Health, As a Choice

I work in traditional medicine. In fact, I report to work at one of the biggest and newest hospitals in Oregon. I went to college, got a degree, and help in putting the pieces together to figure out what can be done for sick or injured people on a weekly basis. I also have very strong opinions about health care and, specifically, about people's decisions in relation to the care they receive. More than anything else in one's life, I believe that a person's autonomy when it comes to the treatment or help they receive should be absolutely and completely their choice, not swayed one centimeter by someone else's bias. Whether that means they choose to fore go treatment for ovarian cancer because they want to "go out with my girl parts" or they try every possible test and medicine in order to prolong life a little longer. It is that person's decision, and it should be respected to the utmost not only by health care professionals but also by family and friends. This is my conviction. So as an exercise of this freedom and conviction, I did not get a flu shot this year. Last flu season (December, 2009) I actually caught the H1N1 virus from the shot I received at work, and therefore was sick for the better part of a week. This suffering, coupled with a campaign for a certain percentage of adherence in employees of our hospital that I completely disagree with, was enough to make me sign a waiver declining the vaccination at work. However, this decision did not come without a cost. We are officially declared to be in 'flu season' now, so because of my declination I am now required to don a mask over my nose and mouth anytime I am in a patient care area of the hospital. This is a policy at my place of work, so I adhere, but as one physician I spoke with tonight expressed, I feel like I am being punished. There is a contingent of workers here who also have their masks on, so I feel some amount of camaraderie. However, patients have more than once inquired about my mask, given me suspicious looks, and seemed very uneasy with me helping them. I explain the mask does not denote sickness. In fact, I feel wonderful. But it is policy. I cannot help but feel like me exercising my freedom of choice in my health care and personal health, because it does not fit the mold, is causing me to be ostracized. Maybe I'm overreacting, but it sure is not enjoyable.

Perspective

A sweet patient I x-rayed tonight gave me a book recommendation. He was on chemo precautions, attached at an IV and has a tube in his nose that caries nutrition from a bottle of brown liquid down to his stomach. I had to x-ray him to make sure that tube was in the right spot, and his difficulty hearing made the conversation sort of awkward, but I did the x-ray and then noticed a book on his table. I asked if it was good. "Yes, very good." I told him I'd read it. I walked out of his room and back to my department. He lays there even now, with a disease coursing through his body that the doctors are trying to irradicate with nasty medications. My health is something I take for granted, but tonight I'm reminded of it.

I just read the story of a friend of mine from a long time ago. Her first son was still-born last year, completely turning her and her husband's world upside down. I just read the story and as tears welled in my eyes I had an overwhelming sense of what great faith looks like. What standing amidst trials looks like. What really believing God is who He says He is looks like. I get caught in my own little world so often, thinking I am entitled to feel bad about my situation. Wow. How selfish and vain of me? Again, a new perspective on this very blessed life I live. He has my life, in beautiful sovreignty He holds my life.

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

Connection

It all began Friday evening. I joined an indoor soccer team a month ago and we’ve now played two games. I think I’m addicted, too. After I leave the game I crave it, and I wish I was playing more days a week than just one. I’m enjoying not only the competition, but also the company, as I play with some friends who I’ve known since elementary school. Our game Friday was a good one, even though the score seemed like it was a close one, we were ahead by a significant amount the entire game. We won, elated by the teamwork and sweet passes that led to some clutch goals.

Saturday morning was a lazy, stay in my pajamas until after breakfast has been eaten, kind of morning. These rarely happen with Landon and I so they are VERY welcomed when they occur. Banana pancakes and coffee filled, I was deeply happy and excited about the day. Around lunch time a few of my cousins and a friend came to our house and we all headed towards Cougar Reservoir, ultimately making our way to the hot springs that are right up there. It was a little hike to get to the hot pools, but so worth it. Clothing is optional up there, but thankfully working in healthcare and especially the hospital, this doesn’t really offend or bother me. Recently I’ve been in numerous situations where people were unashamed about their body types. This has been a very poignant lesson for me, and I am continually amazed about it. As a woman in America, I always seem to look at other’s bodies and wonder why mine doesn’t look like theirs. But the funny thing is, they may be doing the same thing about mine. Why not just be happy and content with myself? It has been a question that I haven’t ever found a good answer for, but I think the answer continues to come as healing happens. The hot springs just reiterated the lesson: be happy and confident in your own skin. Its beautiful.

BrewFest was happening Saturday evening and after a text message from my cousin invited us, we decided to go. We headed home to wash the hot spring slime off ourselves and get some food in our bellies, and then we’d head to the fair grounds to taste the brews by many local and faraway breweries. Twelve dollars got us in the door, a taster glass and one taste, with each taste being a dollar after that. I am a huge fan of dark beers, so I stuck to those and was really happy to taste some new good ones. Laurelwood had an organic Vanilla Porter that was super smooth and delicious, and Block 15 from Corvallis also had a dark beer called Love Potion #9 (or something like that) and it was scrumptious. All the people, commotion, friends and laughter made it an extremely enjoyable evening. I am incredibly blessed to have some amazing friends who also happen to be my cousins, and each time I hang out with them I’m more and more grateful that we are so close. Its unique and I appreciate it.

Committed Partners for Youth is an organization I really believe in and would love to volunteer with, but due to life stuff, I can’t right now. So instead we paid our entry fee and ran the 4 mile Truffle Shuffle on a drizzly Sunday afternoon to support them. Its the first organized run Landon and I have done together and I can foresee more in our future. We ran a 8:38 minute/mile pace, finishing the four miles in just over 34 minutes. I loved the pitter patter of all the runners’ feet on the black top as we literally shuffled down the path that runs out of Alton Baker Park towards I-5. The runners ranged in age dramatically, but everyone was enjoying themselves and breathing a little heavier by the end. It was a sweet end to a fabulous weekend and as we walked back to the car I told Landon that I really felt like I finally connected with where I live. It was an surreal but welcomed realization.

All in all, this past weekend left me feeling very connected to my community. This may sound a little fluffy, and somewhat whimsical, but I feel like if you knew how big of a deal this is for me, you’d understand the absolute gravity of the statement. I cannot remember the last time I felt this way in Eugene, and in fact I am tempted to say it has never happened. As I have said before, I’m a ‘travel-dreamer’, always looking at pictures from another country, always wondering at how I might come to find myself right there in the midst of those photographs. Unfortunately for me, those photographs never seem to have Eugene in the background. Oops. But this town is the background of my life for right now, so how do I reconcile these seemingly opposing forces? I don’t have a good answer for that question. But this weekend did offer some reprieve.

Hear, Ponder, Repeat.

Listening to Tales

I met a pirate. In the most literal sense of the word, he was one. A long, scraggly gray beard hung from his chin, while wispy gray-white hair framed his weathered face. Missing teeth caused a slight lisp to hang on the edges of certain words, and his mustache told the tale of many cigarettes that had been smoked, as they each left their brownish residue on the hairs. His long fingernails told the same tale, one stained yellow from the nicotine and tar found in the small vice sticks. Jeweled gold rings littered his fingers like icing on a cake, and his bare toes donned a couple of rings as well. He spoke of his ancestors, poor soldiers who had helped build Solomon's temple. Contrasting their appearance with their perfect Arabic dialect, they were a rare breed. Eventually taking to the sea, they sailed many waters, helping some, pillaging from others. His eye gave a little sparkle as he recounted their many adventures, something he was obviously proud and sure of. Never thinking he'd live past twenty, he complained of the ailments of being in his mid-fifties. He couldn't fight like he used to, his body gave out when his mind willed it to remain sharp. He told stories of prison tattoos, made from melting the blue prison-issued toothbrush down and using the staple from the match case as the needle. It explained their faded, worn look. He'd served three tours overseas, recounting his ability to place bullets very accurately from long distances. Connecting on hunting and weaponry, we laughed over the delicacies of venison and elk. He donned large cowboy boots, over sized enough to give the imagination space to easily make them into the pirate boots of his ancestors. Had a large brimmed hat been on his head, a sword on his hip, and a long coat over his shoulders, I would not have been surprised. He was a pirate, through and through.

Photo credit.

Ah, waiting...

After switching off the ignition I sat in the car for a good minute wondering where the strength would come from. It had to be mustered in order to open the door, gather my things, board the elevator and ride it to the first floor, change into scrubs and clip on my name badge, signifying another night at work had begun. Poor sleep has left me more than exhausted the last few days, and truthfully, complaining and grumbling about my shift. While I still hold out that evenings and weekends off is worth the sleepless, cold, lonesome nights in the x-ray department, nights like tonight make it harder to convince myself. Lack of interaction with anyone who isn't in pain or intubated drains me even more, making me reconsider returning to school, if for no other reason to feel like I was learning something new. It is not a new dilemma: tired of the hum-drum, longing for something more, yet not completely settled on what 'more' looks like. It is a cycle of questioning that continues, the answers seemingly just out of reach as they sway back and forth, teasing and tiring me more each moment. The waiting has a hideous effect. And yet, is there anything else to do?

Dirty Hands

Again, out of Luke, I was encouraged and challenged...

When the Pharisee who had invited Him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching Him and what kind of woman she is - that she is a sinner.” Luke 7:39

As I read about this Pharisee’s honest thoughts, I cannot begrudge him for it. The blinding reality is that I might react the same way. I’d like to think I wouldn’t, but my own preconceptions flare up when I don’t want them to, and I catch a glimpse of my own judgmental being.

I do not know what sorts of sins this woman had committed, but in verse 37 the author says about her that she was ‘a woman who had lived a sinful life,’ indicating that this was a well known fact about her. Maybe this Pharisee was looking down on her due to his own self-righteousness, but it doesn’t negate the fact that she had done enough to get her noticed as a sinful woman. Yet there was also something in her that recognized her own depravity and was repentant for it. No one told her to ask Jesus to forgive her, but her own realization of her unholiness compelled her to weep at His feet. To offer the best she had in remorseful apology. In this “clean-freak” society, over-ridden with religiously zealous and fanatical people, even being touched by someone who hadn’t undergone the correct religious ‘cleanings’ was abhorred. Being so focused on the law the Pharisee was obsessed with the fact that she was touching Jesus. It was not only against the cultural norm, but it was also unlawful. Thankfully, however, God was not intimated by her uncleanliness. Just the same as today He is not appalled by our dirty, messy lives. He doesn’t wear bright white clothing and run away in disgust as we approach Him with muddy, gooey hands. He embraces us and loves on us. Forgives us and welcomes us.

I imagine it as something like this scenario. A mother dressed in a her business suit, complete with a white blouse, ready to hop in the car and go to a business meeting. Her son is called in to grab his things so he can be dropped at school and to her great surprise he has spent the morning making mud pies, getting much of the “filling” on his clothing, face and hands. In excited triumph he presents to his mother his masterpiece. Two outcomes may come.

The first: a screech of horror and a reprimand at his irresponsible behavior and actions. Didn’t he know better? Didn't he understand that they would be late because of his antics, and even more than that, he would stain the carpet with his muddy footprints? She barely touches her son, keeping his dirty figure at arms length as she orders him to the bathroom to wash up. His excited countenance slowly drops, as he walks away dejected and painfully embarrassed. He had just been playing, making something that he thought was pleasant and good. He had done the best he could, but it wasn’t good enough for his mother’s expectations.

The other choice she has: a delightful laugh and embrace of this beautiful gift her beloved has presented to her. Her clean white shirt, prepared appearance and put together day would just have to wait. Her child has offered her the best he had to give, and loving and accepting that best was much more important than keeping face with those ‘higher-ups’ she was meeting with today. This moment was about loving on her boy, no matter how messy, muddy or grimy he was. She saw through that dirt covered face to a piece of her very heart and she adored this little child in front of her. Instead of anger for the mess he’d made, she lovingly inspected the art work, inquiring about the ingredients and process to create such an incredible offering of love. His eyes brighten, recognizing her acceptance, and he begins the joyful task of telling his mother all about the adventure he’d been on. He excitedly cleans up and gets ready for the day, not wondering at whether he is liked, but knowing in the deepest parts of himself that he is deeply and graciously loved.

Often I’m afraid I treat people like the first scenario, wondering why they have made such a mess of things. Didn’t they know better? Why would the continue to make such poor decisions, getting more and more grime splattered all over their lives? I judge and ridicule, demanding they march right to the bathroom and fix the mess. And they had better not stain the carpet on the way. And yet, in stark contrast, Jesus extends love and grace. He treats us as the second scenario describes, seeing the mess we’ve made, our childish attempts at making or doing something lovely, and instead of rejection because of our dirty hands, he scoops us up in a joyful embrace. He accepts us as He patiently teaches us the things we have yet to learn. He is patient and kind, and sees through our grimy, mud-spattered faces to the sons and daughters He immensely loves. It is a love that did not make sense to the Pharisees and religious zealous of old, and continues to challenge us today. And I am thankful for such a love as this...

In My Distress...

A simple obedience resulted in a chest-pounding, respiration quickening, stomach wrenching experience as the whole world faded away and the veritable funnel of focus zeroed in. Like a twister eliminates everything in its path, so the words from up front removed all other noises, sights, and awareness. All of a sudden I was alone in the room, standing face to face with the overwhelming reality that even what I have tried to brush aside as trivial or ridiculous is important to my Father. As the explanation came forth of what was directed to be done, my nausea increased. It was for me. What was being said was overwhelmingly for me. And I had thought that it wasn't worth praying about, just a stupid series of dreams that would recede in time. Instead I was offered prayer, love and hope. Tears silently rolled down my cheeks as the heaviness was allowed space to weigh in. Even in tiredness and sleep, I have been seen. I am known. And He cares...

Undocking the Boat

I 'journaled' about this passage a few days ago, shared it with some wonderful people in my life, and today felt like adding it here.

When Simon Peter saw this [huge catch of fish] he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” Luke 5:8

Unfortunately I may never know the impact of this catch in its cultural context. However, I can imagine that for a merchant man like Simon Peter, after a long night of work, he was dubious about this escapade’s success. This was his livelihood, and by obeying what Jesus said he was potentially putting it at risk. Other gospel’s indicate that he had been with Jesus before (John 1:35-42), and yet did he completely trust the Rabbi? He decided that he must do what was requested of him, even to the point of putting the nets he had just finished cleaning back in the water.I can almost smell the thick salty air and hear the splash and thud as the nets hit the water, a sweating, alert Simon Peter letting them down in his expertise and almost instinctual habit. What would come of this simple obedience? What would be bought back up with the nets? I have to imagine that Simon Peter was wondering things like this. And then I can almost see a little nod from Jesus as Simon, shrugging his shoulders, begins the arduous task of pulling the nets in. But wait! There’s some resistance... And then the expression of sheer joyful astonishment as he realizes what a bounty he had captured! I can completely identify with what he does next: beg Jesus to leave! I would probably be thinking something along the lines of, “If He really knew who I was, and how undeserving I am of this grace, He wouldn’t bother.” And yet Jesus’ response come in complete calm, “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will catch men.” (vs 10). And I believe Simon Peter knew the truth and assuredness of his Master’s words. I believe if he had any doubt it was now replaced with exuberant joy and expectation, realizing it wasn’t his strength that would get the results Jesus’ statement had just promised, but rather it was by adherence and obedience to the gentle commands of such a magnificent Teacher. And what of us? What of me? Do we follow the gentle urges, relying on and thus giving full glory to the One who orchestrates it all anyway? Or do we see the clean nets, the stored gear, the docked boat, the things we have done to get results we think we want, and silently ignore the call out to the water? It might be inconvenient, require some sweat and pull us back out when all we really want is a little rest (I’m sure Simon Peter was tired!) but it also WILL be worth it. It will come back to us tenfold, not only in veritable “fish in the boat” but also in the growth our Spirit undergoes when we completely obey His call. I’m not trying to promote a ‘work hard and you’ll be rewarded' mentality, but obedience to God has a direct positive correlation to our growth, maturity and ultimately our joy. So much, it cannot be overlooked. I want to learn from Simon Peter’s obedience. To agree to undocking my boat, to trying again what I’ve possibly failed at before, and to do it all in complete obedience and submission to Christ.

An Interesting Theory

A couple weeks before Christmas we made a surprise trip to Portland. In that time we visited Powell's. Its a phenomenal bookstore, filled up to the gills with delicious reads and rare jewels of the book kind. I believe I found one such gem.

We were in the Sports section, scouring the shelf for a biography for Babe Ruth. Randomly I thought it would be interesting to read of the early life of such an American icon. I never did buy a Babe Ruth book. Instead I stumbled upon a book with an interesting title, How Soccer Explains The World. Pretty bold statement, I'd say. I was instantly intrigued. Quickly scanning the back cover only heightened my curiosity. Ok, fine. I'll get it.

SO GLAD I DID! I'm not completely infatuated with current issues or obsessed with globalization subjects, but the way that Foer compared a game I love (soccer) with these very real situations in various countries around the world was compelling. Not to mention, any book that requires me to use a dictionary to understand a significant amount of sentences is very satisfying to me, in a twisted sort of way. So the long and short of it, I loved this book, recommend it, and hope to one day be able to write with such a mosaic lexicon as Foer does.