The gift of a child

I’m just back from a week at home.

Christmas has previously been one of the hardest times of year for me as despite my dad’s current sobriety, of which I am very proud, much of our family gatherings still seem to revolve around alcohol, who’s drinking it, who’s not and why, and an unhealthy dose of finger-pointing. At home, I feel blurred at the edges, out of focus, faded. I’m not myself. It sucks something out of me.

This year however, was so much better than I expected. My older sister (who is working in Australia at the moment) brought over both her current partner, and his six year old daughter, to meet us. Different? Yes, you bet. This child seemed to realign everything, she seemed to shift the focus from the tangled adults, back to her own needs and place in the family. I love children and spent a lot of time with her, convenient for the boyfriend as he was so jetlagged, and my sister who isn’t that maternal.  I already love her. One little Australian girl in a fairy outfit, singing ‘six white boomers’ (officially the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen) refocussed our entire family from anger and disputes, to something altogether kinder. It also gave me something to focus on rather than revision, or medication side effects, or depression so was a blessing in more ways than one.

I think we were more cemented than we’ve been for years. It was the first Christmas day where no one cried, or collapsed, or felt dangerously wooden. It was the first Christmas day where I felt as though there could be a hope for me and my dysfunctional family. It was the first week I’ve had at home in years, where I was a little sad to go.

Here’s a photo of me and my almost-niece:

Of course, this all reminded me of the child who really did change everything for us; as my family are pretty anti-religion, my faith can get a bit drowned out at Christmas; Jesus doesn’t come into this time of year anymore than he does any other period, so I am left trying to keep my mind focussed on what the holiday means, whilst surrounded by a more consumer driven approach. This is my third Christmas as a Christian, and in many ways, the most stable. The first one, when I was just a month into faith, was a pretty confusing time. Last year, I was sick on my first trial of medication and so depressed I thought it was going to be my last Christmas. This year, I am finally more stable on medication, sleeping better, feeling a bit better, and crucially, my faith is still strong, and as always, I think of that baby in a manger and am amazed by the promise he was delivering. I think of the nativity story, and as always, am amazed that most of the people guided to the birth of Christ were pretty run-of-the-mill, normal people; what hope it gives me, as a run-of-the-mill person, that I can also follow on.

I’ll be writing the obligatory new year post at some point in the next few days but in the meantime, I hope you had a wonderful Christmas and wish you every blessing for the coming year.

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Lessons from Friendship

I am just back from a lovely break up North, which was all the more wonderful as I’ve been hosting an American friend, and her grandmother, for the week. My friend S is one of those people who seem to have a tattoo across their forehead that says ‘world-changer’. We met working at an American summer camp for people with special needs, four years ago. She is awesome. Sorry for being off the radar, but we’ve not had internet since heading off on Wednesday. This is a little rambly – sorry!

They arrived last Sunday and after getting them settled in, S and I went for icecream (I like that this is the most American thing I have done in living memory) and talked. One of the things I love about her, is that unlike the vast majority of people I know, she has absolutely no fear of the word ‘depression’. She uses it where it should be used. She does not dress is up and make it tapdance so it seems less threatening. She does not brush it off. She does not refer to it as a habit I fell into, or a path I mistakenly went down, or a series of bad judgements. And, in doing this, she makes me feel more separate from depression than I have for so long; often, I think my close friends still mentally prefix me as ‘depressed-Char’, or see it as part of who I am, a part that is here to stay. In naming it so frankly, S called it out. She gave it parameters and borders and drew a line, where depression starts and I began. This is crucial, as for so long, depression made me think that it was indeed, here to stay, that the chapters without it in my life had ended, and that my future was just one bad, sad day after another. It’s taken so long to feel as though I’ve ‘come back’, and returned from wherever depression banished all of my drive and passions and sense of self.

She is also much more frank, and direct than any of my other friends, who know about this year. Not one of my close friends has ever asked me where I’m standing with alcohol when I pass over the wine bottle, or turn in early from yet another party. No one has ever had the courage, or gumption, or wherewithal, to ask where and how I am. In being direct, S made me feel a little less like a modern-day leper, turning away from societal norms. She made me feel like just another person with just another set of issues, rather than someone standing out from the crowd due to everyone else giving a wide berth and ignoring the elephant in the room. S was pretty much riding that elephant, metaphorically speaking. She made me feel less like a problem, and more like a person, with a problem. I am grateful for this. S has been reading this blog, and came halfway across the world to check in with me. If that’s not an expression of friendship, I don’t know what is. So often, depression (and recovery) leaves me feeling alone and bereft, and despised. Friendships like these, are the antidote to that. I’m not sure you can get through depression, or any mental health problem, without a cheer squad.

Depression causes so many problems as we all have our brand of misery, and people who have not met it personally, struggle so greatly to grasp that depression isn’t just a bad day, or even a bad week; it casts a false impression as, afterall, we have all been sad, have we not? We have all cried, and surely, depression isn’t too different from that? And yet, this feeling of false understanding is often the most damaging to people living with it, as we cannot explain how it hurts and scars and takes an age to heal. It’s not just a bad day or a bad week. It’s so much more. My flatmates and close friends are brilliant, but didn’t know how to approach my depression, and as a result, didn’t know how to approach me when I had it. Because of this, I was ashamed, and took to hiding. Having someone who understands that I am separate from it was invaluable. Having someone who understands what it means, helped me begin to heal.

As a firm lover of period dramas, I am still fairly convinced that I truly belong in the eighteenth century, dancing with men in regimentals and doing charitable works in whatever time isn’t spent making jam and embroidering cushions, but I also love that I am living in an age where I can have a friend on the other side of the world, and see them every now and then. I love that I live in a time where ‘goodbye’ rarely means forever, and au revoirs are entirely possible. In just under a year, I will (fingers crossed etc) finally be earning and out of student-dom forever. I’m looking forward to being able to bring home the bacon on some au-revoirs.

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Being the change

So – I’ve got a post about the visit of a dear friend from the special needs camp I worked four years ago, who is visiting from America (with her grandma – and it’s been AMAZING!), but this is just a short one in the meantime.

I had a good meeting with staff today about the medical student mentoring scheme I’m setting up, so am feeling pretty positive. I’m really excited to be a part of improving the experience of struggling students at my university. I love new projects, and am starting the learn that one of my strengths is in moving and shaking things – I love seeing gaps, and filling them. It’s kind of like God gave me a passion for real-life tetris.

However, I’ve also taken a leap of faith this week. After being in accident/emergency, I really felt like I needed to come to a decision about how I will approach alcohol, and patients with related issues, when I practise. In short, this comes down to the ‘man or mouse’ approach – will I run from it and avoid it, or will I look it in the eye, and apply my strengths to making a difference? I want so badly to be a part of the solution, not the problem. I want so badly, for there to be a reduction in alcohol related harm in my city. I want so badly, to get people off the long road of dependancy, before they can’t get off it at all. I know that this choice may strike some as a little foolhardy, and I certainly know that I may find it hard at times – but at the end of the day, I cannot be a doctor who does not manage alcohol, as it affects such a huge proportion of people. And because of that caveat, I am choosing to actively seek opportunities to help change things. I may be part hedgehog, but there will be no mouse in me from now on.

So – I emailed one of the A/E docs whom I have an incredible amount of respect for, and have also had quite a bit of contact with as I’m a medschool rep so have to email staff fairly regularly. I asked if she knew of any focus groups for alcohol issues, and whether they’d welcome a junior member of staff, at some stage.

She replied, copying me into the head of the most appropriate group, and in this email, described me as ‘a truly excellent student’. This actually made me cry a little, as it feels as though I’ve finally got away from the horrors of last year, and after a rocky and unconfident start to fifth year, I am back on track. I am a good student, and someone has recognised that. I am a student who cares, and someone has seen that in me. Last year gave any of my already unsteady self-esteem enough of a kick to the teeth that most of the time, it’s like my radio’s set to a station where the only song playing is ‘I’m not good enough and I can’t do this’, over and over again. That description, which I imagine this doctor didn’t remotely think would mean so much to me, feels like an affirmation. I can do this. I can be part of a change. I can be part of a solution.

I am so thankful to this woman and her unconscious encouragement – but I am also so very thankful to you, my readers, who encourage me every single day. Thanks for sticking with me. I love all of you a lot.

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These are the hands

I’m coming to the end of my stint in Accident and Emergency, and although it’s been hectic, frantic, difficult, and I’ve not had much time at all to stop and think, let alone pray, I’ve actually felt quite close to God these last few days. I was working the nightshift over the weekend, and was aware that it was going to challenge me as, at the end of the day, our Friday night culture is pretty focussed on binge-drinking, and the ER is where they all end up, being assessed by people like me, with a white coat flapping round my knees, stethoscope poking out of a back pocket.

After a pretty labile week, I was dreading these shifts a great deal. I prayed on my way in that God would show me how to best use my hands, and be of use.On my way in, I found myself praying that whatever came through the door, God would show me how to use my hands and be of use. I prayed for strength to get through, and compassion to help treat my patients as well as possible. That prayer was answered. Although my head found certain things difficult, my hands never stopped helping.

My nights didn’t get off to the best start; within ten minutes, I’d been projectile vomited on by a woman I was trying to mop up a bit, leading to a change of scrubs and coat and derision from the nurses, and pretty much the minute I stepped back into the ER, I got covered in blood after trying to put a drip in someone on bloodthinners, as they jerked their arm halfway through. After changing once again (surgeon en route saying ‘weren’t you covered in a different bodily fluid like….ten minutes ago…are you going for some kind of record…?’), I managed to keep my white coat clean till morning, and the hours passed in a blur of seizures, overdoses, falls from heights, heart attacks, and of course, the angry, drunken, injured masses, bleeding on floors, shouting at staff, and dozing in corners. My hands were kept busy, though at times, my heart was heavy.

When I think of practising medicine, I think of doing it with my hands – percussing chests, feeling pulses, testing coordination. I think of my hands getting method-memory at how to position IV lines, feeling bellies, and test joint stability. Obviously, medicine is also about listening, and speaking, and hearing – but so often, it’s the palm on a shoulder that patients are comforted by. It’s the fingers that push pain meds through their line, that quiets them. It’s the hands that compress their chest, that keep them alive. It’s a practical profession.

These are the hands that stitched up bleeding heads, sampled a lot of blood gases, and put in more cannulas (drips) than I could count. These are the hands that held the hands of an old man whose wife lay dying. These are the hands that were squeezed in solidarity as a broken leg was straightened. These are the hands I use to learn my trade. These are the hands God gives me, to love my patients. These are my hands.

I have moments, sometimes, where I look at what I’m doing, and wonder if it’s been worth six years to get my basic medical degree, and at least another ten, before I am near the top of whatever training scheme I chose – I spent two hours peeling a dressing off an infected leg yesterday, which to be honest, is a job anyone with a strong stomach, could do.  Then, however, come the rare moments,  that remind me that I am exactly where I want to be, in both the good, speak-easy weeks, and the ones which challenge and threaten to break me down. It’s those rare but beautiful moments of true connection, of one hand on one shoulder, of one person comforting another, that make me love the path I have chosen more than anything. It’s those fleeting experiences where I can put all of my knowledge and training into practise, to help someone, whether it’s by explaining a bit about chemotherapy, or how a chest drain works, or just listening to their story, that remind me that being in medical school is the best gift I’ve ever been given. These are my hands. These are God’s, hands.

When I am working with my hands, my head is less busy and less chaotic; it focusses on the task, and blinds everything else out. Last week, with its triggers and tempers, I benefitted from being able to switch off, though as always, there’s only so long I can go before I start to crack a little. Now, I just need to get through my next exam on Friday, before I really collapse. By my calculation, this is then 29th exam I have sat since starting medical school and not including my year out to do a BSc. No wonder I’m tired….

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