"Am I going to hell, Doc?"

One of my talents is apparently offending people. I will flaunt that talent in this post. If you are offended by my views on religion, great. If not, also great.

A thing that drives me nuts is the various modern Christian translations of the Torah. I was called in a while ago to work for an emergency. Got there, opened the kid up, had some issues and had to close him, then sit around and wait. So, taking use of the wait time, I visited a few of my kids.

One of my kids, a quiet sixteen year old, asked me to read something for her. I picked the book and scanned it quickly before reading it aloud. The passage she wanted me to read was a bastardized version of Leviticus 18:22.

“Do not practice homosexuality, having sex with another man as with a woman. It is a detestable sin.”

It doesn’t outwardly state homosexuality when read in Hebrew. It never has, unless I was taught wrong as a child. The exact translation is against lying with another man, or (to be literal and crass) taking it in the ass from another guy. Which by the way, isn’t necessarily gay. It’s an act of submission.

Anyways. The girl asked me if that meant that she was going to hell because that was what everyone told her to read when it came to her going to hell for being gay. The only thing I could think of at that moment was to open up a bit. I realize that I get talked to about my lack of professional distance, but times like this I don’t give a shit.

“Well, kiddo,” I said, sitting on the foot of her bed. “Do you think you’re going to hell?”

“No,” she said shaking her head. “I’m not a bad guy. I just kind of had sex with my best friend. And my brother kind of walked in.”

I nodded. “I had the same thing happen when I was your age.” Her eyes widened to the look children get when they see or hear something incredible. “You’ve met Dr. R down in the ER, right?”

“Yeah!” She nodded emphatically. “She’s really nice. She said you’re the coolest doctor in the whole hospital!” I chuckled.

“Sam, or Dr. R to you, is my wife,” I said. The girl gasped. “And I’m not going to hell for loving her.” Her interested look was my signal to continue. “By Jewish tradition, which is where that comes from, that specific passage holds nothing against lesbians. But you want to know something funny?”

Another nod.

“Out of that entire section, that’s the only part that’s really paid any mind to. Wanna know what else you supposedly can go to hell for? If a guy is clean shaven, if you eat shrimp, or if you wear a shirt that’s made of more than one kind of fabric fiber. And those are just the ones I can think of without rereading the entire section.”

I set her Bible down on the table next to the bed. “There’s animal sacrificing and killing people by throwing rocks at them. It’s not nice reading to be honest. If you do your best to be a kind person to everyone, including yourself, you won’t go to hell in my book. Trust me, a gay kid is higher on my list than a Catholic priest.”

“So you think I’m not screwed?”

“Nah, girly. You’re no more screwed than my three year old is.” I grinned. “If you read more of that Bible, you’ll see that that Jesus guy said something about loving your neighbour as yourself. From what my very Catholic mother-in-law tells me, that means loving everyone else as much as you love yourself, if not more.

“The other thing that Jesus dude says is that let the most innocent person be the one to throw a stone or something like that. The people who may judge you are breaking what that guy said because I guarantee they’re doing things that are worse than being in love. And they claim to be following what he wants. By judging or hating you, they’re wrong and breaking Jesus’ two rules. For that, you should ignore ‘em.”

She laughed. “Dr. R’s mom is trying to convert you, isn’t she?”

I snorted. “I do listen, though I don’t agree. I’m still Jewish no matter how hard she tries.”

To be honest, I don’t see the point of following a few rules if you can’t follow them all. Don’t pick and choose. It’s not worth anything if you get to pick what you do follow. I can’t even follow all of the commandments handed down by Moses. I’ve lied and a few other things. I still believe in God and so on, but I gave up on following rules. I didn’t want to be one of those people who picks what suits them. It’s not genuine observance then.

So, if you’re offended, great. Take a fucking number.

Unstable

Listening to: “Until I’m Fine” by K’s Choice

I mentioned why I hate my birthday in the last post. I’m not entirely sure if I got into the days surrounding my birthday, so I will with this before I tell what I did today.

The days surrounding my birthday are the days where I am nowhere near emotionally stable which causes me to be unstable mentally. Granted it’s probably a bit better this year because I’ve been diagnosed and subsequently medicated, but it hasn’t seemed different so far.

After this morning, I have decided to give in and go see my doctor to get my lithium levels adjusted. I’ve been putting it off, but I’ve finally admitted that I need to go do that rather than use my current crises and job as an excuse not to. It’s kind of unreasonable to avoid someone who works in the same building as you....

So, this morning I was taking my usual (obligation to my OCD) shower after a surgery. When I was done, I went to my cubby to grab my ratty Maryland hoodie to pull over my scrubs because I was freezing.

Guess who was there? My former second-in-command. He was in a bad mood and packing up his things. I was the conveniently placed thing to vent at.

“You have daddy issues. That’s why you can’t stand that I was better at your job than you were.” I tried my best not to laugh at him. I had received the job (not even two years after my residency) after he had practically run the department into the ground. He was better than me. Riiiiight.

I told him this and he repeated his statement about my ‘daddy issues’.

“I don’t have daddy issues, sweetheart. And if I did, they wouldn’t affect anything having to do with you.”

It’s true. I don’t have daddy issues. My issues require the addition of a prefix. I have step-daddy issues. And not in the ‘I never got any attention growing up’ sort of way. More like in the ‘I got my ass beat and fucked by my stepdaddy on a constant basis’ sort of way.

He then went on to list all the reasons why I obviously had daddy issues. Then he brought my wife and kids into it.

Normally, I’d laugh at him and call security to escort him out of the building. Super unstable me didn’t. Super unstable me kicked his ass. If Erin hadn’t have walked in when she did and dragged me from him, he’d have a hell of a lot worse than a broken nose, missing teeth and bruised face.

My hockey days and childhood “circumstances” still serve me well.

Now it’s hard to make a fist and I’m typing one-handedly with my right. My left hand is swollen and cut-up from his mouth, giving me the week or so out of the OR. My shoulder still hurts from when I slammed him into the wall, but I don’t care. Okay, so I do care. But not too much.

He’s not pressing charges because I have things that could damn him to a longer jail sentence than he’s already getting. He’s not sure exactly what, but he knows it’s condemning. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve already given everything I have to the cops. He will more than likely get 25 or so. That’s fine with me. He’s a pig. End of story.

As for my week off, I have helped the liquor store down the street practically pay their rent for the month (“Bad day, doc?”) and am taking complete advantage by drinking myself into a stupor.

And for the record: my biological father was an awesome guy. The downer is he died when I was little and I had to continue living with my stepdad.

(Now) Listening to: “Big Eyed Fish” by Dave Matthews Band

אמא

I feel like a hypocrite. I have times where I have to give one of my kids advice on losing someone. When they ask the clichéd question about whether it ever gets easier, I lie through my teeth and say, “Yeah. Yeah it does.”

My least favourite day of the year is coming up on Friday. There are two reasons I hate the 8 of July. First is because I used to be a twin and this coming Friday is my birthday. Second is that my mother died on my birthday.

It doesn’t get easier. At least, I’m not sure it has yet and it’s been almost twenty years. Sometimes I say my older sister is like a mother to me. Not necessarily my mother though.

My mother was eccentric at times and completely grounded at others. She taught me French and English, how to bandage someone after an explosion so they wouldn’t die of blood loss immediately. She would recite poems from memory, most in English and French, a few in Hebrew. My mother was happy to receive a drawing that wasn’t coloured correctly. Houses could be purple and people could be blue. It was the thought that counted.

She made sure that my brother and I were all right. She told us that we still counted to her even though we didn’t to our stepfather. We were the best thing that ever happened to her. We were the children she got out of love rather than force. I didn’t understand that then.

Ezra and I had mother’s maiden name. Some days I debate dropping it from my legal name, but I have a hard time letting go. The days surrounding my birthday are spent either avoiding patients and their families or drinking myself to an uneasy sleep at home. I can’t see patients because I am jealous of those who have their mothers. I can’t watch mothers console their children or joke with them or share stories. It makes me feel like I am the biggest shit in the world because I am jealous of sick and dying children.

My mother died of Huntington’s disease. I have the mutation for Huntington’s. My birthday is even less fun than it always was. I will be in mourning for my mother on Friday as I have been for nearly twenty years. Please excuse my moodiness in advance.

Listening to: "Ghad Gadya" by Chava Alberstein (Ima's favourite song)

My weekend sucked... but then today came.

My mood all weekend.
Tornadoes were imminent.

So, I’m posting an update on Sam. Last Thursday night/Friday morning she had a stroke. Which may be strange if you don’t understand the circumstances. She was eclamptic (not a good thing) and apparently didn’t tell anyone what was going on with her. She stroked at work, which I guess is a good place to have a stroke being in a hospital and all. Well, they had to do emergency surgery to save the spawn.

Willow and Seth were born early Friday morning. They’re both on respirators and in incubators. Because they were only 5 months along, they will be hanging out in the NICU for a while yet. But they’re cute as shit for such tiny things. I guess calling them the “spawn” is a good nickname.

Sam was in a coma and they did preliminary neurology tests on Friday and Saturday. She had minimal brain activity, which prompted a freakout from me. Gina said that she’d retest her Tuesday (today) and see what they could do.

Mrs. Ryan (Sam’s mom) and Keely (Sam’s sister) came Friday. My brother Dov and his wife Sarah came in from Boston on Saturday, leaving their kids with Sarah’s family.

Normally, there are six adults, two kids and two dogs at our house. Kevin (my gay best friend who lives in our basement, which sounds wrong...), Hana (my younger sister), Tali & Ara (my two best friends growing up), Sam and I. Then there’s our son and daughter, Ben and Chaya. And Buddy and Kitty, the dogs.

Because of my almost nervous breakdown, Dov, his wife, Hana and Ara have been corralling my oldest two through the weekend. Mrs Ryan and Keely have been trying to get me to take better care of myself (eating and sleeping for example) and Tali’s been shadowing me to make sure I don’t actually lose it.

Kevin was pulled in on Sam’s surgery (he’s a neonatal surgeon, and has since become acting Chief of Neonatal surgery) and he did awesome. I haven’t left the hospital since Friday morning for longer than a couple hours at a time.

Well, my favourite resident Erin (who is now Chief Resident) decided that she needed to get me something to do to take my mind off things. So, she went to my boss and asked him if he would reinstate me from my leave of absence. He agreed and Erin dragged me off to the OR. I have been doing surgery since Saturday and it’s been the one thing that’s kept me from annoying the living shit out of Kevin and Gina.

Yesterday, my evil second-in-command (my arch-nemesis) was fired and his douche-y son was put on suspension. I was overjoyed because they would make my life a living hell. I did my surgery and waited for this morning and Sam’s retesting.

At 7 AM, I went as quickly as I could to her room only to find her missing. I’m really glad one of the nurses told me they had taken her to neurology early otherwise I’d have the biggest freakout of my life. So, I headed to neurology and Gina showed me the MRI and CAT results. Sam’s brain activity was higher than it was three or so days before. Then she told me she had a brilliant idea, but if it didn’t work I couldn’t sue her.

Molecular model for adrenaline

Normally, I love this crazy old bat to death, but I wasn’t in the mood for joking. What was her idea? Load Sam up with adrenaline and see if she wakes. The only downside is that by doing so, we may cause her to go into cardiac arrest. Not good.

But, she outlined the statistics to me and they were acceptable. Better than some of the cases I work on. So, I said go for it.

At 9 AM or so, her EEG went haywire. She was starting to wake. Around 10, her eyes were moving and her fingers were twitching. And I was doing my ADHD ten year old trick (pacing, tapping things, throwing a ball at the wall). This is the most we had gotten out of her since before the stroke, so I was nervous as hell.

The complications (like with any stroke) were permanent brain damage, a physical handicap or memory issues since we had gotten away with the adrenaline trick not causing a heart attack. That weighed in my mind heavily and I wanted to go smoke but I couldn’t leave her bedside. I called Mrs. Ryan and Keely instead.

It was almost 1 PM by the time she opened her eyes. I freaked. Gina came in and looked her over. She still can’t talk yet and you can tell she had a stroke since the left side of her faces droops a bit, but I don’t give a shit. SAM IS AWAKE AND ALIVE!

My siblings brought the munchkins and you could tell Sam was happy even though she couldn’t say it. Chaya is extremely excited (she was convinced Sam wouldn’t wake up because Sam was mad at her) and Benny gave her his stuffed dog because “optals are baaaad”. We’ve managed to keep Mrs. Ryan from smothering her daughter.

Now, throughout this, my siblings and Kevin have been moving our stuff to the new house in Omaha. One of my scrub nurses is going to let me crash at hers until Sam and the spawn’re out of the hospital because apparently on-call rooms are not good for you.

My mood now. It's all good.

Currently, Mrs. Ryan, Kevin and Keely are at mass to celebrate. I’m sitting next to my sleeping wife (waking up is exhausting, as is trying to speak). Dov and Sarah are helping the “ninjas” (Tali and Ara) with something and Hana is watching the older two.

I have never been more thankful for anything in my life. Today has been fucking awesome and tiring and emotional. This may be blasphemous, but I don’t care if the Sox go to the Series this year. Sam’s alive and the kids are fine. My world is good.

Redo, bitches.

I am starting this blog over. This is going to be, from here on out, an attempt to tell both my story and how my mind tends to work. In order to do this, I need to explain myself first. Not in overly technical terms, but key points and examples. I figure this way will work best rather than saying, “Hey, I have grey eyes and a sarcastic smirk.” That sounds like shit you’d put on a dating website. Which are creepy.

I think in ways that take a while for people to understand. I also don’t say what is on my mind always because it’s hard to hold a conversation about one thing when something else is mentioned and my mind goes off in a different direction.

I have Asperger’s. Which is considered high-functioning autism, though that could be debated. I don’t like looking people in the eye and I have things that I absolutely have to obsess over. I am not generally a social person. I don’t trust people easily, especially not those who are in positions of authority. That may have to do with my PTSD though.... Dunno. There’s a reason I work with kids. Other than being better with them than with fellow adults.

I am a perfectionist who is horrifically flawed. I obsess over things. I do the dishes by hand because I think dishwashers suck at cleaning them. I like order, but I can’t keep it in my home (or my mind). Everything in my professional life is obsessed over and corrected and perfected down to a science. Nothing is done unless there’s a reason for it. My personal life is a mess. I can’t plan anything. I am as spontaneous as a kid with ADHD. I’m pretty sure Sam has mentally threatened to divorce me a few times over this. I have a horrible time of keeping track of groceries and laundry. I can’t stick to a plan unless it’s at work. Grocery lists are for pussies is what I generally tell my housemates. It’s a bad attempt at an excuse, but whatever.

I hold conversations in my head to practice in case someone (mainly a coworker) tries to hold a conversation with me that’s not about work. I replay things and nitpick at what went on until I’m sure I’ve got it right this time. Usually I don’t and I say awkward things because I’m uncomfortable. I act like Maura Isles in social situations, though probably worse some days.

If something is bothering me, I tend to turn it into a joke. People get frustrated with me because they can’t tell actual jokes apart from the ones I make when I’m disturbed or troubled. I’ve been told this is a crappy coping mechanism. I do it anyways.

When I’m mad, I get silent. When I have new residents, they make the mistake of thinking that a yelling Dr. Ryan is the truly mad Dr. Ryan. They are wrong. The time they should grovel for forgiveness or turn and run are the times when I don’t say anything. Usually, groveling doesn’t work. If they turn and run and wind up fixing what they fucked up to the best of their abilities while acting contrite, I may forgive them and start joking again. Depends on how big their fuckup was.

I have a difficult time explaining things aloud. I can think it and write it, but I can’t think of words and translate them satisfactorily when speaking to someone about a serious or deep topic. Sometimes I have to write down what I want to say otherwise I would never get out what I mean in my head. This includes emotions.

When I was a kid, I was abused. The only reason that I’m still alive is because I managed to keep my mind my own personal sanctuary. When things were happening, I would mentally escape into my latest book, write papers for school, sing songs, travel to places I wanted to go. One of my most favourite places was the Redwood National Park in California. I had seen pictures in books and magazines like National Geographic and I was determined that that would be the most beautiful place I’d ever be. That I’d finally feel at peace there. ("Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt." - from Slaughterhouse-Five) The other thing I’d do was map out my life and what I’d hope to achieve once I was out of my stepfather’s clutches. Maybe this is why I hate planning now. It reminds me of bad things. Hmmm. Quite possible.

Since I was abused, I have major issues involving child abuse. Same goes for suicide. Two of my brothers offed themselves. Every time something involving these shows up at my job, I have to do my best to keep myself from seeing myself or my brothers on the table or gurney. It’s never easy and I tend to have breakdowns afterwards. Breakdowns usually end in me drinking myself to sleep or going to a local park and sitting and staring into space for hours despite the weather.

I have issues with addiction. Drinking, smoking, cutting. I smoked a lot of pot and popped a lot of pills when I was younger. Originally my addictions helped with my memories and flashbacks. Eventually, they took over things in my life. I still have issues with cutting and drinking. Drinking mostly, though.

Cutting is my fallback. Or physical pain in general. It’s easier for me to deal with because it’s been a constant 
in my life. Emotions have always been terrifying to me, so I try to avoid them by picking bar fights, playing “wheelchair gladiator” or taking a scalpel blade to my body.

I have regrets like the rest of humankind. My issue is that I let them eat at me. I admit to this. It’s my worst trait and my least obvious (at least in my mind).

I am very protective of those that I care about. I am terrified of my older sister most days, but when she attacks my wife I will grow a pair. When one of my favourite patients was getting the cold shoulder from his parents after coming out, I took it upon myself to speak to them for him. When they took a while to come around, I became his mentor. He’s my buddy and calls me Doctor McAwesome (I shouldn’t watch Grey’s with him, but I do anyways).

I also got him addicted to Buffy. He has a crush on Angel (David Borneaz, ~barf~ who he talked me into following on Twitter for the sole purpose of helping him creep on his crush.) and giggles when I go glassy-eyed as soon as Willow (Alyson Hannigan, my first major celebrity crush) is on screen. I’d adopt him if Sam and his parents’d let me. He’s an awesome kid. Sometimes I wonder if I’d be more like him (happy go-lucky) if I was raised here rather than where I was and by who I was. We still sit up and giggle like school girls on occasion. It’s fun.

So, there’s a lot of shit that makes me up. There’s more but my head is tired and don’t feel like thinking. You’ll have to deal with this for now.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

Song to listen to: "Blood and Fire" by Indigo Girls