the man on the stairs

I was driving to work the other morning. Along the way, I pass a Gothic style Catholic cathedral. When I first moved here the churches fascinated me, gone were the simple clean lines of the little NC Baptist and Methodist churches on every other corner that all look the same.  In each little neighborhood of my city there is a prominent church, most of them are Catholic although there are some lovely Protestant ones as well. Each has its own style, culture and heritage. They are nearly gaudy with their buttresses, carvings and stain glassed windows. Reminiscent of a time in our history where each neighborhood would have have been a village, often of immigrants transplanted from the old world to the new. They built their new village as a piece of old world culture and design in the wilds of a new territory. Perhaps the church would have been the center of comings and goings, many had schools attached to them  Now several of the churches have FOR SALE signs on them, although some are still active they are hardly full and most of time when I drive past them they are silent as statues.  The steeples blend into the strange hybrid of Old city, when she was what Longfellow called the Queen of the West, a cultural and commercial center at the turn of the century and NEW city with modern high rises,  Billboard ADs and homeless people. I admit half the time I don’t even notice the churches anymore.

In the tendrils of early morning sunshine, a few neighborhoods down the road toward work, in front of the large cathedral, there kneeling on the stone steps was an elderly African American man praying. He was dressed all in blue, it looked like a uniform, perhaps even the navy uniforms of the hospital janitors.  I stopped at the stop light and couldn’t help watching.  I wondered what brought him so early to the steps of this massive church, I wondered why he did not go inside?  Was it closed? Did he not feel well dressed? Did he feel he would not be welcomed inside? Was there not a service till later and he had to go to work just like I did? Was it because it was holy week?  Suddenly, he crossed himself repeatably, great emotion filled his face. Was it because he had some great supplication for God? Was someone ill, dying or in peril? Had he done something he was ashamed of, was he begging for forgiveness? Was this his confession? Or maybe they were tears of joy? Was he overwhelmed by the presence of God?

I felt embarrassed like I was spying on someone private conversation like when you walk into an exam room and your colleague has just told Ms. Jones their child has leukemia and you just needed an otoscope tip. I wondered about my fellow drivers around me, commuting downtown to work, what did they see? What did they think? Did they notice this Man crying his heart out on the stairs?

What about the people inside? Where were the priests? Where were the nuns who taught at the school next store? Were the children inside looking out their windows at the man on the stairs?  Were they wiser than me, knowing not to intrude on this man’s pleading?

In Eastern Europe, the gates and stairs of the Orthodox Churches were filled with beggars, elderly people and disabled people who begged for money of the priest and the church goes.  I remember in one of my bitter moments of frustration with the culture, the lack of care of the forgotten children who would be baptized but never cared for by the churches, I felt far more comfortable on the stairs then inside.  I arrogantly thought Jesus would too.  I thought to myself now years later, that I was right Jesus was with the beggars, the prostitutes on the stairs and the unwanted more than the religious authorities. I knew even that Jesus and later the apostles had interacted with the beggars at the Temple’s gates. What I lacked at 19 yo was the insight into the people that lived on the steps of my church. The fact there was many in America who because of their heritage, the color of their skin, their language, their sexual orientation, their bank account, their addiction, etc, etc were not welcome either because of stigma, hypocrisy or fear in our sacred spaces.  God welcomed them but we do not.

Even more, I lacked the understanding that we all belong on the stairs of heaven, none of us measure up not due to our social classification but because of our selfishness.. All of us should be sobbing amongst our transgressions and the ugliness of our hearts on the stairs.  Holy week is a celebration of grace. Jesus welcomes us through his loving self-sacrifice inside the gates.  Jesus came down the stairs to invite us but he also still sits there.  He is there on the stairs and when we invite the others on the stairs to share in his grace and compassion, we invite him to be among us.

I prayed a short prayer at the red light for the man on the stairs. A prayer of gratitude for his example, for his courage and for grace, for our shared celebration of Holy Week that I knew I would remember far more than the third refrain of the UP FROM THE GRAVE HE AROSE on Easter Sunday. I prayed that Christ would sit with him on the stairs and meet him in the heart of whatever his circumstance. And that he would sit on the stairs with me, as I confessed my unworthiness, my failings and my need for him.

The Brown Sandals that I immediately regretted

My feet are funny shaped. At some point in college I participated in my first foot washing in which I found myself keenly aware that my feet were not so beautiful rather then brought the good news or not.  I knew that wasn’t the point but the human inside of me couldn’t quite get past it.

I can remember the thrill of NEW shoes for school each year. I would go with my Mom on a special shopping trip before school started. We would go to Stride Rite , The Navy Exchange or JC Penny’s and we would find sneakers and then a pair School/church shoes. My all time favorite was a pair of black Mary Janes that had faint embroidery on the toe of tic-tac-toe in light green and red. I got them just in time to start 2nd Grade.  This was also the phase where I refused to wear pants, only dresses. I would accept leggings if it was cold out of necessity. So there I was in my early 90s bright colored dress and leggings and black Mary Janes. In hindsight, sort of dorky but at the time those little shoes made me feel so grown up.

Somewhere around the age of 9 or 10 when my growth plates were bending in unfortunate directions and I was coming to grips with the reality of chronic pain. Shoes started being a source of great angst.  This was also the time when shoes were changing and no longer was it cool enough to wear my black Mary Janes or My Little Pony Sneakers.  No longer could I wear what my classmates wore. All the girls were wearing jelly shoes or canvas shoes with no support.  We would go to shoe store after shoe store, nothing would fit except for Velcro sort of sneakers that the kindergarteners were wearing and not the middle schoolers.

I went through a combat boot phase in sixth grade. They were a statement and in middle school that seems to be the goal of foot wear. But they also offered my poor ankles some support. This again in hindsight was a fashion low point of my life in which I wore Christian T-shirts (that said things like Got Jesus?) and baggy jeans and combat boots.  One of the security guards who drove me around in the golf cart to band and lunch (which were a bit of a hike) commented that my choice foot wear was probably not the best thing for my feet.  I was horrified being a Type-A people please-er of adults in my world.  Thus ended the combat boot stage. Looking back, he probably did me a favor.

In high school, they started introducing the concept of FORMAL WEAR.  I knew I was in deep trouble the first time I went shopping for shoes for my first prom. Strapy, stringy, heeled plastic things that cost 70 dollars and were a tibia fracture waiting to happen. My sweet mother dyed ballet slippers for me. They had no support but they matched my dress.  I survived without any ER visits.  Then there was the uncovered shoulder ISSUE (previously described) in which I showed my keloided scars to the world. I was not a fan. As if I needed to be more of a freak show.

I then went through an extended phase where I just decided I hated dressing up. Sad thinking that in elementary school, I wanted to dress up and be girly EVERY DAY. I decided I was going to be a hippee who wore peasant boluses, carpi pants or longish skirts and grow my hair (already longer than most girls) longer.  This sustained me through the beginnings of college where I at least in part to thanks my mother and sister switched the hippee skirts for cuter knee length numbers for the Carolina sunshine.

I vividly remember kicking and screaming my junior year of college when all my friends and I decided to go to the Non-Greek formal. My roommates had to nearly  hold me down to put my hair up and do my make up. WE have pictures and evidence of this.  I wore mary janes that I also wore to interview for medical school in. As for interviews, I was so grateful for the stylish gray paint suit for interviews. my grandmother and I found in an expensive store in the big Mall in Norfolk that covered most of my shoes and all of my shoulders.

Then came weddings. It was prom on steroids except now the pictures will actually matter beyond the age of 18, someone will be looking at them for the next 50 years. And those people are my closest friends.  The first wedding I was in had brown dresses which while I did not love, I loved that I could wear small brown flats without concern.  Then I was in two weddings where I was thankfully allowed to wear black and red and thus black flats.

In medical school everyone got cute Danskos and such for the wards. None of  which I could get my feet in. I became mildly obessessed with KEEN shoes. Black and Brown Mary Janes that I wore to pieces in Kenyan Mud. I wore black chaco sandals to my doctorate hooding partly by accident (left my black flats in the car) and partly out of sheer spite of professional shoe wear.

Then came this year. Summer wedding. Yellow dress.  My big toe on the left has this gout like bunion on the metatarsal joint that makes even ballet flats uncomfortable. Again the strappy, string, heeled things are going to be a disaster. My friend tells me you can wear anything but CHACOS.  I go to the comfortable shoe store here and to my horror the only thing they have is a pair of brown Chaco flip flops. I was post call, on my way home for the weekend which included a dress fitting. I was out of time. So I bought them. They didn’t look like CHACOs. They look liked brown flip flops. 20 minutes later I was already regretting spending so much money on ugly flip flops.  My Southern Bell (on occasion) mother gritted her teeth when she saw them. She would later tell me that she had already decided that there was NO WAY I was walking down the aisle in those horrible shoes. I reminded her that at least they were not combat boots.  I got fitted for the dress in the shoes. And then promptly returned them when I got back to OHIO.

I decided at this point I was going to go bare foot. Meanwhile, my PT here when I got my initial post op eval was MORTIFIED that I made it through life so long without orthotics. I told her I had PTSD from such things as a child. She chided me, throwing the whole MD thing at me. I relented and found she was right my feet felt better. On the up side,  I recently discovered that I could wear wedges when I was given a pair of Allergia shoes for work. I loved them so much I bought a second pair in another color. For the first time in my life, people complemented me on my foot wear! I felt strangely like I had in second grade over those dorky tic-tac toe mary janes! So proud and grown up. Oddly, one would think I would get past this, not so much.

With this in mind, I prepared myself mentally for another go shopping again to look at spring wedding shoes.  There had to be something out there, if I could find professional shoes that were NOT so bad, maybe there was hope. One pretty spring afternoon walk resulted in the purchase of a somewhat NOT awful  pair of sparkly sandals with a slight wedge.  My mother approved via cell phone pictures!!! Even my bunion approved with the adjustable straps. I breathed a sign of relief that the pain of shoe buying was over for another year. Already plotting that I could wear the SAME shoes for the Indian wedding I am scheduled to be in next Spring. Maybe I can make it two years if I didn’t wear them in Africa.

As I walked out the of shoe store, I looked down at my feet in CHACOs no less. And I smiled, you know they are funny shaped and they cant wear shoes to save their little soles. But they have grown on me. We’ve been through a lot together. They have gotten me where I have wanted to go, where I have needed to go without cartilage and against the laws of bio-mechanics.  Yes they are calloused, crooked and lumpy but they also tell my story with their stronger contours.  They tell a story of faithfulness even in the mist of suffering. And maybe that is the point.  Maybe I have beautiful feet that tell a beautiful story after all.

Changes

I usually am quite adaptable being a Navy Brat and a Gimp.

But on my third month’s of sleep deprivation in a ROW, I am anxious and a wee bit strung out. Easily in a state of anxiety. Somewhere in the mist of all that I finally got the courage to try out different churches.
My second try, I met a Kenyan and  a Ukrainian, we talked East African tribes, Swahili , sekuma (food item) and the Belarussian dictators, freedom of speech and about my Romanian babies. It was like coming home by remembering leaving home.  The Americans I met were nice too.  The church is less than a mile from my current one.

The Kenyan and I are getting together and making Kenyan food next Saturday so why do I feel anxious and why oh why do I feel sad about leaving a place that really not supported me well and/or theologically fed me entirely. Is it just because its March and Im exhausted? Is the Sam’s Purse situation? Is it the people I am leaving behind, one family in particular who is one of my best friends from the residency program?

or is it that I should just be the voice of change for the next 14 months and just stay where I am because no place is perfect? And either way I have new Kenyan friends….

Body Language

I would love to tell you that I always love my body.

That I appreciate my scars for the story they tell.
That I value the oddly shaped contours of my poor long bones.

That I love the strange angles that my contracted ankles and elbows grace me with.

But I would be lying.

But then again I have been lying a lot today.

All three of my best friends are getting married in the next 18 months.  Today I went to get fitted for my first of several bridesmaid dresses at the infamous David’s Bridal which has never been my favorite.  The dress is sleek, asymmetrical, one shoulder empire waist canary colored gown.  My shoulders have some impressive scars. My elbows are awkwardly angled. All around me are girls with shoulders with no scars, with normal contours.  And for a moment I feel naked, exposed and ancient.

I rip the dress off, buy it (ugh!) and run home. My best friend who knew I was going dress shopping calls me all excited. I try so hard to keep up the level of excitement because its her wedding.  And I want her to be happy.   She nearly drags it out of me, I dance around the issue a bit, mumbilng a bit.  She tells me I can return the dress, I can wear a shawl.  She is upset.  I tell her its fine.  SO FINE.  DOn’t worry about it, its not her, its not the dress its just me.

My disability mentor Bliss tells me  that I should embrace my body and I wholeheartedly agree.

Its the practice that sometimes hard, especially when you are in your 20s and have to wear frequent formal wear not designed for anyone but especially not for bodies that are different than average.

One of my friends here who has Marfan’s and some other skeletal issues has had some “work” done on several scars.  I wish I had her courage, however, the whole starving children in Africa and my intense PTSD/extreme dislike for being a surgical patient rule this out. She tells me either way that my feelings are normal.  I want them to be normal but I also dislike the idea of hating the body I have.

Because in my head I agree with Bliss, bodies are beautiful in all shapes, sizes and with many marks and contours that tell our stories. So I pray God gives me grace to love my body and help others love theirs.

i’m getting married in chacos and capri pants.

OK so maybe not capri pants but chacos and a dress that drapes my shoulders a bit and doesn’t make me feel like a member of an alien race.

The Dream Revisited

Publishing old saved drafts….

from July…although hauntingly still true.

Long ago and far away I spent my summers wandering the streets of Bucharest playing with street kids, finding babies in back rooms of crumbling, stifling Soviet bloc hospitals. These summers defined me and it was here the dream was born to be a really excellent activist and pediatrician who could save babies from disease and from the poverty and stigma that they live under.    Then somewhere along the way I got caught up in a dream to study at a world class childrens hospital and caught up in all the academic rigmarole and danced the dance and sang the songs and won my way into a place that is so far removed from the  that dream that sometimes I still wake up and have to remind myself that I am not living in an alternate universe.

I am bruntout on the alternate universe. I am tired of staying up all night. I am tired of parents telling me they want me touch their children with my inexperienced, tired hands. I am tired of getting e-mails in my box that I only reviewed 9 systems in my review of system rather than 10 and the ED attending can’t get paid if I only have 9 in my note. I am tired fighting to put checks in an imaginary series of check boxes to fit some sort of magical mold that an elite pediatric resident is supposed to fit. And I keep waking up with a start because in my dreams I am doing what I have done every summer for the past 7 years up till this one, riding buses and fighting for forgotten children.   Suddenly in stead of falling in love with academic medicine or fellowship or something will give my pre-existing condition gimpy self sustainable health insurance I am missing as if I have lost my first love. As if we are painfully separated by a dream not deferred but given up and revised.