There is a plexiglass statue of a salmon in Old Tacoma. It’s almost exactly 2.5 miles from the front door of my apartment, by foot. I run past it almost every day – representing the halfway mark of an easy, 5-ish mile run (though the definition of “easy run” transmogrified quickly once I moved to the PNW as it’s next to impossible for me to run any distance without an elevation gain of more than 500 feet). That fish, which I affectionately call “Mr. Tuna,” or “Mr. T,” is decorated with festive outfits every single major holiday. His current festive attire is a red stocking cap, a green garland wreath, and a string of lights wrapped around his body as an obligatory testament to Christmas™. No matter its décor, every single time I pass that fish I stop my run, find the same small scratch in the plexiglass behind his eye, and kiss him (I do not endorse exchanging bodily fluids with public inanimate objects, either personally or professionally).
I figure there is no better way to do this than to move chronologically through the year of significant events, albeit with some exclusions for brevity…and privacy of some involved. Anywho. I figured I’d start with a bang. This is fortunately not my car – but had any confluence of events led to me leaving my house just a few seconds earlier for this run, I would have been the sole mortal victim of this drunken escapade. Lucky for me, I was alive to see this car going 90mph taking a turn up onto the sidewalk a few hundred feet in front of me, flipping once before coming back to Earth. Action movie shit.
Hopefully it goes without saying that this isn’t a romantic expression (though it wouldn’t be the first time my sexuality was questioned – most recently suspected of being asexual!). For as long as I can remember, I’ve spent time while running to show appreciation for…well, I don’t even know what. On my sporadic summer runs in high school, I would pick a leaf off the first tree I ran by and throw it in the air, but not before showing my appreciation – with a kiss of course. I imagine at that time it was appreciation for sleeping in, or time off of school, or for sunny days, or some other discrete, objective entity one can point to, to be thankful for. And for some inexplicable reason, without intention, my awareness would gravitate toward gratitude – well before I was fully conscious of it, and way before the word “gratitude” itself infiltrated the popular lexicon from cringey self-help personalities so as to make me nauseous just writing the fucking word.
I’ve made more new friends this year than probably any other in my life, which is saying a lot considering I was introduced to my new family in residency last year. Hopefully this evinces some marker of maturation as an adult who is able to stymie their inherent social anxiety at least somewhat. However, there is a quality about old friendships that cannot be replicated. I had the chance to be visited by so many people I’ve known for the majority of my life – a gift I can only begin to repay by being a tour guide for the natural beauty of the best area in the country (sorry California).
For the decade(!) now that I’ve been what one would consider a “runner,” I’ve progressively stumbled on more and more abstract, intangible foci in life to be grateful for, and therefore run for (I had a whole post about it years ago). Now 10 years into this nearly quotidian exercise, with tens of thousands of miles under me, the motivations to run have been distilled down to something more axiomatic. Existential. All the above is still true, but I think now that even if all that were stripped away, motivation would still exist. The famed ultrarunner Scott Jurek more concisely summarizes the phenomenon in his book chronicling his FKT of the Appalachian Trail when he repeats this internal mantra during arduous moments of self-doubt:
“This is who I am. This is what I do.”
This meditative exercise, even if stripped of all of its many, many physical/emotional/spiritual/social benefits, continues because it…just. Does.
Medical residency in general is far from the cutthroat, Grey’s Anatomy portrayal that the lay public probably perceives it. But uniquely warm, congenial, and overall fantastic is the program I get to be a part of. I try never to take for granted the camaraderie within and among the classes of unbelievably talented and kind doctors. Never will I feel like I deserve this group (and TBH I’m still convinced my acceptance was a clerical error). But I figure as long as I’m here I’ll be incessantly motivated to make myself a better doctor and friend.
This sounds like an unhealthy compulsion, I know. And like many in the running community who have recovered from an eating disorder can attest (yes, I’ve written about that too), being mindful of one’s relationship to exercise and the body is of crucial importance. Yet, it remains integral to who I am, nonetheless. And seemingly unshakable (not that I’m trying to). AND, if nothing else, this morning ritual has provided me a constant in a year full of variability, uncertainty, and blistering change.
Being apart of this group in Tacoma defines serendipity. I’ve written about November Project previously and its indelible position in my heart for as long as I’ll live. When my spiritual sister from NP Seattle told me this group was coming to my hometown I was elated. I knew I’d be there. I humbly got to participate in the very early weeks of this group and owe countless friendships and memories to its exponential growth over the last few months. It’s so challenging to find community outside of residency in most circumstances. This was exactly what I needed.
My initial impression of this year, before I sat down to reflect, was that it was somewhat…stagnant. Static. A sort of rinse and repeat of the year prior, both personally and in my role as a resident. Maybe its because of just how momentous and bewildering it was to experience everything that I did, that I hadn’t paused to reflect in all the ways that I changed and grew (and hopefully didn’t devolve…). Perhaps more than any other year of my life. Which is a remarkable revelation for someone who has been pithily cataloging their life in residency on social media every single day since becoming a resident. Looking back, its hard to imagine how I would have endured any of this year, the good, the hilarious, the tragic, everything, without the breadth of extraordinary humans I consider my family.
This year was inundated with so much novelty. First time as a senior resident. First time admitting people overnight. First time working with interns “under” me. First time putting in central lines and arterial lines unsupervised. First time openly crying in the hospital…which became less than novel over some darker moments in the year. Among the much less frightening firsts was, on my 3rd attempt, camping! I had the interminable wisdom of a fellow co-resident and close friend and her sister surgeon to guide me through fire-starting, camp-making, and how not to lose your cool when surrounded by pestering raccoons.
I’m not of the “resolutions” persuasion for new years – which I think by this point has been (rightfully) denounced given its proclivity to promote self-shaming and pathological patterns of thinking. But because I’m introspecting fervently right now (this post has taken me hours as I started with absolutely nothing in mind to write about), there is an intentionality of my life that has been lacking. Persistence and routine – those are muscles I’ve hypertrophied to no end. As is my muscle for tangential wandering, both mentally and physically. But being a doctor (adult in general?) requires a bit more…well, it requires more purpose than just, “it’s what I do.” I am highly cautious of purely cynical behavior – actions taken solely as a means to a personal or political end without any intrinsic desire to complete them for the sake of enjoyment. But aimless, inscrutable actions done purely out of impulse or compulsion aren’t exactly congruent with any of my goals in life, either. I think somewhere between neurotic goal-seeking and aimless, though routinized, hedonism, lies adulthood. If this year I find that balance, I’ll owe much thanks to Mr. Tuna.
This is the only picture in my phone of Mr. T that is not molested with my nonsensical Instagram captions. As an inanimate, immobile structure there is a surprising amount of ambivalence he can absorb when I project whatever insecurity or salient, provocative emotion is coursing through me as I run to greet him (it’s often fear of something related to medicine…)
Much, MUCH love friends – and happy new year! Enjoy the rest of the 2022 collage 🙂
There is an incandescent quality to this friendship that is immeasurable. It is likely commensurate with the amount of annoyance we force anyone within earshot to suffer through – only serving to further satisfy our loud, fast-talking, obscene, indulgence. I cannot describe how much I love my best friend other than there’s no other person in the world I’m making a fort with in front of a tv just to pee myself watching SpongeBob re-runs.My spiritual big sister. Another of the countless benefits of the November Project community. One of those rare friendships that is tightly bound within minutes of meeting, and only continues to solidify. Every trail run is an opportunity to expand horizons in so many of my life’s domains: medicine, running, politics, culture, feminism, the list goes on. But most importantly, every interaction provides respite and rejuvenation for any impending obstacle, foreseen or unseen.Before my schedule came out for this year, we were allowed to request days off. We had to prioritize which days we most wanted to have, and of the ones I requested, July 31 was the top of the list – bar none. I would have worked overnight every fucking holiday this year and then some, just to have 24 hours off to be at this wedding. This is the most multi-talented, erudite, absolutely hilarious human I’ve ever met. Not pictured is his far better half. This one was for the ages.Recapitulating some of the funniest moments of my life from high school somehow never loses its luster when I’m with these dudes. It’s like a movie or a show that gets better every time you watch it because you find something new every time – or what you already found hilarious just ages well, like a fine wine (I’m told that’s a good thing). Despite vehement, exasperated disagreements over the addition of honey and wool into one’s lifestyle, I wouldn’t trade these friendships for the world.The idea of going all the way back to Seattle from my Spokane ICU rotation, just for one night, to see a Florence and the Machine concert by myself…well, a more timid me couldn’t justify. How stoked I was when, two weeks before the show, I found company (on a date, no less!) to attend. I worked 10 consecutive, 12+ hour shifts, to string together just two consecutive days off. 5-hour drive one way from Spokane to Tacoma, then to Seattle to have my mind blown, as expected. 12/10 would do again…minus the rejection part of the date. My past few attempts at dating have ended with a eerily similar reasons for not wanting to pursue things further, which is ultimately somewhat gratifying to know that my self-assessment as a particularly boring and probably obnoxious person is accurate. I am thankful to know that I no longer have the trepidation of attending a concert by myself, and the next time FatM is on tour there will be a (likely single) curly-headed man in the front fucking row waiting to be serenaded. Can. Not. Wait.Finally – my beautiful sister. What a gift it is to realize friendship with a sibling in adulthood. A friendship deferred by a myriad of circumstances too numerous and tumultuous to even begin to list here. One of the distinct pleasures of being an adult (now 30 years old dear god I’m old) is the ability to curate relationships irrespective of familial, societal, or social pressures. And you can commiserate with no one better about a turbulent upbringing than a sibling who was there for it all. Which also lends itself well to being a sounding board for the gallows humor inherent in medicine (we are not to be judged for our private conversations over the phone after long days at work…). This year will bring us more laughter, jovial threats on our coworkers’ lives (again, not to be judged for our words), and certainly fond memories. And unfortunately, some sorrow this year is inevitable. Hopefully it can be a further catalyst for cementing the bonds of siblinghood with all of our family. For now, I’ll cherish what we have and continue to be excited about what’s to come. And I’d fucking better – this ink doesn’t come off easy!
