Breaks

I had a wonderful conversation yesterday with my primary care physician. I adore her. I have followed her from one office to another, and then another. I would follow her wherever she goes, she is that remarkable: beyond compare (and I know many physicians). She is now ensconced at UCSF with the resources of a great university hospital behind her, and she's training up more physicians, giving me increased hope for the future. She recently made two great hires in her office for when she's not available, and that assuages my anxiety more than a little.

She had thought I'd come in only to adjust meds and do my three-month check-in, but no, I had my sternum issue (yes, fractured indeed, no x-ray needed, must be taped), and some new information.  She added to my Problem List: "Family history of early coronary artery disease." Sigh. We were talking about all I've been through in the past 13 years that we've known each other, and my near misses. She said she cannot believe that I made it through two pregnancies and didn't miscarry or die. I said that I don't believe in guardian angels, but I must have had one. She said, "Well I do believe in them, and you have an army. What about the portal vein clot? And a platelet count of 1.3 million? And the PEs? And your wrist? And now your sternum? Do you need some anti-anxiety meds?" I told her I was fine, I had only taken one Xanax so far and I'm set with my supply, although given current events, I am shocked that I am functioning so well.

She also encouraged me to sit down and write. She said, "I've told you for years. You write beautifully. Where is the story you promised me? We physicians need to push more, people need to push more, people need to know how important family medical history is for adoptees. What you have been through was unconscionable. You could write to help others; it might help you to get it out of yourself in more polished form. Plus, it's one hell of a story." I told her my ex had called me a "hilarious raconteuse" the other week. She laughed. "See," she said. "You have some momentum."

Then we had a great kvetch about EPIC, as she'd been through it two years ago and knew my pain. Many gratifyingly exchanged expletives ensued, apropos of choices and flowsheets and order sets and lack of support from management.

I have taken a long break from writing about my adoption-related pains for many reasons. But perhaps if I approach them more journalistically, and write privately, it will be cathartic. It would feel good to write. I've always felt that writing was my calling, but I've fought it. I am not sure why. The more people tell me to write, the more I shrink into my cave of "NO!"

I dreamed last night that I was back in graduate school, being dressed down for some slight by my adviser, the chilly one who was so cruel and valued nothing of me or my work. I have various theories about why she appeared to me out of the blue. Perhaps the most compelling is that she symbolizes the part of me that doesn't think I can or should succeed in writing my story. Since I was never very good at kowtowing to her at the best of times in real life, why would I capitulate to her now, in my head? Makes sense when I put it like that.

Perhaps, then, back to Anne Lamott's father's advice, I suppose, and the birds. Bird by bird. I love that book. And fighting my horrifyingly exacting standards, against which I do measure myself, despite what people may think. It only took me how many years to write my dissertation? Can we say perfectionist?