Rediscovering Work

“Absolutely. The argument for medicine extending the goodness of God in the world is far less tortured than the one for teaching and research. While sin and death are part of this side of heaven, the will of God is for life and wholeness. You may feel your work is mechanical and impersonal, but that is just you. The restoration and maintenance of sight is so important it's documented several times as miracles performed by Jesus. Defeating disease and degeneration is a manifestation of God's work and will. It's a good thing.” – friend and mother A.M.

“Since my cancer diagnosis, I have experienced more friendship from more people than at any other time in my life. I've experienced not just a quality of medical care but a kind of medical care, humane medical care delivered by humane and decent people, that seems Christ-like to me. I don't know the religious convictions of all the people who have treated me, but I certainly believe that they are used by God in ways that are really quite extraordinary to bring blessing to people who are in circumstances that lead them to hunger for blessing.” –William Stuntz, Harvard Law professor

Having a baby has forced me to confront how I think about work. For a long time, nearly as long as I can remember, work has been the defining centrality in my life. I think I started off somewhere naïve and enthusiastic, in ninth grade biology when for some reason I figured if I liked dissecting pickled frogs I should become a doctor. Very strange how I can be indecisive about what outfit to wear but never a moment questioned that ambition.

During the next eight years, that evolved into a drive to reach a goal, because it was intellectually stimulating, because it was hard to get. I arrived at the top medical school, went through a minor identity crisis when I realized I had no practical idea what medicine was like, then emerged to immerse myself in clinical training: I think because I discovered I honestly enjoyed it. I loved working with my hands—in this regard the pickled frog had pointed me in the right direction—I liked understanding the body and disease, and working with a team. Without really intending to—and perhaps the nature of medicine did not give me a choice—it became everything about who I was, what I did.

Then somehow I ended up in ophthalmology. I still look back at this with surprise. Without a doubt it was the smartest decision I made; or rather, not going into general surgery, as I nearly did, was the smartest decision. Getting married, realizing there was more to life and that required making a conscious choice, had a lot to do with it. Ophthalmology still allowed me to operate, and to specialize.

But the drive was still there. I arrived at what was then the top ophthalmology program, and the years that ensued were the most difficult ones of my training, not just because like every other doctor I basically knew nothing about the eye before I started, but because of the achievement-worshiping, sink-or-swim culture of the place. For the first time I looked around, particularly at the women, and really saw where I was heading. If having a certain reputation and prestige meant have few kids and not seeing them much, I didn’t want to go there. So I decided not to apply for a formal fellowship, and instead had a baby.

And since then any residual ambition I had has disappeared entirely. Lately I view work in one single negative: it keeps me from being with her. And that colors everything. I am also rustier than my colleagues after three months of being away, and am tempted to think I don’t have as much to offer. Sometimes it’s difficult to look back on all the years of training and not believe it a waste.

I’m trying to rediscover why I work. Because I still believe that, at least for now, I am called to work, to finish what I started sixteen years ago. My heart’s not in it the way it was before, but maybe this is good, because it allows me to refine my motives, to see what’s left when I no longer work to define or glorify myself. I have to work for a better reason, I have to make every moment count in a deeper way, because of what it costs me, and what it costs her.

And so, in oddly backwards fashion, I am now trying to find my purpose in medicine. I am asking that God redeem a lifetime of ambition and years of difficult training for his good. I am asking for motivation to study, to believe God has given me a skill set and kind of care to offer that is unique. For the first time in my life, believing this does not come naturally. But perhaps this too can be good, can lead me in a direction I would not have naturally arrived at. Because in the end, what I really want is for all of this, working and mothering, to be about more than myself, about more than whatever it is I feel I want at various stages of life. For that it would be worth going through anything.

Watching the Snow

Feeding

“You are the greatest mom I ever know to pump breast milk faithfully even in very difficult environment. You have given E the best she needs.” –my mom

There is no clearer illustration of what it means to be separated from her at work than this whole feeding thing. When I was home with her the first three months, things were how they should be: I made milk according to how much she wanted. She would latch on and eat to her heart’s content. I never had to wonder how much; I could take her anywhere and know I could feed her enough wherever we were.

Then I went back to work, and instead of feeding her at natural intervals, there are the pumps, pump parts, bottles, bottle parts, freezer bags and storage bags. I rarely had time or place to pump during that first hard rotation, and despite all I tried to make up for after it finished, I couldn’t keep my milk supply from dwindling.

And then there is packing her milk for each day. I don’t really know how much she needs, because I’m not there when she’s feeding. I’m only pumping about a sixth of what she could probably be eating each feed, which affects how much I can afford to pack. And in the end, how much and how often she eats varies depending on what the day is like for everyone at daycare.

There’s no sadder feeling than feeding her on weekends and realizing she comes away still hungry. Not being able to go out without having some solid food around. I just can’t will myself to make more milk than I do.

I realize in the big picture things will be fine. We are starting to supplement with formula, which is fine. But I think there is a part of me still grieving something. Sooner or later, this would have come—but having to go through it earlier than I would have chosen is hard to accept. It seems silly to say, but some version of the stages are there: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

It’s a lonely experience. I know hardly any mothers in the same work situation, and even then it’s difficult to express how it feels. But I’m trying to feel that it’s okay. There is nothing about doing this that is perfect, or sometimes even in my control. And that’s okay.

Journal Excerpt

The child's foot doesn't know yet that it's a foot,
and wants to be a butterfly or an apple.
- Pablo Neruda

I love how her feet are so soft and lumpy on the bottom, like little bits of dough left out to rise. Her toes curl down instead of splaying up like grownup ones do. I think about all the places they will take her in the future: but right now they are just decorative little floating lumpy things, there for me to enjoy.

Yucky Kiss