the insanity of it all

Tonight I said, “Sure, I’ll walk with you.”

This is so unlike me. I enjoy my solitary walks across the medical center campus long after sunset – the way the lights circle the tree trunks along the greenway, a little bit of cheer among a sometimes cheer-less day. I’ve been known to stay later simply for this time alone.

Today I had plans for the same. I had bottled up my frustrating moments of the day, ready to release streaming tears down my face as I walked, a therapy in itself. But tonight I said, “Sure.”

We walked side by side with faces pointing forward, the unexpected rain pouring down around us, jackets pulled tightly around our bodies protecting from the wind. We talk, without seeing, about clinical rotations, plans for the upcoming months, the insanity of it all. We laugh when the cars driving by send waves crashing up and over the curb, threatening what little of us is still dry.

We parted ways on the third floor with a smile and see you tomorrow. My face is damp when I reach my car. From the rain this time, not from my overflowing overwhelm. And I’m glad that I said, “Sure.” I’m glad that you asked.

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It takes a village

I wrote about match day just a hot second ago (actually months now). Things change so quickly that documenting the big moments feels overwhelmingly impossible when all of our moments feel like the big moments. And that’s okay, for me at least, because there are times when it gets foggy and recognizing any moment at all is something of note. Time may pass as if it was never there, but to be aware of the passing is a gift. A difficult, humbling gift. I’ve now moved to my new city and begun what is sure to be a challenging and rewarding residency program. In the short time at my new hospital, I have completed orientation, training, and almost my first rotation as a pharmacy resident. What have I learned?

Residency takes a village, y’all.

It takes co-residents who sludge through the daily grind together, share exhausted smiles, and offer small bits of encouragement. It takes preceptors who love to teach so that new pharmacists succeed and grow in confidence. It takes program grads who reach out and ask how things are going. It takes coworkers who tolerate questions upon questions. It takes summoning 700 different selves deep within you to meet 700 different challenges throughout the day. It takes non-pharmacy peeps to keep you grounded and round out the “outside” life a bit. It takes family who have no concept of what I do each day but still firmly believe that I can do it (and remind me of that, too). It takes all of these people and more who daily go unnoticed in the background making every little detail of a large program run smoothly. Residency takes a big, strong village because these months aren’t easy. Young grads are filled with such strong desire to learn more and be better, and it’s this village that will help us do just that. I’m grateful for mine.

Friday Five

1. 🙌 🙌 🙌 three pairs of “hands raised in celebration” for Tracy at O’Reilly Auto Parts for helping me replacing my headlight

2. First cups of coffee at 5 pm (because at this point in my life the end of the work day is really the beginning of the work day)

3. Hebrews 7:22

4. How friendly the cashiers are at my local Publix

5. Every. single. moment. of 13 going on 30

 

Match Day

I wrote this two years ago, and suddenly here we are:

Letter to myself on Match Day 2018

She is.

My anxiety’s name is Ann. She is loyal and licentious. She is envious. She commandeers my joyful moments and replaces them with doubt. I call her Ann because “Ann”xiety (duh), but also I often have to remind myself that she is simply Ann emotion. She is not me; nor does she represent me. She does not have the final say because she is disobedient, ruthless, and deceitful. She has no one’s best interest at heart, other than her inconsolable friends depression and despair. She is simply an emotion that forces me to be intentional with my steps. She is separate. She is there, and I tip toe around her hoping she won’t see. But I also stomp my feet with purpose, unafraid of if she hears. Some days I feel her close like an itch I just can’t spot. Some days I tie her tightly and throw her out with all the rot. She will return, and that is fine. She is an emotion. She is excited by another. She is not me.

Being brave, then and now

In another lifetime I wrote a different blog.

One full of prayer and grace and carefully crafted essays that I was brave enough to share with the locals because I wasn’t actually local. I was over 8,000 miles away. I stumbled across that blog tonight and I sat in bed crying, with my husband asleep next to me, as I remembered that girl. She seems so brave to me now. She boarded a plane with strangers, found solace in the Indian sunsets, relied on daily ramen noodles, and rode into the village on the bench seat of a beat up jeep to help care for the lepers. Those words she wrote… oh, what she says to me now… I need to hear it. Life is good. Community is good. Give thanks for joy and grace.

Lord, let those words soak deep into my days and permeate those dry, deprived places. Navigating life, personally and professionally, can wear a girl thin. I’m in the last stretch of school, which means a breadth of opportunities and also fear of losing each one, of making the wrong decision, of saying the wrong thing, of not checking off each to-do box. Never again will I be in this moment, with circumstances both so big and so small. So I can’t help but be grateful when I know some where half way round the world is a priest who once told me to take it slow, to avoid the temptation and downfall of “proving oneself.” I won’t allow myself to feel the frustration of still treading through those same thoughts; I’ll only be satisfied that she recorded those words to remind me yet again of such basic truth.

In another lifetime, maybe I was braver. In a different way. But I’m pretty brave now too. I’m brave enough to say that it’s still not all figured out, that I can find comfort from my college-senior self, that I still believe life is good. Community is good. Give thanks for joy and grace.

Smiling in the dark

I mindlessly scrolled through my feed until I came across a photo of a woman in a hospital bed, smiling with her whole body, without a strand of hair gracing the top of her head. She was surrounded by three of her closest ones, wrapped in the deep love of family. The caption read that she was finally going home, and I smiled. I don’t know this woman, but I know she has been given a gift. I sometimes see faces like hers as I walk the halls of the hospital. The photo’s caption went on, describing their blessings and God’s goodness toward their family. All this through a variety of hashtags, with words smashed together because time is so crucial, not enough available to give each word its own beginning and end. Time was moving on, and her life was out there waiting to be lived. What a gift she had been given.

But then my smile fell. God’s goodness sent her home that day healthier than she had been in months. God’s goodness had made her stronger and whole, had extended her life, had buoyed her and those close ones during a dark time. I am truly thankful that such miracles exist.

But my ache is still raw and my thoughts go here:

what about when it doesn’t happen that way?

God’s goodness may not always feel that good. Sometimes it feels like a lonely house. A broken relationship that keeps gnawing at you. Being the new girl in the room. Stepping out of your comfort zone. Staying late when you don’t have the time. Sometimes it feels like the phone call that never came or the horrific one that did. Accepting help when you wish you didn’t need it. Ignoring the hurtful words of a coworker.

It’s a mess of things that can feel and truly be quite messy.

It can be hard to pull yourself out of bed and put on a brave face when it feels like God and his goodness didn’t show up, at least not in a way that you were wanting or expecting. Although unbearably tough at times, I listen to my heart beating softly and certainly. I hear him there. I reach out through the blurry tears to find a hand to steady me. I feel him there. I let someone hold me just a little bit longer.

So what does it take for us to continue repeating God is good during those times when we want to scream that he is not? Maybe simply separating God’s goodness from the good things that happen in our lives and the good feelings we experience throughout our days. These things are not the same. Maybe settling into the discomfort and knowing he has settled in too. I wish I could say that I have the answer, but of course you know I don’t. His goodness is a mystery that leaves me wanting more. I want daily to understand, to be more capable in the processing of my hurts and the hurts of others, to identify God’s goodness in every situation, no matter how dark, and still be able to smile with the gift.