Be Bold

Every now and then I feel the twinge of the old soccer injury.  When I was in Kenya a few years ago, I was invited to play soccer with some of the other IU folks and our local Kenyan friends.  Despite the fact that it was only my 2^nd day in the country, I was in no way acclimated to the elevation, and I hadn’t played in an actual game of soccer in about a decade, I decided to tag along.  Of course I use the word “play” in the most general sense possible.  My presence on the pitch was tolerated by my teammates (thankfully we had the sense to mix both teams Kenyans-Mzungus) and I even occasionally got to put my foot on the ball.  Mostly I ran up and down the field while watching a very competitive and exciting game of Kenyan soccer.

Despite the fun that was had, I was horrified to realize the next morning that I literally could not get out of bed.   The combination of 90 minutes of running, repeatedly kicking a soccer ball for the first time in 10 years, and a healthy dose of altitude sickness had led to what I later learned was a partial tear in my left hip flexor.  Needless to say, this put a damper not only on my day, but on the rest of my time in Kenya.  Given that my daily routine involved a 15 minute walk to the hospital in the morning, standing for rounds for 3-4 hours, and at least one more 15 minute walk back to IU House during the day, I found just getting around to be quite challenging, especially in the initial weeks.  With some assistance (ie driving) from the team leaders and time and rest, I was able to deal with the injury fairly well for the rest of the 2 months.  After returning home, I consulted with an orthopedic surgeon and took on some PT, the result of which was my hip returning to almost 100% within a few months.

Still though, I do occasionally feel the remnants of that injury.  Whether it’s after a long day on my feet, a lengthy bike ride, or 30 minutes before a thunderstorm (because I am internally 80 years old), the old familiar pang in my left hip reminds me of that Kenyan soccer game from years ago.  Chances are, I will experience the not-so-pleasant reminder of my overexertion for the rest of my life.  But, that’s ok.  Because what it really reminds me of is a rainy Kenyan afternoon spent having fun with friends new and old.  It reminds me of the power of sports and teamwork to break down even the most tenacious of cultural barriers.  It reminds me of a chance I took to Be Bold. 

In the U.S., if I was ever invited to play a competitive sport with a group of strangers far above my ability level, I would decline without a second thought.  In Kenya, in that moment though, things were different – I was different.  Just the process of travelling literally halfway across the world, of committing to work in a strange system, taking care of patients with whom I could not communicate with diseases I had only read about in textbooks – that one step was enough for me to transform.  My natural tendency is to be a “no” person, but my entire experience in Kenya, including the soccer game, was predicated on my answer being “yes.”  Yes to new challenges, new experiences, and new friendships that I would never have been amenable to had I been in my familiar environment.  What I discovered during both of my visits to Kenya, after weeks of saying yes and boldly facing new experiences, was a more authentic version of myself.  I’m sure it sounds strange (and I’m not sure that I can completely explain it), but my experiences working in Kenya were such intense journeys of personal growth and discovery, that both times I left, I felt as though I were leaving my true self behind.  I know this sounds like a deep and possibly over-thought epiphany to arrive at after only a soccer game, but this gets at the heart of my passion for Global Health in general and Kenya specifically – it is simply where I discovered my fundamental calling to medicine.

I have recently transitioned to my first “big girl” (ie post-residency) job, and in the last few months I have had the luxury of time to contemplate what is next.  For the first time, pretty much in my life, there is no defined or prescribed next step.  I could spend the rest of my professional career working in my current job, or I could elect to move on in a year or two.  I am the one who decides what is next.

This is both an exhilarating and a terrifying prospect.  In my moments of solitude contemplating what I want my career as a pediatrician to look like, my mental wanderings inevitably circle back to Global Health.  Exhilarating because I know, deep down, that is where my true calling lies.  Terrifying because I have inklings of what it will entail – more years in training, moving away from Indiana for a fellowship, uprooting my family, living abroad, sacrifices…but I also circle back to the Kenyan soccer game, my inner boldness, and my authentic self.  It is my hope and goal in moving forward in this next phase of my life, to continue to go forward with bravery.  I want to dream big dreams, act with courage, and possess the daring to pursue new challenges – including any and all soccer games along the way.

FFFF Week 1 Recap: "Best Breakup Song"

Week one of the Facebook Fun Friday Fray got off to a rollicking start, with answers ranging from the contemporary Grammy-winning dulcet sounds of Adele (courtesy of FFFF’s self-appointed co-founder Mike O’Neill) to the classic Motown stylings of Frakie Valli and the 4 Seasons.  We had a splash of modern pop culture heartbreak back story in the form of Kanye’s anti-love song to Amber Rose, and we even had a little bit of attempted rule bending in the form of multiple answers (mostly by people named Andy…)  Overall I was pleased with the wide variety of musical genres and years represented in the answers.  Clearly bad breakups and the songs that nurse us through are cross-generational.  However, despite the multitude of feisty, fun, (and one especially) filthy answers, there can be only one winner, so without further ado…

Winner, Week 1: Meatloaf’s “Two Outta Three Ain’t Bad, submitted by my esteemed uncle Andy Treesh.  Great song by a great artist (even if his “acting” career was poorly thought out), and one of America’s best singer of breakup songs we love to belt out in our showers and cars.

Runner Up, Week 1: Me, actually.  Further proving my awesomeness.  Or the love that my FB friends have for songs sung by Canadian vegans jilted by Uncle Joey from Full House.  I’ll just let you all think about that for a few minutes.  Sadly, no points awarded for runner ups (runners-up?) in the current scoring scheme of FFFF, though this could be up for discussion in the future.

Hat of Shame, Week 1: By unanimous vote of FFFF’s board of directors (ie Mike and me), no H.O.S. will be awarded for week 1, as everyone came up with decent answers.

Besties

One of the best days of my life happened in first grade.  I was actually sitting alone, dejected one afternoon at recess, because my former best friend Samantha had just informed me that we were no longer best friends (for some long ago forgotten reason, one that was clearly of highest importance in first grade).  Just as I was contemplating how I was going to convince my parents to let me transfer to the school across town (one more likely to have first grade students made out of “best friend material”), I was approached by a girl from my class who I knew only vaguely.  “Hi, I’m Laura. Do you want to be friends?”  While I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this gangly, red-headed girl with a clear penchant for being loud, I realized quickly that I didn’t really have anything to lose, so I said “sure.”  The rest, as they say, is history.

It’s actually a little hard for me to recall meeting Laura, because it’s hard for me to remember a time in my life before her.  Ever since that fateful spring day at Carlin Park, we have been friends – best friends, in every sense of the word.  Oh sure, we experienced our fair share of squabbles, girl fights, fights over boys, disagreements, and time periods of growing apart… but, when the gossip died down, the crushes faded, and the other social circles broke apart, we always grew back together, and picked back up where we had left off.

After 25 years of friendship, I could dedicate an entire book to the Tales of the Adventures of Laura and Meagan (and really, I think I should someday).  We did things lots of childhood friends do: rode bikes, had sleepovers, gossiped, planned parties, went on trips… We also did lots of things that maybe not all childhood friends do, and even a few things we probably shouldn’t have… we anonymously tee-peed her neighbor’s house one night, but then felt so guilty about it we went over in the morning to help clean up.  We went to Cedar Point religiously every summer throughout middle and high school – starting our planning weeks in advance, including who else would be invited (boys? No boys?), where each person would sit on the drive there (depending on who was crushing on who that particular year), and the exact order of rides, how long we were willing to wait in line for each one, and how many times we would ride each coaster… and we would not deviate from the plan. (And we wonder why our friends didn’t think we were any fun???).  We share(d) an obsessive love of Pride and Prejudice – BBC version, obviously – where we discovered that perhaps the only man who could come between us (and possibly still could) was Colin Firth.  We, and this is true, staged a guinea pig wedding, complete with invitations, guests, gifts (mostly hay and carrots), a maid of honor (another guinea pig), and a best man (a large black rabbit who dressed up for the occasion – in a tie we stole from her dad’s closet.  The highlight of the day was when said best man went missing for 15 minutes or so, yet we were physically incapable of looking for him because of laughing so hard at the thought of someone finding a large black rabbit in a neck tie…)

We were in band together, youth group together, we scrapbooked together, and lived only about a mile apart, so shared rides to school for years.  We nursed each other through bad breakups, sucky relationships, and life and career crises.  We’ve had countless adventures together.  We met Tori Amos together.  In essence, we tackled the various yet inevitable travails of childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood together, and came out on the other side still connected.

Today is my dear friend Laura’s 30^th birthday, but unfortunately she will be unable to read this blog post.  Now, before you instantly think this is going in a macabre direction, I will tell you that Laura resides on a tiny island in the South China Sea, where she lives and works full time rescuing and rehabilitating endangered sea turtles.  Yes, you read that correctly, my best friend is officially the coolest person in the world. 

One of Laura’s most memorable attributes from childhood was her love of animals.  This was not always channeled in a positive way – examples that come to mind include her shutting my cats in windows, dressing my dog in pants, and us approaching a clearly altered raccoon in the middle of the day, because Laura was worried it was injured (turns out it had rabies…).  However, with work experience and formalized education, this has matured into a serious, passionate, and not-to-be-underestimated life mission of saving endangered species.  Laura has lived in China for over a year, where she co-manages and is integral to the daily operations of a floating hospital for injured and dying sea turtles of various species.  She works 7 days a week, from dawn until dusk, and the things she has been able to accomplish have been nothing short of amazing.  And did I mention she doesn’t get paid for any of this?  Yeah.  That’s how passionate this girl is about saving her turtles.  There are many things that I love and esteem about my Laura, but this, her single minded fervor for bringing these animals back from the brink of non-existence is her most admirable and defining trait.  When humanity looks back on the history of our planet, I truly believe that the most remembered and honored of us will be the Lauras of the world: those who fought tirelessly to prevent our fellow creatures from disappearing from Earth entirely.  I am fiercely proud of her.

And I miss her.  Every day.  When I look in the mirror and see the aggregation of the things I have experienced and become, I see Laura.  She is a person so integral to my development and identity that, whenever we find ourselves in the same place, we are able to simply pick back up where we left off.  Regardless of the time that has passed.  The connection I feel to her is more than the sum total of our shared experiences – it is a bond that is difficult for me to fully describe, a strong, tightly woven silver thread between our souls that has existed long before our physical presence on Earth, and one that will exist long after.  She is the yin to my yang, the light to my dark, the cheese to my macaroni… She is my best friend.  She is my soul’s reflection in another body.

As time and physical space have moved us apart, I have become increasingly aware of what a precious and rare gift a friendship like ours is.  I think that we all probably have “soul mate” friends, but I don’t know that we all find that friend in this life.  Lucky for me, mine only lived a mile away.

So, Happy birthday Laura.  So far, it seems like life on the other side of the 30s isn’t so bad.  I miss you, I love you, and I am incredibly proud of you.

For more information on Laura’s Sea Turtle rescue and rehabilitation, visit http://www.seaturtles911.org/

Facebook Fun Friday Fray

Welcome, Facebook Friends and Blogging Buddies.  If you’ve made it this far, you have at least a cursory interest in what the Facebook Fun Friday Fray might involve; (and/or you accidentally clicked on the link while ignoring a friend request from your high school principal) and I am here to tell you. 

In the spirit of summer fun and frivolity, actual “social” networking, and to showcase that I have a very eclectic and hilarious group of friends, it is time to formalize the Facebook polls you’ve seen on my feed lately.  Here’s how it will work:

Every Friday (ish… hey, I’m busy) I will post a new status or question open for comment and answer.  For example, today’s FFFF is “Best Breakup Song.”  Then you, as my Facebook Friend, will post your opinion of what is the best breakup song ever written.   Feel free to then “like” your own answer, as well as any other answers on the feed.  At the end of the week, the answer with the most likes is the winner, and one point will be awarded to the clever soul who posted it (in the event of a tie, each person will receive one point).  Only one answer is allowed per person, and polling and voting will be open for one week before the next question is posted.  Also, you don’t have to post an answer in order to vote, so if you can’t think of a breakup song or you think this whole idea is more ill-conceived than Crystal Pepsi, please still vote on the answers.  Someone’s pride and/or bragging rights are on the line; which segues nicely into…

At the end of the summer (and/or whenever we get bored with this) the friend with the most points will win an awesome prize.  Trust me, it’s gonna be great.  Not like Woot Bag of Crap great, but still pretty good.  In addition, Mike and I will be buddy blogging (aka bantering in a public format) about the previous week’s answers every Friday, where we will also announce the winner, honorable mention(s), and the coveted Hat of Shame for the week’s worst answer.  (If you ever wanted an insider’s look into the life-altering, earth-shattering, and galaxy-moving things that married people squabble about, here’s your chance.)

The only other rule to know is to please be respectful – the fun we will be making of each other is intended to be good-natured.  Feel free to use the feed to campaign for likes from the masses, as well as run smear campaigns against your competitors’ answers.  Otherwise, I encourage you to think creatively, and realize that the “right” answer may not (and frequently won’t) be the obvious answer.  Just as in the classic thinking man’s game Apples to Apples, the key to FFFF is to know your audience…

We’ve already come up with a pretty fun list of questions to post every Friday, but if you have any poll suggestions, please email or PM them to me.

Happy Voting!

Wooden Shoes

As soon as I saw them, I knew they were mine. I knew they would fit, and fit perfectly, before I even tried them on. Walking with my mom through rows of metal shelves in my parents’ storage garage, my eyes were drawn to them almost immediately, despite the dim lighting and the seemingly unending piles of flotsam they were half-buried under in the back corner.

Like many families before us, this year mine has discovered the “after” that happens when a loved one passes into the afterlife. After my grandfather’s death this winter, my parents and my uncles plunged head first into sorting and arranging The Estate of Endless Complication and Confusion. It has been an exhausting, frustrating, and sometimes downright unbelievable journey; and one that is unfortunately far from over. For starters, my grandfather was a pack rat. And that is putting it mildly. Believe me when I say I cannot adequately describe the sheer volume of things that my grandfather had squirreled away in his house, basement, attached garage, 4 outbuildings, storage shed, trailer… So much stuff, in fact, that my parents have spent the bulk of the past 5 months simply sorting, packing, and moving the valuables to their storage buildings.

Which is how my mom and dad ended up with a bomb in their garage. No I am not kidding. No it is not live, thank goodness, but yes, it is a WWII-era, 250lb black metal torpedo-shaped incendiary device with the words “practice bomb” printed right on it. (When I asked my dad how he was sure it was, in fact, inactive, he replied, “Well, it didn’t explode on the drive down here.”) Why did my grandfather have this? I told you, he was a packrat. How did he acquire it? We have absolutely no idea. In addition to this large and possibly illegal-in-some-way historic weapon, my parents have now found themselves the guardians of: an approximately 100 piece collection of brass flugelhorns, hundreds of antique guns, fifty-plus grandfather clocks, unopened bottles of brandy from the 1950s, and amazingly, a Ford Model-T and a Model-A. Again, it would be impossible for me to describe the abundance of glass bowls, figurines, tools, bikes, wagons, mirrors, barrels, plates, and so on that my Grandfather accumulated over his 70 years of life. Suffice it say, it will take the remainder of this year to catalogue and appraise it all.

This is how I came to be in possession of the wooden shoes. An exquisite, honey-colored seamless and smooth pair of wooden shoes with the words “Dutch Clogs: Made in Holland” stamped on in the inside. A windmill imprinted in the top of the right shoe, a tulip on the left. My grandfather bought them in Amsterdam during his European deployment in the 1950s and brought them back to the U.S., where they presumably remained in his custody until he died. I never had a chance to ask him about them; indeed until a few weeks ago I didn’t even know of their existence, and I can’t quite explain why I was so drawn to them. Partially because of their uniqueness, certainly because of their superb craftsmanship and near-pristine condition despite spending fifty years in a garage, and likely because of my own Dutch heritage. Something else though… I would like to think that my Grandfather bought them specifically for me. Now, I know technically that’s impossible, but I imagine him winding his way through some narrow Amsterdam alley, seeing the shoes in a shop window, and stopping to buy them for… someone. He didn’t know who. Size-wise they are clearly women’s shoes, and he had any number of women in his life to gift them to: his mother, sisters, cousins, even future wife. But, he held on to them.

Yes, it’s entirely possible that he just forgot about them, or whoever he bought them for didn’t want them or they didn’t fit, or a thousand other explanations for their existence in my Grandfather’s array of lifetime possessions. But they are mine now, and regardless of how they came to me, a part of me believes that they were always meant to be mine. There is no way my Grandfather could have known in 1958 that he would have a Dutch-descended granddaughter with size 7.5 feet who truly loves and collects beautiful shoes…all he knew was that they were something exceptional that he needed to buy. I think about him discovering them, about his lifelong love of adventure and for beautiful and unique things, and I feel connected to him still. I feel connected to those parts of him that live on in me. I look at the wooden shoes my Grandfather bought me, and I am happy.

The Decade’s Greatest Hits

This is not an overly timely post, but several weeks ago I surpassed a milestone that bears mentioning. January 29th, 2012 was the 10th anniversary of my first tattoo. It was also my 30th birthday. While 30 is no longer The Birthday In Which Your Life Is Over that it was even in my parents’ generation, I still approached this particular year with some amount of trepidation. Twenty and twenty-one were my last big milestone birthdays, and I couldn’t fathom how 10 years had passed already… I had lived a full decade of my adult years, and did I have anything to show for it?

Almost as soon as I asked that question of myself, I knew of course the answer is yes. I’ve never been one to exercise excessive bragging rights, but in looking back on my accomplishments over the past 10 years, I believe I have the right to a certain amount of – to borrow a phrase from my college sorority – “pardonable pride.” My life between 20 and 30 has brought me no small number of endeavors to be proud of, and even more importantly, a seemingly infinite number of joys, experiences, and indelible memories. I could probably spend a lifetime writing about all of them, but then no one would finish reading this post, so instead I have compiled my own personal “Top Ten Greatest Hits” from the past decade:

10. Triathlons: During my third year of medical school, Mike and I had the brilliant idea to train for a sprint triathlon. It was a moment of temporary insanity, but we joined a training group, went through the approximately 4 month training process, and actually finished the 750m swim, 20km bike, and 5km run. No records were set to be sure, but I do remember feeling an incredible sense of accomplishment after it was over. For someone who has never been, shall we say, athletically gifted, to be able to finish something like a triathlon was quite exhilarating. It was even fun – so much fun, in fact, that in another moment of temporary insanity I signed up for, trained for, and completed a second sprint triathlon during my fourth year of medical school. An IronMan I will never be, but every year since then I have wanted to do another one, but of course residency always seemed to derail that plan. Maybe this will be the year I pick it back up again.

9. Carnegie Hall: At the end of my intern year, I had the opportunity to travel to NYC with my church choir and sing in a concert at Carnegie Hall. The music selections were superb, and we actually got to rehearse with and perform with the various composers as our conductors. As a lifelong music lover, to be able to sing with such outstanding musicians in a building rife with musical history is a once in a lifetime experience that I will never forget.

8. Tori: Speaking of music – anyone who knows me even a little knows that Tori Amos is my absolute favorite musician of all time. My love affair with her music started in high school (probably almost a little tritely – what love-sick, angsty teenage girl did NOT love Tori Amos in the 90s???) and has continued ever since. I’m not nearly as crazy about it as I used to be (I was quite crazy), and I think that my appreciation of her music has matured as I’ve matured, and her music has matured as well. But really, the point of #8 is that I actually MET TORI AMOS. When I was a 2nd year medical student, Tori was doing a combo book tour/concert tour, and one of her stops was in Chicago. I got tickets to go to her book signing, and actually got to meet had have a 30 second conversation with the One and Only Tori Amos.

7. Putting on my Bowling Shoes: There were many things I loved about Vanderbilt, unfortunately the football team was infrequently one of them. That’s why, when I was an intern and Vandy squeaked enough wins out of the 2008 season to be bowl-eligible, I rearranged my entire holiday call schedule to be able to attend the game. Not only was I at Vanderbilt’s first bowl game since the year I was born, they actually WON the Music City Bowl that year. I spent New Year’s Eve driving back from Nashville to Indianapolis and went to call the next day on about 3 hours’ sleep, but it was totally worth it.

6. Parlez-vous Francais? As part of our whirlwind post-Kenya trip around the world in 2010, Mike & I spent a week in London and Paris. This was my first visit to Europe, and again I could pen multiple pages about our fantastic week and the various experiences we had (which in theory I will do someday). One highlight amidst a week of highlights was dining at Le Jules Verne, the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower. It was a 4-hour, 5-course, wine-fueled dining extravaganza, and by far the most expensive meal we have ever eaten. It was also another once (or hopefully twice- or thrice-) in a lifetime experience, and arguably the best food we have ever eaten (or second best… which is a leads me to…)

5. Maui: I need to preface #5 by saying that Mike & I share a love of travelling. We have been truly blessed to have both the means and the opportunity to travel to a wide variety of places in the US, Canada, Mexico, the Caribbean, Africa, and Europe. This was of course B.C. (Before Children). We have been on many fantastic vacations, but our unanimous favorite was our trip to Maui in February of 2010. Hands down the best vacation we have ever been on. Also something I will in theory write about more extensively someday, that trip was the ultimate combination of perfect timing (the winter of my 2nd year of residency), perfect weather, perfect hotel, perfect car, perfect adventures…. It was just… perfect. We snorkeled in Molokini crater, watched humpback whales breach only yards from our boat, biked down Haleakala at dawn, drove the white-knuckle Road to Hana, and ate THE best dinner of our entire existence at Mama’s Fish House. Between #5 & #6, Mike and I spend a lot of time discussing our dining adventures, and we vacillate between Paris and Maui being the Best Meal of All Time. Despite being over two years ago, we still talk about our vacation to Maui all of the time. Given that there are still a huge number of places I want to visit in my lifetime, I don’t frequently like to repeat vacations; however, Maui is a place I hope to visit many more times in the years to come.

4. Education: You’ve probably noticed that I’ve framed the experiences of my previous decades based on where I was in my medical training. Of all of the things that shaped my 20s, my education was by far the most influential and pervasive. I graduated from Vanderbilt at age 22, medical school at age 26, and residency at age 29, so literally the entirety of the past decade has been spent in some type of formal education. My journey to becoming a physician has been one of immense personal growth and satisfaction, and the relationships I have made over its course have shaped my identity as both a physician and an adult. Thirty is a milestone of years, and also of career. I have finally completed the training portion of my career (well, for now anyway) and I look forward to starting my first “real” job in July.

3. Kenya: If you’re at all familiar with the genesis of this blog, you know that it started out as a chronicle and tribute to my now two experiences living and working in Kenya. Literally hundreds of pages have been dedicated to the various events of 2007 & 2010, and there is no way I could overemphasize the importance of these experiences in my life. They shaped me as a doctor and a human being, and gave my career a direction I could have never have previously anticipated.

2. 9/8/11: The birth of baby J, our first child. No words could describe the importance, the joy, the frustration, the elation I have experienced in becoming a mom. If my life’s work were nothing more than bringing her into the world and raising her, I would be nearly completely satisfied.

1. Mike: After almost 8 years of marriage, I have no shortage of words of praise (or sometimes seemingly criticism ) for my life’s partner. We married at 22, young and naïve, and over the course of the past decade we have grown, grown up, and grown closer together. While marrying later might have made us better prepared for the trials and travails of marriage, I would not trade our experience of mutual maturation into adulthood for anything. After 10 years of “going steady,” the innumerable experiences, memories, joys, and sorrows have simply melded into the unbroken warm glow of Our Life Together, and I could not be more grateful for his presence in my life. Maintaining a relatively normal, drama-free, adult relationship through the ups and downs of life, career, and family is not easy as I’ve discovered, and amongst all of my accomplishments, of this I am the most proud.

If the next decade holds as much as the previous, I am happy indeed. After all, age is just a number and 40 IS the new 30… but if 40 is the new 30, then 30 must be the new 20 (and 20 is the new… 16? 10?), but I’m not sure I really like that comparison. While my 20th birthday marked a time of great excitement and promise in my life, I don’t think I would want to be 20 again. Indeed my first tattoo at age 20 was also my last tattoo. My 20s were great, but I did what most do in their 20s – I grew up. And the thing is, I actually kind of like being an adult now. I am grateful for the memories and experiences of my 20s, and look toward those of my 30s with anticipation and hope.

Watermelon Seed

Gathering with family over the course of the past week, I heard number of stories about my grandfather: some whimsical, some bittersweet, some ribald, some downright unbelievable. Their variety spoke to what a truly unique and diverse life my grandfather led. The most amazing story by far was related by my dad, and is as follows:

Just after returning home from his deployment, my grandfather and his twin brother took a trip to Michigan together. (My dad was hazy on the details of said excursion, but in his words: “I don’t think they were going to church camp.”) On the way home, with my great-uncle driving and my grandfather sleeping in the backseat, they were involved in a terrible car accident. Upon arrival to the hospital, my grandfather was declared dead, sheet pulled over his head, and his gurney rolled into the hallway to await transport to the morgue. A doctor walking by happened to see my grandfather’s foot move, at which point, per grandpa, “the doctor slit my throat” (grandpa speak for a tracheotomy), and removed a single watermelon seed from my grandfather’s trachea.

At this point in the story my brother and I looked at each other incredulously. I suppose I should mention that this accident happened prior to my grandparents marrying and having children, before they even met. We were both thinking: this is how close we came to not existing? Unbelievable.

To think that my existence in this world was decided on so narrow a margin is both mind boggling and eye opening. How can I ever take life for granted again when I came so close to not even being? How can I not live every day to its fullest, when any minute alteration in timing or circumstance could have stolen them before they began? And most importantly: how can I ever look at a watermelon the same way again???

When I think about my grandfather’s watermelon seed, I am amazed. When I think about the fact that he was born a healthy twin in 1936, I am incredulous. And when I think about the fact that his own mother was also born a healthy twin in 1916, I am awestruck. If I ponder too long the curious set of happenstance and circumstance that led to my life, I begin to feel that I have to right to exist at all.

Except for this one thing. Purpose. I truly believe, with every fiber of my being, that we all exist for a purpose. We were placed on this earth thoughtfully and intentionally, with a set of skills and circumstances uniquely our own to complete the task at hand. I also believe that the vast majority of us will never fully comprehend the purpose for which we were placed here, or understand the amplified magnitude of our seemingly inconsequential every day existence. It could be that my purpose is simply to be a physician. It could be that I was placed here because my children will do amazing things. It could be that I rescued a stray dog that would have otherwise injured or killed someone. Most likely it is an infinitely intricate tapestry of opportunities, decisions, and circumstances interwoven to create my Purpose.

If you find my grandfather’s story a little far-fetched, I don’t blame you. My grandfather was a consummate story teller, and he did enjoy the odd embellishment every now and then. Regardless of the details though, the significance for me remains the same. We all have those watermelon seeds in our lives: those near misses, those almost never was-es, those too close to call moments. The thing is, most of us never even realize it. The point is not to drive yourself crazy thinking about it though. The point is to realize that life is indeed an extraordinarily precious and rare gift, and that we as people should be much better about living every single day like the miracle it is.

Beyond

“It’s very sad,” said my mom.
“Yes it is,” I replied. “But it happens to all of us, at some point.”
Replied mom, “Yes. I’m glad this isn’t the only world, that there is another after this life, that we go…” She paused.
“Beyond?” I offered.
“Yes, beyond.”

I suppose it’s a little inauspicious that my return to blogging (one of my goals for 2012 is to start writing more) picks up where my 2010 blog left off: with the death of a grandfather. My dad’s dad passed away peacefully with his oldest son, my uncle, at his side on Friday night. But I also suppose that there is no better way to honor his memory than to share what I remember of him, what I knew of him, and what I loved about him.

One of my earliest memories of grandpa is from Christmas, when I was 3 or 4 years old. The only thing I REALLY wanted that year was a Cabbage Patch doll (which was the toy to have that year and impossible to find). But of course, grandpa found one for me. He never did tell me how many people he had to wrestle for that doll. I still have Rory, packed away in a box somewhere. He reminds me of that Christmas, and how important my happiness was to my grandfather.

When I was in Kindergarten, grandpa came for “bring your grandparents to school” day. I remember thinking that was the coolest thing, to spend an entire day at school with my grandpa. I can now imagine that spending an entire day with 30 5-year olds was not the most tranquil day of my grandfather’s life, but he was there nonetheless. He sat in the circle, talked to my friends, and played with me at recess. One of my favorite pictures of the two of us is from that day. Outside on the playground, grandpa in a baseball cap and suspenders, me in a bright red sweater and a huge smile.

There are countless other memories, some overwhelming in their significance: Grandpa at our wedding, at my medical school graduation, Grandpa going to France for his 70th birthday, him meeting my daughter for the first time the day before he died; while some are small moments: the feeling of riding behind Grandpa on his motorcycle, Grandpa taking Brant and I and the dogs to Dairy Queen in the El Camino, the way he would always say “Hey, Meagan, what do you know?”

Not all memories are particularly happy either: Grandpa’s life-threatening motorcycle accident when I was very young, and the all-too frequent visits in Indianapolis with him when he was hospitalized at the VA over the past decade. These are all a part of life though, and when I think of Grandpa, it is easy to call to mind a host of happy memories to overcome the sad ones.

So now he is no longer with us, his physical pain and frailty have passed, and he is Beyond. Capturing a multitude of ideas and concepts in 6 letters, beyond has long been a favorite word of mine. It is a particularly germane description of death, being a word that means both “farther on than, more distant than” and “outside the understanding, limits, or reach of.” Grandpa is farther on from us now. His life now is outside our understanding. He is Beyond.

Given Grandpa’s lifelong love of travelling, it is very comforting for me to think of him this way. It is also comforting for me to consider who is waiting for him there, who preceded him beyond this world into the next: his mother, his father, his twin brother, his sister. Numerous other friends and family whose separation from this world was as difficult for him as his is for us. It is comforting for me, as I consider my own mortality, as I consider this great gift of life that we all only receive once. It is comforting for me to know that, when my own time comes to pass beyond this world into the next, those who have gone before will be waiting for me.

We gather as his friends and family to mourn his death and celebrate his life. Though not always perfect, I would judge his life to have been a good one, full of love, friendship, happiness, and the constant companionship of his faithful dogs. He will be missed, but I will remain perpetually grateful for his presence in my life.