Category: Nonfiction

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Medicine Nonfiction Observations Seattle Systems

On What Medical Directors “Should” Look Like.

I recently answered a survey about race. One question asked:

“If you ask to speak to the leader of your organization, can you expect to see someone of your race?”

I snorted. I didn’t mean to. I just had never thought about that before.

In my previous job my title[1. As I have noted elsewhere, “titles, at the end of the day, are just words.“] was “medical director”. During the first few months of that job the title felt alien to me. It was as if people at work said, “Oh, Dr. Yang? She’s the one over there with the blonde hair.” Meanwhile, I’d touch my black locks, feeling perplexed.

Early on I conducted interviews to hire staff. One applicant, a psychiatrist, was a Caucasian man in his early 50s. His greying brown hair was cropped close to his head. A striped burgundy necktie adorned the light blue dress shirt underneath his navy blue suit. Cuff links poked out from under his sleeves. A silver pen was clipped into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Turning to the program manager, I murmured, “THAT guy looks like a medical director, not me!”

She, a Caucasian woman, laughed before she said, “Yeah, you’re right!”

In the jobs I’ve held the medical directors have all been Caucasian males, with the exception of my first job: He was Asian. In residency training the chair of the department was a Caucasian male. The paintings and photographs of leadership that lined the halls of the medical school were all of aging Caucasian men.

That’s how I came to learn that medical directors don’t look like me; they’re older white men.

Leadership at this agency believed I had sufficient qualifications and hired me, an Asian female, to serve as the medical director. However, the idea that someone in this position “should” be an older white male persisted in my mind.

What does it mean that I felt doubts about my ability to work as a medical director simply because of the way I look?[2. While this post is focused on race, it could easily focus on sex, too: Most medical directors are men.]

Categories
Nonfiction Observations Reflection

Baseball Rituals.

Prior to attending a minor league baseball game recently, I learned about racing events that occur at certain ballparks:

“Baseball is so schlocky,” I said after viewing a YouTube video of the Presidents with their oversized heads teetering along the perimeter of the field. “No other professional sport has anything like this.”

“That’s not true,” my husband replied. “They throw octopuses onto the ice in hockey.”

After learning that, indeed, there is a Legend of the Octopus, I still expressed skepticism: “Could you imagine a whole bunch of sausages running around on a football field?”

“Football has cheerleaders,” my husband retorted.

Good point.

The mascot was busy at the minor league baseball game. Not only did Rhubarb the Reindeer hustle around the stadium with a flag at the start of the game, but he also came out in boxing regalia at one point and, later, wearing a dress shirt and slacks, “performed” a Talking Heads song.

A few rows behind us a man with a voice rattling with gravel shouted at the players:

This is baseball, not first base ball!
Communicate!
Boring!

His son started shouting similar things at the players. When we turned around to see who they were, we realized that the higher pitched voice did not come from his son; it came from his wife.

When the 7th inning came around, we all stood up and sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in different keys. I then ate some Cracker Jack.

I wondered if all this schlock these rituals are meant to appease our short attention spans. Ball 1, ball 2, strike 1… the man with the gravel in his throat shouts unsolicited advice, people get up to buy hot dogs and beer, the bugle calls “Charge!” It’s hard to wait. We want stuff to happen.

Then I wondered if these rituals give us simple comfort while everything else changes. Even if my boss doesn’t give me enough time or credit for the work I do or my wife is angry at me for reasons I think are ridiculous or my kid is not meeting my academic expectations or my friends are worried I have a drinking problem or my boyfriend has hit me twice this week or I lost all of my savings at the casino or my sister died in a car crash last month…

… at least I know that I can caterwaul “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in the 7th inning, Rhubarb the Reindeer will dance on top of the dugout, and the pierogies will race.

Categories
Homelessness Nonfiction Observations Seattle

Simple Pleasures.

People hung hammocks between trees and suspended their disbelief in novels. Cyclists rolled past, talking to each other over their shoulders. Parents pushed sleeping babies in strollers while sipping iced coffees and slushies. Couples held hands and shielded their eyes from the afternoon sun. It tossed silver glitter onto the blue water of the bay.

Not a cloud was in the sky: Mt. Rainier loomed white and massive to the south. The Olympic Mountains, also capped with snow, rose in the west, its jagged ridges carving a grey-blue line on the horizon. Trees full of green leaves covered the islands in the distance.

The man was wearing baggy pants and dirty work boots. Over this was an oversized and puffy winter parka, tattered at the edges and the hood pulled over his head. A duffel bag that was half his size hung from his left shoulder; as he walked he listed to the right to maintain his balance. People gave him wide berth as they walked past him. He held his head low.

He dropped his bag on the boardwalk and sat down. Sitting against a post, his back to the brilliant sun and shimmering water, he zipped open the duffel. From it he pulled a brown paper sack. He used one hand to rustle through the contents within.

He pulled out a small item wrapped in white. With expectation on his face he opened the package. Leaning back, he took a bite from the chocolate-covered ice cream bar. A small smile crossed his lips.

Categories
Nonfiction Observations Reflection

Grief.

Shortly after my mother died, a coworker asked me about grief: “What does it feel like?”

I remember looking at her and feeling confused. What does it feel like…?

Words like “terrible”, “awful”, “really sad”, and “numb” didn’t seem quite right. Elements of all those adjectives were true, but none of them captured the fine texture of grief.

“It feels like… a really bad breakup,” I finally said. As the words came out of my mouth I realized that wasn’t quite right. It was also an inane comparison.

“Huh,” she answered.

Nine months later, I found words to describe my grief: It feels like my heart is falling.

During moments of stillness, those spaces between exhalations and inhalations, I feel my heart physically dropping. It is an endless fall; there is no bottom.

I remain surprised with how close to the surface the grief lives. I don’t cry when I talk about my mother’s death. Yet, when people ask me about her, I feel my face scrunching up the way faces do when people are about to cry. The sensations in my face remind me of that week she was in the hospital, when I smiled during the day and wept at night, asking God and the Universe questions that nobody could answer.

Though the tears do not come, my face suggests they will. And I know that the person listening to me sees it. It’s like when you blush: You feel your cheeks flash with heat and hope that the other person won’t make fun of you for it.

Emotions always shift, though: Sometimes, in my mind’s eye, I set an imaginary table and place a pot of steaming tea and two cups on it. I invite Grief to sit down and have tea with me. Grief never declines. I ask Grief how it is doing. Grief never says anything in response, but we sit in silence and enjoy our tea together. When Grief is ready, it leaves.

And then I notice that my heart is no longer falling.

Almost 11 months have passed since my mother died. Since I found words for my grief, my heart doesn’t feel like it is dropping as often. Maybe the time I needed has elapsed; maybe the sensation of my heart falling doesn’t overwhelm me as much as it used to.

Maybe by showing Grief some kindness and acceptance with imaginary tea it has also shown kindness to me.

Categories
Nonfiction

What Goes Around Comes Around.

As my father and I stepped out of the crosswalk onto the curb, I looked up and saw John Doe. I didn’t realize who he was until we had already passed each other.

A baseball cap was on John’s head and a colorful satchel was slung across his torso. He had rolled up the cuffs of his jeans with care and his unbuttoned jacket revealed the bright sweater he wore underneath. He was looking down at the street.

My dad continued to talk to me; he didn’t hear me exhale with relief when John kept walking.

John had asked me to step closer to the door of his cell so he didn’t have to speak as loud.

“I didn’t break her windows, I didn’t set any fires, I didn’t kill her dog, I never said anything scary to her,” John said, his eyes fixed on mine. He smiled at me through the cell window. “You believe me, right?”

The police report stated that several witnesses had seen John smash her windows, set a small fire after he broke down her door, and attack her dog.

I said nothing.

“It doesn’t matter what she said,” he continued. “She lied. What goes around comes around.”

I followed my dad up the small set of stairs that led to the glass doors of the restaurant. When I glanced up, I saw John’s reflection in the glass: He was standing near the base of the stairs, his eyes fixed on me.

My dad looked over his shoulder at me as he approached one of the glass doors. “The food here is supposed to be good.”

“Uh huh,” I replied, my eyes still looking at the reflection in the glass. I placed a hand on my father’s back and gave him a gentle push. Go faster, go faster. John lingered for a few moments before he turned back to the sidewalk.

My dad opened a door and smiled at me. I smiled back. He didn’t hear me exhale with relief when John walked away.