An Engagement Story, Part I

This is actually a two-fer. I was engaged once before for one tumultuous, torturous, heartbreaking year, which, come to think of it, ended in August before the ’08 elections. Just over 4 years ago. It seems like longer. I was living with not a lot of hope, and I definitely needed a fuck-load of change. What followed the break-up of that engagement was the most listless series of days without end and deep sadness that left me soaking in the tub for hours every evening after work. I lost 15 pounds in two weeks and could only bring myself to eat brioche stuffed with Nutella. Oh, by the way, I’M A WOMAN AND NUTELLA IS HOW I GRIEVE. So anyway, I remember reading Wilkie Collins in the tub – the book was suffering a double wetness from the bathwater and also from my pathetic tears of grief and loss. I did this every night until I finished The Woman in White. It’s a long novel, and I read slow. It’s not surprising that I would be so stricken after losing a fiance ( who really I never should have been with ever), but what upset me so much in the end was how it ended- with a single, unfulfilling fight after months if not years of mounting resentment had built up. It ended with him moving to a different country to the one I had already moved to to be with him. It ended with him refusing to communicate with me at all – even having his mother handle our final financial settlement with a card (sunflowers) and not even a phone call. (Ewww). I was bereft of all the people I had come to love in England – all the people there that really mattered. So there I was living in the East End of London in a life that suddenly made no sense whatsoever. That was all demoralising, but that paled in comparison to my feelings of failure. After years of strident overachieving in school / the workplace, I failed at something big. I failed at something desirable women were supposed to be good at – I failed at loving myself and knowing deep down that everything would be alright. Because I was spiraling into the kind of depression that leaves you eating Nutella sandwiches and reading gothic novels in the bath and not having the will to be physically upright for any normal length of time. I could not sleep, but then I couldn’t wake up. Such was the “new normal”.

This is why when my peers in med school, who are 22 years old, express impatience over not finding the perfect guy I have to consciously keep myself from bursting out laughing in their baby-smooth faces. It took me decades to get to the point where I’d be a half-decent spouse. What does the average person really have to offer in their twenties? Crippling college loans and really good taste in indie bands? Please.

Back to the point I was previously making. What the horrendous breakup of an engagement taught me was surprisingly, not a horrible fear of marriage, but that if I was going to get married I was going to do it right. I was going to become so emotionally whole that life’s curve balls would no longer leave me convulsing with emptiness. How did I make a comeback? Thanks to talk therapy I was able to recover from that depression. It only took a few sessions for me to retake control of my emotional wellbeing. I learned that depressed brains have a bias towards depressive, negative thoughts. I found with practice that I didn’t have to indulge the downward spiral of negativity that I had been living with for so long. I started to think of myself as a doer rather than a thinker. I read a lot of studies that said people who had scientific or quantitative skill sets – where there are right answers – as opposed to artistic skill sets were happier. I learned from the Framingham study that people who are surrounded by lifelong friends life longer, happier lives. I decided that I could do more than just know this information – these were all things I could do – all things I could have in my life. In the end I never needed prescription drugs for depression. I was able to change my habits enough to start living a totally different life. I started listening to my feelings instead of denying them. I quit my job. I moved back to Philadelphia. I began studying science. I became unshakeably happy. I met my soon-to-be husband. Most of all I decided not to be afraid of what I couldn’t do and instead committed myself to seeking what I was capable of.  

Vessels

I took an alternate route home and found this tree in a neighbor’s front yard. Lesson learned: you may find something magnificent the next street over, so it’s worth mixing it up even if it’s not the most direct route. I took this using my iPhone 3GS.

Food for the Soul

Reblogged from Steve McCurry's Blog:

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Conversation is food for the soul.
- Mexican Proverb

 The great secret of succeeding in conversation is to admire little, to hear much;
always to distrust our own reason, and sometimes that of our friends;
never to pretend to wit, but to make that of others appear as much as possibly we can;
to hearken to what is said and to answer to the purpose.

Read more… 337 more words

I don't know how Steve McCurry captures humanity so consistently, but I'm glad he does. His portraits let me peek into others' lives around the world - when I was younger I used to lust after travel, though I no longer have the same pangs, I love being reminded of a time when I did want to go everywhere and see everything.

Anticipation

Here is a list of things I am anticipating in the order that they will happen:

1) Test on Metabolism 

2) Pregnancy Test

3) B’s 30th Birthday

4) Wedding

5) Christmas

6) SKI TRIP!!!!!

7) MY 30th Birthday

Only two tests and 5 celebrations – not a bad list for a med student. My punctuation is totally giving away my priorities. I love skiing so freaking much. I have only skied in powder one time and it ranks as number three of great things that have happened to me (one is meeting B, and two is finishing a marathon.) It was in Bansko, Bulgaria, which if not for the powder, would have been pretty unremarkable. Once you ski in the Alps and the Rockies you start judging all other places on a totally new scale. Like, “oh there are only 100 people ahead of me in the lift line and no kids have skied into me today and started crying. Success!” But the powder was amazing so, way to go Bansko. Last year was a major disappointment on the skiing front. There was hardly any snow. This coming season a few friends and I have booked a place in New Hampshire for just after Christmas to go skiing. Hence I am checking out the snow report for NH every few hours or so. What an utter waste of time! (FYI still 0″ of snowfall) I can feel it in my bones that it will be a snowy winter. So I want to describe skiing in powder, because I may be losing some of you and you may be thinking that this is an elitist and spoiled experience to rank so high on my list of great things that have happened in the history of my life. But let me just describe it to you, and then you can judge away, be my guest. The powder was up to my knees. I was off-piste so I was totally immersed in unspoiled nature. It was so quiet I could barely even hear myself moving, and it was as if I was moving through whipped cream. The powder provided just enough resistance to slow me down and make me feel safe. I surrendered myself to the pull of gravity, and I was gracefully falling, partly buried in the earth yet flying at the same time. I will never forget that feeling. I felt so at home and complete. So there you go.

 

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The neighbours are playing the piano and singing songs from Les Miserables. B has just told me that he wants a piano. He can play a mean blues, and I’ve wanted to get him one for ages. We’ve been disagreeing about whether to get a digital piano or a piano with strings and hammers and costly tuning needs. Can you guess which one I was voting for? He wants the analog version, and he found one free on craigslist. So as soon as we determine we’re not being bated by an axe-murdering psycho we will be one free piano richer in this house. Where in this house to put it? No idea. But I’m really looking forward to sing offs with our musically gifted neighbours with whom we share a wall. No, I HAD A DREAM IN TIMES GONE BY, BITCH.  

I nearly forgot one more item of anticipation. Soon I will be having a bachelorette party! I’ve only ever been to three “Hen” parties which is the British equivalent. The first was in Newcastle, UK in March. All the local girls were wearing miniskirts and sleeveless tops and apparently beer coats because it was freezing. Whenever I am up at such northern latitudes I feel like I’m about to fall off the face of the earth. I can remember very steep hills, dancing like crazy (per my usual) and drinking from penis straws. It was most traditional but also a little surreal. The second was in Barcelona and it was a combined stag party / hen night just me and my then boyfriend and our friends who were getting married. We did a tapas tour of the windy streets off Las Ramblas, killed many bottles of Cava, and it was awesome. There is something so warm about restaurants in Barcelona, where the proprietors are there creating an atmosphere and everyone’s smoking and practicing the art of leisure. Some of the best food I’ve ever had was in Barcelona. The third hen party I went to was an all-day, all-night extravaganza which included a Bollywood dance class, followed by lunch and tea at a the Mandarin Oriental, followed by Roller disco. Um, I was “knackered” by the end of it. Sidenote – I’ve been to the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong and to the one in London – not to stay, just to have a snack – but I remember them as really setting the benchmark for the amount of awesome service that can be lavished upon someone in exchange for all the contents of their wallet, and I want to remind myself to go back again. 

 

I like joking around, and also having fun.

This is a form letter dating from the 9th century. It’s for local officials in Dunhuang who want to apologise for being drunk at dinner parties. I marvel at this relic because it’s a reminder that nothing is new. There is no limit to what can exist in the universe. It is just a horribly, horribly random piece of history. And it’s also a practical solution to a timeless problem. Ah the timelessness of the drunken situation.

Obama Re-elected, which is a good thing…

Because now I don’t have to spend the first four years of married life with a man who yells at the TV for sport. I mean, it’s bad enough that every time we drive past a house with a Romney sign he shouts, “You’re a loser, you republican asshole, a loser lives in that house! Let it be known to everyone that republicans are losers!” But at least I know this will subside once the signs start to come down. Gracious winner my future husband is not. In fact, he is a ruthless competitor who loves winning. Many may be surprised by this quality because when you first meet him he comes off as kind, and gentle, which mostly he is. But then try to make one sneaky move against him in Settlers of Catan and he will crush you. Not just in a small way, but in a way that salts the earth where you once sat, a trail of bleached bones scattered along the path to the bed, where you inevitably chose to retreat in order to die in peace like an injured stray cat who is loved by no one. Such is the nature of his victories. Magnanimous, not so much.

So when I say I’m glad Obama was re-elected I’m coming mostly from a place of gratitude for the domestic peace that will ensue.

I’m also glad that the backward rape comment candidates Rep. Todd Akin and Richard Mourdock lost their bids. I mean, how could the republican party not completely disown these guys. My advice to any male republican candidate would be if you for some reason desire to comment about rape…just don’t. You really have nothing worthwhile to offer on the subject, and you’ll only be hurting your own campaign.

It dawned on me this election that I am actually getting to be quite old, because I am no longer among the demographic of young people who fail to turn out and vote in elections. My mother, bless her heart, still tried to give me a hard time about my age group, but I had to remind her that I am no longer a recent college graduate. We late 20-somethings to early 30-somethings have jobs and vote and have investments in the stock market. Some of us may even have wills and prenups and leadership roles in companies and in the military. When it comes to young people not voting, I’m not sure it’s laziness or apathy so much as it is the struggle to become involved in a very antiquated, analog habit that requires some planning, paperwork, and waiting in line. When I was 20 I was terrible at activities which required the filling out of forms or the filing of paperwork. I was just very disorganized. Five years of working in a bank really beat that paperwork-related lethargy out of me, but I totally feel for young people who just get stuck on the whole registering process.

SO in other news beyond the election scene, which is again, just really awesome, we at WSOA HQ have decided to start trying for a baby.

I know, I know, hasn’t my life exploded enough already what with being in medical school and planning a wedding and all. In short, yes, it has really exploded. But I’ve heard from some parents (read:all) that there’s never a good time. We are hoping that it will work into our med school schedule nicely because we get a short break during the summer of first year. We are trying to work within this window, but who knows how long it will take. It’s taken some of my friends no time, others quite a few months. It didn’t work for us the first month. We kinda blew it because we went to DC for a weekend during my fertile peak and were staying in a friend’s living room, so no sex possible there.

I didn’t realize before we started trying to conceive that there is this horrible thing called the two week wait. It’s the time you have to wait between having all the sex and getting a result on your pregnancy test. If you are the woman, you spend these weeks wondering if it worked. You wonder this about every 6 seconds. I have devised exactly zero strategies to deal with this distraction. Well, that’s not true. Studying for tests helps, but I only have one every couple of weeks. If you’re a man during this time, you avoid the pitfalls of distraction. You don’t analyze every little twinge as a possible symptom, but you do have to put up with your partner’s constant self-analysis, and you have to entertain all observations with a “oh yeah maybe that’s something, maybe you’re pregnant.”

I’m at the beginning of another two week wait right now. Am flipping between wedding planning, biochem studying, and reruns of Sex and the City.

Oooh and now it’s snowing! That’s another happy distraction – the prospect of an awesome ski season if I don’t end up getting pregnant any time soon.

Remember Remember the Fifth of November

It’s Guy Fawkes day today, which reminds me of burning effigies in Greenwich, fireworks over Clapham Common, mulled wine, and pub crawling. Wapping, Limehouse, Canary Wharf, Balham, Notting Hill, Bloomsbury. All the places I used to haunt in London – I wish I could recall them all with perfect clarity. I wish I had taken more pictures. And written more about it. I’m starting to forget how it felt to be there. I was watching Love Actually the other day, which is something I do an embarrassing number of times a year, and it was triggering gobs of nostalgia in me. The movie is set in pre-credit crisis London. A lot of it in Wandsworth, which is near where I used to live, south of the Thames. It is a multicultural spectacle following several story lines that intertwine in a natural and not at all contrived way. Mr. Bean is in it. The film is amazing so if you haven’t seen it you should really get on that. One of my favorite scenes is when Colin Firth’s character jumps into the pond after his Portuguese maid, who had jumped in after his rough draft of a crime novel blows away into the water when she collects the mug that was weighing them down. She is saying things in Portuguese like “This novel better be worth it.” And he says things in English like “It’s crap really.” I could re-watch that scene over and over and it would charm me every time.

I recall my work wardrobe at the bank. It consisted mostly of black opaque tights from John Lewis. These were a staple, since I wore a lot of skirts and dresses and the weather was freezing most of the time. Chocolate filled brioche, black opaque tights, and actimel drinkable yogurt was probably my most common Waitrose shopping basket. I was clearly winning on the nutrition front in my banking days.

Since I’m getting married in just under five weeks, I have begun to freak the fuck out. There is so much to do and so little time to do it in. I’m still waiting for 66 RSVPs. As someone who was always terrible at sending back RSVPs, I must say I’ve reformed my ways. I have vowed to never miss an RSVP deadline again. It is awesome to get RSVPs in the mail. It’s like Christmas every day. And to have to chase people down for them is a real bummer. Can’t wait to see what the mail brings tomorrow. Hopefully more RSVPs and the nespresso I ordered online!

Basic Science for the Soul

A year ago around this time I was busy cramming for an organic chemistry test. It was a test I wanted to do well on because our professor was the kind of teacher that is always pushing you to your limits. He loved to elicit a performance from his students, which meant his students were alert in class and tried hard to master the material. Not just the ones who were bound to get A’s, but also the ones who wanted to turn a C+ into a B- or even a failing grade into a passing one. 

I can count on one hand the number of teachers I’ve had who have brought out the best in me, or who have motivated me beyond what I once thought possible for myself. Dr. Fleming, my organic chemistry professor at Temple, was one. My calculus teacher at the University of Delaware, Dr. Hatch, was another. What these men had in common as teachers was that they set clear goals, and were extremely organised in the material they expected their students to know. And their expectations were high. 

When I think of my journey through the basic sciences in preparation for medical school I am overwhelmed. Was it all just a painful not to mention expensive hazing ritual? More than once I’ve heard doctors say that they never needed to know orgo. It seems that having to complete an undergraduate degree before medical school is very wasteful in terms of time and money. I’m still glad I had the chance to work for a few great teachers, I just think the way education is trending – being transformed by online platforms, everyone in the future will be taught by only the great teachers. Needless to say I am VERY excited for the future.

 

 

The Aftermath

Lots of leaves were separated prematurely from trees by the powerful gusts of wind we’ve been having. The sidewalk on Normandy Street looked like this. It was so beautiful; I just had to preserve the image.

Laden Branch

These berries survived the storm. I took a four mile walk this morning on the campus of Haverford College. There is a nature trail that encircles the campus, and I often find beautiful plants there to photograph. This branch was so rich with fruit despite all the wind and rain we’ve been getting.