A lot of patients used to ask me "is this normal?" meaning, am I just like everyone else?
I've spent most of my life knowing I was not normal, yet striving to be so, starting with the most basic of premises: my name. I longed for a normal name, or maybe merely one that appeared on license plates and shoelaces. Then there was the nose job. Sometimes I still regret not having one, but I stuck with my Streisand principle ("it might alter my singing voice!). Then there was prom. I needed a normal date. Stat. But that wasn't happening since I went to a near-all-girls artsy fartsy school where no boys actually dated any of the girls. No matter. I plucked a younger buck, star basketball player, and basically terrified him into being my escort. There was no new car, and no loss of virginity to punctuate my 16th and senior prom. But I did insist on renting a limo. Tried so very hard to have the prototypical American prom night. Even though I was in Canada.
There really hasn't been anything normal about me, from my name to my academic ping ponging career path, to my lack of wedded bliss and 2.5 offspring.
I've come to appreciate my oh-so-google-able name, to my Romanesque profile, to my eclectic pedigree. And in truth, what is "normal" after all?
As I lay on the massage table earlier tonight being tortured, the therapist said "wow, you are one of few clients I've ever had who wasn't lying" and by that he was referring to my earlier statement of "my neck is really screwed up, especially the right side." Nice. I forget sometimes that I walk around every day with excruciatingly painful anatomy. I just do. I don't actually have any recollection of what it feels like to be not crooked. Normal. In graduate school, my father thought it was normal that he had to see the teacher to hear what he was saying (turns out he was deaf, just never knew it). All we know is what we know. I don't believe in absolutes, just relatives. Is the blue sky I look up at the same blue someone else sees? I don't think so. Everyone told me that medical school would be "brutal," years of pain and suffering and it would only get worse in residency. So, when I was beyond miserable, dreading every day of my existence, I thought, "well, this is normal, this is what they told me it would be, so I guess I'll keep on trucking."
But it wasn't normal for me. Sometimes it's just hard to know the difference between what you feel and what you think you are supposed to feel. Sometimes you want to be normal so badly that you forget that it doesn't exist. Well, it does. It's whatever you are at this moment.
There is a reason this is an old adage known to all. Because it's true. Sort of. They key is figuring out when to persevere, sweat, suffer, and when to say enough is enough.
I went for a deep tissue massage today, one of my favorite forms of torture. That is a level of pain I have only experienced a few times in my life, but it is the type of excruciating agony that you know is going to make you feel better in the long run. Ungluing all that fascia, working out the memory of those frozen muscles stuck in old habits is the only way to move forward, free your mind and ease the pain. Ok, so I'm not just talking about therapeutic massage, but all types of therapy. And to invoke another favorite cliche, it's always darkest before the dawn. When it seems hopeless, futile, infuriating, that is probably the point at which something is about to give. But how do you stay optimistic when you are on the verge of giving up? How do you trust that this particular form of purgatory is going to get you to the other side? Breathe. Count to 10. Visualize a point in time when all of this suffering is going to pay off. And pray like only a Jewish atheist can.
Growing up I had certain preconceived notions of what it meant to be married, in general, and more specifically, what it meant to be a wife. Just the mere mention of the word conjured up Suburbia, endless loads of laundry, the handling of raw meat, and being cheated on. This was in part due to my childhood, as well as various media models like The Brady Bunch or Bewitched (she had to use her witchy powers to get housework done, which I thought was a desirable skill to cultivate). The flip side were shows like Charlie's Angels or M*A*S*H*, where single women kicked ass and often wore incredible shoes doing it. After I witnessed what happened to my mother, abandoned with two small children and no source of income, I knew I was going to be a Career Woman with a capital C. No time for vacuuming and grocery shopping; I was studying for the MCAT and grinding my way through decades of medical training.
Then came shows like Sex And The City and Ally McBeal, where single women are the norm; they lead fabulous lives wearing fabulous clothes while delivering compelling closing arguments. Only they're miserable. They spend season after season in search of the holy grail: a husband and a normal, suburban(ish) life.
And so I followed in my TV heroines' footsteps. At the 11th hour I long to go to Whole Foods, cook things like chicken, do the dishes, fold laundry. Do all those wife-like duties. My conception of what marriage is has changed over time; I no longer see it as a sacrifice, as a jail sentence, a loss of who you truly are to be what someone else thinks you should be. It's more of a partnership. Running a small business. And, yeah, that probably means I will end up doing more of those domestic things I used to loathe. Since my boyfriend is a surgeon, that 'probably' is more of a 'definitely' but that's fine with me. Today I folded laundry, did the dishes, cleaned the bathroom, and actually didn't expect anything in return; it's just something I wanted to do to make his life easier. And I know he would do the same. While I loved sorting my exes socks, I gradually grew resentful of the fact that I was the only one doing anything of the kind. In the end, it's about doing the little things for someone you care about and being appreciated for them rather than expected to do them. That's the difference between a WIFE (Wash, Iron,F---, Etc - an acronym popularized by my male residency buddies) and a wife. Which doesn't seem so bad after all.
I am covered in scars. Four surgical procedures, one major, three minor (if you count being told at age 5 that you had a few months to live, followed by a misdiagnosis "minor" then, yeah). You can't see them for the most part, when I have clothes on. But come summertime or anything backless or low cut, and there they are. I know they're there, of course. Constant reminders of past pain. Healed over. Discolored patches of skin with diminished sensation, but very functional. Some might even say sexy.
Then there are the emotional scars, which are a lot harder to see with the naked eye, but often easier to feel. Sometimes when you least expect them.
What I'm realizing though is that I may have more wounds than scars at the moment. A wound is fresh, bleeding, aching; it happens suddenly or slowly, an accident, a burn, broken bone, a slipped knife. Or harsh words. Betrayal. Abandonment. Deception. Disillusionment. When those wounds occur as an adult, you are quick to recognize them, seek treatment, and bandage things up. Pop some painkillers, so to speak. When you're a child things are not so simple. The pain may not show up right away. It might get misdiagnosed. Overlooked. Hidden away and buried under layers and layers of protective skin and bones. Then it becomes something of a chronic, weeping sore that never heals. It doesn't scar neatly like the work of a plastic surgeon. The edges don't mesh up. It keeps re-opening.
How then to move from wound to scar?
1) awareness and acknowledgement of what truly happened.
2) admission, apology and taking ownership.
3) understanding, forgiveness, healing.
Scars are strong. Scars are a sign of recovery. Scars show that you made it there and back. Some you can see, and some you can't unless you look hard enough; but you learn to respect them all just the same.
As the clock ticks onwards, (just over two weeks to go to be precise), I realize I need to stop living my life in ways I can measure. My love of math started at an early age; it was so neat, so symmetrical, so full of logic and satisfaction and fairness. In math, there are no losers; even a minus sign is just another operation to perform.
In real life I've counted the As or the 100% grades I got, the awards, the presents, and of course all of the times I didn't get what I wanted and someone else did. These days I find myself counting other people's children. A med school colleague just posted pictures of her new twins on Facebook. TWINS. How is that even possible? Why do some people somehow manage to have two babies and other people can't seem to have any? I also count engagements. How many people are engaged? Pregnant? Having their second, third, fourth child? Facebook can be a bit of a torture chamber, a window into other people's seemingly perfect lives. Even though I know all too well about the positive posting bias (who posts when bad things are happening?), I can't help but covet the things others seem to be accruing while I wait on the sidelines. I know I have to stop; that the only true measure of success is the one that you create for yourself, by yourself. Eliminate others and their seeming riches (funny, money was never something I pined for) and just worry about whether or not you're fulfilled. I think what you count depends on what you have lost. If I had grown up starving or destitute, I would probably count different things. I know I have to let go of the notion that if someone else has good fortune, there is a greater chance that I will suffer, due to the whole natural order of things: regression to the mean as we call it in medicine. Whenever I had friends who got engaged after just ONE Internet date, I realized that that meant I would have more years of suffering, just to even things out. And I have not been wrong; that's just the law of the universe.
Today I ran a 5k race in support of epilepsy awareness. I didn't train, I haven't been running in months, I had no intention of doing well or even necessarily finishing, but I did, in excellent time. But it's not about the numbers, it's the feeling of being able to achieve something that will make a difference in someone else's life. I just have to keep reminding myself to stop comparing and competing and adding up all that is missing when I have so much abundance.
If you've ever met me you know that I am no shrinking violet. I light up a room like a 1,000 watt bulb. My laugh is distinctive, cascading like bells through hallways and dinner parties. I'm opinionated. Outspoken. Argumentative, if pushed. But in many ways and for many decades I've taken a vow of silence. When your father leaves at a young age - just young enough to not fully comprehend but old enough to blame yourself - you start to alter yourself. Diminish. You edit and wonder what it was about you that wasn't compelling enough to stick around for.. You tweak and think 'if I could be more perfect, or more this or more that' maybe he would have stayed. Maybe there is something wrong with you after all, something unworthy that will make all subsequent men leave. So you keep quiet. If someone says something that bothers you, you nod and smile. If your boyfriend spends all his free time with his ex, you accommodate. If someone else takes credit for your work or idea, you try to be a team player. In short, you become the master of silent perfection out of sheer terror of being who you are, and worse yet, being rejected for it. Nobody likes anger, right? So practice passive aggression. Nobody wants to hear you dissent, so become a yes woman. Who wouldn't want a girlfriend who cooks, cleans, and never complains? It turns out, pretty much everyone. It is one of the hardest lessons I have learned thus far. Speak up. If you have that gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach, don't choke back the emotion. If you dislike what someone has said to you, let them know. Be cordial, if at all possible, but above all, be firm. At first, this will feel horrendous, like you have transformed into the mega-est of megabitches. Like you are a fire-breathing dragon burning down villages. Why isn't anyone noticing? Why isn't anyone angry? Oh, right, that's because they are too busy respecting you.
I've heard that phrase more than a few thousand times in my life. Not sure I've ever been able to successfully execute it, though. I know that we have this misguided misperception of actually having control over our lives, and aye, there's the rub. We are taught from an early age that if you do X, then Y will happen, and it all seems neat and symmetrical and fairly predictable. If you study hard, you will ace the test; if you practice, you will be a good musician; if you are nice to people you will be popular and have loads of friends. The problem with this dogmatic linear thinking is it sets you up for a lifetime of disappointment. It's more like if you are the best candidate you might not get the job; if you practice hard you might get laryngitis at the audition; if you are really, really nice to your boyfriend he will probably think you're a doormat and break up with you. At a certain age and after enough crushing letdowns, you then start to think that life is a series of random acts of cruelty, which only makes you more and more set on controlling your environment. Which only makes the very things you want less and less likely to happen. There is a sort of bell curve cause and effect relationship between the amount that you want something to happen and the likelihood that it will, vs the likelihood that it will implode in your face. You need a certain amount of drive, commitment, desire, passion to truly execute something. But the minute you start obsessing, assigning value beyond the base value, adding personal investment that is outside of the realm of reason, things will go wrong. Very wrong. And at some point someone who cares about you very much, someone well-meaning and not invested will say "just let it go" and you will scream "are you f:$&/@-;$)98/)(89!&:'ing KIDDING me?????" if only in your head. But you know they are right. Only it might take you a few years (decades) to figure that out.
I will say this: yoga helps. Alcohol helps (temporarily and in moderation). True friends help. Family, not so much. You need to come around to the conclusion willingly, independently, and in your own time. At least I did. Do. Did. Really trying to let go of a whole lot of very heavy things that I've been dragging around for the past few decades. Suddenly feeling a whole lot lighter.
I wore a long, white, satin and lace ball gown to my senior prom. One might even say it resembled a wedding dress. That's because it did. I purposely chose a white dress at age 16 because I had a strong feeling that would be the last chance I'd have to wear one. How did I know that with such certainty? And why has it come true? Maybe it was because I never really dated anyone until my 20s, was something of an ugly duckling who was not aware of her swan-like qualities, and was the prototypical child of divorced parents. Gun shy was an understatement. But the problem is I started to believe my own story. Just because I went to a nearly all-girls' artsy school with no boys, and no one wanted to date me in high school (all two of them), I then deemed myself undatable. This continued throughout college and medical school, one disappointment serving to reinforce the next. Suddenly I was "right all along" and began collecting hundreds of dating disasters as currency for my street cred of always a bridesmaid.
I've watched nearly all of my close friends beat me to the altar and the baby carriage, and they never fail to ask about my "exciting dating life;" I've always been glad to oblige.
But not anymore.
After decades of disappointment, I no longer wish to be the spinster spinning yarns. I don't want to regale my friends and family with the horrors of last night's dating disaster. A few months ago I decided I was going to change who I am. I am OK with being the girlfriend, the fiancee, and the wife. It's not selling out or giving up my identity. I don't want the senior prom prophecy to come true after all. Even if it means I was wrong and could have worn something chic and short and modern and fabulous. If things go according to the new plan, at least I will get to have a white dress do-over.
One of my all time favorite quotes by Zola: "If you asked me what I came here to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud." I think that succinctly, elegantly, passionately sums up my existence. And the last few days have been no exception.
What do I mean by "living out loud" exactly? Embracing life. Squeezing all of the last drops out of every experience and opportunity. Loving fully, often more than you are loved back. Not being stingy with your time, money, or emotion. Realizing that the moment is all we have. Being your true self.
This weekend I flew back to NYC for a few days to regroup, do some laundry, see old and new friends, and attend my own choir concert (the first one where I was an audience member and not a performer).
Friday night I had a lovely, lavish Italian dinner with some childhood school chums and their respective spouses. It was a trip back in time, nostalgic, but rosy. That night I played wing woman to my roommate at a local bar and helped her meet a charming young lad. Such a strange, yet welcome, role reversal for me; not being the one in the hunt, but sitting on the sidelines cheering on my friends.
Saturday, I steeled myself for a beautiful performance of classical and modern music in a church I have often sung in, with a choir I've been with for years, a casualty of my Atlanta travels. It breaks my heart not to be singing, and I couldn't quite keep it together during the performance of achingly gorgeous strains from the viola de gamba and choir.
It was made all the more poignant by the fact that one year ago this weekend, I performed with the choir, had a magical evening, the clocks turned back, and I slept a deep prosecco and melatonin-filled slumber only to dream the most vivid dream of my grandmother being transported to heaven. She died the next day.
I'm still struck by how fast it all goes. How one minute you have this whole life, and then it's gone.
Today, I woke up early to meet my childhood best friend for brunch who was in town from London, punctuated by frantic calls to Delta to change my flight. Marathon madness made the city pretty unnavigable but somehow I managed to make it to LaGuardia. But not before we jogged down to 4th avenue to catch a glimpse of her husband running past us! What a moment. They embraced, he removed is extra jersey due to the unexpected blazing sun, and headed off for another 18 miles.
As soon a I arrived in Atlanta I dashed downtown to The Tabernacle, a former house of worhsip cum concert hall, to hear Feist perform! Always a feast for the ears, she did not disappoint. A bittersweet weekend filled with love, loss, and lots of music.
And so went the last 72 hours. Not one of them wasted. The extra hour sure didn't hurt.