Spending some time thinking about what happened and how I got here.

You seemed so anxious to have me.  I felt wanted and needed.  I was excited to come.  Sad to be leaving people I knew needed me, but circumstances and finances made a move necessary.  But I was excited to be starting a new adventure doing what I was born to do – help kids.

There were going to be challenges.  Those darn finances.  Living in what was essentially a camping trailer.  It was all part of the adventure.  That didn’t scare me.  Moving to a new town didn’t scare me.  Meeting new people didn’t scare me.

Then I got here.

There was no space for me – Okay, I get circumstances.  There was no real welcome.  As a matter of fact, there was a real lack of welcome.  The people that I met seemed stressed and sad.  They did not seem to enjoy what they were doing.  I was sad for them.  I might understand them a bit more now.

Let’s get past the obvious challenges of paper charts in the computer age.  It adds so much more complexity and creates areas where mistakes are more readily made.  But paper charts are doable.  More of an inconvenience than anything else.  Not having access to the schedule, the lab portal, the x-ray reports etc…more inconvenience but not insurmountable.  Lack of supplies, lack of equipment, the lack of respecting my opinions on what equipment is needed so everything I brought was begrudgingly brought in piecemeal…

It’s the whole lack of welcome and the hostile atmosphere.  I was friendly as I could be when I got here.  I am a friendly person.  It’s taken me a long time in my life to be comfortable enough in my own skin to put forth friendliness and confidence when I am the new kid on the block.

I am very good at my job.  I am passionate about what I do.  I take every opportunity to learn, and I love to share what I learn to make things better.  But nobody here cares.  No one wants to hear about a better way to do things.  Instead, they become hostile, more hostile.  It’s not a friendly place.  It’s the furthest thing from friendly I’ve ever experienced. 

The last time I felt this isolated was when I was in grammar school, and I couldn’t figure out why the kids didn’t like me.  I was smart and anxious to please.  The insecurities and fear of imperfection is another blog for another day.  So many books have been written on those subjects and I am thankful to so many authors for their words of wisdom.  I have made them my mantra:  I am enough – I am good enough and worthy of love for no other reason than I exist.  Here are some others from my wall:

The only way you give away your power is by thinking you don’t have any.

I don’t measure myself by others’ expectations or let others define my worth.

What you think of me is none of my business.

Never dull your shine for anyone else.

It’s not your job to be likable.  It’s your job to be yourself.

I have been told that I am intimidating.  I am not intimidating – you are intimidated.  I am confident and secure in who I am and my role.  If that makes you feel intimidated, then that is on you.  I am not the steward of your feelings.  I cannot make you feel anything.

Maybe this is not the place for me.  I would like to believe that we are put where we need to be.  I’ve worked hard to get to a good place mentally and that is definitely at risk.  I’ve said I can do anything for two years, but can I?  I don’t know.

There are some bright spots.  My neighbors are kind and helpful.  There have been a few people here who have been helpful and welcoming as well.  For those people I am grateful.  It makes me feel that this is not me but the people who chose to be hostile for whatever reason.  Maybe they are not as secure.  Who knows.  I made an effort to get out in the community as well.  A process that was aided by the last job I was in because they had a vested interest in making sure I was happy and wanted to stay.  No one at this job made any sort of effort on that front.  A shame really when you spend so much time and money to recruit someone and make no effort to keep them once they are here.  Why else would I already be looking and considering less than 3 months into a 2-year contract?  Just sayin’.

It’s been a while since I last wrote. Life gets busy, but I was triggered again today.

Shame on you for having cancer or heart disease or a broken leg. After all, didn’t you do this to yourself?? But no, we don’t say that to people lying in a hospital bed with these diseases. But we do treat the disease of alcoholism and addiction with shame and derision. Obesity is also similar. After all, if you only had some self-control, ate less and exercised more, you could be just as slim and pretty as society wants you to be. “Just stop,” is what they say. Just stop after one potato chip. Just stop after one thin mint. We can’t. It’s why we don’t ever take that first drink again…because we don’t know what will happen.

But my question to the delicate reader is when? How long must I continue to be ashamed of what I experienced? I’ve completed everything that was asked. I served my time so to speak. Do I need to be shamed for the rest of my life, my career? Perfectionism was my first addiction. But perfectionism is an unattainable goal – and yet it is expected of us. Those in the medical field are not allowed to make any mistakes – either personal or professional. This leads to a culture of shame and depression and anxiety and ultimately, self-medicating. We can’t ask for help without being made to feel that we are somehow broken and not good enough. This applies to society in general. We jail people that need help. Shame has never cured people of their issues, but only increases them.

Every time I have to explain my past I am made to feel that shame over and over again. I was punished in so many ways for what is considered to be an ADA protected illness. People want to take care of you if you have cancer or heart disease. I was shunned. I was made to feel shame. Instead of being offered help and understanding, I was made to feel like a social pariah. I was depressed and suicidal. I am stronger now, but those feelings can still be triggered when I am reminded of the shame.

The fact is that I will always be an addict. I just manage my addictions better. I avoid the feed store during chick season lest I buy more chicks. I am not sure what to do with all the goat milk and cheese I have but I didn’t breed this season despite my love of baby goats. I have a closet full of Magic cards…ok, not all addictions are managed successfully. But I don’t use any mind altering substances and I am really working on my sugar/food addiction. So am I any worse than the smokers risking cancer and heart disease.

I guess I started this because I am trying to get a medical license in another state and they wanted all the details of my recovery. It’s been more than eight years. How long do I need to explain my medical issue? How long do I have to feel shame? Do I ever get to feel good about myself again? Loving myself with all my flaws is a daily grind. Having outside forces continue to remind you of your shortcomings is emotionally draining. Is it any wonder that depression, anxiety and suicide are increased in the medical profession. I know I am not alone in this.

I hope I’ve given people something to think about. Someday maybe I’ll write the rest of this book…someday.

“Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?” – Rent

When did we stop?

When did we stop being human?

When did we stop treating patients as if they were more than a disease/a problem to be solved?

When did we lose compassion – for the scared and lonely people?

We see you are overworked, tired, feeling inadequate…

But is that an excuse?

To treat patients and their families as if they are too much of a bother to care for?

Too much of a bother to treat their pain?

Too many patients – not enough time to care…

When did we stop caring about care?

That fearful old woman in a lonely ER bed doesn’t really want to bother you, but she can no longer perform the simplest functions without help – help that family has been banned from being able to perform due to new rules this new disease has imposed.

Tangled up in cords and wires, this once independent useful woman now is reduced to asking/begging for help from a virtual stranger just to use the bathroom – humiliated and degraded as she hopes for an answer to a call bell that gets ignored.

And you continue to ignore her plea for help as she rings the call bell a 5^th time, not even responding to her low oxygen level as it dips to the 60’s as she struggles to close the blinds for what little dignity she can manage to use the commode that she can barely get to

Because

You are too busy to care anymore

So, to the nurse taking care of our “nana” who didn’t think we were worth listening to on the phone

And to the respiratory therapist who tried to feed us half-truths

And the physician and nurse who spoke to us as if we were idiots with no medical knowledge or insight

We too are medical professionals with more knowledge than you gave us credit for

And we saw that you didn’t care enough to do the job right

So we want to know…

When did you stop listening?

When did you stop caring?

When did you stop…

Well, I meant to blog about the 2019 kidding season, but things have been so busy with work and school and various charity events, that it kept getting pushed to the back burner, but now with the day’s events having unfolded in such a devastating fashion, it seems I am forced to write.

Bella’s Beauties

Getting ready for kidding season seemed to take a back burner as well.  Nothing was really ready as it felt like there was always something else to do. Friday arrived and I still had things happening including a hair appointment, but we still had 4 days until Bella’s due date.  Since she was not up with the other’s when I got home, I decided to check on her and sure enough, there was a string of mucous – a sure sign of early labor.  Well, I gathered the troops and gathered the appropriate supplies for the kidding shed and moved miss Bellatrix into the kidding area.  I had not yet gotten the cameras set up, so was planning to check on her every hour or so.  Having had an experience with my friend Wendy last year waiting hours and hours for the kidding to happen, I figured I had a bit of time since she didn’t seem overly anxious to get down to business.  I came inside and had some dinner and a cup of coffee and then decided to check on her.  The kids were living here at the time and wanted to come as well.  Good thing too as surprise surprise, there was already a baby on the ground.  A little frosted brown boy, looking good and being doted upon by their mom.  We called for help and got him cleaned up in time for the second baby – a black and white girl.  Both babies are super friendly experimentals (3/4 Nubian and 1/4 LaMancha) with long floppy ears.  Since the children were there they claimed naming rights.  The girl is Crystal and the boy is Splash.

Stormy’s Surprise

Kidding shed ready – check. Stormy in the kidding shed – nope.  I was not expecting babies to come any earlier than a few days before their due date.  So far all of my kiddings from previous years and this last one, all came 4 days before their due date, very conveniently waiting for me to be home after work or on a weekend.  I had been distracted lately with a pretty severe case of plantar fasciitis and was finally going to make it to the podiatrist.  They had really helped me out with a special appointment and everything.  I got up extra early to get the morning chores done and Mark had even agreed to help.  As I walked past the barn to milk Star I noted something lying on the ground.  It was quite tiny and at first, I thought “dead cat,” but then my senses caught up with me and screamed “dead baby goat!”  She was tiny and covered with dirt and looked to be not moving, but as soon as I picked her up she made this really loud “Bah!”  There was another new baby goat standing upright.  I called Mark and somehow rushed to get the almost dead one cleaned off and dry and get both mom and babies into the kidding area, realizing that I was NOT going to make that podiatry appointment.  I called Wendy for guidance and we managed to keep both beautiful girls alive.  I brought them to the office where the staff and students could fawn over them.  It was quite the experience.  The first little girl is Elsa and she is black and white frosted.  The second little girl is a white Roan.  Both are super friendly and Elsa is bottle fed (mostly).  They were supposed to be born on Liz’s birthday but arrived 6 days early.

Luna’s Long Labor

Liz was super excited that Stormy kidded early so that I could visit her in Flagstaff.  Unfortunately, Luna had other ideas.  She was already in the kidding area, but during morning chores I noticed that her udders had come in and her hind end had started to soften, and, you guessed it, she was dripping.  I was still hoping to finish quick and make a trip to Flagstaff but Luna had other ideas.  It wasn’t until after 4 when she finally decided to get down to business.  A boy and a girl with elf ears.  Carrying the theme we named them Kreacher and Winky.  Not the friendliest as they both insisted on being dam fed, but cute as buttons.  Then we were done for a while…until the Mother’s Day Massacre.

Astra’s Agony

Astra is a big goat, easily 300 lbs when she’s not pregnant.  She’s had problems with her hooves and foundered at one point but otherwise is a very docile goat.  Her due date was Mother’s Day.  I kept hoping she would just get on with it since she was the last to go and it had been more than a week since the rest of the babies had been born, but she was just hanging around – NOT having babies.  Finally the day before Mother’s Day, she seemed to be ready to go.  It was an all day affair.  It got dark and rainy and the weather cooled significantly.  Finally late into the evening when I had all but given up, she started to push out a tiny baby.  Since she was especially huge, we knew there were more in there and anticipated more babies in quick succession but needed to get this little one, a girl, warm and dry and fed, but it was a lot of hurry up and wait.  She just didn’t want to get down to business.  Finally, about an hour later, the other two came in quick succession.  A golden boy was first. a bit floppy but warmed and dried, and then a basic brown girl.  Astra had no desire to get up and lick or nose at the babies and certainly no desire to feed them.  Getting a 300+ lb goat to a standing position to milk was also a challenge, but milk her we did for that precious colostrum.  Since she had no interest in the babies and it was cold and wet outside, I opted to bring them in for warmth and bottle feeding through the night.  They did well but did not perk up nearly as much as I would have liked but we continued to keep them warm with warm towels from the microwave and warm milk in their bellies.

And then it all went wrong.

Mother’s Day morning we woke tired but satisfied.  Babies had been fed through the night and were doing well.  We fed them in the morning before heading out to milk all the mamas.  I was still concerned about the babies being warm enough – especially the little runt.  We’d only named the boy so far – Midas after his golden color.  I sent Mark in with some warm towels and we went out to milk.  Unfortunately he did not close the bedroom door well enough and while we were out, the dogs decided to go in and investigate and play.  It’s hard for me to relive the sight that greeted us when we returned.  Two of the babies were dead, unable to get away from the dogs.  The third had managed to hide herself in a corner and though traumatized, was uninjured.  Guilt and despair and “if-onlies” permeated the rest of the day.  Hazel and Jorge came and took the poor dead babies to properly bury them.  We named the little one Persephone after the Goddess who needed to return to the land of the dead.  The lone survivor was named Valkery.  She became a house goat for a while being much smaller than the other kids born only 2 weeks before and rejected by her mother.  Eventually we did return her to the herd, but she received a whole lot of loving before.

Epilogue

It’s been more than a year since that awful kidding season, but I still feel terrible when I think of those poor dead babies.  We have since braved another kidding season with only one doe pregnant.  Stormy gave birth in stealth mode to another boy and girl (Nimbus and Freya) and both did very well and have found a lovely new home, but I will never forget the kids I lost.

From the time I was little, I remember my mother saying this phrase anytime my sisters and I didn’t want to finish our dinners.  Now don’t get me wrong, this was rarely a problem for me.  I liked food.  My sister, on the other hand, could sit there all night and not finish – especially her vegetables.  To this day I don’t think she eats much that’s green.  But I digress.

Finishing one’s plate of food that your mother served was not only expected and encouraged but mandatory.  My grandparents grew up in the depression and did not waste anything.  It was ingrained into us.  Full or not, we had to somehow manage those last few bites.  To this day, it physically pains me to leave even a grain of rice on my plate.  I see someone else leaving a bit of this or a taste of that and want to reach out and help them scrape it all up.  I’m sure that this is the root of some of my food issues.

Now I have chickens.  They love to eat most of the table scraps.  It’s a win-win situation.  I think my stepmother actually fed her chickens coffee grounds as well.  I have not gone so far as to take apart the coffee pods to scrape out the grounds for the chickens (one has to draw the line somewhere), but everything else gets sent out to somehow get magically turned into eggs (even the egg shells).  This somehow makes me feel a bit better about stopping when I’m full as I know that the remainder is still being used.

Unfortunately, the same compulsion to not waste food also seeps into other areas of my life.  I struggle to throw away anything that “might be useful someday.”  I am not quite a hoarder (not yet at least), but I have quite the collection of potentially useful craft type items.  I once had a nurse make a mosaic tile picture using a bunch of colorful plastic tops off of vaccine vials (don’t judge), I I thought, “what a fantastic idea, let’s save those too.”  My grandfather made a snowblower out of empty coffee cans.  Maybe it’s genetic.  Currently, I’m collecting glass bottles for a friend who’s building a glass wall – I am not alone in these thoughts.  The same friend’s daughter has taken all of the little metal cans I collected from a test we do in the office.  She said, “I want ALL of those…”  There were a lot of them.  I think she said something about using them to make wings or ammunition containers for her costumes.  I wonder if the starving children in Africa need some?

 

I love to cook.  This should come as no surprise since I have this obsession with food.  Unfortunately, due to my gastric bypass surgery, I can’t really eat much.  That doesn’t mean that I will stop cooking.  It just means that I will strive to find other people to feed.  One of my favorite things to do is find new ways to cook things.  I am a sucker for a new appliance – not that I need one, and I certainly have no room to put one, but buy them I must (remember, I am an addict).

Most recently I have added to my vast collection:

1. A Bread Machine – I love making bread, but can’t eat much.
2. An indoor grill – the outdoor one works great, but I thought I could “grill” bacon.  It smoked out the house.  The George Forman didn’t do the trick either.
3. A Power Air Fryer Oven – It does rotisserie, air frying amongst other things, but really?? Did I need another oven?
4. A cream separator for the goat’s milk – More complicated than it seemed, and I can skim off some cream to make butter (a new skill).
5. I anxiously await the Suvie appliance I ordered through Kickstarter.  It’s supposed to prepare meals before you get home from work based on robotic technology.  Maybe then I won’t eat popcorn for dinner.

Keep me out of the kitchen section at Wal-Mart.  Maybe there’s a recovery meeting for this…

Oh – I’m not allowed at Cal-Ranch during chick season either…

Maybe I’m just naive.  I grew up in the 70’s and 80’s.  We were very influenced by the media.  While my grandmother was a college graduate (unusual for a woman born in 2011), her main job when I was living with her was to take care of my grandfather.  Dinner needed to be on the table by 4:30 in the afternoon when he got home from work, and I don’t think he touched a dish in his life.  My mother was the only girl from their marriage, and her only job was to get married and produce children….but we were the generation of Enjoli women.  In 1978 the now iconic commercial hit the airwaves and told me that I could have it all.  I could “bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and never let you forget you’re a man.”

I knew I was smart, and from the time I could remember I wanted to be a doctor – specifically a baby doctor.  I had a loving and nurturing spirit and an affinity for babies.  I also had a strong independent spirit.  Being told I couldn’t do something just made me want to work harder.  There were times in my young life when I wanted to be glamorous and famous (being the center of attention would be a dream come true for this Leo), but my passion always came back to being a baby doctor.  In medicine, women tend to gravitate towards the more nurturing specialties like pediatrics and OB/GYN, and for me, this is who I was, not just what I wanted to do.

The first experience that I can remember related to gender discrimination was when I spoke to my male advisor in college about wanting to go to medical school.  He told me my grades weren’t good enough and I would need to consider other options.  I can’t recall why I felt his attitude and tone had to do with my status, but I did feel as if I were being talked down to at the time.  I did get into medical school and found that about half of the class was female.  This ratio was encouraging and demonstrated the change in the times of women being accepted into the medical field as equals – or so I thought.  After medical school and residency, where I had my first child, I got a job in an upper-middle-class suburban area outside of New York City.  While I was confident in my abilities, I always felt a bit like a child with a bunch of grown-ups or a puppy that was really eager to please.  The group I joined was mostly older men and one older woman, so the sense of being a junior partner was very hard to shake.  I would often get “fatherly” advice and never felt like a had any real authority.  Ultimately I left that group and eventually moved to Arizona.

I had never really felt truly discriminated against in the east coast.  Medicine was still a bit of an “old-boys” network, but I felt like it was evolving as the older people were retiring.  I remember laughing when one of the older nurses regaled me with stories of how the male doctors would expect the female nurses to undress the baby, stand by for orders and then redress the baby when they came in for rounds.  When I came to Arizona to interview, I fell in love with the little town in the mountains.  I was impressed by the commitment to mothers and babies that I saw at the hospital.  Two of the four clinical floors were devoted to labor and delivery and post-partum.  They seemed to really care.  It wasn’t until I moved here that I learned what real discrimination was.

It turns out that this sleepy little town was home to a very large Mormon population.  Now, this didn’t bother me as I was always about “live and let live,” and had worked with other religious communities on the east coast, but little things started picking away at my psyche.  During the orientation process, one of the administrative nurses told me how her daughter never got picked for the cheer team because she was not part of the LDS community.    “Ridiculous,” I thought.  Little was I to know.

My first inkling that there was a cultural rift was when I was reprimanded for something I wasn’t even aware that I did.  Turns out this Jersey girl was to direct for southern sensibilities.  Looking people in the eye and giving direct information was just not done here.  It made people feel bad.  Now, I was not yelling or using foul language, but I certainly don’t whisper and I definitely cut to the chase – that means get to the point for those outside of NJ.  I was told by a hospital administrator that “if I’d moved to Japan, I’d have to behave like the Japanese.”  Funny, ’cause I thought we were in America.  I guess cultural competency applies only to patients, and not to colleagues.

That’s not to say that some people didn’t find my honesty refreshing, just not the Powers That Be.  I also didn’t think it was right for my patients to get the care they deserved because others were incompetent or lazy.  Speaking up for what was right did not win me any points with the administration either.  I really thought they couldn’t get rid of me because they didn’t like me – wrong again.  Apparently, discrimination is alive and well on the mountain.  I hope to be a beacon of hope for those out there struggling with some of the same issues, but today I lost the battle.  I’m trying to decide if I want to continue the war against discrimination.  Stay tuned.  This is not the end of my story.

What is the power of a word?  We are all members of the human race, but as adults, we sometimes have the need to use a title.  Dr, Office, Judge…

I have earned the title of doctor, but generally, don’t use it in situations outside of work.  I also generally don’t use it with other professionals as I don’t feel the need to “compare degrees.”  As soon as someone specifies a title the interaction automatically takes on a different tone – more formal, more intimidating.  I find this is rarely helpful in most situations.

Perhaps as a woman, I don’t feel like I should be placing myself above another human being like that.  Perhaps as a woman, I see that forcing respect based on a title means that you don’t really have it.  It’s an odd place I find myself in, where woman are not respected even with a title.  I don’t really know.  It seems to be another game that we play with social conventions.

I’ll have to think on this some more…