

You will remember in my post last year that it really bothered me how much criticism Carrie Fisher took for her appearance in The Force Awakens, how I didn’t think it was about her so much as it was about our own aging and mortality. For many of us, she was a tangible way of measuring the passage of time. Her appearance spoke to our own finite existence, our own mortality. It was like holding a mirror up to our souls and for some recognizing that we did not like what was reflected there.

She looks older. 

So do I. 

I am not what others see in me.

There was a time that I would get told by complete strangers that I looked like Nicole Kidman or Jullianne Moore or Bree from Desperate Housewives. No one says that about me now. My face and my body are changing. The days of Star Wars kink fests are over.

I am not who I think I am.

I grappled with the anxiety and panic of that for a few years. I tried laser… once. The pain from that was indescribable. And Botox… once. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like the contortions and fasciculations from Botox wearing off. Then, I smeared the most godawful smelling stuff derived from baby foreskin on my face twice a day while choking back my own vomit.

My face is NOT all over the big screen and yet I freaked out, doing crazy stuff in a vain attempt to hold onto my youth. There was the dysphoria of not recognizing the face staring back at me from the bathroom mirror and the despair of feeling my sex appeal dwindle away.

Who am I now?

I cannot even imagine what Carrie Fisher went through in her lifetime, the tremendous courage it took for her to play the role of Leia once again decades later. As a little girl I wanted to be like Princess Leia. I wanted to learn to shoot a blaster, sure, but I also wanted to look that good in a bikini slave costume. What I did not realize at the time was that virtually all women, no matter how beautiful, suffer from a distorted image of themselves. Princess Leia suffered. Carrie Fisher suffered. Now I find that Carrie Fisher herself is my hero even more so than her character ever was. 

But then Carrie Fisher died.

So will I.

Suddenly a face seems like such a triviality. I won’t say I am completely over myself or my vanity, but I am working on it.

May we all rest in peace…

Trimmings

Want to know why the Saturday after Thanksgiving is not my favorite? 

The Christmas tree.

That’s right, folks. Until they can make a Christmas tree that fluffs itself and a prelit tree that stays lit rather than burning out at the center strip only, the Saturday after turkey day will always be the second worst day of the year. The first worst being the day I have to take all of those dadgum ornaments off and try to cram the well fluffed tree back into its teeny-tiny cardboard box.

Happy holidays… 

The kids just don’t appreciate what I do for them.