November 9, 2007
Today Catherine and I celebrate:
33 years of marriage
have brought us to this date
living in 12 different houses in 3 provinces and 2 countries
have brought us to this place
10 children
have brought us 32 years of joy, challenges and a deep hope for the future
25 years of medical practice (not shared equally by each of us, I am only the doctor, Catherine does EVERYTHING else)
have brought us a connection with a community of wonderful people spanning all spectrums of life’s journey through sickness and health, joy, grief, prosperity, poverty, prayer and an unshakable knowledge that we care for others they care for us, when we carry others they carry us.
Countless tears mixed joy, sadness, loss and laughter
have softened our souls and taught us that in brokeness there is strength not weakness that reconciliation leads to
one life
one love
one home
one heart
one marriage
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
her eyes were telling everything
August 29, 2007
Yesterday I went with Catherine for the second time for her Sando injection.... today I am able to write about it.
I have given or witnessed thousands of IM injections but these were different. I went, I thought as a doctor “to make sure the injection technique was good, to get acquainted with the staff and just to be with her..”
Last time - two weeks ago, I went with her to her appointment, an opportunity that was long overdue. I had many reasons for not going before, none worth mentioning because none were valid. Her prior injection had clearly been in the wrong location and she had pain for days. I was concerned because of poor injection technique and there was a lot of unnecessary pain and bruising.
This week we were both reassured by the return of her regular nurse Christina from maternity leave.
As we sat in the chemo room , we admired photos of her new baby. All moms are proud of their new little ones. We talked about breast feeding, balancing work and mothering, how her mom was driving down from northern Virginia to stay for three days so she could work for three days each week. As they talked I observed a real connection between the two of them. Catherine seemed to be reassuring her about motherhood, she was reassuring Catherine “I hate it when I’m not here to give you your injection.”
The medication arrived from the pharmacy and we moved to another smaller room. Talk about the baby continued.... I stood on the other side of the room to observe Catherine's face, confident in the skill of Christina to adequately define landmarks - she needed no instruction.
I have learnt a long time ago in medicine that the face and the eyes tell all. If you want to know if there is pain in a child’s abdomen, watch the face as you gently palpate their tummy. Watch the eyes, watch the corner of the mouth - they will tell you everything. Don’t watch the tummy – you will see only – well, only a tummy.
I was watching her eyes, I saw them immediately fill with moisture, her brow furrowed and her lids narrowed. I felt her pain and looked away as if I somehow felt the shot.
I looked back – embarrassed that I had looked away and asked “are you okay?” She hesitated as if to catch her breath and said “I guess so.”
We thanked the nurse and said we would see her again in two weeks. We walked out, slightly more slowly then when we walked in. Catherine was limping but not complaining.
This is the price she pays to live.
Next time I will not look away. Her eyes were telling everything.
Maybe I can help her pay the cost.
Yesterday I went with Catherine for the second time for her Sando injection.... today I am able to write about it.
I have given or witnessed thousands of IM injections but these were different. I went, I thought as a doctor “to make sure the injection technique was good, to get acquainted with the staff and just to be with her..”
Last time - two weeks ago, I went with her to her appointment, an opportunity that was long overdue. I had many reasons for not going before, none worth mentioning because none were valid. Her prior injection had clearly been in the wrong location and she had pain for days. I was concerned because of poor injection technique and there was a lot of unnecessary pain and bruising.
This week we were both reassured by the return of her regular nurse Christina from maternity leave.
As we sat in the chemo room , we admired photos of her new baby. All moms are proud of their new little ones. We talked about breast feeding, balancing work and mothering, how her mom was driving down from northern Virginia to stay for three days so she could work for three days each week. As they talked I observed a real connection between the two of them. Catherine seemed to be reassuring her about motherhood, she was reassuring Catherine “I hate it when I’m not here to give you your injection.”
The medication arrived from the pharmacy and we moved to another smaller room. Talk about the baby continued.... I stood on the other side of the room to observe Catherine's face, confident in the skill of Christina to adequately define landmarks - she needed no instruction.
I have learnt a long time ago in medicine that the face and the eyes tell all. If you want to know if there is pain in a child’s abdomen, watch the face as you gently palpate their tummy. Watch the eyes, watch the corner of the mouth - they will tell you everything. Don’t watch the tummy – you will see only – well, only a tummy.
I was watching her eyes, I saw them immediately fill with moisture, her brow furrowed and her lids narrowed. I felt her pain and looked away as if I somehow felt the shot.
I looked back – embarrassed that I had looked away and asked “are you okay?” She hesitated as if to catch her breath and said “I guess so.”
We thanked the nurse and said we would see her again in two weeks. We walked out, slightly more slowly then when we walked in. Catherine was limping but not complaining.
This is the price she pays to live.
Next time I will not look away. Her eyes were telling everything.
Maybe I can help her pay the cost.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Robb's Blog
I am Robert, the oldest, grayest and the tallest. Others are smarter and better looking.
As an outwardly gregarious I love to talk – mostly about important life issues. I am a family physician, the father of 10 kids and most important the husband of Catherine. All of these require immense ability to talk a lot just to be heard. I love to joke especially with Catherine. We have been going steady for 36 years. I fell in love with her as a junior employee when I was the waterfront director. Ever since, she has been the director and I have been the junior employee.
Furthermore, as a family doctor I am a professional talker. I have learned to be very articulate about complex, life issues. Patients often come to my office to discuss details of deep life issues that have not even been discussed with their spouse of many decades. Parents who have lost a young child, a law student diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, a spouse dying of pancreatic cancer.
With all this communication affluence - why do I have such hard time writing about my own fears, questions and needs? Do the answers in my mind prevent the questions in my heart from being asked? Why do I answer the question in my mind and avoid the needs of my heart? The outward ease with which I am able to address these issues actually prevents me from uncovering them in my own life.
Many of these things are good. Good life. Good relationships. Good job. Beneath this is the shadowy fear that death will someday separate me from someone I love and I will be alone. Genesis says in the midst of the many things God found “good” that “it is not good for man to be alone.” What if someday I am a widower rather than a husband? What if I am alone and lonely? I saw the loneliness in my dad after my mom died. Perhaps this fear has kept me running from what are the real issues in life?
I will no doubt be writing more about the hard things, which ultimately break down the hardness of my heart and grant me the inner vision to see myself as I truly am.
Robb Blackwood
As an outwardly gregarious I love to talk – mostly about important life issues. I am a family physician, the father of 10 kids and most important the husband of Catherine. All of these require immense ability to talk a lot just to be heard. I love to joke especially with Catherine. We have been going steady for 36 years. I fell in love with her as a junior employee when I was the waterfront director. Ever since, she has been the director and I have been the junior employee.
Furthermore, as a family doctor I am a professional talker. I have learned to be very articulate about complex, life issues. Patients often come to my office to discuss details of deep life issues that have not even been discussed with their spouse of many decades. Parents who have lost a young child, a law student diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, a spouse dying of pancreatic cancer.
With all this communication affluence - why do I have such hard time writing about my own fears, questions and needs? Do the answers in my mind prevent the questions in my heart from being asked? Why do I answer the question in my mind and avoid the needs of my heart? The outward ease with which I am able to address these issues actually prevents me from uncovering them in my own life.
Many of these things are good. Good life. Good relationships. Good job. Beneath this is the shadowy fear that death will someday separate me from someone I love and I will be alone. Genesis says in the midst of the many things God found “good” that “it is not good for man to be alone.” What if someday I am a widower rather than a husband? What if I am alone and lonely? I saw the loneliness in my dad after my mom died. Perhaps this fear has kept me running from what are the real issues in life?
I will no doubt be writing more about the hard things, which ultimately break down the hardness of my heart and grant me the inner vision to see myself as I truly am.
Robb Blackwood
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)