Permission

Permission is one of those things women learn too late in life.

It's part of the invisible oppression patriarchy still claims. There is a place you will eventually get to where you recognize this as being separate from loyalty, family, and tradition. There is a place that you get to where you have to finally chose to stop hating yourself so much that you deny another peaceful place to reside. 

I am trying my best to slow down in the places that I can. I am finding that I am losing track of the days, weeks, months, and yes, even the years. The pace is so exhausting that the timeline I exist within is marked with exhaustion forced continuums outside of a lunar/solar calendar. I am missing seasons within this. I know it, and yet I perpetuate it. To attempt to thwart my own destined path, I try to schedule a pause. I sit with a morning cup of coffee and take breathing time everyday. Me time. Slow down for an hour to reacquaint myself with myself. 

The life I have built I now recognize will change regardless of my wishes and intentions. You cannot live within veterinary medicine and not be faced with mortality, life changing decisions and tearful goodbyes on a daily basis. You are constantly reminded that there is death waiting for us all. You also recognize the fragility of life and the deep love that exists within these relationships. 

This morning it is pouring outside. A fall rain so intense it mars out the rest of the competing sounds. The birds call to each other through the persistent percussion of droplets that veil the landscape. It is a reminder that snow is on its way. The leaves fall in submission to the forces that remind us all that we too will get too tired to stay vibrant. This morning, this moment is pure perfection that I claim as my own within my home that bears so many reminders of this life I have lived.

It is here, in these moments with my pets, my life's purpose that warm, cinnamon topped coffee, a soft putter of playing kittens, and two adoring pups, lets me escape into the magazines that I adore. Here's the place I found myself called into. 

"Permission to Become," an article in What Women Create about Kristin M. Steinke. An artist who spent 217 years as a military intelligence officer and consultant who know creates travel inspired mixed media art. Here is the paragraph that stopped me..

"The most powerful thing I did for my creative life was give myself permission to be an artist. At first, the word felt audacious. Artist. It sounded like someone else had to grant me, something I needed to earn through a perfect body of work, a certain kind of studio, or years of outside validation. Eventually I realized the title is not handed over. It is claimed. You take it. 

"Hello! Reading your article in Women Create struck a chord with me. So, I thought I would share. My mom was an incredible artist. It was her true passion and she was immensely talented. My father saw it as a frivolous pastime that could not be profitable and therefore would not permit me, his first borne, to follow. I was sent to a military academy. 10 years later, after what others would call a 'successful regimented career' that had me away half of the year, I changed career paths and left for veterinary school; my other passion. To this day I still cannot give myself permission to leave this second career to be a full time artist. Primarily because I feel a compelled calling to be a healer to others. I cannot leave the animals. So, I paint, write and create in my sparse off time. I am at peace with it all now. But, it took a while. Thank you for sharing your story."

What are you waiting for permission for, and what is it costing you while you deliberate?

Getting Stuck

I am somewhere between the rock, the hard place, and I can no longer tell the difference.

It used to be that I saw it as an obstacle. A small impasse. A transient bump in the road. Now it's an obstacle warranting a road map. A diversion that requires extra supplies with an undefined ETA.

I think its about being stuck in the emotional turmoil of feeling lost because half of me is absent. Grief manifesting as cement shoes. I keep coming back to how much that love can cost you. Can't it cost you the ability to move forward, or even move on. I'm not picky about the direction.

Good news for me there is some semblance of familiarity here. I have been here before. But I am certain I got up faster and got through it with less frictional resistance last time. Maybe this is what being burnt out feels like? Charred and immobile? Little things, like that passive aggressive email last night from the rescue that expects $75 surgeries, because, you know, that's what I did last time, and they are after all, "a rescue." I walked away. I ripped up their fair-weather-friend bank check and dumped them. I do that more often these days too. I just dump everyone. Seems that abandonment issue is more palatable when its me doing the abandoning.

I yearn for action items in my unenviable paralysis. A glue trap for my overly empathetic soggy soul.

The hands stay clamped around my face, specifically the vocal place. I feel compelled to blurt out to Molly that practice ownership gets the same mixed reviews, widely disbursed based on age and years invested, get out before you get in. Just like vet school, we all love the idea of it from the shoreline, but the further you get into those waters the more you consider abandoning the mission as some sort of delusional childhood fantasy. There is no inbetween. You cannot work for anyone. You cannot imagine paying someone else's rent to stay in your own skin and yet you can only perish via natural causes or sell out and hate yourself. But the real question is which way will you hate yourself less? And do you even have that emotion left in your purse?

True I couldn't ever do anything else, but, where did that choice become everything else?

I'll drink a lot of coffee today. Check the soles of my feet tomorrow for scars, char, soles, wings, or a toe tag.

I firmly believe that there is no greater loneliness than practice ownership. You cannot walk away without abandoning yourself. You cannot live with yourself no matter the decision you debate. You are stuck. You know it. It's why so many of us die here within the drudgery of work. We know nothing else. We can't comprehend how to redefine ourselves outside of our work. When its all you do its all you know.

My Letter to Dr Fine

I have a dream.

It includes happy people, AND, their happy, healthy pets.

Let's call it a fairy tale in real-time. A hope to manifest into a novel, a Hallmark movie,, or maybe just crazy happy vets who create within the chaos. 

Cookie.. Oh, How I love this girl! She is one of my "why's" I love vetmed.

My dear friend Carroll, just passed away. It was an accidental, totally unexpected, tragedy. He had a peanut allergy, went to Applebee's, ordered dessert, (because he ALWAYS ordered dessert, like we all should ALWAYS do), and realized as he was leaving that he was having an allergic reaction. He drove himself across the street to the Urgent Care. The brand new, totally unequipped for a full blown emergency, and checked in. At the desk he lost consciousness. He was revived in the back, and died 30 mins later. That is it. The whole transition took minutes. In less than an hour he was his effervescent, jovial, chummy, vibrant, ever-smiling self, and minutes later; gone. I had been to his house the week before. We had plans. He was my every-other-weekend bestie. I gave him a hug hello and goodbye every single time I saw him. No one smiled as big as he did when he saw me. That is the kind of friend you adore. That is the kind of friendship that takes decades in adult time to grow.

His wife, Linda, also my dear friend, died equally unexpectedly, during a routine outpatient procedure at the best equipped, most capable hospital you could hope for. She was having a percutaneous liver biopsy. I know that she was nervous going into, but, she was nervous going into everything. Living, and waking up, made her nervous. Her procedure was supposed to be done in under an hour. The whole quick little in-and-out visit done under sedation and ultrasound guidance. In dogs and cats we do it in a 30 minute time slot and injectable sleepy-time sedation. Linda woke up from that procedure, her blood pressure fell quickly, she coded and they took her to surgery. They spent 7 hours trying to stop the bleeding of her friable, completely cancer riddled, liver. After 7 hours in surgery the doctors came out to Carroll to say that they had done all they could do. They woke her up to say goodbye to Carroll. This last sentence kills me. This last sentence has been a recurrent topic of dilemma, deliberation, and constant anguish about what I would do in this situation?  

I think that what it comes down to, is....

Don't wake me up.

We were days away from land. I was second mate, (prob supposed to be in caps,,,whatever) on the bridge in my pressed (they were always pressed) khaki uniform. Long polyester, knife like front pleats, black socks, black polished shoes, (we called them coframs, although my brain remembers them first as Chloraforms,, bc I am supposed to be a biologist not a soldier), hair in a tight bun, pressed pleated two front pocket, short sleeved khaki shirt,, and the  webbed khaki belt (another story for another time), brass buckle included. I remember talking to the helmsman, a young new recruit on the center wheel. We had a ships wheel where an unlicensed crew stood four hour watches with the officers. I was standing behind him talking,, I don't remember anything else. I remember being forced to wake up, and being soo angry. "Why, WHY, WHY!! are they waking me up. This is the best sleep of my life!" Turns out I had fainted. I hit the deck, yess a steel deck, so hard I woke up the Captain in his bed below me. 

I was deaf for three days. I couldn't stand, or, open my eyes for 2 days. Do not faint on a ship unless someone is standing beside you ready to catch you. Nothing is soft there.

I have had surgery multiple times. One was to remove 13 masses from my breasts. I went down two bra sizes. I had to meet with the breast surgeon and the plastic surgeon at the pre-op. I was in my hospital gown, cap, and under multiple warm, bleached white blankets. I told the surgeon to take out everything they thought might be a problem. My mom had breast cancer and I believe in preventative care. I told the plastic surgeon to tidy up whatever was left, try to give me a matching pair and call it a day. I don't care about size. I just wanted clean/cancer free leftovers. As I was waking up I only remember being angry. I was angry that I was being woken up. Wherever I was, under that cloud of general anesthesia, I was happy. It was gloriously wonderful there.

Should I meet an unexpected, tragic, twist of fate, please don't wake me up. Please let me go.

In the meantime, I still have a dream. I want to build a life full of stories, around pets and their people. I want to have my own volume, (or two), of stories that revolve around living a life full of chaos, color, and characters. I belong in vetmed, but, I am more than a veterinarian. A storyteller, an artist, and an advocate. BUT, there is time to weave stories in between the heartbeats of the dogs and cats.

Carroll and Linda had a general store that they filled with other peoples stories. It is a magical place of dust, poor overhead lighting, questionable wiring, and charm that only age can deliver. The store has fallen into a place where its next chapter is facing a blank book. I can't remove myself from this store. These stories. This place that is my home and has lost so much of its early history. 

I'm spending the moments away from the vet clinic wondering if there is a second chapter, another book of stories for me to fill, weave, witness? Can I live this life harder, bigger, fuller, and still love every single second of it?

Can I be both? Can I do both? Why am I misplacing my dream while I await my own tragic end?

Maybe its time for a long coffee and a long day of creating more stories? Maybe its time for all of us to live every life inside this one we have today?

The Long Months At Sea

I haven't told you about the crafty side of going to sea. 

The ship from the launch boat

What would you do if you were stuck in the middle of the great, big, giant, ominous, boring sea all day every day, day after day? For me, in my twenties it was a dilemma I faced routinely. I was one of those rare merchant seapersons who was on a ship in the middle of the ocean laying fiber optic submarine cable (so you all can make a phone call or peruse the internet, (no it isn't mainly via satellite)). We would set out from shore to spend 30-60-90 days (or more) at sea slowly laying cable the size of your garden hose on the bottom of the ocean. It is slow and boring 99% of the time. Most of the time you are traveling at about old lady jogging pace. All of the time there is no sign of life. No happy seagulls. No whales, or dolphins, or anything. Just you, the horizon of more nothingness, and the ocean churning around you. Most of the time it is gloomy, grey and chilly. The North Atlantic swallows ships for fun. It has done this for millenia. She is always hungry to remind you that you are but a speck of dust in her skirt.

That's the outside of your house. The house you live in is grey. An endless right angle of steel covered in steel grey. Grey is the color of failed red blood cells. The color that life leaves behind when everything around the being has bailed. Surrendered. Given up. Dead. You will hardly ever see me in two colors; grey and khaki. There has been too much of my life already in them. I can even assign a face to the particular color of khaki that is the plebe short and shirt of arrival at KP. That color is puke bile on canvas. That color is forbidden. The warm grey of cashmere is a completely different hue than steel grey. The shade of WW's and wartime. The 40's era of a nation setting itself to right the wrongs abroad. Yeah, I struggle to embrace that murky black meets white too.

Everything screams early 1990's in this one.
At the dock Baltimore, MD, full on 80's attire.

The world of going to sea is so bleek you find reasons to go on within it. For some it is the escape of being away. No family drama. No to-do lists to be done by a spouse overworked with family. You are away. So far away you get to be a whole other person. If you want to. (Many do). But, the 12 hour days of working stop. You have to fill the 12 remaining. That's where the hobbies come in.

There is a whole ship load of hobbies happening in staterooms, on bunkbeds, in common areas/rec rooms. Some use the gym. Others watch endless movies. A small few have side hustles. 

I collect old whale waste from sailors idle hands. A busk collection to rival the whaling museum in Massachusetts. The art of sailors is a whole topic onto itself. For me, at sea, I would carefully select a topic to fill my four months. One trip I learned all of the scientific names of the native flowers of North America. Another I read the entire volume of Internal Medicine, Mercks guide (not the one I should have read in prep for vet school). Another trip was watercolor 101. 

Some of the busks.

For the Captain and Medical Officer on one ship it was braided rugs. Now, when I talk about a hobby to bring to sea just think about the amount of stuff you need to carry aboard when you choose wool-braided-rugs. 

The material for these was carried aboard via an elevator in industrial sized garbage bags. The kind that resembled a prison reformed Santa. They would spend an afternoon in Maine, near the place where the cable factory was, picking out the fabric to make their rugs. They brought these huge, (so heavy), bolts of wool in every color (except a pastel). Once aboard and underway, they started by washing all of the material. Laid it out to dry in long runner.  They would lay it out full length in the Captains office, the unused staterooms. Hang them from the overheads in bathrooms. Banners of bullet proof hall runners streaming down the narrow passageways. We, for just a few days, looked like a runaway art exhibition, avant garde flair. After the fabric was cleaned, dry and shrunk to its workable size, they covered the floor like a fashion designer with healthy knees, and cut them all into strips about 2 inches wide. From there they rolled the strips up in coils and hold it with rubber bands. Piles of ribbon wool strips were then sorted to make the patterns of the rugs. Two weeks in they were ready to commence braiding.

The 8-12 am watch for the Captain was his bridge time. Breakfast was an all hands event for all of the officers. 7 am to 8 am, and then the work day began. He would climb up to the bridge, a 6 story trip of steel staircases with a cup of coffee and the morning paper from the radio officer. He stood his watch mostly chatting with other crew members, the cable engineers, the steward, radio officer, Chief Engineer, the Purser, Chief Mate, got all of his crew in order. Tasks set for the day, so he could braid and assemble in his office the rest of the afternoon. 

They would spend all day braiding the coils. Piling them like pet snakes. Weeks later the rugs would be started. Every size, shape, color, pattern. It was a marvel to behold. 

By the time we hit port, typically 4 months later, they had a stack of rugs to rival the Turks.

I bought a few of them for my mom. She was enamored with the idea. A romantic trip traveling the globe and the sailors art to show for the time that passed. 

When my mom passed away I took them all back to my house. 30 years has passed and although I still refuse to wear that particular color of khaki or grey I can  now feel the warmth of that wool under my L.L.Bean slippers and reminisce about a life and a time that only belongs in a story.

What's your sea-story? Your side hustle? The art you make along the way of life?

The Introduction. Old Grad Seeking New Grad for long term commitment.

We, Jarrettsville Vet, sponsored the pre-expo meet and greet with the vet students at Virginia-Maryland Vet school, my alma mater, in Blacksburg Va. I was given the chance to deliver the opening message. This is what I started the weekend activities with. 

The introductory note was expected to be a chance to highlight the clinic. Use the podium as a pitch to attract the students. As I put it, be the bowerbird. The bird that flashes the pretty objects in front of potential partners. All razzle-dazzle "I'm so pretty you can't resist me."

But why would I make this about me.. this is about them. Isn't medicine always supposed to be about them?

Here it is; 

I want to start with a big thank you to everyone who made this possible. I'm not being specific to this event, (although of course I am grateful to be here with all of you), but, a bigger thank you+ to all of the clinicians, technicians, assistants, faculty, staff and benefactors who made this moment what it is. This is a celebration of a collective of dreams. I will be forever indebted and grateful to have been a part of this magical place. I always proclaim that I am the proudest and humblest of any graduate of the Virginia Maryland Regional College of Veterinary Medicine. So if you haven't heard me proclaim it before I am here again to say Thank You!

Let's take a moment to give a big round of applause to those of you who are living the dream and have guided those along the way in theirs. You all should hear a big congratulations!

There are soo many things that I want to say to you, the next generation of veterinarians.. A million pearls and minutias of advice. I want to imbibe a pep talk to last the decades you have ahead. Sprinkle snippets like; hold this excitement close to your heart. Remember the purpose you came to this place with. Summon the courage it took to come here. The determination of commitment wrapped in empathy. But, this isn't your starting place, that seed was germinating a long time ago. But, it is your launching pad. The magic this vet school holds, the power it bestows will carry you for decades.

For those of you who don't know I came here because the James Herriott books influenced me so compellingly I couldn't imagine being anything else. I loved those stories so much I read them over and over. I wanted to grow up to be that face of kindness, within a small hometown community and live the stories like he did. Such a noble profession centered around the most meaningful acts of compassion. That was who I set out to be some many years ago. 

You all are already writing your own stories. You too have already decided who you want to be. 

So I am going to start here. This time and place is a reflection of who you already are. The magic of this place is the heroine you are within your own story. The story that has its best chapters yet to be lived. Yet to be written.. For the first time in your life you get to write all of the rest of the chapters. You get to decide all of the characters. The plot. The endings. What could be more magical than that?

Let's remind ourselves that the most cherished part of this story is who you are within it. Not who you hope to be when they get to your next destination. But, who you are right now. You see this person, the one right here, right now, is the culmination of a dream. The manifestation of your hopes. The cure to your hard work and dedication. Medicine is just the scientific concoction that is a problem in search of an answer. The host, the being that medicine applies itself to improve starts with a soul. The rest is accoutrements to the singular being that was always perfect. The road of life just got in the way. How can each of us grow, learn, acquire, live without the influences trying to change us? Why would we willingly allow this?

Medicine is the recipe book for so much about life. Its the way we fabricate answers when life poses us problems we cannot intuitively insulate ourselves from. 

Medicine is the guidebook for self care. We learn to articulate a problem. Accept a challenge. Question every aspect of it. Acquiesce to a series of weighted treatment options knowing full well that the tried, true and tested options might be null, void, or, even detrimental. We acknowledge that a new, innovative option might blossom tomorrow. We accept without question that all efforts will fail at some point and death is a part of life.

50 years ago I knew I was meant to be here. My life had to include being a veterinarian. It took me 20 years and a whole other career to get here. Get my feet into that white coat ceremony. Bask in the barrels that is anatomy MDL (do they still call it that?). Sheer, utter, defiant determination built this expert within. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe to those who believed in me enough to grant safe passage here. Graduation was a benchmark but never an end point. The days that came after, the ones so richly packed with cases and challenges only proved what I knew at 6 years old. This is the most noble of professions held in tightly clenched fists of humble pride. Medicine isnt ever about power it is about grace and generosity. It is about kindness wrapped in vulnerable empathy. There is magic in its power. There is a life of infinite bliss here if you can just keep one foot in front of the other, a pocket full of hope, and promises to yourself as a love letter to remind you that you are, always have been everything you ever needed.

Find your place based on what you want your lifes story to read as. Be protective and selective. Never let anyone define or constrain you. This magical story is yours live and you should hope that it includes all of the ups and downs of a tragedy, a mystery and a love story. All of the tears, fears, doubts, and miracles with all of the obligatory highs and lows. The puppies waggles and kisses and yes the euthanasia goodbyes that remind you that you too are living your own James Herriott story. There is a beginning and an end to everything this amazing life delivers. Be as excited, proud, tired and blissful at the last day of your white coat ceremony as you were when you first put it on. The first time they called you "doctor" should be, will be, as magical as the last time you say it to yourself.

Best of luck to all of you. 

Go write your stories. Live your dreams and cherish every beautiful, teary-eyed, peed on, pooped on, anal gland in your hair, fecal under your fingernails moment. No one could ever write this story better than you can!

The Question

I think that I might have over extended?

If you asked me if I was willing to sacrifice every second of my own life for my pets I would, without hesitation, say yes. If you asked me to multiply that by our current veterinary clinic caseload I would ask for a few minutes to do the math so I could get a better idea of the scope of this question, and say,, (increasingly tentatively),,, umm,,, maybe? 

I cancelled my summer vacation this year. I cancelled last summers vacation this same time last year. I now live and work in a groundhog day recycling of 5 days on and 2 days off. The first of these days off is spent either cleaning litter boxes or sleeping. Typically sleeping then litter boxes. I have to do both, and I cannot muster the strength to do anything else. Never a wish for plans that would include me to be at my best and/or ready to slay another obstacle. It seems impossible to meet the demands of other peoples pet needs and take time off. Which, yes, I do recognize is the self-fulfilling recipe to my own demise. Please don’t tell me you told me so, or, rub my nose in it. 

In an appointment yesterday a client reminded me that he has been coming here for 20 years. He asked me if I was still working the same schedule? When I replied yes he reminded me that I couldn’t manage it back then either. I’m not sure if he was finding comfort in my consistency. A way to hold time still when the rest of the world, and the life we live within it, is rushing by. Or, if it was a gentle reminder that life is rushing by and I am not evolving, or, participating in witnessing it.

Dasa. Reminding me to take a minute and inspect before you open your mouth.

The question has its own problem. If I recognize how important and influential my pets are in my own life how do I ignore this in someone else’s life? How do I dismiss the blocked cat with $200 for the care it needs. The same cat who has never had veterinary care and a young girl crying beside it? I was once that young girl. Thank goodness my little small town vet had mercy on both our souls. He never made my families pets about our families failures,, and we had a lot of them. 

Did I ever tell you about our border collies and the porcupines? The number of times they would run off and return with a face full of quills? How my dad would insist they go to the vet at 10 pm so he wouldn’t have to deal with their crying all night? The pregnancies, twice, because we were too cheap to spay? And the dogs that ran away never to be seen again. Maybe all of this overworking now is to an effort to compensate for our prior offenses? Deal with the trauma of being an utter failure at basic pet care in my childhood.

Before you get all, “I’ve got all the answers for you uppity there’s absolutely no where else for these people, this cat, to go. Further, all of these (yes, damn it I am using the word ALL), are treatable. These cats, last stop missions, are my purpose. I just wish I didn’t feel so alone within them. (Tired, I should also add tired). 

Dr Barsanti and Dr Applefeld were my mentors. Old guys who were in vet school in the 70’s and both old school. They built a practice in a community they spent their entire career in. Their success was only possible because their community valued and trusted them. I learned more about running a business based on ethics and long term dedication from them. When I was in vet school I worked at a very busy, very profitable practice in southern Maryland. The owner had just bought the practice from his mentor. He was stressed and fiscally focused. A cat was found in need of medical help. The finder brought the cat in for help but could not afford the care it needed. He took it and told her he would take care of her. The staff was so excited to be able to help this kitten. They made her a super adorable bedded cage and snuggled her all day. At the end of the day he euthanized her without telling anyone. It was a cruel power play of insecurity and deceit. I left the next morning. He is still a miserable miser and everyone knows that he only cares about money. He and I will die within the walls of our clinics but I will carry the lessons all of these mentors taught me to my own exit having never seeing a patient as a burden.

Cookie.. who I would absolutely do anything for.

Maybe the question isn’t what I am doing wrong now, but how I see myself as still doing good whilst doing something else? Can I ever remove one part of this person from the other? The one that has 1 day to do and be anything else and still just sits at home petting my cats.

Fripp who encourages me to sleep in a little longer.

The Widows Walk

 Most days i feel like i am suffocating under the weight of this.

This dream of ownership that is the steel cage around my drowning body. The iron coffin pulling you into the depths of darkness where no one hears your screams. Alone. The other insulation of inexplicable despair.

I have made a pledge to not abandon my ship, even when I am the one sabotaging its own sea-worthiness. The widowed bride on the widows walk searching for a shadow on the horizon we secretly know will never manifest. The hope for a tomorrow brighter than today keeps our feet circling the nest night after night. I have no exit. No place to leave this ship that is a safe port. I can abandon her and let the pirates strip her for piece parts. Peel away her purpose in tiny mouse nibbles. The death of the whale at sea. The matriarch who wears herself so thin she cannot find a place to die peacefully or with grace. Recycled in carbon molecules invisible to any being that still possesses intentions.

I know why people walk away. Shutter the windows and doors. Exhausted and mute. 

At least my hair is clean today. It won’t look so obvious=. I wont have to try so hard to hide it. 

How does this dream become your nightmare? Like every other nightmare, you cannot wake up from it to shake it back into the recesses or replace it with a dream to begin in its place.