Kid Fears

As a young child, nothing struck fear deeper into the heart of myself and my brother Matt than this fearsome, loathsome aquatic terror, the trigger fish.

I am posting this picture now for one sole reason: I know that the instant Matt opened this page and saw this image, his heart dropped in his chest, his breath quickened, and he flushed with cold sweat-- just for an instant. Then, his rational adult brain took over and convinced him that there is nothing to be afraid of. (Right, Matt?)

I know he felt this because that's what I felt recently when I accidentally opened a long-forgotten Childcraft book to this very page. A chill ran down my spine before I steadied myself, before I gave reason for my children to doubt my manhood.

As kids, Matt and I used to flash this page open, shriek, and then slam the book closed--repeatedly. It was a sort of terrifying fun, but it haunted our dreams at night. I remember being too frightened to open the book alone, as if the trigger fish would burst out of the page and snap its jaws into my throat.

Now all grown up, Matt and I have more substantive things to be afraid of: money, responsibility, terrorism, boredom, insignificance, failure, even success. And then there is the relentless encroachment of time and age that marches on and promises to render us obsolete and forgotten. These are real fears, tangible dangers that we all must face daily when we throw the covers off and stumble out of bed.

But for all of us, some vestigial childhood fear--deep-seated, reflexive, like the trigger fish--forever lurks in the quiet lagoons of our subconscious, ready to get medieval on us, pick our bones clean, and leave our carcasses floating down the river.

It's not real; it can't harm us. So why does it still evoke such terror?

What would you give for your kid fears?

My Valuable Time

I came across this cartoon recently at another doctor's office. Very funny, but only in jest, of course.

My Kiddos

Nothing is more important to me than my two great kiddos, and so I would like to devote this posting to them.

First of all, here's my daughter Joy, affectionately known as"The Joybear." Few children have ever been named so fittingly. She is happy, funny, active, courageous, smart, caring, independent, and friendly. She's Daddy's Best Buddy, Mommy's Special Helper, and Grant's Best Friend. She's quite a soccer player, a great colorer, and an avid "reader" of kids' books. If she had her choice, her upcoming birthday would be themed a Butterfly Soccer Princess Birthday Party.

Tonight, she was telling me the names of her various dolls. There was a Katelyn, and similarly a Catlyn, Cotlyn, and Carrotlyn. Then, out of the blue, she pointed to a boy doll and christened him "Ringay Dandossio." Where did that come from? The Joybear's fertile imagination, I guess. We laughed about it for a long time.

Then of course, there's the Little Man, Grant. He's coming up on three years old. He's a rough-and-tumble boy, but a sweetheart as well. He's a little prankster and gets a big kick out of his jokes. He loves to wrestle with me at all times, and often my time at home is spent with him hanging off me at various odd angles while I repel his continuous attacks. He's a very talkative, bright, funny, and indepedent boy.

Like all two year olds, Grant Guy tests our limits. As his Daddy, I often draw the line and hold him to it, and the resulting confrontations have been likened by Elizabeth unto "two billygoats butting heads." He's very much like me in his stubbornness.

One very endearing trait that has recently surfaced is an uncompromising commitment to integrity. To illustrate: last night he was being very picky and not eating his dinner. I told him several times that unless he ate his dinner, he couldn't have Mommy's delicious pie afterwards. He pushed his peas around for a while and then got up without eating anything more. A while later, it was pie time, and I frankly had forgotten about his "logical consequence." But Grant did not. When I asked, "Who wants pie?", Grant solemnly responded. "I can't have pie, Daddy. I didn't eat my dinner." When Mommy hinted that he could still have pie, Grant firmly, sincerely responded, "No, I can't. I didn't eat my dinner." As Mommy and Daddy's hearts broke, we hatched a solution: if Grant ate his peas now, then he could still have pie. He was up for that, so we all enjoyed our pie, having learned a bit about honesty and keeping your word from our little man.

I love these two kids. The innocence of their childhood is what it's all about. Really, the worries and concerns of adulthood pale in importance to the discovery, wonder, and purity of their childhood. I'm grateful to my own parents for providing me with a sanctuary at home in which to grow and learn and love, and I only hope that I can provide that same level of guidance, protection, and love for my children.

The Joybear and the Grant Guy. What a pair!

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Who needs sleep?

I do, and lots of it. Without sleep, I don't function well. I get grouchy, sloppy, despondent, and my activity slows to a turtle's pace. None of those descriptors are what you want attached to your doctor when your life is on the line.


Even though recent laws have been passed that restrict resident work hours to 80 hours per week, the time honored tradition of the 30 hour shift still persists. For most people, a 10 hour work day is a long one. Imagine doing that, then doing it again, and then doing it one more time, back-to-back-to-back, without a break and under conditions of extremely high intensity, when any mistake on your part could result in the death of someone else.

Except for my residency colleagues, I don't think anyone else reading this can truly understand how difficult it is. It is something that can only be appreciated through experience. And we do it every 5th night. All hyperbole aside, we are not superheroes. We adapt, we learn to pace ourselves, we learn to prioritize, we sleep when things are (rarely) quiet. Thank goodness for epinephrine (a.k.a adrenaline) that kicks in in the clutch and makes our minds sharp when needed most.

Sometimes, when we're really dumb, we work extra hours to make a few extra bucks. For example, over Memorial Day weekend I volunteered to work at the Yuma, Colorado Hospital for a 72 hour shift. Yuma is a small town near Kansas with a 12 bed hospital. I did the same thing last year, and it was a piece of cake. I hardly worked for 2 of the 3 days, so I had high hopes for a repeat this year. I brought Elizabeth and the kids with me so that we could spend some time together.

We were all sorely disappointed, as a whirlwind of badness descended over Yuma, coinciding with my arrival for the weekend. Several major motor vehicle accidents, several major orthopedic fractures, a slovenly procession of drunks and deadbeats, a death, a premature labor, 6 patients transported emergently out of town via helicopter and ambulance, and 30 ER visits later, and I was about done for. I had nothing left in the old tank. I got ZERO sleep on Friday night and the badness just kept rolling in uninterrupted until almost 24 hours later. Mercifully, I climbed zombie-like into bed around midnight on Saturday night and proceeded to get about 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep, which refilled my tank enough for me to make it through the next 36 hours. By Monday evening, the hospital nurses were only half-joking when they asked me to never come back, as they assumed it was my bad mojo that had precipitated the weekend's carnage.

When we pulled out of town late Monday night, a feeling of exhaustion, relief and triumph swept through me. I had done a very long, legendarily difficult shift. I had made a few mistakes, but had also saved a few lives, rendering quality medical care to the good people of Yuma despite some adverse circumstances. And I had accumulated a litany of war stories which I have relived with my fellow physicians over the past week.

Which may go to the question of why we sign up for the sleepless, stress-filled nights, when there are plenty of easier ways to make a buck. Why? The sense of fulfillment, the underlying compassion for humanity (sometimes masked by the necessary cynicism), the sense of purpose, the adrenaline rush, the prestige, and the glory somehow compensate for the bloodshot eyes, the mental cobwebs, and the eleven years of preceding poverty.

Is it worth it? There have been plenty of sleepless call nights when I head down to admit another drunk criminal and I feel the gaping abyss of despair open beneath me that I would have emphatically stated no. But now on the precipice of completing my training, as the attributes and skills of a physician are permanently coalescing within me, I can retrospectively state, "Yes, it has been worth it. I have climbed the mountain and can understand the purpose of what seemed to be an endless trek. Veni vidi vici."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need some sleep