Growing up, I was exposed to an upper middle class lifestyle with a lot of perks. My brother and I enjoyed back stage passes to big rock concerts, exclusive dinners for the US Gymnastic Olympic Trials, condos and skiing at Deer Valley, and even a vacation to Disneyland. The perks were all due to my father's job. While he was schmoozing with execs, we knew to be on our best behavior and still have fun. It was a love/hate experience. It was a lot of fun but it just felt, well, phony.
When I tell people I'm married to a doctor, a set of assumptions pop into their heads. They assume there is a lot of money for one. I should set the record straight here that during all of J's training I was always the breadwinner when working full time. This is very difficult to do when you are a social worker. Social worker, folks.
Furthermore, not all medical practices are reimbursed equally. Here's a good rule to follow: procedures to bill = money in the pocket. This is why surgeons, radiologists, gastroenterologists, etc, make quite a bit of cash. Your general primary care doc, you know, the one you go to when you have green snot, vomit, and odd chest pain? Yeah, that one? They make next to nothing. Another good rule to follow is to follow market demands. If pharmaceutical companies, bio tech industries, and medical equipment organizations have something to market then that specialty generally earns more. Palliative care doctors (aka Dr. Death) don't exactly spawn repeat customers from the drug companies. They also function as general practitioners in the last stages of life.
It is a bit annoying when people assume so much. Doctors have not had a income adjustment to the quality of life since the 1970s, but school costs have risen significantly. Our student loans are the equivalent of a second mortgage. Needless to say, I will not be the country club wife, with hobbies of shopping and lunching, and tennis lessons. And you know what? I am way ok with that. I am actually quite proud of J's choice not to sell out and be seduced by the dark side. He is staying true to the roots of medicine; serving those who need care and being ethically aware.
Last night one of J's friends from medical school was in town for a conference. He chose a different path: Radiology oncology. These are brilliant individuals who like physics theory and the human body. They are not well known for their human relation skills. J's friend invited us down to the hotel where a talk was just finishing up. Something about proton accelerators and chest wall tumors. We grabbed a free Sam Adams and excused ourselves from the break-out session to catch up.
As this session was ending, Dr. Rad-Onc suggested we catch one of the other parties around town: the aquarium, science museum, or museum of fine arts. I had to pause for a moment because with my profession I'm just grateful for a continential breakfast at one of my conferences. Here the sponsors have enough in their advertising budget to rent out several huge attractions for a private party, have it catered, free bar, and live entertainment. What is ironic about this is that these individuals have enough money to pay for admission to these attractions and yet companies shell out big bucks for them.
Typically we avoid all drug rep dinners. The "educational component" are an exchange for the free steak and wine. Its product pushing by college grads who do not know how these chemicals work but are taught the "research" that was sponsored by the drug companies in the first place. Are you really going to think about that drug when prescribing because it is in the best interest of your patient or because its in your memory from the dinner?
Right or wrong, we headed with our friend and his growing entourage to the aquarium. What I first noticed was my incredible concern for the penguins. Here they are tired from being gawked at by children all day long and now they have a sound system pushing baselines into their faux ecosystem. Poor guys! They just want to sleep and instead Phillips, yes the electric light bulb company, is pushing their new MRI/gamma ray/technology gadget, and have taken over their habitat. We had drinks, a flight of nations hors d'oeuvres and wandered the usual $20-something admission attraction. We hung out there for awhile and then went to the science museum. There the reception was catered by Wolfgang Puck. I never did find out who sponsored this event. By 11:00 we were saturated, morally conflicted, and tired. I was more than tipsy. It was time to go.
Dr. Rad-Onc invited us back to crash another party tonight sponsored by someone else. The dark side is quite alluring, but I think we'll abstain. While I know that the big wig companies don't feel the financial impact of me crashing the party and having 2 glasses of wine and a small plate of dim sum, but I feel it in my soul.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Crazy Busy
I've. Been. Busy. There, I admit it. I no longer have a full plate. I have a buffet. What's crazy is that I'm considering adding more.
On my birthday earlier this month I decided it would be a great idea to pursue another masters. After some highly disappointing rejections from doing organizational development as a full time job, I recognized that Boston is not the land of where you can spin your educational degrees. Either you have it, or you don't. I do not have a degree in organizational development...but I will!
My first masters in social work was in an accelerated 16 month program. I thought I was crazy for attempting this and truly it sucked the life out of me, but also enriched me in ways I cannot even begin to express my gratitude. 16 months to achieve a masters. I always was one to work part time through school. I worked in various jobs from a receptionist to a pastry chef and a vet tech in high school and college. It was such an amazing breath of fresh air to just concentrate on school when I was in New Orleans. I had never been happier because I was so balanced and focused.
A decade later (ouch, that one makes me cringe) I return to school as one of those non-traditional students. You know, the older person always with his/her hand raised and always, always prepared. This was the person I loathed in my previous academic careers. Oh. My. God. I've turned into that person. I cannot wait to tackle the 260+ pages of reading a week. I actually offer my opinion in class. I am prepared for my assignments. This is a drastic change for me as I used to wait until the night before papers were due, watch back to back Law and Orders on TNT, clean my room, and then somewhere around 11:00 PM I'd start on the paper only to finish it at 5:00 or so and have a roommate turn it in during class so I could catch up on my sleep. I have turned a corner somewhere.
Whilst I thought 16 months was crazy (and still do), you can officially take my measurements for a straight jacket now. I'm now enrolled in a 10 month Masters of Arts program for Organizational Development and Psychology. I'll have my second masters by June 1st. C.R.A.Z.Y. What makes it even more psycho is the fact that it is a program supposedly designed for working adults. The program has attracted such talented individuals who are already the Vice Presidents of some national companies from around the country. Somehow they are making their weekly business trips to Antwerp for a company merger and going to school. I don't know how successful they feel about it, though and that is a huge point. I truly anticipate a few dropouts before the end of this first month.
In the meantime of drowning in action process models, papers, discussion boards, and online lectures, I'm considering taking a full time job essentially creating a new program in medical social work. I'm beginning to wonder how smart of an idea this truly is. Something will have to give whether it be the housework, individual down time, sleep, eating, my marriage, social supports, etc.. To say I'm concerned is an understatement, but (un)fortunately, I don't have the time to think about it.
On my birthday earlier this month I decided it would be a great idea to pursue another masters. After some highly disappointing rejections from doing organizational development as a full time job, I recognized that Boston is not the land of where you can spin your educational degrees. Either you have it, or you don't. I do not have a degree in organizational development...but I will!
My first masters in social work was in an accelerated 16 month program. I thought I was crazy for attempting this and truly it sucked the life out of me, but also enriched me in ways I cannot even begin to express my gratitude. 16 months to achieve a masters. I always was one to work part time through school. I worked in various jobs from a receptionist to a pastry chef and a vet tech in high school and college. It was such an amazing breath of fresh air to just concentrate on school when I was in New Orleans. I had never been happier because I was so balanced and focused.
A decade later (ouch, that one makes me cringe) I return to school as one of those non-traditional students. You know, the older person always with his/her hand raised and always, always prepared. This was the person I loathed in my previous academic careers. Oh. My. God. I've turned into that person. I cannot wait to tackle the 260+ pages of reading a week. I actually offer my opinion in class. I am prepared for my assignments. This is a drastic change for me as I used to wait until the night before papers were due, watch back to back Law and Orders on TNT, clean my room, and then somewhere around 11:00 PM I'd start on the paper only to finish it at 5:00 or so and have a roommate turn it in during class so I could catch up on my sleep. I have turned a corner somewhere.
Whilst I thought 16 months was crazy (and still do), you can officially take my measurements for a straight jacket now. I'm now enrolled in a 10 month Masters of Arts program for Organizational Development and Psychology. I'll have my second masters by June 1st. C.R.A.Z.Y. What makes it even more psycho is the fact that it is a program supposedly designed for working adults. The program has attracted such talented individuals who are already the Vice Presidents of some national companies from around the country. Somehow they are making their weekly business trips to Antwerp for a company merger and going to school. I don't know how successful they feel about it, though and that is a huge point. I truly anticipate a few dropouts before the end of this first month.
In the meantime of drowning in action process models, papers, discussion boards, and online lectures, I'm considering taking a full time job essentially creating a new program in medical social work. I'm beginning to wonder how smart of an idea this truly is. Something will have to give whether it be the housework, individual down time, sleep, eating, my marriage, social supports, etc.. To say I'm concerned is an understatement, but (un)fortunately, I don't have the time to think about it.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Dining Differences
Last night my husband and I took advantage of restaurant week here in Boston. It should be noted that the city is so dense and has so much culture that restaurant week actually spans two weeks, not just one. They do exclude the weekends, capitalist bastards. Oh well. It was quite the feat just putting a plan in place and following through with it as J and I are well known for our dreams of doing stuff, but never actually doing the activity because we're so overwhelmed with options.
For example, last weekend we spent two days talking about going to a beach, or Walden pond, or a National park, or the city, or downtown, or a historic tour, or...well, you get the idea. In the end, we finally made it to Costco and Trader Joes. Yes, folks, that was our final outing.
We've been tracking and counting down restaurant week here as it was one of our most favorite things to do in Indy. There was some serious web browsing and research as to which restaurant we should dedicate our finances and taste buds. In the end, we chose Harvest.
A very interesting phenomena occurs when we are out to dinner. I've noticed this doesn't happen just to us, but it happens to most people. We do not order the exact same item even if it is what we really want. God forbid we should have two orders of duck on the table. Turns out there is a Harvard professor who actually wrote a book on this. I ran across it at the Harvard Coop (kind of like their bookstore). Its all about how we sabotage our own happiness. I know, a really uplifting subject, right?
So here we are in the elegant courtyard of a restaurant in Harvard Square last night at the only available reservation left: 8:30 PM.
J: "So what are you going to get?"
A: "I was thinking of starting with the corn soup with Chantilly mushrooms and crab."
J: "Damn."
A: "You know, you could get the same thing."
J: "What else were you thinking about for your entree?"
A: "The sole with the heirloom tomato and cannelli beans."
J: "Well, I guess I'll get the pork then."
A: "Why not order what you want?"
In the end, we did both end up with the soup and it was delicious. There were some striking differences between restaurant week here vs. in Indy. For one, the crowd was remarkably divergent. Our dining partners were decked out in Topsiders without socks, button downs with V-neck sweaters, long hair with product (guys), long hair without much make-up and product (girls), pre-labor day white trousers, hobo bags, messenger bags, and theoretical discussions. It was about as obnoxious as the wine pairings with each course. Somehow it fit, but seemed pretentious none-the-less. One thing was for certain as we eavesdropped on our dining companions and sipped our Willamette valley pinot noir: we certainly weren't in Kansas (or anywhere near it) anymore.
For example, last weekend we spent two days talking about going to a beach, or Walden pond, or a National park, or the city, or downtown, or a historic tour, or...well, you get the idea. In the end, we finally made it to Costco and Trader Joes. Yes, folks, that was our final outing.
We've been tracking and counting down restaurant week here as it was one of our most favorite things to do in Indy. There was some serious web browsing and research as to which restaurant we should dedicate our finances and taste buds. In the end, we chose Harvest.
A very interesting phenomena occurs when we are out to dinner. I've noticed this doesn't happen just to us, but it happens to most people. We do not order the exact same item even if it is what we really want. God forbid we should have two orders of duck on the table. Turns out there is a Harvard professor who actually wrote a book on this. I ran across it at the Harvard Coop (kind of like their bookstore). Its all about how we sabotage our own happiness. I know, a really uplifting subject, right?
So here we are in the elegant courtyard of a restaurant in Harvard Square last night at the only available reservation left: 8:30 PM.
J: "So what are you going to get?"
A: "I was thinking of starting with the corn soup with Chantilly mushrooms and crab."
J: "Damn."
A: "You know, you could get the same thing."
J: "What else were you thinking about for your entree?"
A: "The sole with the heirloom tomato and cannelli beans."
J: "Well, I guess I'll get the pork then."
A: "Why not order what you want?"
In the end, we did both end up with the soup and it was delicious. There were some striking differences between restaurant week here vs. in Indy. For one, the crowd was remarkably divergent. Our dining partners were decked out in Topsiders without socks, button downs with V-neck sweaters, long hair with product (guys), long hair without much make-up and product (girls), pre-labor day white trousers, hobo bags, messenger bags, and theoretical discussions. It was about as obnoxious as the wine pairings with each course. Somehow it fit, but seemed pretentious none-the-less. One thing was for certain as we eavesdropped on our dining companions and sipped our Willamette valley pinot noir: we certainly weren't in Kansas (or anywhere near it) anymore.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Hocus Pocus
Boy, how does one really follow up the last two postings that were both extremely dark? Well, I can begin by reassuring my readership that life out here isn't as dark as it was. Its still a bit more overcast and shadow dwelling than I prefer, but it certainly isn't as bleak. What changed? I don't know. Time? Perspective? Magic?
I like that last one. A little bibbity bobbedy boo, if you will. If it were only that simple, right? But seriously, I got a really nice shot of hope the other day by finding out that research shows that I can get pregnant on my current anti-depressants and not cause any harm to the fetus. I swear, only at Harvard would there be a whole perinatal psychiatry program. Talking about being in the right place at the right time. Seriously, that news was like angels singing down from heaven above.
I like that last one. A little bibbity bobbedy boo, if you will. If it were only that simple, right? But seriously, I got a really nice shot of hope the other day by finding out that research shows that I can get pregnant on my current anti-depressants and not cause any harm to the fetus. I swear, only at Harvard would there be a whole perinatal psychiatry program. Talking about being in the right place at the right time. Seriously, that news was like angels singing down from heaven above.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Who Am I and What Have You Done With Me?
"In search for your destiny, you will often find yourself obliged to change direction."
(The Fifth Mountain ~ Paulo Coehlo)
This past week has been rough. Ok, "rough," doesn't begin to cover the truth. That makes it sound like I've been frolicking about fields of daisies with friendly elves and bunnies compared to what it has really been like. The toll of all of my losses have begun to accumulate and weigh heavily: the loss of my professional identity and belief that I was a solid professional when I left my job from hell, the loss of two of extremely close and influential grandparents, the loss of a home and space I loved that represented happiness, the loss of yet another career momentum and direction, the loss of an anticipated job offer, the loss of staying connected to family of origin through important rituals like weddings... Granted, several of these are self-inflicted through choices, but they are losses none-the-less. When one is faced with so many losses it is easy to find your perspective shifted unconsciously from expecting happy doors to open to simply pure dread and anticipating when the next shoe will drop.
That perspective changes the way you view the world. All of a sudden life is not filled with opportunity, but instead isolation. It is not a pleasant way to exist. It brings everything under a microscope to be questioned, examined, and calls for judgement to take place. In this past week I have questioned my purpose in life, my true desires, my own limitations, my marriage, and even my own will.
After my last post with failure being out in the open, I wrote to mentors and friends asking for a different perspective on the latest loss and being rejected. I shared my sorrow, my hopelessness, my grief, and self-scorn. One wrote, "Job, Shmob. Something is trying to find you and it wasn't that job. Yeah, I know, easy for me to say. But I do have to look at your life and see that the universe is helping you to shift your focus. You're right that a career is different than a job, but sometimes, it's "just a job" that shows you something new about yourself." At times I forget that just as much as I'm trying to find my destiny, my destiny is also trying to find me. It was a blissful reminder.
Others reminded me that while it may seem like a failure now, it opened up doors and awareness I didn't have before. It would have been a short term solution, but may have perpetuated a long term problem. "Problem" being not being 100% clear about my intention and life desires. Going along blissfully in ignorance is not a solution. And not knowing what you want is a massive problem. I am able to tell you what I don't want better than what I do want. I have ideas, but no lines in the sand or force. Furthermore, I feel so deserted its hard for me to muster my strength and will anything. I worry that anything I put on the table right now as a potential solution is just a band-aid. Its like putting a band-aid on someone who needs a kidney transplant.
My friends and family have been my best allies. It is clear how much they love me and want me to be happy. They don't want me to lose who I am and compromise what I hold dear. They rage at the thought of me selling myself short and compromising too much. I think that the problem is right now, I don't know who I am or what it will take for me to be happy. They have been my fierce cheerleaders, advisors, and sounding boards. I am so lucky to have them.
Its ironic that my presentation I gave at the job interview was on managing transitions. Change may be the physical situation, but transition is the psychological adjustment to the change. People have no problem with change; its the transition people resist. All beginnings start with endings. Endings must be grieved. I must be on the verge of a lot of beginnings, then, because the losses are swallowing me whole.
I can imagine I've been a nightmare to live with. Hell, I haven't liked living with me this past week either and I can't exactly leave me. I'm certain my conversations have been filled with projections: accusing decisions are being made through fear, wondering where the strength is in our vows to get through this, anger and rage about compromise and purposefully inflicting loss, insolence about violated plans (not agreements or commitments, just plans), accusations of selfishness. I will not discredit me solely; I believe there is validity and truth to what I ask and perceive as well. If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck then it is a duck. I'm certain I have acted as the crazy woman perfectly this week. Crazy isn't the right word: grief stricken is 100% accurate.
(The Fifth Mountain ~ Paulo Coehlo)
This past week has been rough. Ok, "rough," doesn't begin to cover the truth. That makes it sound like I've been frolicking about fields of daisies with friendly elves and bunnies compared to what it has really been like. The toll of all of my losses have begun to accumulate and weigh heavily: the loss of my professional identity and belief that I was a solid professional when I left my job from hell, the loss of two of extremely close and influential grandparents, the loss of a home and space I loved that represented happiness, the loss of yet another career momentum and direction, the loss of an anticipated job offer, the loss of staying connected to family of origin through important rituals like weddings... Granted, several of these are self-inflicted through choices, but they are losses none-the-less. When one is faced with so many losses it is easy to find your perspective shifted unconsciously from expecting happy doors to open to simply pure dread and anticipating when the next shoe will drop.
That perspective changes the way you view the world. All of a sudden life is not filled with opportunity, but instead isolation. It is not a pleasant way to exist. It brings everything under a microscope to be questioned, examined, and calls for judgement to take place. In this past week I have questioned my purpose in life, my true desires, my own limitations, my marriage, and even my own will.
After my last post with failure being out in the open, I wrote to mentors and friends asking for a different perspective on the latest loss and being rejected. I shared my sorrow, my hopelessness, my grief, and self-scorn. One wrote, "Job, Shmob. Something is trying to find you and it wasn't that job. Yeah, I know, easy for me to say. But I do have to look at your life and see that the universe is helping you to shift your focus. You're right that a career is different than a job, but sometimes, it's "just a job" that shows you something new about yourself." At times I forget that just as much as I'm trying to find my destiny, my destiny is also trying to find me. It was a blissful reminder.
Others reminded me that while it may seem like a failure now, it opened up doors and awareness I didn't have before. It would have been a short term solution, but may have perpetuated a long term problem. "Problem" being not being 100% clear about my intention and life desires. Going along blissfully in ignorance is not a solution. And not knowing what you want is a massive problem. I am able to tell you what I don't want better than what I do want. I have ideas, but no lines in the sand or force. Furthermore, I feel so deserted its hard for me to muster my strength and will anything. I worry that anything I put on the table right now as a potential solution is just a band-aid. Its like putting a band-aid on someone who needs a kidney transplant.
My friends and family have been my best allies. It is clear how much they love me and want me to be happy. They don't want me to lose who I am and compromise what I hold dear. They rage at the thought of me selling myself short and compromising too much. I think that the problem is right now, I don't know who I am or what it will take for me to be happy. They have been my fierce cheerleaders, advisors, and sounding boards. I am so lucky to have them.
Its ironic that my presentation I gave at the job interview was on managing transitions. Change may be the physical situation, but transition is the psychological adjustment to the change. People have no problem with change; its the transition people resist. All beginnings start with endings. Endings must be grieved. I must be on the verge of a lot of beginnings, then, because the losses are swallowing me whole.
I can imagine I've been a nightmare to live with. Hell, I haven't liked living with me this past week either and I can't exactly leave me. I'm certain my conversations have been filled with projections: accusing decisions are being made through fear, wondering where the strength is in our vows to get through this, anger and rage about compromise and purposefully inflicting loss, insolence about violated plans (not agreements or commitments, just plans), accusations of selfishness. I will not discredit me solely; I believe there is validity and truth to what I ask and perceive as well. If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck then it is a duck. I'm certain I have acted as the crazy woman perfectly this week. Crazy isn't the right word: grief stricken is 100% accurate.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Failures
When I was in graduate school I dated a guy who kept all of his rejection letters because it was "character building." At least, that is what he called it. I called him delusional. While failing is character building, in an extreme psychotic optimistic point of view, hanging onto those unsubtle reminders of your shortcomings, is not.
I have to remind myself that the Universe or God or whatever has a plan. Que Sera Sera, right? This is an easy life motto to have when things are going your way, but it sucks rotten eggs when you don't get what you really want.
When I was rejected from a job I really wanted this past week, I debated about blogging my experience. Why pour lemon juice, salt, and carbonic acid into my already gaping wound in front of the masses? I should instead go quietly into the night and lick my wounds in private only to emerge with a small scar later and pretend like nothing ever happened. That was my first instinct. Let my failures be private; let my successes be public. However, that's not real.
Real is the feeling of being ashamed and embarrassed by not being awarded the position. "The" position, mind you, not just "a" position. That was my first reaction. Its raw and ugly, but its real. I can console myself by stating that there is a reason why I didn't get it; reasons I don't know now, but it is for the best. I can also re-frame things into a place of self-reflection as to what the larger meaning is behind this and what life lesson I need to learn.
Self-reflection can often quickly spiral down to self-massacre. Examining every detail of the exchange, revising answers to questions, analyzing minutia from degree qualifications down to simple interview wardrobe selection. The process is nauseating and disheartening. And then, you get to the real meat of the issue: Is this really what I wanted? Did I really believe that this would not just make me happy, but bring fulfillment in my life?
If I were to have succeeded in securing this role, I would not have questioned anything. I would have opened a bottle of champagne, taken myself out to a nice restaurant, and reconstructed the budget to allow small indulgences. A gift for myself, I would rationalize, because I deserve it. But did I really? If I had succeeded I would not have learned anything. And that, would be the ultimate failure.
I have to remind myself that the Universe or God or whatever has a plan. Que Sera Sera, right? This is an easy life motto to have when things are going your way, but it sucks rotten eggs when you don't get what you really want.
When I was rejected from a job I really wanted this past week, I debated about blogging my experience. Why pour lemon juice, salt, and carbonic acid into my already gaping wound in front of the masses? I should instead go quietly into the night and lick my wounds in private only to emerge with a small scar later and pretend like nothing ever happened. That was my first instinct. Let my failures be private; let my successes be public. However, that's not real.
Real is the feeling of being ashamed and embarrassed by not being awarded the position. "The" position, mind you, not just "a" position. That was my first reaction. Its raw and ugly, but its real. I can console myself by stating that there is a reason why I didn't get it; reasons I don't know now, but it is for the best. I can also re-frame things into a place of self-reflection as to what the larger meaning is behind this and what life lesson I need to learn.
Self-reflection can often quickly spiral down to self-massacre. Examining every detail of the exchange, revising answers to questions, analyzing minutia from degree qualifications down to simple interview wardrobe selection. The process is nauseating and disheartening. And then, you get to the real meat of the issue: Is this really what I wanted? Did I really believe that this would not just make me happy, but bring fulfillment in my life?
If I were to have succeeded in securing this role, I would not have questioned anything. I would have opened a bottle of champagne, taken myself out to a nice restaurant, and reconstructed the budget to allow small indulgences. A gift for myself, I would rationalize, because I deserve it. But did I really? If I had succeeded I would not have learned anything. And that, would be the ultimate failure.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Beauty In the Eye of the Beholder...
J: "Ooh, Van Halen." As he flips through the music channels on our cable.
Me: "Its classic rock? When did it become classic rock?" Noticing the channel.
J: "Its been classic rock since like 1987. It was on Z 93. Ooh, you have to admit he's kind of sexy."
Me: "David Lee Roth?!?"
J: "Yeah!"
Me: "You have no taste in men."
J: "You're right."
Me: "Its classic rock? When did it become classic rock?" Noticing the channel.
J: "Its been classic rock since like 1987. It was on Z 93. Ooh, you have to admit he's kind of sexy."
Me: "David Lee Roth?!?"
J: "Yeah!"
Me: "You have no taste in men."
J: "You're right."
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