Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Gender Bias in Medicine



Gender Bias in Medicine

I grew up in the 1970’s, and back then, it was groovy to be a girl.  Women’s Lib was here to stay and I heard over and over that girls could do anything boys could.  It seemed like the case when I was 9.  I rode horses and went to school and played in a band just like the boys.  I went to high school and college and medical school just like them, too.  There were many points along the way where you could have asked me about gender bias and I would have told you that was a problem that belonged to previous generations.  Did patients sometimes think I was a nurse instead of a doctor?  Sure.  But that was an easy mistake to correct, and didn’t feel like an insult, just a vestige from a past way of thinking.  

When you’re a youngster, and you’re up and coming, it isn’t hard to get opportunities to show people that you’re capable.  If you’re responsible and enthusiastic and a quick learner, you can rise through educational ranks pretty quickly.  There are lots of mentors and peers that will help you and appreciate you.  The journey is a lot of fun.  Then you become a full-fledged member of the medical system and you look around at some point and realize you are participating in an incredibly sexist enterprise. 

Medicine is not nice to female patients.  We’ve pathologized childbirth, blamed childhood difficulties on bad mothering, coined a derisive term (hysteria) after a female body part, and shoe-horned women into treatment plans designed for and tested only on men.  Modern medicine is an enterprise that has been run by men from an exclusively male perspective for centuries, and simply admitting more women into medical school isn’t going to change that.  I challenge you to talk to your female patients about the experiences they’ve had with the medical system, or go online to a health forum and read what women are subjected to when they seek medical attention.  You will find a lot of really disheartening stories, and a lot of familiar stories – we have all seen women treated in degrading or dismissive ways by other doctors.  We might not have felt high enough in the hierarchy to speak up about it, but we saw it.  This isn’t a phenomenon we notice because we’re sensitized to it or seeking it out – medical literature suggests that bias against women is ongoing, robust and undeniable.   Women get less analgesia, less of the doctor’s time, less autonomy in decision making.  Women are studied less, so diseases are defined as the male presentation of the disease (see acute coronary syndrome, where the type of discomfort women are more likely to have is termed “atypical.”  It’s not atypical – it’s very common.  It’s atypical only in respect to how the symptom presents in men) and the treatments available are the ones that have been tested primarily on men (and male lab rats, too – gender equality in lab animals used in research only happened in 2014).

If the medical establishment isn’t nice to female patients, why in the world would we expect it to be friendly to female physicians?  There is objective data to suggest that it is not.  Female physicians are 6 times more likely than their male counterparts to commit suicide.  They leave the work force in higher numbers than men do, and they are much more likely to work part time.  And even when controlling for hours, call duty, job descriptions and geography, women physicians make only 88% of what their male counterparts make in salary – and that salary gap has widened in the last two decades. Even though I am aware of these statistics, I find myself wanting to resist the idea of gender bias in my life, my experience. I have to admit, though – it’s there.  If I look at who populates the committees and boards that control money and power – it’s mostly if not exclusively men.  If I look at who populates the groups and committees that have to grind out work that they’re not really paid to do – it’s mostly if not exclusively women.  If I think about who is able to be at work and focus on the work at hand without worrying about home and kids and dinner – it’s mostly men.  The people I see multitasking domestic and professional duties all day long (and all evening long) – mostly women.  It is no wonder that these undercompensated, underpowered, overtasked and underappreciated humans are having a very tough time of it.  

Our culture dictates that it be so, of course – and it seems as if we women operate on the idea that we must prove that we can do these jobs and that we must never let anyone see us sweat.  But I don’t know.  Working against the grain of our society in order to be fulfilled in our profession while feeling that we are not allowed to protest or even appear to notice the bias we face is, I think, the direct cause of the suicide, the unhappiness, the dropping out that the statistics record.  In addition to that is the pressure to “have it all” and be the best doctor, the best mother and the best spouse – competing and contradictory goals.  What is the solution?  How do we continue to put pressure to society to open itself to us without killing ourselves in the process?  I know for sure that part of the answer is to insist that men help us find the solution.  We’re talking about a transfer of power, and better communication between the two groups.  We need to talk about our circumstance, and men need to hear about it with an open mind.

What do Women want? There is a substantial portion of the Western Literary Cannon that is devoted to this very question, because for whatever reason, women and the way they do things and what motivates them to act in the way that they do are mysterious to the opposite sex.  This enigmatic circumstance accounts for some of the allure between the sexes, but it accounts for the problems, as well.  The light went on for me a few years ago when I attended a leadership conference and was sitting in the audience struggling, as I always did, about what exactly it meant to be a “leader.”  Luckily, the conference speaker answered the issue succinctly:  “Leadership is about how you make people feel when they are around you.”  In understanding this definition, I realized why gender bias was never something I really felt as a student but felt strongly as an attending physician. After you’re done being a student, you’re supposed to become a leader.  That’s the path of a physician.  And women have a leadership problem, because people don’t always feel comfortable around us.  Men – men in particular don’t always feel comfortable around us.  It’s not always very clear to them what we want, what motivates us, how we’ll act, what we’ll decide.  So we miss out on a lot of those leadership opportunities, because men are very comfortable around other men, who are more legible and predictable to them.  The “Old Boy Network” is more than just the way things were.  They are the way things still are, and I think the distrust between the genders is a big reason why.  (If you need more convincing about this, look at our current presidential race and the rhetoric around the female candidate, who  is, objectively, the most qualified of the bunch to hold the title).  

I have seen women try to lead men, or vie for leadership with men, in all sorts of ways.  One solution is to reason that if women are opaque and thus untrustworthy, it might benefit a woman on a career path to simply act like a man.  I pursued that line of thinking myself.  I was tough, I never got offended no matter how sexist the jokes and patter was (I wasn’t offended as much as embarrassed, but in any case I hid it and went along with it), I never turned down extra work because I never wanted anyone to think that anything other than work was my priority.  I was decisive, tamped down my emotional responses and prided myself on being as tough as any man.  I think it worked okay.  I advanced.  I was considered reliable.  I obtained some leadership roles.  The problem was that I felt I was in no way free to be myself.  I was bought in to the idea that there was something wrong with being a woman in medicine by deciding to act like a man in order to be allowed to do it.  

The point of being a woman (or any underrepresented minority) in medicine and of supporting diversity in general is the embrace of the idea that different people WILL do things differently and that is what we want. Everyone realizes our system of health care is very broken, with pretty dismal outcomes for many people, especially women and minorities.  This will never change if the way the system operates doesn’t change.  Different perspectives on the practice of medicine is what patients want and what will lead to a healthier society.  What is the point of being a woman in medicine if we all just act like men?  I had a particular kind of way of connecting with people, an ability to compromise with integrity, and patience to let things happen without always controlling them that I suppressed in order to be one of the guys.  That was a mistake.  I’m a much better doctor with those facilities pushed to the front, even if it does render me confusing to some of my peers.  

I’ll add a personal note here and say that if you add other layers of opacity to your already mysterious gender, it gets even harder to get along in the medical profession.  Women who are wives, mothers and who possess physical beauty are legible to the mainstream as “normal” women – deviate from that (and I deviated in every way) and the conversation about your worth as a physician becomes dominated by speculation on the reasons why you don’t conform.  After I realized this, I made deliberate attempts to “mainstream” myself in order to fit in better – and every time you’ve seen me wearing a dress, jewelry and makeup, you have seen my attempts at artifice at work.  

Women are sometimes women’s worst enemies.  Working in a patriarchal system is challenging, particularly if you opt to behave in ways men doesn’t expect.  But I have to say, that’s more of an experience of not fitting in with a culture as opposed to issues with specific people.  What is surprising to me is that the specific, in-person conflicts I have had have all been with other women.  The only patients I ever have trouble with in terms of not respecting a female doctor’s advice are women – a memorable one insisting she would only take advice if it came from our medical student, the only man on an otherwise all-women team.  Once, a fellow female physician physically blocked me from entering a room in which a meeting was being held because she did not want me to be part of the discussion.  She knew from prior conversations about the topic at hand that I disagreed with her, and she did not want me to voice my viewpoint at the meeting.  On another occasion, a female consultant shut the door to my patient’s room in my face (I was following her into the room) and then leaned against it, preventing me from opening it, so that she could talk to the patient without my input (the patient had asked me to be there).  On neither occasion had my colleague addressed the problem with me directly – they used actual physical aggressiveness to make their point.  It’s a phenomenon that’s fairly commonly described with successful women – that they sabotage each other, or treat each other poorly.  I suppose that for women, success and power can seem like a zero sum game – if you think there isn’t enough for every woman to get a fair share, you always feel like you’re competing against other woman for the one spot out of 10 that will go to a woman.  Women don’t feel like there’s an abundance of opportunities to succeed, so they fight each other for them.  That’s why opportunities to get together and support each other are very important.  We should recognize that we are often at odds with each other and work on changing that dynamic.

It’s going to be hard for a long while.  It takes a long time to change a biased system.  I’m glad that there are more women in medicine.  With more women in the field, I hope that we will become more empowered to act as women and not feel we have to pretend to go along with the current patriarchal system.  It’s not so much that we have to reverse it – we have to change it by expanding the definition of the right way to practice medicine.  That means questioning the way things are, being authentic to ourselves, and enlarging the definition of “physician.” We will meet many people who object, disagree, fight back, resist.  I don’t think it’s going to be a feel-good situation.  In fact, it’s probably going to feel wrong, awkward, and like we’re making trouble for ourselves.  We need to support each other so that we can keep climbing the hill. 

Sources/Readings -

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Why don't you get an education and a job?

This week I am teaching a course in health disparities where medical students pick a group of people who are afflicted with disproportionately poor health outcomes and tackle the reasons why that is and think about what can be done to get rid of the disparity.  The course always leads to very interesting discussions because so much of the material is an epiphany to both the students and myself.  For the students, they see that so many of the things they thought were "just the way it is" are actually the intentional products of a rigged social system.  For instance - any student who has ever walked into a dialysis unit has observed the high proportion of black patients receiving treatment.  It's just the way things are.  They are taught that blacks have disproportionately bad outcomes from hypertension (like kidney failure and the need for dialysis) for a variety of reasons - genetic, secondary to access to health care issues like poverty, being uninsured, etc.  What they find out when studying health disparities is that in other countries, blacks don't have a worse outcome in hypertension than whites. They only do worse in America.

What is it about being black in America that makes them do worse?  Well, when you put it that way, you realize we know the answer.  Slavery, Jim Crow, The War on Drugs, Red-Lining, Mass Incarceration - America never lets Black people forget that their race is a problem.  Being Black in America means existing in a state of chronic stress.  It is, in a thousand different ways, a killer.  So is being female and constantly having your legitimacy challenged in the work place while also being constantly reminded that your beauty is your only measure of worth.  So is being gay or trans or Hispanic or anything other than mainstream.  Why do young black men die at 3.5 times the rate of white men who live in the same city?  Because our society makes life a literal struggle for anyone who is not white, male, educated and well off.

The reality of this situation really struck home for me when the students and I were discussing the plight of the homeless population in America.  I'd given them an article to read - Malcom Gladwell's Six Million Dollar Murray.  In it, Gladwell talks about how there are really very few chronically homeless people in this country - but even though there aren't many of them, they cost the health care system an enormous amount of money.  The Murray in question cost the State of Nevada six million dollars one year (fell over drunk, hit head, bled into his brain, causing a multi-month stay in the hospital, etc) in medical bills.  The very same Murray actually does well when he works with a social worker and has help managing his money and finding an apartment - but those services are only provided temporarily and when they go away Murray goes off the rails and inevitably ends up in either jail or the hospital.  It would cost Nevada a lot less than six million dollars to simply provide Murray with help and housing permanently.  So why don't they?

We don't provide people who are struggling with life with the help they need because our society has a problem with people getting something for nothing.  As in - why am I working three jobs when that guy is getting everything for free?

There is this very strong sense in America that we get what we deserve, and we get that through hard work.  If you see things this way, it seems completely unfair that someone who has opted out of making an effort just gets things handed to them.  It's politically very difficult to obtain funds from the taxpayers for programs that aid the homeless for this very reason. It seems like we are giving things to some people for free that others are struggling mightly to obtain for themselves.

I could go on about how difficult it is to be homeless, and talk about all the different reasons there are that some people have a much harder time finding and keeping gainful employment than others, and talk about how cheap it would be for everyone concerned to end homelessness as opposed to the crisis management approach we have now, but I don't think any of that changes anyone's mind.  Because what, in the end, I am really asking people to have is compassion. I am asking everyone to believe that people are trying as hard as they can to cope with life, and some are better at it that others but that everyone deserves to have access to the things that dignify them as human beings, and a place to live is one of those things.  And there is a real resistance in many people to deciding to adopt a position of compassion. 

This resistance to an attitude of compassion has always been a mystery to me.  In a nation where the predominant religion is Christianity, why isn't there more charity and understanding for the plight of our fellow man?  Is it that hard to understand that people are differently abled and that some people need more help than others?

This is where I had my epiphany.  The problem isn't that Americans are "I got mine so screw you" jerks.  The problem is that most of us live in fear of being homeless ourselves.  Not in an existential way that you could see a therapist about.  In a real way.  It is a real fear.  It is reality.

When people tell me that it is unfair for them to work three jobs when some homeless guy gets stuff for free, I focus on the lack of compassion towards the homeless guy.  But why don't I consider the question of why in the hell anyone needs to be working three jobs?   Having to work three jobs is crazy.  Having to work three jobs is a desperate attempt to stay afloat.  Having to work three jobs is killing yourself in order to live.  Working three jobs is what you do when you are frightened that you're about 2 steps to losing everything.  No wonder there's such resentment towards having some of your tax dollars go to someone else.  You're barely surviving yourself.

Because in America you need to pay.  You need to pay for health care.  You need to pay for child care.  You need to pay to get help when you are aged. You need to pay for a bloated defense that's fighting multiple unwinnable wars.  You need to pay for private school.  Hell, you need to pay for public school.  You can only take vacation if you can afford not to get paid for the time you spend away. You have to choose between your job and spending time with your new born baby.   You need to pay for every single one of your basic needs.  You're only as free as your wallet can afford for you to be.  And there is a very sparsely woven safety net.

If our social safety net was better - if we didn't all feel as if we were just about to drown ourselves - would we be more open minded about offering help to those of us who need a little more help to live life?  If we felt that our society supported us by helping with education, child care, time off, health care - if we felt that society helped us live in a dignified way, could we afford to be more compassionate? 

"Give a man a fish, he eats for a day," I hear people say. "Teach a man to fish, he eats for a lifetime."  True enough.  But we're in a drought.  The river is shallow and the fish are dying.  We will all benefit if it rains. 




Thursday, January 7, 2016

The Lady in The Van


I recently saw a Trailer for The Lady In The Van, which stars Maggie Smith in the titular role.  I'm excited about this movie, which is based on the diary entries Alan Bennett made about the woman who lived in his driveway.  I was very touched by the story when I read it back in medical school - so touched that I visited Alan Bennett's driveway when I went to London in 2007.  Here's my journal entry about the day I did that.  





Day Three 2007.  Camden Yellow

My alarm goes off at 8:30, but I find it impossible to get up.  I don’t end up leaving the hotel until almost 11, and the first order of business is to go back to the National Gallery and exchange my Italian Catalog for an English one.  My request stupefies the clerk and she has to get her boss to help her.  Then it’s on to the National Portrait Gallery, which is right around the corner.  I pass the Edith Cavell memorial, which bears the inscription “It is not enough to be a Patriot, I must have bitterness and hatred in my heart for no man.”  I should probably find out who Edith Cavell was, if she’s going to go around saying extraordinary things like that.

Still annoyed at the lack of organization at the British Museum, I go straight for the audio guide and Gallery One, which begins it all with the Tudors.  I meet my friend Hans Holbein[1] again, and take in the really amazing portraits he did of Henry VIII, Sir Thomas Moore (who taught me, via A Man For All Seasons, that it was possible to be just as big of a pain in the ass by being very, very good as it was by being bad, thus opening up many possibilities for me in life) and Cardinal Wosley.  There are some gangs of school children about, being quizzed by their teacher:

Teacher: (Pointing to a full length portrait of Queen Elizabeth in her youth, red hair aflame) Who’s that lady there?
Children:  Queen Elizabeth!
Teacher:  And what was she famous for?
Children:  She was the Queen!
Teacher:  And what about this man?
Children: Francis Drake!
Teacher:  And what did he do?
Children:  Sailed ‘round the world!
Teacher:  And who’s that fellow over there?
Children:  Sir Walter Raleigh!
Teacher:  And what was he famous for?
Children:  Cigarettes!

There was also a lot of amusement when these children encountered a portrait of Sir Francis Bacon, the comedic aspect of having cured breakfast meat for a last name more than apparent to them.  I find myself comparing the portraits of people on the wall to what they looked like in the Hollywood films that have been made of their lives.  I have to give whoever does the casting for HBO credit for how much the Earl of Southampton in their mini-series on Queen Elizabeth looked like his portrait in the National Gallery.

 After the Tudors I lose interest in both the portraiture style and the subjects.  It’s all painted in that Fwenchy Rococo style that I don’t like.  I dutifully look at all the portraits, but I don’t care about any of them.  It isn’t until the men start looking like George Washington (I now know this is called the “Regency” Period) that I begin to see familiar names again, particularly men of science, like Jenner and Faraday and Darwin.  Speaking of films, I find William Wilberforce, whose portrait is only partially finished, and next to him his friend, Pitt the Younger.  Wilberforce does not look particularly like the actor who played him in Amazing Grace, (Ion Gruffud) but Pitt the Younger does (Benedict Cumberbatch, I no longer wince at the tweeness of this name, as you can see). 

Placards tell me that this person’s or that person’s portrait “caused a sensation” or “raised ire” when it was hung.  Silly people, it’s just a picture, I thought.  Then I arrived at the modern portraits and after being lulled by nice paintings of Alan Bennett and David Hare and Tom Stoppard (all acceptable) I came upon one of Sienna Miller and really, I had an urge to rip it from the wall and smash it on the ground.  Some one please, please tell me why that woman is famous.  Similar reactions to Rupert Murdoch, Richard Branson and the vile Anita Roddick.  Also all the cricketers and footballers who have portraits hanging – come on, National Portrait Gallery.  Have standards. 

I think the modern portraits I liked best were the ones circa the Bloomsbury era – Joyce and Wolfe and Strachey.  Quite a few were done by Dora Carrington, and I really liked them.  I didn’t see many portraits from the thirties, forties, fifties and sixties because that wing was blocked off – there were installing something.  I’ll have to be back, because I missed Wilde and Orton, whom I must see.  There was a whole wing devoted to Diana, from which I heard sobbing emanating, so from which I fled as quickly as possible when I discovered what it was, eyes squinted so I wouldn’t see any of it.  I escaped unscathed.  I didn’t mind Princess Di when she was alive – I thought she was pretty, I thought Prince Charles acted like an ass, it was awful how she died.  What I can’t stand is this carrying on ten years later.  She wasn’t Gandhi, people.  Get over it.[2]

I eat lunch at the National Portrait Museum CafĂ©.  I should know better by now, but they had a ham and asparagus quiche that looked very nice, so I had that, with a coffee.  It was repulsively salty.[3]  Also, I was really hurting.  All the stooping to read placards and inspect the art had taken its toll and my back was hurting in a place it had never hurt before – right in the middle – so I had to find something to do that didn’t have anything to do with a museum.  I got on the tube to Camden Town.

My trip to Camden has been a long time coming.  It starts back in college, where I became enamored of the British Diary, ostensibly private ephemera written so obviously to survive for posterity - a human contradiction that I loved.  In medical school I read Alan Bennett’s diary and discovered The Lady in the Van.  The Lady in question was an elderly misfit who drove her station wagon into Alan Bennett’s driveway in Camden Town one day and lived out of it from there for decades.  Being British, he simply stepped around it every day.  He let her run an extension cord from his house out to the van, bought her groceries, and wrote about her in his diary.  He didn’t like her – she was a pain in his ass, her van stunk, and she would frighten the guests (he seemed to relish this, especially when she scared the shit out of Vincent Price) who came to his house.  She liked to put coats of yellow house paint on her car because it was a papal color and she was a devout Catholic[4], so there were drips and draps of yellow paint everywhere.  Alan Bennett’s fairly famous, by the way.  He wrote the play The Madness of King George and got his start with the Beyond the Fringe comedy group, where his cohorts were Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.  Imagine a homeless guy taking up shop in Woody Allen’s vestibule. He'd call the police.  But Mr. Bennett just sort of bore this lady in his driveway the way you’d bear a bird’s nest in a tree on your property – a random act of nature, which he dealt with in a humane, patient and all together English way.  So in prep for my trip to London I reread the Lady in the Van parts of Bennett’s diary, trying to triangulate on exactly where his house was.  I narrowed it down to the house across the street from #63, Gloucester Crescent.  

I really couldn’t go back home without making this little personal pilgrimage, so I figured now was as good a time as any.  When I came up out of the tube, I found myself on Camden High Street, and it was quite a scene.  The streets were bustling with 20 year olds, every shop seemed like a place where you could either get a tattoo or a vegan meal, and anti war signs were plastered on every surface.  Unmistakable and comforting signs of a nearby University, I became quite enthused and was I was temporarily distracted from my pilgrimage by the temptation of a denim skirt with Che Guevara's visage silk screened onto its butt, which was for sale by a dreadlocked sidewalk vendor. It seemed very much like something I needed and I barely tore myself away.

Gloucester Crescent was quiet and residential.  Incredibly, I appeared to be the only person there on a pilgrimage to the yellow spots of paint on the curb outside Alan Bennett’s house.  I walked all the way up it and all the way down the road, taking it in.  The row houses were very nice – clearly, you’d have to have a lot of money to live in one.  I could see in through some of the windows and the insides were very luxe.  The street and the yards were very grungy and grimy, though – very Hyde Park, if you know what I mean.[5]  I remembered the astonishment of my mother and father the first time we visited Hyde Park after I was at college – they couldn’t understand why educated, well paid people would live in such squalourous settings, where you had to keep one hand on your pocketbook at all times and everything you owned was covered in soot.  Needless to say, I felt right at home.  I found the faded yellow spots of paint, and rejoiced.
 

Walking back to my hotel it occurred to me that I hadn’t had anything warm to eat all day.  I stopped and looked in the window of an Indian Restaurant on Gloucester Road and the owner of it came out and basically pushed me inside.  I ordered some Samosas, Garlic Naan, and Saag Paneer.  The waiter was not happy with my order and wanted me to order some rice or some lentils.  I didn’t want any of those things; I just wanted my old standbys.  Another waiter stopped and asked me if I was Chinese or Japanese.  For Christ’s sake, even in England.[7]  “Japanese,” I tell him, and he chatters some words at me which are truly incomprehensible.  I’m sorry – I know I don’t speak Japanese, but I can say hello, and how are you and all those things people might be taught as phrases.  I look at him in dumb confusion.  He chatters at me again in Indian-accented Japanese.  I have no idea whatsoever what he’s saying.  “Not Japanese,” he pronounces, and moves on, seriously pissing me off. 

The Japanese speaking Indian man arrives later with my Samosas.  “Very good with mint sauce,” he tells me, pointing to the tub of mint sauce and then my Samosas.  “Yes,” I say, but he’s whisked himself away.  I put some mint sauce on a side plate and dip my Samosa into it.  The waiter reappears at my elbow.  “Please, try the mint sauce, Madame,” he scolds.  Before I can show him that I am eating it with the mint sauce, he is gone.  Minutes later he reappears, picks up the tub of mint sauce and pours it himself onto my remaining Samosa, shaking his head in disgust.  I take out my notebook in order to write this extraordinary string of events down for later documentation, and immediately the service becomes rather amazingly better.  My main course arrives, accompanied by a “tasting plate, compliments of the Chef,” a sweet Mango Lassi that I didn’t order and I am asked what I would like, for free, for dessert.  At first I think maybe the owner saw how rude the waiter was, but as he’s allowed to go around and be rude to everyone else in the restaurant, I end up with the realization that with my notebook they think I am a restaurant reviewer.  So I am obliged to tell you that Memories of India in Gloucester Road is clean and bright, but the service is challenging and the food is mediocre.  It is hot and filling, though, and they give you stuff for free.


[1] Because I have seen his iconic portraits of Henry VIII all my life, I took Holbein for granted at first.  I looked at the portrait and I saw Henry VIII, corpulent of flesh and ego.  But the more of Holbein’s work I see on this trip the more I start to look at these paintings and see not the queens and kings and noblemen but Holbein himself.  The paintings lack the dramatic spotlighted three-dimensional fleshiness of a Caravaggio, or a David.  They are flat, open, straightforward, powerful.  There is no allegory here.  Henry VIII doesn’t need allegory – he just needs to be, and that frankness is what Holbein captures in his subjects.  Most of the artists who mean a lot to me are more contemporary, but by the end of this trip I had developed a serious reverence for Sir Hans.
[2] Stephen Frears’ The Queen explores the notion that the English Public’s reaction to the death of Princess Diana marks a moment during which everyone realized that the EP had in fact undergone a distinct change.  Gone were the stiff upper lips of the generation that had survived the Blitz and defeated the Nazis.  The EP was now soft, weepy, sentimental – American.  Oh, the horror.  I agree completely.  Buck up, English Public. 
[3] The quiche, not the coffee.  Although I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been the other way around. English food is extremely dependable in its ability to revolt one’s tastebuds. Always Eat Ethnic in London – that’s my advice. 
[4] And because she was crazy.
[5] I speak here of Hyde Park, Chicago, the neighborhood that the University of Chicago is in.  It’s a small strip of lakefront land between two of the worst ghettos on Chicago’s south side (when Martin Luther King Jr spoke of Chicago’s “silver lined ghetto,” Hyde Park was the silver).  Having grown up there, most of Chicago is stamped with the identities of my parents, but Hyde Park belongs to me. 
[7] No travel story of mine exists without at least one encounter that involves curiosity about my ethnicity.  This is a well-known fact.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Today, on World AIDS Day, I remember Glenn Walker.  That's his real name.  It's important.

I met Glen when I was an intern on the HIV ward at University Hospitals in Cleveland in 1993.  It wasn't called the HIV ward - it was called the SIU - the Special Immunology Unit.  Which didn't fool any of us, of course.   I have very distinct memories of this space, because it was where I made my bones as a doctor.

Glen had no T cells, and was frequently in the hospital.  He was pleasant enough, but he had terrible AIDS related dementia.  He wandered around, getting into other patient's beds and eating other patient's food and sauntering onto the elevator and winding up 3 blocks away, barefoot and panhandling for smokes.  You had to keep your eye on Glen.  And of course he was seriously sick quite a bit of the time, as well, which sent his dementia into the fog of war, where he hit us and fought us and there was real anger in his usually placid eyes.

At first you thought Glen was sweet and tragic, but after a few middle of the night tussles where you had to call security and affix him to his bed with leather restraints, his continuous efforts to be up to something got irritating.  Glen was a pest.  No nursing home could deal with him and even if we could dupe one into taking him, he'd be back with a fever in no time.  He was ours, always, like a permanent 3 year old who was never going to grow up and go to school.  With Glen around, there was never going to be any peace.  We smiled at him, and he smiled back - but we cursed him underneath our breath.

One day during morning report when I was a senior resident, we saw something big fall past the 3rd floor window of the conference room.  Rick Bailey went to the window and looked down.  "It's Glen Walker," he said, only slightly surprised.

Of course it wasn't Glen Walker is what we all thought.  Rick was a prankster.  But of course it was Glen Walker - of course it was.  He'd snuck into a bathroom and stood on a toilet and climbed out a window and fallen 4 stories.  He landed on his feet, shattering his ankles.

The first thought we had:  Glen in a wheelchair with two huge casts will be easier to manage.  Which he was.  The second thought we had:  "Glen No-Walker."

I knew it was wrong, but I sort of forgave all of us for calling him that, because black humor is about the only way you make it through a month on the Special Immunology Unit.   Until Glen Walker died, and his family sent us the program from his memorial service.  On the cover was Glen in full health, looking nothing like the 90 pound wasted man I knew.  And inside was a paragraph about how he had gone to Julliard, where he'd gotten a degree in piano performance.

What a rare and precious thing it is to have that kind of talent.  The ignominy of how we treated him at the end of his life still causes me to feel intense shame.  How could we not have known?  How could we not have asked?  How could we not have reminded ourselves that Glen used to be different - a whole man, same as us?

Well, its a thing.  He was alone, with family in a far away city.  His disease took away his mind and so you could argue there was a good reason we didn't feel his humanity the way we should have.  I'm not sure he noticed.  Nevertheless, I today I remember, as I frequently do, standing at the nurse's station where someone had taped up the program and being startled when I realized whose picture I was looking at.  I remember how sorry I was when I read about who he really was and realized he hadn't been a real person to me.

I really am sorry, Glen.  I'm sorry about everything - but mostly that I never got the chance to hear you play. 




Thursday, November 12, 2015

Amen and Amen

Today, for the first time in about 30 years, I talked to a "Professional Christian" (i.e., pastors a church for a living) about my experience in an evangelical church and felt neither judged or proselytized. He seemed genuinely curious about how I interpreted things like faith healing and speaking in tongues then, and how I think about them now, and about the continued disgust I have with organized religion and the continued respect and wonder I have for the teachings of Jesus. It was a really wonderful conversation.

One thing that always spoke to me about Born Again Christianity was the idea that you did not need a pastor or priest or pope to tell you what to think about God. You read the Bible, and you thought about it, and you had a direct relationship. That said, it always seemed like the church never the less had some really hard line ideas about the right and wrong conclusions to reach, which is where the friction was for me.

I feel the message of Christ can be found in many places - in other religions, in other belief systems, in human interactions. It's all over the place, if you have eyes to see it. I feel like the New Testament helped me see it, and other people get to these Universal Truths through other religions or life practices.  I don't think you're going to Hell if you don't accept Christ as your savior. I think you're in for a terrible time (at least on Earth, if not beyond) if you don't get to those "Universal Truths" somehow - but I chafe against the idea that there is One Right Way.

The other thing about the church was that I took what I thought Christ was trying to say very seriously (because it seemed like you were supposed to - we're talking about going to Hell, right?)  and I tried very hard to meet the challenge of finding the way of peace, turning the other cheek and embracing people on the fringe of "polite society." And maybe this is adolescent of me, but no one ever seemed to notice that in the church I went to. I was trying to do what I thought were the most important things but it turned out there was a lot of other stuff that was more important to the church. The people who were held up as examples for the congregation were the rich, the beautiful, the powerful - but never, ever it seemed - the ones who were honestly engaged in the god damned struggle. (Pun intended).  The church preached to me that I was going to hell unless I was a Christian, but seemed to flaunt the opposite of the teachings I read about in the Bible on a regular basis.  Something was very wrong.

I will never forget the time in high school when I saw one of the teens at my church verbally and physically intimidate one of my favorite teachers in the hallway of my high school. I was shocked at the language she used towards her and the way she yelled and called the teacher a bitch, and lunged towards her. They were having a dispute about a failing grade, I gathered. Shortly after I turned the corner, she walked away, but she saw me and I saw her. That Sunday, the pastor was praying and speaking in tongues, and he said that Christ had spoken to him and told him to recognize the young people of God in the church, and he brought that very same teen girl (the daughter of one of the deacons) up to the front of the church and put a sash that said "Christian Teen" around her.  She smiled and the congregation praised God.

I think the hypocrisy of that moment was probably it, for me. I believe that Christ speaks to people, but probably not the ones who brag about it. And I think he says stuff to me all the time - not as a voice in my head, but just sort of stuff that's there for me to see and hear if I have the eyes to see it and the ears to hear it that day. Edgar Cayce, a famous American mystic, once said that an angel had revealed to him the meaning of life, which was to do whatever you needed to do to become a worthwhile companion to God. That has always made a ton of sense to me and I think I do try to do that by finding ways to appreciate what's in front of me (and fail a lot, but that seems to be how it works).

It wasn't until today that I was reminded, in talking to Wes, that that ethos I've adopted as an adult actually is very connected to what I started out to do when I was a teenager sitting in a room of people whom the Spirit Had Moved wondering if it was really the Holy Spirit who had stopped by or rather a form of the mass hysteria I'd read about in my abnormal psych book.

Have I actually been a rather religious person all along? Wes says I'll have to tell him, because I'm the only one who knows.