Pembirdie

Author: saragerman89

  • I am judging your handicap parking permit

    Of the many unattractive traits I possess, one of the biggest offenders is my judginess. I am at least self-aware enough to know I have this problem, but that hasn’t kept me from continuing to pass judgement on basically everything.

    It goes both ways. I used to think I’d outgrown my perfectionism, but the reality is I’ve just shed some of the more attractive and superficial aspects: my bed is generally unmade now, and my sock and underwear drawer is a disaster, but my inner critic still takes me to task about these things when it’s not smothered by doomscrolling or ice cream. That is to say, I judge everybody, but I reserve the highest standards for myself. Failing to live up to my expectations is the norm. I assure you that I am properly castigated when this happens.

    One of the new items that I have started passing judgement on is the disability rearview mirror hanger. (I am actually unsure what this is called. I refer to the blue tag thing that hangs on the rearview mirror to signal that is ok for you to park in a handicap parking zone.) I feel qualified to do this because I am now the possessor of one of these hangers. And wow has it provided a lot of opportunity to judge!

    First, the instructions that come with this hanger clearly state that it is only supposed to hang on the rearview mirror when you are parked. A lot of people violate this rule. I can’t say that this is any more dangerous than displaying the seemingly-no-longer-as-popular-as-they-once-were fuzzy dice, but when you’re aware this is against the rules it is hard not to mentally eye-roll every time I pass someone driving with the blue tag hanging from their mirror.

    Second, seemingly a lot of people use the handicap designation who do not actually qualify for it. I completed handicap parking forms for several patients in residency, and I truly believe everyone I completed it for had a legitimate reason for it. Once I even gently declined to do so by reading the specifications and asking my patient if he thought he met them. (Thankfully, he agreed with my assessment and said he didn’t.) Apparently a lot of PCPs aren’t as careful as I was. One possible explanation could be they don’t want to fill out the forms over and over. My PCP submitted for a “permanent” handicap parking permit for me. I’m hoping the disability isn’t going to last more than two years, and theoretically it could resolve itself any time. Perhaps a lot of people get the permanent permit and then continue to use it when they are no longer disabled. (If that’s the case, then I have even more to judge them on!)

    My mother-in-law has a handicap parking permit (egads! that’s what it’s called!) that she uses on occasion and I still haven’t figured out why she has it. My husband says it’s because she has a bad leg, but she doesn’t use any assistive devices and although she’s slow moving I’ve never seen her have any trouble getting around other than being out of shape. The alternative explanation is that my father-in-law can’t see, but given that he still drives and a handicap parking spot is for parking, not driving, it makes even less sense. You can bet I judge them on it.

    My most recent judgement episode occurred at church, because of course it did. Our church is well attended, which means that it has a parking problem. Unfortunately for me, people with disabilities, or at least handicap parking permits, attend church, and the spots are almost always taken before we arrive. (Admittedly, we’re almost always a minute early, which is to say, late.) Last Sunday, I observed a family of four get into an SUV parked in one of the prime handicap parking spots. To be sure, two of the adults looked to be in their sixties or early seventies, but none of them seemed to be having any trouble walking to their car as I self-righteously hobbled up the steps to the non-handicap parking section where we’d lucked into finding a spot several rows farther back.

    Are you sick of me yet?

    Whooo boy. I need to stop judging my “disability” against other peoples’ disabilities before it’s too late. When I start comparing myself to others and taking pride in a positive self-assessment, I’m a loser, not a gainer. I’m not strong enough to handle the original sin, and it’s certainly not part of God’s plan for an abundant life. Beyond that, of anybody surely I should understand that there can be more going on on the inside than what we can see on the outside. Now, it seems fairly obvious that some people don’t need their handicap parking permit, but can I truly say that? Do I know what would happen if they had to walk up the stairs, or on uneven ground, or another fifty feet? No. (Unless this is regarding my in-laws. They would be fine.)

    Thank God, I am not the one who determines if people are righteously using their handicap parking permit or not. I am responsible for righteously using my own handicap permit, and my master can judge the rest of his servants.

    SDG

  • Rainbows, indie country songs, and I-80

    This past weekend, my husband and I got up two hours too early (I forgot about the time change!) and drove from Omaha to Denver-area Colorado for a medical school classmate/roommate’s wedding. A few random thoughts/highlights:

    1. Eight hours and change is a very doable day of driving. If you leave at six in the morning, you’ll be surprised how fast you get to your destination. (Oops.) All in all, the benefits of driving this distance vs flying handily outweigh the drawbacks.
    2. The bride asked my husband and me to sing the song for the first couple’s dance. The song was Sweet Symphony by Joy Oladokun and Chris Stapleton. Well, my voice is not like Joy’s and my husband is generally antipathic toward county music. Nevertheless we agreed, after warning my friend several times that we were going to sound quite a bit different from the official recording (“What do you mean?” she asked, genuinely confused). For myself, I was most worried about the low notes that are just outside of my range. Well, the time came to sing the song, and between being slightly dehydrated, having just eaten a good meal, and sitting next to several gentleman who were smoking cigars, it turns out the low notes were just fine but I couldn’t sing the high ones. Quite the unexpected and unsettling turn of events. But no matter. Almost everyone was half way drunk and my friend hadn’t taken much time to feel the feels during her big day, so the couple’s dance was her opportunity to cry. Despite the substandard singing on my part (my husband performed admirably), it was a rousing success. We and the other darker black guy at the wedding got a lot of compliments. (He was more annoyed about the situation than I expected.) Morals of the story: the things that go wrong are often not the things you anticipate and plan for (go figure), and given the right conditions even the mediocre can be just what’s needed.
    3. We saw a bumper sticker that read, “Carpe Scrotum. Seize life by the balls.” We are children and thought (think) this is brilliant.
    4. On the way back, we enjoyed one of the most gorgeous rainbows we’ve ever seen. Initially, it was a super-bright swatch of color with clear Roy G. Biv color divisions. (My artist husband had never heard of Mr. Roy G. Biv, which threw me for a loop. I guess for him it is just obvious? Is it a problem that I still rely on this mnemonic?) Shortly thereafter, however, it became a clearly defined full rainbow, and driving in the middle of Nebraska on I-80, we were able to see the end of the rainbow on both sides. Clearly. So many rainbows are like stars, they disappear if you look directly at them. Not this one. We exclaimed over it for about five minutes, in awe. Amazing how God works.
    5. While I’m on the subject of rainbows, I’ll just mention how much I hate the term “rainbow baby.” I can’t articulate why, exactly. It doesn’t really make any sense related to the Biblical understanding of rainbows. God doesn’t promise another child after you lose a baby, and some women have repeated miscarriages or stillborn children. Maybe it seems too soft and cute when the reality is no matter how many children you end up having you still have a dead one and that never goes away. Maybe I’m just bitter because I haven’t had my “rainbow baby” yet.

    SGD

  • All you need is love?

    I have two memories about Moulin Rouge before I saw the movie.

    The first memory involves me riding in a car with one of my more pop-culture aware cousins. A song was playing, and she said that it was from the movie Moulin Rouge, and in the movie the moon is singing that part. Obviously, this sounded bizarre.

    The second memory involves a senior in the class ahead of me and the final show choir concert of the year. Every senior in show choir could choose a song to perform at the concert, and she chose “Your Song,” by Elton John. Only she didn’t say it was by Elton John, she said it was from Moulin Rouge. I didn’t know any better, but I thought I was a nice song.

    After watching the movie, I can confirm that the singing moon is bizarre but overall makes sense in the movie world, and that Your Song is a good song. If one song pops into my head when I think of Moulin Rouge, however, it’s Ewan McGregor crying, “All you need is love!”

    Well, I don’t buy it.

    My husband is a long-time gamer. He is also much more interested in music than I am, so in the car we’re usually listening to one of his playlists, which contain a lot of video game music. One of those entries is “You’re My Number One,” a song written for a Sonic game and sung by the very soulful, very white TJ Davis. It includes the lyrical gem

    All I need is you

    For always and forever

    All you need is me

    Remember when I say

    All we need is love

    For us to be together

    Cause you’re my number one

    It’s a catchy beat but definitely not winning any awards in the songwriting department. The last time I heard that chorus, I turned to my husband and told him, “You aren’t all that I need.” It was a nice romantic moment.

    Finite, fallible humans and the love they can give are no match for our needs. For one thing, they die way too easily. What if the only person you need, whose love is all you need, dies in a car crash? What then? And, how can they possibly fill up the hole if your heart? My husband and I love each other deeply, and that doesn’t keep me from having moments of discontent and restlessness. I’d like to say that it’s not because he’s not enough, but of course he isn’t enough. He’s human. None of us are enough.

    God created us to be dependent on him. He’s the only one who can make the love songs true – all we need IS his love; if he’s our number one, we have all we need. He can fill the hole in our hearts.

    SDG

  • It’s not my fault

    Pem’s main redeeming quality is that she is a cuddly cat, at least where I am concerned. She was cuddly with my sister, too, so it seems to be a fixed trait. She’s not constantly on my lap, but if I’m sitting on the couch or window seat there’s a good chance she’ll be sitting on me at least part of the time. So much so that I even make her get off (!) if I need to pee or do something else in a timely manner. If Birdie ends up on my lap, on the other hand, I hardly dare move, and will attempt to stay put for long past the point of discomfort, because she does so maybe every two months.

    Unfortunately, when one is sitting on a window seat, it is hard to type when a cat is betwixt one and one’s laptop. Not very ergonomic. Pem doesn’t seem to particularly appreciate the arrangement either, and tends to nip to express her disapproval. I find even gentle nips unpleasant.

    On the other hand, this is a perfect excuse if I don’t happen to write. Irrespective of the real reason, it likely played a minor role at least. I’m not someone to fail to take advantage of a good excuse.

    Well, I can’t write now. A cat is sitting on my lap.

  • Easier money conversations with a budget

    I think about money a lot. I’ve read articles with stats saying that poor people think/stress about money more than anyone else, what with having to creatively come up with ways to pay the bills and etc. I am squarely in the upper middle/rich category, but it kinda feels like thinking about money is a hobby. A boring one.

    My husband, on the other hand, seems to think about money hardly at all. Part of this may be his disdain for math or numbers in general (unless they happen to be measurements for his woodworking projects… and even then he seems to find them tedious). Part of it may be that his family didn’t engage in long-term financial planning as he grew up. Whatever the reason, for my husband, money talk is a boring and painful chore that he’d prefer to avoid.

    He loves me, however, and so agreed to my request/demand for a “Financial Friday” every month, where we talk about our financial situation and strategize about short and long-term goals. I’ve tried to sweeten the deal with take out, with limited success. Initially, our money dates mostly consisted of me explaining a detailed spreadsheet containing meticulously compiled inflows and outflows with cells containing our savings targets. My husband played along, but Excel makes his eyes glaze over.

    Overall, it felt lonely. My husband was supportive, but despite politely listening to my explanations didn’t seem to have a meaningful understanding of what was going on. Even worse, at times I felt like the budget police, telling him how much or how little he could spend in a particular category.

    To solve this problem, I did something past me would never have imagined doing: I paid for a budgeting app. And after using it for the past five months, I plan to continue to do so.

    There are lots of apps available, but the one we use is called YNAB. (It used to stand for You Need A Budget, but this has now gone the way of the erstwhile Young Men’s Christian Association.) We each have the app on our phone, which allows us to see the available amount in each category and enter in expenses as they come up. (I am better at doing this than my husband, but he participates.) More revolutionary, each category has a green bar than depletes as money is spent, which is incredibly helpful for his visual mind. As a numbers gal, I couldn’t care less, but it allows him to stay focused during our finance talks instead of unconsciously checking out.

    As a result, we actually spend less time discussing our finances on Financial Fridays, because I have less to explain and he understands it better. I feel like I’m not doing all the work because he’s more involved in the day-to-day stuff, and his contributions to our conversations are more informed because he understands it better. I still think about money a lot, but I fret about it a little less.

    SDG

  • My rich person life

    Growing up, I didn’t think we were rich. Maybe that is how it is for most people who are, in fact, wealthy. In our small town, it was easy to recognize the people who had money: they lived in big, fancy houses and drove big, new cars, and attended the big, prestigious events. In retrospect, I’m not sure how fancy and prestigious you can get in a town of 2,000 people, but there were definitely people at the top, people at the bottom, and a whole lot of people in the middle.

    That’s who we were, middle people.

    Sure, my dad’s family owned thousands of acres of land and raised 3,000 cattle each year. But my dad worked 7 days a week in punishing weather conditions and was lucky to get a week off a year. (On Sundays he got up early to double feed the cattle before church.) Sure, we bought new Suburbans with a custom pink stripe on the side. But then we drove them for 10 years or 200,000 miles, whichever came first. (Later, we moved on to a new Sienna with the same pink stripe.) We rarely ate out; Dad said, Why go to a restaurant when your mom makes meals just as good or better? (There were also just four or five places to eat in town.) On trips, we ate from the Dollar Menu at McDonalds, and when Dad discovered $5 Little Caesar pizzas, that become the trip meal of choice. Our family vacations mostly consisted of driving to visit family in Michigan, Colorado and Washington. (We did go to Disney World once.)

    I remember one summer when Dad did a “series” on our family values. We had devotions every day after lunch, and similar to Rechab giving a charge to his children to avoid drinking wine and living in houses, he gave us his rules to live by. He mentioned that if we wanted to, we could afford to buy a new vehicle every year, but he and Mom chose to give the money away instead. This did not leave much of an impression on me, mostly because buying a new vehicle every year seemed like the peak of foolishness. Why buy a new vehicle when the old one is working perfectly fine?

    In retrospect, maybe I should have been more impressed. Over the years, I have become more aware of the wealth my dad’s family possessed. This became more evident when Dad died, and Mom suddenly had a lot of money, millions of dollars, on her hands. It became more evident when my paternal grandfather died, and the long process of selling the ranch began, the end result being the distribution of high seven-figure amounts to each of his five children.

    I worked in high school and had a very, very, part-time job in a lab for a few years in college in addition to working summers, but I never used that money to pay for anything I actually needed. I got a scholarship that covered college tuition, but my parents covered the cost for student housing, my car, parking, and insurance. When I was home for three months looking for a job after my dietetic internship, I didn’t even consider offering to pay rent while I lived at home. Half of medical school was paid for with scholarships, but the other half was covered by Mom. When we moved to our current location, Mom bought our house with cash, and we’re in the process of paying her back.

    And, to be honest, this seemed pretty unremarkable to me. Yes, I realized I was lucky to have my parents pay for my tuition, but the rest of it seemed par for the course. (Not the house thing, but it wasn’t surprising.) What are parents for, if not to help their kids out as they get started in life?

    I am slowly realizing that the only way this can seem normal to me is because I have grown up as a rich person. Kind of how a fish does not think it is remarkable that it lives in water.

    This realization has not happened due to an internal process, but rather because I married my husband, who I thought was a middle person like me. As it turns out, he may be a middle person, but growing up he was a middle person whose family was constantly flirting with the bottom.

    My husband likes to remind me that he grew up in the ghetto. The nicer part of the ghetto, to be sure, but still a place where he learned early on how to distinguish the sound of gunshots from the sound of fireworks. In my husband’s mind, a dishwasher is a signifier of luxury. His parents had six kids, and between number two and three made the decision that his mom would stay at home with them- something that no doubt had a positive impact on their lives, but also significantly reduced their bottom line. When able to, the kids went to work, and portion of their paychecks went toward paying bills. I was astonished to learn that one of my sister-in-laws, who had gotten a full-ride scholarship in college, took out loans so she could give the money to her parents. Every child has a story of finding money missing from their bank account. This is treated as a matter of course – the bills needed to be paid.

    As two people who both saw themselves as middle people (now- I think my husband would have seen himself as coming from the bottom earlier in his life), there have been moments where we learn things about each other that seem unfathomable. His sister’s college loans story, for me. My mom giving us $15,000 to buy a car when mine abruptly stopped working, for him. I was grateful, but not surprised; after all, she was going to do the same thing for my brother. That someone would have $15,000 available to gift was almost more than my husband could comprehend.

    Two years out from fellowship, I make a very nice salary. My retirement accounts don’t have too much in them yet, but we’re starting to make up for lost time, and I don’t worry that we won’t have enough. I don’t think I’ll ever reach the level of wealth my grandfather or even my dad had, which is fine with me. I still think of myself as a middle person, although I joke with my husband that he married a rich wife.

    And really, I guess I am.

  • Mass murder in the science lab

    Recently, I read an article on NPR about how researchers were able to film a human embryo implanting into a uterus. Truly amazing stuff. But how did they do it?

    I didn’t have to search to find out, it was in the article. Scientists made an artificial womb-like substance, and then gave embryos the chance to implant in it.

    Let me expand on that a little bit.

    They took laboratory-created HUMANS and put them in an environment where they could begin to live but had no chance of long-term survival, and they FILMED it. They “created” human life and treated it no differently than an amoeba. These embryos could have grown up to be scientists themselves, movie stars, Subway sandwich makers, moms and dads. Instead, they were given the opportunity to start their lives on a substance that guaranteed their imminent deaths.

    I know embryos are purposefully destroyed all the time, and I believe that is an evil thing. But this – it seems so cruel. The lack of moral concern by the scientists and the author of the article (and, presumably, the readers) is stunning.

    Some of the most heinous sins in the OT involved people sacrificing their children to the fire, as an offering to their false gods. We are now sacrificing our children in the name of science, to the gods of knowledge, health, and beauty. The scientists say this could help our future children, but the utilitarian ethics are not convincing. Why are future children more valuable than the children destroyed in the lab last week? No future good can justify their deaths.

    SDG

  • Cats: needy animals?

    Sometimes the cats are more needy. Normally, Birdie ignores me for most of the day, and I only see her if I pass by her napping on a chair in the kitchen, or staring at me from one of our giant poofs downstairs. Today, however, she started with a single but declarative meow next to where I was sleeping on the couch, after she finished breakfast. She stayed close by as I got my cereal and made sure she was the one who got the leftover milk in the bowl. When I sat on the kitchen chair she jumped into my lap and demanded pets, and as I’ve been sitting on the window seat she has walked over at least four times and wanted attention.

    Strange behavior with me, but more normal with my husband. He is undoubtedly the favorite. Birdie’s favorite time of day is when he sits at his desk in the evening. She invariably springs onto his lap and walks around in a satisfied manner before curling up. If he opens the door that leads to his office in the evening, she sprints up the stairs to ensure she doesn’t miss him.

    I, on the other hand, have more success with Pemberly. Another morning, I ran errands in the morning and was on my feet in the early afternoon with a baking project. Pem stayed with me in the kitchen, occasionally meowing inquiringly and leaning on my legs with her front paws. When the treat was finally in the oven and I sat on the couch she got what she wanted: lap time. Birdie never wants that, but Pem seems to go into withdrawals if it doesn’t happen in a day. Today she has been on my lap five times. She is there right now.

    Despite their reputation for aloofness, our cats, at least, crave social interaction. If Melvin and I are in a room together, chances are the cats will be there, too, even if only sitting in close proximity. They come when we call, mostly. They don’t like us to shut them out of our bedroom. (On the other hand, that may be more related to how they hate closed doors in general.) I wonder if part of the reputation is due to their impassive faces, which so easily can appear bored, disdainful and unimpressed. Based on their behavior, I think their attitudes can be very different.

  • Won’t let you go until you bless me

    At church, we’ve been going through a sermon series on the first part of Genesis (creation through Jacob). Last week covered Jacob and his family preparing to meet his brother Esau and Jacob wrestling all night with God. Jacob wouldn’t stop wrestling as the morning dawned, and God eventually put his hip out of joint. Even then, Jacob refused to let go until he received a blessing. And, God blessed him. He gave him a new name, which our pastor talked about as symbolizing a new identity.

    As I am a narcissistic person, my thoughts turn to myself, and I wonder – with the hard things I am going through right now – it seems presumptive to call them “trials,” but I guess trials don’t all have to be enduring captivity by Columbian gorillas – is there a blessing at the end of them? Does the blessing depend on me?

    Backing up, what would have happened if, when God told Jacob to let him go, Jacob just said, “Ok”? If he gave up, in a sense? Would God have blessed if Jacob hadn’t persisted and asked for (demanded?) a blessing? In some way, was Jacob demonstrating his faith by asking for a blessing, because he believed that God could do so? If he had given up and remained silent, would that have been a marker of unbelief?

    The sermon did not go into this, so I don’t know what our paster thinks about these questions.

    I do know that 1) God works for the good of those who love him (Romans 8), and 2) faith is how we please God (Hebrews 11). Somewhat unsatisfactorily, Hebrews 11 goes on to say that although OT Bible heroes had faith, they didn’t receive all of what God had promised, because the promise hadn’t come to fruition yet (Jesus). I guess now that we’re in the post-NT era I don’t have to worry about that. I also know that God responds to people’s faith, as demonstrated multiple times in Samuel-Chronicles. This happens to be where my loose reading-through-the-Bible journey has taken me right now. Just read about God saving Jehoshaphat and his people when they chose to rely on him to defeat their enemies.

    Some more questions, then. Am I wrestling with God about my trials? Am I wrestling with him about my current disability? About Lindy’s death? About infertility? The answer is, sometimes, maybe. I certainly cry about it and ask God “Why!” every so often. Definitely not all the time. More often than not (hence, partially, starting this blog which may or may not end very soon) I drift along, searching the interwebs, mindlessly reading articles, passing countless hours in activities that numb my mind with the digital equivalent of crack cotton candy. This is more like Jacob shrugging and taking a nap than struggling to throw God to the ground.

    I don’t think I’ve even been asking God for a blessing. I HAVE been asking him to give me “my” hips back/take the pain away, to heal my grief, to give us another child. So far, he hasn’t deigned to answer these requests in the way I want (hint, the answer is “yes” to all three), but even if he answered them right now, it wouldn’t feel like a blessing so much as a restoration of a damaged previous whole. Should I be asking for God to give me the blessing that comes WITH my hip pain, WITH a dead child, WITH barrenness? To be honest, I can’t really see how he would do that, but my imagination isn’t as good as God’s. More concerning, perhaps, is the idea that these blessings could come with a new identity. Jacob was changed from The One Who Deceives to Israel, The One Who Struggles with God (or, maybe as our pastor said, The One Whom God Strives For). Am I ready for God’s blessing?

    I do not know if I am prepared for everything the Lord has for me, but I do know that he is good, and his love endures forever. I know that I am disgusted with how I choose to live my life, and by trying to save my life I will only lose it. I acknowledge, even if I do not always feel it in my marrow, that I am beguiled by mud piles when God has infinitely better things to offer, like C.S. Lewis said.

    Heavenly Father, let me strive with you in my trials. May I not let you go until you bless me with blessings only you can give. If this involves transforming my identity, let it be so. Let all the glory be yours.

    SDG

  • Writing inspiration?

    In medical school, one of my small group leaders was Dr. Lydia Kang, who was (is!) an Internal Medicine physician who practiced outpatient medicine, and who was (is!) also a writer. When I went to the library to pick up a book on hold, I noticed one of her books on a display shelf and picked it up.

    I’d already read one of her books in med school, after I found out she was a published author. I don’t remember the name of it, but it was a YA dystopian-science fiction novel about a girl with Ondine’s curse, a medical condition in which the sufferer does not have an intrinsic trigger to breathe. (In the book, she got around this by wearing a necklace that sent a stimulus to trigger breaths. Kind of like the Inspire devices for people with sleep apnea?) I don’t remember too much about it, which doesn’t necessarily reflect poorly on the writing because my memory is terrible now.

    Anyhow, I just read my second Lydia Kang novel and it was… ok. Very competent! By the end I wanted to see how it ends even if it didn’t ring true all the time. I’m amazed by all the books she’s had published, it’s very impressive. And, she’s kind of like me! Well, not really. We’re both women, and we’re both physicians. I’ve taken care of a patient of hers before.

    I’d love to do what she does, be a physician and a writer. A writer with a capital W, which I guess in my mind means published. Unfortunately, before that can happen, I actually have to, you know, write something. And then it has to be good enough to get published. And then it actually has to be accepted. I don’t think that will ever happen.

    I guess I can be a physician and a writer, little w, right now.