You know you live in Seattle when...

- You overhear a conversation about the pros and cons of Columbia vs. Mountain Hardware clothing over dinner

- The city collects your food compost

- Your recycling bins are larger than your trash bins

- The graffiti in the bathroom says things like, "I love you, you are a beautiful creature of this earth."

- You complement a food vender at the Farmer's Market saying, "Wow, this lettuce is beautiful," and a stranger turns to you and says, "Lettuce IS beautiful!"

- No one walks across the street if the pedestrian walk sign is not illuminated, even if there are no cars in sight.

- The sun comes out and everyone takes their shirts off even though its only 70 degrees

- The paper towel dispenser has a sticker saying, "I used to be a tree."

- Your neighbor has a bulletin board with literature regarding the new dawning of consciousness.

- There are like 3 or 4 public radio stations, all with different programming

To be continued...

Nine Months

At nine months, Sam is a very active boy! 

He likes to:

- crawl all over the house

- pull himself up to standing

- cruise around the couch

- swing at the park

- splash in the tub

He eats finger foods and puree:

- potatoes, carrots, broccoli, okra, zucchini, green beans

- banana, melon, berries

- chicken, tofu

- yogurt, cottage cheese

- Cheerios

He says:

- "ma" or "mama" which seems to mean more or food

- " uf" which may mean up

- "caw" for the crows

He can:

- clap, wave bye-bye, stretch by verbal cue (see video)

- drink from a sippy cup

Catching up!

Sam demonstrates his cruising ability:

Some last pics from Atlanta

 Welcome to Seattle!

Some of the bounty from our garden:

The Kitchen

 Welcome to my room!

Enjoying watermelon on July 4th:

Bathtime!

Now all he has to do is start washing his own hair:

7 Months... 7 teeth!

Some of the recent Samurai action (did I mention there's been a lot of it?):

Month 10 of Intern Year

Recently, I had to write a 1 page narrative for my Transitional Year program regarding an experience this year that will change the way I practice medicine:

          In the middle of the night, the light comes on in my room and I open my eyes to see a white-gowned women entering. She approaches me with tourniquet in one hand, dragging her phlebotomy cart with the other. I’ve never been an easy stick and getting pricked in the middle of a well-fought bout of sleep is frustrating. I’m so groggy, though, I hardly even feel it before I’m out again.

          Sometime later, I’m being ushered into the bathroom by my nurse. She carries my iv and foley bag as I try to lower myself down on the toilet, the bottom half of my body still prickly and waking up from the anesthesia. With care, she deflates the cuff and I feel the foley pulling from some unfamiliar place. I can hear the clots of blood fall into the water below me. “Just take your time,” she says, “it may be awhile before you can get your urine moving.” I can’t believe I’m sitting on a toilet with this complete stranger; it is so… personal. Yet, everything about her is reassuring and caring. The way she moves around me, quietly, calmly. In the dark of the night shift, I never learned her face, but I will always remember how her afro, silhouetted by the hall light, reminded me of a halo when she entered the room. 

          Just a day before, I had never been a hospital patient: no stitches, no ivs, and certainly no foley catheters. I am surprised myself when, after 19 hours of labor at home, I feel reluctant to go to the hospital. “What will it be like?” I ask my doula as I crawl around the floor of the candle-lit room, lean over a yoga-ball and breathe deeply through a contraction. My husband rubs my back. She smiles, evidently appreciating the irony of a physician asking her what the hospital is like. “Well, first of all, it will be very bright and people will be running around, helping you get settled. It’ll be awhile before you can turn off the lights and have some peace.” I play it over in my mind: lights, nurses, bloodwork, doors opening and closing. I feel my uterus tighten like a band squeezing around to my back and I feel a dropping sensation in my pelvis. “OK. It’s time to go.” 

          Six hours later, I’m sitting on the OR table, curling my back “just like a shrimp” as I’ve seen countless other women do before. The contractions are happening more frequently now and though the pain is getting worse, I feel terrified of having a needle stuck in my back and a scalpel cutting my abdomen. “Next year when you’re doing these, you’ll be able to tell your patients what it’s like,” says my anesthesiologist. And it dawns on me: I’ve never been able to put myself in my patients shoes because I’ve never been a patient. My lower half quickly goes numb and I can’t even move my legs. The doctor and nurses grab hold of me and move me into position. All I can do is relax and give in to letting them care for me.