Surviving and Thriving through Residency

 

Before my husband started medical school I scoured the internet for advice and first-hand accounts of med school life. My google searches weren’t very fruitful, but I did learn the phrase “med school widow.” Cool. Eventually I found this article: What I wish I knew: Advice for spouses of doctors and residents. It was empowering. If you are supporting a spouse through their medical journey I highly recommend reading it. In the months before residency I found myself consumed by the Lives of Doctor Wives group on Facebook. Would it be that bad? Would we be ok? Could I do this with a 2 year old and another baby on the way?

We finished residency about a year ago, and after months of hesitation I am adding my voice to this conversation. Not because of my own expertise, although I do have a couple pieces of hard-won advice to offer, but because the lessons I learned from my friends are begging to be shared. These were women with young children whose husbands were giving everything they had to their residency training, military service, or both. My people. We met up at the weekly “Toddler Time” class, bleary eyed because our babies refused to sleep through the night, enjoyed early morning walking routines with snacks and overloaded strollers as we tried to add some structure to our schedules, ran into each other at the playground in the late afternoon--both of us desperate to fill the hours before bedtime, and met up for countless playdates and zoo trips. These encounters were defined by conversations and observations that formed me. These are my lessons learned; a few practical gems I would have appreciated reading prior to intern year.

• Treasure every second you have with your spouse. All plans go out the window when he has a day off, especially if it’s a bonus day in the middle of the week. Is he on night shifts? Bummer. But that hour between when he wakes up and before he has to get ready for work? It’s gold, girl. Don’t let it go! Flake on that playdate, bail on those plans, take that hour. He misses you and the kids just as much as you all miss him.

• Always have something to look forward to, even if it’s small. Never let a day off go by without a fun outing or day trip. Even if it’s as simple as a trip to the Farmer’s Market. You may have to let dad sleep in or leave early to come home in time for the baby’s nap, but making it happen made all the difference for us. True, a lot of the work fell on my shoulders--preparing for the outing, planning the outing, packing snacks, extra clothes, coming home to extra laundry and sandy beach toys to hose off . . . but it was always worth it. 

• It’s ok to say no to things. You are tired, mama. These are survival years. It’s not forever! Do what you want to do, but don’t waste time trying to save face with anyone else. Go to the girls night if it will fill you. But if it feels like too much work? Don’t go! Your friends will understand. Book club? Try it out! But if it’s adding too much stress? Let. It. Go. Protect your time and personal space. Find friends who get it.

•  Keep life with kids simple. I recall excitedly telling my friend about an Instagram account I had found. It was one of those super-stellar-toddler-moms sharing daily activity ideas to do with your littles kind of accounts (two words: sensory bin). I am a total sucker for these, but after planning and carrying out a few of their ideas I usually revert back to our usual activities with a vague sense of guiltiness that my own efforts aren’t enough. As I gushed about all of these “super fun, super easy” ideas, my friend listened politely and then responded with a gentle shrug, “Yeah I don’t have time for that.” Maybe it worked for other people, but she said a firm NO to anything that made her feel like her best wasn’t enough. God certainly knew I needed her in my life.

There is no shame in walking the same route in your neighborhood every morning, 

feeding your kids the same meal for lunch every day, and rotating between the same 3 outings each week. Your kids don’t care about how interesting their lives are. If you are present with them and doing your best, it is enough. Turn off the TV, go outside, and count it as a win. You don’t need other people’s ideas to be enough for your children.

• The value of rituals. The only difference between a ritual and a routine is the meaning behind it, right? Filling my days with meaning during those residency years was a practice that changed me. I practiced finding magic in our daily routines and my life felt like less of a trek. Cold winter afternoons quietly folding laundry in the cozy patch of sunshine on my bedroom floor. Wrapping my toddler in a giant quilt to read library books out on the porch during the baby’s morning nap. Of course, pizza movie night was highly anticipated by all, and scooping our ice cream into cheap cake cones and eating them on the kitchen floor was the highlight of my son’s week. Find magic wherever you can. These years do not have to fly by unappreciated.

• Most importantly, make it a rule to give your spouse the benefit of the doubt. When he falls asleep while you are in mid-rant about your 3 year old’s public tantrum. When he gets home hours later than you expected because that “24” turned into a 28 hour shift and he didn’t have a chance to text you. When you are just as tired as he is and he comes home after the kids are asleep and doesn’t help clean the kitchen. These things wear you down. But with a lot of help from heaven I learned the importance of taking a deep breath and letting it go, because who knows what he had been through since I saw him yesterday morning? My husband is no dummy; he knew better than to even breathe an implication that his life was harder than mine (NEVER go down that road). The act of intentionally giving him the benefit of the doubt in these scenarios helped me to transition from simmering resentment to empathy.

Because here’s the thing. Even though my days were a reliable blur of naptime, playdates, and diapers, my husband’s life changed drastically every 4 weeks. On an outpatient rotation (lower stress, easier hours) I got him back. He was tired, yes, but he did dishes and played with the kids. We enjoyed quality time together and felt connected again. These weeks felt like prizes. Then he would transition to an inpatient rotation like the NICU, and he was totally gone. Even when he was home his mind was somewhere else. He was chronically exhausted, stressed beyond belief, and it was all he could do to read our kids a book (if he got home in time) and watch a quick show with me before stumbling into bed. 

Week by week our marriage was strengthened as we practiced giving each other the benefit of the doubt. Learning as we went and starting over when we failed. Through those difficult years we maintained a foundation of love and support in our marriage by doing our best to avoid criticizing each other. I decided early on that I wanted to be a safe place for him, so I always assumed that he was giving us as much of himself as he could. In turn, he always assumed I was doing my best and never complained about a messy house, the giant laundry pile, or pancakes for dinner . . . again. 

Residency will end. Buckle up, do your best, and you will come out of this experience stronger and more independent. Oh and one more thing, never try to start an important conversation with your spouse at bedtime. Those talks won’t end well. You got this sister!

What is Going On Here?

Parenting books are my jam. My parenting toolbox is defined by books like No Drama Discipline, The Whole Brain Child, How to Talk So Little Kids Will Listen, and Love and Logic. While I enjoy reading them, in no way have I mastered the techniques or philosophies they present. But I’m trying, and it feels helpful to have those ideas bouncing around in my head while navigating parenting pitfalls throughout the day. 

One of the primary ideologies in these books is that of basic human needs and how they relate to behavior. When children are acting out it is often due to an unmet need (e.g. hungry, tired, thirsty, overstimulated). If a parent can anticipate a need before it is depleted by offering the snack before the meltdown, sticking to a good sleep routine, helping children stay hydrated, etc., most misbehavior can be avoided. Spoiler alert: this applies to grown ups too. 

Last night I cried. I cried like a small child over something that, on the surface, shouldn’t have been such a big deal. As I tackled the dinner dishes about an hour later, calm, but still brittle, I had to ask myself, “What is going on here?” My physical needs were met, it’s not like I needed a snack or anything. Sure, I was tired, but this was more than that. As I scrubbed pots and clumsily tried to psychoanalyze myself, I identified the many layers of emotional stress I was experiencing. Emotional stress that produces emotional needs that are harder to pin down as well as my need for a snack. I write about this because I am confident that many of us are under these same stressors. Even though many states are “opening” and life feels like it might be starting to normalize, 2020 has been a year of emotional stress and the sun isn’t even peeking from behind the clouds yet. We are very much in the thick of this.

This. A global pandemic that is surging through our nation. The vicious plagues of social inequality and racism. The mess that is politics. A floundering economy. The uncertain fate of small businesses. Policing in America. Restrictions on religious worship. Trying to stay in touch with loved ones through Facetime and Zoom, but it’s just not the same. Not to mention everything that was hard or stressful in your life before COVID-19 that is still there, sitting boldly in the front row taking up precious space and consuming even more emotional energy than before. Then there are all the cancelled plans, cancelled vacations, cancelled trips to visit family . . . Add a healthy dose of questions regarding summer plans, the upcoming school year, whether extra curricular opportunities will ever be available for your kids, and that, my friends, equals emotional stress. The kind of stress that can lurk just under the surface and crack our facade of got-it-togetherness at even the slightest ripple of tension.

I am very good at making plans. Plans that will, if followed, fulfill my emotional needs much like a child needs a regular bedtime, healthy snacks, and time to play freely outside. Consistently following through on those plans is a different story. I create plans to prioritize gospel study and keep an appointment with God each day, asking Him through prayer for eyes to see and ears to hear. I make plans to wake up at a consistent time, exercise before breakfast, block out my day to create time for focused, one-on-one play with my kids as well as time to just be quiet or to pursue my own hobbies or interests. To meet my own needs and keep my cup filled so that I have enough to give. To cool it on my media consumption, but stay connected to the right voices so that I can continue to listen, learn, and become an educated, informed citizen and advocate for change. And to just be there. Be there to listen and support all of my people in any way I can. In reality, the consistency of these plans often falls by the wayside. But honoring the foundations of those idealized plans is usually enough. Foundations of prayer, togetherness, time spent outdoors, shared meals, books read, and always more play.

It’s a lot, guys. Some days we nail it. Some days we don’t. You’re probably rocking it all way better than I am. Every day I plead for the grace and strength that can only come from God. But then sometimes I get busy and I forget to pray. And then things get even harder until I circle back to where I need to be; with my Jesus. With Him I feel more capable of leaning into my emotions and honoring them, rather than shoving them down deep to await explosion at a later date. 

I don’t know why exactly I am putting this all down in words. Writing is a therapeutic way for me to process. But I mostly share these thoughts with a hope for solidarity. We are all carrying an extra emotional load right now. Some of our loads are significantly heavier than others. We’ll get through it. Hopefully together. And hopefully we can come out on the other side of this with a little more kindness, empathy, perspective, and wisdom.  

My Own Lake Isle

It’s now week 4 of COVID-19 quarantine here in Washington state, and this poem I recently discovered by W.B. Yeats is on my mind in a big way (because, you know, I have time to read poetry now).










The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the
 honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes
 dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the
cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

W.B. Yeats

The thought process inevitably circles: “I want to go to Innisfree. Right now. By myself. For a long time. And keep bees and listen to crickets. And read novels all day as I listen to the lapping lake water ... Ok, after a day by myself I would want Matt there too. And maybe after a few days we will have the kids join us because I would miss them too much and they would love it there.” At which point I do a search on Google Flights for airline tickets to Ireland or start thinking about the logistics of an extended stay with my family in a vacation rental, and it all becomes much less romantic.

But really, how do I turn this quarantined, slightly mundane, suburban existence into my very own Lake Isle of Innisfree? (Like now, please, because I want to go so bad).

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the
 honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

We spend nearly 100% of our time at home now, so our physical surroundings are something I think about often. Our home is no small cabin in the bee-loud glade, but I guess it is pretty charming . . . My sister convinced me to purchase a golf-ball sized crystal that hangs in the window. It reflects rainbows off every surface of the family room when the light is right and hangs next to my desk--the darling little roll top that Matt bought me for my birthday. I guess that’s pretty magical. And I do love the sunroom filled with our books, piano, and the comfy chair I rocked my babies in. No bean-rows, but it’s pretty cool that my houseplants survived the move. Plus, the flower stalls at Pike Place Market sell dried bouquets in the winter, so our house is still filled with “fresh-ish” flowers. The kid’s artwork is proudly displayed in almost every room, along with framed paintings and antique maps that we have collected throughout our marriage. I also love including one or two reminders of Christ in each room to help us remember Him always. Ok, ok, so home is pretty great just the way it is. No honey-bees, but I can live with that. It is pretty dreamy to wake up to the red-winged blackbird and the chickadees singing in the forest behind our house.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes
 dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the
cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

Hmm. But peace? Do I have peace here? Not consistently. I have three kids ages 5 and under and we are locked down together at home with no end in sight. My nerves are often frayed and I lose my temper more often than not. There are peaceful moments though, like when they are playing kindly with each other in the morning and I can sit for a few minutes with a peppermint tea while sunlight streams through the windows. Or when we snuggle up to read books together in someone’s bed. Or when the sun is shining in the afternoon and we flee to the backyard and drift apart for a few blessed minutes after a long morning together in the house. Jules collecting rocks in her bucket, Jonny climbing his tree, Will digging in the dirt, and I get the satisfaction of pulling a few weeds or tidying the yard, or just sitting at the top of the hill with the sun in my face. And on a good day, we might migrate back into the house afterwards for another round of togetherness with a snack and a board game, puzzle, or some Lego. I guess that is pretty peaceful.

The peace does come dropping slow though. Peaceful moments are few and far between most days. If I’m not in the right mindset to receive them as such, those quiet moments pass by without recognition, marked only by a desperate scroll through Instagram or a sneaky mouthful of frozen chocolate chips. All the while rushing around to change the laundry or empty the dishwasher before the spell is broken and chaos sets back in.

The days when I am prepared to relish the peace, and truly be calmed by the peace, are the days all the cliche “mom self-care” things are done: making the bed, taking a shower, cleaning the kitchen the night before, folding the laundry right away, blah, blah, blah. I can't deny the importance of those tasks to my peace of mind. But most importantly, the days I am calmed by small moments of peace come when I have made the time to immerse myself in the word of God--truly feasting. Making a focused effort to Hear Him and to commune with Him through prayer. Somehow if I have done those things, the quiet moments are transformed from a temporary reprieve from the chaos, into true peace. My heart feels lighter and I don’t yearn for the lake water lapping with low sounds on the shore quite as much as I would otherwise.

So in my deep heart’s core I guess I realize that with Jesus (and hopefully a healthy dose of spring sunshine) my little suburban existence will be pretty darn good, with or without a quarantine. Even though it’s no Lake Isle. I have so much to be grateful for. This time together has strengthened my relationship with my children, and their relationships with each other. And having Matt around all the time is the best. But when this quarantine is up, I might reconsider that vacation rental. Just for a minute.

What Reading Little Women Taught Me About Grief, Motherhood, and Digital Minimalism

Confession: I am 30 years old, a self-proclaimed lover of all things literature, and I just read Little Women for the first time. Loving the movies so much, I thought I had a solid handle on the storyline. But diving into the book itself felt like being reintroduced to a group of friends that I thought I knew well, until I sat down and spent 500 pages with them!

Grief

This novel dives deep into grief and loss. The March family thinks they have known hardship. They are poor, poverty is hard. Father is away at war serving as a chaplain, with no idea when he will return. And then Father gets sick, Mother leaves to nurse him, and while she is gone Beth is stricken with scarlet fever. The girls are beside themselves and I just wept right along with them as Beth was fading. They felt scared and helpless, but they found solace in family and friendship and grew as they learned to comfort and mourn with each other.

“She doesn’t look like my Beth, and there’s nobody to help us bear it. Mother and Father both gone, and God seems so far away I can’t find Him.”

As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo’s cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat, “I’m here. Hold on to me, Jo!” 

She could not speak, but she did “hold on” and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.

That lump in Laurie’s throat is something I have felt many times. Standing on the sidelines while the people you love are suffering is a uniquely painful experience. You do everything you can to be in it with them, but at the end of the day you really have no clue what they are going through. This passage was poignant to me because when I was baptized a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, I covenanted to mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort. The mourning part comes easily for me, but sometimes I feel inadequate if all I have to offer is “the warm grasp of the friendly human hand.” That is often all I have to give. But for Jo, in that moment, Laurie’s presence helped. More than he even realized. It is both comforting and empowering to think that a simple expression of love and care at a tender time might help someone to feel the love of Jesus Christ; the only one who has felt exactly what we feel and is with us through our darkest nights when no one else can be.

Motherhood

My children are still very young, but I often think about how much parenting will change as they grow older. To realize that the way they need me now is nothing like the way they will need me as older children, teenagers, and adults, is overwhelming and exciting all at once. I will be there for all of it, and hopefully I will have the wisdom to change and grow along with them. Watching Mrs. March mother each of her daughters and observing the unique relationships that she shares with them is one of my favorite parts of this book.

Meg marries young and settles into a life of her own just down the road from her parents. After years of gentle lectures and very present parenting, now Marmee keeps her distance and respects Meg’s space, only offering her advice when absolutely necessary. She observes Meg’s marriage and family life, has an opinion when asked, but knows that the young family has to learn their own life lessons.

Jo spends a formative year away from home, working in New York. When she returns feeling lost and discouraged, Mother opens her heart, sharing deeply personal experiences that relate to what Jo is going through. The “heart to heart” conversations between her and Jo feel raw and real. And when Beth passes away, “Marmee” provides a safe shelter for Jo’s broken heart until Professor Bhaer comes back into the picture (love him!) She and Jo seem to be the most alike, and because of the personal experiences that they share with each other their relationship evolves into friendship as Jo grows older.

While she loves all her daughters, it seems that Mother needed Beth just as much as Beth needed her. Beth nurtures Mother as she keeps the house tidy and fills it with light and music. Through all of Mother’s comings and goings during the war years, Beth is there. A soothing, gentle presence in the home. Her dying wish is for Jo to take care of their parents. And when Beth gets sick, Mother is there to nurse her back to health, to take her to the seaside, and to fuel her faith in a loving God as she nears the end of her life.

To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didn’t come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger.

And Amy. I loved getting to know Amy; the movies just don’t do her justice. Of all the sisters, she is the most unlike their mother. But as a young teenager she says, 

“You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean to be a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how. I can’t explain exactly, but I want to be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I’m far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what Mother is.”

And then she returns from living abroad for THREE YEARS with no family contact other than occasional letters, and she is all grown up. A true gentlewoman.

Amy’s face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning . . . it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to become.

Amy needed space to grow into her best self. She had observed her Mother for years, admired her, noticed her strengths. and when it came time to make crucial life decisions, it was Mother’s example that was her strongest influence. All Mrs. March had to do for her youngest daughter was to be her best self as Amy watched. 

Beth’s fever breaks and she lives for a few more years until her weakened body succumbs to the fever once again. She and Jo shared the strongest bond of all the sisters, and after her death Jo struggles to make sense of her own place in the world. 

And when the sight of the little empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow    . . . her mother came to comfort her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo’s, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayer, because hopeful resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing, which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo’s burden seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother’s arms.

And there are all my motherhood goals in a nutshell. Giving them “patient tenderness” despite my own griefs or hardships, heart to hearts that turn “affliction to a blessing,” and simply making life feel more endurable for my children from the safe shelter of my arms. Mrs. March isn’t always a physical presence in her daughter’s lives, but the foundational teaching from their childhoods holds strong as they enter adulthood. 

Digital Minimalism

Not everyone is a fan of this novel, but the relationship shared by the March family is magic, even to a skeptical eye. As I read, I kept asking myself, “how can I have more of that Little Women feeling in my life?” (anyone who watched the latest movie knows what I mean). And then I got to the end of the book and read this passage:

Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth’s little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away.

She spends an hour a day, staring at the fire, THINKING. It is her favorite way to spend the evening. To sit and think! When do I ever sit quietly and think? Granted, I am a mother of 3 small children so those moments are hard to come by, but I can totally bring more of that quietness into my life. When the kids are napping, I can choose to read for a bit instead of scrolling Instagram. When I am cleaning the kitchen, I can just do the dishes in peace instead of spending five minutes trying to choose something to watch or listen to while I do them. What if I just let myself be more quiet? Gave myself time to reflect? It seems strange to confess that I want to practice thinking, but there it is. 

Cutting out the noise, simplifying our schedule, being more intentional about the digital media that I bring into my home, are all intentions that I have with the goal of creating a more mindful family culture. Let this be a home where we enjoy being in each other’s company! Where we learn together, talk together, play games, read, enjoy music, and take time to appreciate the world and our own place in it. That is my dream. 

There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking . . . one of these fruitful festivals occurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire. Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake. Everybody was there. Everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled down . . . and everyone gave themselves up to the simple pleasure of the hour as freely as if there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.