Things I'm Thinking About This Holiday Weekend

Happy Presidents' Day.  I probably have 50 blog posts floating around in my head, but I thought I'd share with you some of the stuff I've been reading on line lately.  


The New York Times Op Ed editor doesn't seem to like stimulants these days.   A few weeks back there was an article talking about a study showing that long-term stimulants aren't helpful, and today there is a piece by a writer who finds distraction helpful...told with some contempt towards his friend's son whom he calls Ritalin Boy.  Steve over on Thought Broadcast has his own take on ADD meds.   
 What do you think: are stimulants helpful or not?  I'll stand aside for this one. 


Then there was the article about the business/computer whiz who put hundreds of thousands of dollars of his own money (and all his time) into a kidney transplant matchmaking service.  If you need an uplifting story, this is an interesting one. 


Over on KevinMD,  Dr. George Lundberg is a bit skeptical of SAMHSA's new defining features for the Recovery Movement.  I more or less agree, it feels like it's more about semantics (what does it mean to say recovery is "person-driven"? as opposed to?) than substance, and a lot of it seems to boil down to the idea that patients should be treated with respect and people with mental illnesses should work towards achieving their full potential.  Those things I agree with, for everyone. 


And finally, for the writers among us, Pete Earley has a Before You Quit Your Day Job post up on his blog.  I'm still pondering the $80,000 advance.  The Shrink Rappers need an agent, oh, but we do love our friends over at Johns Hopkins University Press.  


And finally, for my friend ClinkShrink the Introvert,  who wrote a review of a Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't stop Talking (---huh, stop looking at me), here is an article called The Brainstorming Myth by Jonah Lehrer in The New Yorker. 


Okay, lots of links.  This is what I've been thinking about.  Aside from that, I made a quick trip to NYC and had my photo taken with Cookie Monster in Times Square, and I loved Jersey Boys.

Ducking Around

Ooooh, let me tell you: I love vacation.  I really love vacation.  I'm back.  It's cold here, and I spent the day unpacking and doing laundry, and getting ready to start my week.  I returned calls, went in to the office and checked my mail, emailed, postal mailed, and watched the Ducks win the Rose Bowl.  Sad, because even though we Shrink Rappers like ducks, I have my own personal Badger out in Pasadena cheering for Wisconsin, and it's a sad football day for him, I'm sure. 


Roy did a great job of holding down the blog.  Please give him a hand.  Clink was off on another one of her adventures.  For some reason, vacation is not fun for her if there isn't the possibility that she'll fall thousands of feet, get eaten by some form of wildlife, or have her life depend on properly functioning equipment while she gurgles beneath the sea.  She's the only person I know where "I had a fantastic time" is followed by an injury report.


Roy's Happy New Year duck was taken from the Havre de Grace annual New Year's Duck Drop.  From the Aegis:

It was a glorious night for ringing in a new year. Temperatures, unusually inviting for a New Year's Eve in Harford County, hovered around 43. Wind was non-existent. And many people had gathered around the Havre de Grace Middle School grounds for the annual Duck Drop and fireworks to welcome another new year.

In other stories around the web, if you're a distracted duck, you might have notice that it's hard to find Ritalin or Adderall-- perhaps another example of DEA limits allowing Big Pharma to be being overly ducky about reducing supply of the cheaper, generic medications.  From the The New York Times, do check out "A.D.H.D. Drug Shortage Has Patients Scrambling."  


And if you're a duck contemplating filing for Social Security Disability, do read Dr. Steve's post on Thought Broadcast about The Curious Psychology of "Disability."  With 41 comments on that post, I'm going to swim away from the temptation to comment myself. 

And finally, for those ducks who want to know the latest on Electronic Medical Records, check out Shrink Rap News over on CPN for "Notes from SAMHSA's EHR Summit."  If that doesn't make you want to be served up with orange sauce, then nothing will.

So I love vacation, but I did miss all the Shrink Rappin.'  Happy New Year to everyone!  

From Clink: I don't have a duck in this race, so I thought folks might enjoy a seahorse instead. He's black with white stripes and seems to be perched on top of the green moray eel's head. Yes, the eel was that close.

No significant injuries this time.  A slight jellyfish sting and lots of no-see-'ums, that's it.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year to all our readers. Can you believe it's 2011? I remember being a kid and thinking how long it would be until 2000 and thinking I'd never actually be that old.

I almost saw out the Old Year with Roy. We went out to a local pub for the best of Baltimore's crab cakes, and Clink didn't join us, but she did text in that there was a Duck in her Jacuzzi at what ever wonderful vacation spot she's in. A duck in the Jacuzzi and we didn't even get a picture? This from the woman who texts me photos of every mushroom she runs across? We parted around 10, and for the first time in years, I was awake at midnight, drinking champagne and eating chocolate by the fire with family and friends (non-Shrink Rappers)...who came over to see the year out with us.

Shrink Rap will turn five in April. This is our zillionth post (well, not quite, but we're somewhere over 1,300 posts). Our book will be coming out around the same time, if you'd like a preview, it's up on Amazon, but not yet available. We're scheduled to talk at APA in Honolulu this year, but our talk, The Public Face of Psychiatry, has been scheduled at 7 AM on the last day of the conference. Will anyone come? 7 AM???

Finally, this past week, we were mentioned on The Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner Blog as one of the Top 50 Psychiatry Blogs (I didn't know there were 50 Psychiatry Blogs!)-- do check it out-- and we had a guest post up on Kevin MD, a revised version of our post on How to Find a Shrink.

Surprise! I'm A Shrink and I'm Here to See ME!

The title of this post is a take off on the title of my last post, Suprise! I'm a Shrink and I'm Here to See You!

Today, I went to work at my office, and mostly, I saw me. All of my patients either didn't show up or canceled their appointments, except, of course, for my last patient. It was a really weird day.

I don't have an internet connection in the office and I don't have a TV. I don't even have a desk. My office mates weren't there. It was me. I made phone calls. I texted my friends. I vacuumed the carpet. I made hot tea. I talked to Clink. I thought about Roy. I listened to NPR on the radio in the waiting room. I went to lunch at a cafe in the neighborhood, chatted with the owners and checked my email on the free WiFi. I rested on the couch. It was all kind of serene. In my younger days, I would have been upset, and if I had my car, I probably would have gone home and fiddled on the Internet and done housework. I saw my last patient who said, "You should go home now, it's Friday." I did. As I locked up the office, I thought, well I didn't have to cook and I didn't have to do laundry and with limited on-line access, it was sort of like being on vacation.

Hut, hut...Hike!

ClinkShrink climbs things all the time. She crawls up these huge vertical ledgy rocks and then rappels down them like Spiderman. It's very athletic, but not very dignified looking. I think it's how she directs her adrenaline risk-taking protoplasm, because in real life, she lives this life of law-abiding citizen, nun look-a-like, low profile, tuna-for-lunch with white milk, kind of soul who just happens to like working with mentally ill violent felons. It's a disconnect and the Spiderman thing connects-the-dots.

So yesterday, I went hiking. I hiked to the top (well, almost, I got to the bald part of the mountain, minus the skin on the front of my leg, and decided the view from almost-the-top was just fine). It was described as a "very popular 4.7 mile hike with well-marked paths, the easiest of the Adirondacks high peaks." What it didn't say was that it was 2.4 miles straight up, a giant stair-case of boulders, with none of those wimpy switchback things to make for some level hiking. And 2.4 ish miles of scrambling straight back down.

Perhaps 30 people passed me. I was climbing with my youngster--a high school athlete in the midst of training for pre-season, and my husband who has recently lost 30 pounds with a regimen that includes 4-5 miles/day of running. I gained 12 pounds last year, and this summer I let my gym membership lapse for the first time since 1996. Let's just say I was holding up the rear.

ClinkShrink does these things all the time. She's older than I am and she looks like a nun. A skinny, athletic nun, but still.

I was offered water, by a stranger. I was offered a first aid kit, by a stranger. And I was offered Motrin, by a stranger. I came back and crawled into the hot tub with a glass of wine. It was some comfort that husband and kid were also sore and complaining.

Oh, this is a psychiatry blog, you say. Where's the psychiatry? It's August, the shrinks go on vacation, and so for the moment this is a vacation blog.

But I have now climbed the 36th highest peak of the Adirondacks.

Vacation Dreams

It's warm and sunny here. The sand is blue, the water is green, the Dinah is pleasantly pinkish. The Ravens are losing at half time.

I had this dream last night that begs to go on the blog, so here I am.
I was walking down the street with ClinkShrink, and Roy was with us too, but walking a bit slower. We came across a body in the road, face down, and we went to help, Clink and I right there at the scene. It was a woman, and someone else was there, looking for a pulse. She moved, and then she got up. I asked a few medical questions, and we decided it was okay to leave. Roy thought I should have asked different questions.

Then we were in Boston. We'd flown and I had to get back the same day. I asked Roy if he'd bought my ticket, since I hadn't bought it myself and thought I might owe him money. He hadn't. I also didn't recall ever seeing a boarding pass---how did I get on the plane?

We were at a meeting and there was another psychiatrist there as well as some of my neighbors. I sat down and tried to figure out how I was going to get back to Baltimore that day. I pulled out my iTouch and tried to download an AirTran App.

By the time I'm dreaming about i-Anything apps on vacation, well that's when I know that Roy has gotten to me.

The Last Minute Family

I'm headed off for vacation for a long weekend. In my family, we love vacation, but we hate planning it. It's a funny problem. We've left the country on as little as 3 days notice before and this past summer we switched our plans from Montreal to San Francisco on the Monday before we left. Oh, and we're taking vacation now because we never did get our act together to go anywhere over the holidays, but that's okay because the day we were supposed to leave, we woke up to 20 inches of snow and we wouldn't have gotten there, where ever there might have been, anyway.

So I'm writing a blog post when I should be packing. Hours before departure, I asked my husband if they speak English where we're going and he asked me if we can use American dollars. And off to Google we went (:: yes and yes). He's confident he'll be able to watch the Ravens' playoff game which is good----one of the reasons we had so much trouble organizing ourselves over the holidays was that he had Ravens' tickets and there was a push of resistance against leaving town.

Arg! Blogger won't let me put a photo in! Oh, and please do encourage Clink to get a puppy.

Roy and ClinkShrink will hold the fort. See you next week!

The Fuzz in My Mind

I sometimes feel like I keep my life compartmentalized (home, family, work, blog, book, friends, chocolate, etc) , and I suppose that works for me. I've been on vacation the last couple of weeks and, you know, the world kind of stops in December-- in a good way-- but I actually do better when life is a series of goals and tasks, and I get restless without an agenda, especially if I feel like I'm supposed to be vacationing. Funny, but I really like vacation better when I go away, put down the laptop, and my connection with my real life is severed. I have a wonderful house and terrific friends, but getting away is crucial. And it's hard to feel like it's vacation with an office move and 27 pages of Medicare forms that I haven't filled out (and won't do on vacation).

The last couple of months, I've felt over-extended and things have slipped. I don't exercise the way I usually do, I haven't been working on the book, I get ideas for blog posts but they just kind of fester and never really form, I want to resume the podcasts but there some issue with a cable and everyone's new laptops. And Clink is skiing down some mountain (soon to return) and Roy says all his docs have quit and we'll never see him again as long as we live except for tomorrow night at the Shrink Rapper holiday dinner. I suppose which ever one of us spills something stinky on ourselves will be the one to write about it. Oh, organizing fun food events has been the one thing I'm not feeling fuzzy about. I still do that well.

So the new year. Do you have any resolutions? I don't have resolutions, but I do have plans to get sequentially refocused. The move is done (that was a big one). My obligations to our professional society will resume at the beginning of the week, I go back to work, there's the book to write, my plans to commit myself to some form of daily exercise, and I do miss our podcasts (especially the chili). Okay, I'm rambling, but that's what I meant by feeling fuzzy.

Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays from the Shrink Rappers.

It's that time of year when blogging gets a little lame.
I'm off to pack up my old office, feeling a bit sore after two days of trying to keep up with my high school athlete kid....I'm feeling a little out of shape these days, and so after a day on the ski slopes and an hour or so being yesterday's squash partner, well, I'm not moving so fast today! And my college kid has finally made it home after days of exams.... arrived for a month with a small suitcase containing his XBox and some dirty crumpled clothes, still refusing to be my Facebook friend.

Clink is off to the cold to ski and climb things. Roy....he was in the mall last night... who knows what he's up to? His new puppy seems to have a better designer wardrobe than I do.

So we'll blog or we won't, but if we don't, please know we're wishing you the best for a joyous holiday season and a safe, happy, and (mentally & physically) healthy new year!

Up, Up and Away?

This is another one of my hypothetical questions.

So you're a health care professional (if you're not, pretend) and you're on vacation far, far away. But before you left, you arranged for someone to cover your practice and you gave the covering doc an emergency number. Why? Why not.

You're getting some much needed rest and relaxation-- you've left work behind and it feels so good not to worry about other people. But back home, something bad has happened to one of your patients-- if you're a primary care doc, perhaps someone had an unexpected and fatal heart attack. If you're a shrink, may be a patient committed suicide. Whatever it is, it's awful, and it's done: there's nothing you can do now that would change the outcome.

Do you want to know before you return home? And if you're the covering doc, Do you call? After all, you were given that Emergency Number.

I've never fully come to peace with this one: many years ago, I got a call on vacation that one of my patients had died in a car accident. It haunted me and there was nothing I could do-- I called the mom from my trip, but I had no relationship with the parent, my call seemed to offer no comfort. After that, I went for a time leaving my cell phone home and being inaccessible while away; this is what coverage is for. At some point, I started to realize that I'd return and get anxious as I turned the phone back on: what bad news would I hear? Might it be better to have the phone with me, to keep it mostly off, but to know that no news is good news?

The Art of Being A Homebody

After Dinah and I got trapped temporarily at Roy's place I had this sudden mental image of all three Shrink Rappers homebound together in a snowstorm: Dinah baking cookies, Roy tweaking the blog template and me climbing the walls.

It occurred to me that we have a diagnosis for people who have trouble leaving the house (agoraphobia) but we don't call it an illness if somebody goes crazy being at home for a long time.

I know people who always have to be on the go. After a day or two of hanging around the house, or sometimes a few hours, they have to get up and move around or at least take a walk. They're out shopping with friends or going out to lunch or otherwise on the move.

Me, I have learned the art of being a homebody. It was a necessary skill in my early days when a really good blizzard could strand you, doors drifted shut, for two or three days at a time. I'm convinced that upper Mid-Westerners became laid back and easy-going through natural selection---anyone who couldn't handle several days together in close quarters just killed each other off. Regardless, it's now an innate trait for some of us.

Some people describe themselves as homebound---the stay-at-home mom for example---but I know from my parent friends that stay-at-home moms are rarely at home. They're on the road constantly to and from doctor's appointments, school, sporting events and children's social activities. We also now have the 'stay-cation', people who spend their vacations at home because of the economic downtown. However, even stay-cationers aren't in the house the entire time. They're taking day trips or sightseeing local attractions they don't usually go to. They're just not going as far as they usually go.

We've even invented gender-based words for being a homebody: women "nest", men retreat to their "man-caves". (I cringe a bit at this, with the implication that for women to justify nesting they have to have kids, or that men need a place presumably to grunt, watch sports and scratch places they wouldn't scratch in public.) But there you have it, that's our culture, and mainly I was just amused when the pleasure of being at home became a fad. My innate instincts had become trendy.

The key to being happy at home is to first relieve yourself from the guilt of doing nothing. If you look around and all you see are the dust bunnies and a kitchen that needs to be renovated, that's a problem. If you can't rid your mind of all the errands---the dusting, the bills to be paid, the unpacked boxes leftover from your move several years ago---it's going to be hard to be comfortable in your nest.

Personally, all I need is a quilt, a good book and a place to curl up.

And a good snowstorm.

What I Read On My Summer Vacation

I spent 13 nights away on vacation-- the longest I've vacationed for in many years. It was wonderful; I returned relaxed, at peace, feeling like a new person. I live for vacation.

So vacation was just short of 2 weeks because the teenagers wanted to attend the first day of VirginMobileFest and we all went (separately, of course, they wouldn't be caught dead with me) to hear a variety of bands play-- the Outkasts, Jack Johnson, Foo Fighters. I thought I'd be bored, but it was a gorgeous day here in B-More and I had a great time. Sort of reminded me of being young again, sans kids, with my main squeeze as an all-day date.

We went to Mission Beach in San Diego-- a great mix of a city vacation and a beach vacation all rolled into one. The zoo, the Padres, we sailed, biked to La Jolla, kayaked, sun bathed, restaurants and funky parts of town. Our deck looked out on Mission Bay and I loved the mornings, coffee cup in hand, to sit and read.

There's this thing I have about vacation: I love to read. I concentrate better than I ever do at home, and pretty much anything compels me. I used to think it was because I have more time, but it's not just time. At home, I read in sound bites: blog posts, journal articles, on-line newspapers, The NY Times magazine. I limp through books, even novels, a few pages at a time. On vacation, I ingest them. And when I'm done, I read other peoples' books.

So here's what I read on vacation:

Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance by Barack Obama, 1996
A fascinating account of our presidential hopeful's youth. He portrays himself as a caring, idealistic young man, full of hope, energy and dreams. He deals with some very painful childhood issues in a somewhat distant way--- I guess the psychiatric term that comes to my mind is 'well-defended.' Quite a life.

Run East: FLIGHT FROM THE HOLOCAUST By Jack Pomerantz, Lyric Wallwork Winik

This was actually a re-read of a book I'd read years ago: a man's story of leaving and losing his family when he leaves Poland to escape the Nazi invasion. He spends years as a refuge in Russia, in a story that moves from tender and often hopeful, to often simply horrifying.

Asking for Murder by Roberta Isleib. Dr. Isleib is a psychologist/novelist and she writes about a psychologist/advice columnist who's best friend, a social worker who specializes in "sand play" therapy, is beaten into a coma. A beach read (and that's where I read it). ClinkShrink wants to do the official review, but the book was sent to my office-- a perk of being a Shrink Rapper.

Playing for Pizza by John Grisham. Football player messes up his career and ends up playing in Italy where he finds himself. Reminded me of Eat, Pray, Love. Another beach read. I like his legal thrillers a lot better. Lots of football here. Borrowed from teen son.

Tally's Corner, A Study of Negro Streetcorner Men by Elliot Liebow, 1967. Actually, the research for this book was done in 1962 and it's the author's doctoral dissertation. He spends his time hanging with those who live on the margins of survival and writes about their poverty, their struggles, their families, their relationships, and their place in society. Okay, so it now takes more than 70 cents a day to feed a person, and if you ignore the impact that computers and video games may have made, the stories told somehow feel they could be happening today. That we haven't come further is a tragedy.

Dreamland by Sarah Dessen, 2000. Caitlin has the perfect life, until her big sister runs away two weeks shy of starting her freshman year at Yale. Caitlin makes the cheer leading squad and soon finds herself in love with a boy who beats her mercilessly. She loses her self, the truth of it all gets found out, a few months in a psychiatric facility and voila, Caitlin's good as new. Borrowed from teen daughter.

Home again, home again. Let the chaos resume.

Psychiatrists in August....

(ClinkShrink note: I'm posting this on behalf of our missing-in-action co-blogger, Dinah. Here's hoping she gets back quickly.)


It's been a bit quieter than usual here on Shrink Rap.

Oh, it's August, the month when psychiatrists traditionally go on vacation. If we were Manhattan psychoanalysts, then perhaps we'd all be in Wellfleet, sitting on the beach, talking about our unresolved complexes, or whatever. But we're not Manhattan psychoanalysts. We're Shrink Rappers.

Funny thing, though. We've all gone on vacation in August. This is for Phoebe who commented that we all suddenly disappeared.

Roy went to Acadia in Maine. ClinkShrink went to Acadia in Maine. Funny, she deemed this completely coincidental, but it's Roy's second year in a row and he sent back such beautiful photographs (--the guy has talent) from last year that I believe they tweaked at something deep inside of Clink and she, too, just had to be there. See, I could be a psychoanalyst. Of course, you can see Roy's vacation photos, including his flat tire on Day #1 [Roy: I took them down as they were meant to be temporary and not enduring psychiatric reading], or read about ClinkShrink's life-threatening mountain climbing, on posts from earlier this month right here on Shrink Rap.

I'm still on vacation. Actually, I live for vacation. I'm in sunny, gorgeous, Southern California, soaking in the sun, eating great food, getting a fair amount of exercise (sailing, biking, walking, jogging, visiting the gym, sightseeing). I'm pleased to report that we've done nothing to endanger our lives here.

So why do psychiatrists go on vacation in August? I want to venture a guess that psychiatrists vacation in August for the same reasons everyone else does. Personally, it's not my favorite time to be gone-- I like working when there's no traffic, fewer patients (they all go on vacation, too) and I'm not crazy about the heat (hence, Southern California). August, because the younger teen is back from camp and school hasn't started yet. When my kids are grown, I have every intention of vacationing in September, when the crowds are gone and the prices are cheaper.

It seems to me that in many professions, the world slows in August and December. It's a pace I prefer, and I often wonder why we can't just pretend that it's always August.

---

LINKS TO SHRINKLESS IN AUGUST ARTICLES:

• The Perilous Month, Time Magazine, 1975.  Apparently, when psychoanalysis was still all the rage.
• For Those in Therapy, The August Doldrums, by Judy Klemesrud, New York Times, 1984.

I found only one 1964 study looking at day hospital patients' reactions to August vacations.  Half felt better after the day hospital closed for a month for vacations and half felt worse.

Climb Every Mountain

Subtitle: "Blood On The Bike"

I'm back from vacation. Roy's been posting about his camping experience in Maine and by pure coincidence I also planned my summer vacation to Acadia National Park. I called Roy and tried to catch up with him, but for the most part I didn't have cell phone coverage when I was there.

Let me start by saying: it was wet. More than wet, it was a deluge that first day. The tent held up with only mild dampness, but I knew I was in trouble when a park ranger stopped me on the way back from my hike to warn me to take shelter. He said there were 60 mile per hour winds predicted, with lightening and hail. Yes, it was wet. There wasn't any hail and the wind wasn't that bad, but we did get three waves of lightening storms through the night. Since it couldn't get any worse, I went for a swim in the ocean in the rain. Cold truly can be painful, and that water was frigid.

Day Two was drizzly and overcast, but clear enough to ride bikes. I made it up Cadillac Mountain (1500 foot elevation) at all of about 4.5 miles per hour. It took about an hour to get to the top, but the ride down was fantastic. I had to keep braking the whole way down to keep from flying off the edge of the switchbacks. I was at the bottom in about seven minutes.

Day Three finally gave us a break in the weather, enough to get some hiking and more biking time, as well as a nice sunburn sitting on Sand Beach.

The most unique part of the whole trip was the climb up Mount Champlain. Now, this climb is optimistically referred to as the Precipice Trail but it's not a hike by any stretch of the imagination. It's pure rock climbing. There's a sign at the bottom of the mountain that warns people not to bring children up because people have died on the climb. I was too busy trying not to slip, digging my fingernails into solid rock, that I didn't take any pictures. Besides, I knew some other brave or foulhardy soul with better photography skills had probably already put some pictures up on Flickr so here is a link to those pictures of the Precipice Trail. (It's steeper than it looks in the pictures.) I've never been so terrified. There are iron rungs you can climb, but what they don't tell you is that when you're as short as I am there is sometimes a gap between rung sets that requires you to traverse over a narrow sloping ledge that hovers over a steep plummet. By the time I got back to the base I wanted to shout "You're all going to die!" to anyone starting up the trail. I resisted.

By this time I was dirty, sunburned, sore and needed a hot shower. Badly.

Thank goodness for Isle Au Haut. More specifically, for the Inn at Isle Au Haut. It's beautiful but isolated, and you can only get there by mail ferry. Innkeeper Diana Santospago took me in, tucked me into an amazingly soft bed and then fed me incredibly good food for two days. I had sea scallops with cream sauce, squash fritters, mushroom onion soup, soft-shelled lobster, stuffed squash, triple chocolate cake surprise (you have to guess the surprise), as well as hand-packed lunches for the day trips. I wasn't surprised to learn I had gained a couple pounds while camping in spite of the 1500 foot bike ride up the mountain, the climb up Mount Champlain, and the 50 mile ride I took after I got back to Acadia. The Inn was a perfect break even for a seasoned camper. The side trip to Isle Au Haut was rounded off nicely by a stop at Black Dinah's chocolate shop where I took shelter from yet another downpour. (Well OK, the truffles were a good reason to stop, too. They were delicious, not to mention quite beautiful.) I was treated to a short game of Scrabble to while away the time until the ferry took me back to the mainland.

OK, so to tie this in to psychiatry---this is a psychiatry blog, right?---I have to mention that I didn't really 'get away from it all'. During one breakfast stop I couldn't help overhearing the man at the next table explaining to his party what the Mini-Mental State Exam was and what it was used for. And at the Inn, one of the other people staying at the Inn while I was there was a psychiatrist. It's a wierd, small world but fortunately still a protected and well-tended one at Acadia National Park.

Eat, Pray, Love: One woman's quest to find herself

 Elizabeth Gilbert is a novelist.  In her non-fiction real life, she had a bad spell: a contentious, ugly divorce, an overly needy relationship with a distant rebound lover, a bout of depression.  She goes on a journey to heal, to find herself-- a pre-planned, publisher-financed 4 months of pasta and language classes in Italy, 4 months of meditation at an ashram in India, 4 months with a medicine man in Bali.  It's kind of everyone's fantasy, no?  Okay, parts of it are kind of my fantasy.  Parts of it.

When I read a book, or listen to a lecture, or turn on the TV, grab my popcorn at a movie, I'm looking for something.  Sometimes, I simply want to be entertained (a worthy goal in and of itself).  Sometimes, I want to learn something that will change how I see the world, or how I relate in some small way.  Sometimes, I'm looking for something that resonates, that I can relate to, that holds true.  A great plot will draw me in-- so nothing about 24 or The Sopranos or LOST feels anything like my life, but still, they draw me in.  

I started Eat, Pray, Love, and honestly, the author felt like a patient.  Her life is chaotic, her relationships packed with drama, she spends an awful lot of time sobbing on bathroom floors, and she makes no secret of her love-hate relationship with anti-depressants and what her therapist advises.  Her therapist and her Guru.  At first, I found it hard to relate to her, even though she was running away from her real life.  Does everyone else occasionally have this fantasy, even if real life isn't so bad?

I got to page 154, somewhere in India, and suddenly Elizabeth Gilbert became someone I could relate to.  Now people who don't know me very well sometimes think I'm laid back.  Anyone who does know me knows I'm a worrier, prone to obsessing about....anything and everything.    So Elizabeth Gilbert is talking about Sean, an Irish farmer she's met at the ashram and she's talking about Sean's "search for inner peace through Yoga."  He's home in Ireland, sitting with his serene dairy farmer father in front of the hearth, telling him about the wonders of his spiritual discoveries:  

      Da--this meditation stuff, it's crucial for teaching serenity.  It can really save your life.  It teaches you how to quiet your mind.

      His father turned to him and said kindly, "I have a quiet mind already, son," then resumed his gaze on the fire.

     Gilbert goes on to talk about people who don't have quiet minds, who are restless, and she includes herself in this group.

     The other day in prayer I said to God, "Look-- I understand that an unexamined life is not worth living, but do you think I could someday have an unexamined lunch?"

    In my last post on impulsive suicides, when I mentioned writing about this book, a few readers wrote in asking about the Amazon reviews-- one in particular calls her 'self-absorbed and irritating.'   Self-absorbed, self-indulgent, absolutely.  At some level, aren't most people self-absorbed?  I suppose it's a matter of degree-- since I listen to people's self-absorption all day, it doesn't particularly bother me, it's not a fatal flaw.  I wasn't irritated.  I suppose at some level, I just enjoyed the fantasy of it all.  The journey to self-discovery is, of course, and old and oft-told story.  Now please excuse me while I boil the pasta and recite my mantra for a while.

2008 Hair Days

Happy New Year everyone, I'm back. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, but I'm here. I had a wonderful break, the Fall of 2007 was a very stressful time here, and so I'm hoping for calmer days in 2008. It started out pretty good dancing on the beach at midnight as the year began.

So warm weather zones, while wonderful for the soul, are just not good for frizzly hair. I was at breakfast, a few days after 2008 rang in (I lost track of the days on vacation) and the waiter at breakfast took one look at me and said "Your hair, it stands straight up, it's like a cat that's scared!" Oy. These things bounce off me, humidity, I forgot to pack a brush, I'd slept on it. But then I snuck away after breakfast to check my e-mail (I was good, I only checked it twice) and I see that ClinkShrink and Roy are doing a superb job keeping up the blog, and that Clink has wished me a year of good hair days. Funny, but I felt like maybe this wish, on the heals of the waiter's comment, might not be such a good omen for 2008.

The Call Of The Wild

Oh deer...er, dear. It's been three weeks since my last blog post. I have a good excuse. I was having fun.

Rushing mountain water is very cold. Standing on the top of a mountain as a lightening storm rolls in is rather impressive. I enjoyed watching a hawk in flight and waking up in the middle of the night as some type of wildlife rummaged through the campsite. I even enjoyed the hailstorm, except for maybe the part about wondering whether the tent would be gone when it was all over. I saw loads of deer (including the one that rummaged through the campsite), a bear (it looked at me and was obviously sniffing for beef jerky. Fortunately I wasn't the one carrying it.), lots of cold rushing water and water falls, and even a skunk (see reduced picture).

My favorite find was this very unusual looking mushroom.

It was huge as well as being a bright yellow-orange color. After a bit of Googling I think I've got it identified, but if any of you out there really know mushrooms and can tell me for sure I'd appreciate it. I think it's a jack o'lantern mushroom (omphalotus illudens) which is known to be toxic. Somehow it seemed rather fitting that poisonous plants should be part of a forensic psychiatrist's vacation experience. There were no historical prisons in the mountains, so I had to find something forensically relevant.

Anticipatory Anxiety

One doctor is back. Sort of. For the moment. And yes, I have coverage.

A week in Canada, all that free national health care, and the place is kind of pretty, too.

Talk about a room with a view:

Traveling with teenagers, though, you can't just Look at it, ya gotta DO something. Hiking led to some amazing views, a surprise waterfall, a tea house in the sky, even a rainbow, but was still deemed "boring," "pointless," and ultimately, "not worth it."




I decided we needed to go whitewater rafting on the Kicking Horse River. Note, this was my idea.

I've been rafting once before, decades ago in Montana during a draught when there was no whitewater to be had. We floated along scraping the bottom. And I've been on a canyon float trip, this isn't what my kids were looking for. So, credit card in hand, I signed us up for the non-refundable Classic-- all participants had to be over 12 years and over 90 pounds-- and the half-day trip provided a barbecue lunch (these I'm good at) and Class III and IV rapids. The other option was a shorter Family-friendly trip suitable for children over the age of 5. That one sounded nice. It sounded safe, too.

I asked the Concierge if I'd be okay.

"I don't like roller coasters," I said.

"Sit in the back of the raft," he told me. Everyone returns alive. I'd be fine.

Still, I worried. The next day I asked another concierge, a nice young man named Rory.

"Will I have a heart attack?" I asked.

"Yup," he said.

"What should I do?"

"Go on a different trip than the kids."

Gee, thanks Rory.

"You'll be fine, Mom," Kid said.

You know, I wasn't really worried about injuries or death. I don't like roller coasters and it's not that I think they're unsafe-- it's that I'm afraid I won't like the feel of my stomach being stuck inside my knees, or that I'll get sick, or terribly frightened, or that I'll want to get off really badly and I won't be able to. If safety were the issue, I would be worried about my family. No, I was worried about the possibility of Unpleasant Sensations.

We drove an hour and a half to the rafting place and went to sign in. I was handed a bunch of waivers to initial in three places and sign on the bottom. I promised not to sue if I died. Okay, now I was worried about safety.

"Does anyone get hurt?" I asked the young woman with the Australian accent who told us that a 45 minute safety session would precede the adventure.

"Well, yes. But, it's rare. It's not like someone gets hurt every week. It's not like someone even gets hurt twice a month."

This didn't sound so Rare to me.

"How hurt?" Scrapes, right?

"Oh, about as bad as it can get," she said.

My anxiety mounted. Maybe we shouldn't do this, I told my husband. My family glared at me.

The trip was delayed for hours. They were clearing a log jam-- an event that entailed sending swimmers into 42 degree water with chainsaws to chop up a tree and make the river safe. I ate a buffalo burger. Really. I worried. The safety lecture began.

We were instructed on how to put on wet suits, life jackets, and helmets. (No pics of this folks). How to hold the paddle so that it doesn't knock out any one's teeth. And what to do if you fall into the river, how to pull someone back onto the raft without dislocating their shoulder. What to do if you get separated from the raft. What to do if you miss the line that's thrown to you. What to do if the entire raft capsizes and everyone is in the river. What to do if you get trapped under the raft. What position to take while being reeled in and another position for being swept away. Don't get caught in a log jam-- too much paperwork. Really, don't get caught in a log jam. This is rare, I'm thinking, how often do people actually fall in? Oh, on a trip this size of roughly 70 rafters, 1 or 2 usually fall in. 42 degrees in the water. I waddled in my wet suit. This really wasn't sounding like a good idea.

We split into "teams" of 9 and boarded our craft. No seat belts. We sat up on the sides of the raft and Darren, my very experienced guide, showed us how to hold tight, get low, cross over to balance weight of the raft.

"When I tell you to row, it's a command, not a suggestion," he said. "Any questions?"

"Is there a seat for someone who wants to just sit and pray?" I asked. Darren glared at me. My kids wanted to die.

I got on the raft. I paddled when I was told to, even when I'd rather have been holding on. When we hit the rapids we bounced about, I got wet, and I laughed out loud. It was fun in an addictive sort of way. No one fell out and any sense of danger dissipated. No Unpleasant Sensations whatsoever. And to think, I almost bailed before we even began; after the fact, all that worrying was a waste.

Of course, there was my emotional support goat up on Sulphur Mountain:

The Doctor is NOT In

Neonursechic asked where we were. Yes, read the fine print in Podcast #29, and you'll get the hint that we are off in August (okay, so maybe we are "off" much more than that... but especially so in August).

Do we really take a month-long vacation? Yeah, right. But, among the three of us, between last week and the next 2-3 weeks, one, two or all three will be AFK for extended periods of time. This means no podcasts and minimal posts. I actually have 3 or 4 posts I've started, which I may complete this weekend before I take off for a couple weeks. I may stop in at various public libraries on occasion, just to be sure Dinah hasn't started any new flame wars.

I also have two more podcasts that I'd like to move from my computer to your MP3-playing device of choice. I should get #30 out this weekend (on parity legislation and the 3 suicide articles in the July green journal), and will try to get #31 ready (t is a very short mini-podcast) for the following weekend.