Ralph

Step-wise. It is how I prefer to accomplish tasks. I view most projects as smaller steps that, once taken, will lead to the desired endpoint. I fully understand that this model isn't applicable to all processes, but working in that logical fashion feels right to my left brain.

My desk at work is an example of my preference for steps. My list of upcoming surgeries is in constant renovation. I've found coordination between services to be the most challenging component of a big case, so I keep check sheets to remind me not to miss a vital step. And there are so many. A few months ago I decided to take a week of vacation and discovered (at the last minute) that I was the only one who knew how to set up a particular type of case. I emailed all of my colleagues, the residents and the fellows the check sheet for the case. I received responding emails stating that some had no idea what went into that type of surgery, and some hoped they would never have to coordinate one. They will. I will take more vacations.

Now...the thing about steps. There are limiting factors. Resources available being one. Sometimes staff isn't available, or the patient has to work out insurance kinks. But the biggie, the one that can bring my "I-ride-a-unicorn-to-work-and-I-work-in-a-hearts-and-flowers-everybody-is-so-happy-to-see-everybody-please-thankyou-can-I-help-you-with-that?-day...is the Rate Limiting Factor. Ugh! Sometimes there is one step that simply must be completed, and if not completed, the process will grind to a halt. A virtual standstill. This. Drives. Me. Crazy.

I concede to a small genetic expression of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I realize this. I count backwards while I run. I'm crazy about checking and re-checking the prescriptions I write. But not being able to move, not being able to work can make me a lunatic. Okay, lunatic is a pretty strong word. In my head I'm a lunatic. To the observer, I'm probably just a little edgy, maybe cranky. I suppose I should say the I understand a rate limiting factor that is uncontrollable, some things just happen...like, oh I don't know...hurricanes. But if I'm sitting around waiting on someone who is not participating in the process, and SHOULD be participating because it's his or her job, either as part of the health care system - or as the patient, I'm likely to be a little testy. I don't need or want excuses from these RLF's. Thinking of them as "Ralph's" seems to help. It's a name I simply can't take seriously.

As I consider this, there are also RLFs in relationships. I've been in relationships where one party is simply not participating. That's pretty damned rate limiting. Lately, I find myself wanting to make sure I'm walking my own steps. I don't mind walking next to someone through the process, but I don't want to be caught up in his idea of what the steps are and wander too far off of my own path. I have so much going on in my life right now, and I'm still learning. Each person I encounter is a teacher, as I hope am I. Although I will continue to introduce myself as Michelle, I am also Ralph.

Closure

For all who have supported/wondered/ranted (that wasn't necessary, but I love you for it)/asked/phoned/texted/occupied my time...I have the answers now.

Eastern Europe.

Safe.

Family illness.

I started saying "Goodbye" in my heart a couple months ago. I was allowed to do so in my email reply earlier this week. The knowing is such a relief. The safety and comfort of that sweet family is of utmost importance to me. The rest is simply the rest.

Again, I appreciate the way my friends rallied during this time. I've learned so much. I've grown in ways I may never be able to fully measure. I am grateful beyond words.

Love,love. M

In-complete/complex-ity

This unfinished business between us stirs my mind. I am unsettled. I am vexed. I close my eyes to shut it out and my lapses fall in line. Rational thought points blame away, but I redirect fault's arrows, allowing old guilts to advance.

Stand with them now. They are your comrades in my old battles.

She was on her death bed and I left her there, I thought I was fatigued beyond imagination. I didn't know the difference between fatigue and grief.

He was bullied on the school ground. I looked to another for his salvation.

She was angry at me and I took it personally instead of taking myself to her and asking for forgiveness.

I didn't know how to treat their illnesses. I was embarrassed by my inabilities. I remain so today.

He didn't know how to be a father. I thought I did something to provoke his absence.

My rational mind tells me that there are no perfect answers. I did the best I could possibly do in each of these situations. And I've done the best I could do in our unfinished business. But I feel so very guilty. The commonality is my unknowing, my inability to help someone that I love(d) so very much.

I suppose all I can do is ask that if someone knows the answer, that they help me out by filling in the blanks. If I should be grieving, I'll grieve. I can do that, I've done it before. He is missed. You are missed. I am unsettled.

You're A Runner

As the Metro train pulled into the Reliant Park Station, I knew I'd probably have to share my seat with someone. Even though it was only 6:30 on Saturday morning, the cars were filling fast. People were on their way to work in the Medical Center and more than a few of us were headed downtown to a big charity race/run/walk. I noticed a 20-something woman stepping onto the train and scooted over in my seat.

"You're running, too?", she asked.

"I think a lot of us are," I nodded toward the near-full car.

She then told me that this was her first race, that she was training for the New York Marathon. She'd won a spot in the lottery, and her coach wanted her to run a short race this week, as fast as she wanted, to get a feel for the race atmosphere. She's been running long distances in her training runs. She told me she was nervous.

I remembered my first race. I was so scared. And excited. And lost. It was the 5K associated with the Houston Marathon. Huge field of runners and I had no clue what I was doing. I simply showed up and took off like a jackrabbit out of the starting line. It's been my personal best time to this date.

I told her about that first race, and that I still get nervous, that it's normal for some runners.

"Oh, I'm not a runner," she said. "I just started a couple months ago, I entered the lottery for the marathon on a lark."

I looked at her shoes. They were water-stained, dirty, obviously with some miles on them.

We talked a bit more before we arrived at our station. Then we walked together to the staging area, and found the chip lines. She wasn't sure how to tie the chip to her shoe. I told her how I do it, then I remembered something else about the chips. "When you finish the race, there will be a volunteer waiting to cut the chip from your shoe. You don't have to stop right then and there. It's OK to walk around a bit and then come back. Just don't bend over to mess around with the chip yourself, or you might feel faint. This is your race, do what you need to in order to take care of yourself."

We parted ways then, only to briefly see each other at about 18 or 19 minutes in, but only for a moment. She asked me how far until the end. I told her I thought it was less than a mile, and to hang in there, then I lost her.

I was standing on the train platform, waiting for the return trip to the parking lot when she approached me, all smiles. "I did it! My first race!" Her cheeks were flushed.

We boarded the train and stood, holding onto the poles while we recapped the run. She told me she couldn't believe how quickly she came out of the start. She hasn't been running her long runs at such a fast pace and she had to hold back, thinking she might run out of steam. God, that sounded so familiar. She apologized for talking to me at mile 2. "Did that bother you? I didn't mean to bother you."

I reassured her that it didn't bother me at all. I was glad that we ran into each other again.

She told me she was glad I mentioned getting the chip cut off her shoe. "I walked right past them. If I would have stopped, I think I would have passed out. I'm so glad I ran into you. You really helped me today. Thank you."

She asked me if I was going to do anything to celebrate my run today. I laughed. "No, I guess it will be a normal Saturday for me, but what about you?"

"I think I'll have to do something special, after I rest for a couple hours."

The train pulled into Reliant Park, and she moved toward the doors. She told me goodbye, and thanked me again. Just before she left I told her, "Hey, I looked at your shoes, you're a runner."