Category: Nonfiction

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Nonfiction Observations Seattle Systems

What Seattle Got From Amazon.

Yesterday’s New York Times had an article with the title “Amazon’s HQ2 Will Benefit From New York City. But What Does New York Get?” I don’t know what New York (and Crystal City) will get, but here are my observations (as someone who lived in Seattle from 2004 to 2008, and then from 2011 to now) as to what Seattle got:

Lots of young people. Some of these people look like they’re 12 years old, but that’s because I’m now officially old. And some of these young people, fresh out of college, make six-figure salaries. Sometimes it shows. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Lots of blue badges. Amazon employees wear blue badges. You can tell your proximity from the Amazon campus (which is a campus; it occupies an entire neighborhood) by the density of blue badges hanging from lanyards, dangling off of belts, and swinging off of coats.

Food trucks. The young people apparently like food trucks. Caravans of food trucks rumble towards South Lake Union, the site of the Amazon campus. The rotating food trucks sell Thai bowls, Italian sandwiches, barbecue wings, Turkish kebabs, Hawaiian poke bowls, and other international cuisines from their portable kitchens.

Hip restaurants that sell overpriced food. Here’s an anecdote that I share with some bitterness: One such restaurant has the following item on its dessert menu:

Warm chocolate chunk cookie with whole milk. $8.

Long-time readers know that I am fond of cookies, particularly the chocolate chip variety. Upon seeing this item, my eyes lit up, but the light drained from my eyes when I saw the price.

“No cookie and milk is worth $8,” I said. “Even my favorite cookie (the Levain Chocolate Chip Walnut Cookie) is just $4.”

“But what if it is the best chocolate cookie you will ever eat?” my husband countered.

“I doubt it. This is a restaurant, not a bakery.”

“Let me buy it for you.”

I relented and ordered the warm chocolate chunk cookie with whole milk, my taste buds eager and my mind skeptical.

What actually arrived? Two cookies, each about four inches in diameter, and a glass holding about six ounces of milk. The cookies were barely warm, the chocolate was not chunky, and the overall texture of the cookies was dry. The milk was wholly unremarkable. The dessert was rich only in the flavor of disappointment.

These restaurants can charge $8 for cookies and milk because they know that the young people who work at Amazon have no qualms spending such a ridiculous sum on a treat that is sweet only in memory.

Traffic. The tens of thousands of people who moved to the Seattle metropolitan area have to get around somehow. When I was a resident, I saw few taxis downtown or on Capitol Hill. Taxis of all colors now zip around the city, along with ride sharing vehicles. There are a lot more fancy cars—Teslas, Porsches, and the like—crawling up the hills. The buses, streetcars, and trains are packed with well-heeled young people.

High rents and expensive homes. The city of Seattle is in King County. The average rent in King County is $1,731, which doesn’t seem impressive compared to rents in other major metropolitan areas. The rent in King County, though, has increased 155% in the past twenty years. Furthermore, Seattle, by far, is the most expensive and developed city in the region and pulls the average up, as other areas in the county are sparsely populated and considered rural.

Income inequality. I don’t know if Amazon was/is the cause of the homelessness crisis in this region (remember, correlation does not mean causation). As young people with gobs on money have moved in, more people with little money have moved out onto the streets. Certainly the higher rents have pushed many people out of the city: Some people work in Seattle and live in neighboring counties, as that is the only way they can afford their rent or mortgage. Landlords in Seattle know that they can charge nearly $3000 for a one-bedroom apartment because someone from Amazon can afford to pay that. (Just like restaurants can charge $8 for cookies and milk.)

Anti-Amazon and anti-Jeff Bezos graffiti. It is not uncommon to see graffiti painted on sidewalks and buildings that denounce Amazon and Jeff Bezos. Some of it is frankly disturbing (e.g., death threats), though it illustrates the strong feelings people have about Amazon.

Spherical buildings. They took all the trees / And put ’em in a tree museum / And they charged the people / A dollar and a half to seem ’em

Amazon has done well for itself, though it seems that many people in Seattle have an uneasy relationship with Amazon. They like what Amazon has to offer, but don’t like how the wealth of the company has affected the city. Perhaps the leadership of New York and Crystal City will forge closer working relationships with Amazon from the outset to prevent the congestion, big income disparities, and resentment[1. The resentment that people have for Amazon also comes from its own employees. For a while I worked in a clinic where some of my patients were Amazon employees. They often spoke of the pressures working at Amazon, whether they worked in programming, marketing, supply chain, or warehousing. There’s likely selection bias at play, but their work nonetheless induced anxiety and affected their abilities to cope.] that occurred in Seattle.

Categories
Lessons Nonfiction Reflection

Be Different and Do Better.

I didn’t know that he and I were on the same train. At the Othello stop, I got out of the last car and walked towards the front of the train. The morning chill seeped through my coat and I slid my hands into my pockets.

“Dr. Yang!”

The doors of the train were still open and there he was: A baggy black hoodie was pulled up over his head, but it did not conceal the wide grin on his face. He was leaning forward in his seat and waving his arm and hand at me like a little kid.

The doors were closing when I waved back. I was still smiling when the train whirred back into motion and passed me.

It was the gracious and respectful patient!

There were several men loitering outside the clinic, the red and yellow leaves of autumn scraping the sidewalk around their feet.

He saw me first.

“Hi! Doctor… Yang! It’s so good to see you!”

“Hi!” I greeted. He looked well, though the gaps between his teeth were wider now compared to when I last saw him.

The two men who were standing by him looked at me with curiosity.

“It really is good to see you,” he said, taking a step towards me. “Can I hug you?”

“No,” I said, “but we can bump fists.”

My fist met his in a gentle bump. One of the other men cocked his head to the side, his face perplexed. He slowly extended his arm towards me, his hand in a loose fist. My fist bumped his, too. His head began to bob in a slow nod as he kept his arm extended.

“I’m doing really good,” my former patient said. Over a year had passed since we had last seen each other. During his many months in jail, he had been under my care. “I’m off prbation! I haven’t been in the hospital in over six months! I have a place to live and I see my counselor here every week.”

“That’s fantastic!” I exclaimed. “I’m happy to hear that.”

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m doing well, thank you,” I answered. He didn’t press further when I redirected the focus back onto him. “It is wonderful to see you out here and not in that other place.”

“Jail?” Oh well. I at least tried to keep that out of the conversation. “Oh yeah, I haven’t been in jail in a long time.”

“Which is good news. I’ve got to go inside to meet someone.”

“Oh, okay, Dr. Yang! I need to check in with my counselor, too. It really is nice to see you! Bye!”

Perhaps it is foolish to assume that people are inherently good. How can we believe that people are good when they burst into houses of worship to kill people? Why should we trust that people have good intentions when they send explosives in the mail? When people encourage violence against people who don’t share their beliefs, language, or skin color, isn’t it unwise to have faith in our fellow humans?

The charges filed against the two men described above weren’t trivial:

  • theft
  • criminal trespass
  • resisting arrest
  • assault

I shared a gentle fist bump with one of them. I know what injuries he had inflicted with that fist in the past.

And yet. And yet!

People ask me how often I encounter people who were under my care in jail. They ask me that question with concern; they worry that these chance encounters will lead to danger.

I see former patients from jail about once every one to two months. Most of the time, they see me first, greet me by name, and then go about their business. Sometimes they provide a short update about their lives. Sometimes they make a point of thanking me.

So is it truly foolish to assume that people are inherently good?

Let’s be clear: There are a few individuals who have been, are, or will be under my care who I do not ever want to see on the outside. If I do see them, I cross the street, duck into a building, or otherwise try to disappear. I trust that some of these individuals have probably seen me without my awareness. In those instances, ignorance is bliss and I am thankful that nothing transpired.

Things change, people change, circumstances change. Sometimes we look at the world around us and despair: People suffer, injustices big and small happen to the best of people, individuals we don’t like or respect collect more and more power.

And yet. And yet!

Consider the people in your life who inspire you to do good things. There are people you see and who see you: Friends, family, coworkers. They do things you admire; they say things that spark ideas; who they are makes you want to be different and do better. This happens to you every day.

Then consider the people in your life who you see, but they do not see you: Leaders, artists, and other public figures. Despite the absence of a personal relationship, they also inspire you to be different and do better.

Realize that there are people who you do not see, but they see you. You, too, can inspire others to be different and do better.

We may feel like we don’t have much influence, but we all have influence within the three-foot radii around us. We can choose to amplify the inherent good within us to help ourselves, others, and the world around us—even just the world within our three-foot radius—be different and do better.

Yes, the suffering and injustices continue, but if we do nothing, then we surrender to those who do choose to do something.

Many of these men in jail have and will continue to inspire me to be different and do better. Maybe they will inspire you, too.

Categories
Lessons Medicine Nonfiction Reflection

Centered and Ostensibly Serene.

The nights from that time run together in my memory: The cuffs of my scrub pants getting caught on the heels of my clogs because my pants were sagging; stuffing dry graham crackers I stole from the nursing stations into my mouth at 4am to stay awake while writing notes; what seemed like my pager buzzing against my hip every five minutes; feeling the enormous specter of unending work overtaking me and wondering if I had any remaining skills to gird myself; recognizing the sadness and anger churning within me as I witnessed and listened to tragedies, then shoving the emotions away because there just wasn’t any time I didn’t want to cry I just needed to get through a few more notes I just wanted to sleep of the mistaken belief that if I ignored how I felt, I would be okay.

“Hey, you! You coming to talk to me?” The Big Man shouted.

“No,” I replied. “I’m going to talk with your neighbor.”

“What? But then you’re gonna talk to me, right?”

“I have two other people to talk to first, but, yes, I will talk to you after I talk with them.”

“But you’re gonna talk to me, too, right?”

“Yes.”

I had just finished introducing myself to The Patient and was asking his name when The Big Man, just three feet over and behind a reinforced steel door, started yelling at me: “You lying bitch! You said you’d talk to me!” The Big Man began pounding on the door with his big fist.

The banging reverberated throughout the entire unit. Another inmate on the other side of the unit began banging his door in protest.

I sighed and rolled my invisible eyes.

BANG BANG BANG “I’m sorry,” I said to The Patient. He nodded and came closer to his door. I did the same. “I will try to keep this short, but I do want to hear what you have to say.” BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “It’s okay,” The Patient replied. BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “Are you in any physical pain right now?” BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG He tilted his head, telling me without words that he couldn’t hear what I said. BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “Are you in any physical pain?” I asked again, nearly shouting. BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “FUCKING BITCH! YOU SAID YOU’D TALK TO ME!” The Big Man shouted. BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “My feet,” The Patient answered, raising his voice. “I have blisters.” BANG BANG BANG

He pointed down at his feet. The puffy blisters were evidence of ill-fitting shoes. The Patient reached down, grabbed a sandal, and threw it in the direction of The Big Man. BANG BANG BANG “Stop it, man.” BANG BANG BANG I watched it sail past me and bounce in front of The Big Man’s door.

BANG BANG BANG “Do you want me to get that for you?” I asked, recognizing that the pair of sandals were now separated. BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG The Patient chuckled. “No,” he answered, a small smile on his face. “I only had one, anyway.” BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “Do you want another pair?” BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “YOU WANT ME TO STOP DOING THIS? THEN YOU NEED TO FUCKING TALK TO ME, BITCH!” BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “No, I’d rather have a pair of socks,” The Patient replied. BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG “I’ll get you a pair.” BANG BANG BANG

Despite the increasing rate and volume of The Big Man’s fist hitting the door, The Patient and I both ignored him. It was clear that we had both mastered this skill at some point earlier in our lives. The Patient made it look effortless; his face was calm and his voice was even. Even though he had thrown his shoe, his limbs did not become tense again.

The Patient told me about his health, asked me to call his counselor, and, when I ended our conversation only a few minutes later due to the noise, he thanked me.

BANG BANG BANG “No, thank you,” I said, smiling. “I appreciate your patience. I will try to talk with you again later. Maybe we will have better luck.” BANG BANG BANG

I didn’t look at The Big Man as I turned away. He stopped banging when I had walked a mere ten feet away from them. I then rolled my actual eyeballs. I knew that was when he would stop.

The stress of internship and residency most certainly contributed to my current abilities to stay centered and ostensibly serene in the midst of chaos. We all had to learn how to manage ourselves in the face of death, disease, and distress. Sometimes our efforts were successful; sometimes we felt embarrassed because we believed our efforts failed.

I learned how to show myself more kindness during residency. This wasn’t a conscious choice. Three things happened:

  1. In learning how to provide psychotherapy to others, I learned how to apply these skills to my own life.
  2. I couldn’t contain the sadness and anger that churned within me as I witnessed and listened to tragedies. Sometimes I cried in the bathroom. Most of the time I wept at home.
  3. People—and more often than not, patients—demonstrated grace and kindness during these moments of heartbreak. They often exhibited a capacity to accept their circumstances and show compassion, despite their physical or psychological pain.

I felt my chest fill with grief as I walked away from The Patient and The Big Man.

What happened to The Big Man? When and how did he learn the only way to get his needs met is to destroy silence?

What happened to The Patient? When and how did he learn to show grace and respect in the midst of hateful noise?

I didn’t cry because, this time, I didn’t shove the emotions away.

Categories
Lessons Nonfiction Reflection Systems

Phone Calls.

I don’t miss making the phone calls in the middle of the night.

“Hi, this is Dr. Yang calling from the Psychiatric Emergency Service. May I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Doe?”

“Yeah, this is Mr. Doe,” he’d reply, his voice thick and slow with sleep.

“I’m sorry to call so late. Your son is here at the hospital.” Take a breath and slow down for the next part. “He’s alive and doing okay at this moment”—I quickly learned that it is important to say these words at the start of the call—“but I hope to get some information from you about him.”

I have marveled at the grace people have extended to me during these conversations. Sometimes family members have grown accustomed to these 2am calls and their voices sound not only physically sleepy, but also psychologically exhausted. Sometimes family members have never received this phone call, but their voices remain calm with only the occasional quaver while they talk.

These days, it’s “Dr. Yang calling from the jail”. Though I’m not making these phone calls in the middle of the night, it is questionable that these are better phone calls.

It is a blessing when family members are still involved, when there’s someone I can call. The person in question is usually a male in his 20s. He often has reached desirable milestones: Maybe he just graduated from high school or is in college. His primary health issue is the mental health condition—often bipolar disorder or schizophrenia—and he’s otherwise healthy. He is often able to tell me about a family member who loves him, even if what he tells me doesn’t make a lot of sense in the moment.

For so many others under my care, there’s no one to call:

  • “They died.”
  • “I don’t want anything to do with them.”
  • “I don’t know where they are.”

Sometimes the person in question is much older. In some ways, these phone calls are more tragic:

  • “I’m in my 70s now and I’m the process of moving my wife into a memory care facility….”
  • “My husband has already died and I worry who will take care of my son when I go. He still needs a lot of help.
  • “Thank you for calling, Doctor, but it doesn’t seem like anything will change. I’ve been doing this for almost thirty years now.”

I marvel at the grace people have extended to me during these conversations, too. For some of these family members, they’ve had dozens of these conversations with many other doctors, nurses, counselors, and social workers. They know what questions I will ask; their answers are succinct because others have interrupted them in the past; they have lists of information already prepared to send.

Almost without fail, after I thank these family members for their help and then comment on the difficulty of the situation, they cry. Sometimes the sobs that escape their throats surprise them.

“I’m sorry,” they mumble. I can hear them wipe the tears from their faces with haste.

I’m sorry that we can’t do better for your son. I’m sorry that the science hasn’t advanced enough that we can prevent this from ever happening to your son ever again. I’m sorry that your son is in jail when he should be in a hospital. I’m sorry that your hopes and dreams for your son haven’t come true. I’m sorry that few people know the depth of the worry you have for your son. I’m sorry that these systems fail you and your son. I’m sorry that your love for your son isn’t enough to save him from these systems.

“Please, don’t apologize,” I say instead.

I wonder why.

Categories
Education Lessons Nonfiction Reflection

Uncomfortable Thrill.

When I walked through glassware sections of stores as a child, my body buzzed with distress and delight. There were only two ways to ease this anxious discomfort:

  1. Fling my arms out and knock over all the glass to see, hear, and feel the pieces shatter; or
  2. Keep my arms tightly by my side and ensure that nothing above the soles of my shoes touched any objects in the store.

I always chose the second option. The urge to fling my arms out to knock over crystal and glassware has diminished with time. If I’m honest, though, the uncomfortable thrill persists.

That same uncomfortable thrill pulsed through me when the loaded guns rested in my hand.

It didn’t matter that I received a private didactic (with a white board![1. The white board didactic included four rules: (1) All guns are always loaded. (2) Keep finger off trigger until ready to fire. (3) Be aware of target and what’s behind it. (4) Don’t point at anything you’re not willing to destroy.]) about gun safety from someone I know and trust (who also happens to work as an emergency physician). It didn’t matter that we were at a pistol range where safety was paramount. It didn’t matter that I had close supervision for my first experience in shooting firearms.

The paper target revealed that my initial shots were the most accurate; the subsequent shots often drifted farther and farther from the target. Maybe my hands and arms suffered from fatigue. Maybe my uneven breathing made my body needlessly tense. Maybe my safety glasses got too foggy from perspiration.

Maybe it was the National Geographic article about a young woman’s face transplant due to a self-inflicted rifle wound that I had read just the day prior. Maybe it was the imagery of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and the later murder of Lee Harvey Oswald that I saw at The Sixth Floor Museum.

Maybe all the stories I remembered from my work as a psychiatrist freaked me out.

Maybe it was all the stories I never heard or have yet to hear.

It happens so fast: Finger is off the trigger. Finger then rests on the trigger. Finger flexes.

BANG!

The bullet is gone. My body lurches with the recoil. The bullet casing bounces off my shoe. I only see the puff of pewter smoke when I lower my arms.

  • How much time passed between the time she loaded the gun and when she fired it at her chest?
  • Did she hesitate before she put her finger on the trigger?
  • How many times did he try to pull the trigger before putting the gun down?
  • Did he ever put his finger on the trigger before he pulled the barrel of the gun out of his mouth?
  • Did she ever touch a gun before the day she tried to kill herself with one?
  • Did he imagine what the BANG would sound like within his skull?

The power of the weapons spooked me.

My hands weren’t shaking, but my fingers could not push the 9mm bullets into the magazine. My hands felt weak.

More than once I walked away, pulled the safety glasses off my face, wiped the sheen of sweat off my forehead with my forearm, and then jumped up and down several times.

I never felt any urge to turn the guns on myself, though the uncomfortable thrill reminded me that I could. Others who are unable or unwilling to resist that uncomfortable thrill could indulge that urge, whether against themselves (more common) or against others (much less common). The uncomfortable thrill may not feel so uncomfortable when one is intoxicated. Or angry. Or hopeless.

It could happen so fast.

Yet, I quickly recognized the appeal behind shooting. Guns are tools. The anatomy and mechanics of firearms are interesting. Learning how to aim and hit targets with high accuracy is satisfying and rewarding. Achieving mastery over such powerful tools is thrilling.

I am grateful that I had the opportunity to learn how to shoot pistols. It was fun, though I must confess that it was not as fun as I had anticipated. Thoughts of death and injury from suicide rarely left my mind, which added elements of stress and sadness. Jumping up and down and taking deep breaths could only do so much.

The power of guns freaked me out. It was only the next day that my body finally stopped buzzing with distress and delight.